Chapter Text
The dream always starts the same way.
His father’s fist connects with his ribs hard enough that the air tears out of him in a sharp, humiliating gasp. The room smells like vodka and sweat and something sour that never quite goes away. The wallpaper peels in the corner where the damp has eaten it thin.
Alexei is standing by the door, laughing.
It’s bright and ugly and effortless. This is entertainment; something to learn from. His father shouts something he doesn’t quite hear over the rush in his ears, and Alexei laughs again, louder, encouraging.
His mother is crying in the corner, hands twisted in the hem of her sweater, face collapsing inward. There is the start of a purple swell by her left eye onto her cheekbone. She says his name once, quietly, like she already knows it won’t change anything.
Then the dream shifts.
The apartment is silent now. Ilya walks down the narrow hallway with the heavy certainty of someone who already knows the ending. His hand hesitates on the bedroom door before he pushes it open.
His mother is on the bed.
She is still dressed, her shoes by the door neatly. Pill bottles scattered across the nightstand and the sheets, caps missing, labels peeled and curling. Her skin has gone an awful grey, lips parted slightly, as though she meant to say something and ran out of time.
The worst part is that her eyes are open.
Ilya’s chest tightens. “Mama,” he says, voice cracking.
She stares back blankly, staring at nothing. He takes his shaky hand and reaches outward, but right before he caresses her face her eyes dart to him and her cold hand grips his wrist, trapping him.
Her mouth opens, jaw working stiffly and cracking, and when she speaks it’s too loud, too sharp, nothing like her real voice.
“Wake up.”
The words slam into him and she grabs his other wrist, yelling so aggressively that spit hits his face.
“Wake up,” she yells again, eyes wide and unblinking. “Wake up, Ilya!”
He jolts awake with a gasp, heart hammering so hard it hurts, the echo of her voice still ringing in his ears.
The ceiling swims above him as his breaths come in gasps.
It takes him a moment to remember where he is. Ottawa. Their bedroom. Beside him, Shane sleeps on, breathing slow and deep, mouth slightly open, one arm flung across the pillow between them. At the foot of the bed, Anya is curled into a dense, warm ball of fur, tail twitching once before settling again.
Ilya doesn’t move, begging his heart to stop beating so loudly. His hands are shaking as he presses them flat against the mattress and stares at the ceiling, replaying the dream in fragments he can’t quite shake. The open eyes. The voice. The command. He sighs, taking a deep breath that feels like it expands into his toes.
This is the third night in a row that he has had this dream. He has been averaging about 4-5 hours of sleep a night, but already he feels exhausted before the day has even begun. He rubs his face with his hand, holding a groan threatening to escape his chest for the sake of Shane getting much needed rest.
He lays listening to his husband’s breaths for hours, watching the darkness thin as dawn creeps in, pale light slipping through the curtains inch by inch. His heart eventually slows. His breathing evens out. He lies there, perfectly still, long after his body stops trembling.
The alarm goes off. Ilya doesn’t react.
Shane groans softly and reaches over to silence it, blinking blearily as he rolls onto his side. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
Ilya turns his head then, carefully arranging his face into something believable. He blinks, slow and deliberate, like he’s just waking up now.
“Morning, malysh.” he says back.
Shane smiles at him, easy and warm, and leans in to press a soft kiss to Ilya’s forehead before pushing himself upright. Anya lifts her head, tail thumping lazily against the bed frame.
Ilya watches them both, chest tight, and tells himself the same thing he always does.
He can get through the day. He can do it. He takes a deep breath and swings his legs to the side of the bed, prepared for another day.
Practice goes as normal. At least that’s what Ilya tells himself to make it through.
His strides are clean, powerful. His edges bite sharp into the ice. He takes reps like he always does, jaw set, focus narrowed to the puck and the drills and the burn in his legs. If anyone were just watching him, they’d see exactly what they expect to see.
Shane watches anyway.
He tells himself it’s habit. That he always tracks Ilya like this.
Still, he notices the small things. The way Ilya shakes out his hands between drills; the half-second delay before he reacts to a whistle; the way he blinks hard, like he’s clearing fog, then goes right back to work.
They line up for a water break. Ilya drains his bottle too fast, wipes his mouth with the back of his glove, and skates back into position without waiting for the line to fully reset.
He is also unnaturally quiet. As captain, he is usually boisterous and teasing, but today he is short, allowing Bood to take over as assistant.
“Hollander,” Wiebe says.
Shane slides over easily, leaning on the boards. “Yeah, Coach?”
Wiebe jerks his chin toward the far end of the rink, where Ilya is circling back into the drill.
“You notice anything off with Rozanov?”
“No,” he says abruptly. “He’s fine.”
Wiebe studies him for a beat longer than necessary.
“He’s just tired.”
His gaze doesn’t leave Shane’s face, like he’s checking the answer against something else.
“Just asking,” Wiebe says finally. “He’s been pushing hard.”
Shane nods. “That’s my Ilya.”
Which is true. That’s the problem.
The whistle blows again. Practice moves on.
Shane turns back just in time to see Ilya stumble.
Just a momentary misstep, edge catching wrong before he recovers, holding out his hand and saying “Is okay, just tripped” while the others laugh at his clumsiness and accelerates forward like nothing happened. If Shane hadn’t been watching so closely, he would have missed it entirely.
Shane swallows and pushes off after him, heart thudding a little harder than the drill calls for.
Ilya’s fine. It’s nothing. He’s just a little tired or catching a cold.
Shane doesn’t realize yet that this is the last time he’ll believe that without question.