Chapter Text
Yuna could have done better.
If she really focuses on it — and she does, especially in the middle of the night — she can come up with dozens of ways she’d screwed up with Shane.
She’s well intentioned, of course. Most mothers are. She loves Shane endlessly and completely. As a boy, he needed more attention and protection than other kids had seemed to, and he got it fiercely and devotedly. He has always been cared for and cherished beyond words. Certainly, she could have done worse by him.
She knows that, rationally.
But she could have done better, too.
Tonight, she’s snapped awake by some cruel internal alarm at 2:36am, too hot, sweating beneath the covers with David radiating heat, her body and her brain both in overdrive. The failures are all she can think about.
She throws off the covers and gets out of bed, uses the bathroom, washes her hands, and then cups them to drink cold water from the tap. Avoiding her own face in the mirror, she strips off her sweaty t-shirt and throws it in the hamper, then goes into her closet for a thin tank top. It’s not enough, not even close; she’s still on fire.
Glancing at David, sound asleep, she goes to the bedroom window and wrenches it open for the first time in months. It’s playoff season, nearly May, but the nights are still freezing. The Metros have the first game of the conference semifinals tomorrow night, on the road. Even back when Yuna slept well, she never slept well during the playoffs.
Yuna stares out the window and takes deep breaths. All the doctors and articles say the hot flashes are normal, the insomnia is normal, the awful ache in her left shoulder is normal, the sensation of her skin burning is normal, it’s all normal normal normal. If menopause happened to men— well, it wouldn’t be normal, and wouldn’t happen to men, because medicine would have figured out a way to fucking fix it by now. For women, it’s just… normal.
She presses her forehead to the cold window. Outside, there’s only the dark empty street, not a single light on in their neighbors’ houses. Nothing moves.
It’s only a few months short of a year since Shane had come out to them, and not a single day has gone by when she hadn’t thought about why her son had felt like he couldn’t tell her he was gay.
Not the part about Rozanov — Ilya, she corrects herself; she still has to remind herself of that once in a while. Of course she understood why Ilya had to stay a secret.
But she didn’t know, couldn’t figure out, couldn’t stop obsessing over, why Shane hadn't simply come out to them. If David hadn’t discovered them that day at Shane’s cottage, would Shane still be keeping it from them?
She strongly suspects that answer is yes, and it hurts, deeply, that he’d felt he couldn’t tell them. Tell her.
And she knew all the things a friend or a therapist would say — not that she has a therapist, or any friends that she’s chosen to share this with. But she knew there were lots of factors, it wasn’t just about her, he needed to do it on his own time. All of that was true.
But another truth was this: He hadn’t contradicted her when she’d apologized that day at the cottage, hadn’t said there was nothing for her to be sorry for. He'd forgiven her immediately, easily, tearfully, gracefully, but there had been something to forgive. Meaning she'd done things, said things, that had made him feel like he couldn’t tell her. She sees some of them more clearly, now — internalized homophobia, pressure to be a model minority, that tiger mom situation — but she’s sure there are more she still doesn’t know about.
She’d made Shane feel unsafe.
Yuna moves her forehead to a colder spot on the window. She feels so alone in everything, all the time. But especially in this, especially in the middle of the night.
David should be right here with her — after all, Shane hadn’t told him either. But, of course, it’s different for David, the way things like this are always different for men. He had felt bad, at least that first day, but clearly guilt wasn’t literally keeping him up at night. This isn’t about him.
All at once, the chill is too much and Yuna starts to shiver, the sweat now clammy on her neck. She straightens up and shudders and closes the window, too hard. It thunks down and its panes rattle in the frame. David still doesn’t stir as she crosses the room again and climbs wearily back into bed.
Somehow, he’d managed to emerge from that day at the cottage not only without her crushing guilt but with an instant, easy, fun relationship with Ilya. They're always eating and drinking and laughing together, like they’re breezy co-conspirators smirking at their uptight partners. David is effortless, calling them “the boys,” treating Ilya like a second son — in fact, a son who’s more similar to him than Shane ever had been.
But Ilya isn’t like Yuna. Shane is like Yuna. Driven. Serious. Ambitious. Determined.
Back in bed, she's too hot again. She turns her pillow over, searching for a cool spot.
Ilya spent so many years slotted into that “enemy” spot in her hockey-brain. It hated him easily, reflexively. Buried deep is something she doesn’t really want to admit, even to herself: She doesn’t like Ilya as a hockey player. So male, so aggressive. The chirping, the boisterous bullying on the ice, the aggressive play, the way he trash-talks his opponents. The way he trash-talks Shane — but then, maybe Shane is fine with it? Maybe more than fine?
She sighs and stares up into the darkness of their bedroom. Screens are a huge no in the middle of the night, everyone says so — but what else is she supposed to do without turning on the lights and god she’s so tired of trying to do everything right all the time — and she gives in and picks up her phone from the nightstand, that’s when she sees the texts from Shane, sent at 1:37am.
Hi Mom, Ilya’s at the team hotel in Ottawa and he’s sick and he’s not answering his phone. I don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe he’s just sleeping but something feels off
Could you go check on him tomorrow morning? They left him at the Brookstreet in Kenata, room 417. Thank you, I’m sorry about this
And then, sent three minutes later:
Love you
Yuna stares at the glowing screen for a moment. She forgets, sometimes, that Ilya hadn’t set up an apartment in Ottawa yet. She and David had offered for him to stay with them whenever he was in town, even to move his things from Boston to their garage, but he’d politely refused, more than once.
He’s always polite, too polite, with her. He’s charming and sweet; he'll kiss her on the cheek, smile and laugh with her. But there’s always a wall up. Something guarded and on edge.
She rereads the texts. There’s no way she’ll go back to sleep now. No reason to wait until morning. Her body’s already moving before her brain even makes the decision — getting out of bed, texting David so he won’t worry if he wakes up, pulling on jeans and a sweatshirt and her coat, slipping out of the house and into the dark, cold car. She starts it and looks up the hotel’s address on her phone while she gives the engine a minute to warm up, then texts Shane.
Of course, honey. I’ll go right now. I was awake anyway. Love you too
As Yuna drives through quiet streets, her brain keeps looping. All the things she’d said. All the things she hadn’t said but should have. Did Shane think they hadn’t already suspected for years that he was bi, or gay, or asexual, or something else she didn't even know about yet? Did he really think she’d be upset that he wasn’t straight?
Hell, Yuna wasn’t so sure she was straight anymore. She wasn’t sure anyone was. It seems like a box that they’d all been forced to climb into; some people fit pretty easily in there and others couldn’t fit at all, but they’d all had to make these stark binary choices that this generation wasn’t falling for.
Even the downtown streets are empty and silent at this time of night, and the ride is quick and effortless. Yuna wonders what’s waiting for her at the hotel, if Ilya's as terrible a patient as most athletes are — rebelling against that feeling of betrayal when their bodies, usually their best dependable allies, turn against them.
As a child, Shane had a rough time with even mild illnesses. Even a cold would exacerbate his sensory issues and make him twitchy and angry, even more uncomfortable in his own skin than usual. He went to great lengths not to get sick, eating healthy and going to bed early, long before any other kids seemed aware of their immune systems.
Yuna knew Ilya wasn’t the same — that he certainly liked smoking, drinking, who knew what else. He was so different from Shane, who treated his body so carefully that he’d never even tried a cigarette, as far as she knew. He still wouldn’t wear socks with seams, still preferred that different foods not touch on his plate, still didn’t really like pizza or ice cream or candy.
She’s properly downtown now, the Ottawa streets forming their familiar grid, her car still gliding through the night like she’s completely alone. She idles at a pointless red light at an empty intersection and indulges herself, lets herself imagine little Shane at age four and six and eleven.
He’d loved math class and hated birthday parties. Their cat had been his best friend. He didn’t want anyone to sing to him or watch him open presents; he'd been horrified by the idea of acting in a play or joining the school band or playing soccer or tennis or any sport without pads covering him from head to toe. He didn't want people to look at him at all unless he was on the ice protected by a thick layer of gear, unrecognizable except for the number on his back.
But god, had he loved hockey. The way it immediately made perfect sense to him, the way he just fit with it. The way skating looked more natural to him than walking. His simple ease on the ice.
It was hockey or nothing, for Shane — and so their family chose hockey. They sacrificed for it, gave themselves over to its schedules and quirks and endless demands for money and time. Shane, but Yuna too. She'd worried about him constantly. Things had gotten better after his diagnosis, after they could better understand how his brain worked and they'd formulated a plan. But decades of that anxiety, of love and fear twisted up together, are etched into her brain like memories themselves.
She pulls into the hotel parking lot and cuts the engine, takes a deep breath.
Fuck. That same anxious, sweet, vulnerable, good kid, now scared for his sick boyfriend in the middle of the night.
Why, why, why hadn’t he told her sooner? He may love her, he may have forgiven her, but he’d never explained.
Yuna gets out of the car and walks quickly toward the hotel. What had she done to make him feel unsafe? A cold wind cuts through her just as she reaches the door. Her brain gnaws at the problem like a tough old bone.