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Yevgeny shouldn’t be here.
He stands across the street from the house, chewing on his thumbnail, watching. The house is nice, two-story, made of old-looking red bricks with like a billion windows. There are toys in the front yard, one of those little fake mechanical cars that Yev once begged his mom for and a swing set with a pirate flag hanging above the slide, white canvas with a skull and crossbones painted on it. There’s also a dog lying on the front porch, some kind of pitbull mix, with its head laying on its outstretched paws, staring at Yevgeny with too-intelligent brown eyes.
He should leave.
But he can’t get his feet to work, his boots melting into the sidewalk, keeping him there, staring like a dumbass. Someone is going to look out of a window soon and call the fucking cops on him, on the weird punk standing alone in some semi-nice neighborhood, watching someone’s house. They’ll probably think he’s casing the joint, deciding whether or not anything inside would be worth stealing. If he were anywhere else, if it was anyone else’s house, he probably would. But Yev thinks it might be kind of fucked up to steal from his dad, even if he hasn’t seen the guy since he was a toddler.
He has vague memories of his father, of orange jumpsuits and someone calling him little man in an almost fond voice, but he thinks most of the memories might actually be from his mom telling him stories late at night. She didn’t talk about Mikhailo Milkovich much, and when she did most of it was referring to him as a piece of shit or a little Ukrainian pussy, but Yev latched onto every word she said, aching to hear more. He googled the man a little while after his mom died, found mugshots and news stories about prison escapes, and, after some digging and a few phone calls to his mom’s cousins spread around Chicago, found an address.
Mikhailo Aleksandr Milkovich lived in the Westside of Chicago, over a thousand miles from Miami, with his husband and three kids. Yev’s cousin Sasha watched them while Yev worked long enough to afford a bus ticket. Mikhailo’s husband is tall, alien-looking redhead, his hair violently orange instead of copper like Yev’s. The three kids are all adopted, probably, a girl no older than ten with blonde hair and a pair of twins with tan skin and curly, black hair, probably four or five. Sasha never got close enough to hear their names, and apparently, Yev’s father is allergic to social media, so Yev has no idea who he’s working with. Mikhailo’s husband could be a douchebag for all Yevgeny knows. Mikhailo could be a douchebag. According to Yev’s mother, he is.
But he’s Yevegeny’s dad. Even if he doesn’t talk to the man, Yev wants to see him.
He digs through his pockets for a pack of cigarettes, lighting up in the middle of the street, some lady with a stroller side-eyeing him. He flips her off, grinning when her face shifts to something disgusted. That’s what he knows how to deal with. Growing up in the South, even though it was a big city, filled with thousands of immigrants, Yev got used to the looks. Up until middle school, he spoke Russian better than English, and he’s never been able to get rid of the accent he picked up from his mother. He’s been called every name under the sun, commie bastard, red-blooded scum, shit like that. He even had a kid in his freshman algebra class ask if he was a Russian spy, like it was the fucking seventies or some shit. Teachers made fun of his names, stumbled over Yevgeny Milkovich and asked if he had a middle name to go by. But Mikhailo wasn’t any easier for the damn rednecks to say, Yevgeny became Yev pretty early on in life.
He stands there on the sidewalk for another ten minutes, just watching, smoking. He makes it through three cigarettes by the time the front door opens, when a short, stocky man with dark hair comes stomping onto the porch with a giggling little kid hanging off one of his arms. He’s not looking at Yev, focused on keeping the kid from falling down while he tries to coax the sleeping pitbull into the house. “Baz, come on, man,” Yev hears him say, even from across the street. “It’s cold as fuck and BJ’s gonna eat all your food if you don’t get your lazy ass in here.”
But the dog ignores the man, too busy boring its eyes into Yevgeny’s soul.
“Who’s that, Papa?” Yev hears the little kid ask, and, suddenly, a pair of blue eyes identical to his own are looking right at him, brows furrowed, face shifting into a confused scowl. Yevgeny feels something that might be freezing cold dread climbing up his throat, his skin turning even whiter than it already is.
He’s not ready for this.
“Hey, kid!” the man calls out, but Yevgeny has already spun on his heel and ran.
***
Yev ends up staying in Chicago.
He gets a job at a diner, tells them he’s eighteen instead of sixteen, stays in a shitty motel on the Southside that’s cheap enough for him to afford but not so bad that he has to move the dresser in front of the door while he sleeps like he had to at that one place in Tennessee. There’s nothing for him to go back to in Florida, no friends, no family, so he sticks around. He still goes to Mikhailo’s house every now and then, but only a night, sitting with his back resting on a random car on the street, hiding in case someone comes outside. He doesn’t have the balls to knock on the door.
It’s well past midnight about a month after Yev starts working at the diner when Yev meets Ian Gallagher.
Yevgeny usually works during the day, but every other Saturday he works the night shift, from seven am to seven pm for the extra pay. Business is usually slow past ten, so he’s sitting on the counter, kicking his feet and laughing at Gary dancing in the kitchen when a tall redhead and a shorter man with sand-colored hair walk in. They sit themselves in one of the booths in the corner. They’re in Edna’s, the old lady who Yev is convinced is actually a mob boss or something in disguise, section, so Yev ignores them, stuffing his face with the fries sitting next to him instead. They’re greasy as fuck, but they’re too good for Yevgeny to care. He’s lost weight recently anyways, his stocky muscle fading into mostly skin and bones.
Nathan, the night-shift manager, emerges from his lair, the office in the very back corner of the kitchen, drunk as a skunk, stumbling his way to the cash register to count the cash. Ever since he learned Yevgeny’s last name, he’s been extra vigilant about the money. Apparently, the name Milkovich means bad news around here, even though Yev told the guy he’s never been to Chicago before (a lie) and that he’s from Moscow (another lie) to get him off his back.
“Shithead,” Nathan calls when he’s finished at the register, his speech slurred. He points at the booth in the corner, at the two men looking over menus in silence. “Why the fuck haven’t you taken their order?”
Yev shrugs, shoving another handful of fries into his mouth. “Not my section,” he says around the mouthful of food. “They are Edna’s problem.”
“Edna went home,” Nathan tells him. “Her husband had a stroke or some shit. Go take their order.”
Yevgeny checks his watch, wondering what deity he pissed off to have to deal with this guy. “I’m taking smoke break,” he announces, hopping off the counter. “Do it yourself.”
“Now, Milkovich,” Nathan says, pointing once again at the corner, the two men now looking at Yevgeny with curious eyes. “Or I’m taking your tips.”
“That’s illegal,” Yevgeny says, but he grabs his little fucking notepad from his apron pocket, moving to the other side of the counter. He can’t afford it if Nathan actually takes his tips, or worse, docks his pay. This shift is the only thing letting him pay for his room this week.
Nathan flips him the bird, disappearing back into the kitchen.
“Eat shit and die, fuckface!” Yev calls after him. The two men in the booth stare at him with wide eyes when he stomps over to them, the redhead’s eyes shifting across his face like he knows it, mouth agape. “What do you want?” Yevgeny asks them, fingers pulling on the chain around his neck, ignoring the way that the men’s gazes bore into him.
“Uhm,” the blond man says, and the two of them stumble over orders, still looking shell-shocked. When Yev walks away, they start whispering harshly at one another, glancing at Yevgeny every now and then. The redhead looks sort of like he’s seen a ghost. When Yevgeny brings them their food, the blond one tries to ask him something, but Yev tunes him out, slipping out of the back door as soon as they start eating.
He slides down onto his ass in the alleyway, frantically pulling out the vape in his pocket, too lazy to find a lighter for his cigs. His hands shake, for some fucking reason, and he feels like he might explode. That guy, he’s gotten into Yevgeny’s head. Looking at him like that, like he knows who Yev is. It’s unnerving, and Yevgeny has no idea what’s going on.
The two men are gone by the time Yevgeny comes back inside.
***
Two weeks later, the redhead returns.
But he isn’t alone.
Yevgeny is moping when they show up, cursing under his breath, glaring at the door to Nathan’s office, willing it to catch on fire. The motherfucker had been on his case ever since he walked in, breathing down his neck, giving him orders like they’re in the goddamn army. He’s cleaned the bathroom, cleaned the grease off the kitchen floor, scrubbing the counters till his arms ached. “What crawled up your ass and died?” Gary asks, walking back into the kitchen after his smoke break, catching Yevgeny’s glare.
“Your fucking mom,” Yev retorts childishly, shaking the mop a bit so that the dirty water splashes him.
Gary rolls his eyes, flipping Yevgeny off. “Whatever, asshole,” he says. He points over his shoulder into the dining room. “You got a customer. Remember to be nice.”
“Fuck you.”
Yev cleans his hands, focusing downwards, fiddling with his rings, while he walks out front. “Table six,” Edna tells him, leaning against the counter, scrolling on her phone like her tables aren’t full. There was some sports game or something, Yev assumes. That’s the only time the place is this full at night.
Yevgeny retrieves his notepad from where he left it on the counter, stopping for a few seconds to chat with Joey, one of the regulars who comes in for a stack of pancakes and pours whiskey into his coffee. When Yev finally makes his way over to table six over by one of the big windows in the front, he stops in his tracks.
It’s the redhead again, staring at Yevgeny with those same wide-eyes he had last time, chewing on his fingernails, his long legs bouncing up and down under the table. Beside him, Mikhailo Milkovich stares at Yevgeny like he’s seen a ghost.
Shit.
Yevgeny bolts. It’s the only thing he can think to do, a million possibilities flashing through his mind as he runs towards the backroom, grabbing his jacket and pushing open the door that’s technically only supposed to be an emergency exit. An alarm blares as soon as he opens it, stumbling into the alley, ignoring the yelling behind him. A rough voice calls out his name, and, fuck, they know who he is. He’s screwed.
He’s already forming a plan when he runs onto the street. Get his shit from the motel, use the little bit of cash in his pockets for a bus ticket, and get the fuck out of Chicago, maybe hide out at his Uncle Alexi’s place in Indiana for a few weeks, just until he can find somewhere to go. Yeah, he tells himself, that’ll work. It has to.
But then someone grabs him by the arm, pulling him to a halt in the middle of the crowded sidewalk.
“Yevgeny,” the person says, and then Yev is face to face with his father.
***
They stand there for hell knows how long, just staring at each other, Mikhailo clutching Yevgeny’s arm and Yev clutching his jacket. Yevgeny has seen his father’s face before, in the mugshots that come up whenever you google Mikhailo Milkovich, knows that he looks a lot like the man, but standing up close, the similarities are almost scary. They have the same color eyes, a bright shade of blue that Yev has heard girls compare to the ocean, but Yev’s are more pointed, cat-like, like his mother’s, and Yev’s nose is sharper than his, but other than that, they’re nearly identical. Yev looks like a ginger version of the man in front of him, and it’s fucking freaky.
Mikhailo is staring at him, his grip on Yev’s bicep never loosening, like he’s scared Yevgeny is going to bolt again if he lets go even a little bit. “Holy shit,” he says, breathless. “Yevgeny?”
Yev shakes his head, tries to pull his arm free, but Mikhailo is stronger than he is and Yevgeny ends up looking like an idiot, sort of falling into Mikhailo and pulling himself away at the same time.
“You- You have wrong person,” Yev tries, making his accent thicker, looking away from the man.
“I’ve seen you before,” Mikhailo says, giving Yev an unimpressed look, raising an eyebrow in the same way Yev does when he’s challenging someone. “You’ve got my face, kid.”
Yev shakes his head, trying again to pull himself away. This time, Mikhailo lets go, and Yevgeny stumbles away from him, tugging on his jacket, letting the old leather swallow him whole, keeping him safe. “I don’t- I can’t-”
“Kid-”
“No.” Yevgeny tries to sound firm, his voice shaking as much as his hands. He shoves his hands in his pockets to hide the trembling, but his shoulders shake against the wind, that familiar feeling of angry, violent anxiety climbing up his throat. It claws at his insides, eats him alive. Because that’s Mikhailo Milkovich looking at him, his father, the man who’s the reason he exists, the same man who’s been absent the past thirteen years of his life, who didn’t even look for him. He can’t do this, he’s not ready. He came all the way to Chicago, but he’s a fucking pussy and this is too much.
Yevgeny looks at his father one last time, and, then, he makes a run for it.
***
“Yevgeny!” Mickey calls, but the kid is gone, his little orange head somehow disappearing into the sea of people who are, for some fucking reason, bustling about at almost midnight. “Fuck!” Mickey yells, pushing his way through the crowd, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of brown leather or red hair.
When Ian came home two weeks before swearing he saw a kid who looked just like Mickey at that twenty-four hour diner close to Debbie’s apartment, Mickey thought his husband was losing it. But then Ian described him- his copper colored hair, stocky build, chains hanging off his neck and studs in his nose and ears. Mickey realized Ian was talking about that kid, the one that he spotted standing across from the house a few weeks before, cigarette smoke spilling from his lips, fists curled up, eyes wide enough to see even from the porch. Mickey had seen him through the windows, going outside to get the damn dog in but mostly to make sure the little fucker wasn’t staking his house. They might not be Southside anymore, but Mickey still knows what to look for, and that kid was being shady as fuck, standing out there for god knows how long just fucking watching the house.
Now Mickey wishes he wouldn’t have let the kid run, that first time. Maybe, if he would’ve walked closer, talked to him, Yevgeny could be his right now. Instead, the kid is fucking gone, like he has been for the past thirteen years.
When they got out of prison and got their shit together, Ian wanted to find the kid, see if Svetlana would even think about letting them around. But they couldn’t find anything. The number Ian had from when Lana lived with the Balls long out of use, the address on the singular letter she sent Mickey in prison fake. They tried, looked her and the kid’s names up on every fucking database they could find. Fucking nothing. Mickey’s not even sure what name is on Yevgeny’s birth certificate , if his last name is Milkovich or whatever Russian clusterfuck of a surname Svetlana had. Legally, Mickey might not even be his father.
“Fuck,” he curses. “Fucking- Shit!” Mickey’s not a pissy little teenager anymore, he’s in his fucking thirties with three - four - goddamn kids, but right now, he feels like lashing out, punching some motherfucker in the face, kicking down a wall, screaming at the top of his lungs. He doesn’t, though, because he’s mature and all that shit now, just presses his palms against his eyes and takes deep, shuddering breaths.
Ian. He needs to find Ian.
He circles back to the diner, where his husband is grilling the disinterested old lady behind the counter. She’s staring at him like he’s a dumbass, chewing on her gum, hand on her hip. “I don’t know where Shithead lives,” she says, her bored eyes shifting to Mickey when he walks up behind Ian, placing his hand on his husband’s back. “On the streets for all I know.”
“He’s fucking sixteen,” Ian says, his grip on the dirty, red countertop so tight that his knuckles are white. “You have to have some sort of paperwork.”
The lady shrugs, digging her phone out of one of her apron pockets. “He said he was eighteen.”
“Bullshit,” Mickey says. “Motherfucker looks like he’s twelve.”
Ian takes a deep breath, his grip on the counter somehow turning even tighter, grounding himself. They’re both calmer people now, but this is their fucking kid they’re talking about - because no matter how many years it’s been, Ian loved that kid like his own, even more than Mickey did in the beginning. “Is there anyone who might know where he’s at?”
The waitress rolls her eyes, turning around to scream into the kitchen. “Gary! Where does the little Russian live?”
There’s some incoherent yelling from the kitchen, a mixture of English and Spanish that doesn’t make any sense, but the woman seems to understand.
“The motel by the Walmart. Over on Sixth,” she says, and the husbands hurriedly thank her, running onto the street, Ian calling Debbie, telling her they’ll be later than they thought. They’ve got a kid to find.
***
Yevgeny shoves everything he owns into a duffel bag, stumbling around the motel room in a panic. His shirts, two or three that he got from the Godwill, one that he stole out of Nathan’s office. His sweatpants, his extra sneakers, the dirty boxers laying all over the floor. He crawls under the bed, digging around for the balled up cash he hid in a hole he cut in the bottom of the box-bring, trying to remember if it’s three or four hundred when someone starts beating on the door. “Yevgeny!”
“Fuck!”
Shit, they found him. Yev’s gonna skin Gary alive, feed his nuts to one of those stray dogs who hang out in the alley behind the restaurant. Yev needed a ride once, when the sky decided to open up and Yev was already dead on his feet from a twelve hour shift. Gary took him back to the motel so he didn’t get swept away by the rain, and, at the time, Yev was thankful. Now, he’s cursing himself. Fucking stupid, he’s so fucking stupid. Stupid, for thinking this was a good idea. For coming to Chicago. For foolishly hoping that he was normal enough to look at his dad without freaking out. Because Yev’s not fucking normal, he’s fucked in the head and filled with enough anxiety to kill an elephant, and his father has his shit together, doesn’t need Yev to mess shit up.
But he already fucking has, and now he has to deal with it.
He scrambles out from under the bed, stuffing the wad of cash into his pocket before he has time to count it. It feels heavy. Four hundred, hopefully. Maybe four-fifty if he’s lucky. Someone pounds on the door again, and Yev debates on jumping out of the window in the bathroom, but it’s small and he’s on the third floor. He’d dislocate his shoulder trying to get out, then break his ankle on his way down. He’s got no choice except to hide in here for however long it takes for them - for his father and his ginger step-dad - to give up.
“Open the door, kid!” Mikhailo yells, knocking his fist against the flimsy wooden door again. “I know how to pick a fucking lock!”
“Mickey,” someone else hisses. Mikhailo’s - Mickey, apparently - husband. “Someone’s gonna call the cops.”
“Not if he opens the goddamn door!”
Yev can’t take it anymore, something vile and panicked swallowing him whole. He yanks off his boot and throws it at the door. “Just fuck off!”
There’s a long stretch of silence, and Yevgeny thinks they might have actually fucked off, that they gave up, decided he wasn’t worth the fucking work, but then Yev hears Mikhailo’s voice again, softer this time. “Come on, Yevgeny,” he says, voice mellow but still loud enough for Yev to hear across the room. “You came to Chicago looking for me, didn’t you? Don’t pussy out now.”
“Mick!” the other voice scolds, but the words set off something in Yev, something indignant, angry. He’s not a fucking pussy . He’s just kind of- a little bit- he’s fucking scared, okay? But he’s not a pussy - he’s not - but he’s acting like one, and that can’t happen. Yevgeny Milkovich is not a fucking pussy.
He pushes himself off the floor, stalks over to the door wearing only one boot, shoulders held high, cracking his knuckles, in that way that always made his mom stare at him apprehensively, like she was seeing someone else when he did it, to keep himself grounded. He rips open the door before he can think too much about it, the chain on the top of the door making it so that the people outside can only see half of his face.
“I am not pussy,” he spits, that anger he inherited from his mother spilling out of his tone.
“I know,” Mikhailo says, sticking his head into the room the best he can. He looks at Yevgeny with those eyes, the ones that are nearly identical to his own, and smiles. “You’re a Milkovich, we ain’t cowards.”