Chapter Text
Sunday — 20:00
Instead of feeling cold or oppressive, the sound of heavy rain pattering on the metal roofing above created a cozy blanket of white noise over the Spetsnaz common room. The Spetsnaz themselves had settled into a comfortable quiet: after training earlier in the afternoon, both Tachanka and Finka had turned in for the night; Fuze dozed peacefully in the armchair; and Glaz had positioned himself on the couch in front of the TV, patiently yet eagerly waiting for the clock to strike 20:00. Arranged before Glaz on the coffee table was a freshly sharpened pencil, a box set of well-loved oil pastels, and a sketchbook turned to a crisp, white page.
Everyone was in their usually Sunday places, except for one.
Bang, bang, bang! “Open the bloody door, Glazkov! I know you’re sitting right there!” shouted Kapkan from the hall.
Glaz rolled his eyes. Typical. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he called. Glaz opened the door to a completely soaked Kapkan, still dressed in his combat gear. His mask was pulled down off his nose and his face paint had run lines down his cheeks.
“It’s raining,” Kapkan said by way of explanation.
“I noticed,” said Glaz, unamused. “And thanks to you, I’ve missed the beginning of my show. Again.”
It was Kapkan’s turn to roll his eyes. “It’s not like you haven’t seen those reruns a thousand times—”
“—five times, at most—”
“—I honestly don’t know why you gave up the rest of your TV privileges just for this one show.”
“Because it’s the only show here that’s worth watching.”
Kapkan scoffed. “Sure. Anyways, aren’t you going to ask me about my day?” He said, flopping down on the couch with a wet squelch, flinging water onto Glaz’s pristine sketchbook page.
“No, I’m going to watch my show.” There goes my peaceful Sunday evening, Glaz thought. It wasn’t that Glaz wasn’t curious—Kapkan hadn’t shown up for training with the rest of the Spetsnaz that day, but clearly he’d been doing something, and that something had likely included running around out in a rain storm. Knowing Kapkan, he’d probably spent his day up in a tree watching a herd of deer, or something crazy like that. It was strange, though—Kapkan had been skipping out on practice a lot more than usual lately, and a lot more than the Rainbow operators were allowed. Glaz could ask all his questions later, though. He was a man of principle; Sunday evenings from 20:00 to 21:00 was his strict don’t-bother-Glaz time, everyone knew that. Yet, it was a fact that a certain someone seemed to be determined to forget.
A bright violin jingle started up on the TV as various portrait paintings flashed across the screen. Glaz readied himself, curling up with his sketchbook and pastel in hand. Of course, as soon as there was room on the coffee table, Kapkan swung his legs onto it, his sodden boots dripping mud onto the glass.
Glaz paid no mind, however—he was completely engrossed in what the TV host was saying.
“—This week on Portrait Artist of the Year, we have three amateur artists and six professional artists—”
As each artist’s name was read aloud, their self-portrait appeared on-screen. Even though he’d seen this episode before, he couldn’t help himself from critiquing the artwork aloud.
“This one’s use of a fish-eye lens is super cool—normally disproportionality is bad, but the deliberate distortion adds interest while still keeping the likeness. Oh no—that composition is just awful! Never put the face in the centre…” as Glaz rambled on about each of the paintings, Kapkan yawned disinterestedly beside him.
“So, what’s the point of this?” Kapkan asked.
“Well, the winner gets to paint a commission of a famous person for ten thousand pounds.”
“No, no, I mean what are you doing? What’s with the crayons and stuff?”
“First off, they’re pastels, and second, I want to try practicing my sketching.”
Kapkan hummed in response.
The two Spetsnaz—three, including the dozing Fuze—sat in silence. As Glaz focused on his drawing, Kapkan buried himself in his phone.
When the commercial break hit, Glaz spoke up. Without lifting his eyes from his paper, he said, “Kapkan, would you mind maybe moving off the couch? Please?”
“Huh? No, I’m good where I am.”
“It’s just that— well, you’re soaked.”
“Mhm.”
Glaz’s voice dropped an octave. “Alexsandr will murder us both if he finds mud on the cushions!”
“He’ll never know.”
“Can you please move, Maxim? I never bother you during your TV time!
“That’s true,” Kapkan said, but he didn’t move a muscle. A few moments passed. “My day went well, if you were wondering.”
Where were you?! Screamed Glaz, internally. “I wasn’t,” he said aloud. “Are you going to show up for tomorrow’s briefing?”
Kapkan ignored the question as the show returned from commercial break. He leaned over to inspect Glaz’s sketch. “The eyes are wrong,” he concluded.
“I know, I’m working on it. And you’re dripping on the page again. It’s going to smudge!”
“Heh, give him a smoky eye—”
“Absolutely not! Ugh, you smell like wet dog.”
“Eh, I’ll shower in the morning.”
Glaz pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel an outburst coming, and Kapkan just seemed to be egging it on.
“Would you stop being an ass for two seconds?! You’ve been practically MIA from the compound for two weeks, only showing up to collapse here every night—and this is how you treat me? I’m done. Go away, leave me alone!”
Fuze gave a loud snore when Glaz’s voice raised in volume, but Glaz didn’t notice.
“Jeez, I just wanted to hang out—”
“During my alone time? And what happened to hanging out at training, huh? You couldn’t even bother with me then.”
“Look, I’m—”
“I really don’t want to hear it. I’ll say it again: get your soggy ass off my couch—”
“—our couch—” Kapkan interjected.
“—and out of my face, you fucking philistine!”
Kapkan blinked, as if dazed. Behind Glaz, Fuze stopped snoring, and his eyelids fluttered.
The two conscious Spetsnaz locked eyes in terror. To wake up Fuze from a nap was to take one’s life in one’s hands. “Shit,” Kapkan breathed. “You brought this upon yourself.” He skirted around the table and quietly made his way to his bedroom, giving the finger over his shoulder as he went. Glaz gave it right back, still seething.
“Kapkan,” Fuze growled lowly. Glaz whipped around to face the armchair, holding his breath. His eyes are still closed, thank goodness, he thought. He shook his head. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.
Glaz turned his attention back to the TV—only for the cheery jingle to start back up and the credits to roll.
“Damnit, Maxim!”
Kapkan didn’t hear him.
He was already twenty feet down the fire escape, the rain pounding him even more than before. With a new emotional weight added to his chest, Kapkan disappeared into the night.