Chapter Text
Irina was hot and sticky as she stepped off the plane. The fifteen hour flight had left her sore and irritated, not to mention this whole plan was a shitshow to begin with. Once the Russian CPS took her from her family in Moscow (drug abuse issues with her mother and father), Irina had been shipped like cargo to Canada to stay with her uncle, Ilya Rozanov. She had never even spoken to him, and her father always described him as a selfish disgrace and a faggot. She wasn’t even sure if it was legal, for government agencies to trade her around like a currency, and yet, she was standing on the sticky tarmac on foreign soil, in a country she had never given a second thought to.
She honestly didn't give a shit about her Uncle Ilya, or his husband, Shane Hollander, and hadn’t needed to for fourteen years. Irina took care of herself. She cooked, cleaned, and put herself to bed. Her parents were usually “away.” Away, in the context of her parents, was a euphemism for high on cocaine.
When she entered the airport, she found it carpeted in the waiting area, and otherwise painted shades of white and gray and spotless. The English and French words made her head hurt, and she pulled out her phone to text Svetlana.
Irina:
Я нахожусь у выхода с самолета, что мне делать, куда идти?
Света:
Найди свою сумку, а потом напиши Илье. У тебя всё получится, дорогая!
Irina:
Хорошо, спасибо.
Her bag. Where does she find her bag? The familiar knot of anxiety curled uncomfortably in her stomach and she looked around to find something to lead her in the right direction. Irina didn’t want to text her uncle until she was ready in case he didn’t want to wait on her. She didn’t want to be a burden. And she needed her bag, which had the very few possessions she thought necessary to take with her.
There were a few signs with suitcase icons on them pointing to what she assumed was the baggage claim. Heart pounding, the young girl made her way through the crowded, foreign building to the rotating conveyor belts with piles of identical suit cases on them.
She sighed, praying she’d recognize something on her similarly black baggage. There was a crowd of people beginning to form around the space, all speaking English or French or something and understanding the stupid fucking signs perfectly well. Canada sucked. Irina wanted a smoke.
Ten minutes went by before the girl spotted her suitcase. She only knew it was hers because of the texturing on the front and the chip taken out of the handle. It was her dad’s old one. The suitcase was mostly clothes, a copy of Anna Karenina (though she didn’t really read), and a few makeup products she was able to nick from her mother. She stuffed headphones, phone charger, and wallet in her carry-on.
It was another struggle to find the exit. She ended up walking around aimlessly for a good twenty minutes before her phone buzzed in her sweatpants pocket.
It was Ilya.
Irina answered immediately, not wanting to keep him waiting.
"Привет, Илья" she greeted. Ilya spoke Russian, right? Obviously, he had to. He lived in Russia for the whole of his childhood, before leaving to engage in heathen activities.
"Здравствуй, Ирина. Я полагаю, вы уже приземлись, и нашли выход?" Irina sighed in relief through her nose. Hearing another Russian speaker in a world of gibberish was like a cool glass of water on a hot day.
"Эм, нет, на самом деле, кажется, я заблудился," Irina replied, looking around again to see if she could recognize anything.
The man on the other end laughed, and said something in English to someone else. Irina felt her cheeks heat up, anger rising in her stomach at being laughed at. The least he could do was make fun of her in a language she could understand.
"Всё в порядке, Ирина. Найди Starbucks, и я встречу тебя там," he promised, his tone almost sounding… fond. Irina had expected annoyance or irritation, and was a little skeptical, but agreed anyway.
Starbucks. What the hell was that? She pulled her phone away from her ear to do a quick google search, and what came up was a green logo with what looked like a woman in the negative space. Ok, green. She can find green.
They stayed on the line as she walked, scanning signs for green and white and the smell of coffee. It was a little awkward. They didn't really say anything to each other, the only sound from the other side being footsteps and her uncle's breathing. Eventually, she heard distant English, the phone probably being placed on a table, and rustling. Then walking again.
Finally, Irina found the food section, and hurried towards it, dragging her suitcase behind her and scanning the colors.
Yes! She had found it! She stood next to the building out of the way from other people and leaned against the wall, nerves beginning to rise again in anticipation.
"Я здесь," Irina said into the phone, confirming her location.
“две минуты,” Ilya responded.
Two minutes. What did he even look like? Irina’s father had never shown pictures or talked about his brother except to spit on his name. She had seen him in his hockey gear when he played, usually out in public or on other people's TV screens. That was all she could picture him in though, the red Ottawa jersey, cheeks full of his mouthguard. Obviously he wouldn’t be wearing that here, unless that was a weird Canadian hockey player thing no one talked about.
Irina sighed and put down the handle of her suitcase, using it as a seat while she waited. She was strangely tired for having sat down for fifteen hours straight. Maybe it was jetlag or something. It was mid day in Montreal, which meant it was around 20:00 in Moscow.
As if her body had just remembered, a wave of exhaustion pelted over her, and her eyes became heavy. Irina felt her hands, the phone still clutched in her right hand, fall to her lap and head drop before she was jolted awake again.
Her limbs were heavy, and her brain felt like it had been squeezed by a ton of pressure before being released. Fuck, she had to stay awake. Irina dragged the phone back up to her ear just before a hand landed on her shoulder, wrenching her out of exhaustion’s heavy grasp.
She startled, almost falling off the suitcase before looking up to see a mess of curly blond hair on a smiling face.
"Добро пожаловать в Канаду!” he said, the device at her ear echoing the sentiment.
Ilya was tall with sculpted shoulders, a black T-shirt hung off them loosely. He had hazel eyes with kind creases in the corners, and lips turned slightly upwards in a smile. This was not the man her father had described. Irina thought he would have… rainbows or something and dyed hair and nail polish. Gayer, maybe? More flamboyant, for sure.
“Спасибо,” Irina replied, hopping off the suitcase so she didn't pass out mid-sentence.
Ilya stared at her like she was something he couldn’t believe, but looked away after a moment, guiding her in the direction he had walked, hand still on her shoulder.
“Знаешь, ты очень похожа на свою бабушку. Очень красивая,” he said, almost wistfully.
Irina didn't know a lot about her namesake, her grandmother. She knew she had died when her children were very young, and to never speak of her in front of her father.
Irina thanked him again, not really sure what else to say. The arm around her was nice, her uncle radiated heat and his arm was like a shield from the confusion of the outside world. At this point, she was too tired to process anything, so Ilya’s description of her new world fell on deaf ears. He was jabbering about the things they passed, giving her the Russian translations.
It didn’t really matter what he was saying anyway, Irina wouldn’t be staying here long. Once her dad got sober again she would go home. Which is fine. Great, actually, she didn't want to be in this dump any longer than she had to.
One question that did come up as they passed security and witnessed the winding lines and bag checks was how her uncle got passed all of that in record time.
“Быть хоккеистом мирового класса выгодно,” Ilya had murmured, guiding her towards the exit. “Дядя Шейн ждет нас в машине. Он немного знает русский, но скоро мы научим тебя английскому,” he said, lifting her suitcase over the threshold of the door. Irina hadn’t even realized he’d taken it.
“Хорошо.” She had heard of this ‘Shane Hollander’ Ilya had married a few years ago. He was also a pro hockey star and they had a house in the city. Irina only knew this because he was in at least two of the commercials she watched on the plane.
Ilya and Shane’s relationship had never really crossed her mind as something to think about. It was definitely weird, two men being together. Irina didn’t understand the appeal. Men were so… she was too tired to think of the word she was looking for, but it was an unpleasant one. All the girls back in Russia had flocked to the boys like their mouths were the only source of oxygen left. Irina thought their pimply faces and uncoordinated limbs and faces were gross. She preferred a man who knew what he was doing. Who wasn't some premature loser. Plus, being single was great. If she had a boyfriend she would probably have to break up with him since she left the country.
Finally what shook her out of her jet-lagged daze was the fucking Porche staring right at her with a popped trunk and Shane Hollander leaning on the door.
“Это ваша машина?” Irina asked, jaw dropping open at the black vehicle.
Ilya hummed in confirmation, lifting her suitcase easily and placing it in the back. Shane stepped forward, hand outstretched.
“Добро пожаловать в Монреаль. Меня зовут Шейн,” he introduced himself as they shook hands.
He was pretty good. Shane had the accent down well and sounded comfortable in the foreign language. The statement didn’t sound like he had rehearsed it in the mirror that morning, Ilya standing over him and correcting every minute mistake.
“Спасибо, я рада, что у меня есть возможность побывать здесь,” Irina replied, plastering on a smile that took all of her effort. She wasn’t lying, she had wanted to travel. Just not under these circumstances.
Ilya said something in English to Shane as he came back around the front, apparently sensing his confusion. He smiled and nodded in response, then opened the back of the car for her to climb into. She did so without hesitation, really just wanting to lay down and rest her eyes for a few minutes.
Irina watched as they circled around to the front, uncle Ilya saying something to Shane that she couldn't hear, then got interrupted by a man who approached them. They smiled and laughed at whatever he said, then took a marker and signed some things the man had in his hand. A pang of annoyance rippled in her chest. She just wanted to be home. Either with Ilya and Shane or Russia. Whenever there’s a comfortable bed and solid ground. But she waited patiently, and a minute later they also entered the car.
“Извините, любители хоккея. Если вы устали, можете немного поспать; дорога домой займет сорок пять минут,” Ilya said as the car rumbled to life.
A nap did sound great, but part of her wanted to wait until they got home for her bed. Irina dug in her backpack for her headphones as the two men spoke. Forty-five minutes with her music shouldn't be too bad.
“Ирина, проснись, мы приехали.”
Irina jolted awake at the hand gently shaking her shoulder. Here?
Where’s here?
Why is it so bright out?
What time is it?
She looked around, groggily blinking awake. Ilya stared back at her from the passenger seat, hand still on her shoulder. Shane watched through the rear view mirror, only his eyes and freckled cheeks visible.
She scrambled upright, her uncle's hand falling away and she shifted to drag the blond hairs out of her mouth and wrench her headphones off. That was only forty-five minutes? It felt like she had blinked. As she had predicted, her neck was sore from the awkward slumped-over position in which she slept in on the ride over.
The three of them clambered out of the car, Irina carried her backpack and Ilya retrieved her suitcase before they led her out of the garage and up the stairs to the front door. The house was made almost entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows, held together just by raw wooden frames. Surrounding it was a thick forest with green trees. Irina also thought she saw the shimmer of water through the heavy branches past the downward slope.
It was fine. Nice, even. But it wasn't Russia. It was too warm, the house didn't reek of tobacco and marijuana, the floors clean. It was like she was thrown into an open-house showing for real estate. A sense of unease crept over her, like she was a mouse being led into a trap, the promise of reward on the other side. But there was always a catch.
They lead her downstairs to a pretty plain bedroom. White walls, the biggest bed she’d ever fucking seen, a wooden dresser, and closet.
“Вот где вы будете жить. После того как вы отдохнете, мы можем сходить за покупками. Мы с Шейном будем наверху готовить обед, поднимайтесь, когда будете готовы,” Ilya said, placing her suitcase next to the dresser and leading his husband back towards the door. Shane smiled and gave a little wave before closing it behind them.
Irina sighed again, standing in the middle of the floor in a doll-house room she had to pretend was her own. The view was nice at least. She thought of her parents, and wondered what they were doing back home. If they missed her. Wondered about her too. Probably not, Andrei was most likely snorting coke and her mother was probably smoking on the porch, too lost in her own head to realize her only child was missing.
Kicking off her shoes and crawling on top of the light green bedspread, Irina laid back on the copious amount of pillows and pulled out her phone.
Irina:
Приехали к дому. Он полностью состоит из окон.
She waited a few minutes for the ‘Delivered’ to turn into ‘Read’ under the text she sent to Svetlana. A moment later, three bubbles appeared on the other side of the screen.
Света:
Боже, я даже представить себе не могу. Ты уже освоилась? Ты уже поела?
Irina:
Илья и Шейн готовят обед. Я толком не знаю, как освоиться, здесь так странно.
Света:
Ой, мне так жаль, милая. Я уверена, что после того, как ты поешь и отдохнешь, тебе станет лучше. Напиши мне, если Илья будет себя плохо вести, и я на него накричу.
Irina smiled a little at her screen and hearted Sveta’s last message. She believed her too, the woman had screamed at her father more times than she could remember, always saying stuff like how they’ll lose her if they keep living like pigs. She could always rely on her aunty to come pick her up if her dad forgot to get her from school, or if there was no food left in the house.
But now they are a fifteen hour plane ride away, and if something does happen, Sveta won't be there to pick her up. Irina was fourteen now, an actual teenager. Not a pretend-teen like she was a year ago. She was about to be a high-school freshman. In a world she didn’t understand, where the people spoke a twisted, inconsistent language she had never paid any mind to. Even the plants were different.
It all hit her right then and there, the weight of possibly never seeing her parents again, staying with these people, who were gay, that were supposed to be her uncles but she’d never met them, not being able to understand what people say to her. The world became a lot bigger overnight, and going from careful control, routine, and cigarettes to this rich, clean, alien world made her eyes wet and chest tighten. Irina turned into the pillows to hide her emotion from all of it.