Chapter Text
December, 2000
Next to the local ice rink was a library—where they often visited after skating—that had a sweet old lady who sold the most delicious hotdogs. Yuna and David Hollander sat by the stands while Shane skated around the children who were barely standing on their own skates. He has a gleeful smile on his face, a cute little blue helmet that Yuna had slapped on—after a minute-long lecture on safety on the ice—and was definitely boasting around the ice.
“Look at him showing off,” David chortles while Yuna nudges him with a barely hidden smile.
“He’s just good,” Yuna returns, waving at Shane when he grins at them from other end of the ice. “He’s going to be a star one day,”
She feels her husband chuckle softly but never argue. Instead, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer when the winter breeze seeps through their clothing. It was only a matter of time before their son—coursing with adrenaline and barely-there teeth, her Shane—would race back to them, asking for a hotdog.
“We should get him a hotdog before he comes back,” Yuna tells her husband. Before David could reply, their whirlwind of a son sprints with his skates and all-but crashes into his standing parents with a loud shriek of glee. Yuna is thankful for the strong arm around her waist that steadies her while Shane’s hard helmet pushes into his parents’ abdomens.
“Mom, Dad, did you see that?” Shane asks, the excitement glinting in his eyes but never showing through his voice. Their son was always such a quiet little thing—so much so that Yuna had been worried for an entire year when Shane barely cried or said his first word up until the age of two.
“You were amazing, bud!” David kneels down to their son’s view, helping him when Shane frowns at the tightened helmet buckle. “How can you skate so fast?” he continues to exclaim while Shane grins and shakes with excitement. Yuna watches with a smile as her husband kneels lower to untie his skates.
“I’m going to get us some hotdogs,” she ruffles Shane’s sweat-soaked hair before leaning down and kissing her little boy’s flushed cheek; “Great job, baby,” Yuna whispers while Shane gives her a toothy grin that’s missing a few teeth.
As she walks over to the hotdog stand and waits in line, Yuna notices a mess of blond curls hidden by the large bush where the stand was situated. He’s hunched over, dressed a little too neatly for a little boy. Yuna wonders to herself if she has ever met a nine-year-old dressed in a crisp black shirt and neatly pressed trousers.
“Hello, Yuna,” the sweet old lady—a Russian woman that has been selling hotdogs throughout Yuna’s childhood—“Brought little boy to skate again?”
Yuna smiles at her and nods; “It’s not really a Hollander weekend if we don’t hit the ice at least once,” she winks while the woman before her laughs. “Three hotdogs please, and nothing but mustard for Shane’s,”
The woman hums and begins preparing their food while Yuna’s eyes continue to drift behind her, where the neatly dressed boy remains hunched over. She inches closer, standing on the tips of her toes to see what he was doing; her eyes land on a large and thin book, its edges frayed and some pages torn as he flips them. Yuna finds herself smiling fondly as the little boy’s lips move along to the words—the fonts are large, pages covered in pictures, which makes Yuna frown in confusion. The book seemed like something Shane would read when he was five. So why was this little boy—
“Your hotdog, mishka,” Yuna smiles at the nickname, accepting the plastic and handing over the money.
She wants to leave and get back to her family, but something stops Yuna in her tracks before she’s turning back again, facing the woman with a shy smile; “Sorry, Maria,” Yuna pauses, unsure of how to frame her question without sounding like a nosy woman. “Is that—is that your son?”
Maria frowns, then looks behind her to where the curly-haired—Yuna is pushing down the urge to tame those curls honestly—boy sits quietly and mouths over the same words for the tenth time. “Oh, this boy?” she points to him. “No, no. He is son of lady who works at the library,” she points to the closed doors of the building. “Sits with me sometimes. Says he likes the sun,”
“Oh,” Yuna finds herself unable to take her eyes off the little boy. He seemed so.. small and quiet. “Is he.. I’ve never seen him around,” she finds herself saying, unable to directly ask Maria whatever it is that she had been curious about.
Maria nods and hums; “They are new here. From Russia,” she answers.
At the mention of Russia, the boy’s head finally whirls up, his eyes—blue as the sky—darts between Maria and Yuna, a myriad of emotions flowing through them. Yuna smiles and waves at him but he barely looks at her. Curls of golden hair flop adorable down his forehead as the boy continues to stare at Maria.
“I see,” the woman says. She wants to ask more questions, wants to sit next to the sad-looking boy and talk to him. There’s a cloud of darkness that surrounds him that only makes Yuna’s heart clench tighter at the sight of him. Still, it was none of her business, and she had a little boy eagerly waiting for his hotdog back at the rink. Yuna Hollander needed to stop poking her nose in strangers’ businesses. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, Maria,”
As she turns to leave, Yuna’s eyes steal one last glance at the little boy only to find him hunching over and reading his book again.
She walks back to David—Shane nowhere to be found—and takes a seat on the wooden bench. “Where’s Shane?”
“Got tired waiting for you so he decided to go skating again,” David accepts his hotdog and keeps Shane’s one warm between the two of them.
For a few minutes, the parents eat their food and watch as their little boy skates around the children but barely speaks to any of them. Yuna’s eyes follow her little boy, padded with a bright blue winter jacket as he swerves and trips and gets back up as usual. All while barely looking at anyone or saying a word.
Yuna shares one look with David and instantly knows that they were both thinking—or worrying—about the same thing. She presses a cold palm over his thigh and it’s immediately engulfed with David’s gloved hand. “I saw a boy just now. About Shane’s age,” she finds herself looking over to the corner where the hotdog stand stood and if she squinted hard enough, Yuna could see tufts of golden hair, or the tip of s polished shoe with pristine white socks peeking through its end.
David hums in acknowledgement, eyes trained on Shane while he skated and promptly ignored a little girl who has been—not-so-subtly—skating behind him for the past minute.
“Maria told me he was from Russia. His mother worked at the library,”
David pauses at her tone, turning to give his full attention to Yuna. “They’re new to town?”
“I think so,” Yuna nods, unsure about where she was going with this piece of information. “I don’t know, he just—he seemed so.. alone,” she looks at David with a small smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Reminded me of Shane,”
“He’s just a shy kid,” David reassured her. “He’ll get some friends eventually,”
It was the same set of words David would always use to comfort his wife when she’s worried about their son, but today.. today, Yuna seemed to worrying about an entirely different boy instead.
--
Two weeks later, she sees the little boy again; this time, at a grocery store on a Wednesday. Shane had been pestering her to make his favourite pork cutlets for dinner and Yuna had got off work early to grab the best cut of meat she could find at the local butcher. Realising that she was out of onions, Yuna had moved to the grocery store next to it, browsing the vegetables aisle for additional recipes she could cook for her boy.
As she passed through the fresh vegetables sitting in their propped-up stands, a flash of golden hair flies by her vision at the very end of the aisle. Yuna’s head whirled, instantly recognising the same set of curls. At the very end of the vegetable aisle, was a little bakery that sold the sweetest-smelling buns and Shane’s favourite cottage pie.
Yuna doesn’t think twice when she drops the tomato she had been examining and takes long strides to the end of the store, trying to local the little boy. Maybe her eyes had been playing tricks on her, as she had been thinking of that boy every time she heads to bed, thinking about his dimmed-blue eyes and tiny little mouth that stuttered over basic English words.
Much to her relief—or dread—the little boy from Russia stood before her, facing the glass of freshly baked buns, hands pressed to the warmed material. Yuna stands a safe distance from him, waiting to see what he plans to do. But minutes fly by like that, and the boy barely moves. All he does is look behind him, then back to the showcase, then behind him again, as if contemplating something.
It’s enough to put two-and-two together when Yuna catches the boy sliding the glass door aside and reaching inside to grab a bun. He didn’t take the bag they had provided, not did he use the tongs. With much horror, Yuna realised he was trying to steal.
She drops her bag of onions and instantly rushes to the boy, kneeling next to him and covering the cold hands that had been holding the bun. Yuna prays that nobody was around to witness his act, and carefully takes the bun away from his hands.
“Hi,” she tells the little boy, her chest aching when she finds the same dimmed eyes looking up at her, full of fear. “Are you hungry?”
She half expected for the little boy to run away. After all, who would stay after being caught in a wrong act, let alone someone who probably couldn’t understand her? Instead, the little boy straightens up, masking the fear in his eyes with defiance.; This boy was preparing to fight her if it came to that.
The thought alone was enough to make Yuna wonder just what he had gone through to take this approach.
“Для мама,” he said. “Для мама, Для мама,” the boy repeated.
There were many questions running through the woman’s head; questions that she knew he didn’t have the answers for. So instead of wasting her time, Yuna reaches over the boy and grabs the paper bag and tong, placing the bun in it before pointing to the array of buns. “More?” she asks, motioning to them.
His defiant eyes fade a little, replaced with confusion before slowly inching closer to Yuna and pointing to a black sesame bun. Together, they pick out three buns before Yuna stands with the bags in her hand. She pauses, then kneels back down to the awaiting boy, pressing a hand to her chest with a smile; “Yuna,” she says, pointing to herself and repeating her name.
The boy’s blue eyes trail down to her hand then back to her face, staring long before repeating the motion with his own hand to his little chest. “Ilya,”
The woman had been a little too happy at finally getting an answer from the boy—Ilya—grinning widely and nodding. “Hello, Ilya,” she whispers. “What are you doing out here all alone, honey?” she murmurs the question to herself, well aware that Ilya would not understand a word of it.
She wants to ask him why he had resorted to stealing, where was his mother, how did he walk all the way here and where did he live. So many questions, yet so little answers.
Yuna could bring him back to her house, keep him warm and feed him dinner, introduce him to Shane so he wouldn’t feel so alone in this big place. But the boy probably had a mother that was waiting for him or worse, looking for him. And Yuna is left helpless.
“Hungry?” she asks instead, making an eating motion with her hands while Ilya watches intently, his brows furrowed before understanding dawns on him.
Ilya nods, then repeats the same words he had repeated initially; “Для мама,”
Something about his mother, that much Yuna knew, but she didn’t know what he was trying to say. God, she wished the boy’s mother had placed a little note in his bag with all the essential details for him. She does that for Shane—a little tag that had her and David’s number and the address to their home just in case he got lost.
She sighs mostly to herself, then stands up with a hand thrusted out to Ilya. Maybe he would take her hand and let her figure it out for him. Maybe, he would reject her offer and figure things out on his own. Once again, Ilya stares at her hand and back to her, hesitation and fear gripping him. A minute later, Yuna feels a cold palm sliding into hers, gripping it tightly as the boy walks to stand beside her.
They pay for the groceries and pastries and decide to sit by the park opposite the store for Ilya to eat his pastries. Yuna holds the paper bags for him, handing him a bun and watching him much on it with a small smile on her face. He’s a clumsy eater, unlike Shane who ate unbearably slowly and had table manners of and old man. No, Ilya ate like a little boy, smearing crumbs all over his mouth and flushed cheeks and worn-out winter clothing.
His curls get in the way of eating sometimes, and Yuna gently pushes them away without startling the boy. Occasionally, he gives her a smile, reveal a few gaps of lost teeth, and Yuna laughs under her breath.
Ilya eats only one pastry before standing up, much to Yuna’s confusion; “Я тебя к мама отведу,” he says, his voice lighter than it had been just minutes before.
“What? Where are we—” but her hand was being grabbed by two of his, and with all the strength a nine-year-old could muster, Ilya was pulling Yuna up, urging her to follow him. “Are you sure we should be walking around?” she asked despite allowing Ilya to guide her.
The boy had warmed up to her, Yuna realised as he continued chatting her up in Russian without a single care about her understanding anything.
The sun was about to set, and Shane would be coming home anytime now after hockey practice, all hungry and sweaty. She should head to her own home to prepare dinner for her boys, but much to her surprise, Ilya was walking in the same path she would use to head to the Hollanders’ home as well.
“You live here?” she asks, and Ilya looks at her with confusion again before Yuna tries one more time; “Home?”
At the mention of home, Ilya brightens up and nods; “Да!” he answers. “Home,”
They stop before a house just three houses before her own home. Ilya turns around, reaching up to grab the bags of pastries before motioning for her to follow him inside. At this rate, Yuna had only sighed and followed because it had been obvious that she didn’t not know how to say no to the boy who smiled like the sun.
It had the same layout as her home, but lacked much furniture and décor that Yuna had done to her own. There was a three-seater, a television and a cardboard box acting as a makeshift coffee table in the living room. Yuna didn’t get to see much of the home before Ilya is dragging her towards the living room, pastries in one hand, her own in another.
Yuna stops short by the threshold just as Ilya calls out; “Mама,” and then repeats softly; “Mама, я принёс еду,” he walks toward the couch and kneels down before a figure enveloped in a thin white blanket. He leans closer, pressing his head into a curve in the blanket where Yuna assumed was where his mother’s shoulder and neck met. “Мамочка, пожалуйста, проснись,”
One look at the sleeping woman before her, and Yuna knew instantly what was going on. She’s quick to walk over to where Ilya kneeled, his eyes watery with unshed tears; “Your mama is sick,” she tells him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.
Ilya turns and watches her with wide, glistening eyes. “Sick,” Yuna repeats, a hand pressed flat over her forehead as she feigns sickness for Ilya to understand. “Mama needs rest. Rest,”
As the little boy watches her and then his mother with his sad eyes, Yuna decides to take matters into her own hands. “Do you want—home? Yuna,” she points to herself, then motions to the house around them. “Home,” as an invitation for the boy to follow her home.
“Yuna home?” Ilya repeats like the smart boy he was. Yuna nod instantly.
She could write a note for the woman asleep, tell her that her son is safe with Yuna and that she could rest while Ilya stayed with them. It wouldn’t be entirely out of the good of her heart; Yuna was a selfish woman. She wanted to know more about the little, sniffling boy beside her. Wanted to understand him and felt like Shane would share the same sentiments as her too.
“Dinner,” she rubs her stomach this time, making yet another eating motion. “Follow me?”
It should be worrisome that the door to their house had been unlocked and Ilya was out all alone, but Yuna will talk to his mother about this soon enough. There was a little boy that needs to be cared for.
--
Hi, this is Yuna Hollander.
I live three houses down your street. Ilya is safe with me. I found him at the grocery store trying to get you some food and decided to keep an eye on him. Don’t worry about him and take all the time you need to rest. I’ll drop by with dinner in a bit.
This is my number, call me if you need anything.
Rest well,
Yuna.