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Valery ran his fingers across one of the tapes. They contained everything—all the lies, all the truths.
He held a cigarette to his lips, hating how his fingers trembled. The smoke twirled around him, filling the air with the heavy scent of familiar times he'd long pushed away.
It was tonight. Two years since...since it all ended.
Oh God. How he loathed the pain. The pain that wracked not only his body but his delirious mind as well. He grieved for the countless, countless people who had died because of the accident. Many of whom he'd sent to their painful deaths in the name of sacrifice.
He didn't regret it. No. But he did hate himself for it.
Had there truly been no other option? It was something he asked himself every day.
The cigarette crinkled slightly in his tight grip. It threatened to break in half.
He had tried. Truly.
Wishing to drown his last hours in ignorant solitude, Valery reached across the table for the bottle of vodka. He never liked the drink—it tended to burn his throat and twist his stomach till he was retching over a filthy toilet bowl.
But hell if it didn't work.
Valery wielded the intimidating bottle for a moment, then hastily unscrewed it. He squeezed his eyes and tipped his head back, letting the alcohol rush down his throat in one sharp, painful swig.
Immediately, he slammed the bottle back down on the table and scowled at the intensity. He sucked on his teeth, letting the bitter taste sit in his mouth.
"Burns, doesn't it?"
Valery looked over.
Boris sat there, a slight smirk on his face, but one devoid of any actual malignancy. He raised his own drink and downed it in one smooth go.
Valery watched Boris's throat rise and lower as he swallowed.
"Just not for me," Valery said softly, his eyes still dangerously mesmerized. The tang of vodka lingered in his mouth. He ran his tongue along the sides of his cheeks, nearly wincing at the taste.
"Well. We all have our preferences."
Valery quirked his lip at that. He once thought he could predict the man's actions and attitudes. When they first met, he came across as stubborn and rude, and Valery didn't want to spend a single unnecessary second with him.
But now...well, now, he wouldn't trade their time together for anything.
They'd spent the whole day working and planning on how best to deal with the reactor. It caused them both persistent headaches and cramped fingers, but at least at the end of the night, they could relax and unwind like this.
Boris poured some more alcohol into his cup. He gave Valery the slightest smile.
And although Valery didn't quite smile back, his eyes softened.
"What would you do?" Valery suddenly asked, his mouth too quick for his mind to catch up. "If you had years and years to live. To grow old. What would you do?"
If Boris was surprised by the question, he didn't let it show. Or perhaps he'd just gotten used to the scientist's peculiarity.
Boris swirled the glass around, his brow furrowed in thought. "I'd keep working. Maybe retire when the time is right."
"And after?"
Their eyes met.
"I'd like to live in the countryside. In a farmhouse with a few animals to take care of." Boris hesitated for a moment. Something seemed to be holding him back. But then Valery leaned forward—interested, caring—and Boris gave in too, his shoulders relaxing. "I could have my friends and family over. Maybe even get a dog."
It was a sweet thought. Valery desperately wanted it for his friend. He'd asked because he was genuinely curious, but now, he just felt even more guilty. Futile.
"That sounds—"
"And maybe I'd even gather the courage to ask you to dinner one day."
Valery stilled. He searched Boris's eyes for any sign of humor or deception but found none. The man was genuine.
It suddenly unnerved Valery, scared him to no end. How could he say that? How could he...how could he even think that?
But as a warm flush spread across Valery's face and his stomach turned—and not from the alcohol—he realized perhaps he was so astonished because he himself could never be so bold and admit that he had the very same thought.
"Boris..." Valery whispered softly. The name floated in the air between them, and Boris seemed to hang onto it, mesmerized by the way Valery said his name.
"What would you do?" Boris stared back, curious and longing and desperate. "If you too had years and years?"
Valery felt the air leave his lungs as he let Boris's words, presence, and indubitable love wash over him. For the first time in a while, a small smile grew across his face.
"I'd say yes."
Nothing ever quite came of that night. They'd fallen asleep to hopeful dreams about unlikely futures, forcing themselves to feel content with the short time they had together.
Valery tapped the cool glass of the bottle, his fingers chilling at the touch. They never had their dinner. They never had a chance.
Years and years. If only.
He glanced at the clock. About an hour and forty-three minutes left.
Oh, Boris. How Valery longed for what could've been. He would've loved to go to dinner with him, to talk about one another and what they liked and who they were, all without the burden of the death of the world weighing on them. Perhaps even drink a little too much and stumble back to one of their places after, clumsily flirting and falling into bed with smiles that came easily.
Maybe they'd even stay together. Boris would work for the government, and Valery for Kurchatov, yet each would come home to the other after a long day.
They could laugh and argue and talk and fall further in love every day, knowing that they didn't have a time limit or outside force threatening to take their happiness away from them.
And one day, they could find a lovely little farmhouse in the middle of nowhere where they'd grow old together with a handful of farm animals that they treated like children. Maybe they'd even get a dog.
They could have love. And they could keep it.
Valery's face hardened as he pulled himself back to reality. He hadn't seen Boris in a year. He never would again. It was foolish to even entertain the naive thoughts.
The clock ticked.
But how he ached for that dinner.