All that blocks Vanya Petrov from his future are four rows of plastic seating.

They shouldn’t be a barrier to a brand-new start in Britain, yet each row is filled with people who seek the same outcome. Every seat is taken, the immigration centre full to bursting, its air stale and thickly humid compared to the thin chill of autumn outside.

He first sat here in springtime, hope sparking with each meeting. Summer brought more check-ins, eroding his optimism. Now he has no expectations, killing time people-watching while listening for his number.

A man seated dead ahead is restless, his biceps tensing and releasing in a compelling rhythm. It’s hard to look away until Vanya remembers the first rule London taught him.

He should mind his own business.

That resolve lasts for a whole thirty seconds before his gaze slowly drifts back.

Minding his own business would be easier if this stranger wasn’t his type, tight T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders in a way that leaves his mouth dry, his dark hair unruly compared to Vanya’s own neat and tidy blondness. From behind, he ticks every single box on Vanya’s mental hook-up checklist.

We’d look good together. He’s tall. I’d fit right under his shoulder.

Forget a one-time hook-up. One day, someone like this could be his first boyfriend.

Wishful thinking unspools, threadlike, as Vanya daydreams.

I could look for someone like him once I’m granted asylum.

Negative thoughts quickly follow.

Unless they send me back to Russia.

It’s been almost eight months already, his faith rising before falling as each meeting brings no firm decision. The lows are hard to weather when they’re coupled with restrictions about his stay in Great Britain. Other worries also wash in.

Someone built like him could hurt me again.

It’s challenging to remain positive when his insides knot so tightly, but doing so is vital. Fear has to stay in the past. Hope has to be his driver—his one and only focus—and all that keeps him from hope are these rows of plastic seating. Why each chair is screwed fast to the floor like someone might want to steal it is hard to frame in English. Consonants jostle vowels as he tries, like his elbows do with his neighbours. He presses his lips together rather than sound stupid in public.

So much for English being a favourite subject at school. It turns out real fluency is beyond him. Sitting in complete silence is safer, even if it’s lonely.

Time crawls as Vanya waits. He wonders whether everyone here feels the same way. Do they exhale aspiration as the minutes oh-so-slowly tick past only to inhale doubt with their next breath, or are they doing better than him? It’s impossible to tell when so many languages divide them.

Counting his blessings is another way to keep mentally busy.

He lists them to pass time.

He’s grateful for the shower he had this morning at the hostel, even if it was tepid. And he’s so lucky to have a room in that building, even if some of the Brits living there are resentful. The small amount of money the government grants him is enough to eat daily, if he’s careful, but his Estonian roommate is his biggest blessing.

The days before he met Kaspar were his loneliest on this planet.

Vanya covers his eyes for a second rather than recall his first weeks on this island. Bursts of colour spangle his vision when they reopen. Scarlet turbans catch his eye to the right, the heads of their worried wearers bent close together. To his left, bright headscarves contrast with the clouded expressions of the women who wear them. If their circumstances were different, this room could host the United Nations, only these anxious people aren’t esteemed emissaries from the world’s four corners.

Far from it.

They’re immigrants, just like him, desperately hoping to stay despite England’s lukewarm welcome.

Vanya shifts to ease the onset of pins and needles, bumping the arm of the woman next to him. It’s accidental, but the flicker of scared confusion that meets his instinctive use of Russian makes him truly sorry.

He must have worn the same expression so often when he first set foot in London.

The sheaf of paperwork she clutches is thin compared to his fat folder, suggesting she’s new to the UK, but when she pulls her children to her, overwhelmed translates no matter her first language.

A mother alone with her kids shouldn’t ever look so frightened.

Vanya knows his English is still poor, but breaking their silence seems more important than worrying about sounding stupid. “Sorry.” He mimes bumping her elbow with his. “Didn’t mean. Was accident.”

Another expression flickers across her face—almost a smile this time—and he’s pleased he made an effort. That smile slides to panic as a number is called out. Her anxiety is familiar and all too fresh for Vanya to ignore. He repeats the number for her, pronouncing his words very carefully while smiling at her children.

“Five more,” he offers after spying the ticket she clasps. “Then I’m think it is your turn.” He holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers, tickled when both her children mirror his gesture. “Five more, then you.”

At first, confusion furrows her brow. Vanya points at her ticket and then at the desks where immigration officers hold interviews in full view, like privacy for displaced people doesn’t matter. Comprehension slowly dawns, and she holds up five fingers of her own before nodding. Her children echo his quick “Yes, five more” like parrots, startling him into laughter. That light moment suddenly darkens when the guy sitting in front of them shoots to his feet.

It’s an explosion of sudden movement accompanied by blasts of foreign cursing.

Vanya reacts on instinct.

He lurches sideways, folder raised like it might shield the children. Then he lists away just as abruptly, his heart sickly thumping.

What the hell is he thinking?

This waiting room is nothing like the dark alley that still gives him nightmares.

No one will attack him here.

Yes, the guy who shot to his feet is a whole lot bigger than him, but he’s likely only waging his own battle with a cramp or pins and needles.

Vanya avoids his neighbour’s concerned expression. She’s still watching when he glances sideways. He averts his gaze completely to avoid seeing any pity for his fearful reaction. Instead, he watches as the man who caused his alarm first stamps feeling back into his feet and then twists from side to side a few times. When he stretches both arms upward, the thin cotton of his T-shirt lifts to reveal where his lower back meets pale blue denim. Vanya focuses on the strip of skin visible only a few inches from him. When the man twists again, he catches Vanya staring.

A glance—surprised before subtly warming—meets with his and holds it.

Vanya fumbles his folder open rather than prolong it.

He hangs his head, staring blindly at words that panic renders senseless, studying documents that blur rather than trust the gut instinct that suggests a shared spark of interest.

His instincts can’t be trusted.

That’s why he’s stuck here, after all, thousands of miles from family and friends, separated from all his fellow students instead of graduating with them.

So what if he won’t ever get to have a teaching career like the rest of his cohort?

At least no one here has tried to kill him.

Besides, even if he walks the whole way home on his knees, he’ll never be made welcome again, especially by his father.

No.

Exile from his family is permanent.

Vanya hangs his head even lower until a child taps on his knee. He takes the piece of paper she shyly offers. More have spilt from his lap and her brother holds them. Thank God none of them feature the grim photos supporting his plea for asylum.

“Thank you,” he quietly offers.

Again, they parrot his words, and the world seems a little brighter when they giggle.

He counts aloud as the children return each sheet, pronouncing the words as clearly as he knows how. “One. Two. Three.” Their sweet smiles dull the sharp edge of his panic, widening as he folds one of the sheets of paper until it concertinas. He gets a quiet but perfect, “Thank you,” from the girl in return for the fan he fashions. A few more folds and her brother clutches a fan of his own. Vanya describes each step as he makes a third fan, using his simplest English, pleased as the words come to him.

“See how I’m fold?” He glances up and pauses. “Now I’m do again.”

“And again!” The girl can’t be much older than six or seven, the same age group he’d been training to teach before….

No.

No.

Twenty-two is too young to live in the past. Doing so won’t help these kids either, if they’re ever going to fit in. Vanya forces a smile he hopes seems natural and flaps his fan in front of his face until he has their full attention. “Lovely weather,” he says very carefully. Fluttering his eyelashes provokes a fresh gale of laughter. “For time of year.”

There.

A phrase any true Brit would be proud of.

His heart swells beyond reason when the girl tries so hard to repeat him. Then it rises to his throat, frozen despite the waiting room’s heat when his own number is finally called out.

* * *

Vanya is hours late to meet his roommate. The West End department store where Kaspar works is busy. He isn’t at his usual station in the menswear section. It’s a relief to finally spy him in the next department, unpacking elegant champagne flutes.

“What are you doing in the wedding section?” His question goes unanswered. Kaspar just slides glassware back into its box before gripping Vanya firmly by the elbow. He steers him to a fitting room nearby, not letting go until he checks each cubicle is empty. When he speaks, worry thickens his accent.

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing? I had to stay out of management’s way so they couldn’t fire me for lending my work shirt to you.”

It’s so good to hear Russian, even if so accented and angry that Vanya’s eyes sting for a moment. They prickle for a little longer when he gets pulled into a fierce hug. Kaspar’s beard tickles his cheek, his next words even rougher. “I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t come back to the hostel before my shift started. Should I come to work like normal, even if that meant begging a spare T-shirt from a stock boy, or should I try to find out if you…?” His hand steals to the back of Vanya’s neck, and he shakes him a little. “I thought they detained you.” He’s gruff. “If you’d let me buy you a phone, you could have texted.”

A phone is the last thing Vanya wants.

He’ll never own another after the trouble his last one caused him.

“No. Don’t waste your money. You do enough for me already. I’m sorry I took forever.” He should know better after so many of these pointless meetings. It was stupid of him to think it wouldn’t take up the whole morning. “Swap with me now.” He undoes a few buttons of the plain black shirt he’d borrowed, hopeful that dressing well might somehow make a difference.

“No. Keep it. My manager’s gone now, so you might as well.” His grip on Vanya gentles. “I was worried, that’s all. I don’t ever mind you borrowing my clothes.”

“I know.” Kaspar shares easily after rooming with him for months. What started as a strategic arrangement to watch each other’s backs in a house that’s often hostile now feels like real friendship. Still, guilt tugs hard at Vanya, only loosening its grip when Kaspar checks his hair in a mirror, the tips of his ears pink. “Besides, it’s not all been bad. Working in the wedding section means I’ve seen a lot of Anna.”

“You should ask her out. She likes you.”

Kaspar’s eyes meet with his. “She does? How can you tell?”

Months of being a bystander finally count for something. “Because she watches you almost as much as you watch her.”

“Hmm.” Kaspar isn’t convinced. “You really think she likes me?”

“What’s not to like? You helped carry all her stuff up to her room when she moved into the hostel. And you told her about the job vacancy here. You even come from the same city. She’d have to be as stupid as you to turn down a date.”

“I’m only as stupid as the company I keep, Ivanushka.” It’s an insult that ends in fondness, the name Kaspar uses reserved for family. And that’s what he is, Vanya guesses. The closest thing to family he has here in Britain. His smile only fades when Kaspar asks, “So, what happened at your appointment? What did they say?”

“Still no firm decision.”

“Why is it taking forever?” His exasperation echoes Vanya’s. “Asylum claims for people like you should go through the fastest.”

People like him.

Embarrassment stains his best friend’s throat when he realises what he’s implied, but Vanya goes ahead and says what had been impossible to admit aloud before coming to this country. “I’m gay, not made of glass. Maybe they think I’m strong enough to wait a little longer.” That’s what he told himself as he turned away from the official who had barely glanced at the fresh evidence he presented.

“But why make you wait at all? I never heard of another case so clear-cut.”

“They didn’t say why.” Maybe someone else’s need was greater, although that’s hard to swallow. It’s the only reason that makes sense, one that reminds him of the children he sat with, who were still waiting when he left.

“Your safety should be a priority, not something they keep shelving like it doesn’t matter. If they saw what I saw when I met you—”

Vanya doesn’t like to recall that moment. Fleeing to Britain only to encounter violent skinheads in the hostel, where he was meant to be safe, could have ended badly. Kaspar stepping in when panic froze him is a favour he’ll owe him for forever. Getting to repay it is another hope he has for the future.

He squares his shoulders to recite what the official told him. “I need to go back next month. Until then, I should keep a registered address, and….” This is the rule that truly rankles. “And I’m still not allowed to earn money.”

He would have graduated by now, if he’d been more careful. Preparing for his first teaching position would have filled his summer instead of struggling with a new language. Having a future like that—secure, worthwhile, and needed—is a dream he has to let go now. He has to or the regret he wades through most days will surely drown him.

“Come on.” Kaspar’s still pissed off as they leave the fitting rooms but keeps it to a simmer until he gets back to the glassware he abandoned. His brusqueness knocks two flutes together, the chime as clear as his anger. “How exactly do they expect you to eat?”

“The same way I have since I got here.” Vanya pats his flat stomach. “I’m lucky they give me food vouchers at all.”

Kaspar grumbles. “Lose any more weight and you won’t get away with borrowing my clothes.” He sets out the next two glasses with more care. “What else did they say?”

“Just the usual,” Vanya says in Russian before switching to English. He clears his throat and stutters. “I-I’m need to practice. Practice English.” His brow creases. “Having a job would help. Could talk all day to people, but….” He shakes his head.

Getting a job right now could get him sent home without warning.

Given what he barely escaped from, it’s not a risk worth taking.

Kaspar replies in English that’s so much better than his. “Well, I won’t get you into trouble by offering you any of my wages. You can help me for free. Unpack these?”

Vanya does as requested, reading packaging labels under his breath until Kaspar interrupts him.

“You really need to practice your English that badly?”

“Yes.” He truly does. “I’m think is best plan to stay.” He’s yet to meet an official who has any patience, so he’ll practice morning, noon, and night if that helps at his next meeting.

Kaspar surveys the shop floor, his gaze speculative as he searches. “You might as well practice on that customer. He’s not buying anything here today.”

“He’s not? How can you tell?”

“He’s been here for ages. I overheard him taking work calls. Besides, look at him.” Kaspar sums up exactly what he sees. “What a mess. His type doesn’t shop here.”

Vanya takes in the rear view of a man wearing baggy chinos. His faded polo shirt stretches over broad shoulders in a way that’s familiar, reminding him of the guy he sat behind this morning. He has dark hair that curls too, only its length suggests neglect rather than deliberate styling. “What do you mean, ‘his type’?”

“I mean, he’s an average working person. Look at him and then take another look around you.” Kaspar’s right. Nearby, happy couples-to-be compile wedding lists while this man looks like he would struggle to pay for the cheapest item. “My guess?” Kaspar offers. “He came in out of the rain with no intention of spending any money. Seriously, you won’t cost me a sale by talking to him. It will be good practice.”

Approaching strangers is a challenge that hasn’t ended well in the past for Vanya. The champagne flutes he holds tinkle when he sets them both down; his halting English is as shaky. “W-what do I say?” A mirror offers a partial glimpse of the man holding up a necktie.

“It’s easy. People don’t want to seem stupid. They’ll agree with whatever you tell them if they think you know more than them.” He makes a shooing gesture.

Vanya peers around a display island. From there he can only see a sliver of his target. He’s older than he appears from behind; there’s a sprinkle of grey at his temple and lines that look like they’ll deepen around his eye if he smiles.

He can approach this man, even if his stomach turns in a slow flip. He can strike up a conversation with a stranger if it helps to keep him in this country.

Besides, Kaspar’s here to keep watch.

What’s the worst that can happen, this time?