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Ilya has made many mistakes in his life—and really, he doesn't try to pretend that he hasn't, that he's perfect. He doesn't try to pretend that he's good. He’s not someone who dwells on his mistakes—well, that may not be entirely true. Or true at all. But this one, his worst mistake—it haunts him. He didn't even register for years that a piece of himself was gone, lost and fallen through the cracks of time, but when the realisation trickled in, he couldn't breathe.
The day his mother decided she couldn't stay for him anymore, he was at Sveta's house, calling home to ask if he could stay over for the night. The memory is hazy at best, blurred through the edges like oil paint burnished on a canvas, and clouded through years of heartache and homesickness. His father had been away on business, to Volgograd—or had it been Kazan, he couldn’t remember— the nearly tangible fog of his presence briefly lifted. Ilya had used the time to get away with things he would never have been allowed otherwise, and his mother was—seemed—happy to let him. She was good like that. She’d sent him off with the customary kiss on his cheek, and he doesn’t know if it’s a retroactive memory telling him that her eyes seemed shinier, more tired than usual, her body pulled taut like a string close to snapping. That he should have done something.
"Thank you Mama," he'd replied, "See you tomorrow! I love you."
Or, was it— "I'll come back in the morning! Bye Mama."
Or—
And that was it. He couldn't remember if the last time he'd spoken to his mother—his beautiful, kind, funny, sad mama—he’d told her he loved her. It eats at him, acid in his chest dripping and carrying away little bits of his heart. It has eaten at him since he'd grown up and realised he couldn't remember. Chronic pain of the heart—is that just grief? He hurts, but that’s almost the easy bit. Ilya has been hurting for a long time. The familiarity is probably easier than anything else, and it scares him that he might not feel like this someday. To leave behind all he knows once again, this time his mother in place of his country—though this would certainly be worse.
He remembers how the two of them used to dance in the tiny kitchen they had before they moved when he was 7, his small legs wrapped around her waist as she held him and leant forward to dip him, kissing his cheeks as he laughed at the air rushing around them. He’d quickly gotten too big to carry, but she hadn’t let that stop her from swaying him in her arms, on her knees instead to be at his level. It must have left her knees aching from the hard floors, something he’d given no thought to at that age, but she had done it anyway because it made him happy. She was good like that.
She had danced with him that same morning, and he will forever be thankful that it’s a memory he keeps in full. Chopin had been streaming softly from the tiny radio she kept in the kitchen as she worked, rolling out dough over and over again while Ilya did homework at the table. With his father away and Alexei out, it was just the two of them, free as birds. He had watched her carefully, delighting in being so close to her, smelling her perfume. She didn’t wear it often—too strong, too cloying, too much, Grigori said. Ilya loved it.
She’d surprised him then, turning and tugging him out of his chair with her beautiful warm hands so she could hold him and sway to the music. He’d put one arm around her waist and held her hand with the other initially, like you’re supposed to do when you dance properly, but she’d looked at him, smiling, and said “Ilyusha, like we used to do?” So he’d hugged her around the middle and fisted his hands in the back of her shirt while her long curls tickled his face, not caring one bit about the dustings of flour on her apron getting on his shirt. Her heart had been beating against his ear. Thump. Thump. Thump.
She’d let him go after a few minutes, once the radio went silent, making him laugh with a loud kiss on his cheek and a stroke of his hair. He’d finished up his homework and walked to Svetlana’s house after that, unknowingly pressing play on the nightmare that would consume his waking reality. He had come home to chebureki on the dining table, a pill bottle on the ground in the bedroom, and a necklace carefully curled on top of a note. Her wrist was cold to the touch, and he couldn’t hear her heartbeat. I love you, he should have said. He’ll never know if he did.
───────
Ilya’s knees ached. There wasn’t much he had left of his mother—he didn’t really have much of himself left these days, either. But the cross was here, around his neck and in his hands, and by God if he wasn’t going to beg, beg for what he wanted.
And he knew this was his problem: he wanted things without ever giving, he wanted things that weren’t for him, he wanted things he didn’t deserve and didn’t earn. He had always been lazy. He knew, of course, that he wasn’t good. Still, he wanted. Maybe it made him terrible. He didn’t care. He already knew it was the truth.
He wanted his mother.
Please, he’d mouthed, the silent prayer filling the space and thickening in his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. Please, I want my— I want to see her again. He did not deserve to have her name fall from his lips. I want her to know that she doesn’t have to be so sad anymore. I don’t want her to ever be sad again. I can take it for both of us now. I want to know if I make her proud, I want to know if I could have made her happy. Could I have? Was it me? Please, please, God. I hope it wasn’t me.
As his words to God trickled out and dried up when he ran out of things to plead for, he turned to his mother.
Mama, and that was always the first word he spoke to her. It was his first word in life, and would most certainly be his first in death. Well. He hoped it would be, should he be lucky enough to end up in the blessed place she surely had. Perhaps he could say it to her again soon. Mama, help me. I don’t know what to do without you here. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you to stay, I’m so sorry. Please. He didn’t know what he was asking for—maybe she did.
The room was too cold, the chill running through the air stinging his excoriated lips and making the cooling tears on his cheeks itch. He’d stayed anyway. Ilya’s knees ached.
───────
"I'll be back before lunch Ilya, don’t wreck the place!" Shane called across the house. He had been planning to pop out for a quick store run, nothing special. A couple cleaning items needed restocking, and he could combine the trip with groceries—with Ilya staying home, he also had the chance to pick up a treat from the bakery on the way back. They knew him there, so he always got the best ones if he went early in the morning, nice and fresh just how Ilya liked. That was something that Shane loved, and would never tire of—being able to show Ilya how much he cared about him with something tangible. It was a privilege. Ilya deserved it.
"Goodbye Shane, I love you!" Ilya yelled back. No response, but he hadn't heard the door shut. He was probably overthinking this, everything was fine. But maybe he should... Yeah, just in case.
Ilya walked to the foyer in time to find Shane standing up from tying his shoelaces. He kept walking forward, but slowed his pace, getting close enough to slowly press Shane back against the wall. Hands on his chest and smiling despite himself, he nudged Shane's head back with a kiss.
"I love you," he repeated softly, and Shane smiled fondly back.
"I love you too."
He raised his eyebrows and started sort of laughing before he could finish the sentence, so really Shane should have expected this— "Drive slow."
Shane laughed and pushed him away. "Oh my god, you are such an asshole. It's a normal car!"
"Okay," Ilya said with his eyebrows still raised in a way that made Shane know he was being made fun of. Though it’s nice that he knows, with Ilya.
"See you later."
Ilya heard the car start from the foyer where he still stood, then heard the noise of it driving away over the gravel. Good, he thought. I will remember this.
───────
It’s not until a few days later that Shane finally asked. Ilya could tell it was coming, from the way Shane paused carefully, deliberately, for their ‘I love yous’ when they parted, from how he held Ilya just a second longer. To say it bluntly—he lingered. And yes, sue him, Ilya loved it. It all made him feel wanted, and important, but undeniably selfish. There was no other way to put it, no matter how many times he turned the situation over in his mind. Shane didn’t have to do this, but he was doing it anyway. He didn’t have to, but he was doing it, all for Ilya. So yes, he deserved to know.
They were lying tangled together on the couch, with the lights dim and the fireplace going. Ilya’s head rested on Shane’s chest, a hand carding through his hair. Shane was so warm, and his heartbeat was steady under Ilya’s ear. It was nice to hear—sometimes, he even thought his own heart beat to the sound of Shane’s laugh.
Shane hummed. “Ilya,” he started off gently, almost hesitant. He was trying to be careful, that much was clear. “Whenever one of us leaves, or goes somewhere. You always say I love you.”
He was so cute, always fragmenting his sentences a certain way and never really asking a straight question.
Ilya snorted, “Yes, Shane, you married me. Should be used to it, no?”
“Not what I meant, Ilyusha,” Shane sighed, tapping his nail against Ilya’s head a little harder. “I just mean—I don’t know. I say it to you too, that’s normal obviously, but like… You always make sure. You never leave without saying it, you never let me leave without saying it. Not that I would, but—you know,” he finished.
Ilya did know, and he had been preparing for the conversation, so he tried to let them both off with the easy answer of “What, you want me to be mean to you instead?”
It did not work, something made clear not verbally but through the way he could feel Shane’s body shift against him.
“Alright, okay. Sorry. It is… hm.”
His voice took on a quality, sort of thick, sort of defeated, that let Shane know this was about Ilya’s mother. He almost regretted bringing it up, and switched from petting his hair to gently running his nails up and down Ilya’s bare back in a silent sort of apology. It’s okay, they both knew he was saying. Take your time. It’s alright. The necklace glinted in the firelight, resting between them.
“My mother,” he started off. Shane kept stroking his back. It’s okay. “The day she died. Day before that, when I last talked to her.”
His breathing had slowed, body tensing, and Shane still just stroked his back and waited for him. Shane had done so much waiting. He was good like that.
“I can’t remember if I told her I loved her,” he’d finally said, somewhere between choked out and whispered. Either way, it breaks both of their hearts, one for the first time and the other for the thousandth.
Shane shut his eyes, tight, and wondered how much about Ilya he still didn’t know.
“And you’re worried that it’ll…” he trailed off. He didn’t want to finish the sentence, but Ilya understood.
“I don’t want to not remember ever again.”
And oh God, he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled Ilya up and held him, arms wrapped around him as tight as he could. Ilya sniffled into his neck, and Shane didn’t pretend not to notice so much as he noticed and let it happen. So close to each other, he could speak softly and preserve their bubble for a while longer.
“Hey, listen to me. I have an idea. We’ll both tell each other, right now, that we love each other. And if something ever happens, you won’t have to worry about it.” Ilya started to move, but Shane held onto him tighter
“No, listen. I know it won’t be… right before or whatever. And that doesn’t mean you need to stop. But just in case, in case, Ilya,” he stressed, “you would know. Okay?”
“Okay,” Ilya mumbled into his skin. He lifted his chin up to rest on Shane’s collarbone with a sigh, looking him in the eyes. “Shane”, he’d begun. “Shane Hollander. I love you. I call you boring, but it means you’re the only thing that has always been here, in my life. You’ve—” He cut himself off to take a deep, shuddering breath. “I like you so much, okay? I love you. I want you to be boring for the rest of my life—our lives.”
Shane cracked a beautiful, devastating smile, and leant over to press a kiss to Ilya’s forehead.
“Alright, my turn. Ilya,” he started. Copycat. “You’re the best thing in my life. Even if we never saw each other again,” Ilya glared, and Shane huffed a laugh and kissed him again. “Even if, I would hold you in my heart forever. Everyone who ever saw me would know how much I loved you. You’re so… Ilyusha, you’re so good. You’re good to me, but—that’s not what I mean, okay? Just you. As yourself. You’re so good. I love you. I’ll be boring for the rest of our lives, okay?”
Ilya put his head down and, if it was possible, burrowed even further into Shane’s neck.
“Okay,” he nodded.
He would remember this.