"lifting the other while hugging"
I went for someone different for a change; I hope that's okay love.
Every visit, every phone call, every text- they all feel like a gift; small, precious - something to be handled carefully. They happen rarely, sometimes weeks go by before a text, months between phone calls, between visits; often following the same pattern.
The texts come at horrible hours of the morning even if he doesn’t read them until well afterward, short, clipped things that come from a different number than they used to.
I’m fine. Lena sends her love. See you soon - maybe March?? Let me know. V Sent: 04:23
Had chance to watch the new film - wonderful. Talk about it with you soon? V Sent: 02:56
I’m tired of talking about sanctions. How are you? Have you seen Evgeniy lately? He told me about the fundraiser - you’re all doing so well. Thank you. V Sent: 05:06
The phone calls are strange sometimes. There are times when it feels as though nothing has changed - it is Vova on the end of the line, cracking jokes, poking fun, his laughter rich, wonderful, endless. He could listen to that sound for hours. There are other times when Vova is quiet, his voice hoarse, slow - as though the conversation is too much effort, as though he has forgotten how to talk about things that are not weapons, sanctions, aid, bullets, blood.
Sometimes, everything aligns perfectly and they can see one another.
Sometimes, for hours. They sit in Volodymyr’s gilded office and drink coffee together. He smiles, gently - his voice rough, gravelly - endless questions about him, about his life, about where he has been, what he plans to do and on, and on, until someone knocks on the door and apologetically moves the schedule along and he is reminded, not unkindly - that this is Volodymyr Oleksandrovych, the President of Ukraine before him, shaking his hand, squeezing gently, a soft promise to see him again soon, his brown eyes sparkling.
Sometimes, like now - it’s minutes, scraped together between one meeting and another, a speech, a memorial - it never stops, he never stops and yet, and yet, he always finds time somehow.
His voice is tired, his face too, the hollows below his eyes dark.
It’s as though no time has passed at all as Stas steps forward, half-running across the parquet flooring and lifts him up, holds him as tightly as he can. He has no care for protocol, for anything or anyone else, just desperate to hold on because this time, Vova feels like a ghost. The weight of him alarming, not because he is heavy, but because he isn’t.
Volodymyr buries his face into Stas' shoulder, his eyes closed, his feet barely touching the floor, a white knuckled grip on the navy blue sweatshirt.
He lets out a deep, shuddering breath, Stas holding on gently, not letting him down, not letting go.
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