on the run → Katarina & Nikolai
If he was being quite honest with himself, it took him way longer to navigate to her house than he had expected. He hadn't taken long to wash his face, quaff his hair and rub some of the lotion -- it was manly, he told himself, smelling like oranges and being clean -- he kept around on his hands, and touching the back of hands to both sides of his neck to make sure the citrus scent stuck. He grabbed his wallet and pocketed it, along with his phone. He had opted not to change, instead winging his FC Real Madrid hoodie and his soccer pants as appropriate arcade garb -- he'd never admit he had to google arcade like an idiot first generation American -- and was now pacing outside of her house in the fucking cold weather, sending her a second text and waiting for her to slip out of her door.
The last time he had done this was with his big sister. He clung to her when he was younger, still afraid his new parents would give him back if he made the mistake even once, and unused to anyone actually trying to talk to him outside of making commands and expecting him to understand it. He had been terrified when he met her, and she took some of it away. He'd always be scared, but Victoria taught him to be brave. She would sneak out and bring him with her to her friends' house, teach him English in the dead of night while they walked from neighborhood to neighborhood, like it wasn't weird that she had her dorky 14 year old brother along with her everywhere she went.
Niko blew into his fingers and sent a quick text to his sister -- he was never not talking to her-- and perked up when he saw Katarina finally exit the house, but he kept his mouth shut, forced a cocky smirk. It was easier this way.
