Chapter Text
Ilya wandered through the familiar halls of his home, his small hand brushing over his bruised face, attempting to wipe away the tears streaming down his cheeks. He replayed the moment over and over in his mind—the missed pass on the ice that had caught the watchful eye of his father. Grigori Rozanov was known for his harshness, and today was no exception. “A lesson,” he’d called it, but Ilya was left bewildered. How could a hard hit to the face somehow improve his reaction time?
Shaking off the thought, Ilya kept his head held high, striving to appear braver than a twelve-year-old child should have to be. Steeling himself, he made his way toward his mother’s room, fully aware that it would end with him collapsing in her comforting embrace, tears spilling over despite his attempts to hold them back.
He gently cracked the door open, peering into the dimly lit room. “Mama? Are you napping?” he called softly in Russian, his voice barely above a whisper. As he stepped further into the room, a shiver of unease coursed through him when he caught sight of his mother lying on the bed, her delicate hand dangling over the edge. “...Mama?” The word escaped his lips much more hesitantly this time, tinged with dread. In the pit of his stomach, he feared what he was about to discover, yet nothing could prepare him for the horror that awaited.
His beautiful, kind mother lay still and pale, lifeless, with a pill bottle resting ominously next to her—all its contents consumed. A sharp gasp escaped him, and in that moment, all his previous worries seemed to wash away, replaced by a tidal wave of terror and despair. “Mama!” he cried out, rushing to her side, almost stumbling over his own feet as he climbed next to her. He shook her softly, as if she were merely asleep, desperately clinging to the hope that she would wake up. But before he could truly grasp his grief, the door creaked open, revealing his father’s imposing figure.
Suddenly, he bolted upright in bed, breathing heavily. A dream? No, it was worse—a nightmarish memory, a vivid flashback to the worst day of his life, creeping back to haunt him while he sought solace in sleep, his boyfriend Shane peacefully snoring next to him.
“Ilya? Are you okay?” Shane murmured, sitting up groggily as he sensed the panic radiating from his partner. Ilya was unable to form words, his breaths coming in jagged gasps as trembling overtook his body. As Shane instinctively moved closer, he felt the dampness pooling beneath Ilya in their shared bed. “Oh, Ilya…” he whispered, worry etched across his features as he reached out to steady his distressed partner.
Unable to suppress the flood of fear and anguish any longer, Ilya collapsed against Shane, surrendering to a vulnerability he rarely displayed. Tears streamed down his face, soaking into the fabric of Shane’s shirt as he buried his face against his chest. “Mama! H-help! Mama!” he managed to gasp, but the frantic cries were lost in a flurry of slurred Russian, his native tongue tangled in panic.
“Ilya, what are you saying? Are you okay?” Shane's voice trembled slightly, a mixture of concern and helplessness bubbling beneath the surface. Never before had he seen his boyfriend in such a fragile state—not even when Ilya's father had passed. Shane wrapped his arms tighter around him, gently rubbing his back, straining to decipher the muffled words and sounds escaping Ilya’s lips.
Looking down, Shane was taken aback by the sight of the powerful man he loved, now reduced to a small, trembling figure, sucking his thumb as if seeking comfort in the act like a child. “Ilya…?” he ventured, uncertainty coloring his tone. All he received in response was another whimper that felt heartbreakingly small.
In that vulnerable moment, Ilya curled against Shane, sniffling while his thumb found its way to his mouth, as the world around him blurred into an indistinct haze. All he felt was an overwhelming softness in his head, as if it were filled with fluffy cotton or drifting clouds. Every attempt to voice his fears only resulted in soft, wounded noises while he shivered, lost in his own turmoil.
Shane felt the tremors run through Ilya’s body and swore under his breath, “Shit, sorry, I forgot about that. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He gently lifted Ilya from the bed, expecting at least some assistance, but he didn’t complain when his boyfriend remained motionless, lost in his own world. With a surge of strength, honed by years of hockey, Shane hoisted Ilya into his arms, feeling the weight of him in a manner that was both tender and unsettling.
As he carried Ilya to the bathroom, he couldn’t help but glance down at the man who had once been his long-time rival and now was his lover, held close to him like a child. The stark contrast shook him, and internally he was spiraling, trying to remain composed for Ilya’s sake despite the tension rippling through his muscles.
He carefully set Ilya on the countertop, releasing a heavy sigh as he accomplished the task. Ilya gazed up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, still clutching his thumb. “What’s with that look?” Shane tried to inject some levity into the moment, attempting to lighten the oppressive atmosphere, but he faltered when he saw the blankness in Ilya’s expression. “... let’s get you clean,” he murmured, opting for a warm bath over a shower, sensing that Ilya might not be able to stand long enough for the latter.