Work Text:
It’s still pitch-black outside when Dima suddenly startles awake, his heart beating wildly and his fingers trembling slightly when he goes to rub his eyes, trying to make sense of what’s going on. If it was a nightmare, he can’t recall it now, but he doesn’t think it was, because he usually remembers what he dreams about, especially if it was something shitty. Blinking around the dark room, Dima pushes himself up onto his elbows, presses his tongue behind his upper teeth, and exhales slowly through his mouth, pushing all the air from his lungs just like Doctor Mila taught him.
Letting his eyes flutter shut, he breathes in again through his nose, holds the air inside his chest as he starts counting to—
His whole body jerks violently at the click of the door handle being pushed down, the sound way too loud in the otherwise silent house. He shoots upright in bed as it begins to rattle, jiggling up and down several times before the door is finally pushed open to reveal Mari standing in the dim light coming from the hallway.
Sighing shakily, Dima flops back down into the sheets again. There’s sweat beading at the back of his neck from the rush of adrenaline. The tips of his fingers feel cold and numb.
“Dima,” Mari asks, in a whisper that isn’t actually a whisper, because she’s four and hasn’t really figured out volume control yet, “are you sleeping?”
Dima turns his head to stare at her. “Not anymore,” he says, a little more snappish than he would if he hadn’t just been on the brink of panicking. Then he immediately feels guilty about it, because it isn’t Mari’s fault that his brain is a mess, so he sits up and scoots over to make space for her on the bed. “What’s up? Why are you awake?”
Mari practically runs across the room, and jumps on the bed like a maniac, landing half on Dima and kneeing him in the ribs in the process. Wheezing, Dima readjusts them both into an at least somewhat comfortable position with his head propped up on his bunched up pillow, and Mari sitting on his stomach, beaming down at him as she informs him, “It’s Christmas!”
Right. December 25th. North American Christmas. It’s not like Dima forgot, because it’s all Mari’s been talking about for a week straight, but also, “It’s the middle of the night.”
Mari braces her hands against her hips with an impatient huff. “No, it’s morning.”
Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, Dima unlocks it, squints at the too bright screen, then turns it around to show Mari the numbers, like that’s going to somehow convince her. “No, it’s 3:37.”
“Yeah,” Mari says, looking at him funny, the way she always does when Dima isn’t quick enough to agree with her, “that’s morning.”
“Barely,” Dima counters, and groans again when Mari scrambles off him, her fingers digging into his thigh for a moment before she rolls off the bed and lands on the floor with a thump. Then, unfazed by her tumble, she’s running off again, heading for the door. “Where are you going now?”
“We have to check if Santa brought presents!” Mari calls back over her shoulder, any attempt at being quiet apparently completely forgotten. “And Papa promised to make syrniki for breakfast!”
That gets Dima moving as well. “Hey, no, wait,” he hisses after her, kicking his feet in a mostly unsuccessful effort to disentangle the blanket from around his legs, “it’s too early for that! I can make you a snack, you don’t have to wake Ilya up!”
Not that Ilya would get mad about being woken up at what is only technically morning time, Dima doesn’t really think so, but why take the chance? Dima hasn’t seen Ilya get angry all that much since moving in with him and his family, but it’s all the more terrifying whenever it actually happens, because Dima doesn’t know what to expect when it does. Ilya doesn’t yell and scream like Mama, except that one time on that call with the lawyers, and he’s never locked Dima in the basement for forgetting his chores, or sent him to bed without dinner for failing a test, or smacked him around for doing something bad-wrong-filthy like Father does, but just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t automatically mean it never will.
It probably won’t, and logically Dima knows that, because Ilya’s promised him multiple times already, and so has Shane. And Shane can be strict sometimes, but he’s always clear in what he wants from Dima, he’s always fair when it comes to consequences, and his voice never, ever gets loud or mean, no matter what.
Not believing Shane is almost impossible, but with some things, almost just isn’t safe enough.
After finally freeing his legs, Dima stumbles out of bed and races after Mari, looking up and down the hallway anxiously. The baby gate is still closed, which is good, because Mari’s not supposed to open it herself, and Shane and Ilya will definitely not be happy if she falls down the stairs and hurts herself while Dima did nothing to stop her. Their door is also firmly shut, but Nessa’s is wide open, making Dima curse quietly under his breath as he hurries over. He’s too late, though, because he nearly collides with Mari in the doorway a moment later, when she comes back out dragging Nessa along by the wrist.
“Mari, come on,” Dima tries to negotiate as he goes to herd them back into the room, “we can play something,” he grimaces at his own words, because no, that’s a terrible idea, neither of them knows how to play quietly, “or how about I read you a book until it’s time to get up, huh?”
Mari glowers up at him. “It’s time for presents.”
And that manages to draw Nessa’s interest, of course. “Presents?”
Mari nods, bouncing in place excitedly. “Christmas presents!”
“Christmas!” Nessa squeals, both of them ignoring Dima’s frantic shushing noises as they start jumping in circles around him, and then there’s rustling coming from the main bedroom, followed by a confused, husky, “Girls? What are you doing out there?”
Dima stiffens, hands hovering uselessly over Nessa’s shoulders.
“Daddy!” Mari takes off down the hall, and practically throws her body against Shane and Ilya’s door, pushing up onto her toes to reach the handle. “It’s Christmas!”
The door swings open, making Dima flinch when it hits the wall with a bang. A moment later, a light flickers on, and Dima watches, still frozen in place, as Shane sits up in bed and drags a tired hand down his face. “Marika, it’s four in the morning, what,” Shane says, then trails off when he glances up, and sees Dima and Nessa standing in the hallway. His brows scrunch together as he looks back down at Mari, and when he starts speaking again, his English is too fast for Dima to make out all of it.
He catches ‘night’ and ‘early’, though, so he assumes Mari is getting scolded for waking them all up. But even while he does it, Shane is holding her, his big hand on her tiny shoulder, and Dima can tell it’s gentle, not meant to hurt. Which is confirmed when Mari throws her head back, mouth pursed into a pout, clearly frustrated with what Shane is telling her, but definitely not scared.
Dima only glances away from them when an unexpected weight slumps against his legs. Nessa is already looking back at him, and holds up her arms to be picked up as soon as she realizes she has his attention. She grabs his collar once she’s settled in his arms, tugging at it and leaning her whole body in the direction of the main bedroom, making it very obvious where she wants to be carried.
It’s still odd to Dima, to just go into an adult’s room like this. Back in Moscow, Father’s study is strictly off limits to both Dasha and him, unless they’re called in there to be told off for something, and so is Mama and Father’s bedroom. And the sitting room, most of the time, when Father’s friends are there, although Dima’s not exactly sad about that. But Shane and Ilya don’t care if Mari and Nessa want to take a nap in their bed or splash around in the big tub in their bathroom, and they say it’s okay for Dima to curl up in the armchair in the corner if he needs Shane’s help with his English lessons but Shane has to get ready for work.
Nessa squirms to be let down again when they reach the bed. She immediately crawls over Shane’s legs to get to Ilya, who looks like he’s still mostly asleep, even if he’s sitting up and has his phone in his hand. He grunts when Nessa topples over into his lap, but starts petting her back with his free hand anyway. Never one to be left out, Mari pulls herself up onto the mattress as well, and shuffles closer, already whining, “Papa, can we open our presents now? Please?”
Shane rolls his eyes as he goes to pick up Yana, who’s beginning to fuss in her crib, but he doesn’t look too annoyed. “Marika, I’ve told you already, it’s too early for presents.”
Before Mari can protest, and she would have, she has her mouth open to do it already, Ilya unlocks his phone, taps at the screen for a moment, then shows it to her. “No, no, your Daddy is correct. Santa says Christmas starts at seven sharp, see?”
Mari knows numbers, kind of, but she can’t read more than her name yet. She’s looking at the phone anyway, nose scrunched up. Ilya’s in his messages, and Dima can see that there is a picture of the Santa from the Coca Cola commercials set as the contact photo. He nearly laughs out loud at the ridiculousness of it all. Or maybe he does, or at least makes some sort of noise, because Ilya’s eyes snap up to him all of a sudden. And then he grins and winks at Dima.
“But why?” Mari demands, her face all grumpy now.
“Because the Santa magic is still at work, and if we interrupt now, he’ll have to start all over again. And then it’s going to take even longer until everything is ready for you.”
Mari groans dramatically. “Well. How long until it’s seven?”
“Three hours,” Ilya says, snatching her up and tickling her tummy, making her giggle when he blows kisses against her cheek. “Enough time for a nap.”
“But I’m not even tired,” Mari insists stubbornly. And then, hanging upside down in Ilya’s hold, she spots Dima again, and remembers, “Dima said he would read to us!”
Before Dima can come up with any sort of explanation, or maybe an apology for not stopping this when he had the chance, Ilya just shrugs, leans over to grab the book from his nightstand, and then pats the mattress next to himself. “We’re going to let him choose the story, okay?”
Dima hesitates, but when Ilya holds the book out to him, he gingerly sets one knee on the edge of the bed to take it from him. He looks warily at Ilya, who nods and smiles encouragingly, so Dima takes a deep breath and joins them. He reads a story he knows from when he was little, and when Mari asks for another one after that, Ilya takes over smoothly.
It’s his voice Dima finds himself listening to more than the story itself, the low drone of it, the familiar shape of the vowels, the steady flow of the words. Shane’s Russian is very good, almost better than Ilya’s English sometimes, but he has an accent that makes it obvious it’s not the language he grew up with. Mari and Nessa are more similar to how Dima’s younger cousins in Moscow talk, but still a little bit different, a little bit more Canadian. But when Ilya speaks, it sounds right.
It sounds like home.
When Dima blinks awake for the second time that morning, the sun is just starting to rise, and he instantly knows why he’s awake. Nessa’s feet have been shoved under his hip, poking into the bone uncomfortably, and he’s hot. Very hot. And stuck.
Shane has come back to bed at some point, and is sitting against the headboard with Yana on his chest as he scrolls on his tablet. Mari has climbed over Dima to snuggle against Shane’s side, which has pushed Dima up against Ilya, who has rolled onto his stomach and thrown a warm, heavy arm across Dima’s chest.
He’s close enough that Dima can feel his breaths against the top of his head, ruffling his hair. And if he cranes his neck, Dima can just about see the beginnings of the flower tattoo on his shoulder. It’s for Shane, and Mari and Nessa and Yana, he knows because Mari told him so, and it’s really pretty. Ilya has more tattoos, a lot of them, but most of them are dark, with thick lines and less color. They look cool, too, but Dima likes the pretty one the best.
Snuffling, Nessa suddenly moves, and Dima breathes out in relief when she pulls back her feet. He shifts with her, but then Ilya grumbles sleepily and his arm tightens around Dima, making him still again. His hand fumbles for a moment before his arm bends and the hand lands on Dima’s side, his thumb stroking slowly back and forth over the fabric of Dima’s shirt.
Dima twitches in surprise when Shane chuckles next to him.
“Ilya,” he whispers, and reaches over Dima to run a hand through Ilya’s hair, “you’re crushing your nephew.”
Ilya lifts his head from where he had it smushed into his pillow. He looks at Dima. Dima looks back. Ilya makes a noise that doesn’t sound like it should be coming from a human being, but Shane understands, and tells him, “A quarter to seven. Time to get up.”
“No,” Ilya whines, exactly like Mari does when she’s in a mood, and lowers his head again, nose nudging against the side of Dima’s head, “five more minutes.”
Shane flicks his ear. Ilya grunts. And does not move.
“Just kick him,” Shane tells Dima, moving his hand from Ilya’s hair to Dima’s, brushing it back from his forehead, “or tickle him, he says he isn’t ticklish, but—”
“Ssh, no.” Ilya cups Dima’s head, holding his hand over Dima’s ear. “Don’t listen, Shane is a liar. Big, mean liar.”
He kisses Dima’s temple. Shane keeps running his fingers through Dima’s hair, absently untangling his curls with gentle fingers.
Dima does not kick anyone.
Instead, he closes his eyes again.
Because five more minutes does sound nice.