Working up the courage to mention the trip to Scotland that Emi so desperately wanted them all to attend, Nessa waited anxiously to hear what his parents would say in response. The two women looked at each other, and time seemed to stand still.
Since his family didn't celebrate holidays, that left only one thing that they did. Birthdays. Ilya's had yet to come, since he still had two months until then. But someone in his family did happen to have an early December birthday. Someone who he wasn't exactly thrilled to have to see as well as pretend to be nice to.
Evegenia was the sort of birthday girl who had to have all eyes on her at all times. She would dress in something ridiculous, hair and makeup done as though she was attending the red carpet. While Ilya was usually in love with the idea of dressing above and beyond, it annoyed him simply because she annoyed him.
To top it all off, Paul was there. Paul. God, he hated him.
Maybe Ilya was being petty when he got ready that morning, but he decided that he would piss off his parents as well. So he wore his highly ripped jeans with fishnets and a cropped sweater. Even though he didn't want to have to stick around for Eva's birthday, he was willing to accept it for the horrified looks on his parents faces when they saw him. It never got old.
Eva always celebrated two birthdays. One was with her family, while the other was at her own house with her friends. Ilya was glad, because it would have been even worse to have to go to Paul's mansion and stand awkwardly with a bunch of rich people. It happened once before, and he never wanted to have to deal with it again.
Instead, they were all gathered at the kitchen table. Mr. Polyakov at one end, Paul at the other. Venice sat beside Ilya, and across the table was Eva with Mrs. Polyakov. It was an incredibly rare experience to see them all gathered together, even Venice joining them. Mostly because Ilya begged him to not go to Nessa's so that he wouldn't have to suffer alone. Venice agreed because he clearly felt bad, and he couldn't pull the excuse of being sick anymore since he seemed to recover fully in just a few days.
Eva was gushing over the dinner. That was something they could agree on. It was rare for Mrs. Polyakov to make dinner for everyone, so he did appreciate the nice home cooked meal. It was a traditional Russian birthday meal, which Ilya did deduct points for the lack of creativity. But Eva always preferred to follow tradition.
Boring.
So Ilya picked at his fish and salad, eating bits and pieces here and there. Venice was doing the same, but for a different reason. He was making sure that he had plenty for room for the cake that followed, because that was all he really cared about. Ilya wondered how Venice was still so skinny when all he seemed to eat was sweets.
"What about you, Братик?" Eva suddenly said, addressing Ilya directly. He lifted his gaze to her, sitting comfortably in his chair with his legs crossed. He was trying to look feminine, because he noticed the occasional glances of disapproval sent his way from his parents. It was satisfying. "How have you been?"
"The usual." He shrugged
"Speak up." She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure there is something interesting."
Loving the fact that she opened up the possibility for him to say something that would surely cause the room to fall silent, Ilya smirked. "I have a boyfriend, so I guess that's something."
And just like that, there was no more words being spent. Paul's brow furrowed in shock, as though he was completely oblivious to the fact that Ilya was blatantly queer. His father did not look at him. Good. Let him be angry.
"You are kidding, yes? We all know that you do not commit." Eva pointed out. She never cared about what Ilya wore or who he fucked. It was an unspoken thing between them — that she was accepting of his choices. Well, those choices, anyway.
The problem was that Eva thought that he should marry an old rich man since he liked men. Because it was an easy way to integrate into America with pools of instant money at his feet. Ilya didn't want a life like that for himself. Eva was lucky enough that Paul wasn't much older than her, a five year age gap being it. But he did not think that she loved him like she should have, and that was a waste of time and youth.
"For him, I commit." Ilya replied, holding her piercing gaze.
"He good in bed?" She did not bother with filters or silence. It was what made her a true Russian — her naturally harsh tone and hard to answer questions. She knew that Ilya slept around, and it was hard for her to believe that he was finally allowing himself to be with someone without relying on that aspect.
"Wouldn't know."
At his answer, Eva just laughed. Because she didn't believe a word of what he was saying, and it was clear on her face. Ilya didn't really care. She could choose to believe whatever she wanted about him, it wasn't like they saw each other often. As soon as she caught her breath and calmed back down, she looked to Venice. "And you? How have you been, Братишка?"
"Okay." Venice didn't know her very well, but it was by no means the first time they spoke. He had been apart for the household for plenty of time to practically be considered another brother to her. Братишка. A more affectionate version of the same word she used for Ilya. Of course she preferred Venice more — he was quieter.
"I see you're still just as silent." She sighed.
Venice just looked at Ilya, not knowing what else to say.
"Do you have a boyfriend too?" Eva asked, half-joking as she said it.
Lips glued shut, Venice just held her gaze for a moment.
Dropping her jaw, Eva gaped, "You too?"
"That's enough." Mr. Polyakov finally said something, his frown lines far more defined than usual. He clearly did not want to hear another word about his sons' boyfriends.
"No, no." Eva waved him off. She never struggled to find her words, even when dealing with their parents. Ilya stood on the fence. Sometimes he had no trouble telling them how he felt, while other times he couldn't say anything at all. "I'm very curious. Tell me about them."
"Save this for another time." Mrs. Polyakov then said, clearly trying to avoid a huge scene.
"Why not? I only come by every few months."
"Enough, Evegenia." Mr. Polyakov's words were sharp.
Ilya joined in, already pissed off by the fact that he even had to be there. He was also emboldened by his sister's defiance. "Maybe I want to answer her questions."
"No more." Mr. Polyakov spoke low. Anger was brimming in his eyes.
"How come? It's Eva's birthday and she wants to talk about this." Ilya was sick of being viewed as the disappointment of the family. Even Venice was preferred over him. While Ilya loved Venice more than he was sure the rest of his family did, it also bothered him a lot to know that he was the lesser brother. That he was the problem.
"You will stop talking." That time there was thick authority in his tone that made Ilya falter. If he pushed more, then it would probably ultimately make things worse for him. He couldn't quite decide if that was as bad as it sounded.
So Ilya just kept his lips pursed, offering his father a death-glare so full of hatred that he hoped he couldn't think of anything else. Maybe he was right, because when it inevitably came time for Venice to help Mrs. Polyakov with the cake, Mr. Polyakov stood. He looked at his son and said, "Давай поговорим."
Let's talk.
Feeling his skin break out into goosebumps, Ilya reluctantly stood as well. He briefly met Eva's amused gaze as he followed his father out of the room. They walked to the front door, going out to stand on the stoop. Feeling a child who was about to be scolded, Ilya awkwardly stood beside his father. They were even in height, but not in muscle mass. Ilya was plenty strong, but his father was far more broad.
The winter air was cold against Ilya's exposed skin. He loved the snow that blanketed the houses around them, and it was a tolerable chill that crept up his spine.
"Why ruin Eva's birthday?" Mr. Polyakov asked, but it was clear by his intonation that he was not expecting an answer.
Ilya provided him with one anyway. "Ruining it? She asked me a question and I answered it."
"Venice thinks you are man." He said. "I do not see it. You are boy."
"Venice?" Ilya quizzically furrowed his brow, wondering when Venice said that. It was a nice thing to think, though. At least Venice always had his back, even when he wasn't there to witness it.
"Boys act like you. Immature." His sentences were usually spoke like that. Short and often not grammatically correct. It was hard to not want to laugh at the way he spoke, because he lived in America long enough to get a better grasp on the language than that. However, he often spoke Russian in the same shortened manner. Perhaps that aspect was just apart of his persona.
"What makes you so sure I'm immature?" Ilya asked him, because it was a serious question. One he never understood.
Scoffing, he waved his hand towards Ilya's clothing. "To dress like that, it's pathetic. You know how important today is to Eva."
"This may come as a shock, Papa, but Eva doesn't care what I wear." He didn't want to be smacked, but he was bracing for it anyway. Just in case.
"And Paul? You make fool of yourself in front of him."
"Paul can go fuck himself." Those words left his lips before he even knew that it was something he wanted to say.
His father raised his hand, as though he was going to go through with the motion. But then he stopped himself, releasing a heavy breath as he turned and looked at the street instead. "How are you my son?"
That seared Ilya's heart enough for him to wince. He was glad that his father wasn't looking at him, because if he was, he would have only been more upset to see the way something like that effected him. "You got Mama pregnant and then she gave birth nine months later."
To his disbelief, that caused for Mr. Polyakov to chuckle to himself. Maybe he was capable of enjoying the same sort of humor that Ilya loved so much, after all. "But you do not act like us."
"Imagine how boring it would be if I did." Ilya replied. "Nothing in this world would ever change, and I would be miserable."
That caused for Mr. Polyakov to frown yet again. But that time, there was a difference in his frown. It did not seem to exist because of his anger, but rather something else that Ilya wasn't certain of. Disappointment, maybe. Or possibly thoughtfulness.
"I know that you think I do this to bother you, but I honestly have a lot of better things to do with my life than make my world revolve around my parents." He added.
"You do not care what everyone thinks when you are whore?" Mr. Polyakov used that word plenty of times in the past. Ilya was used to a title like whore. He embraced it, because it was better than letting it kill him. Once upon a time it scarred him, but he had since then grown used to it.
"If people want to think about me that much, then I would assume they probably just want a taste of me."
Again, Mr. Polyakov laughed. Then he rubbed his beard with his hand, studying his son for a long moment. His expression was solemn. It always was. Ilya was glad that he did not live in Russia anymore, because Russians always seemed so serious. Couldn't anyone ever just smile and look like they were enjoying life? "You really do not care?"
"No." He didn't have to think about his answer. It was as easy as remembering his own name.
"Do you remember what I told you?" He said. "You build for you, not me."
"I do." He nodded.
"If this how you build, then keeping building. I do not understand, but it is not being built for me." Then he turned back to the house, walking to the door. When Ilya did not immediately follow, he looked back at his son. "Are you coming?"
Forcing his legs to work, Ilya walked a few paces behind him, swallowed up in his thoughts. When they returned to the table, the cake was waiting untouched for Mr. Polyakov to light the candles for Eva. Venice met Ilya's gaze, searching for anything that proved what transpired while they were gone.
But he didn't find a red mark from violence, nor anger or depression. So he just kept close to Ilya as though to silently let him know that he would be ready to listen when it came time for Ilya to tell him about it.
Which he was going to have to do, because he wasn't entirely sure how to digest what happened on his own. He still hated his father for numerous reasons, but he was completely thrown off. Did Mr. Polyakov hint at his vague approval? Was that what he meant? Ilya couldn't comprehend it.
He did his best to continue participating in the rest of the evening endeavors. He ate his cake — which Venice had seconds of — and he pretended to be involved in the games that followed. But he wasn't entirely there.
What would come next? Ilya always felt so sure of who he was and the life he wanted to lead, but he was quickly finding that it wasn't entirely true. He was just like most of the people his age — a lost soul looking for its place in the world. What would he build for himself next? He hoped that the answer would be clear once the time came.