A shiver wracked down Nikolai's spine. How many had that been now? Ten? Fifty? It had become impossible to count after a certain point. Long before that had he lost the ability to bring forth the memory of warmth from the deep recesses of his mind despite giving it his all.
There was only snow, and darkness, and freezing wind that whipped into the marrow of his bones.
Frozen fingers made a futile attempt to move against the will of joints screaming for relief as he adjusted his grip on the rifle in his hands.
He squinted at the endless blanket of black stretching beyond the meager shelter his foxhole provided. What little the snow illuminated was wreathed in eerie blue that warped the trees into faces twisted in sneers that stared, and stared, and staredâ
Nikolai blinked.
No wonder men went mad in these woods.
He was surely well on his way there to join his comrades.
He wondered if the faceless soldiers standing sentinel beside what was sure to be his grave knew the answer. If they had been like him once.
If they were waiting.
...He dared not ask.
Nikolai tipped his head back to try and find a glimmer of light beyond the canopy of dreaâtrees above him. Branches of glittering frost swam in his vision, starlight shining bright and silver somewhere far, far away out of his reach.
His gaze shifted towards the moon's blue halo. The sight of it stirred something deep in his chest, a memory of someone maybe, and he smiled.
At least the last thing his dimming eyes would see in this desolate graveyard where he would be buried under endless snow with only ghosts of the past clad in white sorrow as his company, was something beautiful.
Younger Nikolai who always wears a cross around his neck. It was a gift from his parents and the only thing besides his belief that brings him comfort in a strange land.
The only time he ever takes it off is when John finds him on dark and lonely nights where their lips meet in a feather-light kiss that burns like something holy and damns him for eternity.
If John ever notices he doesn't mention it. It's only another side of their arrangement that is best kept silent.
cw: trans Price, Nik POV, making out with an abrupt end.
Nik knew it would have to be slow. Gentle. But he hadn't quite predicted the struggle and frustration of wanting to throw John down and worship him but never quite getting to that moment.
A few days after John had agreed to give them a go, Nik had hunkered down in his hotel room with his phone and scrolled through porn sites until he found a trans man that looked as close to John as he could find. The same masculine physique, a thick beard. His head was shaven, but that didn't matter as such. John's hair was a delight he could savour in person. He needed to see, to get an idea, how did he make it good for a man whose body was a little different to his?
It had taken only a handful of minutes for him to get hard as he watched the actor's partner work him over, and soon he had to take his aching cock in hand. It was a nice scene. Tender. And for that, Nik was grateful. It was how he imagined bedding John for the first time. Although, he'd be a liar if he didn't also daydream of Johnâs blunt nails clawing his back, or John's spine bowed down with his chest on the bed as he was fucked hard.
A further week followed, a date or two to admire John's mischievous smile and sparkling blue eyes, and then they were in John's flat, on his couch - sofa, he called it - with John's long legs draped over his lap and his beard rasping over his stubble. He felt solid in Nik's arms, Nik's shirt clenched in his fist, his soft sighs through their kisses making Nik's heart flutter. He liked having his back caressed, his belly, his chest; his skin prickled with goosebumps and occasionally he shivered under Nik's touch.
Nikâs hand had settled on the inside of John's knee, tilting it gently outwards. John was warm, squirming, fidgeting in that way a lover did when arousal was bubbling beneath their skin. He should have thought, perhaps, they hadn't really talked, but⊠Nik slid his palm down the inside of John's leg to the thick muscle of his thigh. John startled, flinching back, his teeth digging into Nik's lower lip.
âMmf, fuck, uh⊠sorry, I⊠I, uh⊠that were an accident,â he murmured.
âAre you okay?â Nikâs tongue lapped over the sting, studying John's face closely.
âYeah, grand.â
He wasn't. The body that had been wriggling and doughy moments before had tensed rigid. He was barely breathing, drawing in slow and even, like a sniper steadying to take a shot. Nik pulled his hand away and rested it on John's hip instead. âYou do not wish me to touch you there.â
John huffed. âWhole fings a bit pointless if ya don't, right?â His eyes clearly didn't get the same message about nonchalance as his tone.
âI would⊠like to make you feel good. Be inside you.â
The backs of John's teeth clenched.
âTalk to me, JohnâŠâ
âSânuffinâ, Nik. Just⊠uh, go slow, yeah? Give me time to get used to it.â
âHmm,â Nik leaned back, palm stroking over John's lower back. Their first conversation came flooding back, the way John had sounded, voice tight. âI am not interested in assaulting you.â
John bristled. âAin't fuckinâ assault if I give ya permission.â
âSomething is bothering you. I want to know before we continue.â
John went quiet, his eyes downcast to his lap. The silence grew oppressive, an invisible pressure between them, and then John sniffed. âIs it cause of what I've got⊠the lack of equipment. Is that why you wanna fuck me and not the other way round?â
Nik opened his mouth to answer, and then it clicked shut again. He hadn't even considered how it would seem from John's perspective. When he answered, he started slowly. âI⊠take that role with all of my partners. It is mostly my preference, but I can be versatile if you have other desires.â Nik shifted a little in his seat, his cock pressing against his fly, still painfully eager.
John nodded and Nik could see his eyes shifting from side to side as he considered it, like he was reading a folder of intel on his desk. Nik would have given anything to be inside his head, to war directly with whatever voice was whispering doubt where previously there had been only excited anticipation. âIf, uh⊠if you fuck me, you gonna fuck me like you would a woman?â There was a crack in John's throat, a low, simmering tone of self disgust.
âJohn, I have never had sex with a woman.â
âWot?â
âI would not have a frame of reference to⊠fuck you like a woman.â
John sniffed. It was strange to see him like this. Usually so certain, strutting around with a masculine arrogance that made him frustratingly attractive, all unapologetic swagger. But now, he was shrinking in on himself, a darkness lingering over his head. âDo ya mind if⊠uh, we give it a rest for tonight? Maybe, we could⊠you know, later. Or I could give you head orâŠâ
Nik tugged John from his lap and into the crook of his arm, nuzzling a kiss to his lips, the scruff of his beard. âI think⊠some beer and some football.â
âNik, I'm sorry, I⊠I know you⊠I'm⊠I can do it, I canâŠâ
âI know. We will. When it feels natural to. I can wait, John. You are, what to say, worth it.â
John smiled. It was faint. Those blue eyes glanced up through his eyebrows, and Nik kissed the crease between them before rolling to his feet. They'd drink some beer, perhaps there would be another kiss. Nik would have to sort himself out in the shower later, thinking of how beautiful John would be beneath him, not frightened, not anxious, but lost in the pleasure of sex he was wholly ready for.
cw: dysphoria around menstrual cycle, trans Price.
Nik rolled his shoulders against the sofa cushions and glanced at his watch. John had been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. It was his own home and Nik wasn't going to judge a man for the luxury of an unhurried personal moment, but he had said he needed a quick piss. âDamn beerâs gone right fârough me,â had been his mumbled comment.
The movie had long since lost Nik's interest; a rehash of Bladerunner that didnât compare favourably to the original. He considered the half drunk mug of coffee on the lamp table, and then the hallway door. âJohn?â
A pause. No answer.
Nik frowned, glanced at his watch again, tapped the arm of the sofa, and then finally rolled to his feet. John's flat was small, but cozy. It smelled of fresh washing and furniture polish, with faint traces of cologne and the plants outside on his balcony. Clean, orderly, but scattered with reminders of who lived there; framed pictures, fishing magazines, a well-loved guitar on a stand in the corner of the living, a floor to ceiling book shelf on the wall opposite the kitchenette, stuffed with novels in three languages.
The bedroom was just as neatly arranged, with fresh, brushed cotton bedsheets that Nik had rather been looking forward to trying out. They probably smelled of John. He nudged the door open, and squinted into the dim light until he found the en suite. âJohn?â
The sound of shuffling and then a curse.
âIs everything okay?â Nik walked up to the door and tilted his head towards it.
âUh, yeah⊠Nik, listen, I fink it's best you head to a hotel for the night.â
Nik raised an eyebrow. âI did not expect to sleep in your bed. The sofa is fine.â
âIt's⊠not, uh⊠something's come up.â
There was a tightness to John's voice that set Nik's teeth on edge. âIf you are unwell, we shouldââ
âNo, âm fine. Jusââ
âJohnââ
âNik, fer fucks sake, jusâ fuckinâ go!â
Johnâs throat broke around the last word. Raw, painful. It sounded like he wanted to cry and was only just able to hold it together. Nik had got to know John more intimately over the last few months; there was a vulnerable side to him that he showed to no one. Not even Nik had known it existed until John had kissed him, shakily, frightened, desperate not to be abandoned.
âLet me help. I am not leaving until I know you are okay.â
The silence was heavy, broken only by the sound of John drawing in a shaky breath. Something had made him panic and now he was hiding. Nik placed a hand on the door, just as he had that night listening to John speak about himself to Laswell with such self-loathing.
Eventually, John spoke again. The subtle tremor of barely contained misery in his voice broke Nik's heart. ââm bleedinâ, Nik. First time in a long time. Fâought it was bad food, or bad beer⊠butâŠâ
Nik blinked. It took him a moment to parse John's comment through several layers of euphemism and language translation. His head tilted to the side. âYou are⊠experiencing your menstrual cycle.â
John drew in a sharp breath. âDon't call it that. Sânot⊠IâŠâ
âOkay,â Nik paused. âYou are⊠upset by it.â
âSâfilfy, disgustinâ, makes me feel subhuman. Less âan a man.â
âYou are none of those things.â
John didn't answer. He didn't believe it, Nik realised. It was another layer of John's transition that he hadn't even considered, but of course it could still happen. John had spoken briefly about what he had and had not been able to afford in terms of what he called âcorrective surgeryâ, and how he had learned to manage with what he had, even if he struggled.
âTake a shower,â Nik said.
âWot?â
âTake a shower. It will make you feel better. Do you need me to⊠run to the shop?â
Nik heard the sound of shuffling, and then a heavy, resigned sigh. âNik, you⊠uh, ya don' need tâ do that. You didn' sign up for⊠fer this. You probably never⊠like, yer previous partnersâŠâ
âWith every partner I have had to learn something new. A language, a new dish, a new way to pleasure. Your body's needs do not faze meâŠâ
âI hate itâŠâ
âI know,â Nik said, voice softer. âBut please, let me help. You promised to give me a chance.â
âYeah, butâŠâ
âNo but.â
âFâought you liked my arseâŠâ
Nik smiled, forehead leaning against the door. âI like all of you, John.â
âHmm.â
There was a little more shuffling and then, to Nik's relief, the sound of the shower being turned on. Nik straightened and tapped his knuckles against the door. âCan you send me a picture of what I need to buy?â
âUh⊠yeah. Let me⊠uh⊠my phone's on the coffee table.â
Nik left the bedroom to retrieve it, knocking once he returned. The door opened a fraction and John's hand appeared in the gap. Nik brushed his thumb across the rough fingers that took the phone from him, and John stilled for a fraction. Like he was surprised to feel such tenderness in a moment of fragility. He didn't shut the door all the way again, and Nik's heart felt a little lighter. The artificial tap of keys was followed by a swooping noise, then a ping from his back pocket. âI will be ten minutes.â
âFront door keys areââ
âOn the microwave.â
âHa. YeahâŠâ
Nik left John to shower and walked the short trip to the corner shop. On his way, he googled âhow to help with menstrual cycleâ on his phone and flicked through the results until he found a forum thread by a transexual man. There was a lot for him to learn, but he skimmed enough for the basics to support John in the current moment. The rest could wait.
He picked up some of John's favourite chocolate, some painkillers, a fresh pint and milk and some eggs while he was there, in addition to the sanitary products John had sent through WhatsApp. When he returned, the shower was already off, and the smell of body wash and cologne wafted into the bedroom on curls of steam.
âJohn, I will leave them on the bed.â
âYeah, cheersâŠâ
Nik returned to the main flat to put the kettle on and found a hot water bottle in the cupboard with the ironing board. When John stepped back into the living room, Nik had a cup of tea and his slab of chocolate waiting for him. The fleece blanket from the arm of the sofa had been unfurled, and Nik gestured John over with a beckoning curl of his fingers.
John rubbed at his beard and bounced on his bare toes. He looked good in his flannel shorts and white t-shirt; Nik wanted nothing more than to hold him close, but John was still hesitant. ââm⊠sorry about this, Nik⊠I, uh⊠sâbeen years, anâ...â
âDo not apologise. Come. Get comfortable.â
John shuffled over and sat down on the sofa gingerly, like he was worried about taking up the space. Nik lifted the blanket to drape around his shoulders but stopped short of pulling him into an embrace when he tensed.
âTalk to me,â Nik said.
âI⊠uh, it⊠like I said, makes me feel unclean. Anâ... Like I want tâ crawl out my bloody skin. Throw the whole body away.â
âThat would be a shame. And a waste.â
John huffed, more tired than amused. âFeels so wrong, Nik. Like a betrayal. Anâ... They're gonna want to take a look tâ see why, anâ I can't handle that. Can't handle a strangerââ
Nik rested a hand carefully on John's back, stroking in a wide circle before rising up to his neck, finger and thumb stroking just below his jaw. John's eyes flickered, and his body fought to cling onto the tension that kept him defended and aloof. âThis is not meant to happen?â
âNaw, it stops when fings are right, when the hormones are stable. I⊠sâbeen⊠dunno, could be lotsa reasons, butâŠâ
âThen, tonight, let me look after you, and tomorrow, you will do what you must.â
âNikâŠâ
Nik slid his arm around John's wide shoulders and pulled him against his chest. There was a brief moment of resistance, but John melted the moment Nik slid the hot water bottle into the layers of his blanket. âGood?â
âMm, maybeâŠâ
Nik chuckled and craned down to nuzzle a kiss into John's hair. Their relationship was progressing slowly. Each step was tentative and Nik always had to stand back to let John explore like a new fawn; unsteady, easily spooked. The John Price the rest of the world got to see was a carefully curated costume to protect the vulnerable, broken man underneath. The one that believed he was born too deficient to be loved.
John relaxed slowly, lifting his head only to take some ibuprofen with a swig of tea, before settling down over Nik's lap. Nik played with his hair, stroked his arms and back, slowly inching lower until his fingers were circling over one full arse cheek. John shifted. Nik had come to recognise this little squirm as reluctant and bashful enjoyment; despite his current condition, John was enjoying his caresses. âNik,â he growled groggily, a soft warning.
âMhm?â
âCareful, ya mightâŠâ
âDoes it feel nice?â
Johnâs fingers and toes flexed. âYeahâŠâ
âThen close your eyes.â
âBut, no further⊠I don't⊠it'llâŠâ
âNo further.â
The tension eased back out of John's body and he stretched over Nik like a cat. Nik wanted to touch John more intimately, but he knew he needed to earn that trust by respecting his boundaries until he was ready to lower them.
âFanks, Nik.â
âFor?â
âFer not⊠leavinâ.â
Nik squeezed John's hip and John turned his face into Nik's lap, his breathing levelling out until he was asleep. The tense lines in his face smoothed out and his long legs uncurled over the sofa. Nik used the opportunity to slip his hand beneath John's shirt to his belly. It was a little firm, swollen, and Nik gathered the hot water bottle against it again. Whatever John needed to do, Nik would be at his side. That he could promise.
NikPriceWeek2026 - SFW Day 5 - date night + spring
cw: none. just more of Nik's self doubt and price's patience
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The pĂątisserie was small, tucked down a side street Price wouldn't have found on his own in a hundred years. There was no sign, just a painted shop window and lights coming on round the outside as the afternoon began to settle. Nikolai walked in like he'd been here a thousand times, nodded at the woman behind the counter, and rattled off an order in French good enough that Price raised an eyebrow at him.
"Didn't know you spoke French."
"I know many things. You are only now discovering this because you never ask." Nikolai said it lightly, teasing, steering Price toward a table by the window with a hand at the small of his back.
"I ask plenty."
"You ask about weapons. Escape routes. Which one of us is buying next round." Nikolai sat, entirely at ease in a way Price rarely saw him beyond after a mission or loosened by good vodka. "Different questions than âdo you speak French, Nikolai.â"
"Fair." Price settled back across from him, glancing around at the place. Charmingly mismatched chairs, the smell of butter and sugar thick in the air, a low hum of conversation in three languages at once. "How'd you find this place?"
"Years ago. On a⊠personal matter. I hid in here for two hours, ate my weight in croissants, decided to keep coming back." Nikolai shrugged, easy. "Habit now.â
"Not the strangest way a place becomes special."
"No. But I like the story better than admitting I simply like pastries."
Price laughed properly at that, and Nikolai's whole face changed watching him do it. Softness in his eyes slipping in under the usual easy charm, unguarded for just a second.
The pastries came, absurdly good, and they ate slowly, Nikolai stealing bites off Price's plate under the flimsiest pretenses. At one point Nikolai reached over and thumbed a bit of powdered sugar off the corner of Price's mouth, lingering just slightly longer than the correction required. âMessy.â
"You're one to talk," Price said, nodding at the crumbs on Nikolai's own collar.
"I am a mess. This has never been in question."
"My mess, though."
For the flash of a moment, there was a sadness to Nikolai's smile, there and gone. He covered it with a grin, reaching for his coffee. "Yours. God help you."
They stayed long after the pastries were gone, coffee cups empty, the little shop starting to thin out around them as the sun found it's way to the horizon, soft and warm. Nikolai's foot found Price's under the table at some point. Price didn't move his away.
"This was good," Price said eventually, watching him. "Thank you for bringing me somewhere that's yours."
Nikolai looked at him for a long moment, jaw working in thought. His eyes were soft, almost pained, like he was physically holding up floodgates.
"John, Iâ" He stopped himself.
"You alright?"
"Da." Nikolai reached across the table, took Price's hand instead of finishing whatever he'd started to say, and pressed it, warm, between both of his. "I'm alright."
Price watched him for a moment, clearly aware something had been swallowed, but he didn't chase it. Like knowing chasing a scared animal would only make it worse. He turned his hand over and laced their fingers.
Later, walking back through streets gone gold with the last of the evening light, Nikolai's hand loose in his, that Price stopped him near a bridge, turned him by the shoulder, the back of his knuckles coming up to his jaw.
"Nikolai."
"Hm?"
"I loâ"
"Don't." It came out too fast, too sharp, and Nikolai winced at his own tone immediately, softened it just as fast. "Don't⊠Please. Not yet."
Price went still, searching his face. "Alright."
"It's notâ" Nikolai exhaled, frustrated with himself. "It's not that I don't. You must know that Iâ I justâ" He shook his head, like the words wouldn't come no matter how he arranged them in his head. "I'm afraid if it is said, it becomes a thing that can be taken away. Right now it just⊠isâ He raised his hands in a vague little gesture. âQuiet. Ours. I don't want to ruin that."
Price studied him a moment, worried brows softening into understanding and nodded. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." Price brushed his thumb along Nikolai's jaw. "Whenever you're ready. I⊠Well, I'm not going anywhere."
âYou will.â
Price huffed a laugh. âThen I want you with me.â
Nikolai felt it in his chest, breath caught just short. There it was again. This thing Price offered, patience, endless and unbothered, that he bestowed upon Nikolai.
Nikolai leaned in and pressed his forehead to Price's, everything said the only way he currently knew how.
"Come," Nikolai murmured eventually. "Walk with me a little longer. I'm not ready to go home yet."
Price smiled and let himself be pulled along. "Lead the way.â
a/n: I feel like I wanna add this bc it keeps poking me and I did say I wanted to do this week as like a Nik character analysis so. I don't think Nikprice and their relationship is "quiet", But I think the point is that like it's understated it's theirs... There are no big explosive moments that it's like wow! Love! just... unspoken??? IDK this all makes sense in my brain. n e way. This was cute kinda fun :)
Nikolai, after⊠god knows how long, looks back at the past. John listens.
( @nikpriceweek, day 1 (under enemy fire), winter.)
cws for: (implied?/referenced??) rape, vaguely implied self-harm, flashbacks, nightmares, ptsd, homophobic slur. the whole fic is beneath the cut given the opening.
W/C: 2337
-/-
Hands. That was what he could feel, he could feel the hands, worming their way up his skin. One latched onto his jaw, the otherâŠ
âFuck, get off of me, youââ Nikolai kicked out, foot making contact with something, at the very least. He knew it did, because he could feel the hands tighten around him.Â
Stop fighting it, malâchik-pidor, you want this, the voice purred. He could hear a faint jeer.
âGET OFF OF ME!â his throat was hoarse as he shouted. The door was locked, heâd locked it himself, there was no point in checking, there was no escaping and there would be nobody that would come to help, to find him, nobody will ever come for you, do you understand? You piece of shit, Sasha, I will drop you right here, and I will not think twice.
He kicked harder, just enough for the hands to loosen.
As he rolled over, though, he met something else. A girl, no older than six, staring at him. Cold, hands shaking, stained with red. He felt his feet move before realising he was the one moving them towards her. He felt the words slip past his lips, first, and then he heard shouting. From his side, not from her, intervening as you always do.
His head whipped around, and he scowled, spitting out a dismissive line before turning back to focus on his opportunity. One step, then another, then anothâ
For a moment he was the bullet, piercing through the back of his chest, sending him staggering forwards, blood sputtering from his mouth. Then he was the victim, feeling the searing pain coursing through him as his world began to edge in grey. Gasping out a âhow could youâ with a final spurt of that sickly crimson liquid. Smiling, just slightly, as he saw the girlâs face contort in horror.
He was the aggressor, gun dropped limply to his side as he watched the man drop dead. His hands trembled, just slightly. The man beneath himâs hands were on his belt buckle, already halfway to undoing it. His head had a gaping cavity where he had been shot point-blank; torn open, dripping with blood, desecrated. He looked up, weapon falling from his hands, to meet the girlâs eyes.
She sprinted, and for a moment he was her, heart racing as she tried to wipe the blood from her shirt, one foot after another, over and over and over as her heart pounded in tandem. If she closed her eyes, he was sure he would feel his hands on him once more. So instead, one foot and then the other, she fled. The dust was in her eyes, and maybe that was the reason she didnât focus on where she was running.
She just ran, and ran, and ran, until she heard a click.
He looked down, with just enough time left to watch as her body disintegrated.
Nikolai woke just as the scream formed in his throat. He choked on it, spluttering as he tried to breathe.
John would have had some exercises for this. Five things you can see, one thing you can feel, one hand you can feel. Something like that.
The lights were off. He couldnât see shit. Nonetheless, he tried to form the list, ignoring the way his heart was palpitating. The shadows the curtains cast as they blew from the open window, the man next to him, whom he was previously sprawled over, the half-finished Mi-17 model on their bedside unit, the tablets John had gotten when his insomnia hit its worst, the door just about ajar.
The door. He slipped out from under the covers, making his way to it. One hand slipped into the gap, pulling it toward himself until it was wide enough for him to slip through in silence.
What could he feel? As he passed through the house, head hung low, the question returned to him.
He didnât know. His head was too fuzzy for it to be worth differentiating, anyway. He made his way to the kitchen, turning the light on for just a second so he could locate the kettle, his mug, and some sugar. He turned it off immediately after, eyes squeezed shut to protect them from the burn of the light.
Nikolai found all three things in the darkness, aided by the mental map he had formed moments earlier, and brewed his tea in silence. He left a teabag in his mug, normally; these occurrences had grown too frequent and he had long learned that there was no point in trying to get back to sleep.
He watched the kettle; the blue light at the base meant it was the only thing he could really see, anyway. He watched each bubble gradually rise off the heating element, to the line at which the water stopped. Watched as the minute ticked by, until his water finished boiling.
He dumped the water into his mug, letting some of it slosh over the edge. Nik failed to wince as the boiling water hit his hand, instead apathetically wiping it clean.
A healthy amount of sugar was added (the majority of the bag), before he trudged outside, teabag still in.
He settled onto a chair, closing the glass door behind him, and waited.
It was cold, but the wind was more bracing than whipping. The winter hadnât really begun, and save for a few turned-off lights, there was no mark of it yet. The trees were mostly bare, he supposed, but even thatâ
âNik? Nikolai? Nik, fuckâs sake, want you in bed. âs cold.â
Nikolai shook his head, silently, hands wrapping the mug of cold tea. He sat on the patio, staring out into space. The tiny folding chair he was perched on barely survived beneath his bulk. Before him lay a sky dappled with spots carved out by stars, little scars on its surface.
There were similar scars marking Nikolaiâs back.
The picture of the sky was split, bare branches cutting through it to better frame the stars. They glittered nonetheless. As the wind whistled, contorting the treeâs branches to bend and twist (which created new images), one would have expected a shiver. None came. Only the hollow stare out towards something beyond the stars remained.
âNik?â
John stepped out, beyond the threshold of the sliding door. He shivered, but continued, certain, before reaching Nikolaiâs side to lay a rough hand onto his shoulder.
âYer bloody scary, luv. All alright?â
He flinched away from the touch, before letting out an affirmative grunt. He stayed static, however.
âRight, so you donât seem alright, and Iâd rather not wake up to you being dead tomorrow, so yer gonna talk. Whotâs up?â
Nikolai shook his head again, before finally breaking his silence.
âNothing. I am fine. Go back to sleep, solnyshko.â
âCanât sleep without you witâ me, Nik. So you talk.â
ââŠit is not something you would understand,â he muttered. He tapped his fingers across the mug, in order, before returning to silence.
âTry me.â
ââŠI am thinking about before.â Nikolai swallowed the sick feeling building in his throat.
âWhot about it?â
ââŠdid I ever tell you what made me leave?â
âYeah, realised they were scum. Whot of it?â
âNyet, what⊠prompted that.â
John paused, turning to look at the sky as he considered the question properly. Now that he thought about it, âŠno. Nikolai had told him almost every story, how he realised he was gay, his first time flying, why he fell in love with John, his last moments with his family, but not this. John shook his head, before realising that Nikolai still hadnât looked away from the same spot right ahead of him. âNo, Nik, you ainât.â
ââŠWhen I joined, they said I was the best they had. They said I was⊠I was⊠I would be special, da?â
John circled around to crouch in front of him, and nodded.
âHave you heard of dedovshchina?â
John paused to run the word through his mind. After a few moments of silence, made to stretch on by the quiet creaking of the tree above them, he nodded..
âYeah, uh, hazing, right?â
âDifferent. Worse. It is, um, number one fear for people enlisting, now.â
â..right.â
âIt was⊠awful, John, the things they did to me, to⊠to other people, I was at the better end of it, but even then, they⊠IâŠâ
Nik took a tentative sip of the tea, lip curling slightly in distaste as he drank. The bitter taste (the sugar had mostly settled to the bottom of the Sports Direct mug he clutched) was less of a comfort than he had hoped.
John watched him, hand lifting to land onto Nikâs knee. âGo on.â
ââŠthat was not the worst of it. I survived, they said I was âspecialâ, you know this. I went on âspecial missionsâ, I did the work that⊠that you do not put in a report, John. There was a girl.â
ââŠâ
âShe was⊠I think she was six. Maybe older, but she was so unwell-looking I could not be sure. She was alone, and I was with a comrade. âŠhis name was Sasha, and we were together, because we matched, da? In name. We were friends, or as close to it as.. as anyone could be in that environment. And he, he⊠he was one of the worst, with the hazing. One of the cruellest. HeâŠâ Nik paused, waved his hand, and shook his head, changing his course of speech, âThe girl, understandably, was scared, as⊠as anybody would be, after all, these two men, armed men were the only people around. âŠhe, Sasha, said it was a âgood opportunityâ.â
Nikâs grip tightened on the mug. He stared at the liquid, rather than making any eye contact with Price.
ââŠhe, uhm, I am sure you can imagine what he tried to do. He was⊠higher ranking, than me, and, and, I could not give him orders, and I told him to stop, and he would not listen, but my gunâ well he, uhm, he did listen to that, andâŠâ he tried for a tight smile, for a slight bit of humour, but his efforts were fruitless, ââŠshe broke down sobbing. His blood, it was on her, on the floor, and this man, this man was dead.â
âFirst person I killed like that,â Nikolai added after a brief pause. He looked away from his drink, instead focusing on the stars, for a moment.Â
He wondered vaguely whether those above judged him too.
âShe ran. And ran, and ran, andâŠâ
John patted Nikolaiâs hand, in silence, as he fumbled for his words yet again.
âI told them he had died by mistake. I did not mention the girl to them. I could not. A week later, I was stationed in London, where I⊠met you.â
âAnd thatâs why you left?â
âDa.â
Nikolai melted off of the chair.Â
His mug slipped from his grip, falling just off the edge of the patio to land in the grass. Nik, on the other hand, was bundled into Johnâs arms as his face pressed into the other manâs chest. John ran a hand through the slightly greasy strands at the nape of Nikolaiâs neck and pressed a kiss to the crown of his head.
He sighed, smiling weakly as Johnâs lips touched his head. ââŠIâ every time I think of her, IâŠâ John rubbed at the base of the neck, and eventually he found the words to continue. âEvery time, I wonder what would happen if I was not there. If whoever had taken my place would have intervened. If he would have gone through with it.â
ââŠJesus fuck, Nik.â
Nikolai hugged him tightly, pushing his head further into the crook of Johnâs neck. He breathed in, deep.
ââŠevery day I think about her. About him. What he did to her, and what he did to⊠to me, and, and, he was my friend, John, and I killed him. âŠand I am scared being close to you I will end up hurting you too. I know how you look at the things I do.â
He pulled away, then, just enough to meet Johnâs eyes. His own were slightly red, glossy where tears had formed without falling. Johnâs were just pitying.
John clutched Nikâs shoulders to properly look at him, his lips moving swiftly into an even deeper frown.
ââŠIâm glad you did what you did.â He didnât make an effort to answer Nikolaiâs thoughts, instead squeezing his shoulders tightly.
ââŠ.that is not the end of it.â
âWot?â
âWhen she⊠she⊠ran off, we were⊠we had been setting up these mines, da? As this was where they would put reinforcements, and⊠andâŠâ
He swallowed thickly.
âI cannot help but⊠sometimes, I think, uhm, I think⊠I think if I had let him do it she would have lived. And then I do not know which⊠which is worse. I know what.. what he would have done, I have felt it, butâŠâ Nikolai sighed, âit is different.â
âItâs,â John agreed.
ââŠBloody cold out here,â John mumbled when Nikolai didnât continue. He chose not to press â Nik was verging on tears and trembling in the manâs arms as it stood â he had no interest in making him feel even worse.
âI would rather sit a while longer,â Nikolai eventually said. He didnât move, remaining wrapped into the other manâs warmth.
Nik glanced up from his phone, a deep crease between his eyebrows. "Bonnie Tyler has died."
Price raised an eyebrow. "S'sad," a pause as let his book flop shut in his lap, "didn't have you down as a Bonnie fan..." he tried for wry amusement, but as Nik rolled to his feet and carried his phone towards the window of their snug little flat, Price got the sense there was something other than the timely passing of a geriatric popstar troubling Nik. "You... uh, wanna talk about it?"
Nik flicked his thumb across the screen of his phone before setting it in the cradle of their aging sound system. Price had offered to splurge a bit on a new Bluetooth speaker, but Nik liked the clickiness of all the mechanisms on their old one. His words. "Total Eclipse of the Heart... It was one of the last songs I remember my parents dancing to."
Price paused in the weight of the moment. Nik didn't speak about home. It was like a distant world to Price; one full of shadows, broken hearts and lost memories. He felt like he'd caught a flighty animal in the headlights of his landie on a country road; if his foot was too leaden, he'd snuff the wounded beast from existence. A lost opportunity. "Musta been... wot, '82?"
"1983. Berlin. I cannot even remember why we were there. For my mother or my father. There were still parts of him left then," Nik murmured, his finger swiping thoughtfully over the mottled texture of the speakers, "but we were eating a late meal, and then the song..."
"Brave of the bar, tunin' in to RIAS with a Soviet officer in attendance."
Nik smiled, but it was weak, his eyes still a whole thirty odd years in the past. "Things were falling apart. There were more important things to worry about than a western ballad... My parents liked it because of the part, you know, turn around, bright eyes... You know the bit."
"Yeah, I know it."
"When my father started flirting with my mother as a young officer, he made her laugh with... sickly pick up lines. He believed she was an astrophysicist at the beginning, so... tvoi glaza kak zvyozdy."
Price took a moment to parse it and then huffed softly. "See where you get it from. Pretty sure I've had that one before."
"Hm, perhaps." Nik's finger hovered the play button. "It was more fitting a tribute to them than they could know. The song was intended as a vampire love story for a musical in the sixties, or.. hmm, Steinman was the writer, I think. They enjoyed the macabre and the tragic. But that lyric, it was a metaphor."
"A metaphor?"
Nik swallowed. "For a nuclear explosion. A nod to the bright flash of light when a nuclear weapon explodes. The way it would shine bright in the eyes of those that turned to look. You can hear the explosions in the background at the peak of the song. It, uh... Sometimes, I wonder whether..."
Price's heart dropped through his chest. Fuck. Nik had reached the end of what he could verbalise. Price could see the heaviness crawling over him, threatening to swallow him whole. Slowly, he uncurled to his feet as Nik pressed play and the first keys of the piano chimed in. Nik didn't look up, not until Price slid his fingers in his palm and steered him around. There was a shine to his eyes; they weren't bright, but eclipsed by the sorrow of the shadows dancing in his memory.
Price slid his arm Nik's waist and pulled him close, turning his hand to slide their palms together. Nik looked up suddenly, his eyebrows leaping a fraction. "John?"
"They were happy when they were dancin', weren't they?"
There was that smile on Nik's face again. A soft, sad thing built of grief and nostalgia. "They were."
"Then hold onto that moment. S'just how they'd want t' be remembered, I'm sure of it. When there's so much bad, sometimes y'need to dwell on the good a bit."
Nik swallowed again, thick, with a stuttered inhale accompanying the nod. Price said nothing as Nik's face rested against his shoulder, damp eyelashes fluttering against his neck. They swayed slowly, an echo of the retired, broken Soviet soldier and brilliant, beautiful nuclear physicist dancing to an illegal radio station in a fading German bar.
Price didn't have the answer to Nik's pain. Fuck, he couldn't even manage all of his own. The best he could do was walk at his side through it, and carry him in those moments when it all became too heavy.
NikPriceWeek2026 - SFW Day 1 - Under enemy fire + winter (1.7k words) @nikpriceweek
tags/cw: various mental health issues (PTSD, negative self-talk and negative self-image, depression, some issues around food, passive suicide ideation, planning suicide, dissociation), mentions of break up, open ending, hurt/(almost) no comfort
note: this is a post breakup Nikprice fic. Basically, as Price`s mental health deteriorates post MW III he pushes everyone away, including Nikolai. Price has a very negative perception of himself here and isn`t coping well. This is a bit of a dark fic, please don`t read if you think this might affect you and let me know if I missed any cw. Lastly, a little disclaimer: I`m NOT a writer, this is the third time I`ve ever attempted to write a fic, so apologies if this is dogshit or way ooc. Also, there will be many mistakes because English punctuation is evil and I doubt I`ll ever get a hang of it.
Captain John Price is indestructible, they say. No matter what he gets hit with, no matter how many men he's lost or how badly he's injured, he'll dust himself off, he'll get up again. Marching on, stalwart, unshakeable, solid.
And that has been true for almost 20 years or at least thatŽs the image he has managed to cultivate, until one day, it isn't. He doesn't function anymore, he just can't go on, not even one step further. He's broken. It's over.
His hands shake now. He's not sure if it's from the pills or just his fucked-up brain. They diagnose him with PTSD, they throw around terms like flashbacks, heightened vigilance, anhedonia and anxiety. He stops listening halfway through the conversation.
He used to stay calm under enemy fire, coming up with plans under even the worst of circumstances. Price always thought he`d die in the field one day, after tempting fate one too many times, instead it`s his own mind that betrays him. Now, he`s his own worst enemy, constantly failing to escape the barrage his own brain reigns down on him.
They make him check off symptoms on long lists. He checks almost every single box and for the first time in his life that's not a good thing. Psychiatrists make him rate symptoms on scales from one to ten or sometimes one to five. Whatâs the difference? No idea. He stops on the third page of the self-assessment form and throws the clipboard at the wall in frustration.
What does it matter? Why even calculate a score? He just needs to look in the mirror after yet another flashback, ears still ringing with non-existent gunshots, blue eyes empty, heart beating like heÂŽs just completed a loaded 10-kilometer march to know that heÂŽs fucked up, broken. So why make a production out of it? âS not he'll ever get better again.
He gets sent to therapy. He tries to conjure up some of his trademark wit and humour, maybe he can fool them (and himself) into believing that heâs okay. His therapist isn't impressed. Seems like he can't charm, strategize or argue his way out of this one. He feels like he's failing at therapy. Can you fail at therapy? He keeps going anyway, just so there's something to do, something to break the monotony of his week.
He takes the medication prescribed to him. 100mg of sertraline, 10 mg of something he keeps forgetting the name of. Does it help? He's not sure. Maybe he's more numb than scared now?
His therapist recommends making a to-do list to give his week some structure. But what is there to do? Should he really write down take out the bins and do it before 7 PM, unless you want to upset your elderly neighbour, again? Fuck, fuck, fuck. He used to memorise multiple pages of intelligence briefings and mission strategy without any effort and now he needs a written reminder to not throw away his rubbish after dark? He stops writing to-do lists.
He writes lists of all people he should have saved, all the people he`s failed, instead. Soap, who died to save him. Ghost, who left the SAS shortly after, with Price too busy hunting Makarov to go after his second in command (and one of his oldest friends). The two young soldiers, Jackson and Ortiz, he handpicked to replace them, killed on their second mission with the 141. His falling out with Laswell. Gaz and Rudy, both invalided out after getting shot.
Nikolai.
Nikolai, the man he pushed away, when their slowly budding relationship required an openness and vulnerability Price wasn`t ready to give. Nik had seen the cracks in PriceŽs armour, maybe even before the captain did himself. Price had answered the pilotŽs offers of help by putting up walls. Shying away from any genuine connection and understanding. Not trusting this pillar in his life to stay standing while the others started falling away, one after one.
And then, his crowning achievement, that one final act of aggression he had in him, after his breakdown. The pilot reached out after hearing about PriceÂŽs medical discharge, even after PriceÂŽs previous attempt to burn any connection between them. Price made sure it was burned for good this time. CanÂŽt be dragging even one more good man down with him as he sinks and especially not Nik. Donât think about him, at least he succeeded this time in severing the bond between them. He got what he wanted after all, didnÂŽt he ? One person saved.
He drifts, lost in his thoughts. Some weeks are bad, others are worse. He hates how incapable he is of affecting his own life. Scared, scared, scared. One step forward and five back. Every time he thinks has finally hit rock bottom, he keeps falling.
Autumn turns into winter outside his living room window. Six months since heÂŽs been made to leave the SAS. Six months since heÂŽs last seen Nikolai. Relentless rain pelting his windows, week after week. HeÂŽs been struggling with going outside for a while now. Too many imaginary dangers lurking behind every corner. Suppose he should be glad about the arrival of the cold and dark period, gives him an excuse to avoid going outside.
His world continues to shrink. He's afraid. Of what? He doesn't even know and every time he tries to look, tries to figure out, what is causing the fear, the dread envelopes him, drowns him like a wave.
His therapist asks him to write down what scares him the most. He starts with loud noises, sudden movement, the winter wind rattling the cheap roof over his attic flat, glass shattering at the supermarket. After heŽs informed, that this is a list of potential triggers and not fears, he scribbles fucking everything, underlined twice and so hard the pen breaks the paper and just throws the list on the small table between them, before storming out of the practice. God, this is hopeless, of all the traits he used to possess, itŽs his pettiness that has survived?
The number of places he can walk to without stumbling into a flashback decreases, week by week. He discovers food delivery apps after a particularly horrible trip to the shops. He gains 8 pounds in a month, then loses almost 15 in the next five weeks, when food can no longer numb the pain.
He gets up, again, tries, again. Cleans up the kitchen, starts cooking again, just simple food. Small steps his therapist says. Fuck small steps. He's supposed to have made some progress by now, he's sure of that. Instead, even the small steps feel impossible most days.
Cooking reminds him of Nik, painfully so. The pilot had always been eager to cook for them, able to whip up a nice meal even from the meagre scraps typically found in PriceÂŽs fridge after they stumbled into his apartment after yet another exhausting mission. Once he has to throw away a weekâs worth supply of Tesco`s Chicken & Bacon Pasta Bake, after the smell vaguely reminds him of a chicken dish Nik used to cook for them and makes him retch with suppressed sadness and regret.
God, he's so tired. So, so tired. A different exhaustion compared to back then. Maybe he`s empty rather than tired? Why does he even try? Every time he does, he comes up short, lagging behind, can't even finish the simplest of tasks. All pointless. His former self would be embarrassed. Probably wouldn't even recognise him.
The workbooks he gets from his therapist claim there's something freeing when your old self dies. Apparently, you get to decide who you want to be now. Reinvention they call it and a fresh start. He only sees the emptiness, where Captain John Price used to be and the black hole in front of him, where his future should be. `S not like there's a future for him.
He gets up, again, refuses to surrender and just let the darkness sweep him away. Yet he's too scared, too tired to do the things that need doing. Every time he tries, his brain screams DANGER, DANGER, DANGER and CAN'T, CAN'T, CAN'T! Why can't he just do shit like he used to do? He breaks two toes when he kicks his bedroom wall in frustration. He stops kicking things after that.
Numb, numb, numb. Fewer flashbacks and panic attacks now, not sure if itÂŽs an improvement, though. He sits on the kitchen floor, after loading the dishwasher, too tired to tackle the laundry next and stares at a small crack on the ceiling. Dissociates for hours, only shaken out of the fog, when the dishwasher beeps and brings him back to his kitchen.
He tries, he falls, tries again, till one day he's just too tired to stand up again. He can't, he just can`t. Not even something specific, he just can't do this (life) anymore.
He wants to die.
He starts making plans. Steps on an icy bridge but canât persuade himself to jump. Coward. You used to jump out of the back of a Hercules but canât get yourself to jump of a bridge? He considers taking all of his pills at once, wash it down with a Whisky maybe? No, `s not how he wants to go.
He considers buying an illegal gun but realises that would mean talking to people. He wistfully remembers how Nik always used to provide him with weapons (â40 cal hollow pointsâŠâ â150 grain, your favourite.â), no matter the time or the place.
Then he remembers why he`s trying to get a weapon in the first place. Despite how badly their ârelationshipâ ended, he very much doubts that Nik would be enthusiastically providing him with a gun to shoot himself in the head. He considers reaching out to some of his more unsavoury contacts instead and quickly realises he doesn't have the energy to reach out, not to Nikolai (especially not to Nik) but neither to anyone else.
Too tried to kill yourself, huh? Broken, useless, can't even do that. That makes him chuckle. Too fucking tired to shoot yourself in the head? Jesus fucking Christ, that must be a new low point. He laughs again. Suppose he'll have to continue living after all.
Just then, his phone, that no one is supposed to have the number of, aside from his therapist and his landlord, beeps, a message popping up.
Can we talk? N.
Outside the pale winter sun breaks through the clouds for the first time in weeks.
The cold midnight spring rain on his bruised skin felt like a blessing to Nikolai, a kindness from the universe. The weight of the captain resting on his shoulders had long since begun to hurt, to push him past his limits, and still he continued.
John's breathing was steady, despite his unconsciousness, his blood loss minimal. Good. Ahead of them, a couple more kilometers north, was a refuge. That was Nik's destination, his goal. To get there before the ones that stalked them in the dark caught them. He would never let it happen. John's life was in his hands. Nothing would stop him.
John Price who, like most repressed socially-awkward men his age, cannot for the love of god figure out how to confess to Nik.
So he tries to make it happen another way. He âaccidentallyâ books a hotel room with only one bed. They walk in, he feigns horror, the night is sorted.
Until Nik, so deep in love for this stupid man, sees Johnâs upset and argues with reception for a half-hour to get them to change it. John thanks him through gritted teeth.
Nik forgets his lighter; John says heâll light Nikâs fag off his cigar. Nik thanks him, hugs him, says heâs a âgreat friendâ. Price has never been more pissed.
It reaches a tipping point when Nikolaiâs lounging on the sofa, shirt unbuttoned, looking like the best page-7-fella that heâd ever seen.
âNik?â his voice is a little rough, as heâs more than a little taken aback by the sight before him.
âYes?â
âWanna watch a film?â Any distraction would be welcome, at this point, so John flounders for the easiest one.
Nik nods, clicks through several screens, theyâre through, and Nikolai puts on Rocky.
Midway through, John lies onto Nikâs chest. Something about needing a pillow.
Nik jumps up so fast that Price nearly goes flying off the sofa, face first into a fucking ottoman (who even owns those??), and rushes to the bed to find a pillow for him to lie on.
The exact moment he gives up is right then. He throws the pillow back at Nik, glares at him, stands up. Goes to storm off.
The pillow thumps against the back of his head and John whips around, only to find Nik roughly a condom wrapperâs distance away. If Kate were here sheâd call that one hell of a Freudian slip. John thanks his lucky stars that she does not, in fact, have access to his brain.
Nikolai is her legacy. He flies to be closer to the stars.
(cw: a child's perspective of some pretty gnarly stuff, inc. loss, grief, PTSD. Please ensure you are feeling emotionally sound before reading. Sasha is Nik - his given name - and I've rolled with my headcanon that he's a Makarov. Vlad is our very own insane villain, Vladimir Makarov, but baby.)
Day Two - Flight, #NikolaiAppreciationWeek
26th April, 1986: 4am [Location: Valdai Hills, Russia]
The mild spring air whooshed softly over the struts of the jerry-rigged biplane bomber model in Sashaâs hand as he ran through the back garden. It was the same sound the plane would have made when its Night Witch pilot cut the engine so her navigator could drop her bomb during a Second World War air raid. It had been a Christmas present from his parents. A standard Polikarpov Po-2 model that he had adapted to imitate the aircraft that had struck terror into the hearts of Nazi wretches, right down to the carefully painted flowers on the side.
The sun hadnât risen properly yet. It wouldn't for another few hours. They were up far earlier than usual because their Mama had been working through the night. Endless phone calls, piles of paper and photographs. His father ran coffee into her at intervals, his cane scraping on the wooden floors. Something had happened in Ukraine, but Sasha had only heard snippets. At points, his Mama had raised her voice, demanding the men on the other end do as she said, so it had been impossible to sleep.
In the end, she had dressed and washed them both, sending them outside to play in the fresh air until breakfast was ready. âI don't want you to listen to angry voices, mishka,â she had explained to Sasha, pressing a kiss to his forehead before ushering him into the garden, Vlad following not far behind with his abacus.
âRaskova cuts her engine as her navigator taps her shoulder, and she glides towards the target, silent, deadly - wooooosssshh.â Sasha slowed as he neared his small jumble of toy soldiers and tents. Unfortunately, the makeshift Nazi encampment had already been ravaged by another force far surpassing the make-believe bombs of Sashaâs Night Witch. Huge, monstrous, armed with sticky baby hands and drool. âVladimir!â
Sashaâs five year old brother looked up at him, a Nazi soldier in each hand, seconds from being smashed together, and his eyes widened in momentary fear. Sasha growled in irritation, placing his model down as he dropped to his knees and tried to gather his toys up. âWhy do you always do this? I told you I didn't want to play with you.â
Vlad opened his mouth to reply, and then a voice called from the house. They both looked up to watch Mama walk down the stone steps to the lawn. She was carrying two bowls heaped with kasha, and Vlad brightened immediately.
âI see the Nazis have met their match,â their Mama said as she crouched by Vlad and handed him his bowl. âBlow, it's hot, volchonok.â Vlad mumbled his thanks and blew wetly at the steam rising from the hot buckwheat.
Sasha frowned. âHe never does as he's told.â
âHe's still a baby, Sasha,â Mama said, standing to wrap an arm about his shoulders and drag him into a hug. âWhen you were his age, you were banned from my laboratory because you had to be involved in everything.â
When Sasha was four, his Papa had been deployed to Afghanistan. With no other family to look after him, Sasha had spent many hours in his Mama's laboratories and lecture theatres, playing with test tubes and models of nuclear atoms instead of wooden blocks. When his Papa had returned three years later, he hadn't been the same man. He didn't smile anymore and his nightmares were scary. Mama said that Sasha had to give him time. Sometimes it could take many years for soldiers to really come back from war.
âThat was different,â Sasha said sternly, but he folded when his Mama pressed a kiss into his dark hair, and gladly took the bowl from her hands.
âWhat were you playing?â
Sasha blew at the steam rising from his breakfast. âNight Witches.â
âAhh, who were you this time? Nadezhda Popova?â
âMajor Raskova,â Sasha puffed his chest proudly.
âThe squadron leader herself. Very ambitious.â
âI will lead my own squadron one day, just like Comrade Raskova.â
âMy very own Night Witch,â Mama said fondly. âI'm so proud.â
âMama, I canât be a Night Witch, I'm a man,â Sasha said, frowning. He liked being a man, but sometimes he did feel like women were better at everything. Science, flying, different languages, cooking, reading. All the important things. He would just have to do his best and hope he measured up.
âYes, I see the problem.â
Sasha paused, stirring his porridge. He bounced in a full body gesture of epiphany when the solution came to him. âI will be like Nikolai Skomorokhov. Six hundred and five sorties, one hundred and forty-three dogfights, forty-four solo shootdowns.â
âHero of the Soviet Union?â
âTwice,â Sasha enthused. During a parade, Comrade Skomotokhov had acknowledged him. His Papa had been unconvinced, but Sasha would swear on every model in his bedroom that the Marshal of Aviation had waved at him. Sasha shoved a spoonful of kasha into his mouth, and talked through it. âDid you help Comrade Gorbachev with his problem?â She squeezed his shoulders a little tighter, and when he looked up from his breakfast, she looked⊠sad. âMama?â
With a soft smile, she ruffled his hair, the corners of her blue-green eyes crinkling. âMishka, come,â she said, urging him towards his telescope. He had set it back up as the winter cold had faded into spring. The ice cracked the lens the year before, and his father had told him he needed to take better care of his things, so Sasha had made sure his telescope had been wrapped up warm for the winter.
âHere, tell me what stars you see.â
âIs this a test?â Sasha asked, thrilled.
âYes. If you get them all right, Papa will take you for Halva after lunch.â
Sashaâs eyes lit up, and he almost fell over his own feet to get to the telescope. It took a little bit of adjustment, but soon the fading night sky was in focus. âI see Leo, and, uh⊠he's chasing Cancer across the sky.â
âHmm. Too easy. What else?â
Sasha pursed his lips and studied the sky with a creased brow, tracing their patterns. âUrsa Major.â
âThe first stars I saw when you were born,â she said.
âUhm, Canes Ven.. uh, Venatici? I think, uh⊠is that⊠Jupiter? But it's smudgey.â
âIt could be, let me see.â
Sasha stepped back from the telescope so his mama could stoop down to peer through. There was a long pause and he waited with baited breath. âYou were right, mishka. It's so close to Venus itâs merging into a single big point of light. Well done.â
He grinned, showing all of his teeth⊠well, except the one he had lost a week ago. Vlad had finished his breakfast and, seeing Sasha get praise, immediately jumped to his feet, hands outstretched for the telescope. âLet me see. I can do it.â
Sasha frowned. âNo, Vlad. You're too small.â
His Mama scooped Vlad from the floor and sat him on her knee, boosting him up enough to see through the telescope. âJoo-pit-erâŠâ Vlad said slowly.
Sasha rolled his eyes, but Mama tutted at him, pulling him close by the loops of his trousers. âSasha, youâre his role model. He wants to be just like you. You must be patient with him, you need to show him the way.â
âBut he's so annoyingâŠâ
She chuckled, kissing his cheek. âPerhaps, butâŠâ She trailed off. There was that sadness again. He had only seen it once before, on Papa's first night back when he had woken up crying. She had cuddled him like she cuddled Vlad and Sasha after nightmares, and he had sobbed into her night shirt. âMishka, I will be going away for a while.â
âOn your own?â They always went with her. Every time the government called her up, or she went to another country to lecture, the whole family followed. That had always been the way.
âYes.â
âWhy?â
âIt's not safe for little Night Witches. Someone has made a big mistake, and I need to go and help them fix it.â
âIt's dangerous,â Sasha said, and he could see he was right. âTake us with you. Papa can⊠uh, I mean, I canââ
She stroked a thumb over his cheek. âI need you here looking after Vlad and Papa. Can you do that for me?â
Sasha frowned. Vlad was still peering through the telescope, his small hands wrapped around the eyesight. If he pulled much harder, he was going to snap it off. âYes, but⊠when will you be back?â
She paused. Her eyes dropped for a moment, and then she looked up at the stars. âI'm not sure.â
He didn't like this. Something felt wrong. Like the day Papa had come back and thrown all his medals in the bin. âDon't go.â
âI must, mishka. There are lots of people in danger. If I don't help, then lots more could get badly hurt.â
His lip quivered, but he swallowed the tears down. Papa said he was a man now and if he was going to look after them, then he couldn't cry when he was scared. âYou are going to rescue them, and⊠and be a hero?â
âYes.â
âDo you think Comrade Gorbachev will make you a hero of the Soviet Union, like Nikolai?â
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. âMaybe, and then perhaps you could meet him properly, hm?"
Sasha nodded empathically. People were in danger, and Mama had to go and save them. She would be a hero and there would be a big parade for her. Yes, he could accept this. âI⊠I will miss you,â he said quietly. âWhat if Papa cries at night?â
She took his chin and tilted it up to the sky. "If you ever feel frightened at night, remember we are looking at the same sky. If you ever feel alone, if you ever need strength, you will find me in the stars, mishka. Always.â
The stars blurred in Sasha's vision as tears crowded his eyes until they burned, but he nodded anyway. The thump of helicopter blades cut through the tranquility of the early morning, and Sasha watched as an Mi-8 flew over the trees and slowly lowered into a field left fallow by the local farmer. The Mi-8 looked a little weird, like it had been modded.
âAleks!â
Sasha looked back at the house to see his father standing there with a large bag. He was leaning heavily on his walking stick, dark circles drooping under his eyes. His Mama placed Vlad gently on the floor and kissed each of his cheeks, before turning to Sasha. She took his face in both hands and held his eyes for a long moment. She had always said he had inherited his fatherâs eyes; stern and serious sometimes, but full of warmth and love. Sasha didn't really see much of that in Papa.
âMy brave, beautiful boy.â She placed a kiss on his forehead, and Sasha felt her next breath stutter, like she was holding back tears.
And then she was gone.
Sasha felt the loss of her warmth like Vlad had stolen all the blankets in the middle of a snowstorm. She ran to the house and took the bag offered to her by Papa, and then pulled him close. He watched his parents hug tightly; Papa buried his face in Mama's shoulder, his stick clattering to the floor as he wrapped both arms around her. She whispered something to him, placing fleeting kisses on his face, and then she was jogging out of their garden and towards the field.
Soldiers had left the helicopter to meet her, but Sasha couldn't hear what they were saying. He knew he wasn't meant to hear, and he wasn't allowed to leave the garden without permission when it was dark, but the sun was coming up soon. He clambered over the fence, ignoring his Papa's calls, and began to run towards the field.
Look back.
By the time he reached the bushes around the edge, the helicopter was lifting back into the sky, and Sasha could feel the downdraft of its blades sweeping outwards.
Mama, look back.
He chased it as it sped towards the horizon, his bare feet cutting on tangled weeds and hard stones, his lungs burning as he willed his legs to move faster, tears and snot running down his face now that no one else could see.
âMama!â
He couldn't see her. The helicopter was too far away. He stood in the mud, his cut feet bleeding, and watched his mother fly into danger to save the lives of others. He stayed there as the sun rose at his back, casting a gloomy, muted light across the river at the foot of the hill, until the tears and snot had crusted on his face. When he finally returned, Papa didn't scold him as he expected, but sat him down on the couch and cleaned his feet. He did something unusual when he was finished. Something he hadn't done since he'd come back all those years ago. He kissed Sasha on the forehead without a word.
For four days, Papa sat by his radios listening for news. After two days, Sasha found out that there was an accident at the big nuclear power plant in Chernobyl. It made sense that Mama was called; she was an expert in nuclear things. That was her job. Comrade Gorbachev said it was all under control and Sasha felt relieved.
Mama had done it. She had saved everyone. Saved Russia, and all of the Soviet Union. Maybe the whole world.
Sasha expected her back in time for the May Day celebrations, but when she didn't return he found it impossible to enjoy the festivities. He stared at the field, the horizon, the road as the celebrations continued around him, muted, pensive. Waiting for any sign of her.
No one wanted to talk about what had happened. All the adults kept repeating the same thing; it was under control. But if it was under control, then they didn't need Mama anymore. She could come home. On 6th May, they had to stop eating vegetables. Sasha didn't mind that so much. He wasn't a big fan of vegetables. On 10th May, three soldiers arrived at their front door.
âCaptain Makarov?â the oldest asked. He had taken his cap off and Sasha could see grey in his hair from where he crouched by the bannister.
âI'm sorry, sir. Comrade Aleksandra Makarov gave her life toââ
Papaâs stick fell to the floor and then he did. Sasha missed the rest because he was rushing down the stairs. He dropped to his knees at Papa's side, and the three soldiers lingered on the threshold. âPapa⊠Papa, please.â
Papa grabbed at Sasha's shirt and sobbed into his chest. Great, gasping sobs like that first night. Sasha didn't know what to do, so he wrapped his arms as far as he could around Papa's shoulders and bit the inside of his cheek to try and stop the tears. The soldiers left their letter by the telephone, and saluted before they departed.
Sasha tried his best to cook in the days that followed, and only burned himself a few times. He got them ready for school, and tried to keep the house clean. He was patient with Vlad as he tried to help, and held him when he cried. Sasha felt like he was floating in fog. Like the rest of the world wasn't real, or he was watching it from the outside like a little scene in one of Mamaâs snow globes.
On 14th May, Comrade Gorbachev gave a speech on the television. He said, âthe worst is behind usâ. Sasha had never felt hate before. He had never had cause to hate anything. But in that moment, Sasha hated Comrade Gorbachev more than anything else in the world.
26th April, 2023: 4am [Location: Classified]
Nikâs watch beeped and John glanced over from the seat next to him. âAll good?â
âDa,â Nik said quietly, leaning to the side so he could get a better look at the heavens above. âDo you believe in an afterlife?â
John looked back up from the folder across his lap. âBit early in the morninâ tâ be gettinâ philosophical, Nik.â
âPerhaps."
John shrugged. âMaybe, dunno. Figure there's not much good waitinâ fer me if there is.â
âI think you have more than earned your place in Valhalla," Nik said with wry amusement, and John huffed a laugh. They sat in silence for a bit as Nik checked his instruments, and then he looked out of the window again. âThe stars are beautiful tonight.â
John leaned forward and peered out the front of the heloâs windshield. âYeah, I⊠uh, âspose they're lookinâ pretty bright,â he paused, glancing over at Nik with a crease between his eyebrows. âIs everyfinâ olrighâ? Dâya⊠is there some'fin' ya wanna talk about?â
âA long time ago, a great woman once told me that there was strength to be found in the stars,â Nik said, glancing up at the faded photographs wedged in the netting above his head. He hadn't looked at them in years. âI hope that, if there is an afterlife, she would be proud of me.â
John reached over and squeezed Nik's forearm. âCourse she would be, ya muppet. Yer savinâ the bloody world, aren'tchya?â
Nik nodded and smiled broadly, eyes crinkling. But as John settled back in his seat, Nik's gaze fell to John's lap. Two stern, blue-green eyes glared at him from the photograph on top, full of bitterness and rage, and he felt his heart ache.
He turned back to the window and looked up at the stars one last time.
I wanted to ask what program/app you use for the collages you make? I had to wipe my laptop and I would like to make a new wallpaper in a collage style
I love all the collages you've made they're very pretty and aesthetically pleasing :)
hello!!! i normally literally just use pinterest because the collages come out the same size as my phone screen, though iâve also used ibis paint in the past (especially when the images need more editing)
both are FREE which is the main appeal. pinterest is great for finding images quickly, but ibis is much better if youâre wanting to draw your own features and have a bit more control over exactly where stuff goes. pinterest can be a bit buggy but itâs a lot easier & quicker imo
not sure if pinterest will let you do it to a pc screenâs dimensions? whereas obviously w/ ibis or whatever you can just adjust the canvas size
lmk if you need any help!! :] i hope that wasnât too rambly
keep having people try to talk football with me and i donât know how to break the news that the first time ive watched a full football match since i was 6 was two damn weeks ago. idk what offside means but yeah sure i agree that shot was onside, uh huh, i definitely watched that match as well i WASNT watching the pitt wdym
