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There’s something exhilarating about being on the ice with Shane. There’s a zap of excitement that crawls up Ilya’s spine whenever he’s with him. It’s the fact that Shane keeps up with him. He feels fully challenged by him and, although he’d never tell, threatened every time they play together.
Today it’s just the same, but he feels lighter.
Happier.
He doesn’t feel the pressure of his brother or the disappointed scowl of his father. What he does feel is love. Looking across the rink to see Shane animatedly talking to Hayden, his heart clenches.
It has to end.
Tonight.
He wonders if he should still fuck Shane tonight, to soften the blow. Or if it would hurt him more. Or maybe he should sit down with him and tell him.
I can’t do this, I’m sorry.
Fuck.
Ilya shakes his head to get the image of Shane’s tear-filled eyes out of his head. The fact that the tears in his eyes wouldn’t be from pleasure but from emotional pain kills him. He would be angry. Hurt. Afraid.
Shane cries when he’s angry, Ilya’s noticed. His lip always trembles and his brow furrows in an attempt to keep the tears at bay. It’s an expression he’s seen before. An expression he’s put on his face more times than he can count. He realizes he’ll see that expression again tonight.
He shakes himself out and turns his head to see everyone getting into position for his and Shane’s face-off. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion as they both crouch. Shane looks up at him and then gives him a teasing smile, and Ilya can’t control it; a grin breaks onto his face as well. They clash their sticks together between them, and Shane narrows his eyes. Ilya is he’s smirking as they still and wait for the referee.
Shane wins the face-off, and he’s quick as he skates away. There’s a small pang of frustration that Ilya feels at the back of his mind. He skates after him, rushing. Shane turns his head to smile at him. It’s cocky and has a hint of snark in it, but he can see that there’s light in his eyes. His smile is full of happiness as he glides away.
Ilya smiles back, grin sharp and challenging. But then–
Cliff is coming into view.
Cliff is coming into view fast.
And Shane can’t see it.
Ilya’s heart drops along with his smile.
A clean hit, but the angle– especially with Shane unable to brace for impact.
He looks so carefree and then–
He goes down.
His body twists all the way around, and the sound his helmet makes as it cracks against the ice is the last thing Ilya can actually hear. His ears are ringing as he stares at Shane’s limp form. He isn’t moving. He’s just lying there.
Ilya is thrown back in time.
“Mamochka! Mamochka, gde ty?” (Mommy! Mommy, where are you?) Twelve-year-old Ilya runs all around his house, the large rooms make his voice echo, and he pauses at the bottom of the curling stairs. “Ty naverkhu?” (Are you upstairs?)
He heaves a breath as he runs up the stairs, “Papochka-” (Daddy-) Ilya pauses to correct himself, “Otets–” (Father). His father doesn’t like it when he uses informal names for him. It must always be Papa or Otets. “Moy otets tebya ishchet!” (My father is looking for you!)
“Ya ne znayu, zlitsya li on. Ya khochu tebya predupredit.” (I don’t know if he’s angry with you. I want to warn you.) Ilya walks down the long corridor, continuing to speak, “Mozhet byt, on khochet, potseluya?” (Maybe he wants a kiss?) But Ilya knows that’s not the truth. His father yells at her. He is harsh. Mean.
Ilya doesn’t understand why. She is so beautiful and sweet. She plays with his curly hair and smiles as she tells him that her papa had the same curls. Ilya always points out that her hair is curly too, but she shakes her head and always tells him that his is curlier. She plays pryatki (hide and seek) with him and pretends that she can’t see his feet from under the curtains he hides in. She tickles him and places kisses all over his face when he makes his jokes. She loves him. And he loves her.
“Mamochka?” (Mommy?) Ilya is quiet as he walks further. He checks each room he walks by and cannot find her. Finally, he reaches his parents’ bedroom. He knocks first, always polite, “Gde ty? My seychas ne igrayem v pryatki.” (Where are you? We’re not playing hide and seek right now), he murmurs to himself. Although he doesn’t hear an answer, he turns the doorknob. She’s lying on the floor next to the bed. Her long hair covers her face, and her arm is extended, a brown-orange bottle without a lid hanging loosely in her grasp.
Ah! She must have fallen asleep. On the floor, though? How odd. Walking over quietly, he picks up the bottle of pills and reads the label.
‘Phenazepham’
There are two or three of the small blue tablets left in the bottle, and he hums as he tips them out, moves them around his hand, and then puts them back in. He finds the cap to the bottle a little ways away. He clasps the lid back on and places it on the bedside table. She will probably need them later. With a small smile, he walks back to his mother and brushes her hair out of her face. His face falls slightly, and his eyelashes flutter.
His mama isn’t sleeping. Her eyes are open. But she’s also not looking at him. It’s like her eyes are seeing through him, not seeing him.
“Mamochka?” (Mommy?) He whispers to her, “Ty spish?” (Are you sleeping?)
Her mouth is slightly open, and she’s very pale. Her lips aren’t the rosy color they usually are. Ilya furrows his eyebrows in confusion. Is she wearing makeup? To change her skin? And her lips? He goes to shake her, but when his hand comes in contact with her bare arm, all he feels is—
Cold. Very, very cold. And stiff.
“Mamochka, prosnis.” (Mommy, wake up.) Ilya says this firmly, but his voice wobbles slightly, so he says it louder and shakes her, ignoring the chill of her skin. She lolls with the movement, rigid but loose. “Mamochka, prosnis!’ (Mommy, wake up!)
There’s a terrifying feeling rolling over him. She might be– she could be– what if she’s–
Large hands grasp his shoulders and pull him back. His father. He watches as his father glances at his mother and back to him. He’s crouching to his level but is yelling at other people, “Vyzovite skoruyu!” (Call an ambulance!) Someone replies to him with, “Ona uzhe mertva!” (She’s already dead!) and his father gives that person the most scalding look he can as he hisses, “Zatem vyzovite politsiyu. Nemedlenno zaprosite podkrepleniye.” (Then call the police. Request backup immediately.)
“Otets?” (Father?) “Chto sluchilos' s moyey mamochka?” (What happened to my mommy?) He watches his father scramble for an answer. “Ona khorosho?” (Is she okay?) He has never seen him look like this. Even when he gets hurt playing Khokkey na I’du (Ice hockey), his father never makes such wild expressions. It only makes Ilya panic more, “Pozhaluysta, skazhite mne.” (Please, tell me.)
“Avariya.” (Accident.) His father blurts out, almost as if he came up with it on the spot. “Tyova mat…” (Your mother…) He pauses, “Oha vred.” (She is hurt.) He pauses again, chokes and stutters over his words to add, “Sluchayno.” (Accidentally.) Ilya’s lip trembles.
“Umershiy?” (Dead?) Ilya whispers, his eyes glossy.
“Da, ona mertva.” (Yes. She’s dead.) His father responds, “Vprochem, eto byl neschastnyy sluchay.” (But, it was an accident.)
Ilya thinks he’s lying. His eyes are not sincere. They’re troubled. They show no truth. They look away every now and then, as if he’s trying not to face the truth.
“Ilya, idi v svoyu komnatu.” (Go to your room, Ilya.) His father tells him, and his breath is taken from him.
“Krome–” (But–) Ilya begins to protest, but he stops talking when his father looks at him firmly.
“Ya ne budu povtoryat'sya.” (I won’t repeat myself.) His father says, unyieldingly.
Ilya looks at his mother again. Her body is so limp. Her body looks so small in its crumpled state. He can’t move. His father pushes him towards the door, but he continues to stare at his mother’s dead figure.
Ilya has been lost in his memories long enough that he didn’t even notice the medics come onto the ice and set a cervical collar on Shane's body. He’s loaded onto a scoop stretcher. Ilya can’t tell if he’s responsive. If he’s alive.
He glides across the ice, moving around the medics to get a view of Shane.
“What happened to him?” Ilya asks dumbly; he knows what happened. He watched it happen. But that’s all he can think of. Maybe this is a bad dream. Maybe nothing happened, and he wants them to confirm that.
“Chto sluchilos' s moyey mamochkoy?” (What happened to my mommy?)
It’s getting harder to breathe as he stares. “Is he okay?” he grasps at any straws he can.
“Ona khorosho?” (Is she okay?)
His frustration begins to show as he gets no answers: “Fucking tell me!”
“Pozhaluysta, skazhite mne.” (Please, tell me.)
“Get back to your bench, Rosanov.” One of the medics orders.
“Ilya, idi v svoyu komnatu.” (Go to your room, Ilya.)
“I’m not gonna tell you again.” The medic adds on.
“Ya ne budu povtoryat'sya.” (I won’t repeat myself.)
Ilya just continues to stare. Shane’s body is limp.
Her body is so limp.
He looks so small, lying there.
Her body looks so small in its crumpled state.
Ilya can’t move.
He can’t move.
He can only be pushed aside as he watches.
His father pushes him towards the door, but he continues to stare at his mother’s dead figure.
The world is quiet.
He can’t hear the crowd or his fellow teammates.
Or Pike fighting with Cliff.
He can’t hear the refs talking to him.
He can only envision how similar Shane and–
It can’t end here.
It has to end.
Shane can’t do this to him.
I can’t do this, I’m sorry.
Fuck.
Fuck.