#for j

He was 8 years old, still before the time when it became clear what he would do forever, when his mother still seemed light and happy to him.

He was skating, because even then he loved it. But mostly just spinning in a circle on the little pond in the park, leaning into the blades over and over again. It was the perfect kind of winter morning, with the sun out but the ice and snow thick on the ground. The day after the storm, so everything was still white and glowing, before the people of Moscow stomped it into sludge. Ilya was skipping school, because Moscow was far too prepared for snow to ever have what the Americans call a “snow day”.

He tried to spin faster, pulling his arms close to his chest, turning and turning like his mother did when she was on the ice with him, delicate in her figure skates.

But Ilya wasn’t a figure skater and never would be. He got dizzier and dizzier, and his right skate buckled while he was still going too fast, and he fell, hard, his right skate sliding under his left knee.

His vision blurred with the pain, but he could still see red sinking into the ice. And he could hear yelling.

“ILLYUSHA!! Illyusha!” Lyosha. Lyosha was here, sliding his way onto the ice in his boots. Ilya didn’t know how his brother could have seen him. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going.

Ilya burst into tears immediately. A second later, he let out an ‘oof’ as his brother crashed right into him, unable to stop himself. His face was carefully hidden from view in Lyosha’s jacket.

“Lyosha, it hurts. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, I know. But we have to go home now.” Certainty in Lyosha’s voice, but a little bit of fear.

Ilya peeked out. People were coming closer, curious and concerned. Dread pooled in his stomach.

“Can you stand, Illyusha? We have to go.”

Ilya could stand, barely. He leaned into Lyosha, sliding and slipping and limping their way to the pond’s edge, where Ilya’s boots were hidden in a bush.

Three adults were gathered there. Ilya was so afraid that they would tell his father, that he would get in trouble, but Lyosha talked to them, said they lived in that building right there and their mother was waiting for them, please.

Mama. Mama would know what to do.

Ilya barely remembers the walk back, only his arm over Lyosha’s shoulder.

Mama wasn’t waiting for them, though. No one was in the apartment. Ilya remembered that he was supposed to be in school, that Lyosha was too.

“What are we going to do? We’re going to get in so much trouble!”

“Don’t worry, Illyusha. Mama showed me where the bandages are, and the disinfectant. I can do it.”

He really couldn’t do it. Not very well. The disinfectant spilled a little, and stung, and there was a lot of blood.

But it was bandaged, and clean. Lyosha grabbed his hand tight after and didn’t even make fun of the tears that were still streaking down Ilya’s face. The ones his father said were weak for a man.

They held on tight, for a long while after.

Ilya stopped crying eventually. “What do we tell Mama and Father?”

“We tell Mama you fell down after school, and I brought you home. They won’t be home until later. We don’t say anything to Papa unless he asks.” 

Ilya had known then, and later when they said what they planned, that Lyosha would protect him. That they were the only ones in the world that understood why they had to tell that lie.

Mama took a look at his leg later that night, and recleaned and bandaged it just right. She told Lyosha he had done a good job, that Ilya wouldn’t need to go to the hospital. They had done it.

“Be more careful, Illyushka. If you want to be a good skater someday, you need to be safe.”

She kissed him on the forehead, and left their room.

The scar twisted and pulled as it healed, turning raised and strange. It was so faded now, maybe it would be gone in a few years. Or maybe someone would shove him on the ice, and an errant skate would cut it open again.

Maybe that would be good. Then it could heal properly.

Ilya hadn’t forgotten today’s date, despite his best efforts. He pours himself a glass of the good vodka, the one he imports 4 bottles of every year. The one that always sat in the cabinet of the Moscow apartment, waiting for special occasions.

“Happy Birthday, Lyosha.” A toast to the empty air.

He drains the glass, trying to think of nothing at all.