In the wake of Andrey’s long coming betrayal, of Katya’s betrayal, Goncharov is oh so very cold. He does not feel the pain of death but the weight of each second he manages to drag on sits heavy on his chest. The night sky unfolds over him like so much tar, littered with the lights of unanswered wishes and forgotten dreams. He has never understood the love other’s have for all that darkness. Or maybe he did; every person he has ever loved has had that self-same darkness, all the brokenness of a forgotten child. Katya and Andrey, so dark and irredeemable and yet… if he were to be a poet, he would call them the light to his empty and fluttering wings, the twin suns that he twists and fights to claim his own.
He lets his head loll, escaping the dark of the night for the dim warmth of Andrey. His friend, his partner, is already watching him, pale and small-looking. Blood trickles out of his mouth to the slowing beat of his heart but it makes him no less beautiful. A long, long time ago, when they were just boys, Goncharov had met Andrey. It was a night like any other but it started them on a path that led here, to mixing blood and slowing hearts and a sky like abandonment.
It takes more effort than he really expected to drag his hand up to rest between him and Andrey. An offer, so similar to the hand he had held out to Andrey so long. They had promised each other then to live and die by each other. Goncharov isn’t sure that they had meant it quite this way but even then they had teetered on that fine line between love and hate. It is some miracle, he knows, that it took this long for the scales to tip one way or the other.
Andrey’s fingers tangling, weakly and stiffly, with his is like coming home. Finally, coming home.
“Для тебя, Андрей, моя жизнь.” He can’t be sure Andrey heard him or even that he’s understandable; the russian is heavy and unwieldy in his mouth in a way it has never been before. Then, Andrey tightens his hold. It’s just the barest twitches but that alone would be enough. He expects nothing more, though he hopes, as the night grows darker and death looms larger like a scavenger waiting.
“Для тебя, Никита,” Andrey says, barely even a whisper, “моя смерть.” Nikita Goncharov breathes out.
The russian should say as follows:
“For you, Andrey, my life.”
“For you, Nikita, my death.”
I felt it was only right to give them one last scene where they forgive each other, even if not fully. The similarity to wedding vows is hopefully not too heavy handed lmao.
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