I Wish I Knew You {Winter}

[DMITRI SEMILETOV]

Dmitri didn't like Starbucks. He didn't like most restaurant chains of any kind, of course, fast food being the most offensive. Starbucks, out of all of the local corporate establishments, was probably the least offensive to him, but the most uncommon place for him to visit. Though he enjoyed it the most, it was also incredibly and irrationally expensive, and Dmitri, who was crushingly poor, usually couldn't afford to come.

Still, he had enough money today, and, being somewhat of a reckless spender as he was, he'd decided to go to Starbucks that day.

He did like coffee. Not as much as tea, he supposed, but it was good, and some of the strange concoctions they made at Starbucks -- though painfully unnecessary to humanity -- were a nice treat, on occasion. And that was what this was. A treat. To himself, just for...something. For not killing everyone around him, or something like that.

Whatever.

He walked into the store with his hands in his pockets. As usual, he was dressed shabbily -- all his clothes were fairly old, since he didn't usually have money to mend them or buy new ones. He was wearing one of his two pairs of good shoes, one of his two good hats, and one of about three nice vests, and, as per usual, toting his battered satchel along with him. It wasn't much, but he dealt with it. He knew he was poor, knew he would get odd looks the moment he walked into Starbucks, but he wasn't there for the other people. He was there to get his fucking coffee and get the hell out. That was what this trip was for.

Get his coffee and get out...

The moment he stepped inside, he regretted coming. It was busy and loud, and part of him figured he should probably just turn around and walk back out.

Oh, God...

No, no, he might as well just go in. Just...go in and get his coffee. Right. Okay.

As he made his way through the crowd, pulling out his homemade duct tape wallet from his pocket, he tried to shut out the sound of chattering couples and crying children. God, he hated people. He hated how they sounded and smelled. He wished they could at least be quieter, then maybe they wouldn't be so offensive.

He sighed, drawing out enough money for his favorite latte.

But as he approached the counter, he heard something oddly familiar.

A Russian accent, from a woman who was ordering.

Huh...

Brow furrowing, he considered just disregarding it, but it had been so long since he'd last spoken to someone actually from Russia that he couldn't help but bustle up to her awkwardly. Forget the coffee for the moment. It could wait.

He cleared his throat and caught her eye. "Sorry," he apologized in English, then said, in his native tongue, "Are you from Russia?"

[DMITRI SEMILETOV]

In part, it was a little bit comforting to find someone else from the same country here. Even if she obviously had significantly more money than he had (or probably ever would have), it was clear from the look of recognition on her face that she felt, at least a little, as he did -- like a stranger in a strange land.

And it was...nice, the idea that there was someone else in a hundred mile radius who spoke fluent Russian. He didn't even remember the last time he'd had a conversation entirely in his native tongue. Probably not since he left Russia, and that was two years ago...

It wasn't even that he liked Russian people more than American people. People everywhere were generally the same degree of sordid and untrustworthy. But Russia was his home, and moving to a foreign country where no-one spoke his language made even Russian dipshits look like appealing conversation to him.

It was an aching remnant of homesickness. He was almost disgusted with himself.

Oh, well.

He looked the woman briefly up and down, curious. She was dressed in...God, sequins, that was a bit offensive. Clearly, she had money, significantly more money than him. She was...intimidating, particularly for a woman. He wasn't sure what it was about her, something...cold. He blinked a few times and shook his head -- whatever. It didn't matter. Russian. Focus on that.

"Да, я от Пушкина, недалеко от Санкт-Петербурга." (Yes, I am from Pushkin, just outside St. Petersburg.) He offered a sort of semi-smile. It was about as broad as his mouth ever got. He wasn't the smiling type, as morose as he tended to be. "Откуда вы? Это было давно я говорил с кем-то еще из России." (Where are you from? It's been a long time since I've spoken to someone from Russia.)

He picked up his coffee as they were speaking, took a sip of it, made a bit of a face. Hot. He blew through the slat in the top through which he was supposed to drink and glanced up at Winter again, his eyes patient and curious.