Summary: Your shared apartment feels empty without your companion, but that couldn’t be right. He was thrice your age and busy actively serving.
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: Age gap, but make it cutesy. Swearing, loneliness, tension, a hot Russian man x a grandpa fucker (me. You. Yeah, I see you. Pervert /j)
A/N: I told you guys this was the man for me
Masterlist
Mashka had been gone three days when you caught yourself setting two plates at the table for dinner. It wasn’t like you were expecting him to come home, but you had forgotten he wouldn’t be. Not for a long while at least. It was odd the way that thought made something in your chest ache and your stomach sink.
It was so quiet, and there was so much empty space without him. You had never minded the space he took up. It was familiar in an oddly comforting way. The apartment felt bare without his presence. Missing his boots by the door, and the faint scent of a cigar floating in from the balcony. His quietly sarcastic remarks or light teasing he had afforded you once you got settled in.
Letting you stay here was really just a favor to your parents. You needed to get out of the house, but rent was expensive. Mashka was content to share his space if it meant helping them out, and in turn, helping you out. You hadn’t anticipated getting so used to his company. Growing to appreciate the space he took up in your life.
It was especially apparent now that he wasn’t here. He had gotten called into the military base for a couple weeks. It had only been a few days and it already felt odd not having him around. He had assured you his part of the rent was already put aside to be automatically paid so that you wouldn’t have to worry about it.
You shook your head, pulling yourself out of your thoughts as you slowly put his plate back, dishing yourself up some food. Even the space on the couch was odd, the cushions worn from years of use. Shaped to him and only recently accommodating you. You missed the way he spiced his food, preferring things with a little more heat. It had never been your style, but you came to appreciate the way he used it to enhance the flavor of the dishes he made.
You moved through your every day chores as though by clockwork. Dishes, laundry, sweeping, dusting, cooking, rest and repeat. It was this almost tedium that you had gotten used to. It was easy for you to do these things as you had always done them, and Mashka was very grateful for the help.
But in tedium, came loneliness, especially with the absence of familiar faces. Between your dead end job and common house chores, you felt stuck.
You tried to eat in silence, but every scrape of the fork against the place made the space feel emptier. Even with your hand on the remote, turning up the volume did nothing to chase away the silence. Your dinner tasted off without the kick of whatever spices Mashka drowned everything in. You hadn’t quite figured out what it is he does, and he would never tell you, thinking it’s much more fun to watch you try and master it yourself.
You ended up abandoning the last half of your plate, preferring to curl up on the couch, the remote heavy in your hand. The shows you usually liked washed over your mind without sticking. The same things you liked watching over and over again just didn’t feel the same anymore. You wondered if you would ever get that joy back.
Still, you preferred the color and noise to the empty silence everywhere else.
Your phone buzzed on the couch cushion next to where you curled up against the arm. You didn’t recognize the number at first, but the area code made your chest tighten. You picked it up before it could ring again, pausing the tv.
“Hello?”
There was a low chuckle on the other end, rough and familiar. “Relax, doll, it’s me.” Mashka’s gruff Russian accent curled around you like a warm embrace.
You sat up a little big, pressing the phone tighter to your ear. “Mashka. You scared me—I thought it was a telemarketer or something.”
“You’d hang up on me that fast?” His voice carried that lazy sarcasm you’d grown so used to. Even muffled by static, it was a comfort.
“Depends,” you hummed. “Are you trying to sell me car insurance?”
“Ha. Not unless car insurance comes with cigars and whiskey now.” He paused, and for a moment you caught the background noise on his end—distant voices, boots on concrete. “How’s the apartment?”
“Too quiet,” you admitted before you could catch your tongue slipping.
He hummed, the sound low in his chest. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Means you noticed I’m gone.”
You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. “Don’t let it go to your head. Just means I don’t have anyone else to fight me for the remote.”
“Mm, sure,” he drawled. “That’s all it is.”
There was a beat of silence. Neither of you spoke, but you didn’t want to hang up yet. You wondered if he could hear your breathing the way you heard his.
“You keeping busy?” He asked finally.
You laughed dryly. “As busy as dishes and laundry let me be. Work’s the same. Nothing exciting.” You hesitated. “And you? You sound… tired.”
“Always am, doll,” he said simply enough. Though, the smile in his voice softened at the weight of the admittance. “Don’t worry about me. Just keep the place from falling apart till I get back, huh?”
You let out a small, quiet laugh. “I think I can manage.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, almost to himself, and then cleared his throat. “Alright, I should go. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
The words curled hot around your chest. “You can call whenever,” you told him quietly, like it was a secret.
“I will.” His voice dropped lower, the way it sometimes did when he would tease you. “Sleep well, doll. You sound more tired than I am.”
The line clicked dead before you could reply.
You sat there for a long time, phone still pressed to your ear, wondering how four little letters could turn your whole body inside out and back again.
You sighed as you looked down at the phone in your hand, frowning a bit. You knew you would be affected by his absence, you just didn’t know how much. Sufficiently tired, and happy to have heard from him, you made your way back to your bedroom. It was the smaller room of the two, but you had made it your own.
Posters and warm lights and photos lined the walls, and your bedside lamps matched the aesthetic to create a room that truly felt lived in. You stripped out of your day clothes and into an oversized t-shirt that was once your dad’s.
Curling up in bed, the room felt overly warm and uncomfortable. It was hard to relax even with the fan on and the door open. The silence pressed against you like a weight, growing heavier every second.
You tossed and turned, flipped your pillow, shifted again. Still restless. Your chest ached with something you didn’t want to name.
Eventually, you gave up.
You were going to just get up and go back to the couch; watch some tv and maybe fall asleep there. But your feet carried you down the short hall, slow and quiet as though someone might hear you.
The door to Mashka’s room creaked open softly when you pushed it. The smell hit you first—-smoke, leather, and something warm and distinctly him. The room was tidy. Lived in but careful, the way Mashka always was. A half finished painting leaned against the wall, a book of Poe’s poems sat open, face down on the nightstand, a deck of cards stacked neatly beside it.
You told yourself you’d only look. Just stand in the doorway, maybe peek inside.
But the bed was right there, unmade from the last morning he’d left in a hurry. The sheets still held the shape of him, the pillow still smelled like his skin and faint cigar smoke.
Like a child creeping into their parents’ bed after a nightmare, you slipped under the covers. The mattress dipped in places his weight usually pressed, and the familiar scent curled around you like arms holding you tightly. Your chest loosened, just enough to breathe.
You didn’t even realize you had drifted off.
The sound of the lock turning pulled you halfway awake. You thought you were dreaming. Heavy boots scraping across the hardwood and the low grunt of someone shifting weight.
Then came his voice.
“Christ, doll…”
You didn’t open your eyes, scared that you were just imagining that he was home. And finally, your eyes fluttered open, blearily catching the shadow in the doorway. Mashka stood there, broad frame filling the space even in the dark. His jacket hung open, his left hand pressed against his ribs.
He looked… tired, pained, and very, very real.
You didn’t move, your brows furrowing. Your tired mind couldn’t distinguish dreams from reality. He just stood there, silently watching. Something unreadable flitted across his expression but it was gone before you could think too hard and wake up all the way.
After a moment, he shook his head with a sigh. “Unbelievable.”
He didn’t try to wake you, didn’t demand an explanation or apology for intruding on his space. He looked at you, moving into the room quietly and setting his bag down before running a hand over your hair.
Quietly, he stepped back into the hall, boots heavy against the hardwood, and a few minutes later the couch creaked under his familiar weight.
His scent still wrapped around you, and you felt warm where his hand had made contact with you. Surely he wouldn’t have touched you if he had known you were awake. That made it all the more sweet.
Something was off in his gait and his scent, but you were too tired to figure out what it was.
Happy to have him home and content surrounded by his scent, you drifted back into sleep’s gentle arms.
A/N: Let me know if you want to be on the Mashka tag list!
