Chapter Text
It's Ilya who finds her.
That's the truth. That's also an oversimplification built on a technicality.
Ilya's twelve and everything's normal until it isn't.
It's a cold, damp autumn day. Practice was good and now Ilya's famished. His hair is still wet from the shower. He's so eager to be home that his sports bag feels lighter than a feather on his shoulder.
There's a sign on the elevator door saying it's broken and the maintenance people will come tomorrow morning, so Ilya starts running up the stairs, taking them two steps at a time, ignoring how tired his legs are.
A guy in a black hoodie is hunched on himself on the steps halfway between the second and third floor. He's clearly crying and trying to hide it from the world, so Ilya pretends he doesn't see anything and instead sprints forward.
Old Pavel Mikailovich is waiting for the elevator on the fourth floor landing, ignoring the Out of order sign right in front of his face. Ilya gives the old asshole a quick, serious nod as he passes, just to make sure he won't once again tell his dad that Ilya's been rude to him. Fucker.
Ilya reaches the fifth floor, unlocks the front door, and gets inside calling, "I'm back!" so his mom will know it's him. He makes quick work of toeing off his shoes while letting the gym bag fall to the floor, of locking the door while putting on his slides. He's a master at multitasking when he's hungry.
When he looks back up from his feet, he freezes on the spot.
There's a man in the hallway.
A man who just stepped out from the living room.
Ilya didn't hear him. Didn't see him until now.
The door was locked but there's a man here and—
The man grabs Ilya by the arm and pulls him into the living room before he can do much aside from feeling more scared than he's ever felt before, even in the occasions in which Dad's anger is worse than terrible. One horrible scenario after the other hits Ilya in the next instant, while the guy easily manhandles him into sitting down on one of the couches.
"Ilya-"
"Where's Mama?" Ilya whispers around the lump of terror that's lodged in his throat and only growing with every passing second, making him feel like close to no air can reach his lungs.
The man crouches down in front of him while running a big hand through his dark blond curls. He says nothing for long enough that Ilya's mind can starts cataloguing details in an effort to avoid thinking about Mama and what could have happened to her, or who this man could be.
He's got a mess of a beard and messier hair. A weird bird tattooed on one arm. A sleeveless blue t-shirt, Adidas shorts, slides. A golden chain with a cross and a ring dangling from it. Some of the saddest eyes Ilya's ever seen. Some of the biggest thighs and arms Ilya's ever seen in person, big enough to rival what some pro hockey players have.
The man could hurt him so easily, and Ilya, twelve-year-old Ilya, with his gangly frame and his still growing muscles, wouldn't be able to do much against him.
"Something's happened," the man says, at last. It sounds like every word is a self-inflicted wound. "Your Mama— Fuck."
"Is she okay?"
The man takes a deep breath, but instead of saying anything, he just shakes his head no, looking almost sadder than a moment before.
Ilya's fear and the absolute uncertainty of the moment coalesce into the urge to act, to do something, to find his mom and check on her, because she has to be okay, has to!
Ilya bolts up from the couch as he pushes the man away with both hands and doesn't wait to see if he'll lose his balance or not, just runs out of the living room, the apartment suddenly feeling enormous in its stillness.
The door to his parents' bedroom is open.
The light is on inside.
Mama's on the bed.
She's wearing her favorite dress, the blue one with the sequins.
The one that makes her look like the sea under the midday sun.
She looks like a discarded doll, not the sea.
Her cross has slid to the hollow of her throat.
Her right arm dangles over the side of the bed.
Her hair is a messy blond cloud on the pillow.
Her eyes are open and staring at the ceiling.
Her mouth is frozen in a half smile.
She's not breathing.
Another stranger in crappy clothes is sitting on the floor, looking down at the thick carpet, and holding Mama's hand in his like it's the most precious thing in the world.
This stranger is touching her and Mama just lies there.
Ilya calls her and screams at her and runs to her and shakes her and pleads to her and cries to her and she just lies there.
Mama just lies there.
"I'm so sorry," the man on the floor keeps on saying, voice snotty and cracked. "I tried, I really tried, but I fucked up, I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry."
Ilya buries his face against Mama's shoulder and holds onto her, all his body limp and useless, except his hands and arms.
He'll never let her go.
He'll never have to.
It's all a nightmare.
He'll wake up soon.
He just needs to hold on to Mama and wait it out, and then, when he wakes up, everything will be right again, like it has always been, like it will always be.
He just needs to hold on tight.
"Ilya?" the man who ambushed him calls, from the direction of the door.
Ilya scrunches his eyes closed even harder. This is not happening. This is not happening. If he doesn't look, if he doesn't listen, nothing will be happening.
"It was not your fault," the man says. "It was nobody's fault. No, listen to me, really listen, Ilya! She was very sad, very hurt, and you couldn't have done anything to prevent this."
There are garbled, unintelligible words coming from the floor, from where the other stranger is sitting and holding Mama's hand. Whatever he's saying, he sounds as wrecked as Ilya feels right now, makes him cry even more, makes him focus on willing this nightmare to break.
Since it doesn't seem to work yet, Ilya holds onto Mama and wills her to wake up instead. To breathe. To have a heart that beats, low and steady.
Maybe this will be the thing that solves it. Maybe willing his mom alive will break the nightmare and he'll wake up in his bedroom, and—
A hand lands on his shoulder and Ilya jolts on his parents' bed, pushes his face harder against the sequins of Mama's dress.
"Ilya. You have to call your dad, now."
Ilya hunches down, fists his left hand around sequins and fabric at Mama's side, against her unmoving ribcage, the right one around her satiny pillowcase.
The second man says something low. Something Ilya doesn't want to catch. Something the first man doesn't seem to care about.
"I know it sounds impossible," the bearded man says, low and soothing, rubbing tiny circles on Ilya's shoulder, "but you're gonna be okay. It will always hurt, always, some days so hard that it will feel like you never left this room, but you're gonna be okay, Ilya."
You're gonna be okay?! How can Ilya be okay? How can he ever hope to be okay?! Mama is dead, Mama is gone, Mama won't ever tell him to brush his teeth before bed, Mama won't ever hide candy in the pockets of his coats and hoodies, Mama won't ever tell him to take better care of his hair, Mama won't ever surprise him outside school and accompany him to the rink because she missed him, Mama won't be there, she just won't be there to watch him achieve all the things he hopes, she's gonna miss it all and he's supposed to be okay?! Those are the most bullshit platitudes Ilya's ever heard!
"Now take a deep breath," the fucker says, so calm it's an insult, "be as angry as you need to be, you've earned it, and then, when you're done, call your dad. It's gonna be okay."
"Fuck you! What the fuck do you think you know?!" Ilya shouts.
Well, he shouts the first two syllables as he whips up and around, because he needs to look this asshole and his stupid bird tattoo in the eyes while he screams at them.
Except the man is gone and the rest of the words die in Ilya's throat like someone hit the mute button on a remote.
Both men are gone, actually.
Ilya's alone in the room.
He's alone with his mother, who's not breathing, and with this new, unbearable sorrow, which Ilya already knows will keep on growing inside him, month after month, until the day when there will be no space left for his lungs to take another breath.