Chapter Text
The day was rainy and windy. It was the beginning of an utterly unenthusiastic autumn that had no motivation to be as strong and blazing as the summer it was supposed to relieve.
So instead of golden colours and majestic dawns, there were leaves that turned brown too quickly and the sun hiding behind a colourless wall of clouds the whole time.
Nikolai thought it was slightly undignified. If autumn wanted to be nasty so badly, at least it should try to do it right: thick banks of fog, hiding everything and everyone. Winds that were strong enough to knock a grown man over. Just something with a little…flair.
It all just lacked proper decorum and drive.
He turned his thoughts away from the weather and back to the dinner he was supposed to be eating.
"They should have arrived a while ago", his mother said, frowning.
"The rain probably makes it hard to drive", Darya said diplomatically.
Warwara Petrovna tch'd and continued eating.
Stepan Trofimovich had left three days ago for Moscow to pick up his son from his sister. Nikolai had vaguely known of the existence of the boy, the same way he knew that Pluto existed: it was a fact of live but had nothing to do with him.
So it had genuinely surprised him (and the rest of the house hold members, including Stepan Trofimovich) when Warwara Petrovna had announced that it was only natural to bring the boy to Skvoreshniki, and that a boy should grow up with his father, etc. pp.
Nikolai did not understand it, but he did not understand many of his mother's decisions lately. Perhaps it was some sort of Midlife-Crisis, but she had decided that she and Stepan Trofimovich should marry. Nikolai did not know why exactly she thought a marriage necessary (years of friendship seemed to prove it needless), but he also had no problem with it.
The wedding had been a very small ceremony ("There's no need to make a fuss at our age!") and not much had changed after it. Stepan Trofimovich had moved into the old bedroom of Nikolai's late father, maximising the amount of time he spent in the Stavrogin house hold from half-days to full days. He had the decency (and good instinct) to not try to make any major changes or try to act as head of the household, so he got integrated smoothly into the daily routine.
They had written to their school and now Stepan would no longer teach Nikolai, Darya and Ivan, and that was the only major thing that would change. Nikolai had no doubt that the old man would still find opportunities to spread his knowledge among the youth of the house.
Why exactly the household needed another addition, Nikolai did not know, though he had a strong suspicion that his mother wanted the boy here for the same reason she had adopted Darya and Ivan years ago: to make the house more lively, and to force him, Nikolai, to make friends.
It amused and annoyed him in equal parts that his mother was so concerned about him being alone.
He had reasonable doubts, though, if the new boy would change anything. From what Stepan had said, his son had lived in France with his mother, Stepan's first wife, for most of his life, and only a year ago had come to Russia. And he had only moved to Russia because his mother had died, so Nikolai doubted that he was in a very cheery disposition.
Stepan had brought the boy to Moscow, to his sister, reasoning that he was, as a single man, unfit to raise the boy. Now that excuse was obviously shattered, and Nikolai could tell that Stepan was uncomfortable at the idea of having to raise his own offspring.
The doorbell rang.
All four people around the table - Nikolai, his mother, Darya and Ivan - perked up at the noise. There was a momentary confusion, then Warwara Petrovna said: "Ivan, get the door, please. Darya, tell Marya to bring two more plates, they will surely be hungry."
The siblings obeyed, while Warwara Petrovna wiped over her mouth with a napkin. Then she stood up and went towards the hallway. Nikolai followed her.
He heard how Stepan was greeting Ivan, and when they reached the hallway, Stepan had already taken off his coat and shoes while Ivan carried a big suitcase.
Stepan stepped forward and took Warwara Petrovna's hand, pressing a kiss to it, before he began: "Mon Cher, you would not believe how bad the streets are, and the rain was terrible, simply terrible -"
"I am sure", Warwara interrupted him in her usual brisk manner. "Well, I am glad you two have made it. Where is…"
Stepan Trofimovich got the hint and turned around to grab the boy who had been standing behind him. Nikolai looked over his mother's shoulder, Darya at the other side of Watwara Petrovna looked curious as well.
"Here, Pyotr, Petrusha. My son."
The boy was….petite.
It was the first word to come to Nikolai's mind. Pyotr was rather small and skinny, certainly not taller than Ivan. His hair was blond, lighter than Stepan's, and speckled with raindrops. A few strands of hair curled over his brow, and together with the blushing cheeks, the shy smile and the slightly glazed eyes the impression was…cherubic.
Pyotr looked almost grotesquly innocent. A Dickensian orphan escaped from the pages.
"Well", Warwars Petrovna said, the first to catch herself. "Pyotr Stepanovich. How very nice to meet you." She cleared her throat, apparently noticing how overly formal she sounded, and continued a bit softer: "I hope you will like it here, Pyotr."
The boy nodded so enthusiastically that it made him look a little stupid, and then pulled a little notebook from his pocket. Everyone except Stepan Trofimovich looked on in confusion as the boy presented a page which read: I am so happy to be here. Nice to meet you.
Warwara Petrovna, obviously flabbergasted by such childish and impertinent behaviour, looked from the page to Stepan Trofimovich.
"What exactly is going on here?"
Stepan Trofimovich coughed, uncomfortable. "Well, Mon Ange, you see…the boy lost his mother only a year ago…and the move to Russia…and considering he was always a bit fragile…it's not a wonder, but of course…"
"Stepan Trofimovich, I would really appreciate it if you could speak clearly." Warwara Petrovna glanced at the boy again. He was still smiling, and Nikolai thought it was almost gleefull.
Stepan wrung his hands. His gaze wandered over Darya, then Ivan, and finally stopped at Nikolai, obviously pleading for help. Since Nikolai had no idea what was going on, he answered the gaze with indifference.
Disapointed, Stepan turned back to Nikolai's mother and finally said, apologetically: "I am afraid…my son has decided not to speak anymore."