Irrlicht

by MissLograh

Summary:

You pick up a strange man on a snowy street, on the morning of the new millennia. Yours is not a love story, but somehow he becomes an unexpected constant as your world starts falling apart around you.

Yassen should've let the first time be the last. It was youthful folly, a beginner's mistake, but one he let's himself keep making over and over again.

Notes:

An experiment, in style and content. A character study, if you will.

Chapter 1: January 1st, 2000

January 1st, 2000

A thick layer of snow covered the cobbled streets and burnt orange tiles of the Prague rooftops. The night had been clear, leaving the gleaming stars to vainly compete with their artificial cousins. Painted whores sashaying down the avenues with an air of importance, showing off their goods to anyone willing to turn their faces against their light, while the sweetfaced girls watch their exhibit, hiding shy in their bedroom window. The clouds have drifted in now, sending heavy snowflakes drifting slowly through the air like a lace curtain. The world has gone quiet.

Party’s over folks, it’s time to go home.

You’d write down the words, but you’re wearing far to much make-up to convincingly pull off a whore-Madonna dichotomy. That, and you’ve long since accepted that rambling drunken poetry might sound great in the moment, but much like the guy you pick out in the pulsing flashes of a dancefloor they never seem quite as great in the stark light of day. Your profound creative breakthrough will have to wait until the year is more than five hours old. After all, you never were a morning person.

And they’re just fucking fireworks.

It’s the first of January in the year of our Lord, 2000. Last you checked, it was five in the morning. You made it through the night, but you fear you might’ve left your dignity in 1999. At the stroke of midnight, you cheered yourself hoarse, pressed up against Marek on a dancefloor so packed you couldn’t have pulled away if you’d wanted to. You kissed him, he tasted like beer and your lipstick got all over his face, but you were both too drunk and giddy to care.

’’Together, into the new millennia.’’, he’d slurred into you’re ear. ’’We should get married, Naděžda.’’

Three hours later you find him with his tongue down the throat of some tourist bimbo, and you storm out of the club with Dancing Queen still ringing in your ears. Nothing keeps one warm through the cold winter nights such as pure, unadulterated rage. And blood diluted with Starobrno, a half a dozen or so.

You must’ve been drunker than you’d thought, because the twenty minute walk from the other side of the river up to your apartment in the Little Quarter has taken almost two hours, and you’re beginning to feel cold, and almost sober. You’d begun composing sexist rants about fireworks around the same time as you crossed the Karlův bridge and had to elbow your way through the throngs of drunken revelers who hadn’t caught their boyfriends cheating that night, and here you were. The Nerudova turned into Uvoz, and you could see your balcony over the roof of the adjoining building. The fresh snow lies untouched on Loretánska, but in front of your door stands a lone figure. He’s underdressed, smoking a cigarette.

You stop in front of him.

’’Spare a smoke?’’, you ask, and you know he won’t say no. Nobody says no when someone asks for a cigarette in Prague, unless they’re a tourist. And he doesn’t look like a tourist to you.

Strikingly blue eyes meet yours, and suddenly your smeared make-up and messy hair leave you self-conscious. It’s new years eve, or maybe new years morning, and nobody has a right to roam the streets right now without at least a faint whiff of stale beer and sweat following them like the ghost of new year’s past, but he looks more put together in the piss-coloured streetlights than Marek had managed in his entire life. He offers his pack silently and you light up. You watch him through the corner of your eye as you smoke. He seems like he’s for all the world forgotten you’re there, blowing out smoke with a single minded focus as he gazes down the street. His brow is furrowed, ever so slightly, as though searching for the answer to some profound question between the colourful houses.

You wonder if he’s a bit slow.

But he’s good looking enough. Slight and pale and barely taller than you are, but his features are sharp and symmetrical and his eyelashes are impossibly long. Delicate, is the word that comes to you unbidden. A fucking fag, is what Marek would say, but you don’t give a fuck about Marek, you want nothing to do with him ever again, and eyelashes is nothing like Marek, and that’s why you want him.

You smoke fast, and flick your cigarette butt into the snow just as he grinds his beneath his heel.

’’You wanna come up?’’ You gesture to your door and try to look as appealing as possible, but you’re wearing a long winter coat and your face definitely looks like it’s celebrated the new year, so it’s easier said than done. You feel quite foolish, but that’s old news. If he’s surprised, his face doesn’t give anything away as he looks you up and down.

’’You live here?’’, he asks, in something that sounds mostly like Czech, but put through a first rate slavic meatgrinder. You can’t place it, but you’re pretty sure wherever it is they don’t use the latin alphabet.

’’Yeah.’’ You try to smolder. You probably fail. You’re freezing your ass off, and if he doesn’t make his mind up soon it’s not gonna matter if he says yes or no because your vagina will have frozen shut, closed for business, may your sexlife rest in peace.

Just as you begin composing the heartfelt speech you’ll deliver to your mother to explain why she won’t be getting any grandchildren, the jury reaches a verdict, and you’ve never met a man quite so lacking in enthusiasm at the prospect of getting in your panties as when he shrugs and says:

’’Sure.’’

It’s quite refreshing, actually.

 

You leave him in the living room, which also doubles as the bedroom, while you excuse yourself to the bathroom to ’’freshen up’’, the internationally acknowledged code phrase for ’’wash off the crotch sweat with some hand soap’’. Your make-up is a lost cause and you can’t be bothered. Once off, your constrictingly tight dress and stockings most certainly aren’t going back on again, so you leave the bathroom wearing only your bra and panties, which are lacy and full of holiday cheer. You wore them for Marek, but somebody’s gonna get to damn well enjoy them.

He’s got his back to you, a dark silhouette looking out the window, out over the snow covered brick roofs of the Little Quarter and the Velká Strahovská gardens turned into vast white slopes. You’ve got one of the best views in the city, but that’s not the view you brought him up here for. You’re quiet, barefoot on the wooden floor, but he turns and catches for a moment at the sight of the white slopes of your naked skin and it brings you the greatest of satisfaction to put a crack in his facade of faux-blasé. Something, uncertainty, almost, passes fleetingly over his face before resolve replaces it and he comes closer until he can run his hand up the curve of your waist, feather light and almost reverent. He can’t take his eyes off your breasts, and you can’t take your eyes of his face. It’s fascinating, the way he looks at you, and you can’t recall it in the eyes of any other man that’s stood in his place. His hand skims over the curve of your chest, still enticingly light as though he’s afraid he’d break you, and you reach back to unclasp your bra. It falls to the floor and you’ll cherish the look of naked want for a long time.

’’What, you’ve never touched a woman before?’’, you mumble, and the taunt is intentional, the sex is always better when they feel they’ve got something to prove, but as his hand finally cups your breast and the thumb brushing your nipple sends shivers down your spine he looks up and meets your eye. Impossibly blue and lidded with lust, his eyes are really quite beautiful.

’’No.’’ It’s quiet, wholly unexpected, and sounds almost like an admission of guilt.

’’What, seriously?’’ You can’t quite hold back your surprise, and he doesn’t say anything. He’s nervous, you realize, thrumming with it, even though he’s very good at hiding it.

You grab his wrist and press his hand softly against your breast and he squeezes experimentally. You’re suddenly struck by the image of testing oranges for firmness at the store and have to bite back a laugh, one thing you’ve learnt is that guys don’t like it when you laugh at them in bed, but he notices your amusement and catches your eye. It’s too dark to be sure, but you think he might be blushing.

Well, you’re a merciful God, and pulling him along with the grip around his wrist you lead him to bed, letting go only to shuffle yourself into position on your back.

’’You can touch all you want.’’

He kneels between your legs and pulls off his shirt, and you only have a few seconds to go holy shit at the view before he’s on you, one hand massaging your breast and the other running down your hip as he takes your other nipple in his mouth. You let out a delighted giggle that sounds more like a squeal, and he takes the encouragement for what it is and sucks harder. A strangely maternal feeling always comes over you when a man sucks on your breasts and this is no exception as you gently run your fingers through his hair and cradle his head, but even if it makes you a weirdo you don’t care, because it feels good and sends pulsing heat straight down to your crotch. You let him entertain himself and merely lean back to enjoy the roaming hands on your body as he maps you out, finally settling on your ass and sliding between your legs as you let them fall open to give him better access.

He releases your nipple, stiff and wet with saliva. You meet eyes and you buck your hips into his touch, and he needs no further coaxing to get down there. You appreciate a man who shows initiative. He slips of your panties, still with that slow carefulness, like he’s afraid something will go wrong if he doesn’t carry out every move, every touch with the same focus and precision. It’s odd. You’ve had tender before, slow and sensual and loving, and this isn’t that.

Then his mouth is on you, warm and wet and insistently exploring. His tongue slides inside and you stop thinking, let out a shaky breath and close your eyes. You rest one hand on he back of his head and tweak your nipple with the other as he eats you out and fingers you open with surprising care and attentiveness for someone who’s never done it before. Sometimes it’s clumsy, but he reads your signals in a way few guys have ever bothered to and finds the spot that makes your breath hitch and he almost makes you cum, but that’s fine because you’ve had enough to drink that the machinery down there isn’t quite as responsive as usual. It still feels pretty damn good, and when you finally nudge him up you can tell that he knows it too. He looks more than a little pleased with himself and you can’t help but smile, because a man is never more adorable than when he thinks he’s made a woman feel good. You catch his mouth with yours, and taste yourself on his lips.

He’s clumsy but eager, and you wonder if you’re taking his first kiss along with his virginity. It seems unbelievable, he’s got to be at least your age and he’s certainly not bad looking, especially once his shirt came off and the deceptively slight build turned out to be hiding some of the most impressive abs and chest you’ve seen in your entire sexscapade career.

Bit weird, sure, but honestly most guys are.

You undo his jeans and he extricates himself in an admirable show of grace and dexterity, another thing to add to the list of little surprises. You’ve never seen anyone, yourself included, get out of a pair of jeans without making a complete fool of themselves. You’d thought it an unwritten rule of sex. You don’t comment a guys dick unless it’s to express admiration. You don’t mention if someone tastes a little bit of piss, as long as it’s just a little. You don’t laugh when their pants catch around their ankles and they have to wriggle around half-naked to get them off. It’s just how things go.

He’s got a nice dick. They’re all more or less the same, but it’s neither disappointingly small nor concerningly big so all in all, 10/10. You wrap your fingers around it and he shudders, eyes fluttering shut and he can’t quite stop the low moan that escapes him.

Honestly, it’s so easy.

’’Come.’’, you mumble in his ear, pulling him down against you. ’’Come here.’’

You guide him, and he pushes inside you. Slow, and with a low noise from all the way down his chest, until all of him is inside you, and he buries his face in your shoulder. He’s breathing heavily, and your not far behind as you wrap your arms around his strong back and arch your hips into his and you both stay there for a moment. You enjoy the feeling of fullness, of having someone inside you, and he’s probably going through some sort of existensial epiphany judging by the way he’s gripping onto the pillow by your head for dear life. Then he starts moving, slow and careful at first but more and more urgent as it becomes clear you’re not gonna split in half anytime soon. You close your eyes and cling on, allow yourself to get lost in the moment and the movement. He lasts long enough for it to not be embarrassing, though not much more than that.

He rolls off you heavily and you both lie panting on your backs. You look at him through the corner of your eye, blue eyes staring blankly up into the ceiling, that small furrow of worry back on his brow. Like he sees through paint, plaster, wood and tile, beyond, and whatever it is he sees there concerns him.

As your pulse slows down you start feeling cold. The wetness of his come slowly seeping out of you makes you feel gross, now that the act itself is done, and the cold morning light has started seeping in through the sheer curtains. He looks like cold, hard marble but you doubt the unflattering light is doing you the same favour.

’’What now?’’, he asks quietly, startling you out of your sluggish inner monologue.

’’What?’’

He turns his head to look at you. ’’What happens now? What am I supposed to do?’’

You have to stop and actually consider the question, because much as it’s a strange thing to ask you also don’t really know how to answer. You’ve never much thought about it, it’s another one of those unspoken things.

’’Well, I’m going to sleep. You can sleep here too, if you’d like.’’

’’It’s morning.’’, he says, like that’s supposed to mean something, and throws a look out the window.

’’So? I’ve been out all night. Haven’t you?’’

’’…no?’’, like he thinks it might be the wrong answer. You prop yourself up on your elbow to stare at him.

’’So you were, what, just having your morning cigarette? At five in the morning, on new year’s day?’’

He shrugs.

’’You’re weird.’’ You plop back down and close your eyes. Sleep isn’t far away. ’’Go then. I don’t care.’’

You feel his weight shift as he rolls of the bed and you peek on him as he gets dressed, quick and efficient and you admire his movements, the muscles playing on his back as he pulls the shirt over his head. He’s got a scar on his neck, ruler straight and colourless in the cold winter light. You didn’t notice it before, but now you wonder how he got it.

’’My boyfriend cheated on me.’’ You don’t know why you need to say it, but you do. He doesn’t look at you, but he pauses and you can tell he’s listening. ’’We were supposed to get married.’’

’’Why?’’

You don’t understand the question.

’’You’re revenge. You understand that?’’

’’I do.’’ You don’t know what more to say. ’’Did it work?’’

’’What?’’

’’Your revenge.’’

’’…I don’t know.’’ He’s being weird, and annoying, he’s not acting the way he’s supposed to and you’re so fucking tired, the light growing brighter and brighter is giving you a headache. Regret is coming on hard and fast. You regret going out, you regret leaving Marek with the girl in the club, you regret Marek alltogether, you regret fucking this- boy.

’’No.’’, he agrees, and the thoughtfulness in his voice pisses you off, as though he knows something about it, more than you, this virgin who spent new year’s eve, the eve of the last night of the millenia, in bed.

’’This means nothing, you know that right? Just because we had sex doesn’t mean I ever want to see you again. That’s what happens now.’’

’’I know.’’

’’Good. Get out.’’

You don’t even hear him walk across the floor, but the door clicks shut behind him and you’re alone.

Happy fucking new year

 

You spend the first two days of the year 2000 holed up in your apartment, wallowing in self-pity, chain smoking on the fire escape outside your indow, and avoiding anyone who knows you, anyone who knows you as Marek’s girlfriend. When you finally run out of milk and venture out, bleary eyed and dressed in sweats, you find him by the door. He’s underdressed and pale and perfectly put together, like an echo that’s slipped through the cracks of time, come to remind you of all your poor decisions. You stop in your tracks.

’’What are you doing here?’’, you ask, flatly, inwardly preparing to send him packing. He’s not the first guy who’s gotten too attached, though you really thought you’d made things clear.

Just act like enough of a psycho, and they fuck off on their own accord. Works a charm, every time.

He looks at you, face blank. Lifts the cigarette to his mouth and takes his sweet time pulling in, blowing out.

’’I live here.’’

’’You live here.’’ You point at your door, just to be completely clear. ’’Here.’’

He nods. Smoke, in, out.

’’Since when.’’

’’Four days.’’

’’Oh.’’

He seems to find it funny, the absolute ass.

’’I travel a lot. For work. You won’t need to see me. Much.’’

Don’t you feel like an idiot.

’’Good.’’

He looks at you for a moment. ’’Good.’’, he echoes.

Silence stretches between you. You shift on your feet, indecisive.

Fuck it.

’’You wanna come up?’’

A smile tugs at his lips. He flicks the remaining cigarette into the snow.

’’Sure.’’

 

It’s quick and dirty and just what you need.

He leaves, and you go about your day. The next time you leave the building, you pause on the second floor landing. The mail drop on the door of the apartment below yours, the one that’s been empty for renovations the entire fall, has gained a nametag. Y. Belukov, in neat letters.

You wonder what the Y stands for. You never asked for his name.

You look out sometimes, when the smell of cigarette smoke rises from the street below and seeps beneath your window.

On especially pathetic nights, when you stumble up the stairs at three in the morning, you think about knocking. But his window’s dark. It always is.

Chapter 2: August 15th, 2000

August 15, 2000

It’s eight months before you see him again. By then, some half-decent, half-drunk sex is all but forgotten.

It’s a sweltering afternoon, that time of year when the cobbled streets of the old city bake like a clay oven and the reds, oranges and yellows of rooftops and facades feel less like a vibrant, picturesque center of history and more like an unusually cheerful tomb.

You’re suffering your way up the last stretch of Laréntská after a long, exhausting day of waiting tables and getting your ass pawed. It’s just temporary, until you figure out a way to make money off of your rambling monologues, you know you’ve got something to say and it’s just a matter of time until they realize. You’re not sure just who ’They’ are, but you’re sure they’ll make you famous, and at least economically independent enough to not have climb this damn hill on aching feet every damn day. You’re probably going to have to get on a diet as soon as that happens though.

Or at least cut down on the beer.

The stairwell is blessedly cool compared to the streets outside, and you climb them slowly, relishing it even as sweat streams down your back. Second floor landing, and a door you’ve long since stopped glancing at, which now opens suddenly and damn near smacks you in the face.

’’Fuck!’’ He looks the same, infuriatingly untouched by the heat. ’’Are you trying to kill me?!’’

’’No.’’

You’d forgotten how annoyingly weird he was. And how tauntingly fit, which is impossible to miss as even he’s made some concession to the weather and is wearing a black wifebeater that leaves little to the imagination. He surely notices you looking but even though you may sometimes come off as a Goddess descended to earth, you are in fact only human.

He leans against the doorpost and makes no move to go anywhere, which strengthens your conviction that it’s no coincidence that he happened to open his door just as you were passing by.

Whatever could his intentions be?

’’Can I come in, then?’’ Only one way to find out.

’’No.’’

Apparently, to cause you maximal humiliation and give you a rage induced aneurysm on the spot. He’s got the best poker face you’ve ever seen, but he’s not trying very hard to hide his amusement.

’’I could come up to yours, though.’’

’’What, are you hiding a body in there?’’

’’No.’’

’’Saying ’no’ to everything stops being cute when you get past the toddler stage.’’ You turn away and continue up the stairs. ’’Come on then.’’

He pushes you up against the wall as soon as the door closes behind you, and look who’s grown some confidence, he barely dared to touch your tits eight months ago, kisses your neck like a starving man at an oasis, and you’re mixing up your metaphors.

’’I have a boyfriend.’’ But you let him keep at it.

’’Hm? The one who cheated on you?’’ His voice is muffled against your neck, and with his accent already turning every word into porridge, you can barely understand him.

’’Who? Oh, no. It’s a new one.’’

’’Why?’’ His hand snakes in under your shirt and makes it’s way up, caressing your sweat-slick skin without hesitation, and the question spins in your head.

He always asks the wrong questions, you remember now, like he’s been given a different script than everyone else, different even than your own and you’ve always prided yourself on going against the stream.

But you think about it, about why, and you can’t come up with a decent answer. And maybe that’s why you tilt your head to give him better access, let him pull your shirt off and pull you into bed.

 

’’I thought you weren’t gonna come back.’’, you admit as you lie on your backs a half an hour later, naked bodies glistening with sweat and damp sheets sticking uncomfortably to your back. He’s not the cuddeling type, and that suits you just fine, but you’ve managed to leave him disheveled which stirs a petulant sort of pride in you. You like a bit of a mess, and since he makes a habit of catching you at your messiest it’s only fair you get to unpack him out of that neat little box he seems to keep himself in. You know what he looks like with hair glued to a sweaty forehead, you know the face he makes when he comes, and that’s a weapon to wield as good as any.

Maybe that kind of thinking is a sign you have issues.

’’Why?’’

’’Haven’t seen you around for what, almost a year?’’

’’Eight months. And a half.’’ You can see him counting it out in his head, like it surprises him. ’’Feels like longer.’’ It feels like no time at all to you.

’’Are you sticking around this time?’’

’’No. Maybe. Few days, maybe a week. What?’’, you grunt in disbelief and he turns to look at you with that furrow in his brow. ’’I told you, I travel a lot. For work.’’

’’Keeping an apartment just to spend, what, ten days of the whole year in it? Must be nice work.’’ You worked your ass off six days a week and still never had money over at the end of the month. He hadn’t struck you as a rich boy, but you’ve misjudged men before.

’’…It’s alright.’’ Seemingly disintrested, he rolls out of bed and walks over to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. He’s not at all shy about his nudity, and rightfully so. His ass is the kind you could write poems about. On his back, just below the left shoulder blade, you notice a bruise you haven’t seen before. The size of her hand, fingers spread wide, mottled black and purple. It seems to you that if you pressed your fingers against it, dug into it with the nails of both your thumbs, it’d burst open like a zit and stain your hands with blood. It’s the kind of thought you could never share, but you can’t help but think. You’ve never seen a bruise quite like it, the sheer amount of force that must’ve made it.

You swing your legs off the bed, realize you’ve still got the condom inside you and pull it out to tie it off with a grimace. He watches you, head tilted in curiousity, and you wonder if you should start charging a fee for the amount of entertainment he seems to draw from you. Like a basketball pro you lob it into the wastebin. It’s the only sport you’d sign up to compete in - you’ve got almost a decade of experience. Unfortunately.

’’Enjoying the view?’’ You spread your legs in blatant challenge.

’’Are you?’’

’’I’m not the one staring.’’ And he is, physically drawn towards you like your pussy is magnetic.

’’You were.’’, he points out without breaking eye-contact with your ladybits.

You were. But he had his back turned the entire time, so he can’t possibly have known.

He’s put his knee on the bed between your legs, leaning over you. You don’t even need to see his dick, growing hard at the mere sight of you, it’s just as plain to see in his eyes how much he wants you. It’s intoxicating, the power you have, that your body has.

’’I’m out of condoms.’’, you say quietly, putting your hand against his hard chest.

’’Doesn’t matter.’’, he mumbles, and you huff.

’’Does too.’’

’’You didn’t care last time.’’ He’s insistent, hand firm against your hip, body heavy against your hand.

’’Last time was your first.’’ Let it sting a little, let it bother him. ’’I don’t know where you’ve been since.’’

He stills, and you can almost hear him thinking. His thumb is rubbing soft circles on your hipbone. Your flesh soft to his touch, and it makes you self-conscious, but you won’t let him know that.

’’I haven’t… been anywhere.’’ His voice is measured, calm. Too calm. Solid attempt, but you don’t buy it. It’s hard for him to say it, and that’s why you believe him.

’’I’m the only one you’ve had?’’, you whisper, and oh, you didn’t know you’d like that, but God, you do. He nods stiffly, just once.

’’In that case…’’ You push him up gently and slip down on the floor, the wood is hard and cold against your bare knees and you look up at him as you grab onto his hips to shift him in place.

’’Oh.’’, he breathes. ’’Oh, yes, okay.’’ And you can’t hold back your smile at the look on his face, even as you press your lips against his shaft. Salty sweat, and a hint of rubber.

Sucking dick, that age old, sacred art. That ultimate act of selfless, female sacrifice. The pinnacle of submission, in a way.

On the other hand, you’ve got your teeth around his most precious, vulnerable part.

You don’t love the act. You enjoy the way he holds his breath when you lick your tongue slowly up the shaft, the way it hitches and he can’t quite hold back a groan when you finally take the head in your mouth. The taste, well, it’s just one of those things you put up with. Like unwashed dishes in the sink, the toilet seat left up.

He’s gripping onto your shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise, and you rake your nails down his lower back in response. It makes his hips twitch and you snort, very sexily. It almost makes you choke, but you’re not a quitter, and when he spills into your mouth with a noise that’s almost a keen, you swallow every bit. They always like that, think it’s a bit naughty but really you just taste it way less this way than if you spit, and he’s no different.

You get back up, knees stiff. He looks slightly dazed, like he’s just had a religious experience.

’’Alright?’’, you ask, feeling way too pleased with yourself.

’’Very.’’, he sits down, like his legs aren’t quite there for him, clears his throat. ’’Thank you.’’

You burst out laughing.

’’You’re very welcome. I’m taking a shower, I’d offer you to join, but if you got two people into that cubicle you wouldn’t get them out again.’’

 

’’You aren’t saving yourself for me or something idiotic like that, are you?’’, you ask him a few days later when you fall into bed together for the third time. He snorts.

’’No. I’m just busy.’’

’’No man’s too busy to get laid.’’

’’Unlike some people, I don’t like to pick up the first available stranger off the streets.’’ You try to slap him over the head but he dodges without even looking.

’’Studies show that in 100% of the cases, you do.’’

’’Only when they try so hard I feel sorry for them.’’

’’Go fuck yourself.’’

’’Well…’’

 

He he leaves without saying goodbye while you’re in the shower, and then he’s gone. You spend three days glancing up at his window every time you come home, but once it’s clear he’s pulled another disappearing act you stop bothering. Life goes on. You need to figure out how to dump your boyfriend.

The letters of ’Y. Belukov’ jump out at you sometimes when you pass by his door, reminding you that you really should ask for his name next time you see him.

Chapter 3: September 14th, 2001

September 14th, 2001

The phone hasn’t rung a single time today. You pretend that it’s because everything’s just magically gotten better since yesterday, and not because you’ve left it off the hook to escape it all. Your dad kept calling to tell you what he thought about what happened, about what they’re saying on the news. He always has opinions about everything but he’s from that confused East Block generation who can never quite decide if he admires the US or despises them. He took you along to march through the city in -89, when you were just a kid. Taught you the anti-communist chants which you enthusiastically repeated even though you had no idea what was going down, just that you’d never seen a crowd that big and your mother hadn’t wanted him to take you, which just made it all the more exciting. But if your sister’s American husband says anything bad about the same regime dad wanted gone, he can’t stop himself from arguing.

Same thing with the Russians. He hates the buearucrats in Moscow, it’s ingrained in his very being, but in the next breath he’ll call you to rant about Western arrogance, NATO’s stonewalling, the bombings in Yugoslavia, and you ask him if he likes Yelstin and he says no, of course not, but he likes Clinton even less.

Usually you find it funny, or you tune him out. But right now you just can’t.

Then your sister, who married an American and moved to New Jersey, calls to complain about dad calling. She fancies herself an American herself these days, except for when she wants to complain about them.

’’Dad’s not taking it seriously enough.’’, she says, and in the next breath, ’’They’re taking it too seriously here Nadia, I can’t stand it.’’

You don’t know what to say, or what to think, so you left the phone off the hook and you stand smoking in your window and try not to think at all. You’ve shut the TV off. The image of the towers collapsing is already burned into your retinas, and you’ve got a knot of worry in the pit of your stomach that not even chainsmoking can unwind.

A figure coming down the street catches your attention. Black clothes, blonde hair, with a dufflebag slung over his shoulder, and you have to look twice to be sure you’re not mistaken. You whistle, and he looks up. You raise your cigarette in greeting, and after a moment of hesitation he raises his hand in return.

It’s almost half an hour after he’s disappeared in through the door, and you start wondering if you’ve been rejected when there’s finally a knock on the door. He’s gotten tan, like he’s come straight from the beach, his hair’s shorter than before, and lighter. It makes him look older, and his eyes are tired.

’’You can come in, as long as you don’t talk about the towers.’’

He doesn’t. Instead, he pushes you front first against the wall with an iron grip you wouldn’t be able to break if you tried. It sends a thrill running up your spine, his solid, unnegotiable presence pressing against your back. You arch back against him, testing the waters, and he let’s out a grunt. He’s already hard, you can feel it pressing against your ass. There’s no breaking free, even if you tried, and it’s one of those fucked up things that shouldn’t turn you on but really, really does. He fucks you roughly up against the wall with intense focus, almost completely silent, and the angle isn’t great but it’s one of those package experiences. It’s enjoyable because of what it is, rather than what you feel.

When he comes, you can barely breathe, sandwiched as you are against the wall, but the pressure of his body loosens gradually as though all tension is pooling off him like slow-melting snow in the sunshine. He rests his face briefly in the crook of your neck and lets out a slow breath that might just have been his soul leaving his body, abandoning it’s exhausted shell to go searching for greener pastures.

Later, you lie tracing his tanlines with your fingers. He’s on his back, one arm behind his head, eyes closed. Some of the tension’s left him, the worry on his brow smoothed out. Around his wrists, around his neckline, sharp lines where darker and slightly reddened skin met pale white. He must burn like toast in the sun.

’’Where’ve you been?’’, you ask, and he gives no indication that he’s heard you. For a moment you think he’s fallen asleep, and you rest your own head against his warm chest.

’’Saudi Arabia.’’ You’re almost asleep, have almost forgotten your question, by the time his answer comes.

’’What, seriously?’’ He hums. ’’Shit. For work?’’

He rubs the back of his hands over his eyes, and the little wrinkle is back between his brows.

’’It got complicated. Didn’t get anything done.’’

’’I’d bet.’’ You peer up at his face. The scar on his neck is stark white and even more prominent against the tanned skin.

’’What is it you do, anyways?’’

His eyes are closed, and he doesn’t answer.

 

’’Do you think the world is turning sour?’’ You ask straight out into the darkness, staring unseeingly into the ceiling. You don’t even know if he’s awake, but he let’s out a huff next to you.

’’You sound like a westener.’’

’’Fuck’s that supposed to mean?’’

’’The world hasn’t changed. It’s always been like this. Always will be.’’

’’That’s not true.’’

’’People are killed all the time. Usually nobody cares, or even notices. The only thing that’s different about this is the exposure. It’s well done, really, they’ve struck fear into the entire world. But fear is good for business.’’

You stare at him, white skin luminous in the dark room. You can’t see his face. It’s the most you’ve ever heard him say in one go, but if this is what comes out when he decides to open his mouth you can understand why he keeps quiet.

’’What kind of business?’’, you spit out.

’’Any kind.’’

’’That’s cold.’’ It’s disgusting.

He let’s out breath.

’’The world is cold.’’

You don’t respond. You’ve never heard anybody talk like that. Silence stretches, and you start to think he’s fallen asleep.

’’Forget I said that.’’, he says quietly, and you can feel him shift next to you. Your eyes are closed, but you think you can feel his eyes burning into you. ’’I shouldn’t- Just forget about it.’’

You pretend to be asleep.

 

In the morning, the conversation seems distant, like a dream. But you wake up alone, sheets cold next to you and you stare into the wall with mounting annoyance. He’s making a habit of disappearing without a warning, which is fine, really, it’s not like you’re dating or anything. But still, it’d be nice if he’d give you a heads up. Nice to know if you’ll see him tomorrow, or next year.

You roll out of bed with a sigh. Unfortunately, you’ve not yet figured out how to monetize your greatest hobby (being an ass to people on the internet), and you need to get to work.

 

You catch him on the sidewalk a few weeks later. He’s coming in, you’re going out, and he almost opens the door in your face. He’s got the decency to look the tiniest bit guilty, though it might just be wishful thinking on your part. His pokerface is truly impeccable.

’’Are you avoiding me?’’ You’ve never been one to beat around the bush, and if he’s been here this whole time it’s truly an impressive display of stealth.

’’No.’’

For a moment it seems like he’s going to leave it at that, but you inherited an unimpressed face from your dear mother that has toppled many a man before and this one’s no exception. He sighs.

’’I’m not. I had to leave. It doesn’t really matter. I’m leaving again. Besides-’’, he hesitates. ’’I thought it was better if I…’’, he trails off. ’’Well. I didn’t think you’d care.’’

You stare at him.

’’We’re not dating.’’

He blinks, seemingly taken aback by your answer.

’’…No.’’

’’I don’t know what your deal is, and I don’t really care. It doesn’t have to be complicated.’’

’’…No?’’

’’I’ll be back tonight, if you wanna come up.’’

’’No.’’ You might have murder in your eyes, but he looks like he’s fighting back a smile. ’’I’m leaving. …But I’ll probably pass through again in a few months.’’

’’Alright.’’

’’Alright.’’

He watches you go, you can feel his eyes like a prickle at the back of your neck.

 

Shortly thereafter, the US invades Afghanistan, and it’s far longer than a few months before you see him again. Sometimes, watching the news, you think about him. Business must be good.

Chapter 4: May 6th, 2002

Notes:

If you're really, really sensitive to any sort of sexual assault-related content, consider this a TW. Nothing really happens though.

May 6th, 2002

You don’t think about him all that much. No, really. You’ve started taking stray courses in media and journalism at the University. You’ve got work, boring and unfullfilling as it may be. Your little sister is about to graduate high-school, and the older one is on the verge of divorcing her American and moving back home. Which you fully support because really, New Jersey? If it’d at least been New York. Even you might consider marrying a boring old American if he could offer you an apartment on Manhattan. You would wear heels every day, go for brunches with your girlfriends and you’d always be in a hurry, heading to some glamorous party or important meeting or other. You’d write poignant pieces for some magazine and take their hoity toity society by storm.

Or more likely, you’d be in sweats and smudged mascara, obsessing over obscure internet forums and drinking way to much cheap, Czech beer, no matter which continent you were on, because some things never change. And you’re no Carrie Bradshaw.

You meet a guy. Nikola is proper smart, which is a nice change from the unfortunate specimens you usually gravitate towards, and he makes you laugh like no other. You feel like you’re the protagonist of a coming of age movie, drinking beer in the shadow of the Prague castle, going for nightly swims in Džbán with that strange sense of intimacy that only comes from naked bodies in nature under the pale light of the moon, high on eachother, mind and body alike.

For the first time since Marek you feel like you’ve got something real going on. And Marek… well. It might’ve only been two years ago, but by God you were such an idiot back then. You’ve grown up now.

Life is busy. Life is good. And so, it takes you by complete surprise when you open your front door expecting Nikola, and instead he’s there, looking significantly better rested than last time you saw him more than half a year ago, but pale as a ghost which makes the fist sized bruise shading his temple stand out all the more.

’’Oh, hi.’’ You say, like a stupid idiot.

’’Hi.’’, he says, ’’Can I come in?’’

You let him in wordlessly, and immediately come to regret it as you’re pressed up against the wall, warm lips against yours, and your brain short-circuits for a moment before your mind catches up with your body and you break free from the kiss.

’’Wait.’’, you mumble, and you try to pull away but his body is hard and unyielding, you’re familiar enough with it by now to know you don’t stand a chance against him. He pays you no mind, mouth nuzzling your neck, hips grinding against yours and this is just what you get for being too goddamn easy, for making a simple invitation to come inside an invitation to come inside you. ’’Wait, I- I have a boyfriend.’’

He scoffs, and there’s a hand on your breast, another swats away your feeble attempts at pushing him off, like your resisting hands are no more than an annoyance, mosquitos circling his head as he’s trying to get down to business. Adrenaline sows a seed of panic in your gut, and suddenly you’re afraid. It’s never bothered you before, with him, but in this moment you’re keenly aware that you’re alone with a man whom you truly know nothing about, aside from his strangeness, his secrecy, his callous disregard of human suffering and his obvious capacity for physical violence.

’’Let me go.’’, you hiss in his ear, and you can’t get any purchase against the way he’s enclosing you with his body. You can’t pull back, and you can’t push him away, any attempt to wiggle free just has you pressing yourself against him in a way that he’s clearly enjoying way too much. You can feel his excitement, pressing against your hip. It’s a position you’ve been in many times before, but for the first time it fills you with fear rather than anticipation. ’’I said, let me go!’’

Your voice cracks, and he freezes. Your pulse is loud in your ears, your breath is coming shallow, and then suddenly the pressure is gone and you take a deep breath. He’s as far away from you as your hall will allow him, watching you with blown pupils and that damn furrow between his brows as though you’re a wounded animal and the slightest move on his part will make you either tear at him with your claws or curl up into a ball. It’s not too far off. He tilts his head.

’’No?’’

You’d slap him, if you weren’t scared it’d set him off.

’’No!’’, you growl.

Uncertainty cuts through his mask, a dawning of something that could be understanding, could be shame, could almost be fear. It makes him look half a decade younger, like a confused little boy.

’’I-’’, Lost for words, his eyes dart toward the door and for a moment you think he’s simply going to make a break for it. ’’I’m… sorry? I didn’t…’’ A million words seem to whirl through his mind, and he opens and closes his mouth like he’s chasing after them like butterflies in a tornado, slipping out of his grip.

’’I didn’t mean to.’’, he finally settles for, eloquent as ever.

You take a deep breath, pulling yourself fully together. Stare at him. And much as you’d like to fly into a righteous rage and kick him out the door, you deflate at the frustrated resignation on his face. Because you do believe him.

’’Like I said, I have a boyfriend.’’

’’And this one…matters.’’, he surmises as though he’s laying some strange puzzle, and alright, fair, you’ve technically had a boyfriend almost every time you two have hooked up and it hasn’t stopped you before.

’’This one matters.’’

He knits his brows together.

’’Why?’’

Ah, the return of the Weird Fucking Questions™.

’’I don’t know, haven’t you ever been in love?’’

’’No.’’

You stare at him.

’’No.’’, you agree, slowly, to yourself as much as to him. ’’Of course you haven’t.’’

He shrugs, suddenly awkward.

’’So… I’ll just go then.’’ There’s a question in there somewhere, and it brings you back to your first night together. What happens now? And you have to make a choice, in that moment. Something tells you, that if he walks out that door now that’ll be the last time you ever see him.

’’Or, you could stay and like, have a beer.’’

There it is. You’ve been playing a game of hockey, and suddenly you’ve tossed a football onto the ice. He’s mystified, caught off guard, almost suspicious.

’’…Why.’’

’’I’m not fucking you. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.’’

He looks you over, assessing.

’’…Friends.’’ It’s said to himself as much as to you, like it’s a word he’s never heard before, foreign in his mouth. He’s tasting it, thoughtful, uncertain.

’’Or, you can fuck off. That’s fine too.’’ Whether you’re offering him an out or saving face, being that he’s treating your offer of friendship as though you’ve handed him a mystery box that’s got a 50% chance of being filled with scorpions, you’re not quite sure.

’’I don’t drink.’’

’’Seriously? What kind of Russian are you?’’

’’Who said I was Russian?’’

’’You’re not?’’

’’I didn’t say that.’’

You consider throwing him out after all.

’’Would it kill you to give a straight answer every once in a while?’’

’’It might.’’ There’s a hint of a smile in the crook of his mouth. He’s fucking with you. Some things never change.

 

Just because he won’t drink doesn’t mean you won’t, and so you settle on the fire escape with a bottle. You watch him lean against the railing, chapped white paint threatening to peel of the metal at the lightest of touches, and you sip in silence, enjoying the rays of afternoon sun against your face. Nature has hit that sweet threshold where the freshness of spring is just about to blossom into the warm embrace of summer. A light breeze carries the fragrances of Velká Strahovská to your window, that near imperceptible, unmistakable smell of a garden at the cusp of full bloom, mingling with the smell of cigarette smoke from where he’s chosen to indulge in his own vice.

You don’t mind. As far as scent-memories go, there are few that hit the spot quite as good as smoke in the pre-summer air. His face is turned up against the wind, eyes almost closed, like a cat basking in the sunlight, stillness only interrupted by the occasional pull on the cigarette.

’’What happened to your face?’’

’’Got punched.’’

’’No shit. Why?’’

He opens one eye to look at you.

’’Maybe I forced myself on his girlfriend.’’

’’Did you?’’

’’No.’’

’’Did you deserve it?’’

’’Probably.’’

’’No, ’you should see the other guy?’ ’’

’’I don’t think you’d want to, no.’’

’’That bad?’’

’’No, he was just very ugly. You ask a lot of questions.’’

’’Well, you give a lot of shitty answers.’’

’’Ask better questions, maybe you’ll get better answers.’’

’’Is that a promise?’’

’’Maybe.’’

’’Alright, I walked into that one. Give me a minute.’’

There’s a genuine smile on his face now, and you feel an odd surge of pride. The sun’s starting to set behind the treeline, and the rooftops gleam like burnished gold.

’’What’s your name?’’

He turns his head to look at you, an odd thoughtfullness drifting across his face. The silence stretches out, and you get the impression he’s thinking very hard about the answer. You raise an eyebrow, not quite sure if you should be amused or indignant at how he’s obviously fucking you around.

’’Careful now, don’t think too hard about it. You might hurt yourself.’’

’’…Yakov.’’, he says, finally, watching you carefully for a reaction as though he’s expecting…what? Recognition? You don’t know. Whatever it is he’s searching for, he seems to find it in your face.

’’Nice to meet you, Yakov. I’m Nadia.’’

’’I know.’’

’’Creep.’’

’’You leave your mail on the table. You’ve got birthday cards on the fridge. It was hard to miss.’’

’’I’ve been wondering what the Y was for.’’

’’Hm?’’

’’On your mailbox.’’

’’Oh. No.’’ Something complicated passes over his face and for a moment he almost looks embarrassed. ’’…That’s for Yaroslav.’’

’’Nadia?’’ Before you can ask what the hell he’s on about, you’re reminded that you had in fact been waiting for Nikola to show up before Yakov reintroduced himself into your life with some mild assault and his signature infuriating vagueness, and now he’s arrived, late as always, and let himself in.

’’I’m out here! Hold on, I’ll be right in!’’ You call back through the half open window, and you can hear him start to futz about with something in the kitchen.

Yakov puts out his cigarette and with an air of amusement.

’’I’ll just exit this way then, shall I?’’, he keeps his voice low, and from where you’re both placed neither of you are visible from inside the apartment.

For a moment, you entertain the scenario where you bring Yakov in through the window and introduce him to your boyfriend as your weird, kinda hot neighbour that you just hang out with platonically and whom you’ve strangely never mentioned to him before. Or maybe even, as your weird, kinda hot neighbour that you just have sex with every once in a blue moon when he happens to be around and not off doing God knows what sort of shady business he’s into (because you’re not stupid, you can read between the lines, but you’re not entirely certain if his business is the kind that’s actually illegal, or just the kind that seems like it really should be but oddly isn’t, i.e politics or finance), with whom you’ve cheated on a number of boyfriends and who kind of almost seemed like he was gonna rape you earlier but that was just a misunderstanding, you worked it out, it’s all good.

Thing is, if you did go ahead and tell Nikola all of those things, he wouldn’t bat an eye. Because he is just that sort of genuinely accepting and understanding guy, who doesn’t mind that you’ve got exes and that you’ve been around, who would probably invite Yakov to come with for dinner or something stupid like that.

(And you’re not sure if the idea of sipping a margarita as Yakov attempts small-talk is appealing or mortifying)

Some part of what’s going through your brain must’ve shown on your face, because he looks almost offended.

’’You’re not introducing me to your boyfriend.’’

’’Could be funny.’’

’’No. Abolutely not. In fact-’’, he cuts himself off and looks at you assessingly. ’’…If you didn’t mention me at all, I’d prefer that. To anyone.’’

’’… Do you work for the KGB?’’

He makes a face.

’’Ew, no.’’

’’Hm. Alright. See you around then, Romeo.’’

He flips you off and you watch him go as he disappears down the fire escape ladder, graceful and completely cilent, as though the laws of physics and old steel ladders simply don’t apply to him.

In the end, it’s not the thought of Nikola’s reaction that makes you keep quiet. Neither is it Yakov’s request, though that ship’s partially sailed already as you might’ve waxed lyrically to your sister about his biceps once or twice. You were drunk, you’re a woman, it happens.

When you climb back through the window and greet Nikola with a kiss and he asks about your day, you leave Yakov out because there’s something about him and the odd little relationship you two have cultivated that feels intensely private. You meant what you told him earlier, you’re not gonna cheat on Nikola with him.

But Yakov’s your little secret. And you have a feeling you might be his, too.

Notes:

Some bits of personal headcanon here: Yassen is not a real Russian name. Horowitz realized this, and decided to attempt and retcon his mistake by going ''Oh it's actually Yasha, it was just misheard''. Yasha, however, is also not a proper name. It's a diminutive nickname, short for Yakov. Aleksandr turns into Sasha, Yakov turns into Yasha, etc. Russians get real flippy with diminutives, it's great. Anyways, I just happen to believe Yassen deserves a proper name.

Fun fact: I actually went on google maps and picked out a specific building in Prague when I started writing this. Prague is one of my favourite cities I've ever been to, if you're considering a vacation in like, Rome, go to Prague instead. It's better.

Velká Strahovská is a big garden/orchard pretty much right in the shadow of the Prague castle, an oasis right in the middle of the city. Džbán is a tiny little lake in a park on the outskirts of the city, when I was there it was basically just me and the natives, no tourists at all. Glorious after sweating around the city all day. (disclaimer: I'm not sponsored by the Czech tourism board. Prague is just a great city and everyone should go there)

I feed on your positive energy, like, comment, subscribe etc.

Chapter 5: Snapshots: October 3rd, 2003

Notes:

Been a while! I recently reread this work and went 'I really enjoy this, I wish the author would update' and then I remembered that the author is me. Very unfortunate. This chapter has actually been sitting on my harddrive for quite some time, but I do have ideas for where I want to take this so it'll slowly materialize, I'm sure.

Snapshots of summer

Spring turns to summer turns to fall, and you watch the smoke rise above the rooftops as the verdure turns carmine red around you. Yakov likes the view from your balcony, you quickly realize. Once or twice you catch him out there, come to gaze at the sky without invitation, without announcing his presence. If it’d been anyone else you’d probably have chucked them off it by now, but he’s never truly infringed on your space, it’s as though he’s got a seventh sense for when you’ve got someone over or when you want to be alone. Most of the time, you’ve got a feeling, he comes when you’re not home and leaves before you catch so much as a glimpse. Like a stray cat.

Like smoke on the wind.

Sometimes, you share a moment. He doesn’t like to talk, that much is clear, though when he does he invariably displays an infuriatingly dry and concerningly dark sense of humour, but you find you don’t mind the silence between you. You like to talk though, occasionally to a fault as you’ve been informed on more than one occasion by your parents, teachers and other miscellaneous authority figures, and when your brain goes of on a tangent and you starts blabbing your mouth he just listens, quietly. Watching something far away, through the fabric of the world into some other place in time and space, but you know he hears you. And he’ll remember it all, more so than most of your friends would. Sometimes he watches you like you’re a prisma, reflecting the sunlight into the most dazzling spectacle of colours, though all you’ve done is relate the latest episode in the soap opera that is your sisters divorce.

’New Jersey is a shithole.’’, he offers, insightfully.

You whole-heartedly agree. And unlike you, he’s probably actually been there, so he’d know.

 

~

 

Raspberry and lemon, tart and sweet and makes your tongue tingle. Tender sunlight on your skin, a popsicle melting slowly in your mouth, it’s enough to bring you back to your childhood. You can almost sense the chalky scent of sunscreen, coarse sand clinging to bare feet, you close your eyes and give a little sigh in contentment. Of all the impulse purchases you’ve made in the grocery store, this is one of the better ones. It’s surely been a decade or more since you last had one of these, and perhaps it’s a sign of maturity that you’ve passed that stage where you had rejected all things childish while heeding of the lure of adulthood. Now, you’ve been at it for long enough to realize that adulthood is at it’s best when you don’t try to hard to be one.

You’d wordlessly offered Yakov one, and he’d stared at the colourful wrapping as though you’d presented him with a bag full of cockroaches. With a shrug, you’d put it back in the fridge.

Clinging to childhood wasn’t for everyone, you suppose.

Still, he’s definitely missing out. You the popsicle out of your mouth, lick the tart juice from your lips wth an appreciative hum, and turn to him to tell him as much. The words die on your lips. As though transfixed, he’s staring at your mouth. His eyes snap up to meet yours, like a child snatching his hand out of the cookie jar, and you feel a surge in your gut.

Slowly, you wrap your lips around the popsicle and take it into your mouth, and with your eyes firmly locked with his you slide it deep, hollow your cheeks and swallow around it as it starts to melt from the warmth of your mouth.

Gaze torn between your eyes and your mouth, he let’s out a breath, ever so shaky.

 

October 3rd, 2003

 

It’s raining when Nikola first meets Yakov.

You’re heading out, the both of you, braving the bleak and dreary late-October afternoon to go have dinner with your parents. Nikola cleans up real nice when he’s aiming to impress, and there’s a warm buzz that’s lived happily in your chest ever since you woke up this morning with his arms around you. There’s a curl of chestnut hair that keeps falling into his eyes no matter how carefully he’s combed it back and as you reach out to brush it away he goes cross-eyed tracking your hand with the most adorably affronted expression on his perfect, beautiful face.

It still catches you off guard, the violent surge of love that hits you when you meet his eyes, crinkled with laughter and warm like the sun.

He brings the light into your life.

You stop to fumble with a semi-broken umbrella before stepping out into the steady patter on the pavement, and just as Nikola reaches out to open the door for you it swings open and there’s Yakov, looking like absolute shit.

Scrapes and bruises are nothing new, he seems to collect them the way a more normal man might collect stamps or girlfriends, but the purple flowers that bloom across his temple, violets at the center and branches of pale lilac reaching out across his brow, the bridge of his nose. The skin must have split where a white band aid sits across part of his eyebrow. His face is the only bare skin visible, wrapped as he is in a dark jacket that doesn’t seem entirely suited to the rainfall and which makes his pallid skin stand out even more, but he moves in a measured way that’s not the easy grace you’ve grown accustomed to. There’s a shadow of a wince as he adjusts the black duffel slung over his shoulder.

It’s been a few months since you saw him last. He looks like he’s neither slept nor eaten since.

Your brain takes a moment to re-boot, and before you catch up with your mouth you’ve blurted out a stupid, ’’Oh, hi’’. His eyes flick from Nikola to you. Blood has seeped into the white of his left eye, and from the way he looks at you, you might have been a complete stranger, a mannequin in a shop window. Like Yakov’s left, gone somewhere else, and his empty shell is there going through the motions.

’’Um, Nikola, this is my neighbour, Ya-’’

’’Yaroslav.’’, he cuts you off. His voice is rough.

Nikola, thorougly taken aback by the whole situation but a champion of all social arenas, manages a smile that almost seems real.

’’Nice to meet you.’’

’’Could you…’’ Completely ignoring him, tired annoyance breaks through Yakov’s blank expression and he gestures at Nikola to stop blocking the entire doorway with his body.

’’Right, sorry.’’ Nikola steps back, and like a ruffled crow he sweeps past you both and disappears up the stairwell. The sounds of keys in a lock and a door opening and closing echo down.

’’Jesus. What happened to him?’’

You shake your head, dumbly.

’’Not very friendly, is he?’’ Nikola’s brow is furrowed in concern, and you step out into the rain to try and leave the whole meeting behind you both.

’’I don’t see him much.’’, you say, and try to sound disinterested rather than shaken.

’’He’s never bothered you, has he?’’

While his protectiveness is very sweet, though misguided, you can’t help but snort. Nikola, lovely Nikola, squaring up to protect his lady love from a gruff neighbour who looks like he’s been on the receiving end of a baseball bat. He towers over Yakov, and he’s got the sort of God given, broad shouldered physique that makes him look strong even though he rarely lifts anything heavier than his bookbag. But you know what’s hiding behind Yakovs deceptive slimness and you have no trouble picturing just how that fight would end.

’’Course not.’’, you shake your head. ’’…I think he does martial arts, or something.’’

You want Nikola to put it out of his mind, preferably forget it ever happened. You don’t know why, but Yakov would want it that way, you’re sure.

He’s alone now, in a cold, unlived apartment. You can see it for you inner eye, gingerly pulling off damp clothes, a heavy ghost of weariness on his shoulders. Back, chest, a vivid canvas of violence, and your imagination triggers a sting of pity, and a sting of guilt.

Because even if you could’ve been there and offered comfort in whatever way you might, his eyes are distant and Nikola’s hand is warm in yours. There’s nowhere you’d rather be.

The clouds have split above you, and the wet streets glisten like gold at the gentle touch of the sun.

 

Three days pass and you finally admit to yourself that you’ve been expecting a knock on the door, but it doesn’t come.

Maybe he’s already gone again. Maybe, you should take a hint and leave well enough alone.

Five sharp knocks on his door, before you can second guess yourself.

Ten long seconds, no sound of movement seeping through the door.

Finally, it opens, just enough for him to look out, leaving no view into the apartment other than an empty, white wall painted gray by the day outside.

’’What?’’

The vivid volours have faded, but somehow the greenish bruises make his face look worse. Like a disease, seeping it’s tendrils across his brow. He looks at you like you’re a stranger, an annoying neighbour overstepping their bounds, and you’re hit by the strangest feeling of surreality. Like you’ve somehow imagined every interaction you’ve ever had with him and the real Yakov, Yaroslav, whatever, is someone you’ve never spoken to. Cold, brusque, uninterested.

’’You hungry? I was just gonna order chinese.’’

’’No.’’

’’…Are you sure?’’

He doesn’t reply.

’’What happened?’’ You gesture, helpfully, to your face as though there was any doubt what you meant.

’’Nothing.’’

You snort out loud, you can’t help it.

’’Really? Not even ’I walked into a door’? Skiing accident? Got into a fistfight with a feral raccoon? C’mon, you can come up with better excuses than that.’’

’’Nadia…’’ There’s a warning in his voice, and you glare back at him.

’’Yakov…’’, you imitate, because you could never keep yourself from poking a hornets nest.

After a moments silence where you half expect him to slam the door in your face, he lets out a deep sigh, it’s as though something leaves him, and again you recognize the man you met in the snow that one New Years morning. Closed off, strange, but human.

He looks tired.

’’I forgot how annoying you are.’’

’’ I’m annoying?’’

’’At least I can mind my own fucking business.’’

’’It’s kinda cute when you try to be all scary. You’re just really…not, you know.’’

He lets out a barking laugh at that, which then makes him groan in pain. It might be the first time you’ve seen him laugh, and you’re not even sure what was so funny. Still.

It feels good.

You do get chinese food, and he eats in silence, seeming entirely content listening to you talk as you relay the latest of your family drama. Mum and dad have chosen diametrically opposed stances on your sisters divorce, while your sister keeps calling you drunk to mope and complain. You’re not sure, initially, whether you should mention Nikola. Their first meeting had been brusque, bordering on hostile, and, well… Guys tended to be weird when it came to you and other guys, being the idiotic, fragile little things that they were. Nikola didn’t need to know anything about Yakov, that was for sure. Yakov… was weird enough that you couldn’t say for certain how he felt about much of anything. He had never shown hint of jealousy, but knowing your boyfriend existed was one thing, listening to you wax about the latest romantic date he’d taken you on, now that was something entirely different.

He reaches for his glass and can’t, or doesn’t bother to, conceal a wince of pain. He moves gingerly, and with an afflicted furrow on his brow. He looks quite pathetic, at the moment, like a boy that got in over his head on the schoolyard. But whatever trouble he’d gotten himself into, you’re pretty sure he knew exactly what he was doing. And you have a nagging suspicion that he gave as good as he got.

And that’s it, in the end. With all Yakov’s strangeness, the unsettling statements, the injuries and the secrets, the way he moves, it would be very easy to be afraid of him. And you refuse to open the door and let the fear seep in.

So you’re going to talk about your boyfriend, and he can just bloody well deal with it.

You can’t keep the smile off your face when you talk about Nikola, and he notices, abandoning his food to lean back in the chair and watch you.

’’Is he gonna propose, then?’’, he asks, finally, something almost bemused about the twitch of his mouth.

’’Uh… maybe?’’

’’Make sure he does.’’

’’Got strong feelings when it comes to the holy matrimony, do you?’’

Catching the scepticism in your voice, he shrugs, and immediately groans in pain.

’’Well that’s what people do, isn’t it?’’

’’And you’re clearly all about ’what people do’.’’

He almost shrugs again, but aborts at the last moment and instead makes an awkward gesture with his head.

’’Nothing wrong about it.’’

’’Is this some sort of roundabout way of telling me you that got engaged and that’s why you can’t eat chinese food with me anymore?’’

He shakes his head with a huff and looks down into his glass. A moment of silence, just shy of an uncertain breath.

’’I was supposed to. Get married, have children. Have a home. All those… things that people do.’’

’’What changed?’’ You speak softly. He’s offering, such a rare thing, and you know that if you try to pull to many precious pearls of honesty out of him he’s going to slam shut. Like carefully approaching a wary animal. Move too quickly and they’re gone. He looks up, meets your eye for a moment before his gaze dances away, out the window and off somewhere into the night.

’’Everything.’’

’’…And now?’’

’’No.’’ He stands up abruptly. ’’Thank you. For the food. I’m going to bed.’’

’’…Alright. Good night.’’

’’Make sure he proposes.’’

’’Whatever.’’

You sit alone at the kitchen table for a long time after the door shuts behind him. On the orange tiles of a roof outside your window, painted in shades of dark gray by the weak moonlight, a cat sits perched, it’s gleaming eyes seemingly staring right at you. It slinks off, a shadow in the night, and you go take a shower.

Notes:

Since I wrote this chapter I've actually had the misfortune of spending a little more time in New Jersey than I had done when I wrote it. I can further confirm that it is a shithole.

Chapter 6: December 24th, 2003

Notes:

It's short, it's different, but I like it and I hope you do too

December 24th, 2003

It’s nearing midnight, and the tolling of the bells from the Kungsholmen Church carry across the crackling surface of Riddarfjärden. The warm lights from a thousand lit homes reflect on its icy mirror, but once the echoing bells fade away across the bay, Stockholm lies silent.

A man sits alone in a dimly lit room. It has a distinctly unlived quality, the walls are gray, the bedclothes are off-white and the bed has been made with too much care. He hasn’t disturbed them since he came in, and he won’t before he leaves. The room is supposed to be empty.

As his hands deftly check and wipe down the parts of a dismantled sniper rifle, his eyes gaze out the window at the snowcovered rooftops across the bay. Christmas Eve, the city is awake but the streets are empty. He’s never celebrated Christmas. Even when he still had a family, and even when the state no longer forbade it, such religious frivolity had no place in their home. As such, he didn’t feel the tug of loss and melancholy that sometimes still came unbidden when he was faced with memories of experiences he’d never have again. Rather, it was that sense of otherness which had long since grown familiar, and which didn’t bother him nearly as much as it probably should. In a way it was oddly comfortable, to be on the outside, looking in. To come and go as he pleased, without anyone taking notice.

And unlike the unenthusiastic receptionist downstairs, he had no issues working through Christmas Eve. It probably wouldn’t have been his first choice to carry out a hit this particular night, for no reason other than purely practical ones. But whoever his clients were, they apparently relished knowing that the man he’d killed was not only dead, but had died on his way home to spend Christmas with his children.

He’d question the moral character of the people he worked for, but, well. Glass houses.
Once stripped of everything that could tie it to its use this evening and neatly packed away in a nondescript duffle bag, he’d drop the rifle off in a storage box near the city center. What happened to it after that would be none of his concern. A car waited for him in a parking lot along the water, and by morning he’d be past the Danish border. Come New Years Eve he’d be in Singapore. But at the moment, he had no rush to get there.

It was very cold outside, and even the late-night churchgoers had hurried home, leaving the streets blanketed by the peculiar, mute silence of a heavy coat of snow, disturbed only by the occasional crackling, as though the air itself was about to shatter, and his own footsteps. Most houses had been left hollow-eyed as the lights went out one by one and the people within went to bed, but the stars shone so brightly above it was almost painful to look up.

He paused for a while on the bridge, even as he began to lose sensation in his toes, and stared up at them.

It was a sky he knew well, the kind you could only see on those nights when the air seemed to freeze in your lungs. As a child, he’d walked the dirt road round the back of their house until he could no longer see the porchlight bleed through the dark shadow of the trees, and he’d stood in a field craning his neck until it started aching. Dizzyingly small and alone in the vastness of the universe.

Some of that vertigo struck him now.

His solitude was an armor that he clad himself in willingly. Fear of abandonment, Dr. Steiner had called it, but Dr. Steiner was a hack. It was a practical choice, no more than that, and he was a practical man.

Barring… well. When he wasn’t.

And the stars made him think of Nadia, too. Not because her eyes were like stars or some bullshit like that (they weren’t, they were just regular eyes), simply because the last time he let himself enjoy the nightsky had been on her fire escape. She hadn’t even been there with him, she’d been asleep inside. Peeking through the window, he’d just been able to make out a shapeless form beneath the duvet on the bed.

(Was it creepier looking through someones bedroom window if you weren’t planning to murder them afterward? He honestly wasn’t sure.)

Perhaps he’d enjoyed the nightsky a little more, simply knowing she was in there.

Perhaps he enjoyed the stars tonight a little more, simply knowing that they shone down on that rusty fire escape in Prague as well.

He didn’t love her. He knew that much.

But perhaps he enjoyed being alive a little more, simply knowing that there was at least someone out there who might miss him when he died.

It made the great expanse a little less dizzying.

His neck began to ache, and he adjusted the bag over his shoulder, and kept walking.

Notes:

Ever write something and immediately think... Yeah, this is gonna have a veeeery slim audience. If you're part of that audience, welcome!