Picfic Tuesday: Christmases Past

[alynwa.livejournal.com]

Illya was stretched out in Napoleon’s reclining chair with his hand around a glass of eggnog that he had resting on the side table.  A grey and red striped cashmere scarf, one of several gifts from his indulgent partner, was wrapped loosely around his neck.  His stomach was so full he felt in danger of bursting.  He could hear the American moving around the kitchen as he meticulously divided the remains of their Christmas dinner; half to go into his refrigerator and the other half to go home with Illya.  Just the thought of moving to go anywhere exhausted him.  Bozhe moy, he thought, There is no way I’m leaving here tonight.  It is much too cold outside and I am much too comfortable.    That last thought made his smile to himself as the tryptophan in the turkey leg he had devoured began to work its magic and pull him down into sleep.  I have gotten so soft since coming to America…

“Get up!  Everyone get up now!”  Nine year old Illya’s eyes flew open even as he began removing the thin cover from his body.  His bare feet hit the cold floor as he joined the seven other boys he shared a room with in a mad dash for the bathroom.  There were only four urinals and the boys barely managed not to urinate on each other as they stood shoulder to shoulder relieving themselves.

Illya was one of the first ones to finish.  He quickly ran to the sink where he used an old dingy washcloth on his face, hands and body.  He rushed back to the pallet he had slept on and dressed quickly.  He grabbed his boots and ran downstairs.  He entered the dining room and sat in his usual spot.  Other boys were trickling in and taking seats.  He looked around as he put his boots on and smiled.  My plan worked!  From now on, I will put my boots on in here.  The State School for Gifted Boys was just another orphanage to Illya.  Food was in short supply, so latecomers to the table might not eat at all.  The only difference was there was education. 

The little boy had been selected to come to this place almost three years earlier because the people who ran the original orphanage he had been in thought they saw intelligence in him.  He didn’t care where he was; everyone he held dear in life was dead, including his beloved older sister Fekla who had died protecting him.* 

He was surprised to discover that not only did he do well in his classes, he enjoyed them immensely.  The books he read took his mind away from the grim reality that was his life.  One day, I will see the places I have read about for myself.  He looked up just as the two cooks came out of the kitchen, each with a large pot of gruel which they began to dispense with their ladles into the bowls in front of each boy. 

As the women doled out the breakfast, the headmaster who had shouted for the children to get up stepped to the head of the table and said, “Today is January 7^th, Christmas in the Russian Orthodox Church.  Classes will end early and your dinner will be earlier because the cooks and I will be leaving early.  The State does not recognize any religion so there will be no celebration or gifts here.  Eat your breakfast and go to class!”

The boys knew better than to complain, so they turned their attention back to their bowls.  Illya ate every morsel and looked longingly at the cooks who studiously ignored the little boy who never had enough to eat.  Sadly, Illya got up and began to walk to his class.  I wonder what it is like to get presents and have enough to eat.  One day, I will have both.

“Illya?  Tovarisch, it’s almost midnight; wake up and go to bed!”  The Russian’s eyes snapped open and he saw, not the cooks and the State School, but Napoleon’s warm amused brown eyes and his penthouse.  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty, did you have pleasant dreams?”

Illya sat upright in the recliner and drank the remainder of his eggnog.  “No.”

Amusement turned to concern in his partner’s eyes.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

The blond shook his head as he stood and prepared to go to the guest room.  “Suffice it to say, my friend, that I am very glad to no longer experience Christmases past.  Thank you again for my presents; I appreciate them more than you know.  Good night.”

Napoleon watched Illya walk down the hallway and go into the guest room.  I really want to find out what goes on in that Russian head of his.  Maybe one day, he’ll tell me.   

 

*ref. to “The Letter.”

Comments

[jkkitty.livejournal.com]

Bad dreams, but their friendship makes them easier to handle.

[alynwa.livejournal.com]

Absolutely!