#womp womp womp ayeeyeha

[nadiawrites14]

a ukrainian sleepover (part 1/?)

word count: 3.6k

aka, it’s a complicated ukrainian novel, everyone’s got nine different names

for a somewhat innocuous man, pietro has a bit of a history that he’s ought to uncover. he’s hidden it long enough, but how can he keep his to-be family out of it?

For a rather influential president, Pietro Semynovich Naumenko’s house was rather modest. Sandwiched in between two apartment blocks on a Kyiv backstreet, it was a little building only two stories high and with such a bland exterior the regular passerby wouldn’t believe it to be the president’s capital residence. Only a short walk from the blue Dnieper River snaking through the city’s center, though, Pietro Semynovich saw it as good enough for himself and his friends and future family. He’d spent the last day neatening it up, dusting, cleaning, housemaking, hoping that Olesya and her step-brother Olexey would be pleased. While the air was cold and the sky was grey with wintertime, snow had not yet fallen, and Pietro sat on the edge of his armchair, anticipating a week with his growing family. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked back and forth, and he rocked back and forth, and tapped his feet and shifted his position a countless number of times as he waited. How long could a drive from Odessa be? Not long enough, it seemed.

The clock ticked with intensity as he paced, impatient and enthusiastic and waiting for his fiancé. Cars sped by on the street, and he shuffled over to the open window, looking over at the city. While lights still peeked through the towering apartments and from roving headlights, the sun was completely extinguished. And as Pietro leaned out, elbows pressing on the windowsill as he breathed in the cold, metallic air, a snowflake drifted by his face. “Oh!” He slammed the window shut, pressing his face against it like a fascinated child. “Oh!” What started as a single snowflake on the breeze had already intensified, and he smacked himself. The fireplace! He hadn’t even thought to light the fireplace. But as he descended down the ancient row of stairs to do so, the sound of a fading car engine and the buzz of his charging phone on the kitchen counter was enough to send him charging for the door. Throwing on a pair of slippers and flinging the door open, he ran onto the porch with a smile. “The Shevchenkos!”

With the porchlight bouncing off of Olesya’s slick brown hair, she looked almost like an angel with a halo. Pulling her long dress above her ankles she joined Pietro’s side, greeting him with a kiss. “Hi, darling,” she murmured, grinning. “I missed you.” “I missed you too!” Pietro mirrored her grin, grabbing her hands and walking her in. “You made it just in time. It just started to snow,”

“A little help?” Olexey demanded, hands full with suitcases in the doorway.

“Right… How about I go help Olexey? Get comfortable. I, um, put out snacks. Grapes, like you like them.”

Olesya disappeared into the kitchen, and Pietro joined Olexey out on the porch. “Olexey Dmitrievich…”

“You touch my sister and you’re dead,” Olexey muttered, shoving two suitcases into Pietro’s open hands. 

“Kinda late, we’re already engaged,” Pietro replied, circling by Olexey with a smile. “I appreciate the loyalty, though.”

“None of the comedian crap either, Pietro Semynovich, please. You’re in a position of great power, now, I’d appreciate it if you took it seriously.” He stood in the doorway, watching silently as Pietro struggled with the trunk. “It’s locked.”

“Whoops. Right. Do you have anything else, or…?” 

Olexey reached into his pocket and fiddled with the car key, allowing Pietro to retry his hand at opening the trunk. Pietro smiled, and Olexey nodded, pushing the curly hair out of his face as he vanished into the house. Pietro sighed, bending over and picking up the last of the bags in the trunk before setting the door back down.

Placing the bags in the foyer, he stepped into the kitchen to find Olesya sat on one of the stools, legs crossed, and Olexey hunched over the fireplace, charcoal and lighter in hand. “You know how to do that?” Pietro asked gently.

“I work in the energy sector,” Olexey snapped, pressing down on the handheld lighter and watching the flames spring from the top. 

“We know,” Olesya replied, grinning as Olexey gave her one of his looks. 

“Okay, Pietro Semynovich can do it, then, in all his presidential-level glory,” he dropped the supplies on the floor and joined Olesya at the tableside, popping a grape in his mouth. “That’s a challenge, by the way.”

“Of course it is.”

“You can do it, Hercules,” Olesya said encouragingly. “Complete the lightning god’s impossible task.” Olexey scoffed at the metaphor and leaned back, crossing his legs and watching Pietro with deep interest. “Go on.”

Pietro crouched over the firewood and tapped the handheld lighter against it, putting on his best confused face, before setting it alight and backing up with haste. The flames already burned with intensity, licking over the firewood and filling the house with the warmth it desperately needed. “There you are. I did it.”

Olexey still looked unimpressed, but Olesya nodded with pride, joining her fiancé’s side. “Petya did great.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyone could have done it.”

Olesya scoffed, picking up the edges of her dress and flopping onto the couch, kicking off her shoes and stretching her arms up to the ceiling. “I think the house looks great too! We left it a pigsty last time, I’m pleased to see it looks much better. Did you rearrange the…?”

“Pictures on the mantel? Yep, yes. I did!” Pietro picked up a few of the frames, wiping them down with his sleeve and facing Olesya. “Our Lviv Academy class photo…”

“Damn, you look so much younger.”

“That time we went to Croatia. Man. The beach. How’s the beach in Odessa?”

She gazed at the photographs longingly, and sighed. “Crowded. Lyosha and I barely get to go. I’m busy teaching Tolstoy and Lyosha’s been… hm… Lyosha, have you told Petya about your project?”

Olexey looked up from the generous portion of grapes he had helped himself to. “The— the project? Erm, Olya…”

Pietro beamed. “I’d like to hear it.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ve been on the road lately. I’m trying to figure out that whole wind and weather fracking thing. But mostly, uh, solar power,” Olexey nodded as if what he was saying made any sense. “It’s not anything of serious importance. And you’d have to know about the whole energy thing to really grasp it. You’re not too keen on that, are you, Pietro?”

Pietro shrugged.

“Maybe you should put some money into the energy sector, then, Pietro.”

He shrugged again. Olesya glared at her stepbrother, unhappy. “How about we just have dinner, and maybe not discuss politics? I’m sure Petya is real tired of it, and you must be, too. So why don’t we all relax and talk about the weather or something?”

Olexey shifted, eyebrows furrowed. “But--”

“Or if that’s not plausible, how about…” Olesya held up a finger and strode over to her bag, whipping out her oversized copy of War and Peace and holding it up. “We can do some reading? Naumenko-Shevchenko book club? Hm, I may have a few more copies…”

Olexey clamped his hands together, grinning. “Dinner is fine, then!”

*

Pietro was hunched over the sink, whistling as he ran the dishes under the cold tap water. The winter must have broken through to the city pipes, he thought, as he held his hands beneath it. Despite him turning the knob as far as he could, it was not a drop warmer. He shivered, and then felt a hand on his back.

“Can I talk to you upstairs?” Olesya asked. She’d changed into something more comfortable, sweatpants and a camisole, as had Pietro. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his sweater to clean, but dropped them back down as he followed her up the carpeted staircase. He shut the guest room door behind them.

Olesya stood on the tips of her toes, granting him a long kiss on the lips. Her hands found their way to his, and she stepped back. “I’m sorry for bringing Lyosha along. He’s been on you since we got here.” 

“It’s okay,” Pietro said, releasing a bated sigh as he squeezed Olesya’s warm hands. “I think he’s serious about objecting.”

“We can just... not invite him?” she offered, shrugging as she leaned her head on Pietro’s chest.

“I don’t know. I feel like I owe him something. If I didn’t get the job at the energy sector then I wouldn’t have gotten the job in Parliament, and then where would we be?” Pietro released another panicked exhale and smacked his forehead. “I haven’t given him anything.”

“I’d still love you, president or not, Comedy Central. That’s what matters. Look, we can worry about this when we’re making our roster, but I really, really want to enjoy this week with you. I’ve missed you so much,” Olesya replied, tucking her bangs behind her ear as Pietro gave her a kiss on the forehead. Suddenly, like a burst of lightning, she straightened her pose. “I have to tell you something.”

Pietro’s hands looped her waist. “What is it?”

“The job in Kyiv. Here. The University... I was accepted. I’m so sorry, I’ve been so preoccupied with the drive and Lyosha and—“

Olesya didn’t have time to finish before Pietro was spinning his wife around, his face glowing. “I knew you would! Gosh, my wife, professor at Ukraine’s second-finest institution. Besides Lviv Art, of course.” Brown eyes shining, he dipped his wife as she wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

“How soon we forget,” she replied, beaming up at him and coming in for a kiss. This beautiful moment, of course, was interrupted by the knocking of a door, the sound of a few footsteps scurrying towards it, the twisting of a doorknob, and a horrified yelp from Olesya’s dearly beloved stepbrother.

“Where’s Pietro Semynovich?”

Posed in the door with snowflakes entangled in wild blonde hair was (de facto) President Alla Pivovarova of the Donbass’s upper half. Thrown over her shoulder like a primely selected sack of potatoes was Misha Slobodyan, Alla’s presidential second half.

“Like I’d ever tell you!” Olexey gasped, pressed against the wall, hands searching for a potential weapon. Standing like a true soldier, he jabbed a lamp in Alla’s face. “Get out of my country.”

“Your country? Who are you?” Alla bent at the knees, keeping a hand slung over an unconscious Misha as she slipped off her high heels. “This is Pietro Semynovich’s country, as far as I’m concerned, and I would like to speak with him, please.”

“Well I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Olexey stuttered.

“Or what? You’ll bludgeon me with a lamp? Golly, I’m horrified. Shaking in my nonexistent boots. Please, can I have the pleasure of knowing your name? Handsome man.” Alla shook the snowflakes from her nest of hair and draped the poor unconscious man across her back, gripping onto his feet and wrists. Olexey shook his head and Alla grumbled. “Fine, be that way. I need to talk to Pietro.”

“I’m here,” Pietro said, standing like a proper soldier in his oversized hoodie and with one arm wrapped protectively around Olesya, who also happened to be armed with a lamp. “What do you want?” he asked, sounding more exhausted than menacing. 

“Oh, Pietro Semynovich, you know. Me and my dear friend Misha— you know him better as Olek, say hi!” She raised one of his limp wrists in a mock wave, and grinned back at an unamused Pietro. Alla furrowed her brows at the flat response and continued with an increasing urgency.  “We were out in Kyiv, because, as you know, for all the Christians out there, they get this week off. And I’m no Christian, just to preface. Nor is he. Or any of us, I think, really. But that is beyond the point, darling Semynovich. Because Misha over here had far too many vodkas and beers for a man of his small stature, hm? And this is not regular vodka I’m discussing. This is full-on backwater alleyway crap. So, yeah, too much, I’m carting his fat ass through the snow, and I’m right by the Maidan. What’s right by the Maidan? Pietro Semynovich’s house. Boom. Here she is, your lady of the night. Obviously, can’t stay in any hotels. Can’t really do all that hostel crap either, us two prefer the luxury lifestyle. So, dear Pietro...” she took a deep breath, steadying her words with a smile. “I’d be eternally grateful, if, in all your kind hospitality, would house Misha and I. Just for the evening.”

The room was in silence for a lingering moment, as Pietro calculated his next move, his next line, adding onto his everlasting improv skit.

“And what’s in it for me, Alla Mykolayvnia?”

“I would owe you one.” In a perfect, political universe, this conversation would be conducted with much more dignity, formality, and grace, with talks of accords and treaties and quid pro quo intertwined in rivers of red tape. This isn’t a perfect world, however, and in this world, a President of Ukraine, his fiancè, his soon-to-be brother-in-law, are bent over a couple of prominent, criminal, and dangerous political rivals, one of which is blackout drunk. This means the red tape can be ducked, and Pietro ducks with it, descending down the majestic row of stairs and meeting Alla’s side. 

“How big of an owe-me-one, Alla?”

“Define big.”

“That’s what she said.”

Cue collective groan.

“Alright, alright. How about something… diplomatic? A peace treaty, perhaps, and then we can all go home and be happy and end this stupid conflict that’s gone on way longer than it should.” Pietro flashed some weak jazz hands.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I was thinking more like beating up Zhenya Morosov or Ben Hunter for you, personally, but I’ll give some thought to that offer, Pietro.”

“And you say that with honesty?”

“Well, we have witnesses here, don’t we?” Alla tilted her head in the direction of Olesya and Olexey, still standing slack-jawed and shocked in their original positions, frozen in place. “Sure. I say it with honesty.”

Normally, this transaction would involve a document of sorts, but instead, “Pinky promise?”

“I pinky promise,” Alla declared, linking her pinky with his. 

Pietro nodded, pulling his hand back and wiping it on his sweater. “And you better stick to it. I believe there’s a few vacant rooms on the upper floors, why don’t you go have a look?”

Shifting Misha across her back and studying Pietro with narrowed eyes, then shifting her focus to Olexey, then Olesya. “Your wife’s hot,” she commented.

“Fiancé,” Olexey snapped, once again jabbing the lamp in Alla’s face. 

“In-law, I’m assuming? Still don’t have the pleasure,” she offered a hand to Olexey, who was quick to swat it away.

“No.” 

“Have it your way, handsome,” she turned away, heading up the stairs. “And put the lamp down. It makes you look like an idiot. A man like you could use a sword, or something.” Shifting Misha once again into her arms, as if he were a bride on her wedding day, she glanced at Olesya. “And you’re… Olivia?”

“Olesya Ilyanova.” With her hands folded behind her back and knees pressed together, Olesya offered a nervous smile. 

“Olya…” Alla nodded, turning back to face a stoic Pietro. “Lucky guy. Alright. Night, losers.”

The blonde head of hair and her second half disappeared into the darkness of the second floor, and everyone seemed to shift. Pietro crouched, hands on his knees, releasing a long-held breath, Olexey collapsed against the wall, and Olesya folded onto the banister.

“Great, Pietro, now you’re hosting an alcohol poisoned war criminal and his weird-somewhat-girlfriend. What in god’s name were you thinking?!” Olexey snapped, slamming his hand into his face as he slid to the floorboards. 

“I wasn’t,” he muttered, head in his hands as he leaned against the counter.

“Well we can’t just kick them out now!” Olesya exclaimed, joining her family as she scaled down the stairs. “Can we?”

“Why would I actually feel bad if we kicked them out?” Olexey muttered, pushing his hair out of his face. “They’re evil people.” “Yeah, they’re evil, but they’re human, and if there’s one thing this will do, it’s hopefully convince them to make a deal with me. Look. There’s no Russia anymore. There’s no reason for them to be holding onto something that isn’t there, despite their own experiences and vendettas that are causing them to feel this way. Maybe we can change their minds?” Pietro said, gesturing haplessly as he took a seat.

“Can people like that be changed?” Olesya asked, pulling her stepbrother up with an outstretched arm.

“I don’t know about Alla that much. She’s just weird. But Misha Slobodyan? That’s a war criminal. And he’s gotten away with it too, Pietro! And nobody cares! You’re just going to be complicit in that?” Olexey grabbed Olesya’s hand and pulled her aside.

Pietro tapped his fingers on the table. “No, no, of course not. You’re right, he needs to be taken care of. I’ve neglected it, and I’m sorry. But maybe this’ll change things, hm? I think we can finally bring him to justice after this. But they’re people too, and--”

“Alright, I’ve had enough. Olesya.” Olexey released her hand, trudging upstairs and not looking back as he shut an upstairs door behind him. Olesya stared at her feet, deep in thought.

“Olya-” “No, I see what you’re doing. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, I’ve seen it. We went to school in Lviv, we saw all of this firsthand. And I know you’ve been busy with the whole Hunter-Nielsen thing, I- I get it. Okay? I get it,” she inhaled, lifting her head to face her fiance. “And I don’t even think they intend to hurt us. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this’ll change things? Nobody’s gotten anywhere in the past 20 years. Just fighting.” Olesya turned to look out the window. Snow piled outside, and Alla’s footprints were just barely visible on the lawn. “Perhaps you’ll be the first to actually change things.”

“... I hope.” Pietro tried to smile reassuringly, but his attempt failed as his anxiety ate at him.

Olesya’s face fell, and she put her hands on her diaphragm, keeping her eyes off Pietro’s nervous expression. “How- why did she say that?” “Say what?” 

“She said you know him better as Olek. Misha. I thought that was his first name, is it not?”

Pietro bit his lip and pushed his dark hair away from his face. “Olek Mikhailnovych. He goes by Misha, his patronym. Vasylovich told me that.” 

She turned to look at him again, her face betraying disbelief. He glanced at his feet, lips pursed. Olesya walked over, gave him a kiss on the cheek and grabbed his hand. “Alright. You’ll be fine. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She disappeared upstairs, and a creaky door was shut gently behind her. The first floor was dim, the only light beaming from the kitchen and the dying fire in the furnace. Pietro waited, shut off the lights in the kitchen, then doused a cup of water on the last of the flames. A chill seeped through the room and a shiver ran down Pietro’s spine as he walked up the old staircase. He passed the second floor, past his sleeping guests and relatives, and up to the third floor. At the top of the stairs, he groped the ceiling, and found the wire that hung loose from the top. The attic opened, a cloud of dust dropping with it.

Maneuvering inside, trying to keep warm as he started digging through the old boxes, Pietro pulled his sweater over his hands, holding himself tight as he started through an old cardboard box. He was certain this was where he had left it.

His eyes didn’t see it as he searched through the rows of folded blankets and old shirts, stuff his future family wouldn’t think twice to look at, but his hands found the old scrapbook with haste, and he dropped it onto the floor, sweeping away layers of dust. The single faint light in the attic was enough for him to find the exact photo as his fingers nervously slipped through the pages, anxious and unnerved, either from the cold or his own apprehension. 

This was the page. He remembered the soft tear on the top-right corner, now browned with age and disregard. Stuffed in the spine was a movie stub for something he didn’t quite recall seeing, and to the right of it was the photo. He remembered ripping it, trying to wear it down with a pencil tip and always dangling it above an open candle, but never having the heart to destroy it. For the longest time, he always wished he had. But now, Pietro began to feel as if his own apprehension towards burning it up and watching the image morph and disappear had been correct.

His fingers removed it from its plastic prison, and he cupped it in his hands, careful to not damage it more than he already had. With his breath still bated, and the dust stinging his eyes, Pietro held it beneath the dim orange light.

Two adolescent boys with acne-marked faces grinned at the camera. The colors were diluted with age, but the soft brown eyes and long face on one were unmistakable next to that indisputable red birthmark on the other’s face. Beneath the aged image was a vague date and caption, scratched in faded red ink. Pietro ran a finger across, sweeping away the grime and smeared ink, and let out a little exhale. His breath was visible in the frigidity of the attic.

Pietro + Olek, Donetsk City, 2015.