Chapter Text
The snow glistens as it falls, blue to white to gold, catching the sun in its flakes as though it’s worthy of it. As though it’s not a millionth of the size of the world's lamp. The flakes dance as they descend, swirling around each other like reunited childhood friends. Ilya holds his hands out in front of him, pinkies pressed together, delighted by the pinch of cold as each flake lands on his skin.
He skates forward, more sure on the ice than he is on concrete or dirt. The pond is littered with skate markings, smooth lines indented in the translucent surface. It had only been frozen over for a week, only approved by his parents a few days ago. No drowning kids, his father had said, patting Ilya’s blond curls absentmindedly, bad press.
Sometimes, Ilya wondered what it would be like. To fall through the ice. To become submerged in the ice-cold water he’s been cutting up for days on end, sunrise to sunset. He wonders if drowning is easy. He wonders if it hurts, aches. He wonders if the ice would freeze over after he fell through, his body to be found when spring comes, and the ice slithers away.
Snow has gathered on his shoulders, arms, hands, the ice beneath him. A thick blanket that’s freezing to the touch. Ilya finds comfort in the cold, the way it seeps through his jacket and into his skin. The way his hands are bright red, his fingers purple, his nerves numb.
Is this what drowning would feel like? Red and purple and numb inside and out?
“Ilyushka,” his mother’s voice echoes down the hill, bounces off the ice and into the atmosphere above, her cadence the same as church bells, “vernut'sya domoy, Ilyushka.” "come inside"
Ilya turns, grinning as he catches sight of his mother at the top of the hill. The slope leading to the pond is blanketed in snow, those glistening flakes settling in her golden hair. She looks like the Mother Mary that’s painted in the church — a golden halo behind her, casting her face in a light so bright that Ilya has to squint against it.
Her arms are wrapped around herself, thin hands hidden in the knitted yarn of her sweater. Hair in a bun atop her head, golden curls framing her face haphazardly. When she’d take him into town with her, gripping his hand tightly so he didn’t wander off as he was prone to do, shopkeepers would always say Ilya looked like his mother. He thought there was no better compliment in the world.
The ladies in town would ruffle his curls, pinch his cheeks, and sneak him treats that his mother would refuse to accept for free. They would ask him about his skating, if he was excited to start hockey, how Andrei was doing. They would tap his nose with a finger and smile at him and say you’re too good for this place, Ilyushka, you and your mother both.
“Ilyushka,” his mother says again, the final call before the sermon, and gestures for him to come off the ice, “uzhin!” "dinner!"
“Khorosho, khorosho!” "okay, okay!" Ilya calls back, gliding to the edge of the pond. The snow has piled high on the bank, a wall protecting him from everything beyond this.
Once, his mother had laced up his skates. Old, torn at the toes, faded on the sides, rusted on the blade. Her nimble fingers mingled with the laces like reunited childhood. Her hair was shorter then, cropped at her chin, her cheeks and nose pink from the cold. Fog escaped from her lips with each excited word, words that he cannot remember now. He remembers only her gentle hand as she helped him stand, balance, glide across the uneven ice of the pond for the first time. The way she had cheered him on, caught him, wiped his tears after a fall, and told him to try again.
It was then, clinging to his mother, unsure and wobbling feet scraping the ice, that he asked if she had skated before.
His mother’s lips had thinned, ticked up at the edges. There was sorrow in her voice, Ilya knows now, sorrow and regret and the barest hint of love. His mother did not speak of herself, giving him only a soft confirmation before helping him to his feet. She tied the skates together by their laces, looping the string around her fingers — practiced. Ilya fell into step, fell into place, grabbing his mother's free hand, two pieces of a puzzle.
Ilya does the same now, the laces tied together, shoes swinging from one hand. His other, still purple and red and numb, grabs his mother’s gloved hand. The only contact he makes is with the air. He frowns, looks up at her.
“Oh, solnyshko.” She crouches in front of him, the knitted yarn of her gloves grazing his cheeks, her nose purple and likely numb. Ilya thinks she’ll say something else, her brown eyes searching his own, her freckles stark against her pale skin, lips pursed. She says nothing. She leans forward and presses a cold kiss to his forehead, chapped lips against numb skin.
Her smile is thin and sad, like the portrait of Mother Mary.
The air is buzzing. It prickles his hair, burrows beneath his skin, sets his veins on fire. He feels as though he’s dived beneath water, gliding beneath waves as the light filters through above him. The rush in his ears, the resistance against his limbs. His fingers are numb. He wonders, distantly, if they’re purple beneath his gloves. Bulky gloves, not the kind his mother would knit in front of the fireplace, eyes pinched in concentration.
He’s on the ice.
Cold seeps in through the back of his jersey, spreading along the folds of his skin. His lungs feel purple and numb, each inhale harsher than the last, like knitted yarn sliding down his throat.
Blurs pass by him. Blurs of red and black. Blurs of red and blue.
Hollander.
Shane.
His lips are moving. Ilya finds himself fixated on them, the freckles that spot his nose, the moisture building in his eyes. Shane is saying something, something that seems important — everything Shane says is important to Ilya. Every word his accent curls around settles into Ilya’s bones as easily as —
“Shane.” Ilya feels the name tear from his mouth, barely more than a gasp. Watches Shane’s brow unfurrow, feels the grip he has on Ilya’s arm tightening. He wants to do nothing more than pull Shane closer, dig his claws into freckled skin until they can’t be distinguished from each other. He can’t. They can’t. Not here. Out in the open, light cascading around them like a pillar of damnation. “Oni nas vidyat.” "they can see us"
He’s reaching out again. Yearning for the loosely knit yarn of his mother’s gloves, the harsh brush of them against his numb fingers. Ilya looks up at her, her halo descending behind the hill, the harsh lines of her face that echo of war and age.
“Ya tebya lyublyu, mama.”
A hand grasps his own. His gloves, not knitted or bulky, gone. Cold, fingers long and thin, calluses harsh. He doesn’t recognize the words that come in reply; just the voice. The low timber, the cello Svetlana used to play, the peace that settles into his heart and travels through his blood. Milaya.
They need to get inside to the fire. His mother is so thin, her veins ice over so easily, her joints creak so loudly. Shane would want apple kvass. They could dance in front of the fireplace while his mother knits.