Chapter Text
Ilya’s home life is not the best. It never really has been. Even before his mother passed, he had to watch his father strip her of her light. And now—four years after her death—it’s just him, his father, and his older brother.
Ilya has to endure his father’s constant bullshit 24/7, and it only got worse after his mother was gone. Living in an emotionally abusive household is more than draining.
And now they’ve moved to Ottawa out of literally nowhere, which doesn’t make his life any easier.
Ilya thinks it’s the stupidest thing ever. Why should they move to a whole different country that they don’t speak the language of instead of just staying in Russia? It was completely pointless, in his opinion. Well, maybe not completely pointless. He knows the move is for his father’s job, but still, he’s not happy about it.
This just means a new school, new people, and a new language that, again, he does not speak.
He knows a few words, like ‘Hi. Hello. How are you’, but that’s basically it. His father made him practice a while ago, probably because he was planning this move way before Ilya knew about it, but Ilya slacked off on practicing. He just assumed it was his father subtly telling him that he needs to learn another language for his education, maybe. He didn’t know. He wasn’t thinking there was a chance that he’d be moving to a whole other country a few months later.
But, here he is, in a poor quality trailer home that one of his father’s friends let them live in for the time being. It’s small, too small considering he has to share with both his father and Alexei. Two other people. It’s only been less than fourty eight hours since getting here and he’s already miserable. He thinks he’s developing claustrophobia, which he definitely did not have before now.
Ilya doesn’t even have his own room here. Atleast back in Moscow he had some privacy. Here? Privacy is not even a thing here.
It’s an open-concept. There’s a small couch with a very small TV across from it when you first walk in. Straight back, there’s a tiny kitchen with all the essentials, and there’s a bathroom off to the side and two bedrooms, if you can even consider them that, with two very small twin sized beds.
His father and his brother quickly claimed the two bedrooms, leaving Ilya to sleep on the couch. Amazing. Just amazing.
The couch is uncomfortable and it feels like he’s sleeping on a hard park bench. He can feel the wood beneath the thin cushions. Ilya did not sleep good that first night.
School is a whole different story.
He didn’t go yesterday, since they had to enroll him and everything. But tomorrow is supposed to be his first day, a Wednesday, and he doesn’t even speak the same language as everybody else. It’s going to be a nightmare, Ilya already knows.
Seriously, how is he supposed to communicate? How is he supposed to make friends? He probably won’t. He’s sure nobody is going to want to be friends with the new kid who can’t even understand them.
This whole situation was honestly terrifying and just completely ridiculous. Maybe it was good for his father, for his new job and everything, but does he know he’s making Ilya’s life a living hell?
Ilya makes sure he knows.
”—you are overreacting. I don’t see your brother complaining. Do you?”
Ilya scoffs, his eyes darting back and forth between his father and Alexei, who is standing off to the side just watching them argue.
”He doesn’t have to go to school like I do. So no, obviously he isn’t going to complain.” Ilya shoots back, his arms dropping to his sides in exasperation. “I mean— I’m not going to understand a single thing!”
”Well, you should have been studying the language like I told you to months ago, Ilyusha.” He dismisses Ilya’s words with a flick of his wrist. “Not my fault you are lazy and can’t listen when someone tells you to do something.”
Ilya’s face scrunches up in an angry expression at that, his fists balling up at his sides. This is the shit he has to deal with on the daily, and this is not even the worst of it. And in this confined living space? He’ll be surprised if they don’t all kill eachother three days in.
”I’m lazy?” Ilya repeats, shaking his head. “Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re the lazy one? You didn’t tell me we were going to be living in this.. this—“ He waves his hand around the place, gesturing aggressively, trying to find a word that describes this place. “This.. hellhole! You never told me I was going to be surrounded by English speakers. I would’ve studied, had I known!”
His father gives him a cold look, one Ilya has seen many, many times. It always baffled him how a father could look at his son with so much hatred. His own son.
“No, you wouldn’t have. You are lazy. The laziest boy I have ever known. You do nothing.” He spits out, his upper lip curling in an ugly manner. “You never listen. Not to me, not to your brother. Nobody.” He shakes his head. “But you always did listen to your mother. Pathetic.”
Ilya’s brows furrow, clenching and unclenching his fists over and over again. How dare he mention his mama. He gets angry way too fast, but it’s not his fault. He’s convinced his father riles him up on purpose, to see just how much he can take before he breaks.
“I—“ Ilya has no words. He’s not lazy, he never has been. He’s never been lazy when it comes to school, or hockey, or literally anything. When he starts something, he commits to it. “Whatever. I’m not going to that school tomorrow.”
His father raises a brow at him, stepping closer, trying to appear intimidating. And maybe younger Ilya would be scared right now, but he’s older now and he’s not that scared little boy anymore. Sure, he’s hit Ilya before, pushed him around, put his hands on him, but he’s used to that by now. He’s come to expect that treatment whenever his father raises his voice at him, so he braces for it.
”Oh, yes, you are.” A finger is pointed in Ilya’s face, along with a scowl on his father’s face. “You are selfish. We came here for me, so I do not care about what you don’t want to do, do you hear me?”
Ilya grits his teeth, moving his face away so that finger isn’t almost poking out his eye. He doesn’t get far, though. His father grabs his face harshly and yanks it back to look at him. His grip on his jaw is bruising and it makes Ilya’s teeth ache.
“Do you hear me?” His father repeats, his voice deeper and more livid. “Say you understand.”
Ilya would rather have his father’s finger poke his eye out before he agrees to anything that has just been said to him. He refrains from rolling his eyes, knowing that will only make him angrier than he already is.
”Yes.” Ilya mumbles, the word muffled because of how his father is tightly squishing his face in his rough hand.
He lets go of Ilya’s face just to slap him across his left cheek. “Say it!”
Ilya hisses in pain as his hand comes up to hold his stinging cheek, but he quickly stops and lets his hand fall back down to his side, remembering how his father hates when he does that. Kiska is what he’d call him.
“I understand.” Ilya says, a little louder this time. His face is contorted in a grimace and he’s avoiding eye contact with the tall man towering over him.
His father continues to stare at him for a moment longer than necessary before backing off, turning away from Ilya.
He lets out a long sigh, feeling like he can finally breathe again now that he wasn’t being cornered.
His father snaps his fingers at Alexei and hisses something in Russian, but Ilya doesn’t hear it, he’s too distracted by the burning feeling on the side of his face. It’s probably red and it will probably continue to be red tomorrow.
Both of them walk away towards those two tiny bedrooms with nothing in it but skinny twin beds, leaving Ilya standing in the middle of the too small trailer.
He wishes he had a room to storm off to, a door to slam in retaliation. But he doesn’t. All he has is a sorry excuse of a couch to sleep on.
His back and his shoulder are already fucked up from last night, he can’t imagine how sore he’ll feel after a week. How long are they planning on living here? How long is he going to have to sleep on this fucking couch? Will it be for months? Years? He doesn’t know the answers to any of those questions, and he hates not knowing.
Ilya hasn’t even unpacked yet. He guesses there’s no reason to, since he doesn’t have anywhere to put any of his clothes and nowhere to store any of his keepsakes he brought with him whenever he packed his bag, pretending to himself it was just temporary. It definitely was not.
It’s cold in here, thankfully. Ilya likes to sleep cold, it reminds him of Moscow.
It’s November and it’s pretty cold in Ottawa, too, but it’s just not the same as home.
There are no blankets here, and Ilya certainly didn’t bring one. So he has no blanket to sleep with. He likes to sleep cold, but having nothing to cover up with is different.
Atleast there’s a TV.
Ilya reaches over and grabs the dusty remote off of the low coffee table that is slightly uneven. He hits the power button, pointing it at the TV.
He waits expectingly, waiting for it to come to life. It never does. It stays dark no matter how many times Ilya presses the button that is supposed to turn it on.
He mutters a curse under his breath, turning over the remote. The battery cover on the back of the remote is removed and nowhere to be found.
And there are no batteries in it.
Of course.
Now he has a hard couch to sleep on, no blanket, and no TV to keep him entertained.
There was nothing for him here. This was the most depressing living area he could ever imagine for himself, and he’s got the worse end of it, compared to his father and brother. Atleast they have beds. They didn’t look that comfortable when he took a peek into the rooms, but it beats sleeping on this stupid couch.
Ilya sighs heavily and lays down on the couch.
The wood under the ratty cushions creaks as he eases his weight onto it. He lays on his back, his head resting against the hard armchair, staring up at the popcorn ceiling.
It’s freezing and a shiver runs through his whole body, but he chooses to ignore it. What else can he do about it anyways? The only thing he can do is just try to fall asleep, even if his teeth are chattering and he has goosebumps everywhere.
It’s not even fully dark, the bright lights from the streetlamps shining through the window that has no curtains or blinds.
It’s awfully quiet, save for the snoring from his father and the distant drip of the faucet from the bathroom and the crickets chirping outside. But other than that, the silence makes his ears ring.
He tries more than once to close his eyes and attempt to drift off to sleep, but it’s just impossible. He’s horribly home sick and this couch is uncomfortable. He winces as he tries to adjust, his shoulder blade knocking against a particularly hard spot of wood from under the thin layer of the couch cushion. Everything about this is just so unpleasant.
He decides to just stare up at the ceiling to pass time, focusing on a dark brown stain that stands out against the white of the ceiling.
He traces the shape of that stain with his eyes over and over again so much to the point he thinks it may be ingrained in the backs of his eyelids by now.
But that gets boring after seven long minutes, so he opts to listen to the hum of the refrigerator, straining his ears to hear the quiet buzz of it.
He lets himself zone out for a while, his brain is quiet for once and the stillness of it all should be soothing, but it’s not. He finds himself wanting his mama.
The feeling is not uncommon to Ilya, he misses her constantly, but yet it’s a shock to his system right now. He lets that thought marinate in his head.
If his mama were still here with him, alive and healthy, he’s sure he wouldn’t be where he is right now, stuck in this depressing and lonely living situation. He wouldn’t be stuck in a foreign city like this. He’d be with her, happy. They’d be happy together, just like they used to be all those years ago when Ilya was much younger.
He blows out a shaky breath, willing the tears to stay put, refusing to let them fall. Nobody’s watching him right now, he could cry, but he still refuses to. He’s not going to cry. He’s not. He tells himself that over and over again.
He misses his mama. He really does. It’s sad and it makes him sad everytime he thinks about it for too long, which he does on the daily.
He forces those thoughts out of his head, he needs to sleep.
His eyelids are heavy with exhaustion, but he doesn’t fall asleep yet. He should be asleep already, he doesn’t know why he’s not. Moscow is seven hours ahead of Ottawa, so he’s way past the time he’d usually be asleep by if he was at home. He should be overly tired. And he is. He is tired. He’s been exhausted all day. Mostly because of the move and because of how shitty he slept last night. But also because of jet lag. So it’s safe to say, Ilya is exhausted.
But still, sleep does not come easily. He tries to get comfortable throughout the night, rolling over onto his side, his shoulder digging into the firm couch. It hurts, but he guesses it doesn’t really matter anyways, there’s no chance Ilya is finding a comfortable enough position to rest his tired body in the way he desperately craves on this stupid piece of furniture.
It takes him another hour and a half, but he eventually, finally, falls asleep. He doesn’t dream and he’s positive he’s going to have a crick in his neck in the morning.
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Ilya jolts awake to the sound of the front door slamming shut. He assumes that’s his father leaving for work.
He blinks his tired eyes open, squinting against the bright sun shining in through the window and casting light on the floor.
He licks his dry lips, rubbing an eye, the other one open and watching dust float in the sunbeams.
There’s no alarm clock, so he has no idea what time it is. He doesn’t know where his phone is. He doesn’t remember using it since the plane ride here, so it’s probably still in his bag. It’s not an expensive phone like the new one that just came out earlier this year—the Apple iPhone. He’s not loaded with enough money for that. He has one of the older phones, a Nokia 3310 that he got, like, seven years ago. It doesn’t work great, the battery life is shit because of how old it is and the numbers on the buttons are almost rubbed off from use, but it works good enough. He only uses it for the essentials—texting and calling, maybe a few games, but that’s really all he needs.
Usually, his father wakes up at around 7 a.m., so it can’t be any later than that. School starts at 8 a.m. and the bus should be here ten to fifteen minutes before that, so he was told.
He does the math, despite how slow his brain is moving in the early hours of the morning, and concludes that he needs to be ready by 7:45.
He could sleep a little longer, but he honestly doesn’t think he can. It’d just be uncomfortable and he’s already awake, so what’s the point?
He moves his head to the side and—
Yup, he was right, there’s a crick in his neck.
He hisses in pain and rubs the spot on the back of his neck in hopes to ease the pain a little bit. It doesn’t.
He rolls his shoulders and he hears a loud crack as he stretches. He feels like an old man. His back aches, too.
With a groan, he gets up from the couch, standing on stiff legs. He can feel his calf cramping up, but he walks it off.
Back at home, he usually always made himself breakfast before school in the mornings. But here, they don’t have food or any ingredients. He doesn’t even think they have any cooking utensils.
He presses his lips together as he looks around, standing in the middle of the kitchen that is also technically the living room. It‘s all one big giant room.
He hears the faint noise of someone tossing and turning in bed, so he knows Alexei is still home. Where else would he be?
He graduated high school two years ago and did not go to college. Father was mad about that, but Alexei didn’t seem to care all that much. And now he’s twenty, choosing to move to fucking Canada with them because he doesn’t have his own place.
Ilya looks around for a solid two minutes, still wearing the same clothes he wore yesterday.
He shuffles over to his duffel bag that’s sitting on the floor right next to his backpack. He crouches down and unzips the duffel, rummaging through it until he finds a plain white t-shirt and some sweatpants, tossing them onto the couch.
His stomach rumbles, he’s starving. He could just wait and eat the school lunch, but he hasn’t eaten in a while and he doesn’t think he can wait that long.
He finds a granola bar deep down in his bag and pulls it out. He doesn’t really like granola bars, he doesn’t find them all that appetizing, but it’s all he’s got for now. He also pulls out his Nokia once he finds it hidden under everything and checks the time. 7:38.
He doesn’t know what he’ll do for dinner later. He brought some money that he had laying around in his room, maybe something close to a hundred bucks? He figures he’ll have to buy himself food regularly, unless his father brings home dinner. Or cooks something, which Ilya already knows won’t happen. He never cooked at home, he definitely won’t now.
Ilya could cook, he knows how. But looking back at that kitchen, maybe it’s best if they just don’t use it at all. His father was lent this trailer for absolutely no money, and it shows in a lot of different ways.
He zips his bag back up, opening his granola bar and taking bites out of it while he gets dressed.
Ilya is used to taking care of himself. His mother always pampered him when he was a little boy, but even before she passed, he learned how to take care of himself at a very young age. Most days leading up to her death, she couldn’t even get out of bed, meaning she couldn’t care for Ilya like she would normally. And so, he learned how to care for himself and tend to her at the same time. He understood, he thinks, what she was going through. His mama was a very sad woman and it took a lot out of her. He thinks he’s the same way sometimes.
He finishes getting dressed, stepping into his old worn out shoes and stuffing his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants. He’ll probably get cold, he didn’t bring a jacket or a hoodie, but he feels like he’s used to the cold by now.
He picks his backup up, which is unusually light considering how heavy they usually are, and puts it on. Ilya doesn’t have all the school supplies that he was told he needed. His father didn’t buy them for him, and Ilya didn’t even know about it. So that’s just another thing that he’ll be behind on. Great.
He considers telling Alexei that he’s leaving, but he probably doesn’t care. No, Ilya knows he doesn’t care.
With a sigh, he opens the front door, the chill hitting him like a slap to the face. He knows winter technically starts in about a month from now, but it’s already freezing.
He fully steps out of the trailer, closing the door behind him. He still feels hungry, the granola bar did nothing to satisfy his hunger. He’ll just have to wait until lunch.
It’s 7:42, the bus should be here in three minutes. Ilya makes his way down the wooden stairs, figuring he’ll just wait in the yard.
He stands there, his hands stuffed into his pockets to try and keep his hands warm, taking in the scenery that’s around the trailer park.
There’s not much to look at around here, it’s mostly just run down mobile homes that are in worse shape than the one he’s staying in and dead trees, but Ilya still glances around, taking in his surroundings.
He waits there for seven minutes, his fingers and his toes numb from the cold, waiting for the bus. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, the time reading 7:49.
Maybe the bus is just late. He’s never rode the bus before, not even back at home, so he doesn’t really know what to expect. He had always taken the public transit to school, but Ilya doesn’t know his way around this city. He has no idea where to find the public transit here.
He weighs out his options.
He could just stand here and wait a little longer and freeze all of his fingers off, or he could walk to school. Both options don’t sound like the best idea, especially because Ilya doesn’t know where this fucking school is. He was told nothing the day they signed him up. All he was given was a paper slip of all his classes that he can’t even read and the time he was supposed to be there, which was in less than ten minutes.
Maybe the bus didn’t come because they didn’t have his new address yet? Maybe it takes a few days for it to be put in the system so the bus drivers know where to pick him up at? It would’ve been nice if someone told him that so he didn’t stand out here in the cold for so long. He could’ve already been at school by now had he known the bus was not coming today.
He steps out of the grass and onto the street, starting the trek to school.
With no knowledge of where the building is even located, he has no idea how long this will take him. He already knows he’s going to be late, but hopefully not too late. He can’t be tardy on his first day, that won’t make a good first impression.
He doesn’t have a GPS or maps on his Nokia, no way to look up where he’s supposed to go. He’s going to have to find his way by himself, trust his gut.
He walks on the empty street, kicking gravel with the toe of his shoes, watching the opening of the main street come into few.
He’s going to have to walk on the side of the road where cars are flying by at absurd speeds. That’s great, really great.
He watches a big yellow bus pass by on the road and he assumes it’s going the same place he’s trying to find. It’s obviously going way faster than he is, but he can see it enough to see where to go.
He walks a little faster and watches the bus go straight for a while before turning onto another road Ilya can’t see from here.
He can figure it out from there. He knows enough to know which street to turn down. Maybe that road leads to the school building. He knew it wasn’t too far from the trailer, so it seemed about right.
It’ll still take him a while to get there, he’s not a fast walker.
He checks his Nokia one last time. 7:55. He’s supposed to be there in five minutes. Shit. He definitely is not getting there in five minutes. So, yeah, he’ll be pretty late.
Whatever. It’ll be fine, nothing he can do it about it now. He could get there faster if he runs, but he doesn’t have enough energy for that. His body is still sore and so are his legs, and if he runs, he’ll be even more exhausted before he even gets there.
He doesn’t take his time, but he doesn’t rush either. He more so speed walks at a fast enough pace that maybe, just maybe he’ll get there a few minutes faster. Probably not, but he likes to gaslight himself into believing things that he knows aren’t true. He finds himself doing that a lot, actually.
He follows the route that the bus went, passing by a scenic area that’s nearby, but Ilya doesn’t stop to take it all in. He turns down the road when he gets to it and it takes him through a neighborhood with the most fanciest houses Ilya has ever seen.
He’s sweating despite the chills running up his spine from the cold wind and his cheeks are cold. He finally stops speed walking, breaking out into a jog once the building comes into view as he reaches another road at the end of the neighborhood. The outside of the school is empty, the bell already rang fifteen minutes ago. He’s really late.
He hopes the doors are still unlocked. When he reaches them, he pulls on the handle. Luckily, it opens, allowing Ilya to walk inside.
It’s much warmer inside, and he’s immediately face to face with a long colorful hallway. He doesn’t know how Canadian schools work. Does he just.. walk in and go find his class even though he’s tremendously late?
He doesn’t know what else to do, so he does just that.
He glances around before walking forward, his footsteps loud in the quiet and empty hallway, everybody already in their classrooms.
He freezes in place as he hears someone from behind him say something, but he can’t tell what they said.
He turns around and is met with the sight of a woman with long blonde hair. She looks to be in her early thirties, if Ilya had to guess. She’s wearing a loose-fitting dark grey cardigan and jeans with sensible flats, glasses resting on top of her head. She looks friendly, maybe she’s a teacher or the principal?
She smiles softly and Ilya can see her lips moving, but he doesn’t understand a thing that’s coming out of her mouth.
He knew this would happen. It’s going to be tricky to communicate and it’s frustrating to not understand the words someone is trying to tell you. He focuses extra hard on her voice, hoping to hear atleast one word he recognizes. He really should’ve studied harder.
”I assume you’re late?” The woman tilts her head slightly, her hands folded in front of her. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
Ilya’s mouth opens and closes, not knowing what to say. What was she saying? Was she asking him something? Expecting an answer from him? How does he tell her that he can’t understand her when she won’t be able to understand him either?
“Uh—“ Ilya tries, fully turning his body to face her. The woman waits patiently for him to speak, but he has no words to give her.
After a long moment of silence, he simply just shakes his head slowly, trying to portray the action as him saying, ‘sorry, I don’t speak English and I have no idea what you are saying to me’. He’s not sure it works.
The lady’s eyebrows furrow in confusion just the slightest and she takes a step forward. “Are you the new student we’re expecting? The one from..” She trails off, her eyes darting away as she thinks.
Ilya just stands there awkwardly, not understanding a thing. Why is she looking away? What is she saying? He can read her facial expression and it looks like she’s thinking really hard. What’s there to think about?
Silence.
A look of realization washes over the woman’s face and her eyes dart back to Ilya. “Oh!” She raises her eyebrows. “From Russia. You speak Russian, oh my— I apologize.” She huffs out a laugh, pressing a hand to her chest.
Ilya heard the word Russia and by the look on her face, he assumes she now knows he doesn’t speak English. Ilya just nods, hoping that answers her question, if she even asked one. This is all just really confusing for him.
”Alright, well.. I assume you don’t really understand what I’m saying, but, uh,” She pauses, trying to figure out how to help Ilya understand. She says a word that Ilya doesn’t quite catch.
She then turns around and starts walking the opposite way, leaving Ilya standing in the middle of the hallway.
His eyebrows pinch together as he watches her walk away. Did she tell him to do something? Is he supposed to go somewhere?
The woman looks over her shoulder and stops, turning back around and waving her hand around. It dawns on Ilya right then.
Oh, she wants him to follow her. Right. He knew that, of course.
He nods and quickly catches up to her, following behind her as she opens another door and walks in, holding it open for Ilya.
It’s big and it has a desk right in the middle with a bunch of computers on it. There’s a few other people in here that he assumes are staff. They all glance at him as he walks in, but quickly go back to what they were doing after a moment.
He follows the lady up to the desk as she rounds the corner of it and starts typing on a computer.
Ilya watches her, watching the frown in between her brows get deeper as she concentrates on whatever is on the screen in front of her. She slides her glasses down onto her face, probably so she can see better.
After a few long seconds, her eyes meet Ilya’s again before she points at the screen.
Ilya raises a brow before he looks at the screen she’s pointing at. She has Google translate up and he can see she translated a message from English to Russian.
“Ah.” Ilya nods, reading the Russian text.
‘Как вас зовут?’, It read.
”Ilya,” He tells her, earning a hum from the woman. “Rozanov. Ilya Rozanov.”
The woman nods before clearing the text she typed, already typing another one.
’Вы сильно опоздали. Но, поскольку сегодня ваш первый день, я закрою на это глаза. Вы знаете свое расписание?’
Ilya nods again before slipping his backpack off and letting it drop onto the floor before bending over to unzip it.
He pulls out his schedule he was given, the paper crumpled from being crammed into his backpack. He clears his throat as he tries to smooth it out before holding it out to her.
She doesn’t take it. She just shakes her head and nudges Ilya’s hand that’s holding the paper closer to him, showing him that she doesn’t need it.
He watches the Russian letters individually pop up as it translates from her English that she’s currently typing in very slowly.
‘Рад это слышать. Вам помочь найти ваш первый урок?’, the screen reads.
“Veroyatno.” Ilya says, not even thinking before blurting it out in Russian. He forgets she can’t understand him just as much as he can’t understand her.
He only remembers when she looks at him with a raised brow, which makes Ilya nod quickly to the question on the computer.
The woman gives him a sweet smile, the lines around her eyes crinkling up in the process. She reminds him a little of his mama, Ilya thinks to himself. He just gives the woman a small smile in return.
The woman makes that same hand motion as earlier, beckoning him to follow her as she moves away from the computer.
Ilya quickly zips his backpack up and puts it back on, holding the paper schedule in his hands as he follows her.
They walk down the empty hallway in silence, side by side. They can’t really talk about anything, even though he finds himself wishing they could. This woman has a warm energy that brings Ilya comfort, in a weird way. He wants to have a conversation with her, but that’d be pretty hard.
She leads him down the long hallway, knowing exactly where she’s headed. Ilya wishes he could say the same. He’s really not ready for what he’s about to walk into, he can feel the anxiety bubbling up in his stomach right now.
He glances in the windows of the doors as they walk by, students seated in rows of seats in every classroom. He looks back down at the sheet of paper that he cannot understand a word of. He knows he has four periods, but that’s all he knows. What will he do when it’s time to switch? Surely this woman isn’t going to wait around and lead him to each class, though Ilya would much appreciate it.
They suddenly stop in front of a closed door. He can faintly hear voices overlapping on the other side of it. His heart beats a little faster as the woman gestures to it. He really doesn’t want to go in, doesn’t want to open this door and walk in.
She must notice his hesitance, because she reaches out and opens it for him, the voices louder now.
He gives her one last glance and the look on her face is very encouraging. Too bad Ilya is not feeling encouraged whatsoever.
He swallows around the lump in his throat, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and stepping through the doorway and into the classroom.
He clenches his jaw as the voices go quiet right as he steps into view. He doesn’t look up, his eyes locked on his feet. He doesn’t want to see all of the eyes on him.
All he wants to do is just go straight to his seat, wherever that is, and avoid all the attention.
But he’s not that lucky.
He holds back a sigh as the teacher stops him before he can go much further, saying words that he can’t even begin to understand.
“Oh—And here’s our new student, everyone.” The woman says in a cheerful tone. She’s older than the kind woman who walked him to his class, maybe in her late forties. Her ash brown hair is tied back in a tight bun, a few strands grey. She wears a faded yellow button down shirt, tucked neatly into high-waisted, wide-leg trousers and paired with suede loafers. She looks very put together, everyone here is.
”I’d like you all to give a warm welcome to Ilya.” She says, her hand coming up to rest on Ilya’s back. He doesn’t hear anything from any of the students, but he doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing, all he understood was his name.
He risks a glance up and immediately regrets it.
All eyes are on him and it’s intense. There’s a few small smiles, but it’s mostly just blank stares. He can feel the heat rushing to his face and he quickly averts his eyes. Wow, this is embarrassing.
“Now,” the teacher starts, holding a finger up. Ilya’s throat feels dry and a wave of nausea hits him out of nowhere. He just wants to sit down and get out of the spotlight he’s currently being put in. “Ilya does not speak English, he speaks Russian. I know I told you all that yesterday, but I just want to remind you. So, chances are, he probably won’t understand most things. We’ll all have to help him out a little, okay?”
He hears a few quiet hums of acknowledgment from the small crowd of students, but he doesn’t know what that means. He figures that the teacher is probably introducing him, but what exactly is she saying? He really wants to know.
The woman gently pats his back with the hand that was resting there, looking at Ilya. He doesn’t meet her eyes.
”Alright, well you can go ahead and sit down.” She points to an empty seat in the third row. “Your seat is right there.” She glances at his face again, probably trying to see if he understood.
He didn’t.
But he can guess what she’s trying to say with the way her forefinger is pointing directly at an empty seat. It speaks for itself.
He nods once before moving through the rows, pointedly avoiding looking at anyone he passes.
He feels a rush of relief as he plopped down into his seat, shrugging his backpack off and letting it hit the ground beside the desk. He’s glad that the attention is off of him, but he can still feels eyes on the back of his head and the side of his face. He’s afraid to look over, so he doesn’t. He stares straight ahead, focusing on the chalkboard with sloppy writing that he couldn’t read.
Everyone around him seems to all be doing the same thing, they’re all writing down something on pieces of paper. He feels so out of place.
He zones out while the teacher speaks. It wasn’t like there was anything for him to focus on. His fingers drummed against the desk repeatedly and his leg bounced up and down. He felt oddly antsy.
It wasn’t long until the bell rang, signaling that the first period was over. He got here late so he only had to sit in here for maybe less than ten minutes.
He watches everyone get up as quickly as possible, all of them grabbing their things and rushing to the door. He hesitates for just a split second before standing up and grabbing his backpack off of the floor.
The person who was sitting behind him moved past him without waiting for him to move out of the way, checking his shoulder.
Ilya sent a glare at the kid, but they were already hurrying out the door, which is something Ilya needs to be doing right about now.
He doesn’t know where he’s supposed to go next. He really wishes that kind woman—whose name he did not know—was still out in the hallway to lead him to his next destination. She’s probably not.
Ilya walks out into the busy hallway to find that the woman is in fact not there to help him again. He presses his lips together as looks around, the hall swarming with kids knowing exactly where they’re going. Ilya wishes he could say the same.
He would ask for help from another teacher, but he can probably guess how that’ll go. More translating, more time, more confusion. He decides against that pretty quickly.
He glances down at the paper in his hand as his feet automatically move to follow behind the students moving up and down the hallway. He can read the English words, he just doesn’t know what they say. The teacher’s names are outside the door, which helps a lot, meaning Ilya can just match the name of his next teacher to the names on the wall next to the doors.
Mrs. Greene, the paper reads.
Ilya glances back and forth between his paper schedule and doors as he passes them, trying to find the matching name.
It takes a while and Ilya starts to think maybe he passed by it without seeing the name. But eventually, he finds the matching name on a door all the way at the end of the hallway.
He blows out a slow breath of relief, but that feeling of relief is brief, followed by another wave of pure dread. Is he going to have to do the spotlight thingy again, where everyone’s eyes are on him and him only? God, he hopes not.
He took so long trying to find this fucking classroom, that all the students are already in their seats. Of course they are, they know where they’re supposed to go. They do this everyday. They don’t spend five minutes trying to find the room like Ilya. Why is the universe so against him today? It’s like its doing everything in its power to humilate him.
Ilya swallows harshly, walking inside and doing the same routine as last period. He keeps his head down and prays that he goes unnoticed so he can get to his seat.
Thankfully, the teacher doesn’t say anything, too busy erasing something on the chalkboard, and he finds an empty seat. Hopefully it’s his. Surely it is, it’s the only empty one.
He shrugs his backpack off and sits down, ignoring the look he gets from the kid sitting next to him. Why can’t people just mind their business?
”Oh! You slipped right by me.” The teacher blurts out all of a sudden, making Ilya glance up. What’s she saying? And why is she looking at him?
“Ilya,” She says his name, making a rush of anxiety spike through him. “It’s nice to have you in our class.”
She smiles at him, so he politely smiles back. Is that the correct thing to do? Yeah. He’s sure it is. And even if it isn’t, it’s always kind to just smile. Right? Or did she ask him something and he just looks stupid by smiling at her and not answering?
She nods once before looking away, saying a bunch of other things Ilya can’t keep up with. He doesn’t get one word out of all of that. His head hurts and he’d really like to go home. Well—he wouldn’t consider what he’s living in right now as home. But he really wants to go home. As in home. Russia.
It’s all the same shit as last class. He sits there and listens to the gibberish sounding words that come out of the teacher’s mouth and fidgets nervously. He doesn’t do any work like everyone else seems to be doing. He’s sure it’s because he doesn’t have the supplies he’s supposed to have. Or maybe she told him to do something and he isn’t. He feels helpless.
And he’s hungry. His stomach rumbles and he internally winces, hoping nobody around him heard that. They probably did with how loud it was. He hopes lunch is sometime soon, he’s starving.
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He sat there for an hour and a half longer before the bell rang. He was quicker with getting out of his seat this time, grabbing his backpack off the floor and not even bothering to put it on yet before speed walking out the door.
Everyone was heading to the same place, the cafeteria, so Ilya just followed behind the groups of people migrating to a different area of the school.
He smelled the aroma of school food before he even stepped foot inside. The noise hit his ears all at once as he walked into the crowded cafeteria behind a bunch of other students, voices overlapping. He’s come to find that school is very overwhelming.
The lunch line was long, so long that Ilya was afraid he might not even get lunch before the period was over. Hopefully that wasn’t the case, because Ilya can’t survive the rest of the day without something in his stomach. He’ll go insane.
It moves quicker than he originally thought. He’s close enough now that he can see the cafeteria ladies serving the food, but not close enough that he can see what the food is.
He doesn’t care at this point, he’ll eat anything. He’s so hungry that it hurts.
Trays full of food get put on the counter for people to grab, burgers and fries is what it looks to be.
Ilya doesn’t remember the last time he’s had a burger. His stomach rumbles again as he reaches out to grab a tray, licking his lips and waiting for the line to move forward.
It does, and eventually it’s his turn to get stopped by the lady at the end of the line. She looks intimidating but also has a small smile on her thin lips. Ilya’s getting mixed signals.
”Hey, hon,” The woman speaks, looking at him expectantly. “Gotta pay. Three dollars even.”
Ilya raises his eyebrows, not understanding a single word. He just wants to find a seat and eat for fucksake.
The lady raises her eyebrows right back at him. “Did you hear me? Three dollars.”
Ilya just shakes his head slowly, his fingers picking at the edge of the styerfoam tray. “Chto?” His eyes dart to her finger that’s tapping against the register. His eyes widen slightly. “Ah.” He feels around in his pockets for some cash, but is met with nothing. He left all his money in his duffel bag at the trailer. He sheepishly meets the woman’s eyes.
A sigh. “Name?”
Ilya’s heard this word multiple times today, he knows what to say to that, knows what answer is expected from him.
“Ilya Rozanov.” He says slowly, watching her type in his name on the bulky computer in front of her.
Her eyes soften as she reads something on the screen before looking at Ilya again. She seems to hesitate for a brief second, but it’s gone so fast that he barely notices. “Go ahead.” She nods towards the opening that leads back out to the cafeteria.
His eyebrows twitch, a look of confusion crossing over his face. She wanted money, though, right? She just said to pay.
She just shakes her head, waving him off.
Ilya presses his lips together and nods. “Spasibo.” He mumbles, picking his tray of food up and walking out.
And, wow, there’s a lot of people. A lot of tables, too, that are mostly full. He walks down the gap between tables to try and find a seat.
Everyone seems to have their own friend group, their own people to sit and eat with. Ilya feels a weird feeling stirring in his belly at the sight.
He finds an empty spot, spread away from the people on the other end of the table. He knew he’d be alone, he knew he wouldn’t make friends right away. And that’s okay. He tells himself he doesn’t care, because he doesn’t.
He doesn’t want to think about that, though. Not right now. He sits down with his food, focusing on eating. The hunger that he feels right now overpowers any other emotion he might be feeling.
He doesn’t waste another second, picking the burger up and taking a huge bite out of it. He had forgotten what burgers tasted like, it’s been so long. But this specific one had a taste to it that made Ilya’s nose wrinkle, chewing carefully. It tasted like cardboard and it was very unseasoned. The meat was rubbery, lacking any tender bite, and the bun was almost as hard as a rock. The overall experience of just one bite was quite disappointing and a little gross.
But he was starving and he had food in front of him, good or not. He wasn’t one to complain, so he took another bite, even if it made his face scrunch up with every chew. He had crinkle fries too, but he didn’t have much expectation for them. He picked one up anyways, inspecting it before popping it into his mouth.
The fry was already room temperature, no longer hot, and it was extremely undersalted. Very dry, too. It hurt to swallow and he had to take a drink of water to get it to go down all the way.
Hopefully not all of the lunches are like this. How are kids eating this shit everyday? This was nothing like the school food back in Russia. They ate borscht, ezhiki, mashed potatoes, vegetables—all of which were a hundred times better than whatever he was eating right now.
He lets himself look up from his tray that he’s been burning holes into, glancing around. Everyone’s either talking to someone or eating and having someone talking to them. And here Ilya is, sitting alone with nobody to talk to. He gets it and it’s not like he’s putting any effort into trying to befriend anyone. He just wishes he didn’t have to. He wishes people would come up to him and ask to be his friend, which would make it easier for him, but he knows that probably won’t happen.
He finishes his meal after a few minutes. Well, he wouldn’t say finished. He took three more bites of his burger and ate another eight fries and decided he was full enough. The meal didn’t satisfy his taste buds, but he isn’t hungry anymore, which is really all that matters. Atleast now he can probably survive the rest of the day. Hopefully.
The bell rang, cutting through the loud voices and making everyone go quiet for a brief two seconds before starting up again.
Ilya watches as everyone gets up from their seats and heads towards the trash cans in the middle of the room, throwing their trays and trash away.
Ilya gets up too, carrying his tray over to a trashcan and throwing it in, his eyes glancing up at the person on the other side of the trashcan, also throwing their trash away at the same time as Ilya.
Ilya stops with his hand frozen mid air, staring at the boy in front of him, the trashcan between them.
The boy looked at him with a small smile. Ilya could only stare.
He had jet-black hair and dark eyes, smooth tan skin with freckles scattered all over his cheekbones and nose, his lips pink and his cupids bow mimicking a soft heart shape. Ilya finds himself staring at them subconsciously.
The moment lasts all of maybe five seconds before the boy turns and walks away, but to Ilya it felt like a whole lifetime passed as he stared into those dark eyes.
Ilya is left dumbstruck, blinking dumbly as his eyes follow the boy, eyes glued to the back of his head.
He lets out a long sigh. He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath the entire time.