thinking a lot about “what was your mother’s name?” and shane trying to learn more about their relationship…… shane asking ilya later, later, when they’re married, “what did your mother call you? did she have like, a nickname for you?” and ilya makes a little humming noise, his mouth tugged up at the corners, “ilyusha. it was mostly — a childish nickname.” and shane tests it on his tongue — “ilyusha. it sounds sweet.” but ilya gives a little bitter laugh, says, “after she died, my father and brother used it as an insult. whenever they wanted me to feel small, they called me that.” he says it so devoid of emotion, so matter of factly, that for a moment, shane isn’t sure what to say. in the end, all he can manage is, “that’s awful. she called you that because she loved you.” ilya smiles softly, shrugs. “is fine, now. no one calls me that anymore, so. is okay.”
but shane can’t stop thinking about it. he rolls it around in his head, such a sweet name for such a sweet boy. that night, he has ilya sit across from him on the bed, tells him to stay still. shane’s looking at him intently, brow furrowed, the lines of his face drawn tight, he’s so focused. ilya’s half laughing when shane takes ilya’s face in his hands, —“so serious my love,”— but the amusement dies in his throat when shane presses a kiss to ilya’s forehead, murmurs ilyusha, so quietly at first he’s sure he’s only imagined it. but then shane moves to the right side of his face, ghosts a kiss against the shell of his ear, ilyusha. again, beneath his left eye, ilyusha. his nose, ilyusha. his trembling mouth, ilyusha. his name from another life, a past of burned bridges, a childhood cut short.
“it’s a good name,” shane tells him when they break apart, ilya’s face still cradled in the haven of his hands. “she loved you more than anything in the world,” shane whispers, ilya shaking, shaking, shaking, two warm hands on either side of his face holding him together. “and so do i, ilyusha.”
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