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Mama is holding the neighbor’s baby when Ilya comes downstairs. Mama’s group of women friends are sitting around their living room, tea and coffee on the end tables. Well, Ilya isn’t sure if they are friends or not, but it is important to Father that the family “keep up appearances”, so Mama is required to invite the women to come over once a week. Ilya isn’t sure what that means, but it’s not his place to question it.
He peers around the doorframe, trying to see the baby. He is 11 now, almost a man, even though Alexei laughs at Ilya when Ilya says things like that. Alexei is not very nice most of the time. Not nice like Mama is.
Ilya has never seen a baby up close, now that he thinks about it. He has seen them in strollers or held in the arms of women when he and Mama go for walks, but he has never met a baby in person. Well, maybe when he himself was a baby, but he doesn’t remember that. Alexei remembers Ilya being a baby. He said that Ilya was ugly and gross as a baby. Mama said that all babies are a little ugly and gross, but that Ilya was less ugly and less gross than most babies.
(Later, Ilya had asked her if Alexei was the same. Mama had paused for a long moment and then just winked at Ilya and Ilya had laughed and laughed and laughed.)
Mama sees Ilya peeking into the room, of course she does. Ilya can never hide from her.
“Ilyusha,” Mama calls. Ilya slinks out from the doorframe. The women stop talking and snap their gazes to Ilya.
“It’s okay,” she continues. “You can come in.”
So Ilya trots into the room and sits next to Mama on the couch when she pats the space next to her. The women glare at Mama, just a little bit, but return to their conversations without any more fuss. Ilya watches the baby, wrapped in a little red blanket. Mama rocks them slightly, patting the baby’s back as she does so.
“Is the baby a girl or a boy?” Ilya whispers into his mother’s ear.
“A boy,” Mama whispers back. The women continue talking. She takes one hand away from the baby’s back to tuck a stray blonde curl behind her ear. She does the same to Ilya, then.
Mama asks something of the woman next to them. Ilya thinks her name is Taliya, but he’s not sure. He’s too focused on the baby to listen to Mama. But then Mama is handing the baby back to maybe-Taliya and pulling Ilya into her lap. And then, Maybe-Taliya hands the baby, her son, Ilya knows now, back over, and Ilya is holding the baby!
Mama helps him support the infant, her arms tucked around both of them. Mama always smells so good, even though sometimes she says she is too tired to get in the bath, so her hair gets a little greasy. But today is a rare day that she has put on her perfume, the one that smells like roses, and Ilya melts back against her chest. She is thin, even thinner these days, but still soft. She hums into Ilya’s ear and rocks all three of them.
Ilya decides that he would like to have a baby someday. He will find someone nice, someone nice and kind like Mama, and he will be a nice and kind father just like she is a nice and kind mother.
Mama presses a kiss to Ilya’s hair. In the light, he can’t tell where her curls end and his own begin.
—
Masha is so, so small when Ilya holds her for the first time, though she must be a few months old by now. Ilya’s embarrassed that he doesn’t quite know.
How can he, though? Alexei only calls him when he wants money for coke. Ilya hadn’t even known Alexei’s wife was pregnant.
The baby snuffles against his chest and he shushes her softly. He realizes that he has instinctually started to rock back and forth a little bit. She feels heavy and soft in his arms, squishy like a bag of flour. She smells good too, like baby powder and clean skin. Ilya loves her and loves her and loves her.
“Mariya, Masha,” he whispers. She blinks up at him with big brown eyes. Ilya glances around quickly to make sure he is alone. He is. Alexei had thrust the child into Ilya’s arms and vanished from the sitting room. To do what, Ilya doesn’t know.
“Your father, he is tough to live with. He is. I do not know much about your mother. Your father has never told me. But you will be okay. I will love you, and Sveta, that’s your aunt, she will love you. We will love you so much. We already do. And I will visit when I can. And when I cannot, I will send things with Sveta to give to you.”
Ilya sighs. His hand covers almost all of the little girl’s back. She is so delicate yet sturdy in his arms.
“And my… friend. Your other uncle, I suppose,” Ilya continues in English, just in case someone is listening. “Well, maybe not yet. Or ever. We cannot… Anyways. Your other uncle. My… my Shane. He will love you too. Even if he does not know much about you. He just has so much love, for everyone. So much. Even if he does not know you, he will love you. I know it.”
She’s fallen asleep in his arms. Ilya lifts her to press a kiss to her head. He wonders when Alexei will be back to take her from him. Ilya hopes it’s not for a long while.
—
Amber is officially out of what Jackie lovingly coins the Loaf Stage, where she mostly just hangs out being a baby, by the time they have Shane and Ilya over for dinner. This means she is a lot more fun to be around (Jackie’s words) and also a lot more work to corral (also Jackie’s words). She’s a wriggly, squirmy thing, all flailing arms and load squawks. How Jackie manages all four kids while Hayden is away, Ilya doesn’t know.
The day is frigid, with a layer of snow so white it almost blinds Ilya as he walks from the car to Hayden and Jackie’s house. Shane drove them in his self-proclaimed good-in-the-snow car and now he is holding Ilya’s hand as they walk up the drive. Ilya wishes he wasn’t wearing gloves so he could feel Shane’s skin against his palm.
Hayden opens the door and is nearly bowled over by a blur of twin girls.
“Uncle Shane!” they screech, wrapping themselves around Shane’s legs. Shane laughs, his real laugh, as they drag him into the house, Hayden protesting loudly.
There is another child in front of Ilya, a little boy, still a toddler but out of the baby stage. Ilya crouches down in front of him.
“Hello. You’re Arthur, yes?”
Arthur nods and reaches up a little hand. Ilya takes it and allows himself to be led, practically crawling in an effort to remain low enough for Arthur, to the living room.
Ilya delivers Arthur to his father and sisters, all of which are currently wrestling Shane to the living room carpet. Ilya heads to the kitchen to see if he can be of any use to Jackie.
She’s standing in front of the stove, stirring a pot of something that looks rich and delicious. Amber is balanced on her hip.
“Ilya! Welcome!” Jackie beams, resting the spoon across the top of the pot so she can come over and give Ilya a one-armed hug. “It’s so great to have you here. I hope the girls haven’t strangled Shane yet.”
“Was close,” Ilya smiles, and Jackie laughs, bright and airy.
She lets Ilya set the table at his insistence, and then makes him sit at the kitchen island while she finishes up. Laughter rings out from the living room, and Ilya can’t help but smile. Shane is here. Ilya is here. They are okay.
“Can I hold your baby?” Ilya asks suddenly. Amber seems to be getting sleepy, sagging against her mother’s shoulder and whining softly, like she might start crying soon. “Sorry-” he corrects, recognizing that that’s probably a weird thing to ask.
“No, no, don’t apologize. Of course. Here.”
Jackie gets Amber situated in Ilya’s arms. Jackie seems to be a little surprised as the child calms down immediately, settling against Ilya’s broad chest.
“There you go, sweetheart,” Ilya murmurs, letting Amber grasp at his fingers. He rocks her carefully, just a slow sway in his chair. “I know, I have much more chest space than your mama. Much more comfy to rest on me. Much more space than your daddy, too.”
Jackie snorts. Ilya grins up at her.
He looks down at the baby once again, brushing a finger down her nose. She coos softly, burbling at him and flapping her little hands toward his.
“I know, I know,” Ilya whispers. “You are such beautiful baby. So beautiful. I am surprised that your daddy helped make such beautiful child.”
Jackie snorts again and swats at Ilya’s shoulder. Amber drifts into sleep as Ilya holds her.
Shane wanders in eventually, pressing up against Ilya’s back and resting his chin on Ilya’s shoulder.
“I see you have stolen the baby.”
“Yes. She is very cute.”
“She is,” Shane murmurs, his breath warm and comforting on Ilya’s neck. Shane reaches down and pats Amber’s little round belly gently. She sleeps on.
Later, when they drive back home, Shane takes Ilya’s hand in his.
“Have you ever thought about it? Having children?”
“Yes,” Ilya answers honestly. “With you. I want that… with you.”
Shane is quiet for a short moment. “I think I want that too. With you.”
Ilya turns his head to the side, staring resolutely out the window and frantically attempting to swallow down the lump in his throat.
“Hey,” Shane says, gaze snapping between Ilya and the road. “Hey…”
Ilya chokes on a sob.
Shane pulls over.
They’re on a country road with little traffic, the sun setting rapidly. Shane’s eyes, so open and wide with concern, glow golden in the dying light as he reaches for Ilya.
Shane pulls Ilya into his chest. Kisses the top of his head. Shane isn’t good with words, they both know this. Sometimes he doesn’t know what to do in certain situations. But Shane knows Ilya, knows Ilya’s body and mind and soul, and that is enough. Shane loves him and loves him and loves him, and that is enough.
“Hey, hey… what’s going on?” Shane whispers.
“I… I just… I never thought I could have this.”
Shane cradles Ilya’s skull like he’s something precious. There are so many things Ilya wants to say, but as usual, English escapes him. Anger surges through him, frustration at never being able to express himself the way he wants, but he’s mostly just sad about it.
“Me neither,” Shane responds.
“You really want that? Baby? With me?” Ilya whispers.
Shane pulls Ilya’s hair to lift his head. He meets Ilya’s eyes. “Yes.”
“You would do that for me? Carry baby for me? Or we get surrogate, or adopt, or… I don’t want you to put body through that if it would be, how you say? Dysphoria? I-”
“Yes. Yes, I would carry our baby, Ilya. We can talk more about it later. It would be hard. But yes, I think I could do that. For us."
Ilya stares at him for a long moment. Then kisses him, rubs their noses together. They rest their foreheads together. They breathe.
—
Shane and Ilya’s daughter is born in the wee hours of the morning on a lovely summer day. She weighs almost nine pounds (which is Ilya's fault 'cause he's a motherfucking mammoth, Jolly Green Giant asshole, Shane had cursed, gripping Ilya's hand so hard it felt like the bones were going to snap) and came into this world screeching like a banshee. Ilya loves her and loves her and loves her so much he cannot breathe.
He cradles her to his bare chest, and she’s still so small compared to his big hands. She’s been bathed for the first time, fed for the first time, slept for the first time, dressed for the first time. Ilya can’t stop staring at her. He paces the length of the hospital room, silently walking beside the bed while Shane sleeps.
They named her Ira, and even though she’s a little squished and still a little red, Ilya knows she will be so beautiful, like Shane. She smells so good. Ilya can't stop pressing his nose to her little head, breathing in deep.
She squeaks a little, just a little grunt. Ilya shushes her soothingly. He can’t stop grinning down at her little face.
Shane stirs and Ilya is kneeling by the bed with their daughter in a flash.
“Hey,” Shane croaks.
“Hey,” Ilya says.
Shane smiles at him and it feels like Ilya’s heart will burst.
“How’s she doing?” Shane mumbles, struggling to sit up a little bit. Ilya helps him, scolding him for moving.
“She is doing great,” Ilya reports. “You should not move. You just gave birth.”
“I’m aware, Ilya, I have the stitches in my vagina to prove it.”
Ilya huffs a laugh, then presses his lips to Shane’s forehead, to his cheek.
“Thank you,” Ilya breathes into Shane’s freckles.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
Shane makes a questioning noise in his throat, tilting his head like Anya does when she’s confused. Ilya transfers the baby to Shane’s waiting arms.
And how to explain? How to explain Ilya's gratitude, his awe of this man in front of him? Ilya prays that his English will not fail him now.
“What a gift you have given me,” Ilya says, tracing his fingers over Ira’s face and then Shane’s. He strokes Mama's cross with his other hand. Presses it into the skin of his chest, right over his heart. “Such a gift. You have done so well, sweetheart. So well. Bringing our daughter into world, keeping her safe for so long inside you. Is most beautiful gift. You did not have to. You sacrifice your body for her, for me and I am so thankful, so proud of you. I cannot repay such a gift. You have given me everything. I love you so much.”
Ilya rests his forehead against Shane’s. Tears are streaking down Shane’s cheeks, and Ilya knows his eyes are doing the same. Ilya presses his hand, gently, to the now much smaller swell of Shane’s belly, where Ira was curled up, cozy, inside just a few hours ago. Shane presses his own hand overtop of Ilya’s, linking their fingers.
“I’d do anything for you. And her,” Shane whispers, flat, like it’s just a fact. Ilya knows it is. He would do the same.
“I will be good father,” Ilya says, because he has to say it. “I will be good father for her. For you. For my mother. I will. I promise you. I will not be like my father. I will not. I-” He’s babbling now, more tears running down his face.
Shane cups his cheek with the hand not cradling their daughter to his chest. “Ilya, you could never be anything less. Even if you tried.”
Ilya kisses him, then, their daughter tucked safely between them.
He is home.