The drive back should probably be solemn—the complete opposite of the first stretch before everything went to hell—before Eddie, fully, truly came to terms with the depth of his feelings, before every hateful, homophobic comment was thrown at him, and he realized that they felt hateful, and bigoted, but not… incorrect.
The drive back should be solemn—Eddie should be clutching the wheel with white knuckles, and they should be clutching their ribs, but… no, it’s fun.
They’re still cycling through music, and singing along horribly, and their movements are a bit more stiff with some grunts thrown in, but every time Eddie takes a brief look to the side, he sees Buck—bruised, and battered, but okay. Alive. Beautiful.
That’s his partner. His man. That’s his—they are each other’s everything; he knows that now. With certainty.
I am going to marry you. So fucking hard. If you don’t drag me down the aisle first, that is, because I would let you. Any day. Any Way. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Ever.
Eddie doesn’t say any of that yet, instead he just admires the slope of his nose, and the way he laughs when Eddie turns on 500 Miles.
They have time. But soon. Soon. He simply can’t take it anymore. Perhaps even at the next rest stop, he’ll tell him.
It’s time. He’s ready. And the future is so, so bright.
Ilya mumbles the words into Shane’s hair, his arms curled around him, thumbs brushing over his jawline and hipbone, keeping him close, just as their afterglow starts to bleed away, making way for simple, pleasant relaxation, the sweat of their bodies cooling.
Shane will want to shower eventually, Ilya knows, but for now, for once, he seems to be content to lay here, enjoying their first day back at the cottage, the warm light of sunset pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the cottage, bathing the bedroom in its glow.
Ilya truly loves this place—he already knew that, but last year, his brain had been so busy, there had been so much going on, both of them nervous, and unsure, and scared; and… well, today, when they pulled up to the cottage, all he felt was peace. The same kind of peace he always feels in Shane’s presence, but… amplified. Ilya knows that Shane wants to live here—someday, a long time from now; Ilya can’t wait.
“I know, I think you told me,” Shane mumbles, the cross remaining resting between his fingertips, the pad of his thumb gently caressing the gold. Ilya hums, shifting his leg up and down once, using his calf to caress Shane’s; Shane does the same right back. “Hm…” he hums, then—as if he’s about to say something, but changes his mind before he gets out a coherent syllable. “Hm,” he says again—this one more of a ‘never mind.’
“What?” Ilya asks, allowing his arms to grow tighter around him, dropping a kiss to the crown of his head.
“Nothing,” Shane assures him, along with a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw.
“Cottage is temple of honesty, no?” Ilya reminds him. “Or was that last year only?” he jokes, then—which grants him a soft exhale of amusement, Shane’s breath warm.
“No, I just… I was gonna ask how you got it, how—I mean, if she gave it… before, or… I know I haven’t really asked you much about that day, I just don’t want you to feel like you have to talk about it. You can. I hope you know you can.”
Shane. His Shane. So beautiful, and kind, and considerate.
“I know,” Ilya assures him; there’s silence, then—just for a beat or two; comfortable silence; Ilya’s thumbs still caressing Shane’s soft skin, Shane still gently fiddling with the cross. “Not before,” he says, then. “And didn’t steal it.”
***
“I didn’t… I found her, and she was just… laying, I didn’t know what to do, I tried chest compressions, but she was just so still, and cold, and—“
“Hey, hey… it’s okay, you’re not in trouble,” the police detective assures him in a gentle voice—soothing; she sinks down onto one knee, which is largely unnecessary—he’s almost thirteen, he’s getting taller quickly, he’s almost the same height as her to begin with. Yet, he finds he doesn’t mind it too much right now—the way she lowers herself as if he were a small child doesn’t feel demeaning or infantilizing as much as… comforting. She’s… different from the other officers walking around their house right now—different from his brother, and his father; her eyes are big and brown, hair of the same, deep shade, tucked behind her ears. “Ilya? Is that your name?”
Ilya nods, feeling a good five years younger than his actual age, his breathing still coming quickly; he stopped crying for a while—knowing full well it won’t improve or change the situation; besides, he’s a man, and it’s not what he’s supposed to do. His mama would tell him differently, but his mama isn’t here anymore. And she never will be. She was here this morning, kissed him on the forehead and told him she loved him, but now she’s gone. And she will always be gone. He’ll never get to feel her arms around him again, he’ll never get to see her smile, or cheer after he scores, he’ll never hear the soft, slightly raspy sound of her voice, or feel her slender fingers tuck a curl behind his ear, or—
“You did everything right, I’m sorry if I scared you by pulling you aside,” she says, then—and he swallows, shaking his head. No. Not scared.
Yes, maybe he had been confused when she had placed a hand on his shoulder, and led him away from the noise, into a more quiet corner of the house, and yes, maybe he had wondered if she had questions about how he had done the chest compressions, and for how long, and where he had been when the accident occurred in the first place, and why he hadn’t been able to stop it like a good son, but no, he’s not scared.
“You did everything right, Ilya,” she repeats, and he feels his nostrils flare in an attempt to control the burning in his eyes. “I just needed a minute alone with you, because…” she trails off, briefly, sinking a hand into the pocket of her uniform jacket. “…I’m not technically allowed to do this—everything should be catalogued, and filed before it’s released, but…” she continues, pulling her hand back out, presenting the cross between them, chain pooling in her palm. “…I stole it for you anyway. I felt like you might need it.”
Ilya can’t move; he just stands there, staring at the piece of gold—the piece featured in each and every one of his best memories. Shimmering in the sunlight. Warm against his cheek when he was cold. Cold against his cheek when he was warm. Large in his tiny fingers once upon a time—now, as it rests gently in a stranger’s palm, it looks so… small.
“You… took it?” he asks. “For me?” When his eyes finally leave the cross, he finds something in her eyes—something familiar; a scar.
“When we lose somebody we love very much…” she starts, voice warm, as she undoes the clasp; he doesn’t know what it is about her that has him taking a step forward, but he does—her hands coming up on either side of his neck, the clasp soon closed, the chain cool against the back of his neck—heavy when she takes her hands back, leaving him to carry the weight of the pendant. “…these things matter,” she says, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. “Physical items, they may not change anything, but… they matter,” she repeats.
“Why me?” Ilya finds himself asking; he can’t decide if the weight of the cross against his clothed chest feels comforting or suffocating, just yet.
Is it pity? Is that why she stole it for him? Because she overheard his father yelling at him, and his brother questioning where he was, and why it took him so long to notice that something had happened to her? Anyone can see they’re not the kindest people—he figured that out years ago, but that doesn’t mean he can’t handle it; he’s practically a man by now, he can take it.
The officer takes a breath, seems to search for the right words; briefly, her eyes shift down to the cross—and then they find his own once again.
“Because you’re gonna be okay,” she says. “Because this is never going to go away—it’s always going to be with you, and I’d be lying if I told you that the pain is going to heal. It won’t—but you’ll grow around it; you’re going to grow up, and someday you’ll be a man, and you’ll still carry this with you, but… it won’t always be painful. Some days it will be, but others… others, you’ll think of your mama, and today won’t be the first memory that comes to mind.”
Ilya swallows. Tenses his jaw.
“Every time I have a bad day, I hold this, just like this,” she says, then, reaching in through the collar of her shirt, fishing a chain out—a small, circular pendant at the end, her hand closing around it, thumb on the back. “It feels like a thread, sometimes, like if I hold it just right, say the right words, maybe—just maybe, my father will hear me. Good news, bad news. Anything I want to tell him.”
“And it… helps?” Ilya asks; the officer gives him a soft, close-mouthed smile.
“I don’t know if it helps, but… it matters,” she says. “It matters.”
***
“Did you ever see her again?” Shane asks, hand still gently grasping the cross, his cheek smushed against Ilya’s shoulder as he looks up at him.
“No,” Ilya tells him; in fact, he doesn’t even recall her name—but he does remember her, and he knows he always will. “But she was right. It doesn’t always help, but… always matters.”
Shane dips his head, placing a soft kiss over the cross, and Ilya sends a silent thank you up to heaven.
“I’m just… this isn’t what he needs right now,” Eddie sighs, running a hand through his hair as he watches Bobby’s hand, curled around the cup of coffee.
“I think what he needs is for his dad to be happy,” Bobby comments gently.
“I am happy,” Eddie argues - little bit too quickly - quickly enough that it has Bobby raising an eyebrow over the rim of his mug. Eddie huffs, a bitter smile on his face as he pauses his own mug halfway to his mouth and changes his mind, placing it back down onto the island with a sad, bitter chuckle. “I’m fine.”
“Fine isn’t happy - and we both know this doesn’t have anything to do with Christopher.”
“I’m a dad,” Eddie shakes his head. “Everything in my life is about him.” Bobby merely hums in agreement.
“Yes. But this - the reason why you’re hesitating about this. That’s not. Is it?” At that, Eddie sighs, dropping his eyes away from Bobby’s, looking down into the dark brown liquid in his mug, his own eyes staring back at him.
The silence of the firehouse suddenly feels as it’s so silent that it may as well be an echo. Taunting him.
“How long?” Bobby finally breaks the silence, voice soft. The question is paired with his hand, gently curled around Eddie’s forearm. Comforting. Eddie sighs, looking back up from the coffee - around the firehouse, avoiding Bobby’s eyes until finally, he can’t anymore.
“A long time.”
“A long time,” Bobby repeats, nodding, as if he already knew the answer.
“No one is saying you’re not allowed to take all the time you need, but I’ve known you for a long time, and it feels like… there’s a reason why you’re telling me. Why you’re being more honest with yourself. Maybe you are ready.”
“Chris, he doesn’t need this, he doesn’t need me to-to struggle again, to change, to have to question what’s going on with me, to…” he trails off, genuinely not sure where he’s going with it, but he feels as if he’s desperately grasping for something, some argument, some real reason why he can’t.
“Eddie,” Bobby says, pushing his own mug away to the side, before doing the same with Eddie’s own. Then he crosses his arms, resting his forearms on the island, leaning closer to Eddie, giving him no choice but to look him in the eyes. “Are you seriously telling me that you feel right about teaching your son that it’s perfectly okay, and fine, and normal, to hide things about yourself because it might be inconvenient to the people around you?”
Eddie sighs, the words soaking in as he swallows thickly, stinging eyes wandering around the loft.
“No. No, yeah,” he sighs, nodding - swallowing again. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Eddie doesn’t think the sound of the doors opening and the truck pulling in has ever sounded quite so sweet - he takes the out, swallowing his unshed tears and calling out to Buck, Hen and Chimney to ask them about the call.
Before he reaches the top of the stairs, though, before they can all completely reunite, Bobby catches him by his shoulder, and lowers his voice, eyes warm and genuine as they seek his own; “We love you.”
