Old gays aren't repressed, some are just stuck in survival mode. Discretion was necessary to avoid the consequences of a hostile society.
Imagine a repressed Nikolai who doesn't show affection in public. Who maintains a distance between himself and John because his mind is still in the late eighties, the nineties, when men like him were dying alone of a seemingly untreatable disease, rotting in prisons, getting beaten to death, their bodies thrown into rivers.
He still walks in circles where his sexuality would be a problem. He spends so much time in countries where his love would be a crime worthy of the death penalty. So, it takes him a while to adjust. A few years of John respecting his boundaries, his needs, before Nik finally takes his first shakey step towards liberating his mind from the past.
Perhaps it's corny, but it'll happen in June. They'll be heading home on the tube. They were celebrating their third anniversary at a fancy restaurant; nice wine, a good meal. Nik realised as he listened to one of John's squaddie stories that he would spend the rest of his life with one brilliant Englishman and his scruffy facial hair. But how did you communicate such a thing?
They pass a loud group of young queer kids in the ticket hall; early twenties, draped in flags and face paint. They're so happy and Nik watches them take photos, hug each other, sing Madonna in off key fits and starts, as one tries to interpret the tube map. Another pulls him away and they kiss. Nik sees it; the love in the way they hold hands, the passion of the kiss. It's so easy for them. So free.
He doesn't realise he's staring until two of the women raise their eyebrows at him. He looks away quickly and jogs a little to catch up with John, walking at his side as he glances down at his hand. Maybe... An indulgence. Perhaps it was fine. Safe. For now. Today, in London, with rainbows on Oxford Street and a train painted with the progress flag rolling into the station. The fight is not over, but enough battles have been won that there are peaceful moments to love openly and without fear.
Nik reaches out and takes John's hand, little finger hooking first, and then the rest, winding through his. John squeezes back and Nik's heart skips. He studies their hands clasped together - rough, big, a little broken and crooked - and then glances up at the side of John's face. He's smiling. His hair is longer, fluffy and unkempt, framing the crinkled corners of his blue eyes. He's beautiful. John Price. So beautiful.
Nik pulls him close and kisses him, free hand cupping the back of his head, and John rests a hand on Nik's chest. Nik breathes heavily through his nose, heart pounding, a familiar fear threatening to bubble over. John steadies him, slowing and gentling the kiss, his hand sweeping down to Nik's waist to guide him closer.
It's only as they draw apart, cheeks flushed, that Nik realises the group he'd been staring at were whooping, clapping and cheering. Nik clears his throat, and John looks bashful. Nik gazes up at the tatty bunting clinging to the roof of the ticket hall. Some might criticise it. Sneer at it and call it rainbow capitalism. Overdone, too much, forced and fake. But for men like Nik, it's the reassurance he needs that he can love without fear. Even just for a moment.
