Chapter Text
It started the way it had ended all those years ago. A limp, lifeless hand.
Awoken from yet another nightmare, Ilya sat up in bed with a gasp and tried to control his breathing. The same nightmare. His mother is in the hammock. Shane is in the cottage.
Galina had given him some exercises. He held his throat as he breathed, wishing he could feel the movement of the air through his windpipe, but all he felt was his racing heartbeat. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four.
He moved to the edge of the bed to get his feet on the floor, a way of grounding his body from the swimming weightlessness of sleep. He was awake. He was in his home in Ottawa. He was awake.
In his periphery, Ilya dimly noticed a strange shadow next to him. Perhaps a branch from outside, its silhouette trapped against his pillow by the moon. He needed to get that tree trimmed.
Once he got his breathing under control, he started taking in his surroundings. His white duvet, Shane’s unspoken preference. He liked impressing his neat, aesthetically-minded boyfriend with things like that.
A soft mattress that he splayed his palms across for stability. One of Svetlana’s more muted paintings on the wall he was facing, an abstract mess of greens and blues. Not his favorite of her works, but he loved all of her artistic endeavors.
Two pillows. Silk covers. A recommendation from Shane. For your curls, he’d said. Trust me. You’re going to wake up looking even more handsome than you already do.
Ilya’s heart warmed. For the first time, he noticed he was on Shane’s side of the bed. The barbed pain of loneliness wrapped around his heart, a familiar feeling during times like these. Montreal was off on a Southern tour. Ottawa was… Ottawa. Stuck at home, but homey nonetheless.
His hand grabbed for Shane’s pillow, longing to smell his shampoo. He grabbed the shadow instead.
Cold and stiff. Unmistakably human. Attached to a body, sprawled across the bed behind him. He couldn’t see past the wrist, but all of a sudden, he knew it was there. Ilya jerked away, heart back to racing. His hand, usually warm in its callous, weathered way, was suddenly cold, as if infected by that deadened chill. Was he awake?
He was awake, wasn’t he?
He calmed down again, brushing it off. His nightmare had spilled over, he presumed. The hand was gone, and he could have sworn it was his mother’s.
—
Two nights later, Ilya awoke from the same nightmare. He wished it would have stopped surprising him now, but he startled awake with the same jolt and rush of emotions.
In one of his sessions with Galina, she’d asked him to describe how the dreams made him feel. He had told her they made him miss his mother. They made him scared and lonely. They made him resent Shane for not understanding. His mother was right there. Ilya would call, wave, and beckon him over in any way he could. Shane would look up, lazily wave back, and slowly make his way to the door. Never fast enough.
Tonight, Ilya categorized the emotions. He placed them in boxes, so they’d stop pressing on his chest and punishing him with guilt. He liked the breathing exercises, too. He did them again.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four.
His hands found his face. He massaged his tired eyes with his fingers, perhaps a little rougher than he should. A small, quiet voice whispered from the back of his mind. Had it spilled over again? Would she be here, with him, in his home?
Ilya slowly, carefully, moved his hands away from his face. He opened his eyes. The lovely view of the window to his backyard at night greeted him. The cold had scared the leaves away, but hadn’t yet brought snow. It reminded him of his first home.
He felt something. Perhaps a shift in the air, or a dip in the bed. He looked to his left without moving his head. His eyes caught her hand. This time, an arm too. And a nightgown, frilly and pink. The delicate, floral pattern that lingered in his memory was there, looking more blue in the shadows.
Ilya blinked, and she was gone. He felt that aching, all-consuming loneliness rush him. It wrapped him in its suffocating chill. He did not return to sleep that night. He just stared at the other side of the bed, willing someone to be there.
More lucid, he relived the fight with Shane. It was a living nightmare to return to this fresh, raw memory, but somehow, it was already fraying at the seams. What exactly had Shane said when Ilya had asked him to leave? Had he said anything at all?
Ilya wished he could take that question—that demand, really—and shove it back in his mouth. Which would you choose? Which will you choose?
Ilya wanted someone here with him. His mother was dead, and he had banished his boyfriend. He had no friends anymore. Of course he was alone. The boxes didn’t work, and the weight of the emotions crushed his ribs in a slow, relentless press.
—
Over the next week, more of Ilya’s mother appeared. He re-familiarized himself with the pattern of her nightgown, the slight kick of the ends of her hair against her shoulders. He hadn’t seen her face yet, and he ached for it. Seeing her again made him realize how fuzzy his memory of her had become. But now, she was in sharp, clear focus. He wanted to study her features while she was here, so he would not forget them again.
She began to show herself in the daytime, albeit in muted colors and shadows. Dawn and dusk, when he could mistake her for tricks of the light.
Every time he got out his phone, wishing to call Shane, everything he wanted to say was suddenly ridiculous. Selfish. Wanting, always and always. Wanting and wanting and wanting more all the time. His father had taught him to constantly strive for more, but sometimes he remembered a time when he was younger and cried into his mother’s lap, wishing for a more loving father and a kinder brother. Secretly wishing for more of her.
You must content yourself with this, little sparrow, she’d whisper in his ear. This is all you will have.
The universe had gifted him Shane. A delicate mercy he didn’t deserve, but now, he was all Ilya had. He didn’t want to fuck it up by saying the wrong thing, so he let the space linger. He let the maw of silence between them open wider and wider, hoping the distance would be a worthy sacrifice for his love, his life.
—
Ilya had always liked to nap on his couch. Unlike Shane’s, his couch was deliciously comfortable. The cool leather kissed his skin and welcomed him into a soft embrace.
Recently, he had enjoyed napping on the couch for a different reason. As he settled a pillow beneath his head, closed his eyes, and let his mind drift, he felt it. Warmth beneath his ear. The rough fabric of a well-loved apron. Hands running through his curls. Hands he would never, ever mistake. His face cracked into a small smile.
He’d canceled his next appointment with Galina. She had called to confirm he was alright, and in a tired daze, he had excused it for preparing for a match with the Flames. He’d had to check the copy of the Centaur schedule sent out before the season started to remember who his team was playing against.
It rushed back to him, his team. He had missed three practices in a row—or was it four?—and at this point, how could he go? Better to let them see Wyatt’s charisma, or Troy’s strong will, or even Luca’s youthful optimism. All of these players would be better captains than him, he was certain. And how could he leave? In this house, he could disappear exactly how he yearned for.
—
Ilya kneeled next to his bed. His clasped hands rested on the fitted sheet, with the top sheet and duvet heaped messily on the floor. Shane hadn’t called. Ilya couldn’t even hold it against him.
This was a familiar pose. The blooming soreness in his knees reminded him of nights with Shane, bringing a flutter to his heart even now. And yet, he had known this pose of devotion long before Shane. He knew it from his childhood, from his mother, a relentlessly faithful woman.
Heavenly Father, in Your endless mercy, You have drawn my mother into Your warm embrace and forgiven her of all her sins.
He whispered this fervently in his native tongue. His eyes shut tightly in his conviction.
You send her to me now, another benevolent gift, another act of Your endless kindness. You have forgiven her sins. Please forgive mine. Amen.
Gentle hands ran through his curls.
My little sparrow, she whispered to him. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He let the sound of her voice wash over him. I am so alone.