Chapter Text
Moscow was a tiny town tucked away in the middle of nothing in the American Heartland. It was named by Russian immigrants, and even to this day, everyone in town, no matter their race, colour, or creed, had at least one Russian ancestor at some point in their family history. The town had been founded by immigrants during the Great Depression fleeing the Stalin’s purges, and since the 1950s had been fairly peaceful.
Dr. Natalya Ilychna Rostova, or Natasha to friends and family, had been born in Moscow. She’d grown up there, under the watchful gaze of several guardians, with her cousin at her side through most adventures. She’d left after the Incident which had branded her a hussy to many of the townsfolk, though her godmother Marya assured her this was not the case. Sonya, said cousin, had left with Natasha so she wouldn’t be alone. That was the only reason Natasha was returning to this godforsaken town.
The train screeched to a stop, and Natasha peered through the slatted boards. The station sign read ‘Moscow’, so she rose from the box she had been perched on, cracked her back, and shook Sonya’s shoulder so that she’d pay attention. “We’re there.”
Sonya looked up from her binder stuffed with wedding plans. “Wh… we are? Already?”
“It’s been three hours.” Natasha smiled. “Come on, let’s get our luggage.”
They collected it, then helped the railway workers open the door. Moscow was a small town, but not large enough for passenger trains. If you wanted to come by train, you needed to buy a ticket to the nearest city (depending on the direction), then bribe a railway worker to let you sit in a cargo car for hours on end.
Sonya blinked at the sunlight, nearly bumping into a tall blond man. "Oh, I'm so sorry..."
“Well hello—” He purred, before stiffening at the sight of Natasha. “…Natalie. What a pleasant surprise.”
Natasha crossed her arms. “Kuragin. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Anatole Kuragin, instigator of the Incident, sniffed. “I’m here to get the glasses for the bar I ordered.”
Natasha remembered seeing that box. She really wished she’d kicked it during the three hours in that stupid boxcar. “What bar, Kuragin?”
Anatole huffed, and crossed his arms as well. “Feddy and I own a bar, Natalie. The only bar in town, now that Doc’s is closed.”
"How would I know that?" Natasha asked
Sonya tugged on Natasha’s arm. “Let’s not do this. Marya should be waiting for us, remember?”
Anatole looked genuinely frightened. “Marya? As in Marya Akhrosimova? She’s here?”
“She should be.” Natasha agreed. “She said she’d pick us up.”
Anatole paled even further, which was quite a feat given his Slavic features. “I’ve suddenly remembered I have urgent business to attend to.” He grabbed his box and ran out of sight. Natasha heard him yell, “FEDDY, START THE CAR WE NEED TO GO!”
Sonya sighed. “I don’t see her anywhere. Do you think Anatole was supposed to pick us up and forgot?”
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Marya’s emails show she doesn’t have a very high opinion of him after what happened. Let’s call her.”
Sonya quickly dug her phone out of her purse while Natasha kept an eye out for Marya, or even Balaga, the town’s only taxi driver, knowing her phone was buried under a mountain of her clutter.
Sonya soon put away her phone again. “It’s dead.”
“Guess we’re walking through town.” Natasha sighed. “Thank God we got rolling bags.”
Sonya grinned. “I told you it was a good idea. Maybe we shouldn’t have driven off Anatole though.”
“We did nothing. Kuragin ran away on his own.” Natasha said firmly. “Let’s go before he comes back.”
Sonya bit her lip, clearly thinking through the terrible idea, but nodded. There was only one road out to Marya’s house—they’d either run into her on the way, or they wouldn’t. However, beyond the sun and the dust, the whispers of the townsfolk that they passed were also annoying.
“What do you think they’re saying?” Sonya asked.
“Those two remarkably pretty girls have not been seen in Moscow for many years.” Natasha quipped. “Everyone knows vaguely about your engagement. One of the finest matches in all of America.”
Sonya laughed. “Stop, Ginnie isn’t even American.”
“I mean. She’s named after an American state. That’s pretty American. It’s like you’re marrying Hannah Montana, it’s great.”
They passed Balaga, who shrugged nonchalantly at them, sitting on a stoop outside Bolkonsky’s general store smoking a cheap cigarette.
Natasha threw her arms in the air. “Come on, man! This is the kind of stuff you live for! Ripping off shitty tourists!”
He flicked the butt towards the bushes. The window immediately opened and someone sprayed a fire extinguisher on them as they caught on fire. Judging by the state of the other bushes around the store, this was a common occurrence. “You’re not tourists, Natalya. I drove your parents to the County Hospital for you, Nikolai, and Vera. I drove your cousin’s parents to the hospital as well—how are you, Sofia?”
“Good.” Sonya remarked. After a pause, she said, “Hot. Can we have a ride?”
“I’m on my break.” Balaga said quickly.
Sonya pulled on Natasha’s arm before she could raise a certain rude salute. “Thanks anyway, Mr. Balaga. Have a nice day.”
“You too, Sofia!” He called as they trudged down the road.
“My only consolation is that I’m wearing good shoes. And I only planned it that way because I wasn’t going to be stuck in a boxcar in heels.” Natasha muttered.
Sonya nudged her gently, which was really as she could do, given the way that they were moving the bags. “Hey. Where’d my adventurous cousin go?”
Natasha sighed. “I don’t like this town. It’s full of terrible memories.”
“And fun ones.” Sonya insisted.
Natasha smiled weakly. “Yeah, I guess. But I grew up. I’m not that little girl anymore.”
Sonya shrugged, and made a face that suggested that she would have stuck out her tongue if not for the dust all around them. “You need to get out of the hospital more. There’s more to life than work.”
“I thought you wanted me to get more mature.” Natasha remarked, clearly amused.
Sonya pursed her lips. “Not like this. I never wanted… you never should have gone through… you know, it’s going to be hard not to strangle Anatole Kuragin while we’re here.”
Natasha finally laughed. “Oh, thank God, I thought it was just me.”
Sonya grinned. “Please, he’s got the most punchable face I’ve ever seen! What did you ever see in that guy?”
“I don’t know, I was in high school, lay off.” Natasha stuck out her tongue, and immediately brought back in a lot of the dust. Sonya covered her smile while Natasha desperately spat out the dirt.
Natasha shot her cousin a look, but then cracked a smile herself. It was nice to see Sonya calm instead of worried over the wedding, for once. They made their way to Marya’s house, the last one before hitting the prairie and fields that surrounded the town. For reasons beyond Natasha’s understanding, Sonya had always found them enchanting, which was why she and Virginie had decided to get married in Moscow, U.S.A.
Nonetheless, they did not stray into the tall grass at this time, instead pausing to ring the rusted doorbell of the Akhrosimova house, which had undergone only the most minor of changes since being built. After Natasha had rung the bell and no one came to the door, Sonya seized the brass knocker and banged it on the door.
Natasha flinched at the loud noise, but it seemed to have worked as they heard movement inside. A few minutes later, Helene Kuragin opened the door, dressed in a green satin negligee with a matching silk see-through robe.
Sonya stared, open-mouthed, mostly distressed at the fact that it was the other Kuragin rather than Marya, who had practically raised them, despite being only twelve years older. Natasha was more worried about the fact that is was Anatole’s terrible sister.
“What have you done with Marya?” Natasha demanded.
Sonya nodded firmly. “Where is she?”
Helene cocked her head. “No hello? Fine, I’ll answer your questions. We’re not at anal yet—”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” Natasha huffed, crossing her arms. "Also, gross I don't need to know about Marya's sex life."
Helene shrugged. “But mine's fine....? Anyway, she’s in the garden. I’m a little insulted she didn’t mention me, I’ll go with you to yell at her.”
“What makes you think we want to yell at Marya?” Sonya said, jutting her chin in a way that Natasha had always assumed was meant to be intimidating, but never really had been.
Helene leaned against the doorframe. “Given how dusty you look, and how Anatole kept having everyone remind him that the glasses were coming in today at eleven am, while Marya has a Post-It note on the fridge saying to pick you up at one pm, I think I can guess what happened.”
“An honest mistake.” Natasha said, acutely aware of the dust covering her pants, and the sweat running down the back of her neck.
Helene shrugged again. “Sure, but you should still tell her you’re here. Come on, I’ll help you with your bags.”
True to her word, Helene helped them pull the bags up the stairs and squeeze them through the thin doorframe. (Ilya Akhrosimova, builder of the house, had purposefully bought a thin door and doorframe to save money. It hadn’t made much difference either way, given that none of his family had received sufficient nutrition for it to be an issue, though his granddaughter Marya was in fact much taller than any previous Akhrosimova on record.)
Helene then slipped on flip flops (Natasha could only guess where she’d gotten them), and led them through the kitchen to the back garden. Marya was over by the fence, apparently planting tomatoes, and Helene walked over gracefully, squatting by her. “Almost done?” She asked congenially.
Natasha almost turned to go back in the house and get some lemonade. This would clearly take a while.
“Helene, I know what you’re asking.” Marya said. The girls could nearly hear the smirk in her voice. Sonya was beginning to think she should join Natasha.
“Anyway, I can’t. I need to go pick up the girls after I’m done.” Marya continued.
Helene pouted. “You haven’t even mentioned me to them.”
“That’s not true, I said that you would be the best person in town to ask if Sonya doesn’t have a wedding dress yet.” Marya said. “I stand by that.”
Helene sighed, exasperated. “You didn’t tell them I’m living with you.”
Marya grew still. “I’m not going to ask how you know that, but I’ll tell them in the car. Don’t want to spring it on them.”
Helene turned and pointedly looked at Natasha and Sonya.
“I’m not walking all the way back to the train station, Helene.” Natasha said firmly.
Marya whipped around, and looked ashamed. “You’re early!”
Sonya grimaced. “The train came in at 11.”
Marya rose, and brushed the dirt from her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
Natasha waved her off. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
“Water under the bridge.” Sonya agreed.
Natasha waved her hand near her face in a futile attempt to fan herself. “My cheeks are glowing from the heat, aren’t they? Besides, I think you could use a break too. It’s hot out here, and by the looks of it, you haven’t gone inside in a while.”
Marya cracked a smile. “You’re already thinking about the home-squeezed lemonade, aren’t you? Well… Helene… clothes?”
“Oh, right.” Helene said. “…pants?”
“Please.” Marya agreed.
“Can’t believe you’re saying that.” Helene teased, kissing Marya as she walked away.
Marya led the girls into the kitchen, and took out four glasses from the cupboard. Sonya and Natasha sat at the table.
“So…” Sonya began, glancing in the direction Helene had gone, even if Marya's back was to them.
Marya removed the jug of lemonade from the fridge. “So?”
“You and a Kuragin?” Natasha pressed. Marya had always made her disdain for Kuragins following the Incident quite clear.
Marya poured the lemonade, then turned around, passing them each a glass. Her pale complexion did her no favors here. “I… Helene has never hurt me, or you. At least not directly. She’s sweet, not that she shows it openly. She’s passionate, which she does. She makes me laugh, and she makes me smile and thank God that she not only exists, but that I get to be near her.”
Sonya smiled. “I think I understand. My fiancee isn’t exactly the same as Helene, but I know you feel the same way about her as I do Ginnie.”
Natasha smiled wanly. She wanted to feel happy for Sonya, of course she did. But something dark curled in the pit of her stomach—jealousy of having someone just there for you like Marya and Sonya did, the feeling of being left out while they gushed about their lovers. Perhaps even the fear of not spending as much time with them, their platonic affection for her being replaced by romantic attachments.
Natasha sipped her lemonade and vaguely wondered whether she should have just become a psychologist.