At the honorific of 'Comrade' Illya does not flinch. But it is a near enough thing, as often as he had been reminded that he does not deserve such a title. He cannot be the equal of others at his school if they too were not refuse. Detritus. The waste of their society, and marked so by the actions of their parents. Their fathers.
His father with his greedy hands in the Party's funds.
Friendships do not come without strings, with obligations. They are not made on the basis of shared interests but in camaraderie built on their ideals. On the ideology, they were built upon. Like monuments. And still, he cannot help but fall into the hope of the older boy offering his hand (the literal having passed unmet). Dangerous, but far too tempting.
"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin," he tells him. Even as he swallows heavy at the possibility of being remembered. Of being forgotten. "Does everyone here?" he asks, wondering how a boy would have an apartment of his own. Wondering why he follows a stranger through a strange city and does not wonder how he might find his mother (or his teachers) instead.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-10-01 07:40 am (UTC)His father with his greedy hands in the Party's funds.
Friendships do not come without strings, with obligations. They are not made on the basis of shared interests but in camaraderie built on their ideals. On the ideology, they were built upon. Like monuments. And still, he cannot help but fall into the hope of the older boy offering his hand (the literal having passed unmet). Dangerous, but far too tempting.
"Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin," he tells him. Even as he swallows heavy at the possibility of being remembered. Of being forgotten. "Does everyone here?" he asks, wondering how a boy would have an apartment of his own. Wondering why he follows a stranger through a strange city and does not wonder how he might find his mother (or his teachers) instead.