"I liked having a brother." He pauses, smoothing down his sweater's sleeve. "I don't know if he liked it. But I did. And at school, no one would try to bully me because Alexei would punch them if they did."
"Wow," Shane says, nudging Ilya's foot with his own. "So that's where you learned it. Makes sense." Shane drops into a terrible accent, "Big scary Russian protector-"
Ilya laughs, "Shut up."
"…very aggressive, very loyal-"
A quiet chuckle slips out of him before he smiles at Shane.
"Maybe," Ilya says.
He can't really help but remember the many, many times Alexei had stood in front of him in the schoolyard, or on their street's soccer field. He had seemed huge then, all puffed up, red-faced and angry, ready to shove some older boy hard enough to make him fall backwards onto the ground. Ilya had only ever seen Alexei's back during those fights, young enough to happily cower behind his big brother. Back then his big brother was like a wall between him and whoever decided to pick on him that day.
Even back then, which was probably way too early, Ilya noticed that his brother stunk of cigarettes and cheap gum. Every time Alexei slung his arm across Ilya's shoulders, he could make out the bitter scent sticking to the sleeve of his brother's clothes and his fingers. It was always there, even in his memories. Permanently scorched into his brain, just like it was in the windowsill of Alexei's childhood bedroom, in Ilya's too, in every space around them.
When Shane asked him once, Ilya had staggered at the question, but he truly could not remember why he first started smoking. There was a big empty part of his brain that refused to remember whether it had been rebellion, boredom, or maybe a desperate attempt to recreate a feeling of familiarity.
He also couldn't remember if he had chosen it or if it had been an accident when he picked up that first pack of cigarettes. They had been the cheapest ones he saw. He remembers staring at the red and white package. They looked just like they always did in Alexei's back pocket. He recognized the familiar brand instantly. Столичная.
When he brought them to meet his friends, Svetlana always used to laugh about the name. A Moscow boy smoking stolichnye cigarettes. 'Capital cigarettes for her capital boy back home.'
Even when he finally came to America, it had been that same red and white box again. He remembers standing inside the gas station closest to Marleau's house, staring at all the packs of cigarettes behind the cashier, and for some crazy reason thinking, "Ah, I finally found you again."
Of course, it hadn't been a pack of Stolichnye. It had been Marlboro's.
They tasted a lot better. Less harsh, less like dirt, less like blood in the back of his throat.
Less like home.
Fuck, his fingers were itching just thinking about it.
Instead of spending another second missing the rush of nicotine, Ilya just drags his hands across his face and sighs.
"I think…" He starts, shaking his head as if to shake the memory out. "If my father had not been such an asshole, maybe it would have been different now."
And don't you guys worry, I am not an Andrej/Alexei apologist at all. I just find it hard to believe that that level of anger could come from no relationship at all...... Alexej Rozanov trust, I will be dealing with you.......
