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Like the sheet over his body, the snow covers the house, coming down without relenting. Shane jumps up from his sleep, the blocks of ice pressing against the windows not nearly as cold as the empty spot in his bed.
Normally, Ilya is next to him, hair mussed and jaw slack as he slept. Today, Ilya is in New York for a conference for their foundation. Shane had asked if they should both go, considering it was their organization, but Ilya insisted he could take care of it, both wanting his husband to relax and desperate to prove he didn’t need any Hollander supervision when it came to the Irina Foundation. Shane thought it was sweet and let him go alone. Even if it meant they'd be alone for almost a week, something they hadn't had to do for a long time.
Usually, Shane would have already been up, having walked and fed their dog, but the dreariness of the day had made him sluggish. Under the door, he can see Anya's paw just barely, her nails clicking against the hardwood floor. With a deep sigh, Shane stands, her whining growing louder as he approaches. She slides past him when he opens up and jumps onto Ilya's side, sniffing his pillow and pawing at the sheets.
"I know, girl. He'll be home soon." Shane knew well that Anya was a dog and not a real child, but narrating to her as if she could respond was helping with how much he missed Ilya, how much this could remind him of those early years, when they would count down the days only to steal a few hours together. It's long past them now, yet the feeling rears its ugly head every so often.
He walks towards the front door, slow to dress, Anya's impatience wearing at his bones, making it harder to get her ready to go outside. The door swings open, the wind piercing through Shane's heavy, winter coat, blowing so hard, he felt as though he was walking slanted. Anya is a double coated dog, but Shane always makes sure she wears her little booties, partially to protect her feet, but mostly at Ilya's insistence that he'd never seen anything cuter than his two loves in matching boots.
They walk a couple houses down with Shane waddling to Anya's pulling. Two houses down is a park, a metal fence separating the children's playground from the dog park. Shane sits down at a bench next to the fence, his eyes glued to Anya as she forgets he even exists as soon as he takes off her leash.
They'd moved here because the dog park was spacious, with lots of friendly dogs for Anya to play with. At least, that's what Ilya had told him when he insisted on the house. Shane knew that wasn't the only reason. Ilya was the main caretaker for Anya, meaning he would walk her to this park several times a day, even when it seemed she didn't need to be walked. Shane knew Ilya would sit at this same bench, looking out for Anya, but really watching the kids as they giggled, played, and jumped into their parents' arms. They agreed on having kids, sure, but Shane was still not ready to retire, and the time seemed to stretch out in front of them.
The park is empty, too cold for anyone to be here. The frigid air is dry, burning Shane's lungs as he takes a deep breath, his shallow respiration the only sound around him. Suddenly, a squeak pierces his ears. Towards the edge of the park, Shane sees a silhouette, small in size but enormous in presence.
He shuffles over, his footsteps slowing as he approaches. It's a child, and while Shane isn't as good with kids as Ilya is, he knows not to run at them and scare them off. The child doesn't look towards him. Instead, he swings with more fervor, legs kicking far in front of him, his black boots already covered in snow. He's dressed in fleece pants and a black parka, but no hat or gloves.
"Hey," Shane speaks up, soft so as not to startle him. "Aren't you cold?"
The kid whips his head to look at Shane. He's grinning toothy and wide, missing his left canine. He looks about 13 years old, if Shane has improved at guessing kids' ages at all.
"You think this is cold?" He answers. Shane tilts his head at the kid's cocky answer.
"Where are your parents?" Shane sounds like a parent, with the exasperated tone in which he asks this kid.
"My father is at work." His smile drops, along with his head, making Shane notice his frizzy, golden hair, undone and covered in snow.
"And your mom?" He leans down to meet his gaze, but the boy won't make eye contact. Instead, he looks past Shane, past the fence, and to Anya.
"You have a puppy! Can I pet him?" He asks the question, even though he is already running to the dog park before Shane can even process.
"It's a she!" Shane calls after him. The falling of the snow stops, but Shane seems to struggle with the few inches dragging down his shoes, while the boy speeds past him without effort. By the time Shane opens the gate, Anya and the boy are inseparable, her tongue raking every square inch of the boy's exposed skin, down to his knuckles, now grayish-purple from the sharp and freezing air.
"She likes you," Shane says. She likes almost everyone, he thinks. Anya has always been a sweet dog, playful and attentive, but she clearly has a favorite person, whose skin she would crawl into if she could. Shane has never seen her like this with anyone but Ilya.
"I like her, too." Anya finally relents, opting to make a home in his lap instead. Her snout rests on his shoulder, fur tickling his neck. "My father hates dogs. He says they're smelly, that they're only good for guarding houses and sniffing drugs. My brother says the same thing, but I don't know if he really thinks that."
"And your mom? Does she like dogs?" Shane presses, remembering the boy never answered the question about his mom. He bends down slowly. Shane isn't dumb, he knows what he looks like most of the time, face unfeeling and frigid. He makes sure to soften his eyes as he talks to the boy, even though it doesn't come naturally.
"My mom loved dogs. Dogs loved her, too. She would like your dog."
"Anya."
"What a pretty name," the boy whispers, bringing Anya closer, her fur and his skin sticking together, their bodies fitting like two, sweet puzzle pieces. Shane's heart skips a beat at the sight, and at the sudden realization of what the boy just said.
"You guys have made fast friends. She keeps my husband and me company, when we're feeling—"
"Lonely?"
Anya wiggles in the boy's lap and lays down in the shape of a ball, closing her eyes, letting the tiny snowflakes settle on her lashes. The boy's gaze drops again. Anya's fur darkens at the tears falling from the boy's eyes. He's quiet, though, almost like he learned to cry away from anyone's watch.
They both say nothing for a moment, but Shane nods, just once, but emphatic, his tears hardening in his eyes. It seems like every time Shane has something to say, the words get caught in his throat, needing to be pushed up like a boulder up a hill.
"Are you lonely? Sometimes?" Shane finally asks. He doesn't expect an answer. Not a verbal one, anyway. What prepubescent boy likes talking about his emotions?
The boy uses the back of his sleeve, wet from the flurry, to wipe his eyes before meeting Shane's eyes. Against the gray and dreary weather around them, the boy's eyes shine, light brown lashes soaked, steel blue irises flecked with little specks of gold and green.
Not wanting to crowd him, Shane sits back. He can sense the boy's discomfort, thick and warm, breaking through the wintry atmosphere. The boy shifts a bit, waking Anya. She moves off his lap and sits next to Shane, nudging his hand to pet her.
Before he can ask him anything else, the boy thumbs his ear with one hand and reaches into his jacket, fiddling with something Shane can't quite make out. He moves it back and forth, pulls it out, and the gold of a Russian Orthodox cross glints in the light. Reflexively, he jumps, his hand squeezing Anya. Shane swallows the rock in his throat.
"What did you say your name was?" A shiver crawls up Shane's spine, settling at the base of his neck, poking at him like a tag he forgot to cut off.
The boy sniffles again. "Ilya." The zap at the base of his neck turns into a slam.
"You—" Shane clears his throat. "That's a Russian name, right? You speak English?"
Well, that lightened the mood. Young Ilya giggles, his full cheeks rosy and marked with tear tracks. "You're funny. I don't speak English. You speak Russian."
And, well, Shane did speak Russian. He had picked up on a few words and phrases before he and Ilya got married, but after the wedding, it essentially became a second job for him. Sure, he wasn't nearly as fluent as he would like to be, even if he maintains he's practically an expert when speaking to Ilya, but he was good enough to carry a conversation. Usually, though, it took a conscious effort for his brain to switch to Russian.
Not wanting to waste time on whether or not his Russian was understandable to Young Ilya, considering there were more pressing matters he should attend to, Shane stands above him. "How'd— where's your house?"
"If you're planning on robbing us, I should warn you, my father is a police officer."
"Yeah, I know," Shane mutters. He curses to himself and hopes Young Ilya didn't catch that.
Hands even more discolored now, Young Ilya stands in front of Shane, still focused on petting Anya, who has migrated away from Shane's side.
Shane had dreamed of a kid version of Ilya before, although it was more of a fantasy about them having children. He had thought about what it must have been like, especially right after his mom passed. How much he must have hated being home, how lonely he must have felt in his own family, how much he probably needed someone to tell him he would be okay one day.
Like an idiot, Shane wished he could have been the one to comfort him. Some nights, when Ilya was struggling a bit more than normal, it would tear him up from the chest out. Ilya would hold him, even in his lower moments, and whisper, "We cannot go back, moya lyubov, but I cannot wait to see you be there for our babies." And while it never fully soothed Shane, it was enough to keep him from inventing a time machine and caring for a 12 year old Ilya.
Maybe this was one of those fantasies, become more vivid and real through Shane's growing desire to care for the child Ilya was. Maybe he would wake soon, adult Ilya by his side, his heart never having been broken and mind never having been warped.
They talk for a little longer, Young Ilya chasing Anya through the park, Shane watching him laugh, completely unguarded, when Anya tackles and nips at him. In between tackles, he tells Shane about how much he's been enjoying hockey, about his brother not wanting to play with him anymore, about how his mom would take him to playgrounds like this to see which one of them could swing faster. Most of these being things Shane has already heard before, but different. He's never heard them from this perspective, from a boy who hadn't yet completely guarded himself from the world.
Shane calls Anya over, Young Ilya clearly out of breath from trying to keep up with the dog's boundless energy. Young Ilya looks at them a moment, hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath.
When he finally does, his voice is low, cracking slightly from the exhaustion, and from being 13. "You have a—"
"Husband?" Shane finishes his question this time. His heart wrenches at it, at watching Young Ilya's eyes shine, hopeful and glassy, his mouth not yet comfortable enough to ask if that's even a possibility. In case this isn't a dream and Shane somehow has invented a time machine, he takes a second before answering the question with too much detail, in case it breaks the timeline, or something.
"Yeah, I have a husband. He's the best. He's from Russia too." Was that too much detail?
"Oh," is all Young Ilya says. "That's not allowed in Russia." He twiddles his thumbs, his chest rising and falling in quick succession, face stoic. That face has never changed.
"I know. He gave Russia up for me. He's selfless that way, but don't tell him I said that."
That last sentence makes the boy smile. Shane wants so badly to tell him everything, because maybe it would make things easier for them in adulthood. He knows it's silly, even if it's even real. He decides on, "I think he felt alone in Russia. When we're together, we're not so alone."
Shane can see the gears turning before he speaks. His eyes dart side to side, looking out for someone, making sure no one can hear them. Young Ilya leans close to Shane and whispers, "I don't want to be alone. I miss my mom so much."
As Shane steps back to see the boy's face, he catches a glimpse of the tears welling and falling on Young Ilya's face before he springs into Shane's arms, Anya wedged between them, tail wagging. Shane looks around, not yet settling into the hug. He pats Young Ilya's upper back and ruffles his hair, snowflakes falling from it onto his shoulders.
"Hey," Shane starts, "it's okay. Someone out there is going to be your best friend someday. They'll think you're the funniest, coolest person ever—"
"Because I am." Good to know that sense of humor is a default Ilya Rozanov feature.
"And you won't be alone. Promise."
The boy steps back with a sudden movement. "I should get back home. I ditched hockey practice to hang out here. My father will be angry with me if he finds out."
Shane chuckles at the thought of a prepubescent Ilya skipping practice, and still being such a good player. He wonders if they were always on the same level in hockey, if they would have been hockey buddies at this age, before they were made to be rivals. Young Ilya's last sentence finally processes in Shane's brain, and his heart falls into his stomach.
"Yeah," he says, leashing Anya, turning the other direction. "Don't make him mad."
Young Ilya shrugs. "He will be mad regardless. Thanks. I don't have anyone to talk to anymore. You're nice. And so is your puppy." He leans down, face pressed into Anya's fur, and kisses her snout. "Bye, Anya. Bye, sir."
He waves the entire time, snowy fog taking him slowly from view, and then he's gone. If he was ever really there.
Shane tugs on Anya's leash, now the one pulling her, and she whines as he tugs her away from her favorite person. They both must be crazy. Can dogs hallucinate? He thinks, already approaching his driveway before he can come up with an answer.
A cab pulls in at the same time, Ilya, adult Ilya, practically jumping out of the vehicle, luggage in hand. "Shane! I missed you, moya lyubov. Hi, sweet girl, I missed you too!"
Both Shane and Anya leap into Ilya's arms, making him drop his luggage. Anya wiggles in the arm she jumped into and Ilya squeezes Shane tight, breathing him in. He smells damp, like the snow has finally melted, settling deep in the fibers of his coat.
"Ilya, how'd you do that? You were there, at the park. We spoke, you were—" Shane cuts himself off, nuzzling into Ilya's coat and whispering, "God, I missed you so much."
"Have I ever told you how gorgeous you are when you speak to me in Russian? Makes me want to have a million babies with you."
Shane smiles, still not conscious of the fact he was even speaking Russian. His heart flutters upon looking upon Ilya's face, those same sweet eyes, that same goofy smile. Before he can overthink it, he says, "Maybe we start with just one, soon," now in English.
Ilya's smile grows somehow, wide enough that it looks like it'll break his face in half. Shane can't help but mirror him, thinking about how he hopes their kids have that same, stretched out smile.
Ilya sets Anya down, gripping Shane's waist and kissing his hair. "Don't tease me, moya lyubov. Now, come on. Is freezing out here."
"I thought you didn't think this was cold," he teases, relishing in the cocky, sideways grin plastered on Ilya's face as they walk in unison towards the door of the home they've built together.
They look at each other as they walk through the doorframe, and Ilya whispers, "Sometimes, it feels like I've known you all my life." Shane smiles and holds Ilya tighter.