Chapter Text
The phone rang at 2:14 a.m.
The sound cut sharply through the silence of Ilya's apartment, slicing into the thin edge of his sleep. He groaned, rolling onto his back and dragging a hand down his face. The room was dark except the faint glow of streetlights leaking in through the blinds, casting long shadows across the ceilings.
He had practice in the morning. A flight in less than eight hours.
Whoever this was had terrible timing.
The ringing didn't stop.
Ilya almost didn't pick up.
Almost.
With a frustrated sigh, he reached blindly across the mattress until his fingers closed around his phone. He squinted at the screen and immediately stiffened.
Alexei.
Of course.
Ilya let the phone continue ringing, jaw tightening as irritation stirred in his chest. Alexei only ever called this late when he wanted something, such as money, a favor — just always something.
Ilya's hand tightened around his phone.
They hadn't spoken properly in a week or two.
"Unbelievable," he muttered.
He imagined the converstation before it even happened. Alexei begging for money, rushing Ilya to send him his latest bonus, and the way he dodged responsiblity as if it was a sport.
He let it ring twice more before swiping to accept the call.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice thick with his Russian accent and sleep.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Ilya frowned, pushing himself up one elbow, ready to hang up any second.
"Alexei?"
Still nothing.
He was about to hang up before a voice spoke, a careful and unfamiliar one.
"Is this Ilya Rozanov?"
His stomach dropped.
"Yes," he replied slowly, as if he was testing the words. "Who is this?"
"Mr. Rozanov? My name is Officer Petrov. I am calling from the Moscow Police Department."
Ilya blinked in confusion.
"I'm sorry? What?"
"I'm very sorry," the officer continued, "but there has been an accident involving your brother, Alexei Rozanov. He was involved a motor vechicle collision earlier this evening. Emergency services arrived quickly, but he did not survive."
Ilya went silent.
"We understand this is difficult to hear. There are formalities to arrange, and also matters concerning your niece, Katya."
Ilya's chest tightened further. The apartment felt too small, too quiet. His head reeled, memories flashing — all their fights, and his grudges that held too long, and now a finality he wasn't ready for.
"I'll.. I'll come," he said, voice cracking slightly.
The officer continued talking, but Ilya barely heard what he was saying. Ilya ended the call and sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
—
Practice started in four hours. He had a flight later that evening to another city for the next game. His body ached from the last match, his muscles sore and rigid, and yet none of that mattered anymore.
He hadn't even considered how'd he get there, Russia wasn't just down the street. It was a fourteen hour flight.
Ilya finally dragged himself to his counter, his mind running on autopilot as he typed into the laptop. Flights. Options. Prices. Each click, each passing minute only grew the pile of dread in his chest.
He cancelled practice. Not called in, not rescheduled, cancelled. He barely had time to explain, and there was no way to explain why he had to disappear across the world. The thought of telling his coach, his teammates, anyone in the league made his stomach twist.
Dread settled into a steady ache, heavier than his sore muscles. Alexei was gone. Katya… what was she like? How would she react to him? What did she need? What if he couldn't do it?
The room felt smaller, tighter. The weight of responsbility was sudden and almost paralyzing.
He packed his clothes, toothbrush, passport, wallet. His hands shook, betraying the calm he was trying to maintain. Every item he packed reminded him that everything will change once he landed in Moscow.
As he zipped up his suit case, he stared at it for what felt like forever. He didn't know if he could do this.
But it wasn't a choice.
Russia was waiting, Katya was waiting, and Alexei.. was gone.
—
The airport lights were harsh. Ilya kept his head down, sunglasses low, jacket collar up, moving through the thinning crowd. Cameras occasionally glanced his way.
Sinking into the gate seat, he let himself breathe slowly, hands gripping his suit case. Around him, travellers moved easily, unaware of the pressure pressing down on him. Even as he tried to hide it, panic nibbled at his chest — the grief, the fear. A quiet part of him he had never let anyone see, tucked behind the sunglasses and posture he showed the world.
—
The ride from the airport had been a blur— jet lag, forms, a gnawing dread pressing down on his chest. Now standing in the quiet hospital hallway, Ilya felt every muscle tense.
A woman approached, soft gray cardigan, clipboard in hand.
"Mr. Rozanov?"
"Yes," he said, voice rough from exhaustion.
"I'm Anna Morozova," she said gently. "I'm the social worker assigned to your niece, Katya."
Ilya's chest tightened, suddenly aware of her words. "My.. niece.."
She nodded. "She's waiting in the room ahead. You should see her,"
He swallowed, stepping forward, each foot heavy. He had only met her a few times when she was a baby to a toddler. He didn't know what to expect. And yet somehow, she already mattered more than anything else.
The waiting room was small and sterile. A little girl sat curled in a chair too big for her, feet dangling above the floor. Her hair fell in soft waves across her forehead, eyes red and glassy, fixed on the crack in the tile.
Ilya stopped.
She looked impossibly small, fragile, and entirely alone.
Katya's head lifted slowly, meeting his gaze. For a moment, time froze. Then in a whisper, "Dyadya..?" (Uncle)
His chest tightened so sharply it took his breath away.
Anna stepped back slightly. "She's scared," she said softly. "She hasn't spoken much, but she's asking for you. She needs someone she knows."
Ilya's throat felt tight. "I.. can't. I don't know how to do this."
Slowly, Katya stood, wobbled toward him. Then her tiny arms wrapped around his waist.
He froze, unsure of what to do before he crouched down to her level.
"Malyshka.." (Little one) His hands wrapped around her gently.
Anna's voice was calm. "She needs you, Mr. Rozanov. Even if you feel unprepared."
Ilya exhaled shakily. Finally he whispered, "Okay. I'll try."
—
The flight back to Boston was quiet. Katya sat curled against the window, a small hand tucked into the sleeve of her oversized sweater, eyes tracking the clouds as if they could carry her somewhere safe. Ilya kept his own gaze on the same sky, though he couldn't see much past the exhaustion pressing down on him.
Every muscle in his body ached, and the adrenaline of the hospital had finally worn off, leaving only fatigue and a slow burning dread. He thought about the next few days, weeks, months— the practice he cancelled, the travel he'd have to rearrange, and the life he'd have to upend for a child he barely knew.
She didn't speak much, and he didn't either. Words felt heavy and unecessary. Instead he let his thoughts run ahead, imagining the apartment after she moves in, what she might need, and how he could somehow make it feel like home.
Landing in Boston was a blur. He maneuvered through the airport with practiced precision, keeping sunglasses low over tired eyes. Katya clutched his hand lightly, trusting him enough to follow.