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He was Ilya Rozanov, and he could open his eyes.
That was what he knew. And slowly, he did. Blinked once. Blinked twice. The first surface he saw was a ceiling. He tried to move his head to get a better angle.
"You're awake!"
That voice. He did not know whose it was, and yet.. and yet, he felt a rush of… something, through him. Emotion.
And then the voice had a face.
And keeping his vision focused was a struggle, but he needed to.
Ocharovatelʹnyy.
The face he saw close to him now was not one he recognized, but he knew he could never forget it from now on. Not when he did not want to ever look at anything else.
A man's face. Not white, maybe of East Asian ancestry. Black hair falling on his shoulders. Slightly tanned skin. Dark eyes pointed at him, with tears falling down.
Ilya felt paralyzed by his own desperate wish.
The wish of staying forever there, still, with his gaze focused on the trail of dark freckles under the man's eyes. But for that he needed to squint, and he could feel his eyes closing again, against his wish of living forever inside his first memory, when there was no need to look at anything else after he had seen this man.
It was helpless, but if he tried hard enough, maybe he could take that man with him to his dreams.
His brain did not seem to want to hold any memory, but his heart would remember the face that made Ilya not ever want to see another face.
He could dream of running his fingers through that long hair. Of pressing his lips under those eyes, and on that nose, and on those lips.
But the most important would be the eyes looking at him with so much love, that he did not mind that being his last view.
But, maybe he minded.
Maybe it would be better if Ilya kept his eyes open.
Just keep looking at me like that.
Please, don't cry.
I will open my eyes again.