[Passions Run]

The lounges on each floor were a new idea that the landlord had come up with –common areas where the various tenants could hang out, watch hockey games or what have you, and socialize. They were comfortable enough –chairs, couches, table, and TV. Comfortable enough that Jayda had decided to work on her literature project with her partner in the common room; anything to get out of her apartment for a bit.

Things had been going well. Jayda and her partner, a pretty blue-eyed blonde by the unfortunate name of Nastya, had made a lot of progress, and had slipped into an easy conversation about one of the authors they were answering questions about.

"Effeminate? And vhat makes a guy effeminate? Society! Sexist, conservative society dominated solely by men!"

And that, Jayda thought, was the exact point at which their conversation went horribly, horribly wrong.

The Canadian had made the teeny tiny mistake of maybe inferring that aforementioned author was rather feminine, not in his writing –certainly not- but in personality and, well... As Jayda had discovered mere moments afterward, Nastya was a hardcore feminist.

Jayda couldn't remember the last time she'd backpeddled quite so hard.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I misspoke! I meant-" The Canadian girl stumbled, becoming acutely aware of the red in Nastya's face and eyeing the rapidly pulsing vein at the other girl's temple...

That didn't work very well. Instead of calming down, Nastya let loose a flurry of angry Russian so quickly that Jayda couldn't quite understand what the blonde had said but was left with the distinct impression that she'd been insulted. She did, however, catch the very end of the tirade.

"You're not nearly feminist enough! Your poor kids are going to grow up believing that men are smarter and stronger because you don't have half the spine you should and you've been brainwashed by the patriar-"

Jayda stopped listening after that, a single word echoing in her mind, over and over and over again.

Kids.

Kids.

Kids.

Kids she'd likely never have.

Christ.

She just had to bring up kids.

Something twisted, pulled too hard, too tight, deep inside her chest, like her heart had stuttered and her lungs were stuffed with cotton and it hurt and she couldn't breathe and, damn it, she wasn't going to cry again!

Jayda squeezed her eyes shut and grit her teeth as her sinuses stung and her fists clenched, and she thought for a second that she might cry, because her eyes watered a little and she felt that characteristic downwards tug at the corners of the lips and then...

And then...

And then she just felt angry. Angry, because, goddamn it, she had enough problems as it was and she didn't have to put up with Nastya's self-righteous ranting on top of everything else, and Jayda was tired of crying, and damn Nastya for bringing up kids.

Grey eyes opened, fixed the blue-eyed blonde with a flat, reptilian stare, and the words, calm and even, edged with too much sugar, tasted like battery acid and honey on her tongue. "Get the fuck out."

"Vhat?"

"Get out."

"Just because you don't agree-"

"I will not repeat myself again."

Nastya the pretty blonde feminist left, and the room was silent, and Jayda was alone –or so she had believed. As she clasped her hands together and rested her forehead against her interwoven fingers, a voice cut through the quiet from behind, straightening her spine and taking the breath from her very lungs.

"You are nekulturny, Canadian."

She fought down the sudden, irrational impulse to flee, to run back to her dark little apartment and hide as she recognized the voice and the insult. In Russia, to be nekulturny was to be uncultured, uncivilized; it was one of the most offensive things you could say to a person, and the word made her flinch, made her hiss as she inhaled sharply. She wanted to flee, to hide her rapidly reddening face in shame, because she had been nekulturny, but no. No. She'd done enough running recently.

Instead, she stilled her jumpy nerves, controlled her muscles, and answered the insult with forced calmness, "Valkovich, I have a very good reason for my behav-"

She might as well have stayed silent; he didn't acknowledge her response at all.

"Then again, so vas she. Perhaps it vas deserved." The redheaded Russian at her back interrupted her, an unidentifiable lilt colouring his tone.

Jayda spun around, an expression of disbelief on her face, only to catch a flash of red hair before the painted door to the lounge closed.

There was something decidedly different about those guys, she thought to herself.