Work Text:
December 2003
The air in the rink is cold. Electrifying. It’s a type of cold Ilya is used to. Predictable but not at the same time. It isn’t like the rinks in Russia. It’s brighter. Filled with more light and loving parents.
He wonders what that feels like. He yearns for it. He’s yearned for it every day ever since his mama left him. He misses her a lot. He really does. He loves her so much it hurts. He loves her so much but he can’t help but hate her a little for leaving him with his father and his big brother all alone.
He loves his big brother, or well, at least he tries to. It’s so hard. Alexei seems to hate him for no reason. He’s bitter and Ilya doesn’t know why. Well, he knows a little. It’s probably because of his special talent in hockey and the attention their dad gives it but he doesn’t know why Alexei would want to ruin his childhood by being the center of their father’s attention. It isn’t fun. He doesn’t like the pressure that comes with it. He doesn’t even like his dad, not really.
He glances around the rink, looking at other children his age playing with each other during drills and laughing while their parents sit and watch them practice. His mama used to do that.
Part of him hopes she’s still doing that but this time, it’s from high in the sky in fluffy and pillow-like clouds where she’s sitting comfortably and cheering for him every time he shoots the puck into the goal during one of the drills. He hopes she’s clapping for him and telling everyone up there that “Да, это мой сын!”"Yes! That's my son!"
He hopes that his mind can concoct some happy and lively image of her where she’s stress-free and smiling. He hopes that his mind doesn’t make him see the sight of her lifeless body on the floor with an empty bottle of pills in her hand again. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle it if he sees it again even for a split second. He prays that the first time he saw it is the last. He swallows a lump in his throat, his hands tightening around his stick as he skates laps on the ice, watching his peers talk to each other and giggle about jokes he knows he won’t understand.
He doesn’t understand English. He can’t get it. It’s humiliating. He tries so hard every day to learn and speak it like everyone does but he can’t. It’s so different from Russian. He doesn’t understand the stupid letters in the language—- alphabet’s— if he remembers correctly. He hates this stupid, dumb and overrated language. He misses Russia. He misses his mama’s warm hugs after every practice, he misses having so many friends he could speak to without the lingering humiliation of messing up, he misses being where he really belongs. He belongs in Russia, not stupid and boring Canada where they have many waterfalls and that weird (and sadly nice tasting) crispy fry thing with cheese.
He hates it here. He hates watching people have fun like he did. He hates watching everyone have fun without him just because he can’t speak their language. He hates being the one who doesn’t fit in.
He skates faster and faster, frustration piercing through his body as he huffs, accelerating as each second passes. “Почему я не могу быть таким, как они? Почему я не могу выучить английский? Почему это так сложно для меня? Я не глупый, я это знаю! Так почему же это так сложно?—-“ "Why can't I be like them? Why can't I learn English? Why is it so hard for me? I'm not stupid, I know that! So why is it so hard?"His thoughts are cut off when he sees a small boy sitting on the ice, a few meters away. He blinks, squinting as he skates closer. The boy looks lonely. He’s sitting with his stick in his tiny hands, knees pulled close to his chest. He’s looking around the rink like he’s waiting for someone to talk to him.
For a second, Ilya debates on ignoring the boy because he knows he can’t speak his language. He knows the boy will see him, not understand him and try to leave in the most polite (rude) way possible. He knows he shouldn’t take a chance but seeing him just sitting there quietly — staring at the ice with those very big and very brown eyes — does something to him so he skates closer until he’s right in front of the boy.
Up close, the boy has…many dots on his face. Light brown. They go over his cheeks and his little nose that reminds him of a bunny’s. “Милый..”"Cute.." — he thinks, clearing his throat when he sees the boy look up at him. His eyes are so…brown, like chocolate. Nice chocolate. For some reason, he feels more compelled to not mess up his words just to speak to this boy.
“Er, hello, I am, ah, Ilya.” He manages to say, letting a grin form on his lips when he realizes he didn’t mess up his words and say something wrong. He looks at the other boy, waiting for him to say something until a second passes. The smile on his lips slowly fades as he tilts his head, a deep pit forming in his stomach. “Это было плохое решение. Мне не следовало с ним разговаривать. Он, наверное, услышал от других детей, что я плохо говорю по-английски.”"This was a bad idea. I shouldn't have talked to him. He probably heard from the other kids that I don't speak English well."his brain uselessly supplies.
He almost tries to run away before the boy pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of his shorts. He scribbles something on the paper before shakily getting up and giving it to him.
‘Hi, I’m Shane.’ The paper reads, Ilya blinks, he wonders why the boy— Shane— won’t speak but he isn’t going to ask him about it. Maybe he just doesn’t like speaking. He can’t blame him. Instead, he nods his head, hands the paper back and smiles at him, “Shane. That is nice name. Very Canadian.” He jokes and Shane sheepishly nods his head, a small smile curling on his lips.
“I am from Russia. If you could not tell. I am not very good at English.” He adds in, taking in Shane’s expression, watching the boy go back to scribble something on the paper before handing it back. ‘I can tell but I think your English is good.’ — he reads and he almost feels something in him combust. Good. Good. No one has ever said his English is good. Not his teachers, definitely not his father and not Alexei. He feels warmth fill up inside him and surge through his veins as he skates closer, his bright blue eyes sparkling with something akin to genuine and unfiltered hope. “Really? Is good?” He asks and Shane nods his head with a serious expression on his face, mouthing out a ‘really.’
He grins, his hand going to Shane’s as he pulls him closer, “Thank you. Come do drills with me.” He says and the boy follows, not letting go of Ilya’s hand. Shane’s hand is smaller than his, a little (very) warm and freckled. He skates until both of them are at a good distance away from the goalpost, he looks at Shane, a bit of mischief seeping into his voice, “Let’s do shooting. I know I can shoot better than you.” He teases and Shane's brows furrow, his lips curing into a pout as he shakes his head, falling for the bait easily. He mouths a ‘No ! You can’t!’ And Ilya grins, passing the puck to Shane, which the boy catches with ease before shooting it quickly. He whistles, “Is not as good as me. Watch. I will do it faster. Pass.” He chirps and Shane rolls his eyes before passing the puck to him, he catches it and shoots it faster than he ever has, grinning when he sees Shane’s eyes widen.
“See, I told you. Am better.” He sings and Shane shoves at his shoulder lightly before skating closer.
They spend the rest of practice skating around the ice, Ilya saying whatever comes to mind and Shane sometimes writing down responses to it.
Ilya notices many things about his new friend. Shane doesn’t like maintaining eye contact, he does not talk and he is very passionate about hockey— he gathered that from the long responses the boy wrote when he brought up hockey. He likes it. He likes Shane. He is very nice and he thinks Ilya’s English is good. He doesn’t mind that Shane can’t or won’t speak because the replies he writes on the paper carry more interest than any verbal response Ilya’s ever gotten. He also notices that Shane doesn’t let go of his hand. His little fingers twitch and tighten around his, trying to fidget and do something with his hand without letting go of Ilya’s.
Ilya doesn’t know why that makes his heart go thumpthumpthump at an unfamiliarly fast pace.
He skates to the boards, propping himself up and falling onto the benches, he looks at Shane, patting the seat next to him expectantly. Shane comes up to the boards, his hands going to hold it as he tries to jump up. He fingers tremble and twitch as he struggles, letting out huffs of frustration. He tries again, and then again. Ilya suppresses a smile, getting up and holding both his hands out to him. “I will help. Hold.” He notices the hesitation on the other boy’s face before adding, “I will not let you. I, er, little finger promise..” Shane cracks a small smile, takes his hands and tries to jump again, Ilya lifts him up and he stumbles in front of him with a squeak. Ilya grins proudly, “See? I told you. I would not let you get hurt.” He beams and Shane nods his head, his fingers fidgeting with eachother before he sits down on the exact spot Ilya patted earlier, looking up at him expectantly, his big brown eyes sparkling.
Ilya excitedly sits down, letting out an exaggerated sigh before glancing at his new friend, “So…you come to rink a lot?” He asks and Shane nods his head, writing on the piece of paper he has— ‘Yes, I come here everyday in the morning until the afternoon.’ Ilya squints, the words on the paper don’t make any sense to him. He can read it. He knows he can but it feels like something in his brain has been rewired. As if he can’t read any English after reading it perfectly a few times. His face scrunches up in frustration as he tries to read the words again and again. Shane blinks, raising a brow before writing on the paper again— ‘I come everyday. Morning and go in the afternoon.’
Ilya’s eyes brighten, his brain clicking as he understands the words. He looks back at Shane, nodding his head before speaking, “So, you will come tomorrow, yes?” He asks, his knee bouncing as he places his hand over it, trying to hide the nervousness behind all his movements. Shane nods, giving him a thumbs up. “Okay. That is good.” He says, trying to act casual as he looks back at the ice, trying to ignore the fast thumpthumpthump sound in his ears as he taps his skate against the ground.
Shane goes back to writing on his paper and he can’t help but sneak a glance, looking away when the other boy looks up at him for a second. His heart is pounding. He hasn’t felt this free in a long time. Not in a while. The last time he felt this free was when he was with Svetlana back in Russia. He sucks in a sharp breath, resting his cheek on his palm as he looks at Shane, (im)patiently waiting for him to finish writing. ‘He is a very slow writer.’— he thinks to himself, not judgementally…more as an observation. He watches as Shane’s brows furrow, his tongue peeking out of his lips. ‘Like a very focused baby cat. котенокkitten.’ — his mind supplies and he smiles a little, his gaze glued to the boy who writes slowly but neatly on the paper. It looks more like he’s hesitating to write than actually writing something. He raises a brow, nudging Shane with a confused expression. “You are not writing anything? Is something wrong?” He asks.
Shane shakes his head, letting out a frustrated sigh before fixing his gaze back to the paper, his brows furrowing and expression scrunching up to a determined one as he starts to write on the paper, faster than he ever has (or Ilya has ever seen from the few hours of knowing him). He stares at the paper for a few seconds, reading through it before slipping it onto Ilya’s hand.
‘Will you also come? Please come tomorrow. I want to be friends with you.’ Ilya glances at the paper and then back at Shane, his expression of disbelief quickly taken away by an excited one. “You—- you want to be friends with me?” He repeats, watching Shane nervously look at him before mouthing a ‘yes’. He doesn’t think before nodding his head, his hands coming to hold Shane’s arms, “Yes, yes! I will be your friend! I will come tomorrow and we will skate together just like today, okay?” He cheerfully says and Shane flushes with a smile.
Ilya sits back, pulling his hands away from Shane’s arms as he sighs, his lips slightly curved.
“You know, you are my first friend here. No one understands what I say.” He says, glancing at the smaller boy who blinks before writing his response, a bit fast now that they’re a little more comfortable with each other. ‘You’re my first friend here too. No one really wants to talk to me because I don’t speak. Also, I can understand what you’re saying.’ — He reads, his eyes skimming through the words on the paper. “Is okay. We are friends. You have me and I have you now.” He says, his arm slinking around Shane’s shoulders as he smiles at him. Shane just sighs in response and leans into him, his shoulder pressing against Ilya’s.
“When is your birthday?” Ilya breaks the silence after a few minutes, curiosity overpowering his hesitance to speak and ruining the moment. Shane blinks at the question before writing down— ‘May 10th’ on the same page.
“Wow, you are one month older than me. Old man.” He says to which Shane glares at him with an offended expression, looking like he’s seconds away from jumping on him. Ilya snickers, “I am born on 15th June. I am practically an infant compared to you.” He chirps and Shane does hit him this time before very angrily writing down on his paper.
He watches Shane give up on writing and instead start doodling. He doesn’t break the silence this time.
They sit there for a few minutes, not talking. Ilya basks in the feeling of finally, finally , having a friend here. He’s been alone for so long. He’s been alone ever since his mama left him. No one has ever been able to fill that void of loneliness in him until now, not even Svetlana and he loves Svetlana, she is an amazing friend but she isn’t here in Canada. Shane is. Lovely and quiet Shane with cute little dots on his face and big brown eyes that are like a deer.
He glances back at Shane, wondering if he should say anything before looking away, his legs swinging as his knee bounces rhythmically, up and down, again and again.
He notices Shane perk up for a moment before looking back at him, his hand going to his sleeve as he points at two people waving at him— ‘maybe his parents..’ Ilya wonders as he sighs, ‘I do not want him to go yet.’— Ilya’s mind supplies as he cocks his head, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice and expression, “Your parents?”
Shane nods, his grip on Ilya’s sleeve unwavering as he gets up, looking at him expectantly. He skates forward, pulling the taller boy closer to the boards. Ilya hauls himself up and vaults over, his hands going to hold Shane’s as he helps him vault over the boards as well. He expects that to be the end of their interaction today but Shane doesn’t let go of his hand. Instead, he pulls him as he skates towards his parents.
Shane’s parents look at both of them with big smiles on their faces. Ilya notes that Shane looks more like his mother than his father. He gets his pretty eyes from her. He does not know where Shane got the dots on his face from but he really likes them. Loves them. Красивый.
Shane’s mother comes forward with a smile, her hand going to hold Shane’s as she looks at Ilya, her voice soft as she speaks, “Hi there, what’s your name?” She asks gently. The same way his mama used to sound when he had a bad day.
He feels like crying when he thinks about it.
“I, er, My…my name is Ilya. Ilya Rozanov.” He tries to say, fumbling over his words as his face scrunches up in frustration. He could say it properly with Shane. He doesn’t know why he can’t do it now. He sneaks a glance up at Shane’s mother and expects her to pull Shane away from him and not let him talk to him again.
“Oh, that’s a nice name. Russian, right?” She asks, smiling at him warmly. He doesn’t trust himself to answer without his throat tightening up with how sweet and warm the woman’s voice is. He hates and loves how it sounds like his mama's voice. Instead, he nods his head, still holding Shane’s hand, his muscles relaxing when the smaller boy squeezes his hand before moving away.
Ilya almost weeps when he feels Shane let his hand go, instead skating towards his mother who holds him close. He watches as the small boy writes on a fresh page from the little notebook he carries and shows his mom what he wrote. She reads it over once before nodding her head, looking back at Ilya. She smiles at him again, “Well, Ilya, we’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Shane here really liked talking to you.” She adds in and he gulps, his palms sweaty.
“I also liked talking to him. He is my friend.” He manages to speak out, his voice quieter than usual.
“He says that you’re also his friend.” She assures with a smile, “We have to go now, okay? It’ll be really nice if you come tomorrow.” The woman says before wrapping her arm around Shane and turning away. He notices Shane turn back for a second and wave at him, his big brown eyes sparkling. Ilya feels that sight hit his chest in a good way. In a shiny and sparkly way.
He wasn’t going to come tomorrow but now? He will come every single day just for Shane.
~
His father picks him up thirty minutes before the rink closes. He looks uninterested, not even asking about how his practice went. He drives silently, not even glancing at him. He still doesn’t know why his own father is so cold towards him but he doesn’t try to think about it. Not anymore. His father has always been cold, it was just that his coldness was first directed towards his mama entirely and not him. Now that she’s gone, all of his bitterness and anger is focused towards him. He doesn’t know how to feel about it. He knows he should be angry, should be sad, should feel something but he doesn’t. All he can think about is Shane.
Shane who does not speak verbally. Shane who is very fast on ice and has a very strong backhand for someone who is shorter than Ilya. Shane, who loves hockey so much that he came to the rink every single day despite having no friends just to practice and play. Shane, who called his English good.
He feels…he does not know the word. It feels like there are bugs in his stomach. That’s a phrase, right? Bugs inside stomach. He doesn't know. He doesn’t care. He feels happy. He feels good. He just made his first friend in a country that is so different from his, in language, culture and everything. He wishes his mama were here so he could lay his head on her lap and tell her all about it while she strokes his hair, listening carefully. He wishes he could tell her all about Shane. He wishes he could tell Shane all about her.
Instead, he’s here, sitting in a car while his father drives them to the somewhat big house he bought. He wonders if that’s why his father came to Canada so randomly. Maybe he wants to settle down here instead. He doesn’t know. He doesn't really mind staying in the house here because he isn’t haunted by the lingering memory of his mama's lifeless body on the floor in their house in Russia. He swallows a lump in his throat, turning towards the window and leaning his head on it.
His fingers fidget, twitching and trembling as he presses them against his seat, his legs stretched forward. He breathes slowly, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to lull himself into sleep to avoid any interaction with his father. He isn’t in the mood to ruin how happy and nice he feels right now.
He almost falls asleep. Almost. Until he hears his father grunt, “You should learn more English today. You still can’t speak it properly.” Ilya bites back a retort, instead, nodding his head as he mutters a small, “Yes, father.” Before leaning back against the window. He does not bother telling him about Shane because he knows his father will just grunt in disapproval and tell him to focus on playing hockey and stop being lazy. Stop distracting himself. He can almost picture his expression and hear the words in his voice and it makes him want to roll his eyes.
“I’m going to send you to the rink everyday from tomorrow. You are getting too lazy. I don’t know why. You have talent but you don’t want to make the most of it. Such a shame.” His father tuts. He sinks into his seat, glancing outside. He feels a familiar sadness take over him until his brain supplies the fact that he gets to see Shane everyday now. He remembers Shane writing that he comes to the rink everyday at the same time. He comes in the morning and leaves in the afternoon.
“In the morning?” He asks, trying not to sound too excited when his dad nods his head.
“In the morning until the afternoon. Same as today.” Those words sound like a golden buzzer to his ears. It feels as if he’s won the lottery. He gets to see nice and lovely Shane everyday now.
He relishes in the fact that he can see Shane everyday now and can spend most of his day with him. He thinks of Shane’s eyes lighting up when he scores a goal while shooting. He thinks of Shane’s cute little angry face when he’s getting teased. He thinks of Shane’s face when he’s writing something very long and very detailed in his notebook, his tongue peeking out and brows furrowed. He thinks of Shane flushing under his gaze when he smiles at him. He thinks of himself finding that flush so pretty. So cute.
He bites back the urge to giggle and kick his feet at the thought of Shane beaming at him when he tells him he’s going to come to the rink everyday at the same time he does.
He doesn’t even process the fact that he’s already out of the car, walking inside the house with his father and going straight to his room. He plops down onto his bed, turning onto his back with a sigh, his limbs stretched.
He’s tired. So, so tired. But also happy. Happier than he’s ever been. He is so happy that he pulls out the English textbook his father got him, skimming through it. He reads and reads, trying to understand each and every comprehension marked on his book. He reads quicker than he usually does. Maybe reading Shane’s notes helped him warm up a bit before reading big paragraphs. He would rather read Shane’s notes than these boring and pointless reading comprehension’s.
‘I do not know what the dots on Shane’s face are called…’ — he thinks, leaning back for a second. Learning what the pretty dots on his new friend’s face seem more interesting and helpful than these stupid and repetitive paragraphs. He reaches out for his dictionary, thankful for the fact that it is Russian with an English translation. He was initially surprised when he realized it had a Russian section to it. He never expected his father to give him something that wouldn’t make him struggle. He assumed he would just have to ‘figure it out’ and try to learn the words he knows in Russian, in English without any guidance.
He knows that the dots on Shane’s face are called веснушки. He flips through each and every page carefully, scanning the text until he finally finds the word after a few minutes.
Freckles. They are called freckles. He blinks. That is an odd word. So different from how it sounds in Russian but so fitting. He giddily puts his books away, laying back down on his bed. He can’t help but smile, truly happy for the first time in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, Canada won’t be so bad after all. Maybe a certain boy with pretty freckles on his face is the reason Ilya does not hate this country anymore.
For the first time in a long time, he sleeps and looks forward to waking up the next day.
~
He doesn’t argue with his father in the morning when he’s woken up early. He eagerly gets up and gets ready, happily wearing his jersey and carrying his gear all the way to the rink without any complaints. He can feel his father glance back again and again with suspicion before looking forward again, guiding him into the rink.
“I will come back in the afternoon. Maybe by four. I will be late.” His father grunts. He nods his head excitedly, ‘be as late as you want. Take your time.’ — he thinks before glancing around, looking for Shane. He finds him skating laps, circling around the ice faster than he was yesterday. He has that determined look on his face, the same one he has when he’s trying to write something as fast as he can so he does not try to keep anyone waiting.
He skates onto the rink, making his way to Shane faster than ever and wrapping his arms around him while slamming him against the boards. He hears a tiny noise come from the smaller boy, huffing while he looks at Ilya, a big smile curling on his lips as his eyes widen, shining. He looks so happy. ‘You came!’ He mouths and Ilya nods his head with a grin matching the one on the smaller boy’s face, pulling him closer.
“Yes, yes, I said I would come, no? I will not break promise. Never. I am not like that.” He assures, pulling away slightly as he pokes Shane’s forehead, watching his face scrunch up and his nose twitch like a rabbit’s. He snickers when Shane pokes his forehead back, trying to match with him.
Shane’s hand goes to grab Ilya’s and it feels like the cold air around the rink has suddenly turned warm. Ilya can’t think. He really can’t. Not when Shane’s so small yet so warm hand is holding his. Not when Shane is pulling him around the rink without any hesitation, without any shame. He follows easily, watching the shorter boy just pull him around the rink and making him skate laps with him. It feels so dreamlike that he can’t even believe it’s real. He’s having fun. He’s having fun at this boring ice rink he hated a few days ago just because of this lovely boy. He can’t help but smile giddily.
He looks at Shane’s face and is reminded of the word he learnt yesterday. Freckles.
“Your freckles are very nice. I like.” He says, struggling a bit to pronounce the new word but he manages to get it out. He watches Shane’s eyes widen as he tilts his head, blinking repeatedly. His cheeks flush a rosy color as he nods his head, a smile curling on his lips. Ilya beams.
“Was new word I learnt yesterday. Just for you.” He explains and Shane’s eyes widen even more as the smile on his lips curls even more, getting bigger. He stops skating for a minute, leaning against the boards to write something on his small notebook— notepad, if he remembers correctly. ‘That’s really cool. I should learn something in Russian for you.’ — he shows Ilya and the taller boy almost feels his heart explode.
I should learn something in Russian for you.
“Wow, you are very confident that you can learn Russian quickly.” He teases, earning a light smack on the head from Shane. ‘I probably can! I swear! One word can’t be that hard to learn.’ — he writes as a reply and Ilya raises a brow.
“Shane, Russian is very hard. Harder than English. You cannot learn one word that easily.” He says, watching Shane write something else. ‘Maybe you should teach me something in Russian then.’
Ilya sucks in a sharp breath. This boy is not good for his heart. Or his stomach. He feels a million bugs flying in his stomach at those words.
He sighs exaggeratedly, “No, I do not take class for free. You need to pay me.” He says very seriously and Shane rolls his eyes, ‘at least give me a friend’s discount’. Ilya pretends to think about it, a deep and thoughtful look on his face as he watches Shane impatiently skate back and forth on the ice. He holds back a grin.
“Fine…I am very good friend so I will teach you Russian for free.” He gives in, throwing his arm over Shane’s shoulder as he pulls him towards the boards, ignoring the furious scribble on paper which probably says something like ‘no!
Ilya we can’t skip practice like that! We didn’t even do anything other than skate laps!!’ In Shane’s very neat and nice handwriting. He very happily ignores whatever Shane has written on the paper, instead opting to help Shane vault over the boards and playing X and O with him on the smaller boy’s notepad.
Ilya wins twice. He feels very proud until he sees Shane’s somewhat sad expression, those chocolate brown eyes filled with frustration and disappointment.
He lets Shane win three times.
He feels even more proud for doing that.
He has a feeling he knows why.
~
February 2004
“We will go back to Russia in May.” His father says and Ilya almost chokes on the water he’s drinking, his eyes widening.
“What? Why? We got here six months ago. You said you were going to settle here.” He recalls and his father rolls his eyes, his voice rough. “This place is making your hockey worse, not better. I came here so you could become a champion, not a lazy bum like you are now.”
The words hit his chest hard but he pretends they don’t. He stays strong. He stays strong like his mama always did when his father said horribly cold things to her.
“I am better. I’m faster here. More aggressive.”
“You were better before. You do not even like it here. You have complained every day since we came here.”
He wants to shout. He wants to scream, cry and sob on the floor. He wants to scream ‘no! No! I just got used to this place! I like it here! I love it here! I have a friend here! I don’t want to go back! I don’t want to leave him!’ But he doesn’t. He straightens up, his expression turning into a neutral one.
“I see. Okay, father. When will we leave?”
“I booked the tickets already. We will go back on the 10th. May 10th. Pack all your stuff before otherwise you will go back with nothing.” He almost tears up when he hears those words. May 10th. Shane’s birthday. (His) Lovely, amazing Shane’s birthday. He’s leaving on his birthday. He can imagine the heartbroken expression on the smaller boy’s face now and he feels his chest tighten in the most painful way possible.
“Yes, father.” He manages to choke out without feeling the urge to sob. He makes it all the way to his room without crying until he falls onto his bed. He doesn’t scream, he doesn’t yell or shout. He cries silently. So silently that even his hiccups can’t be heard.
He doesn’t want to leave Shane. He really doesn’t. He’s only known him for three months but he’s been the best thing in his life. He’s been the only thing that’s been making him wake up everyday and get out of bed. The only thing that makes him look forward to waking up everyday.
He doesn’t understand. He really doesn’t. Why can’t he have nice things? Why does he always have to lose what he loves the most after he gets so used to it? Why can’t he be around people who are warm and nice to him? Why does he have to be with such cold people?
He doesn’t know what he did in his past life to deserve this. He just wants one good thing to stay. Just one thing. He isn’t asking for much. He really isn’t.
He doesn’t want to leave.
~
March 2004
It’s been four months since Ilya met Shane and it has been the happiest and liveliest three months of his life. He’s gotten so close to Shane that even his parents— whose names are Yuna and David— start talking to him freely about Shane. He doesn’t hesitate on anything when it comes to Shane. He talks freely about his friend— best friend. He talks about how he has a very ‘weak’ backhand, how he is the second best player right behind him and how he is slower than him and each time, Shane will always either scoff, huff or smack his helmet.
Shane still hasn’t spoken a single word in the four months they’ve known each other but he doesn’t mind. He likes the replies Shane writes on his notepad. He likes the little doodles he does on the side of cats and dogs. He adores them. They’re cute. He doesn’t mention the fact that it reminds him of them. He doesn’t mention the fact that Shane reminds him of the cat he drew. Shane does mention the fact that the dog is like Ilya, who whines about it being insulting when in reality, he’s gushing over it.
The best part about all of their friendship , though, is that he still gets to spend his whole day with Shane and do it all over again the next day. He gets to see Shane’s lovely freckles. He gets to see his deep chocolate brown eyes brighten when he receives a clean pass from Ilya. He gets to see that beautiful smile form on Shane’s lips when Ilya comes into the rink everyday. He gets to see Shane everyday until May 10th. That alone is enough for him to get through the few hours he’s with his father. He learns more and more English everyday, earning small mutters of approval in Russian.
He also hears small mutters of their flight date.
Everything is going good. So good.
Except for the fact that Shane is very different today. He isn’t smiling as happily as he was yesterday. He gives Ilya a small and very fake smile before falling into step with him.
Ilya skates circles with Shane again, watching the smaller boy slow down to match his pace and skate by his side, his arms swinging by his sides before his hands clench into fists and bump against his thighs a few times again and again. He found it odd at first until Shane told him it was for circulation. He still finds it odd.
He watches as Shane abruptly stops. He blinks in confusion, his hand going to the boy’s arm, “You are okay? Why did you stop so suddenly?” He asks and Shane glances at him for a second, the happy smile on his lips wiped out. His expression now filled with sadness and a bit of anxiety. Worry fills his veins as he skates closer to Shane, his voice soft, “Shane. What is wrong? Why do you look so sad?” He softly questions and the smaller boy squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. “I am your friend, yes? Friends do not keep secrets from each other. Tell me what is wrong.” He tries so hard to gently coax Shane into pulling out his notepad but the boy just shakes his head, sinking down against the boards, his arms wrapping around his knees.
His heart feels like it’s about to stop when he sees genuine, unfiltered sadness on Shane’s face. He crouches down onto the ice, face to face with the smaller boy.
“Shanya, please…tell me what is wrong. I don’t like seeing you so sad. Please.” He practically begs until Shane finally sniffles, pulling his notepad out and shakily writing in it, his usually neat handwriting now sloppy and rushed. ‘Is there a chance you’re ever going to go back to Russia?’
Ilya huffs at the words, his eyes softening as he holds Shane’s shoulders. He doesn’t want to lie. He really doesn’t. He knows he’s going to go back to Russia in a few months and probably never coming back but god, if there was another option, he would stay. He would stay without any question. He wants that so bad it hurts. He wants to stay with Shane. He wants to move in with Shane and be a part of his family. Not in a brotherly way. He wants to make a family with Shane. He feels so weird about that.
“I…I do not know. It is all up to my father but if I ever go back to Russia, I will always try to talk to you, okay? I will even go as far as to email you and that is very boring, yes?” he softly says, rubbing the smaller boy’s shoulders, who sniffles and nods his head, a small smile curling on his lips. He mouths, “You don’t like boring things.”
“Yes, yes, I know but I am willing to do very boring things to talk to you, Shane. You should be…ah…what is the word?”
Shane writes in his notepad, ‘honored?’
“Yes! That is the word. You should be honored, my dear Shane. I would not do such boring things with anyone else.” He grins when he sees Shane’s expression light up a little at the playfulness. He feels awful about lying. He really does. He feels sick. So nauseous that he might vomit all over the place but he holds back. He knows he won’t be able to talk to Shane if he goes back to Russia. He knows that but he can’t tell him that. He just can’t. He doesn’t want to see the pair of eyes he’s so…accustomed to go dull when he hears the words from Ilya’s mouth. He doesn’t want to see the happy expression on Shane’s pretty face crumble when he finally says the words— “I am going back to Russia forever and cannot speak to you ever again.”
He doesn’t think he can handle it. He knows he can’t handle seeing the look of pure hurt on Shane’s face. He knows he can’t handle it especially because he’ll be the one putting that look on him so instead of facing his worst fears and telling him, he just pulls Shane up and skates whatever drills the smaller boy tells him to do with him.
He tries his best not to burst into tears when Shane beams at him.
~
April 2004
Doing drills with Shane has always left Ilya breathless but not this kind of breathless.
He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. He can’t believe it’s already been five months since he’s known Shane and it’s going to be less than a month until he’s going to leave him. On his birthday too. He isn’t strong enough for this. He can’t do this. He can’t even put any distance between himself and Shane because his body has changed it’s whole chemistry and started gravitating towards the smaller boy the second he even catches a glimpse of that black hair and those microbangs that bounce off of his forehead again and again.
He feels so sick. He genuinely does. He feels like a horrible person. He can’t handle it. He can’t handle the guilt eating him up. He can’t handle the feeling of shame crawling all the way through his body and seeping into his nerves, spilling into his veins and plugging itself to every part of his body, making sure he feels as shameful as possible because of what he’s doing. He can’t continue— he can’t.
He stops, his body stiffening as he presses back against the boards, gulping and swallowing a lump in his throat as he breathes heavily. His vision is fuzzy as he watches Shane’s face come into view, his expression filled with genuine worry and shock as he shakes him, his hands gripping his shoulders.
He can’t breathe. He can’t do this. He’s going to faint in a rink because of how guilty and shameful he feels. He’s going to humiliate himself in front of Shane so bad that he breaks their friendship because he can’t be with someone as weak and cowardly as him—-
“Ilya..!”
A sweet voice fills his ears. Quiet, so quiet. Barely above a whisper.
He blinks, his eyes widening.
Did Shane just speak?
His jaw drops as he stares at the smaller boy, his arms uselessly swinging by his sides as Shane looks at him with worry, his lips pressed into a thin line as he pulls him towards an empty corner of the rink, making him sit down against the ice. Ilya gapes at him, “You— you just said my name.”
Shane nods his head, looking nervous as he sits down next to Ilya on the ice.
“I thought you couldn’t speak.” He continues, still staring at the other boy with wide eyes. Shane shrugs, his arms wrapping around his knees as he refuses to elaborate.
“Shane— you cannot just say my name and then not say anything!” He laughs in disbelief, his brows raised and eyes still wide. He turns to him, “Wait, say my name again. Please.” He begs and Shane shakes his head stubbornly.
He pouts, “Shanya. Please.”
Shane shakes his head, his arms moved in front of his chest, crossed as he looks away before he sighs, pulling his notepad out. He writes, ‘I’m not going to say anything until you tell me what’s going on. You’ve been acting differently lately.’
Ilya feels the sudden surprise and happiness from hearing Shane’s voice drain out of his body. His body slumps against the ice, he bites at his lip before mumbling, “Nothing. It is just my father.”
Shane raises a brow, now concerned as he tilts his head and tries to coax him to say more by holding Ilya’s hand. Ilya gulps. Lying to Shane has always been so hard but…he technically isn’t lying. He is just…telling a half truth.
A half truth that hurts to tell when he sees the relief on Shane’s face when he tells him “everything”.
He tells him as much as he can. He tells him about his father calling him a lazy bum. He tells him about his father saying his hockey has gotten worse. He tells him all the cold things his father has said. All the things that hurt him.
He doesn’t tell him the one thing that his father said which hurt him the most.
“We will go back to Russia in May."
He doesn’t even think of mentioning those words to Shane. He can’t. Not when he sees the worry on Shane’s face. Not when he sees the genuine concern Shane has for him. Not when he sees how much he cares if he’s by his side or not. Not when he just heard Shane’s voice after four months of knowing him.
He replays that sweet sound in his head and he’s convinced that it’s the only thing helping him get through his day.
He isn’t sure if it’ll be enough to help him get through when he’s in Russia.
~
May 9th 2004
One day. One more day before he leaves and Shane is blissfully unaware of that. He feels the guilt eat him alive, chip at his bones and nibble his skin slowly so he can feel all the pain he’s going to cause Shane in the next few months.
He’s spent the last few days just looking at Shane’s face , watching him flush under the attention or swat his hand at him. Watching his eyes sparkle and shine when he’s happy, watching his lips curl up into the cutest smile he’s ever seen and will ever see. He wishes there was a way for him to copy the image of Shane’s face and paste it in his brain permanently because he knows those few days will be the last time he’ll ever see Shane.
He still hasn’t accepted it. It’s been three months since he heard the news and he didn’t think time would fly by so quickly. He really didn’t. He thought he still had time, he thought he could process it quick enough but he hasn’t and he’s not sure if he ever will be.
His last day at the rink is today, on the 9th of May. One day before Shane’s birthday. A part of him is yelling at him to tell him, to at least not give him false hope that he might return after each passing day he’s absent but another part tells him that he won’t be able to handle Shane’s reaction. Tells him that he’s not strong enough to face it.
It’s too bad he believes that other part telling him he’s not strong enough.
He sits next to Shane behind the boards, trying to act as normal as possible as he smiles at Shane doodling on his notepad until he gets up and goes back onto the ice, to which he follows without any question. He holds back the horrible wave of guilt that is hurled at his body, his hand going to hold Shane’s as usual whenever they do drills together.
He doesn’t focus on anything they’re doing. He just stares at Shane’s face, trying to memorize each and everything about it so that it’s engraved in his mind. So that he’ll never forget this boy. He doesn’t ever want to forget him. He doesn’t want to leave him. He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. He stares at the lovely freckles on Shane’s face, they remind him of a new word he learned from him— constellations. They are like constellations on Shane’s cheeks and nose. They match with his eyes which are as captivating and as deep as the galaxy. He feels that jittery feeling in his stomach which he just recently learned — from Shane, again— is actually called butterflies in his stomach. Not bugs in his stomach.
He still remembers Shane’s little note on his page— ‘it’s butterflies in your stomach. Not bugs. :)’ he still remembers the little smiley face. He could cry just thinking of it. It’s so sweet. Of course someone as sweet as Shane would also draw a smiley face on the notes he gives Ilya. It makes him feel weak in the knees. His hand trembles in the pocket of his shorts, fingers twitching around a piece of paper. He wrote a note for Shane too. In Russian. He can’t leave him without giving him something. Without telling him how he truly feels about him even if he knows Shane won’t know what he wrote.
He swallows, sweat dripping off of his forehead as he copies whatever Shane is doing for an hour straight until he finally stops and falls back against the boards with a tired sigh. Shane looks at him, his eyes so incredibly soft that he might explode into tiny little pieces.
‘Do it now. Give him the note.’ — his brain screams at him and he wisely listens. He clears his throat, “Er, I wrote something for you. In Russian .” He says, pulling the note out of his pocket. He glances at it one last time, reading all the words— all his feelings.
‘Мой дорогой Шейн, мне так жаль тебя покидать. Я не хочу уходить. Ты — лучшее, что случилось со мной после смерти мамы. Ты как солнечный свет в моей грустной, мрачной и унылой жизни. Я буду очень по тебе скучать, мой милый Шейн. С днём рождения, моё солнышко. Извините, меня там не будет.’‘My dear Shane, I’m so sad to leave you. I don’t want to go. You’re the best thing that has happened to me since my mama left. You’re like sunshine in my sad, gloomy, and depressing life. I’ll miss you so much, my sweet Shane. Happy birthday, my sunshine. Sorry I won't be there.’
He hands it to Shane, who stares at it with a bit of confusion but gratefulness as he carefully folds it and puts it in his pocket, looking at him with a gentle smile. He pulls his notepad out, ‘you know, you still haven’t taught me Russian.’
Ilya chokes back a hiccup at that as he nods his head, swallowing the sobs that threaten to slip out of his lips, “One day, Shanya. I will teach you one day. Promise.”
‘Okay, I trust you.’
‘You shouldn’t.’ Ilya wants to say but he nods his head, plastering a fake smile before guiding Shane to the boards and helping him vault over.
He knows there’s only a few minutes left until Shane’s parents come to pick him up. Just a few minutes. He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want time to pass. He really doesn’t.
Silence takes over both of them for a minute or two before he tries to speak, “Shane, I need to—“ his voice is so quiet, he doesn’t even know if Shane heard him-
He’s cut off by the sound of Yuna calling out for Shane.
Oh.
Shane looks at him with a smile, getting up. Ilya smiles back, feeling awful. He feels Shane pull at his hand and he gets up, before he can even ask what happened, he feels a pair of arms wrap around his neck.
Shane.
Shane is hugging him.
He hugs him back just as tight and doesn’t let go. He knows he’s squeezing him too hard but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to let him go. He can’t let go of the boy who’s made the past few months of his life bearable. The boy who’s made him feel like he’s finally living instead of surviving. The boy who cares about him so much that he spoke his name because he was worried he was having a panic attack. He doesn’t want to let go, it feels like letting go of the only happiness he’s felt ever since his mama went. He doesn’t want to be sad again. He wants to be warm and happy in Shane’s embrace. He can’t live like he did before. He can’t. Hecanthecanthecant—
Shane pulls back with a smile, hesitating a bit before whispering so quietly that he has to strain his ears to hear him, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ilya.”
This is the last time he’ll hear that sweet voice.
“Yes. You will.”
He’s lying to this sweet boy and this is the last time he’ll ever see him.
The lie tastes like poison in his mouth as he helps Shane go over the boards and go to his parents, looking back at him for a second and waving goodbye.
He wishes it was poison in his mouth instead of a lie because even that would be less painful than this.
~
May 10th 2004
He doesn’t go to the rink. He can’t bring himself to even if his father says he can go and retrieve any gear he’s left there.
He can’t go back there so he doesn’t.
Instead, he gets into the taxi with his father, goes all the way to the airport, stands in the boring lines and boards his plane a few hours later.
He thinks of Shane. His Shane waiting for him at the rink, thinking he’ll come any time soon.
He won’t.
He really won’t.
‘I’m sorry.’ He thinks, as if Shane is here and he can read his thoughts.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’ll never get to teach you Russian.’ Is the last thing he thinks before squeezing his eyes shut and blocking everything out.
And even then, the image of Shane smiling at him, speaking for him and asking if he’ll be there tomorrow haunts him.
And it will haunt him forever.