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It is still dark out when Ilya wakes up. Shane is asleep beside him. Ilya has never been a morning person. Another one of the stupid English expressions that rattle around in his brain now. He has always been too lazy to pass up an opportunity to stay in bed on a day off, to luxuriate in the lack of obligation it entails. To remain, warm and comfortable until hunger or restlessness forces him to move. He doesn’t know how to pass up a chance to escape. He never has. It is one of the few codes he has followed for as long as he can remember. Life is too short and too cruel to deny yourself an escape. He has spent so long dulling the emptiness inside him with victory and chaos, alcohol, cigarettes and sex. He has used them to get his blood pumping, to anchor him in the moment, even. But there is also an ease to indulging in that way, a slow sinking, like falling asleep.
It is different here. It feels like a dream. He keeps thinking, “Now. Now is when I’ll wake up,” but every time he opens his eyes, he’s still here. And so is Shane. It’s rare that Ilya wakes before him. Rare that he gets to look at his dear face, slack and peaceful in sleep. Ilya gives himself a few minutes, time stretching and syrupy in the way only the lingering press of sleep makes it. He quietly slips out of bed, turning to make sure the blankets are tucked around Shane, that a pillow is within reach in case he wants something to hold.
He spends another minute admiring the fall of his straight lashes, the darkening freckles along the bridge of his nose, barely visible in the hazy light of dawn. Because he can. He is allowed this indulgence. He leaves the room, digs out his lighter and pack of cigarettes from his backpack, opens the door to the garden and makes his way down the rough path that leads to the lake. Shane will wake up soon, but there is a rock on the shore of the lake that Ilya has grown to love. Happiness makes you fall in love with the most boring things.
Ilya settles down and listens to the sound of the water, the calls of the birds already awake and starting their day. He lights a cigarette. This is also an indulgence he is allowed. He remembers telling Shane he was stepping out for a smoke on their second day here, a strange guilt slithering inside him. He had expected narrowed eyes, a firm reprimand. What he got instead was Shane stepping close, hand coming to rest on Ilya’s cheek, his gaze- steady, serious- finding god knows what in Ilya’s expression. And then he had kissed him, the softest press of his lips to Ilya’s. And then he had said, “Whatever you want. For these two weeks you can do whatever you want.”
Ilya takes a drag, feels the weight of the smoke in his chest. He closes his eyes and exhales, feels a calm wash over him at the taste, the burn. It feels like a dream. He keeps thinking, “Now. Now is when I’ll wake up,” but every time he opens his eyes, he’s still here. And so is Shane, with his plans and futures and those eyes, his meticulous hands. Ilya is in an hourglass in the sun. The sand is still. Time’s up, but it doesn’t matter. As long as he leaves it be it feels like it will never matter again.
The sky is blushing pink.
Shane belongs here. He is this place, isn’t just a part of it. Beautiful Shane. Contained even when he relaxes. Always taking up only the space he needs. Ilya almost regrets his own wretched greed. Almost regrets leaving so much of himself lying around. Almost. He remembers seeing his handprints on the shiny chrome surface of the fridge. He left them there when he backed Shane up against it last night. Ilya’s spilling out of himself and every instinct he’s honed since he was a child is telling him to stop. Don’t do this. Don’t leave all of this here. What if you never return? What if you never get it all back? But Ilya doesn’t listen. He doesn’t listen because the rules don’t apply. Not in dreams. Even in dreams that don’t end when he wakes up.
Even though Shane will wipe the fingerprints off the fridge and insist on making the bed just to rumple it again. Even though Shane will find the pair of Ilya’s socks that he’s sure are lying around somewhere and toss them in the hamper with a tsk of exasperation. The rules don’t apply because for once, it will be okay. That is the gift that Ilya has been given. This sanctuary. The hope that even though the world outside is waiting for them, they will be okay. Shane has allowed him the tentative belief that things can be okay. Okay in a way they never have been. Not since he tried to wake up his sleeping mother all those years ago.
His fingers find her crucifix. Still hers, even after all these years. He has never believed in God, not even as a child. Life held too much fear and uncertainty for something so trite. But she did. She believed in heaven. For so long he has chosen to believe she made it there, because it was the only justice he could dream of.
He allows himself another indulgence.
“Hello Mama,” he whispers. “I know it has been a while. I’m sorry I have not been able to bear talking to you in so long. I have been scared.”
You would have loved this place, he thinks. I wish I could bring you here. You would have loved him. He is so sweet, so kind and gentle. He is so strong. He has taught me so many new things. Given me so much of what I thought I’d never find again. I wish I could be stronger for the two of us, but I am still scared.
Ilya hears a loon call in the distance. He huffs out a wet laugh and lights another cigarette. Shane knows the names of the weeds that grow along the path to the lake, tells him the names of the birds that they hear every morning. Points them out to him with a whisper and a gleam in his eye. Knows how to pick them out in the trees, even in the distance. Ilya has never cared about these things, but he could learn how. He believes that he could learn. That all the things that call this place home will become as dear to him as the person who taught him about them. Shane, overlaid on the loons and the turtles that bask on the rock, the jays that chirp in the trees and the brambles they step over on their way to the lake.
He never saw the point of retreating to nature. He told himself that the stillness bored him, but he knows that what he felt was fear. Fear of the places his mind would take him in the absence of distraction. Now he lets it drift and sits in the ache that washes over him. It doesn’t kill him, not anymore.
He knows that he cannot stop the tears that spill over onto his face, so he doesn’t bother trying. Ilya thinks of Yuna with her determined expression and her ironclad plans. The way it had felt when she hugged Ilya goodnight after the dinner they all had together yesterday. He thinks of David with his kind eyes and steady voice. The lovely food he cooked for them all. He thinks of Shane.
Mama, these people are helping you keep your promise to me. They are making it come true. I have spent so long believing that you lied, but perhaps I am wrong. Are you watching, Mama? I know you are, but keep looking. It’s all coming true.
The tiniest sliver of the sun peeks out from beyond the horizon. Illya watches. Shane will be up soon. Ilya will watch the sunrise and then go back in and turn on Shane’s ridiculous coffee machine. He will greet him with a kiss on the lips and a warm drink to press into his hands. Perhaps he can convince him to have something sweet for breakfast.
There are tears running down Ilya’s cheeks. The worst kind of tears. The ones that are more fear and anger than sorrow. Ilya hates crying, hates how swollen and stiff his face feels, hates the look of disgust it elicits on his father’s face.
Mama is holding him. She found him in his room after the fight had ended. Ilya should be strong for her. She was the one who bore the brunt of his father’s rage. He should be helping her, comforting her. But here he is crying useless tears in her arms, taking comfort in the lingering smell of her perfume.
“I hate him,” Ilya grits out. “I wish he’d die.”
Ilya feel Mama stiffen under him. He tries to swallow down the guilt that follows his statement. He is angry. He shouldn’t feel guilty.
She pulls away from him, places her hand on his cheek. Her expression is firm, determined.
“Don’t say that, Ilyusha. Please don’t.”
He can see her eyes well up and feel wretched all over again. Her thumb strokes over his cheek.
“I just want us to be happy,” Ilya says, hating how his voice breaks, how the works crumble in his mouth. “How can we be happy when he is there, waiting to take it from us?”
Mama doesn’t say anything for a moment. He can see her think about his words. He loves how she takes his questions seriously, answers them with care. She smiles. Her eyes are sad but her smile is still warm.
“Darling, you might not believe me but I know this will be true. Someday, in the future, you will wake up. It will be quiet. You will not have to hear anyone yelling as you open your eyes. You will not have to be scared. Someday you will wake up and you won’t feel like there is something heavy sitting on your chest and waiting. For that to happen, you cannot say things like this. You might feel them but you have to let them go. If you don’t then these will become the things that weigh you down. If you don’t that morning will arrive but you won’t be able to tell.”
She believes this. Ilya can tell. It makes him want to believe it too.
He asks, selfishly, “Promise?”
“I promise,” Mama says. She looks so certain, so serious. Then her eyes light up. “On that day, we will sing as we make breakfast. Something sweet. To celebrate.”