this is not alex (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thisisalex) wrote2007-10-03 04:08 am
thisisalex) wrote2007-10-03 04:08 am
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Prompt: Close Yet Far by CKY.
Character: Hanna "Chewie" Evgenyev.
Summary: One cold December night, Chewie reflects on the relationships in his life, and finally ends up going to the one person he could always depend on.
It was a cold night. Of course, just about any mid-December night in Finland was expected to be cold, to chill you to the bone and force those making their way along the streets to find shelter or find religion in their last few moments. Snow had already fallen that night, snow that wasn't really snow but was more like slush, snow that couldn't even be slept on if your pride lasted longer than your will to live. It was miserable to wander the streets of Helsinki these nights, to feel the cold bite at your every exposed body part, forcing you to forget about your hunger and exhaustion in your desire just for warmth. There wasn't even company these nights, the familiar fires that spotted the back alleys disappearing as more and more found their way onto some friendly looking porch or church.
Chewie sighed, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. It had been a few days since he'd slept inside, and then it had been on Leia's floor, an old blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His hair was getting long these days, the mop of matted curls falling into his eyes and down the back of his neck, and the clothes he had stolen from his cousin Sebastian were already worn thin. Sebastian bought expensive clothes that looked pretty, not practical clothes that could stand up to a beating and the Finnish winter. Chewie should have realized.
A faint rumble sounded in the distance, and Chewie wondered for a moment if it was his stomach. He had eaten earlier, but it had been mac and cheese he'd taken when he left Leia's, and Chewie knew he was lactose intolerant. After all, beggars couldn't be choosers. But the rumbling didn't come from an empty or upset stomach, it came from the sky. Rain was on its way. Rain that would turn to sleet that would likely turn to snow. Rain that would cut through his thin shirt and soak him to the bone, rain that would make him sick and destroy his only set of clothes, rain that would make it impossible for him to work in the morning and find a way to get himself off the street. Chewie fucking hated the rain.
"THE END! THE END IS COMING!" an old man was shouting in Finnish, his voice shaking as he addressed his imaginary congregation. Chewie knew the man, had seen his face and heard his street corner sermons, but he had never paid him much heed; he was nothing but another fading face on the cold streets of Helsinki. Stepping along the sidewalk, hands in his pocket, Chewie stood before the sidewalk preacher in his Sunday worst, the hat in his hand functioning as the Bible he was trying to thump, and smirked. It was better than the old Masses his Baba had forced all the kids to attend in his days in Belarus. Baba, technically his great-grandmother, the not-so-strict Roman Catholic who adopted any child to come her way, who had taken in his father, and then taken in Chewie. Vil had always found her to be a comforting presence, a kind and dependable figure, a pleasant memory, buried in a tough childhood, but Chewie could never think of her as such. She was kind, and while Chewie was there, she had loved him, but Baba loved all her children. Baba loved any lost Belarusian child who came knocking on her door, hungry and cold, and if Chewie were in Belarus, he would go running to her without a second thought. But he wasn't in Belarus, and Chewie knew, the minute he left Belarus, he began to fade from Baba's memory. She would remember him if he came back, and if he wrote her to tell her he was cold, she would send him a coat in a moment, but she would never think of him unprompted. He was sure of it. Baba had other things on her mind.
"You should get inside," he whispered to the elderly man, dragging a hand out of the warm refuge of his pocket to pat him on the shoulder. The preacher looked down at him, as if shocked to see someone was actually standing before him, actually addressing him directly. "That's where most of the congregation's gone anyways. You'll reach more in a church."
The preacher nodded vaguely, lifting a stiff arm to Chewie's shoulder and looking him in the eyes. His eyes were a milky colour, as if he had begun to go blind years ago, but still had just enough sight left in him to pick out a soul in need. "You should too, son."
"I will, don't worry. I have friends." Even as the words spilled from his lips, Chewie didn't believe them. Firm as they were, as sure as he sounded, Chewie knew, as the preacher tottered off to seek out some sort of shelter, that he was without a good friend in this world. "Who the hell am I kidding?" he groaned, taking the preacher's place and seating himself on the frozen corner. "Don't have a soul on my side."
It was true, wasn't it? Blue Harvest didn't really like him, and he knew it. He tried, he really did try, to make them like him, but there was something about his fumbling, overly friendly lack of regard for personal space that rubbed them the wrong way, something he inherited from his father, and was only magnified by his constant feeling of loneliness. "Still ridiculed, no matter how hard that I have tried," Chewie muttered bitterly, his forehead bowed, thoughtfully chewing his thumbnail. Who did he honestly have in this world? His father? Chewie couldn't go to his father. He didn't particularly like his father most days, as much as he loved him, as much as he craved his father's love and affection. No, despite all that, sometimes he really hated him. Even if his father stumbled upon him sleeping in the park, he wouldn't accept money from him, he would still throw it in his face, scream at him, "I don't need a hand. Don't need anything. I've got a roof over my head! One that isn't, and never was, yours." Cue another bitter laugh. Right, I've got a roof over my head. As if I'd rather be alone with me instead.
Chewie jumped to his feet, kicking at the sidewalk angrily. Fuck this pride, fuck all this. He was cold, he was starving, and fucking Janeane was pregnant. What was he supposed to do? He thrust his hands back in his pocket, fighting back the angry tears biting at his eyes. There was no use crying. The tears would only freeze on his face and make him colder.
"Fuck fuck fuck," he grumbled, swallowing his anger and disappointment in himself. Chewie sighed, reaching into his back pocket for a cigarette. Maybe that would warm him up. Or at least help him to forget the rain that was already starting to cut into him.
Pulling the pack of Marlboros out of his pocket, he flipped up the top, and froze. Crammed in the front of the full pack was a piece of paper, neatly folded, with Hanna scribbled on the front in a familiar script. Yanking the paper from the box, he shoved the cigarettes back in his pocket and unfolded the note.
Don't forget, you're always welcome here. Drop me a line and tell me how the hell you are, at least. You're like another son.
Auntie
Auntie. Of course, Auntie, his father's cousin who had been closer to a mother to him than his own mother. They had eight kids, one was a stray cat, another a total psycho, and the youngest were a set of hyperactive triplets, but they always made room for him. Auntie loved him, and, as far as Chewie knew, she was the only person whose love he hadn't worked tirelessly to gain. Her love was just... there.
The streets were deserted by now, the freezing raindrops driving the final stragglers inside at last, and it was growing darker anyways. No one would see him right now. No one ever did. A twist and a pop later, and Chewie was standing before the Elyashkevich-Juozapavicius home. The home, towering before him, was bright and colourful, welcoming and warm, and Chewie prayed that they were home.
Making his way slowly up the path, he hesitated on the steps, his heart in his throat. Something about showing his Auntie this glimpse at his pathetic life was hurting him, and he was tempted to turn on his heels and run, to sleep in their garage and light out before the sun even rose. His pride was holding him back, but his desperation, both for warmth and for love, fueled him onward. He reached up and knocked on the front door.
A few moments later, the door was thrown open by the giggling, familiar face of Anastasia Elyashkevich-Juozapavicius. Her eyes grew wide at seeing him, and her arms immediately went out to the thin, shivering boy before her.
"Hi Auntie," he greeted her hoarsely.
"Merry Christmas Hanna. I was afraid you weren't going to get here before dinner."
Character: Hanna "Chewie" Evgenyev.
Summary: One cold December night, Chewie reflects on the relationships in his life, and finally ends up going to the one person he could always depend on.
It was a cold night. Of course, just about any mid-December night in Finland was expected to be cold, to chill you to the bone and force those making their way along the streets to find shelter or find religion in their last few moments. Snow had already fallen that night, snow that wasn't really snow but was more like slush, snow that couldn't even be slept on if your pride lasted longer than your will to live. It was miserable to wander the streets of Helsinki these nights, to feel the cold bite at your every exposed body part, forcing you to forget about your hunger and exhaustion in your desire just for warmth. There wasn't even company these nights, the familiar fires that spotted the back alleys disappearing as more and more found their way onto some friendly looking porch or church.
Chewie sighed, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck. It had been a few days since he'd slept inside, and then it had been on Leia's floor, an old blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His hair was getting long these days, the mop of matted curls falling into his eyes and down the back of his neck, and the clothes he had stolen from his cousin Sebastian were already worn thin. Sebastian bought expensive clothes that looked pretty, not practical clothes that could stand up to a beating and the Finnish winter. Chewie should have realized.
A faint rumble sounded in the distance, and Chewie wondered for a moment if it was his stomach. He had eaten earlier, but it had been mac and cheese he'd taken when he left Leia's, and Chewie knew he was lactose intolerant. After all, beggars couldn't be choosers. But the rumbling didn't come from an empty or upset stomach, it came from the sky. Rain was on its way. Rain that would turn to sleet that would likely turn to snow. Rain that would cut through his thin shirt and soak him to the bone, rain that would make him sick and destroy his only set of clothes, rain that would make it impossible for him to work in the morning and find a way to get himself off the street. Chewie fucking hated the rain.
"THE END! THE END IS COMING!" an old man was shouting in Finnish, his voice shaking as he addressed his imaginary congregation. Chewie knew the man, had seen his face and heard his street corner sermons, but he had never paid him much heed; he was nothing but another fading face on the cold streets of Helsinki. Stepping along the sidewalk, hands in his pocket, Chewie stood before the sidewalk preacher in his Sunday worst, the hat in his hand functioning as the Bible he was trying to thump, and smirked. It was better than the old Masses his Baba had forced all the kids to attend in his days in Belarus. Baba, technically his great-grandmother, the not-so-strict Roman Catholic who adopted any child to come her way, who had taken in his father, and then taken in Chewie. Vil had always found her to be a comforting presence, a kind and dependable figure, a pleasant memory, buried in a tough childhood, but Chewie could never think of her as such. She was kind, and while Chewie was there, she had loved him, but Baba loved all her children. Baba loved any lost Belarusian child who came knocking on her door, hungry and cold, and if Chewie were in Belarus, he would go running to her without a second thought. But he wasn't in Belarus, and Chewie knew, the minute he left Belarus, he began to fade from Baba's memory. She would remember him if he came back, and if he wrote her to tell her he was cold, she would send him a coat in a moment, but she would never think of him unprompted. He was sure of it. Baba had other things on her mind.
"You should get inside," he whispered to the elderly man, dragging a hand out of the warm refuge of his pocket to pat him on the shoulder. The preacher looked down at him, as if shocked to see someone was actually standing before him, actually addressing him directly. "That's where most of the congregation's gone anyways. You'll reach more in a church."
The preacher nodded vaguely, lifting a stiff arm to Chewie's shoulder and looking him in the eyes. His eyes were a milky colour, as if he had begun to go blind years ago, but still had just enough sight left in him to pick out a soul in need. "You should too, son."
"I will, don't worry. I have friends." Even as the words spilled from his lips, Chewie didn't believe them. Firm as they were, as sure as he sounded, Chewie knew, as the preacher tottered off to seek out some sort of shelter, that he was without a good friend in this world. "Who the hell am I kidding?" he groaned, taking the preacher's place and seating himself on the frozen corner. "Don't have a soul on my side."
It was true, wasn't it? Blue Harvest didn't really like him, and he knew it. He tried, he really did try, to make them like him, but there was something about his fumbling, overly friendly lack of regard for personal space that rubbed them the wrong way, something he inherited from his father, and was only magnified by his constant feeling of loneliness. "Still ridiculed, no matter how hard that I have tried," Chewie muttered bitterly, his forehead bowed, thoughtfully chewing his thumbnail. Who did he honestly have in this world? His father? Chewie couldn't go to his father. He didn't particularly like his father most days, as much as he loved him, as much as he craved his father's love and affection. No, despite all that, sometimes he really hated him. Even if his father stumbled upon him sleeping in the park, he wouldn't accept money from him, he would still throw it in his face, scream at him, "I don't need a hand. Don't need anything. I've got a roof over my head! One that isn't, and never was, yours." Cue another bitter laugh. Right, I've got a roof over my head. As if I'd rather be alone with me instead.
Chewie jumped to his feet, kicking at the sidewalk angrily. Fuck this pride, fuck all this. He was cold, he was starving, and fucking Janeane was pregnant. What was he supposed to do? He thrust his hands back in his pocket, fighting back the angry tears biting at his eyes. There was no use crying. The tears would only freeze on his face and make him colder.
"Fuck fuck fuck," he grumbled, swallowing his anger and disappointment in himself. Chewie sighed, reaching into his back pocket for a cigarette. Maybe that would warm him up. Or at least help him to forget the rain that was already starting to cut into him.
Pulling the pack of Marlboros out of his pocket, he flipped up the top, and froze. Crammed in the front of the full pack was a piece of paper, neatly folded, with Hanna scribbled on the front in a familiar script. Yanking the paper from the box, he shoved the cigarettes back in his pocket and unfolded the note.
Don't forget, you're always welcome here. Drop me a line and tell me how the hell you are, at least. You're like another son.
Auntie
Auntie. Of course, Auntie, his father's cousin who had been closer to a mother to him than his own mother. They had eight kids, one was a stray cat, another a total psycho, and the youngest were a set of hyperactive triplets, but they always made room for him. Auntie loved him, and, as far as Chewie knew, she was the only person whose love he hadn't worked tirelessly to gain. Her love was just... there.
The streets were deserted by now, the freezing raindrops driving the final stragglers inside at last, and it was growing darker anyways. No one would see him right now. No one ever did. A twist and a pop later, and Chewie was standing before the Elyashkevich-Juozapavicius home. The home, towering before him, was bright and colourful, welcoming and warm, and Chewie prayed that they were home.
Making his way slowly up the path, he hesitated on the steps, his heart in his throat. Something about showing his Auntie this glimpse at his pathetic life was hurting him, and he was tempted to turn on his heels and run, to sleep in their garage and light out before the sun even rose. His pride was holding him back, but his desperation, both for warmth and for love, fueled him onward. He reached up and knocked on the front door.
A few moments later, the door was thrown open by the giggling, familiar face of Anastasia Elyashkevich-Juozapavicius. Her eyes grew wide at seeing him, and her arms immediately went out to the thin, shivering boy before her.
"Hi Auntie," he greeted her hoarsely.
"Merry Christmas Hanna. I was afraid you weren't going to get here before dinner."