Archive of Our Own

It’s raining when Ilya looks out the window of his bedroom. 

The pellets of water hit his window, hard and fast, noisy amidst a seemingly quiet gray sky. The tall buildings of the city look dwarfed somehow by the storm clouds and rain. It only seems fitting, for the day he’s had, that today would be a rainy one.

There’s a knock on his door, sharp and rapid, and he prays silently that it isn’t his older brother, come to make his evening hell. School had been awful, and practice was terrible, he missed three goals and couldn’t connect on an easy pass. Not to mention, he’d hurt his knee taking a rough check.

He’s getting older now, and his coach had let him have it for a long while about his natural talent, how he shouldn’t squander it with distractions.

Ilya had pretended Sasha couldn’t see him getting yelled at from the boards, he was embarrassed. He isn’t sure why he cares what Sasha thinks so much, especially because he’s sure coach yells at him often too, since he’s his son. 

But mostly Ilya is hoping coach won’t tell his father, Grigori, about his poor showing today. The last thing he needs is another “talking to” about how when he plays poorly it’s embarrassing for their entire family. 

Hockey used to be really fun, when his mother first started taking him to classes and practice after school. But lately it’s gotten…well, intense. He’s twelve this year, and coaches are talking about prospects and his future and his father is talking about what hockey can do for their family and it’s all kind of a lot. It makes everything about it significantly less fun.

“Ilyushenka?” The soft voice of his mother drifts through the bedroom door, and Ilya’s shoulders relax, tension seeping out of him as he realizes it’s her.

“Come in Mama,” he calls softly.

The door creaks open, and Irina pops her head in, braving a smile for him. Ilya knows she is having a hard week. Sometimes, Mama has days where she cannot make her body get out of bed. Some of those days she cries into her pillow, and Ilya doesn’t know what else to do but sit with her and rub her back. Sometimes he rushes downstairs to the kitchen before his father gets home to make dinner, so his dad won’t punish her for not having it ready.

Some days though, she doesn’t cry, or laugh, or do much of anything besides just lie there, expression a blank page. Those days are scarier than the ones where she cries. 

“Your coach called me,” she says, shutting the door gently behind her and heading to the spot by his window where he’s perched. 

Ilya scowls. “He is mean and obnoxious.”

Irina laughs, the sound soft, tender. Ilya’s Mama has the best laugh in the world, he thinks. It makes her blue eyes wrinkle at the corners, and her lips pull back so her cheeks look full and warm. He likes to make her do it, whenever he can.

“I think you are right,” she agrees, tone conspiratory. “He did tell me some things.”

Ilya prepares himself.

“He said you and Sasha have been speaking a lot of English to each other,” she says, arching an eyebrow.

Ilya frowns, perplexed. His Mama doesn’t speak much English, she never got the opportunity to learn. They teach it at Ilya’s school, but she didn’t get the same quality of education that Ilya and Alexei are getting. He never speaks it at the house, despite his father and brother slipping into it on occasion. He doesn’t want Mama to be left out, or feel different. 

“Why is that bad?” he asks, eyebrows pulling together. “He’s the one who told me I need to get better at it if I want to get drafted to a U.S. team someday.”

“He isn’t wrong,” Irina says, still smiling warmly. “I think he is just concerned that your focus is not where it should be.”

Ilya glances at her warily. Does she know? Does she know that when he looks at Sasha, his focus is absolutely not where it’s supposed to be? That it’s on the other boy’s lips, the curve of his jaw, the sweet glimmer in his warm brown eyes? That, if Ilya were ever to tell anyone about these weird feelings, he’s terrified of what might happen to him? And Sasha?

He couldn’t handle his Mama knowing, seeing that side of him, judging him for things he already feels guilty about on his own. She’s his favorite person in the world- his solace in this terrible house. He needs her. He couldn’t dream of losing her.

“I’ll do better,” Ilya tells her solemnly. The last thing he wants is to make Mama worry about something else. She has enough on her plate.

“You are doing just perfectly, Ilyushenka,” Irina says, shaking her head. “I am not worried about what your fussy coach says. I am more worried about how you are feeling. He also said you hurt your knee. Is it still hurting?”

It is definitely still hurting. Ilya wants to tell her that, but he also doesn’t want his father to know he’d been stupid enough to get injured during a routine practice, and jeopardize his chance to play in the World Juniors. Ilya has a gift, he’s been told, a gift that can change their lives. He can’t be stupid and mess that up by screwing around with Sasha at practice, or getting hurt.

“My knee is fine,” he assures his mom.

Irina arches an eyebrow, and Ilya can see immediately that she doesn’t believe him. “Synulya, why are you lying to me?”

Ilya grimaces, rubbing a hand over his knee. It’s throbbing badly, and the cold weather and rain outside is only making it worse. He’s surprised at how much his body hurts, it seems like more and more each year, and he’s only twelve. He can’t imagine how it’s going to feel when he’s twenty.

“I hit the board a little weird after a check, sort of on the side.” Ilya gestures to his knee with a shrug. “It’s just bruised, Mama, it’s fine.”

“Did you ice it at practice?” 

Ilya shakes his head. 

Irina sighs, reaching over to comb her fingers through his tangled up curls. She leans in, kissing his forehead, lingering for a moment like she’s savoring his disgusting, post-hockey smell, then she gets to her feet.

Alarmed, Ilya tries for some damage control. “Mama, I swear I’m fine! Please don’t go.”

“Shhh, I’m not going. I will be right back with some ice. Stay put.”

Ilya watches her leave, his chest feeling tight for reasons he can’t explain. His mother does return, and she sits back down beside him, gesturing for him to lay his leg across her thighs.

Ilya obliges, huffing a sigh as she rolls up the hem of his pants, and her face pales a little. She glances up from his purple, swollen knee, to look at his face. 

There’s something in her gaze that he can’t wrap his head around, and it confuses him. Her big blue eyes are filled with complicated emotions, guilt, concern, sadness. Always sadness. Her eyebrows are pulled together, her jaw is tight, and she looks displeased.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says, voice ashamed, “I didn’t mean to get hurt. It won’t stop me from playing, Mama. I promise.”

Irina blinks at him, then her expression falls a bit further. He hates this wrecked, devastated look on her face. All he wants is to fix it, but he isn’t sure exactly what’s wrong.

“Ilya, my boy,” she murmurs, gently pressing the ice pack over his knee, and flinching herself when it makes him wince, “I am not worried about you missing games. I am worried that my Ilyushenka is hurting, and he wasn’t even going to tell me.”

Ilya studies her for a moment, glancing between the ice pack on his knee, and her forlorn expression.

“Papa will be mad if he finds out,” Ilya tells her plainly. How could she not understand why he wouldn’t bring this up? As if Grigori isn’t always making life a living hell for them all? As if he hadn’t raked Ilya across the coals, and then some, for more frivolous injuries.

“No one is going to tell Papa,” she tsks, gently lifting his leg a bit more so it’s resting on her thighs comfortably elevated. “But you know I am always here, Ilya, and I always will be. You know that, don’t you? You can always come to Mama.”

Ilya bites down so hard on his tongue he tastes copper, chewing over her words. He believes Mama when she says this, he trusts her that she isn’t going anywhere. She’s his rock, she has been his entire life. He wouldn’t be able to make it through most days without her. Despite her own visible pain, he knows she won’t ever leave him. 

Still, there’s this…hesitance, in his chest. He can’t explain it, but it feels like doubt, in a weird unexplainable way. He trusts his Mama, he knows she’s right, and it’s safer to allow himself to live in the reality she promises.

He’s twelve, and he’s afraid, and his entire life seems to be ahead of him, things planned for him that he doesn’t ever know if he’d choose for himself. His father is a mean old man who cares more about what Ilya can give him, rather than Ilya himself. And his brother is a jerk. No one besides Sveta and his Mama have ever…understood Ilya. 

“I know, Mama,” he assures her, nodding. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have.”

“Yes, you should have.” Mama reaches over and kisses his forehead again, sighing pleasantly. “You are still enjoying hockey, aren't you? It’s still fun for you?”

What would it matter if it wasn’t?

“Yes,” he says. He knows it’s a lie, and he thinks, looking at her face, she knows it too.

If it were just the two of them, maybe that would be enough for her to pull the plug. Cancel his training, take him off the team, free him from grueling drills and practices. Maybe with that extra time, Ilya could do a better job of pulling her out of those long sad days in the bed. Maybe she’d be happier, if he could be here with her more. If she had better company than the peeling wallpaper in their apartment.

But, then, a voice from downstairs shouts up, “Irina! Where is dinner?!” 

And they are both reminded that it’s not just the two of them.

“Well.” Mama pats his foot, standing up with a slight huff of effort. “Sounds like Papa is home. I will go set out dinner. Ice your knee for a few minutes and then come join us, okay Ilyushenka?”

Ilya nods, watching her head for his bedroom door with a feeling of longing in his stomach that he doesn’t understand.

She pauses with her hand on the doorknob, hesitating as she looks back at him. “Try not to limp in front of him.”

Ilya nods again. He wasn’t planning on it.

Irina offers him a sad smile, as if that one expression could convey all of her guilt and apologies for bringing him into this world, with this father, in this life. As if, one pack of ice for his bruised knee and one quiet promise to never leave him, is her most valiant attempt at making this life bearable for him. 

As far as Ilya is concerned, her being here is more than enough. As long as he has his Mama, he knows it will be okay.

It’s raining, when Ilya opens his eyes and looks out the window.

The patter against the glass is soft, tender somehow. There is a crack of thunder, and a flash of lightning, and Ilya finds himself stiffening a bit in bed, glancing sideways at his sleeping husband. 

It’s off-season, so Shane’s abandoned his careful regime of early morning workouts in favor of sleeping in more with Ilya. It’s something he wouldn’t have expected from the other man for a long time, but as they near retirement -or at least, Ilya does- he’s been getting a bit more lax with his rigidity.

Ilya carefully moves to the edge of the bed, stretching his sore muscles with a huff and a yawn, trying not to wake Shane. Their little one has never liked thunderstorms, so he’s almost certain he’s going to find her awake when he crosses the hall. 

The cottage used to scare little Yeva, but this year she’s gotten braver and decided on their summer pilgrimage, she wants to sleep in her own room. Ilya and Shane had spent weeks working on redecorating one of the guest rooms for her just right, with all her favorite things. Ninja Turtle decals on the walls, a dinosaur nightlight plugged in by the door, patterned sheets with princesses on them- she truly is a lady of multitudes.

No surprise, when Ilya pokes his head in the ajar doorway, Yeva is sitting up in bed, knees tucked to her chest, big brown eyes focused on the window. She favors Shane in many ways, with her dark hair and freckles, and the pronounced bow in her lips, but Shane insists she’s got Ily’s nose, and his smile, and his laugh. The older she gets, the more Ilya is starting to hear his mother’s laugh in Yeva’s, and it’s made him realize how much his own laugh sounds like hers as well. It’s sort of funny, how there are some things he couldn’t truly see about himself until they were reflected in his daughter.

“Good morning dochenka,” he greets her softly, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his bare chest. “Did you get any sleep?”

Yeva looks up at him, startling a bit when she hears his voice, before her shoulders relax. She gives him a big gummy smile, missing one of the teeth at the front of her mouth. “I kinda slept, Papa. But the storm gave me bad dreams.”

“Oh no. That is terrible.” Ilya pushes off the doorframe and saunters over to the bed, perching on the edge of her mattress and brushing hair from her face. Her skin has been made darker by their days in the sun by the lake, freckles more stark across her cheeks, and she looks so much like Shane it sometimes makes Ilya’s head spin- how much of Hollander he has to love.

“Did you and Daddy sleep?” Yeva asks, plucking at a thread on her quilt, looking up at him with curious eyes.

“Mm, not so well,” Ilya tells her, smiling wryly. “Solnyschko, why would you not come get us if you were having bad dreams?”

“‘Cause I’m gonna be in third grade this year,” she tells him very somberly. 

Ilya arches an eyebrow. “Oh, are you? I had forgotten.”

She kicks his leg playfully. “No you didn’t!”

“So what does third grade have to do with not telling Daddies about your bad dreams, hm?” Ilya cups her cheek lovingly for a moment, thumb brushing her freckles. “We want to know if something is wrong, sweetheart. Do not want you to have to handle bad dreams alone all night.”

Yeva purses her lips thoughtfully, brows pulling together. She seems to be thinking about how she wants to answer this, which is one of the things Ilya loves about her. She takes after Shane in that way, they aren’t impulsive like he can be, they take their time, consider their thoughts, make sure they’re saying what they mean.

“Well, all the other kids in school wouldn’t go get their parents for a bad dream,” she says carefully. “I was the last one to find out Santa isn’t real, and I don’t want to be the last one still going into your bed 'cause I had a bad dream.”

“First of all, Santa is real,” Ilya insists.

She rolls her eyes. “Papa, I know he’s not real!”

“He is real! I have seen him. He is big fat man with a belly full of jelly! I do not lie!”

“Papa.”

“And second,” Ilya continues, “I do not care what everyone in school is doing. I care about my daughter. And I want to know if she cannot sleep.” He meets her gaze, a bit more serious now. “You tell me next time, okay? I would have held you, if you wanted.”

Yeva considers this. “I did want. I was scared.”

Ilya’s chest tightens, like it always does, at the knowledge that there are some pains in the world he cannot protect his daughter from. It’s inevitable, he knows, that she is going to endure some suffering, but in these little moments, he wants to intervene wherever he can. He wants to protect her however possible. He doesn’t want her to have a childhood she has to recover from.

“Can we make pancakes for breakfast?” she asks suddenly.

“Sure!” Ilya holds his arms out, and Yeva scrambles forward. He throws her playfully over his shoulder, laughing when she squeals. “Punishment for not telling Papa that you could not sleep is that I get to bother you all day now!”

“Noooo!” she wails playfully.

“You are going to wake up Daddy!” Ilya warns as they shuffle into the hallway, bumping into Shane, who’s currently wiping sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Too late,” Shane mumbles, smiling sleepily at the pair of them. “Good morning baby.”

“G’morning Daddy!” Yeva greets him from Ilya’s shoulder. 

“Did you sleep okay?” Shane asks, falling into step behind them as they begin their trek down the stairs.

“Nightmares,” Ilya tells him, “and she did not come tell us.”

“Aw, baby.” Shane’s expression softens. “You know you can always come to us, don’t you?”

Ilya feels warm all the way down to his toes at his husband’s easy give to their daughter. He’s always known he married the right man, but little things like this are nice reminders.

“I know Daddy,” she says.

The three of them head into the kitchen, where Ilya deposits Yeva on a bartop stool and begins puttering around for pancake ingredients. Shane starts their coffees, putting on a cup of hot coco for Yeva. He pours it into her little Mike Wazowski mug, and passes it to her with a gentle warning.

“Let it cool, honey.”

“Okay Daddy.” Yeva nods diligently. She’s always been a good listener.

“And for you.” Shane passes Ilya his coffee, blonde with cream and sugar, and the taller man sips it with a sigh of relief. 

“Thank you, moy lyubimyy.” Ilya kisses the top of his head, then takes another chug of his coffee. “Oh my god Hollander, you make the best coffee in the fucking world! Who is Starbucks? She is dead to me.”

“Language!” Shane chides, punching his bicep as Yeva giggles into her mug.

“What? I am not allowed to say dead?” Ilya teases, heating up the pan on the stove for his pancake mix.

“Do not listen to Papa,” Shane begs their child with pleading eyes.

“Oh my solnyschko knows better than to use that word,” Ilya insists, “Yeva, you can say fudging.”

Yeva snorts, rolling her eyes. “Papa, can we go skating in the fudging rink after breakfast?”

“Very good,” Ilya says.

“Oh my god.” Shane rubs his eyes tiredly.

“Can we?” Yeva asks.

“Can we what?”

“Go skating? In the rink downstairs?”

“Oh!” Ilya flips the pancake in his pan. “Yes of course.”

“We don’t have any of her padding here,” Shane reminds him with a furrowed brow.

“Daddy I don’t need padding,” Yeva insists. “I skate so good now!”

“No pucks,” Ilya suggests, “just skating.”

“Alright,” Shane agrees.

Breakfast is eaten rapidly, and Yeva races upstairs to brush her teeth and change so they can go downstairs to the ice rink in the basement. Ilya leans against the countertop, watching as Shane begins washing the dishes. 

“Do you think she is okay?” Ilya asks, voice slightly hushed, on the off chance it carries upstairs.

Shane glances up from the frying pan he’s scrubbing, forehead wrinkled. “Yeva?”

“No, the Queen of England. Yes Yeva.”

“The queen is dead, Ilya.”

“Oh my god, Shane.”

“She seems alright to me, why are you worried?”

Ilya sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “She told me she didn’t sleep because of nightmares and I…I always thought she’d come to us if that happened. She always has.”

“Well, she’s getting older,” Shane reasons. “She won’t come to us for everything forever.”

Scowling, the taller man crosses his arms. “I would like her to.”

“I know, but that’s not realistic.” Shane smiles sympathetically. “It kills me a little too, but that’s just life babe.”

“I guess you are right.” He sighs, shaking his head. “I just worry.”

“That’s because you’re the best dad in the world.” Shane sets the clean pan on the dish rack and walks over, accepting the kitchen towel Ilya passes him to dry his hands. 

“Mm, no, I think is you.” Ilya leans in and presses his lips gently to Shane’s, pleased when the other man sighs and leans into the touch.

“How about both of us?” Shane breathes against Ilya’s mouth.

“That is good, yes.”

“Ewww!” 

They both turn to see their disgusted child standing in the doorway of the kitchen, shielding her eyes from the parental affection happening in front of the sink.

“Oh sorry I guess we should not love each other!” Ilya exclaims with mock-offense.

“You’re gross!” Yeva informs them. “Let’s skate!”

With that, she whirls on her heel and makes a beeline for the stairs.

“No running on the stairs!” Shane chides her with a frustrated exhale. He turns to Ilya. “I guess we’re gross.”

“I hope so.” Ilya wags his eyebrows playfully and Shane chuckles.

Yeva is really getting good on the ice.

They’ve had her in skates, essentially since she could walk. She didn’t take to it as naturally as everyone had expected, considering her fathers. Ilya loves her to death, but she’s not the most athletic kid in the world. She’s more of an inside kid, she likes reading and writing stories and playing with her Barbies. She enjoys playing hockey for fun, and always comes to their summer camp to participate, but she’s not interested in pursuing it. At least, not right now.

It makes Ilya so happy that she has that choice. The kind of choice he never had.

But by now, she’s pretty killer on her skates. She’s fast, and agile, and even knows a few tricks that one of her friends in a figure skating program taught her. She’s getting pretty good at what she calls a “bunny jump”. Ilya does not know if that is the real name for it, but it’s cute watching her show it off.

“Daddy! Papa! I wanna show you the move I just learned! Kacey taught it to me!” Yeva gets their attention, gliding over on her skates to where Shane and Ilya have just pulled away from a surely disgusting peck on the cheek.

“What’s this move called?” Shane asks.

“It’s called a two-foot-spin,” she says, “watch!”

Both men watch patiently as Yeva begins slowly skating in a wide arc, focused intently on her feet as she moves forward. Her circle gradually gets smaller, and smaller, until finally, she’s twirling in an impressively tight circle.

“Whoa!” Ilya exclaims, clapping his hands together. “That is fantastic!”

“You go baby girl!” Shane enthuses.

Yeva is giggling excitedly, and flawlessly executing her move, or so it seems. Her spin seems to be going well, until she somehow loses her footing, screaming in fear as she goes down. Hard. She hits the ice, face first, with a loud thud.

Ilya’s eyes go wide at the sight of his little girl lying there, unmoving.

Lying there.

Unmoving. 

…

“Mama?” Ilya calls, rapping gently on her bedroom door. “Papa and Alexei will be home soon! Do you want me to make dinner tonight?”

There is no immediate reply. He waits, shifting on his feet hesitantly. Practice had been pretty grueling today, but it went better than the past few. He scored a hat trick, and coach was impressed. By the time Ilya is thirteen, he thinks he’ll be ready for some real tournaments. Which he’d seen coming, but it is still nice to have good news to bring home, instead of a bruised knee.

Ilya sighs, leaning against the doorframe of Mama’s bedroom. Some days are like this. She doesn’t want to open the door when she’s been crying all day. She likes to put on a brave face for him, make him laugh, make him forget that she’s in pain. Ilya does the same for her, when he can. 

He knocks again, a bit louder this time in case she hadn’t heard him. “Mama! I am going to make dinner, okay? We have ingredients for shashlik, so, I can make that? Does that sound good?”

No answer. Ilya sighs, shoulders sagging. He turns and heads for the kitchen. He will cook dinner and maybe he can entice her to come out with good smells. His mom already had the meat marinating, so it will be quick to throw together before Papa gets home.

It doesn’t take long to get the food ready and set out to warm. Papa should be home soon with Alexei. They were at a meeting with Alexei’s teacher. Ilya thinks he’s in some kind of trouble. At least it will take the heat off Ilya for a while.

Once the smell of onions and cooked meat has drifted through the apartment, Ilya heads back down the hall, hoping Mama is ready to see him.

He knocks again. “Mama, it’s me, Ilya. I am going to come in if you don’t come out, okay?”

Silence.

With a gentle sigh, Ilya tries the doorknob. It is unlocked. He pushes the door open, stepping into the room. Mama is lying on the bed, curled up on her side the way she normally is when she has a long day like this.

“Mama, I cooked dinner, let’s go wait for Papa so he does not know it was me.” Ilya approaches the bed, gently shaking her ankle. He pulls back a bit, surprised at how cold she feels. “Mama, it’s cold in here. Come on, come to the kitchen where it’s warm.”

He reaches for the lamp at her bedside table, pausing briefly when he sees the empty pill bottle. The lid is next to the little white container. 

Brows furrowed, he turns back to his mom. Her eyes are closed. He reaches out and touches her cheek, gasping at how cold her face feels.

“Mama?” he asks, examining her sleeping expression. There is no color to her cheeks, like there usually is. She’s pale, blonde hair askew on the pillows. The gold crucifix on her chest lies there limply.

He studies the necklace for a moment, before he realizes, her chest isn’t moving.

“Mama?” he asks again, shaking her shoulder. She doesn’t move, still. 

Ilya’s heart begins to race in his chest. She never sleeps so hard that he cannot wake her up by shaking her. 

“Mama!” This time, he shouts it, desperation saturating his voice. He shakes her even harder, afraid he’s going to hurt her. “Mama! Wake up! It’s Ilyushenka! Wake up!”

She doesn’t move. Her eyes stay closed. Her cold body feels more like a ragdoll, stiff and inarticulate.

“No,” he gasps, leaning in beside her cold face to listen to her breathing.

There is only silence.

“No, no, no.” The words are spilling from his mouth like they’ve broken through a dam. “No, Mama, no, no, no.”

This is not real. 

Ilya climbs up on the bed beside her, shaking her shoulder again. “Mama, please. Wake up. Please.”

No, no, no.

“Mama!” He cries, feeling hot liquid begin to spill down his cheeks. “Mama!”

She lies there, unmoving.

Ilya does not know what to do. The phone in the kitchen is broken, and Mama doesn’t have one of those mobile ones. He has no way to contact his dad, or the hospital, or…or anyone. In a situation like this, he would ask Mama for help. 

Ilya does not know what to do.

He sits beside her, voice desperate. He pulls the comforter up over her body, hoping, futilely, maybe if he can warm her up, her heart will decide to beat again.

“Is okay, Mama,” he tells her quietly, the same way she’s always done for him, “I’m here. I’m here. I am with you.”

Ilya sits beside his mother, until he hears the front door open, and a demanding voice calling his name.

“Ilya!”

…

“Ilya!”

His head snaps to the side, where Shane is currently gathering Yeva up in his arms. He’s untied her skates and tossed them aside. He’s picking her up bridal style. Her face is smeared with blood, a cut on her forehead, it looks like.

“Ilya!” Shane repeats, voice frantic.

“W-Shane! Yeva!” Ilya skates toward them, but Shane shouts at him.

“No! Go start the car! Now!”

It physically pains Ilya to move away from them in this moment, but he does as he’s told. He speeds off the ice, kicking his own skates off and stumbling for the rink doors. 

He moves on autopilot. Up the stairs. Keys, wallet, phone. He shoves his feet into some slide on shoes, and races out to where their Land Rover is parked. He starts the engine, climbing out to rush back in, when he sees Shane emerge from the front doors, still carrying Yeva in his arms. 

“What is-” he starts, but Shane is already loading himself and their daughter into the backseat.

“She didn’t take off her necklace before we went out,” Shane says quickly, “it cut her eyebrow when she went down. We’re going to that emergency room up the road. Now Ilya!”

Yeva is sobbing into Shane’s chest, blood smearing his hoodie. Shane is looking at Ilya like he’s one fuck-up away from getting his big Russian ass beat.

Ilya pulls the car out onto the dirt road, heading for the emergency room.

Thank god, it’s only a ten minute drive. The cottage is secluded, but there’s enough within close distance that it’s not a harrowing journey to get to the small emergency clinic. 

“I’m sorry Daddy!” Yeva blubbers as Ilya parks in the ER Lot. “You told me take off my jewelry and I-I forgot!”

“Shhh, it’s okay baby,” Shane soothes her gently with a hand cupped around her head. “You’re okay, I promise. It’s a small cut. It was an accident. It’s okay.”

“I have her, come on.” Ilya opens the back door and spreads his arms for Yeva. 

Shane hesitates momentarily, which fucking kills, but thankfully is quick to relinquish her. They shuffle into the emergency center, Yeva sobbing against Ilya’s shirt now as he tries to softly shush her.

Shane makes a beeline for the front desk, urgency not necessary, as the receptionist clearly recognizes him.

“Shane Hollander!” she exclaims, eyes going wide.

“Hi, yes, my daughter needs help. Please.”

“Oh! Oh my, okay, yes, let’s get this filled out here and we’ll get you right back. Slow day today!”

Shane quickly takes the clipboard from her and fills it out standing at the desk. Ilya holds Yeva to his chest, and realizes that he’s been rocking her in his arms like a baby this entire time.

It seems to have helped a bit though. She’s no longer sobbing, more of a quiet sniffle now, resting her cheek on his chest.

They’re brought back quickly, thank god for hockey fans. Yeva seems overwhelmed and anxious by all of this, but she puts on her best brave girl face.

Of course, until the doctor tells them she’s going to need a few stitches in her eyebrow.

The word stitches does not go over well.

“No!” She squeals, pulling away. “I don’t want a needle in my face! No way! No sir!”

“Dochenka,” Ilya murmurs, “is going to be okay. They are going to numb your face, it will not hurt a bit.”

She sniffles again, shaking her head fiercely. “I can’t do it, I can’t do it.”

“Hey, I know it’s scary baby,” Shane says, reaching for her hand and squeezing tight. “But you are brave. You can do this.”

“Daddy and I have had so many stitches,” Ilya tells her, holding up his palm to show her a faded white scar. “You see this? I had to get stitches in my hand.”

Yeva blinks through her big teary eyes at him. “F-from hockey?”

Shane snorts.

“Ah, no.” Ilya shakes his head. “From the first time I made Daddy dinner.”

“His knife safety wasn’t where it should have been,” Shane mutters. “I did warn him.”

Yeva frowns. “You warned me too, ‘bout my necklace.”

“Well, we both have learned our lessons now, da?” Ilya murmurs. “I will hold you the entire time, moy lyuobov. It will not hurt. I promise with pinky.”

He holds his pinky out. Reluctantly, she lifts her own pinky, and it’s laughably teeny tiny besides his. It would be funny, if his heart wasn’t so full of agony at the fear in her face and the pain in her voice.

Finally, she relaxes a bit in his arms, nodding her consent. The doctor gets her cleaned up and ready for the injection of numbing solution.

She cries the entire time, quietly though, and without drama. Ilya holds her, whispers in her ear, while Shane lets her squeeze his big hand in her tiny one.

“You are so brave,” Ilya tells her, “you are so strong.”

“Good girl,” Shane says, “I’m so proud of you.”

It feels like an eternity before finally, the stitches are in place, just three little sutures in her eyebrow. Injury-wise, comparatively, it is not a big deal. But to Shane and Ilya, who have had to take their daughter to the emergency room for a bleeding face, it is the scariest thing that’s ever happened to them.

Once they are back in the car, Shane driving this time and Ilya sitting in the back with Yeva leaning against his side, the air between them seems to thin a bit.

“Are you hungry, baby?” Shane asks, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

Yeva nods hesitantly. “Uh-huh.”

“What would you like?”

“Anything I want?”

“Anything you want.”

“Can we get poutine from that place?”

“Sure, honey.”

The ride is mostly quiet. They listen to Yeva’s favorite station, and Ilya rubs her back and kisses her hair, and finally they make it back to the cottage.

Yeva devours the poutine and drinks the Coke Shane let her get with her lunch. Her fathers are a bit too rattled to eat. Afterward, Shane tells her to go up and have a shower, and she dutifully follows his orders, leaving the two of them standing there in the quiet kitchen.

Shane is the one to break the silence. “Ilya, what was that in the rink?”

He startles a bit, surprised by the question. “What do you mean?”

“For a second there, when Yeva fell you…” He hesitates, as if deciding if he really wants to open this can of worms, before he speaks again. “You went somewhere else. I could see it in your eyes. It was like you couldn’t even hear me saying your name.”

Ilya exhales a ragged, pitiful breath. He knows he has to be honest with Shane. Years of therapy did not prepare him for the fact that the sight of his daughter motionless on the ice would sink him into despair the same way seeing Shane that way had.

“I am sorry,” he says in a low voice.

“Don’t be sorry,” Shane replies immediately. “Just, clue me in, babe.”

Ilya gestures for Shane to sit beside him at the island, relieved when the other man does so without question. Ilya runs his fingers over the cool gold of the crucifix around his neck.

“Same thing happened to me before, when Marleau broke your collarbone. Do you remember that?”

Shane’s eyes soften a bit. “Of course I do.”

“I just saw her lying there, most important person in my life, our baby,” Ilya says brokenly, “and for a second I was- I was back there.”

Thankfully, Shane doesn’t seem to need much elaboration on what there Ilya is referring to. Still, because he’s Shane Hollander, he asks, just to be sure.

“There as in, Russia? Your mom?”

Ilya nods, swallowing thickly. “I know is not okay, I- she needed me and I failed her. I am sorry, Shane. I can not believe I-”

“Please don’t say that,” Shane murmurs. “You’re a human being, Ilya. One who has been through some pretty awful stuff. I understand. I mean, I don’t understand but I…I see you. I see you. I was scared shitless too.”

I see you.

This is exactly why Shane Hollander has always been impossible for Ilya to resist. Not only is he the sexiest man alive, and always will be, but he is one of the only living people who sees Ilya. Not “Rozanov” the big scary Russian, not “number 81” the devastating captain who will check players into oblivion and run his mouth, but the same Ilya that Irina saw. Ilyushenka, and all the goodness he has inside of him, that he now believes about himself.

“I will call Galina,” Ilya promises, “talk it out with her.”

“Okay.” Shane nods, reaching over to twine their fingers together. He squeezes Ilya’s briefly. “If you say you’re okay, I believe you. You know that?”

“I know.” He nods. “And I am okay. But I think I should probably just…process this with her.”

“Good idea.” Shane smiles at him briefly, then glances at the staircase. “You should probably talk to Yeva, too. I think you might’ve scared her as much as she scared you. When you weren’t hearing me say your name.”

Ilya closes his eyes against a fresh wave of shame and guilt.

“Hey.” Shane nudges his thigh with his own. “It’s okay. She’s okay. We’re all okay. We just have to be honest with her about what we’re feeling, okay?”

Ilya nods, opening his eyes to look over at Shane’s understanding expression. He does not know what he did to deserve this fucking wonderful man, let alone be able to have a family with him, but he’s so glad he did it.

“Come here, moy sladkiy.” Ilya leans in pleased when Shane immediately does the same, and kisses him. 

It’s brief, but deep, impassioned. He hopes the tender touch can even slightly convey all the things Shane deserves to hear, that Ilya isn’t smart enough or wise enough to be able to put into words.

He does tell him the one thing that’s always been easiest. “I love you, Shane.”

“I love you too, Ilya.”

“Gross!”

Yeva is standing in the kitchen doorway again. She’s freshly showered, dressed in a pair of sweatpants and one of Shane’s Centaurs t-shirts. She swims in it, but she loves wearing their oversized t-shirts as jammies.

“Yes, we are disgusting.” Shane rolls his eyes fondly. “I am going to go shower now. Be back in ten.”

He presses a swift kiss to Ilya’s temple and heads for the stairs, lovingly cupping Yeva’s hair on the way up.

Ilya stands from the barstool and heads for the couch, patting the space next to him. Yeva scrambles over, curling her feet up underneath her as she nestles at his side on the couch. Ilya throws his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, using his free hand to pull up whatever movie they’d last been watching. Tangled starts from the halfway point.

It’s quiet for a few moments, until Ilya says, “sweetheart?”

“Yeah Papa?” Yeva looks up at him, and it kills him a little to see her face marred by the stitches.

“I wanted to talk to you about earlier, in the rink when Daddy was saying my name and I didn’t hear him.”

Yeva bites the inside of her cheek visibly. It’s clear she’s been thinking about this, but didn’t know what to say. Ilya has never done anything like that in front of her before.

“I know that must have made a scary thing worse,” he says softly, “and I am sorry for that.”

“It’s okay, Papa. Did you not hear him? Are your ears hurting?”

“Mm, you are so sweet to worry about my ears, my darling.” Ilya pets her hair. “My ears are fine, but the reason I couldn’t hear Daddy was a little more complicated.”

Yeva looks at him, her full attention lasered in.

“You know this necklace?” He gestures to the crucifix at his chest. 

“Uh-huh. You always wear it.”

“You did know it was my Mama’s, didn’t you?”

Yeva’s expression grows somber at the mention of her late grandmother. “Yeah you told me that before. It was babushka’s?”

Ilya nods at her, a tight smile on his face. “Yes, it is all I have left of her after she died.”

“That’s sad.” 

“It is sad.” He sighs gently. “But I have other ways to remember her. Like our hockey school.”

“Oh right! It’s named after her!”

“That's right,” Ilya says. “And by now, you are probably wondering why I am bringing up babushka when we were talking about me not hearing Daddy.”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Darling, sometimes…sometimes when people experience something…well, traumatic-” he sounds the word out as best he can, “the memories of that thing can be very hard to forget. Even when you don’t want to remember them, they come back to you.”

Yeva frowns at him curiously.

“When I saw you had gotten hurt, it made me think of a very bad memory.” Ilya clears his throat. “Because I love you so very, very much. And when you get hurt, I feel like it hurts me too. You are my entire heart, little girl. Anyway, that memory made it very hard for me to think for a moment. I am sorry, if that scared you.”

“It was a memory about babushka?” Yeva deduces. She’s always been a smart kid.

Ilya nods again.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she murmurs, “I didn’t mean to hurt you too.”

“No no, my beloved.” Ilya pulls her closer and squeezes her in his arms until she’s fake-gasping for air. “It was an accident, and they happen to all of us. It is not your fault. I am only glad you are okay now.”

“I should have taken my necklace off, like Daddy told me to,” she says dejectedly. 

“It is okay to forget things, sweetheart. You are a human.”

Yeva glances up at him, lips pouty. “I didn’t forget.”

Ilya pulls back, arching an eyebrow. “Oh, no? But you told Daddy-”

Yeva pulls the necklace out from the collar of her shirt, showing it to Ilya. He hadn’t realized before, but it’s the necklace they got her for Christmas this year. It’s a small locket, and on the inside, is a photo of the three of them. Shane and Ilya smushing Yeva between them, all bright-eyed and blissful smiles for the camera.

“I never take it off,” she says, “I like having you with me, the same way you have babushka with you.”

Ilya’s throat suddenly feels too tight to breathe through. Overcome with a swell of emotions that are too fierce to dive into with his small child, he can do nothing else but pull her in and squeeze her again, pressing his tear-stained face into her hair so she doesn't notice he’s crying.

“I love you,” he tells her in a shaky voice, “ya lyublyu tebya, my sweet baby girl.”

“I love you too, Papa,” Yeva says back, so easily, so unguarded, so earnest. To her, it is unfathomable that child and father could feel anything for each other besides genuine love. That is a legacy Ilya feels immensely proud to be leaving behind. More than the charity, more than his hockey career, more than even his love for Shane.

His daughter will always know that he is here, and he loves her, and no matter how big she gets or what happens, her Papa is always going to be by her side. 

It’s a promise his mother could not keep. And he’s long since stopped blaming her for that. 

But Ilya Rozanov will not break that promise to his own child. That is one thing he always knows will be true.

Always.