Chapter Text
February, 1940
Ilya
The train ride to Montreal had been miserable.
Ilya sat rigid in his seat, hands clasped in his lap, stifling back the nausea that threatened to overtake him.
Across from him, his mother stared out the window, her posture perfectly straight, as though holding herself together by sheer force of will.
Neither of them had uttered a word since they’d left Ottawa.
Every time Ilya closed his eyes, he saw Shane’s heartbroken face.
The tears that had clung to his lashes.
He could still feel Yuna’s shaking hands, wrapped around him in a tight embrace for the last time.
He could still see David’s grave expression, as he nodded, shaking his hand.
Ilya swallowed hard, forcing his gaze down to the floor.
The train lurched slightly as it rounded a bend in the tracks, the metal wheels shrieked beneath the carriage.
Ottawa was already miles behind them.
Every bone in his body had protested as he’d walked out of Shane’s bedroom for the last time.
The sight of him sitting on the bed, eyes closed, tears falling, had nearly undone him completely.
But Alexei’s warning had branded itself in his mind, and he knew they had to leave. They didn't have a choice.
It was the only way to keep everyone safe.
They are coming for you and Mama. Run.
He let out a shaky breath.
His mother glanced up at him.
She reached across the short distance between them, and placed her hand over his.
It was warm, and it steadied him slightly.
“We will find a way back,” she said softly.
Ilya closed his eyes.
He knew it would end up hurting more in the end, if he believed her.
~
The moment they stepped off the train, a sharp gust of cold wind cut through the platform, biting through Ilya’s coat.
The sky above the city was the same dull grey as Ottawa’s, but the air felt different. It was thick with voices, engines, and the distant clatter of trams moving through the streets.
People pushed past them from every direction.
Ilya adjusted the strap of the satchel slung over his shoulder, and glanced over at his mother.
The exhaustion in her face had deepened during the journey, carving faint shadows beneath her eyes.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.
She nodded once.
He knew the real answer was no, but he didn’t press further.
Their breath fogged in front of them as they stepped onto the street. Snow had been pushed into grey piles along the sidewalks, and the sound of carriage wheels and automobiles echoed between the rows of narrow stone buildings.
They continued down the street, and, after a while, Ilya reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out the small envelope Alexei had given him months earlier.
Inside was the sheet of paper with the address.
He had memorized it long ago, just in case.
Still, his eyes scanned the neat handwriting again before folding it carefully and tucking it away.
“Pochti tam,” he murmured.
Irina nodded.
They kept walking.
Montreal felt like another world, compared to Ottawa. The buildings rose taller, the stone worn smooth from age. Signs hung above shop windows written almost entirely in French, the words blurring together as they passed.
After nearly fifteen minutes, Ilya slowed.
“There,” he said quietly.
Down a narrow street, a row of modest houses stood in a neat row.
They were built from dark brick, with narrow windows and small iron fences lining the front steps. Snow had piled along the edges of the walkways.
The reality of it all seemed to settle over them at once.
Irina exhaled slowly.
“This is where the house is?”
Ilya nodded. “Da.”
They turned onto the street, eyes scanning the small numbers posted next to each house’s front door.
Ilya stopped suddenly.
Number eighty one.
He climbed the short steps, his mother trailing behind him.
He had the key in his pocket, but to explain that he would also have to tell his mother about Alexei coming to see him.
And he had promised he wouldn't.
His hand searched the top of the doorframe, and he found the second key in the far corner.
Ilya hovered over the lock, pushing the key inside, giving it a slight turn.
The door opened with a quiet click.
Ilya stepped inside first, setting his satchel down near the doorway, before turning to help his mother remove her coat.
He shut the door behind them.
The latch clicked softly into place.
The sound seemed louder than it should have been.
The entryway was narrow, and the floorboards creaked under his weight. The faint smell of dust and old wood hung in the air, but beneath it lingered something else, something almost clean- soap, perhaps.
The air was slightly stale, and he could tell no one had been here for a long time.
A narrow staircase led up toward the second floor, and a modest sitting room opened just off the hallway.
Simple furniture had already been arranged from what Ilya could see; an armchair, a small sofa, and a wooden table.
Blankets were folded neatly along the back of the sofa. A small stack of firewood had been placed beside the hearth.
Alexei had thought of everything.
Ilya walked down the hallway slowly, pausing in the entryway of the small kitchen.
There was a small table, and on it, lay a sealed envelope.
His chest tightened as he picked it up.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Inside was a short note.
Женщина по имени Анна будет приходить два раза в неделю. Она поможет с продуктами и, если понадобится, с мамой.
Здесь вы будете в безопасности. Никто не будет задавать вопросов.
A woman named Anna will come twice a week. She will help with groceries and with Mama if needed.
You will be safe here. No one will ask questions.
Ilya folded the note carefully.
Behind him, he heard the quiet creak of the armchair.
He tucked Alexei’s note into his pocket, and made his way over to the sitting room.
He sat down on the sofa across from his mother.
Her shoulders slumped slightly, her hands resting loosely in her lap as she looked around the unfamiliar house.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Irina’s gaze drifted toward the fireplace.
“You should light it,” she said quietly.
Ilya stood.
The firewood Alexei had left was stacked neatly beside the hearth.
He knelt on the floor and arranged several logs, striking a match from the small box left on the mantel.
It took a few tries before the flame caught.
When it did, the fire crackled softly, warm orange light flickering across the walls and ceiling.
The warmth spread slowly through the room.
Irina leaned back into the armchair, closing her eyes for a moment.
Ilya remained crouched near the hearth for a moment longer, staring into the fire.
His mind kept drifting back to Ottawa.
He missed Shane so badly, his chest ached.
Ilya swallowed, and forced himself to stand.
He moved through the sitting room, checking the windows, making sure the curtains were drawn, and ensuring the street outside was empty.
The habit was old. It had been carved into him long before Ottawa, long before they had even left for Canada.
It was a reflex from childhood.
“Lyosha…” Irina began, then stopped.
Her voice faltered.
Ilya turned from the window, meeting her eyes.
She swallowed.
“You think he is alright?”
Ilya’s stomach turned.
He forced his expression to remain blank.
“Yes,” he said, because he needed it to be true. “We would have heard something.”
It was a weak lie, and they both knew it.
But they both needed to pretend they believed it.
Irina nodded.
Ilya dragged in a slow breath, and stepped away from the window.
If he allowed himself to stay still, he would fall apart.
He moved through the house methodically, as if routine could ground him.
He checked the cupboards in the kitchen. There were a few plates stacked neatly. A couple of chipped mugs. A small tin, full of tea. A jar of sugar.
He ran the tap at the sink.
The water sputtered out, and then, with some resistance, it began to flow.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were small.
The first room had a narrow bed with a plain quilt folded carefully on top, a dresser, and a small wardrobe.
The second room was even smaller, with a bed pushed against the wall and a single chair beside it. The wardrobe was smaller.
He stood in the doorway of the second room longer than the first.
It was clearly meant for him.
The bed was made with an almost irritating precision.
The way Alexei had always made his bed.
Ilya turned away before his throat closed.
It reminded him too painfully of another bed, in another house, in another life.
Downstairs, Irina had not moved.
She sat in the armchair like it was holding her upright.
Ilya crouched by the hearth again, feeding more wood into the fire, until it burned steadily.
He went to the kitchen, and put the kettle on.
The way he moved was almost robotic.
He poured water over the tea into two mugs, and carried them to the sitting room.
He offered one to his mother, and she accepted, wrapping her fingers around the warmth.
She lowered herself further back into the armchair, staring down at her hands.
Ilya sat opposite her, elbows resting on his knees.
He forced himself to take a sip.
The tea was weak, the flavor barely there, but the warmth helped settle the nausea still twisting in his stomach.
Eventually, Irina spoke.
“This place…” she murmured, her voice quiet. “It does not feel real.”
Ilya glanced around the room.
The neatness of everything almost made it feel staged, as though someone had arranged the furniture only hours before they arrived.
Nothing here showed any signs of life.
“That is probably the point,” he said.
Irina let out a slow breath.
“I suppose.”
Temporary.
Ilya wondered how long that meant.
Weeks?
Months?
Years?
The thought made his chest tighten again.
He stood abruptly, unable to sit still any longer.
“I will unpack,” he said.
Irina nodded.
Ilya retrieved his satchel from the entryway and carried it upstairs.
The narrow staircase creaked beneath his boots, each step echoing through the quiet house.
He set it down on the bed, in the bedroom Alexei had prepared for him.
The wardrobe already held a few spare shirts and wool sweaters, folded neatly.
Whoever Alexei had sent to prepare the house had even stocked extra blankets at the foot of the bed.
He had prepared them for everything.
Everything except how suffocating it would all feel.
Ilya unpacked slowly, placing his belongings into the wardrobe.
There were very few.
A spare change of clothes.
A small shaving kit.
The pocket watch.
A few books Shane had gifted him.
A photograph he had tucked between two folded shirts.
He froze when he saw it.
He had almost forgotten he packed it.
The memory struck him so hard, he sat on the bed with his hand pressed into his chest.
A few weeks after he had gifted Shane the camera one Christmas, they had been lounging lazily in their shared bedroom.
Ilya had been lying sprawled across Shane’s bed, to Shane's disgruntlement, his legs stretched across his lap.
Shane had been marveling over the camera, turning it over in his hands and giving Ilya a recount of every single detail in the craftsmanship.
Ilya had been watching him with quiet amusement, an arm resting behind his head.
“You know,” Shane had said, squinting at the lens, “this is the nicest thing anyone has ever given me.”
Ilya scoffed.
“That is because you have terrible friends.”
Shane rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth grew wider.
He lifted the camera again, inspecting it with exaggerated concentration.
“I’m serious though,” Shane continued. “Look at this. The lens assembly alone… this must have cost you a fortune.”
“It did not.”
Shane glanced up sharply.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Ilya had shrugged, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a real answer.
Shane stared at him for a moment longer before shaking his head.
“You’re ridiculous.”
Then he had turned the camera suddenly, snapping a photo of Ilya, catching him completely off guard.
“Hey!” Ilya had exclaimed. “I was not ready.”
Shane had burst out laughing.
“Part of photography is taking candid photographs. I’m looking to expand my portfolio.”
Ilya pushed himself upright on the bed, scowling.
“You are abusing your gift.”
“I’m appreciating it.”
“You are harassing me.”
Shane had grinned, completely unapologetic.
Ilya’s eyes had lingered on him.
On the way the sunlight caught along the line of his jaw.
On the way his hair fell slightly over his forehead when he leaned forward.
Without really thinking about it, Ilya reached out and plucked the camera from Shane’s hands.
“Hey-” Shane protested.
Before he could even finish the sentence-
Click.
The shutter snapped.
Shane blinked in surprise.
“You just took a picture of me.”
“Yes.”
“I was not ready.”
“That is the point of candid photography.”
Shane squinted at him suspiciously.
“Are you mocking me?”
“Yes, I am.”
Ilya lowered the camera slowly, inspecting it with mild interest.
“You said you needed to expand your portfolio.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t mean of myself.”
Ilya had shrugged, handing the camera back.
Shane had looked down at the camera in his hands, then back up at Ilya, his eyes narrowing.
“You better not have caught me looking stupid.”
“Is already natural look for you.”
Shane scoffed. “Fuck you.”
He had gone right back to launching into another enthusiastic explanation about shutter speeds and light exposure, that Ilya had only half listened to.
He had been too distracted by the way Shane’s freckles scrunched up when he smiled.
When Shane had gotten the film developed a few weeks later, Ilya had swiped the photograph without Shane realizing.
He stared at it now, pinched between his fingers.
Shane, mid-laugh.
The weak rays of winter sunlight on his jaw.
His hair falling into his eyes, which were crinkled from his smile.
The pink flush under his freckles.
Ilya pressed the heel of his hand harder against his chest, as the ache there sharpened.
Then, very carefully, he stood, and placed the photograph between the pages of the Tolstoy book Shane had gotten him, and placed them in the wardrobe.
He closed it gently.
He stood there for a while, forehead resting against the wood, staring down at the floorboards.
~
He went to bed early that night, but sleep did not come.
The wind pressed sharply against the windows, rattling the glass.
The old wooden beams of the house settled with quiet groans as the cold sunk into them.
Ilya lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
The room was dark, except for the faint rays of moonlight peeking through the curtain.
Every small noise sounded like a gunshot in the silence.
Somewhere outside, the distant clang of a tram bell echoed through the night, before fading again.
His mind refused to quiet.
It kept drifting back to Ottawa.
To Shane.
He rolled onto his side, with a frustrated exhale.
The mattress creaked beneath him.
He stared at the wardrobe, willing himself to fall asleep.
It was useless.
After several minutes, he pushed the blanket aside, and sat up.
The floorboards were cold beneath his bare feet when he stood.
He crossed the small room quietly, and pulled the curtain aside, peering at the street below.
It was empty.
Snow had piled onto the sidewalks, glowing faintly in the pale reflection of the streetlamp at the corner. A thin layer had settled on the iron fences and the steps of the neighboring houses.
There was no one outside.
Ilya let the curtain fall back into place, and returned to the bed.
Sleep still didn’t come.
An hour passed.
Then another.
Eventually, he gave up.
He rose again, and slipped out into the hallway.
The house felt different at night.
The narrow corridor stretched into darkness, the banister of the staircase casting crooked shadows along the wall.
He paused outside his mother’s bedroom door.
For a moment, he considered knocking.
He had heard her moving inside of the room already. She wasn’t sleeping either.
He walked away, deciding to go downstairs instead.
The embers in the fireplace had faded to a dull glow beneath a layer of ash. The room was colder now, the warmth from earlier nearly gone.
Ilya knelt down, and stirred the coals with the poker.
A few sparks flickered briefly.
He added two small logs and waited until they caught, watching the flames slowly eat at the wood.
He stood, settling himself into the armchair his mother had occupied for nearly the entire day.
He sat there for a while, staring into the fire.
Eventually, exhaustion must have overtaken him.
Because the next thing he knew, he opened his eyes groggily, and the room was bright from the pale morning light.
His neck ached.
He straightened slowly, rubbing a hand over his face.
The house was silent.
His mother hadn’t come downstairs yet.
Ilya moved quietly through the kitchen. He filled the kettle from the tap, and placed it onto the stove.
The simple act helped ground him.
While the kettle heated, he peered outside the window again, pulling the curtain back slightly.
The street was beginning to wake.
A man walked by, carrying a wooden crate balanced against his hip. A woman followed a few paces behind him, with a basket looped over her arm. Somewhere nearby a door slammed shut, and the distant rumble of a tram echoed faintly through the cold morning air.
He let the curtain fall back, and turned back to the stove as the kettle whistled.
Ilya poured the hot water into two mugs, and set them on the table.
He heard a creak, and his mother appeared in the doorway.
For a moment, he barely recognized her.
She looked worse.
The exhaustion from the journey and the sleepless night had hollowed her features. The skin beneath her eyes had darkened, and the careful composure she had maintained on the train had slipped away entirely.
Her hair hung loose around her shoulders where the pins had fallen out.
She looked older.
More fragile.
Ilya tried not to let the concern show on his face.
“Dobroye utro,” he said gently.
She simply nodded.
Her movements were slow as she crossed the hallway, and lowered herself into the armchair beside the fireplace again.
Ilya followed.
She wrapped her hands around the mug he offered her.
They didn’t speak.
They sat in the sitting room, the only noise in the house coming from the fire crackling softly.
~
That afternoon, the knock came.
Three sharp raps against the door.
Ilya froze.
Irina’s head snapped toward the entryway instantly.
Neither of them moved.
Then, the knock came again.
Ilya’s heart began hammering against his ribs.
They had only been here for a day.
It was too soon for them to be discovered.
Had someone followed them?
He crossed the room slowly.
“Ilya-”
He raised a hand, signaling his mother to stay quiet.
The third knock was louder this time.
Ilya reached the door. His hand hovered over the handle.
He took a deep breath.
He pulled it open.
A woman stood on the steps.
Her eyes were so blue, they were almost piercing.
She was older, with deep lines across her forehead and around her mouth.
She was bundled in a heavy wool coat, a scarf wrapped around her head.
In her arms, she carried a small basket.
For a second, they simply stared at each other.
Then the woman spoke.
“You must be Ilya.”
She'd said it in Russian.
“Anna?” he asked.
She nodded once.
“Da.”
Ilya stepped aside to let her in.
He shut the door behind her quickly, sliding the bolt into place without thinking.
Anna noticed.
Her eyes flickered between him and the latch.
“Old habits?” she asked mildly.
Ilya didn’t answer.
Anna brushed the snow from her boots, and entered the house with the casual confidence of someone who had been here many times before.
She set the basket on the kitchen table, and took off the scarf wrapped around her head, revealing a dark braid, streaked with grey.
“I brought bread,” she said, pulling a wrapped loaf from the basket. “Potatoes. Some other things.”
She glanced around the room, taking in the state of the house.
“I have been waiting for you to arrive for quite some time now.”
There was no accusation in her tone. Only quiet observation.
Irina rose slowly from the armchair.
Anna’s expression softened when she noticed her.
“You must be Irina.”
Irina nodded.
“Da.”
Anna crossed the room toward her, extending a hand, and she didn’t even blink when Irina hesitated before taking it.
“Your son looks exactly like Alexei described,” Anna said.
That seemed to relax Irina slightly.
“He was always good at descriptions.”
Anna gave a small hum of agreement.
“Yes. Sharp boy.”
The word boy carried a note of fondness.
She released Irina’s hand and moved back to the kitchen table, unpacking the basket with quick, practiced movements.
She arranged everything neatly as she spoke.
“Your brother asked me to check the house every few days,” she explained, glancing up at Ilya. “Make sure pipes don't freeze, and water stays running.”
Ilya leaned against the counter.
“How long have you been coming here?”
Anna shrugged.
“A year. Perhaps longer. I do not keep track.”
Irina stiffened in the armchair.
“A year?”
Anna looked up.
“Yes. Ever since he left to give Ilya the key.”
Irina turned sharply towards Ilya.
“He what?”
Ilya straightened slightly.
He couldn't lie now.
“He came back to Ottawa once,” he said slowly. “A long time ago.”
Irina’s eyes narrowed.
“You never told me that.”
Anna paused in the middle of unwrapping the bread.
Ilya looked down at the floor.
“I promised him I would not.”
The words came out quieter than he intended.
For a moment, the room was completely still.
Irina leaned back slightly in the armchair, studying him.
“Why?”
Ilya swallowed.
“To keep us safe.”
Irina’s fingers tightened in the blanket draped over her lap.
"So when you told me he sent you this address in a letter," she said slowly. "That it was place he bought, that he lived in, and since he left it is ours now, it was a lie?"
He scratched his neck.
"The place is ours. That was not a lie."
She glared at him.
“You did not tell me he gave you a key. Or that you even saw him.”
He kept staring at the floor.
Anna resumed unwrapping the bread quietly.
Ilya cleared his throat. "He told me to keep it in case we needed to run. And not to say anything unless we needed it."
He could feel her gaze burning him. “And you accepted this without question?”
“I asked questions.”
“And?”
“He didn’t answer them.”
Irina closed her eyes.
“You should have told me.”
“I promised.”
Her eyes opened again.
She simply looked at him for a moment.
“Your brother has always believed it was his responsibility to carry everything alone,” she said quietly. “Even when he was barely old enough to understand what it meant.”
Anna began slicing the loaf.
“Yes,” she said quietly, setting two slices onto a plate. “He did.”
Both of them turned toward her.
“You knew him well?” Irina asked.
Anna wiped her hands on a cloth she had taken out of the basket.
“Well enough.”
She didn’t elaborate further.
Irina’s curiosity sharpened.
“You met him here?”
Anna nodded.
“A few years ago.”
She opened a small jar of preserves.
“I used to work in one of the shipping offices near the docks. Translating mostly.” She shrugged. “Your son worked there. We crossed paths often.”
Irina’s brow creased.
“The foreman liked him,” she continued. “Said he worked twice as hard as the others and complained half as much.”
She spread the preserves onto the slices with a butter knife.
Irina watched her carefully.
“Most days he barely spoke,” Anna continued. “But sometimes, when his shift ended, he would sit outside the warehouse and converse with me, in Russian.”
She placed the knife down and brushed a few crumbs aside.
“You spoke often?” Irina asked.
Anna shook her head.
“Often enough.”
She folded the cloth neatly, and pushed the plate across the table.
“Eat,” she said. “The bread is still warm.”
Ilya took one of the slices automatically.
He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until then.
Irina stayed in the armchair.
Her gaze lingered on Anna instead.
“You said he worked on the docks?”
Anna nodded.
“Yes.”
Irina paused.
“And where did he live?”
The question sounded casual, but Ilya could hear the fragile composure behind it.
Anna picked up on it immediately.
“At first?”
She rested a hip against the counter.
“In a place near the harbor. One of the old boarding houses.”
Irina’s mouth tightened.
“With other men?”
Anna nodded once.
“Three.”
Irina looked down at her fingers, which were still tangled in the blanket on her lap. “He stayed there long?”
Anna smoothed her skirt.
“Until the first winter.”
Ilya watched the two women carefully.
There was something deliberate in the way they spoke now. Each word chosen carefully, as though they were circling something delicate.
“What happened in winter?” Irina asked, after a moment of silence.
Anna looked out the window, where snow had begun falling again.
“One night he came to my door,” she said quietly. “It was late.”
Irina’s gaze sharpened.
“And?”
Anna shrugged.
“He had been working all day,” she said slowly. “And the men he lived with had decided the evening required more vodka than usual.”
She paused, frowning slightly.
“He did not like that.”
Irina’s lips pressed together.
“He had nowhere quiet to sleep.”
Anna glanced toward Ilya.
“So I told him he could stay with me for a night.”
“And the next night?” Ilya asked quietly.
Anna’s mouth curved.
“He was still there.”
“And the night after that?”
Anna lifted a shoulder.
“Well.”
Irina studied her.
“So he lived with you.”
Anna met her eyes.
“For a time.”
Irina nodded.
“Was he… well?”
Anna did not answer right away.
Instead she leaned back against the counter, and folded her arms.
“He was busy,” she said finally.
It was not quite an answer.
But it was clear enough.
After a moment, she added, “And he laughed, sometimes.”
“That is good,” Irina said quietly.
Anna nodded.
“Yes.”
Her eyes drifted briefly toward the window again.
“He carried many things inside of him." her lips curved in the hint of a smile. "But he carried them quietly.”
Anna pushed the plate of bread toward Irina again.
“Eat,” she said gently.
Irina stood from the armchair, and took a seat at the kitchen table.
She picked up a slice, biting into it slowly.
Anna watched her.
“He was quite young when I first met him,” she said after a moment. “But he was already too serious for his age.”
She turned, and continued arranging the remaining food.
“He reminded me of someone I once knew,” she added quietly.
“Who?” Irina asked.
Anna’s mouth twitched faintly.
“My son.”
The words were simple, but the room shifted slightly when she said them.
Ilya stilled.
“You have a son?” Irina asked.
“Had,” Anna corrected gently.
She didn’t elaborate further.
“He was about the same age when he left home,” she said softly. “Head full of plans. Too stubborn to listen to anyone.”
Her gaze flickered briefly toward Ilya.
“For a while, I expected him to return.”
She brushed a bit of flour from the table.
“But life does not always give us what we expect.”
Irina’s eyes softened with quiet understanding.
Anna turned toward the cupboards.
“One evening, Lyosha came to me,” she said.
The nickname slipped out of her mouth naturally, as if she had used it many times before.
“He said he needed to secure a house. Somewhere no one would ask questions.”
Her eyes swept around the room.
“This one.”
Irina studied her. “You helped him get it.”
Anna nodded.
She sliced more bread when she noticed the empty plate.
“Before he left for Russia, he asked me for one more favor.”
Ilya looked up.
“What?”
Anna set the knife down carefully before answering.
“He asked me to look after this place.”
She gestured around the small kitchen.
“And to wait for his family to arrive.”
“And you agreed?” Ilya asked.
Anna nodded, her eyes softening.
"I always did what I could to help him."
She began moving around the kitchen again, opening more cupboards and inspecting their contents with the quiet efficiency of someone who had already memorized the layout of the house.
She opened the small pantry, and nodded to herself.
Irina watched her.
“You prepared all of this with him?”
Anna turned.
“He prepared it.”
She shut the pantry door.
"I simply keep after it."
Ilya blinked.
“He was here?”
Anna gave him a knowing look. “Yes.”
“When?”
She paused, pondering.
“Winter before last.”
Before he left for Moscow, then.
Ilya took another bite of the bread.
The room had grown warmer while they spoke, the fire crackling steadily.
Outside, snow drifted slowly past the window.
Anna finished putting away the remaining food, and wiped her hands once more.
“I will come again in a few days,” she said.
She picked up the empty basket.
Her eyes moved briefly between them.
“If you need anything, leave a note in the mailbox.”
Ilya frowned slightly.
“The mailbox?”
Anna nodded.
“I check it every morning when I pass.”
Irina raised a brow.
“You pass every morning?”
Anna smiled faintly.
“Yes.”
Irina nodded slowly.
Anna moved toward the door.
Ilya followed, sliding the bolt aside.
Cold air rushed into the entryway as he opened the door for her.
Anna stepped out onto the small porch.
She paused for a moment, turning to meet Ilya’s eyes.
“You should not stay inside too long.”
He frowned slightly.
“What do you mean?”
She nodded toward the street.
“You should work.”
He blinked.
“Men are always needed at the docks,” she said. “It will keep attention away from you if you look like everyone else.”
He paused, then nodded.
Anna nodded back approvingly, adjusting the scarf around her chin.
“You are safe here,” she said, turning toward the street.
She stepped down from the stoop, and walked away.
Ilya stared at her back for a moment, then closed the door, sliding the bolt into place.
The house fell quiet again.
He returned to the sitting room, where his mother sat in the armchair again, staring into the fire.
After a long moment, she spoke.
“She cared for him. Like a son.”
Ilya met her eyes.
“I suppose so.”
Irina turned back toward the fireplace.
~
In the next few days, the house settled into a quiet rhythm.
Anna stopped by again, bringing more bread, dried fish, and a sack of potatoes. She stayed long enough to make sure Irina had eaten properly, and then she’d left almost as quickly as she’d arrived.
Irina spent most of her time in the sitting room.
Sometimes she read from the small book she had brought with her.
Other times, she simply stared into the fire, lost somewhere far beyond the walls of the house.
It reminded Ilya of the way she had been in Russia, and it was starting to worry him.
He tried to keep himself occupied.
He rearranged the dishes in the kitchen cabinets, twice.
He carried in more firewood from the small shed behind the house.
He unfolded, refolded, and put away the clothes in his wardrobe.
And yet, he still felt restless.
The house had begun to feel suffocating.
He paced back and forth.
Constantly.
His mother noticed.
“You should go out,” she said one morning.
Ilya paused, mid-step in the hallway.
She did not look up from the book in her lap. “You are wearing a path into the floor.”
He glanced down at the wood beneath his feet.
“I am only walking.”
She met his eyes.
“You are driving me insane.”
Ilya rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
“I apologize.”
Irina leaned back in the armchair, studying him.
“You cannot hide in the house forever.”
“I am not hiding.”
She raised a brow.
He sighed.
“Maybe I am. I do not know. I worry about leaving you here alone.”
She gave him a look, and gestured toward the door.
“Go. I raised three boys. I assure you I can survive one quiet afternoon.”
He huffed softly.
Three boys.
He’d always suspected she had seen Shane as one of her own. But actually hearing her say it out loud, made his heart sing.
She opened her book again.
“If you do not leave this house soon,” she added mildly, “I will push you out myself.”
Ilya stared at her for a moment.
Then he reached for his coat.
Irina did not look up again as he pulled it on.
“Find work,” she said.
He paused in the doorway.
“You think it will be that easy?”
A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.
“No.”
She turned the page.
~
The cold air struck him sharply the moment he stepped outside.
The sky hung low over the city, thick with grey clouds. More snow had fallen during the night, a thin layer blanketing the street.
Ilya pulled his coat tighter, and started walking.
He didn’t know exactly where he was going.
But Anna’s words lingered in his mind.
The docks.
The further he walked from his quiet neighborhood, the louder the sounds of the city became. Wagons rattled over frozen streets. Shopkeepers shouted to one another across doorways. Somewhere nearby, a tram bell clanged as it rolled past an intersection.
When he reached the harbor, he slowed for a moment, taking it in.
Ships loomed along the docks, their hulls dark against the pale winter sky. Cranes stood along the waterfront, dozens of men moving between them.
The place was chaos.
Voices shouted in French and English.
Men were hauling rope, pushing carts, and carrying cargo toward the warehouses that lined the edge of the harbor.
Ilya paused for a moment near the entrance to the yard, watching the rhythm of the work.
No one paid attention to him.
Good.
He stepped forward.
A broad man with a thick mustache stood near the center of the yard, barking orders at a group unloading a wagon. A clipboard was tucked under his arm.
The foreman, Ilya assumed.
He walked up to him.
The burly man’s eyes narrowed slightly as Ilya approached.
“You lost?”
“No.”
The man raised a brow.
“What do you want?”
“Work.”
The man looked him up and down.
“You worked docks before?”
“No.”
The man scoffed, turning back around.
Ilya cleared his throat.
“I am a quick learner.”
The foreman grunted.
“You can lift?”
“Yes.”
“You speak English?”
Ilya fought the urge to roll his eyes.
Obviously, he spoke English.
“Yes.”
The man jerked his thumb toward a pile of crates near the dock without looking at him.
“Then stop standing around.”
Ilya blinked.
“That’s it?”
The foreman finally turned back around, and gave him a flat look.
“If you slow my men down, I’ll toss you into the water myself. Understood?”
Ilya nodded once.
He walked toward the men who were still busy unloading one of the wagons.
The work began immediately.
A man shoved one of the crates toward him without even looking up.
“Warehouse!”
Ilya lifted it without question and carried it across the yard, following another man in front of him.
The crate was heavier than it looked.
By the third trip, his shoulders were already straining underneath his coat.
By the sixth, he had fallen into a steady rhythm.
The work became mechanical.
Lift.
Carry.
Stack.
Repeat.
After nearly an hour, he reached down to grab the last crate from the wagon he’d been unloading.
Another pair of hands grabbed the opposite side at the same time.
Ilya looked up.
A young man stood across from him.
Dark hair.
Sharp eyes.
And a crooked grin.
The man raised a playful brow. “Well, be my guest.”
He removed his hands from the crate.
Ilya nodded, picking it up and starting back towards the warehouse.
The crate was heavier than the others had been, the wood rough against his palms as he crossed the yard.
He moved around a cart being pushed past him, and stepped through the wide warehouse doors.
The crate hit the ground with a thud as he placed it down.
Behind him, the same voice spoke again.
“I could’ve helped, you know. I was just messing with you.”
Ilya turned.
The man had followed him from the yard. He leaned against the wall, arms folded loosely across his chest.
Ilya gave him a curt nod. “Is fine.”
The man pushed himself off the wall. “Come on. I swear I won’t make you do all the work around here, I’ll feel bad.”
He winked, obviously still fucking with him.
Ilya’s mouth twitched.
They left the warehouse, making their way towards the new wagon that had been brought in.
“You new?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“Thought so.”
They walked a few more steps in silence.
“You done dock work before?”
“No.”
The man glanced sideways at him.
“You’re either lying, or irritatingly strong.”
“Is just lifting boxes.”
The man snorted.
“Fair.”
They reached the wagon, and the man grabbed a handle of the nearest crate before anyone else could.
Ilya took the other side without comment, and they lifted it together.
The weight settled evenly between them as they stepped down from the wagon, and began crossing the yard again.
“You from around here?” the man asked.
“No.”
“Figured. You have an accent.”
Ilya didn’t say anything to that.
“Russian?” the man asked.
Ilya hesitated for half a second before answering.
“Yes.”
The man nodded.
“Knew it.”
They reached the warehouse, and lowered the crate onto the growing stack.
The man wiped his hands on his trousers, and held it out towards Ilya.
“I’m Paul, by the way.”
Ilya clasped his hand firmly, shaking once.
He didn’t say anything back.
Paul raised a brow.
“You’re not going to tell me your name?”
Ilya avoided his gaze, bending down to pick up the next crate. “Call me whatever you like.”
Paul stared at him for a moment.
Then he grinned.
“Alright then, mystery man it is.”
They carried the next crate across the yard.
“You work fast,” Paul pointed out.
“Yes.”
“That’s good,” he nodded toward the foreman across the yard. “because if you don’t, he starts throwing things.”
Ilya made a faint noise of amusement.
They worked in silence for a while.
After several more trips, Paul spoke again.
“You drink?”
Ilya glanced at him.
“Sometimes.”
Paul smiled.
“Good.”
They stepped into the warehouse, dropping another crate on the stack.
“There’s a decent place a few streets over,” Paul said.
Ilya wiped his palms against his coat.
“Okay.”
Paul crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You should come out with me tonight. I'll show you. Most of us go down there after work."
Ilya didn’t say anything.
Paul watched him for a moment.
Ilya met his gaze. "Maybe."
Paul nodded slowly. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“No.”
Paul shrugged.
“Fine with me.”
They walked back outside. Another wagon had arrived, already half unloaded by a group of men shouting over each other.
“Besides,” Paul added casually, “if you keep working this fast, I’m probably going to end up next to you all day anyway.”
Ilya glanced at him. “That would be unfortunate.”
Paul laughed loudly at that.
“See? You do have a sense of humor.”
~
The work continued for several hours.
More wagons arrived. More crates were unloaded. The cold wind coming from the direction of the freezing water bit at their faces, but the constant motion kept Ilya warm. His coat hung open now, sleeves pushed slightly up his forearms as he worked.
Eventually, the foreman’s voice cut through the yard.
“That’s enough for today! Out!”
The men around them slowed, some groaning quietly as they stretched their backs.
Paul rolled his shoulders with a quiet grunt.
“Well,” he said, glancing sideways at Ilya, “you survived your first day. How does it feel?”
Ilya glanced back. “It is only lifting.”
“Tell that to the three guys who quit before noon.”
Ilya's mouth twitched.
Paul jerked his head toward the street.
“Let's go."
Ilya gave him an incredulous look. “I did not say yes.”
Paul smirked. “You didn’t say ‘no’ either.”
He had already started walking.
Ilya hesitated.
For a moment, he considered going back to the house.
But his mother’s voice echoed in his mind.
You should go out.
You are driving me insane.
He sighed quietly, and followed Paul down the street.
~
The place Paul brought him to was only a few streets away from the harbor.
It was a small bar tucked between two brick buildings. Light spilled from the windows, and the muffled sound of laughter and music drifted out every time the door opened.
Paul pushed inside.
The place was crowded.
Dockworkers filled most of the room, their voices loud, slamming their glasses down on the small tables.
They stepped up to the bar, and Paul waved to the bartender like he had done this a hundred times before.
“Two beers please.”
Ilya leaned against the bar beside him.
The bartender slid the glasses towards them.
Paul pushed one to Ilya.
He took it.
For a few minutes, they drank in silence.
Paul gestured toward the room.
“See?” he said. “Much happier when we're not hauling crates.”
Ilya stared into his glass.
“It is loud.”
Paul glanced at him. “Well, yeah.”
Ilya looked up from his glass, and looked around the space.
It was cramped and dimly lit, the air thick with smoke and the sharp scent of spilled beer.
A record crackled faintly somewhere near the back, half drowned out by the noise of the dockworkers shouting at each other across the tables.
Chairs scraped against the floorboards as glasses clinked. A few couples had pushed the tables aside near the far wall, swaying to the music.
The entire room hummed with the restless energy of men blowing off the stress of a long day’s work.
A group of women sat at a table across from where he and Paul were standing.
One of them glanced toward the bar, looking away quickly, before she suddenly looked back.
Her eyes had landed on Ilya.
Paul noticed immediately.
“Oh, here we go.”
Ilya frowned slightly.
“What?”
Paul took a long sip of his beer.
“Don’t look now,” he said quietly, a smirk tugging at his lips, “but you’re about to become very popular.”
Ilya turned slightly.
Sure enough, a moment later, two of the women from the table approached them.
“Bonsoir,” one of them said brightly.
Paul gave a polite nod.
Her eyes moved immediately to Ilya.
“You’re not from here, are you?”
Ilya blinked.
“No.”
Paul covered his mouth behind the glass to hide his smile.
“Where are you from?” the second woman asked.
He tilted his head.
“Is not important.”
His accent gave him away.
They exchanged delighted looks.
One of the women leaned an elbow against the bar, pressing herself into Ilya’s side.
“You work at the docks?”
Ilya gave her a short nod.
Paul snorted softly.
Ilya shot him a look.
The women didn’t seem bothered by his curt answers.
If anything, it seemed to amuse them.
“You are very quiet,” the first one said.
“He's mysterious,” Paul said, nudging Ilya with his elbow.
Ilya was going to drown him in the harbor tomorrow for entertaining this madness.
The women laughed.
Another pair of girls from a nearby table drifted towards them.
Ilya stared down into his glass again.
He barely heard what the people around him were saying.
His thoughts had already drifted somewhere else.
Back to Ottawa.
Back to Shane.
He wondered what Shane was doing right now.
If he was sitting in the kitchen with Yuna and David.
Or if he was reading in his room.
The sound of laughter pulled him back.
One of the women was touching his sleeve.
Her friend was attempting to press herself against Paul, who raised both hands immediately.
“Sorry sweetheart,” he said, raising his glass at her. “I’m off the market.”
The women laughed again.
“So tragic,” the one that had been pursuing Paul teased.
Paul grinned, and clapped a hand on Ilya’s shoulder.
“But my mysterious friend here, is very available.”
Ilya looked at him in alarm.
“I did not say that.”
The women laughed even harder.
Paul leaned back against the bar, watching the whole scene with amusement.
Ilya was definitely going to kill him.
The girl tugged lightly at Ilya’s sleeve again.
“You should come dance.”
He hesitated.
For a moment, the noise of the bar faded.
He wanted more than anything to be anywhere else.
Home.
Back in Ottawa.
Lying in his bed, watching Shane as he slept across from him.
The steady rise and fall of his chest.
The way his hair fell over his eyes when he rolled onto his side.
But he wasn’t there.
He was here.
In a crowded bar in Montreal, with music blaring and strangers laughing around him.
Ilya swallowed.
That life was over.
Shane would wake up tomorrow, and the day after that, going about his life the way he always had.
Eventually, he would stop waiting for Ilya to walk back through the door.
Eventually, he would move on.
Find someone normal.
Someone who didn’t tangle him in the web of their fucked up life.
A nice girl.
The kind of woman who baked pies for the neighbors, and pressed Shane’s shirts for him before he went to work.
The kind of woman Shane would smile at across the breakfast table.
He would find a respectable job, get married, and have a couple of children.
He would live the life he was expected to.
Ilya could never have a life like that.
It hadn’t been written for him.
But Shane could.
It would be peaceful.
Normal.
Nothing like whatever the moment in their bedroom had been, before Ilya left.
Shane had been upset.
Anyone could have reached for the nearest person when everything felt like it was collapsing.
It hadn’t meant anything.
Shane would realize that soon enough, if he hadn't already.
And when he did, he would probably feel ashamed.
Maybe it was better that Ilya had left before that had happened.
Maybe it was better that Shane never had to look him in the eye, full of regret.
Ilya wouldn’t have survived it.
The sound of a glass slamming onto the bartop brought him back to the present, where the girl was still clutching his sleeve, waiting for his answer.
He cleared his throat, setting his own glass down on the bar.
“Alright.”
Paul smiled brightly.
“Atta boy.”
The girl smiled widely, and pulled him toward the small patch of open floor near the back of the bar.
The record crackled as it spun, the rhythm uneven beneath the noise of voices and clinking glasses.
The girl placed her hands on his shoulders without hesitation, pulling him close.
“You’re very tall,” she said, tilting her head up at him.
Ilya made a noncommittal noise.
He rested his hands lightly at her waist, moving when she moved.
Across the room, Paul leaned against the bar with his drink, watching the entire thing unfold with obvious delight.
Ilya kept his eyes on the girl in front of him, trying not to think about how much he wished he was staring into a different pair.
Darker. The color of coffee.
He snapped out of it.
The girl had said something, but Ilya hadn’t heard her.
He nodded along absently anyway, not wanting to be rude.
She smiled up at him.
“Forgive me if I am too forward, but you are quite handsome.”
Ilya blinked.
“Thank you,” he said automatically.
The girl smiled wider, clearly pleased.
She was quite beautiful. She had dark curls pinned loosely at the back of her head, and a small beauty mark near the corner of her mouth. She smelled faintly of perfume and cigarette smoke.
Nothing about her was unappealing, exactly.
And yet, he felt nothing when she touched him.
Not like he had when-
No.
He needed to stop.
Ilya tightened his grip slightly on the girl’s waist, forcing himself to relax.
He focused on the music, letting the rhythm guide the slow sway of the dance.
“You do not talk much,” she observed.
“Not really, no.”
The song ended a moment later, the needle crackling as the record skipped briefly before the next track began.
The girl squeezed Ilya’s arm lightly.
“You should come sit with us,” she said, nodding toward the table where her friends were gathered.
Ilya hesitated.
“I am going to go back to my friend. Thank you for the dance.”
He gently tugged his sleeve from her grip, and turned back toward the bar.
Paul was exactly where he had been before, leaning against the counter with his drink.
He raised a brow when Ilya approached.
Ilya picked up his beer again, and drained the rest of it in one swallow.
Paul whistled softly. “Dance was that bad?”
Ilya shook his head. “Was not the dance.”
The bartender slid another glass down the counter without being asked.
Paul passed it to him, and Ilya accepted gratefully.
For a while they stood there, the noise of the bar swelling around them.
Another song began.
The group of girls had returned to their table, but they kept glancing toward where Ilya stood.
Paul nudged him.
“You’ve got an audience.”
Ilya exhaled through his nose.
“I do not want an audience.”
Paul huffed a laugh.
Ilya rested his elbows on the counter behind him.
The warmth from the alcohol had spread slowly throughout his chest, dulling the ache that had been there since he’d left Ottawa.
Maybe if he kept drinking, he would stop thinking about the way Shane’s hands had gripped the front of his shirt that night.
About the look in his eyes before he had kissed him.
The memories pressed forward before he could stop it.
Ilya clenched his jaw.
He lifted his glass again, downing half of it in one sip.
Paul watched him quietly for a moment.
He jerked his chin toward the back door.
“Come on.”
Ilya glanced over.
“What?”
Paul reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes.
“You smoke?”
Ilya hesitated.
He had told himself he would stop.
He knew Shane hated the smell.
He supposed that didn’t matter anymore.
“Yes.”
Paul smirked and pushed away from the bar, heading toward the door.
Ilya followed him.
The alley behind the bar was narrow and dark, the snow along the edges grey with soot.
Paul leaned against the building and lit a cigarette, cupping the match against the wind.
He held the pack out towards Ilya.
He took one, and Paul lit it for him.
The first drag burned slightly.
Good.
For a few minutes they stood there in silence, smoke drifting into the night air.
“You alright?” Paul asked eventually.
Ilya nodded.
Paul raised a brow. “You look like you’re having a terrible time, for a guy surrounded by half the women in the bar.”
Ilya huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”
He flicked the ash growing on his cigarette into the snow.
Paul studied him.
“You got someone or something? Back home?”
Ilya didn’t answer.
Paul nodded slightly, like that confirmed everything.
“She pretty?” he asked.
Ilya’s mouth twitched faintly.
Paul caught the reaction immediately, and grinned.
“Ah. That’s a yes.”
Ilya looked down at his shoes.
Paul took another drag of his cigarette, and flicked the ash into the snow.
“What’s her name?”
Ilya thought for a moment before answering.
“Jane.”
Paul hummed in acknowledgement. “Nice name. My girl's Margaret.”
Ilya nodded.
“That is also nice name.”
“Margie, though,” Paul said, pausing to take another drag. “She hates when people call her Margaret.”
He leaned his shoulder against the wall, boots crunching lightly in the snow.
“Been together three years now.”
Ilya glanced at him.
“That is long time.”
“Yeah,” Paul said, smiling softly. “Started dating right after I finished school.”
He flicked ash into the snow again.
“Everybody expects us to get married any day now.”
Ilya studied him.
There had been a hint of emotion in his voice when he'd spoken, but Ilya couldn't place what it was.
“Do you want to marry her?” he asked.
Paul stared at the brick in front of them.
“I do,” he answered. “But honestly, I don’t think I’m the one she really wants that with.”
Ilya watched the smoke drift from the end of his cigarette.
“Why stay?” he asked simply.
Paul looked at him like the answer should have been obvious.
“Because I love her.”
Paul tossed the cigarette onto the ground, and crushed it under his boot.
“Never felt like that about anyone before,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets.
“So I figure… even if she drives me insane sometimes, it’s still worth it.”
Ilya said nothing.
Paul glanced at him again, squinting slightly through the dim light coming from the bar’s back door.
“What about you?”
Ilya looked away.
“It is… complicated.”
“Complicated.” Paul repeated.
Ilya nodded.
Paul dug another cigarette from the pack and lit it, before offering it to Ilya again.
He took one.
“You two fight?” Paul asked.
Ilya shook his head, cigarette between his lips.
“Not really.”
“Distance, then?”
Something like that.
“Yes.”
Paul nodded.
“That’ll do it.”
He leaned back against the wall again, exhaling slowly.
“You know,” he said, “Margie and I tried that once.”
Ilya glanced at him.
“For about three months,” Paul continued. “Her aunt got sick out west, so she went to stay with her. Longest three months of my life.”
“How was it when she came back?”
Paul smiled sadly.
“She acted like it hadn’t been a big deal.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Walked off the train smiling, like nothing had happened. Didn’t even write half as much as she promised she would.”
Paul looked at him.
“Do you write to this girl?” he asked.
Ilya’s chest tightened.
“No.”
“Not even once?”
Ilya exhaled.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Ilya pondered over the question for a moment.
Truth be told, he didn’t have to answer.
He could tell Paul to fuck off, or he could stay quiet, like he’d always done when faced with a difficult conversation.
But this time, he needed to talk about it.
He felt like he’d suffocate if he kept it inside of himself any longer.
“She does not want me.”
Paul scoffed. “I find that very hard to believe, after seeing what happened the second we walked in there.”
He jerked his head in the direction of the bar as he spoke.
Ilya let out a quiet laugh.
“I love her.”
Paul raised a brow, whistling softly.
“Wow.”
Ilya took a long drag of his cigarette, coughing slightly.
“But I can never tell her.”
Paul’s eyes searched his face.
“Why not?”
Ilya ran a hand through his hair.
“It would not change anything.”
He paused, then added-
“It would only make everything worse.”
Paul didn’t say anything for a moment.
“That sounds complicated,” he said finally.
Ilya let out a quiet laugh.
“I told you.”
Paul shoved his hands back into his coat pockets.
“Well,” he said, nodding toward the door behind them. “Drinking probably won’t fix anything.”
He paused.
“But it usually helps a little.”
Ilya nodded.
“That is what I am hoping.”
Paul smirked.
“Good.”
He pushed the door open.
The noise of the bar spilled into the alley, the warm air washing over them as they stepped back inside.
The place was even louder now.
They returned to the bar, and the bartender slid two fresh beers toward them.
Paul lifted his glass.
“To complicated women,” he said dryly.
Ilya stared at him for a moment.
Then he lifted his own glass.
“To complicated women.”
They clinked their glasses together, and took a long drink.
Across the room, the group of girls noticed them again.
One of them lifted a hand, wiggling her fingers at Ilya.
Paul elbowed him.
“Your fan club seems glad that you're back.”
Ilya groaned quietly as Paul laughed.
For the next few hours, the noise of the bar was almost enough to drown out the thoughts in his head.
Almost.