Chapter Text
February, 2017
The house where his mother killed herself is nothing but a pile of ash. It should satisfy him, maybe, that the building that was once her prison is gone. It was his prison too, for years. But something about the way the charred brick has crumbled in on itself makes him feel sad. The windows are blown in from the force of the fire, and the neighbouring houses are scorched on the sides from the flames. Ilya hasn’t been here in years, the memories had been too difficult to face, and now he regrets it a little bit.
In the past, when he came back to Moscow he would stay in his own apartment, visiting his father’s new place with Polina, or Alexi’s when absolutely necessary. Nobody really used the old house, and that had never sat right with Ilya but it’s not like he was any better equipped to face his mother’s ghost.
He doesn’t understand exactly what twist of fate led to his family all staying the night there. He doesn’t understand how the fire started, or how it grew so devastating, or why nobody was able to get out on time. He certainly doesn’t know what to do now, hasn’t since he received the call from some stern Moscow official letting him know that there had been a horrible accident (accident - a word he knows all too well), and that his family was dead because of it. His father, his brother, his sister in law, everyone. Ilya doesn’t remember getting home that night, but he does remember Marlowe’s guiding hand on his shoulder as the older man helped him to a seat on shaky legs, pulling up flight details and calling management to get him some time. He had to sort out funerals and estates and debts and god knows what else, but it had to be done in Russia.
On the plane, he had let himself doze off, whispers of dreams playing at his subconscious. He lets himself pretend there is a strong hand in his hard, carding through his curls. The imagined hand is attached to a fantasy version of Shane Hollander, who is exactly the same as the real Shane Hollander except he is here, and he has nowhere else to be. Ilya doesn’t dwell on how pathetic it is to want something so soft.
Five hours into his flight he realizes that he hasn’t texted Shane since this morning. Going some eighteen hours without contact wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary for most of their relationship - if you could even call it that - but things were different, now. Since the All Star game, since Tampa, since Ilya finally allowed Shane a tiny piece of his truth and with it, his heart. It hadn’t resolved anything, but they both knew, now. Knew that they wanted more than stolen glances across the ice and frenzied hookups in whatever bed was closest. It was a fresh sort of terrifying Ilya had never believed he would experience, this fear not of being left, or ignored, but of being known so completely. Loving Shane is the scariest thing he has ever done and the man doesn’t even know it yet.
It had been the worst, probably, when Shane had dated Rose Landry. Brilliant, perfect, uncomplicated, she had been perfect for Shane. Ilya knew he had chased the other man away, that time in his Boston home. He had come too close to saying the truth, opening up his tightly guarded heart only to have it wretched from his body. He had shown too much of his hand and Shane had run straight into the safety of a heteronormative relationship so high profile it simply had to work out. Except it hadn’t. Shane had waltzed into that bar in Tampa in nice clothes and ordered a beer and had confirmed that he and Landry were incompatible. The gaping chasm in Ilya’s chest had mended itself back together, a little bit. And later, when Shane held him while he cried because as much love as he felt, nothing could ever be done, the chasm had mended a little bit more.
Since that night of almost-confessions, they had been texting more. Shane would probably worry about him when the news of this got out. Boston Bears Captain Ilya Rosanov Abandons Team to Deal With Russian Family. Captain Ilya Rosanov Runs Away Mid-Season Because his Priorities are Wrong. Rosanov in Russia: Does he Even Care? The headlines he imagines are certainly worse than whatever the actuality will be, but that doesn’t stop his racing mind from spiralling. It's times like these that he is most like his mother.
He doesn’t know why he goes to the house before even his apartment, never mind the lawyer’s. If anything, he should eat a meal and get some proper rest before attempting to sort out whatever bureaucratic nightmare awaits. But he stands before the shell of the aggressively normal house in which he grew up and he lets himself remember the feeling of his mother’s chest rising and falling against his own after running all the way home from the rink. She would kneel in front of him, her hands hugging him tightly, and in those moments nothing had mattered because he knew he was loved.
He only resented her a little bit, for dying. He couldn’t hold it against her fully, no matter how much he wished he would. After all, once she was gone, he became the target of all his father’s untethered aggression and anger and, had he not been too much of a coward, he would have followed in his mother’s footsteps. The only thing that saved him, as he got older, was that he became too good at hockey for his father to risk breaking his ribs. Smaller bruises were fine, they blended in with the hockey injuries like a beautiful painting of hurt, but anything too bad, too damaging, was off the table once scouts started showing interest. Ilya doesn’t know where his father put all that anger once he lost his second-choice punching bag, because it wasn’t Alexi or Polina, but he stopped caring long ago.
The appointment with the lawyer is at two in the afternoon. He hasn’t eaten since before the game save for the sad airplane meal he forced down his throat, and so he throws together a sandwich in his apartment and tries to feel a little more human before the meeting.
The woman at the reception desk recognizes him before he can introduce himself and he pretends not to hate it.
“Mr. Rosanov,” she says, “Mr. Popov is waiting for you.” She smiles at him and he tries to make his own face mirror it, with limited success. He walks down the stale hallway - he hates this soviet architecture, it reminds him too much of his father - and comes to a stop in front of the single door at the end. Ilya debates knocking before deciding he simply does not care, and walks in like he belongs.
Popov is a balding man of maybe forty-five, and he wears glasses that are three times too small for his face. He looks up at Ilya when he enters the room, before nodding to the chair on the other side of his metal desk. Ilya sits.
“Good afternoon,” he says, because Popov hasn’t said anything and he doesn’t know what else to do.
“Mr Rosanov,” Popov greets, “thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I will go through what we need from you, and what the state will handle, and then you can ask any questions you may have.” Ilya nods, and thanks whatever god is out there that this man is not going to beat around the bush with him. “The most pressing matter we must discuss is timing for the funerals. If you want the state to organize the ceremony for your father and brother, due to their status within the police, we must submit that request as soon as possible. For your sister in law and mother in law, you will have to organize that yourself, or you can choose to forgo a ceremony entirely. Do you know how you would like to proceed?”
Ilya doesn’t know what he would like to do. He would like to sign some papers and get on the next flight back to Boston. He would like to wallow in this state of not-quite-grief for a thousand years. He would like to honor his family’s memories. He would like to spit on his father’s burned corpse for all the man put him through. But something sticks out.
“What about Katya?” he asks, eyes flicking up from the dent he had been intently examining in the desk. Katya was his niece, and he had only met her a handful of times, but he remembered her brilliant green eyes and her uncanny resemblance to his mother that Alexi must have just hated. She was probably the one he was mourning the most, her life cut so tragically short. He knows the state used to provide some sort of extra service for children's funerals, and he doesn’t know if he wants that, but Alexi definitely would have, and maybe that matters. But then Popov is looking at him with a strange expression, saying
“Katya is not dead, Mr. Rosanov.” The words send a bolt of shock and relief and sorrow through him and that emotional medley would be enough, but Popov isn’t done, “Since your brother had no listed next of kin, she has been brought to a state orphanage. I would have brought this to your attention earlier, but I assumed you wouldn’t care, after all, you’re a busy man.”
Whatever emotions had been flooding his system, they are replaced with outrage. Katya, sweet Katya. Alive. Orphaned. Remanded to a facility that would cram her in a room with eight other children, feed her twice a day, and say that it was enough. She is four years old, he thinks, mentally scolding himself for not knowing even this crucial detail. And Popov, just assuming that because his life is in America and his career is demanding, that he wouldn’t spare a second thought for his niece? For his only living family? Ilya bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood because yelling at this lawyer will not fix anything.
“You assumed wrong,” he grits out, barely concealing the emotions that threaten to undermine whatever power he holds in this meeting, “I want to see her.”
Popov looks surprised, but nods good naturedly, “Of course, we can arrange something in the next few days-”
“No,” Ilya cuts him off, “I will see her today.”
“Mr. Rosanov, we have a lot to get through today, I’m not sure if…” Popov trails off as Ilya allows his glare to intensify, signaling that this is not a matter up for discussion. “I will go through things as quickly as I can, and then I will arrange a meeting at the orphanage for this evening,” he concedes. Ilya nods, and this is still too long, and he knows whatever else is said in this meeting he will not be understanding, because all he can think of is Katya, and how afraid she must be, and how desperately he needs to see her. But he can be patient, despite what people might think. So he makes decisions and consents to state involvement if only because Popov seems to think it's a good idea. Forty-five minutes later he has an address in his hand and is out the door.
Do not worry Katya, he thinks, I am coming.