The first time it happens, Emmanuel almost misses it.
They are walking between meetings, advisers circling around them with folders and telephones, translators only a few paces behind. Volodymyr is answering a question about ammunition deliveries; the reply comes quickly, effortlessly - as always.
His hand makes a small, impatient gesture in the air.
He frowns, grasping for a word.
A tiny shake of his head.
The Ukrainian escapes before he can stop it. Maksym supplies the English that Vova is searching for almost immediately.
He continues without missing a beat.
Emmanuel files it away quietly.
Later, it is winter again in Paris.
Snow drifts down beyond the windows and despite the roaring fire, the cold has settled into his bones. Volodymyr is cocooned in a borrowed navy sweatshirt, clutching a half-empty mug of tea, and attempting with exhausted seriousness to explain something that suddenly seems impossibly complicated.
His voice is rough, catching on the edge of his throat, threatening to shift into a cough.
He rubs tiredly at one eye beneath his glasses before he pushes them to the top of his head, frowning.
His English has become slow, each word like wading through water. He closes his eyes, rubbing distractedly at his temple where the beginning of a headache grumbles.
When he speaks again, it is in Ukrainian.
Just a few quiet sentences, spoken more to himself than to anyone else. The language is softer, the edges worn smooth by comfort, familiarity. While Emanuel understands very little of it; he catches hold of a handful of words that linger in his mind.
Tomorrow. Enough. Too tired.
The rest passes over him like water.
Volodymyr opens his eyes.
Emmanuel places his empty mug down on the low table beside him and takes a breath in.
Then, very carefully, he tries.
The pronunciation is imperfect, French vowels creeping stubbornly into the word where they do not quite belong.
Volodymyr blinks. Emmanuel smiles, faintly embarrassed.
He searches for the phrases he has repeated quietly to himself on flights, in hotel rooms, in the back of ministerial cars, hoping one day they might be useful. They are clumsy, awkward, but he tries anyway.
"Не поспішай." Don't hurry.
The words come slowly, as though he is placing each one carefully onto the floor between them. Volodymyr stares at him.
"That one I checked three times."
Emmanuel tries again, his eyes soft, searching as he looks at Vova in the firelight. This time there is only one word. The simplest one he knows.
The accent catches slightly on the final consonant; imperfect and wonderfully earnest. Volodymyr's expression changes, softens.
"Between summits. On aeroplanes. I wanted..."
He hesitates, suddenly shy.
"I thought that if you were very tired, then-"
He searches for the English this time.
"Perhaps it would be easier if I walked a little way towards you."
The room falls utterly still. The fire murmurs quietly behind them, and outside, snow settles against the windows. Volodymyr looks down at his own hands.
When he speaks again, it is in Ukrainian. Only three words, slowly and clearly.
He knows Emmanuel will understand them.
"Дякую, мій друже." Thank you, my friend.
After that, neither of them worries about which language they are speaking when they are together in the quiet. Emmanuel, with his handful of carefully learned words and his hopeless French accent, never pretends to understand everything. He understands enough.
Enough to make the journey home inside one tired mind just a little shorter.
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