He learned to gauge the danger by the sound of a bottle opening. Stolichnaya was bearable: his father drank slowly and would fall asleep in his armchair by midnight. Russky Standart was worse: he drank fast, and the "talks" would start. But Pertsovka, the pepper vodka, was for his darkest days. Then he'd be completely silent. Ilya hated Pertsovka. It didn't just smell like vodka—it smelled of fear, sticky and sweet, like his mother's valerian drops.
Or: Ilya's Childhood.
Notes:
Well, for me, this fic is partly like therapy. Knowing my acquaintances and friends, 70-90% of their fathers, as well as their mothers, drank or still drink. And where there's alcohol, there are often fights. So, here it is—feelings, thoughts, events. I don't know if I managed to convey it all, but writing and reading this was incredibly intense for me, to the point where my hands shook and I had tears in my eyes. Also, don't look too closely at the chronology; I tried to fit everything into canon, but my memory doesn't remember everything(
P.s. Maybe that's why Ilya's mother is the way she is.