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They say Winter in Russia became has harsh and unyielding has it is to match the Russian spirit. Becoming a home for those of true heart and strength to stay forever. A land that few can thrive on all year long, but one that offer peacefulness and great reward. Goncharov could believe it true tonight.
Of those winters that reveal the hearts.
He can hardly deny that legend as he lay on his side, blood pooling on the cold tiles, the darkness of his home peaceful and inviting, that for an instant his only desire is to stay. Russia calls for him to stay in her loving arms and he wishes he was not stubborn enough to listen to the melody of it.
Because tonight he leaves for Naples.
It doesn’t stop him from lingering in the comfort of that possibility for a brief moment, just the time to gather enough force to sit. He has to take care of his wound, travelling with it is already going to be difficult and painful, but he won’t make the trip if he doesn’t address it properly.
He owes his survival to their harsh winter, it was so cold that his blood had frozen in a few at the moment he stepped outside. It had numbed the pain, allowing him to escape. He was always as fast as the wind, unattainable once he set his mind to it. Disappearing in the alleys like a shadow, the falling snow covering his tracks.
Now the frozen clot had melted to the warmth of his home but he wasn’t bleeding has much as he had. He pulled away the layer keeping him warm to assert the damage. He saw little thanks to the darkness, but enough to see he could survive it. He just had to stitch it up and it would become another scar to wear.
He fumbled with difficulty on his legs, a hand holding his injured side as he lit up candles for more light, electricity had been cut earlier that night, probably due to damage on the facility caused by the relentless winter. He as used to it by now, his mind already listing what he needed for a quick but efficient work on his injury.
His sewing kit, held in a small, green pine metal box was sitting neatly in his departure bag. With only one hand he scrabble about inside until he feels the cold on his finger and pull it out. While at it he grabs the bottle of vodka, he had planned to offer to Kostya. The only proper stop he would take on his way out of Russia. The old man had always been fond of him and he was as silent as death, would he tell him his destination he knew the information would never breach his lips, but Kostya never asked questions.
His goodbye would have to be done without a proper gift, it was the only bottle of alcohol he had left to sterilise the wound. Kostya would forgive him to spoil such a good craft on a stupid wound even if it pained him.
Bandages and compress laid in a pouch bellow his sink. Clean clothes would come last, of course.. He startled when he heard a knock on his door. Immediately reassured to recognise the peculiar way Andreii always knocked on his door. What was he doing here ? He abandoned his search and let the sewing kit slide in the large pocket of his coat, dragging the lapels tight around him to hide his wound.
As delighted he was to see his friend, he had little time, if Andreii learned he was injured he would not leave his side, and Goncharov needed to leave. The loyalty of his friend always brought solace to his heart and mind, but tonight it just made the melody louder in his ears. To stay, oh to stay, even if everybody was against him, his Russia and Andreii would be enough for him to fight an entire war and come out victorious.
But he had to leave. It was safer for Katya, for one, and the whispers that had lived in him his whole life, inspiring him to leave and explore elsewhere now screamed. He needed to leave, and he had to leave tonight.
He opened the door, or rather Andreii pushed it open as soon as he unlocked it. He was full of life, fast as a river stream at the first melt in the spring.
‘I’ve heard !’ He started quick, the breath still cold from outside. ‘You fought with the Orlovsky, those bastards !’ He spits. ‘You fled without trouble ? Ivannia told me they invested in some quite decent guns recently.’
‘You know me.’ He breathes in a joking tone, trying to keep his pain hidden away.
‘As fast as the wind I know. But you’re still not as fast as bullets.’
‘You would be surprised.’ He snark.
Andreii shove him and the push brings a sharp pain to his side, he hides it in a small chuckle, sadder than his usual.
‘For real ?’ Andreii insist.
‘I’m fine. Maybe a few bruises.’
‘We should make them pay. Give them a lesson. A can gather a few men, ones we can trust, make a quick work of it.’
Goncharov shakes his head.
‘Come on, we can’t let them win.’
‘No need, winter will have their skin soon enough.’
‘Yours too, it’s not that cold and you grab your coat like you’re freezing in the middle of Red Square by a windy day.’ Thankfully he doesn’t try to mess with his coat, instead he approaches the dying fire and stir the ember, grabbing a log and adjusting it properly. ‘Where’s Katya ?’
‘With her sister, in Saratov.’
He didn’t appreciate lying to his friend, never liked it, but he couldn’t tell him the truth. He couldn’t tell him Katya as already well on her way to Naples. She would arrive before him, even though she had disliked the idea of going alone, Goncharov convinced her it was safer. Once the people against him would learn of his departure the chase would be on, he needed to move fast, he needed the freedom to be relentless if it was required. Katya knew what he was capable of, it didn’t mean she had to witness it first hand, even if, as her usual, she would remain unaffected, if just in appearance. She was damn resourceful, and way cleverer than most gave her credit for, himself included. She would manage, waiting for him, and he would make sure to apologise properly.
He couldn’t tell him he was going to Naples. Not just for vacation but to stay. Andreii would stop him or at least do everything he could to do so. He would look him in the eyes with his fierce and piercing determination and tell him that whatever they had to do to get him off the hook, they would do. Goncharov knew he would believe him and stay and pay the price he told himself he didn’t want to pay.
He couldn’t drag his friend in such a rotten hole. Andreii didn’t know the full extend of the trouble he was facing. The Orlovsky family was just a dump beside it. If he let himself think of it, he would be ashamed to have let them get to him so easily when there were bigger dogs at his tails.
He couldn’t ask Andreii to help him and pay the price they would have to pay for him to stay, nor could he ask him to follow. Andreii heart and spirit belonged entirely to Russia, he would die if he left, be it body or mind. And he would follow, even if he didn’t ask. He couldn’t take the risk.
‘She has a sister ?’ Andreii prompt suddenly very interested, unaware of the turmoils ransacking Goncharov mind. ‘You never told me.’ He sounds almost offended.
‘Give it up, she is already married.’
‘Aw ! Too bad.’
‘You can never settle anyway.’
‘Why would I, I wouldn’t have enough time to save your sorry ass and give the attention a lady requires at the same time.’ Goncharov scoff, immediately regretting it as pain pierce him on his side. He feels colder despite the fire taking a second breath of life.
‘Last I recall I’m the one doing most of the saving.’
‘You were just lucky.’
‘There is n.. ’
‘.. No luck in Russia, only skill.. ’ Andreii turns to him repeating what his friend had told him over and over again all those years, they could settle every argument but that one. Goncharov didn’t believe in luck only competences, Andreii believed luck was a competence in itself, just like some had a sharper instinct than other and that Goncharov was quite gifted in the area. He even joked on it bordering on the otherwordly sometime.
None of them wanted to start on the stupidly sensible subject now.
‘Are you saying I’m requiring the same attention as a woman ?’ He jokes.
‘Oh no, no, certainly not, you require twice as much at least.’
‘Twice !’ Goncharov protest. Kicking his friend in the leg for the affront, which only prompt him to laugh, something rich and warm that settles in Goncharov chest like borsht in winter does his stomach. Something to keep and to cherish if only he allowed himself to. ‘You’re a fucking idiot.’
‘Not as idiot as you searching trouble with the Orlovsky on your own.’ He turns his head to face him, his smile so absolutely bright.
Something catches his eyes though, making them drift on the side, away from his friend. Goncharov follow the direction and immediately spot the small pool of blood on the tiles where he was laid a few minutes before, letting the rush of adrenaline settle quietly. Cold pierce him and he wishes Andreii could just ignore it. But he is already frowning, eyes showing that sharp curiosity he was always fond of.
He doesn’t have the time to say anything, Andreii is already on his feet from where he was kneeled and walk toward the dark spot, his finger dip in the fresh liquid and when he lay his eyes on him again they are fierce.
‘Just a few bruises you said ?’ The light happiness is gone, replaced with anger and worries.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to, Andreii is already walking to him.
‘Fucking show me !’
He grabs the lapels of his coat and yank them out of the way, Goncharov can do little but let it happen. No need to hide and lie again, he’s been found. Andreii drags the layer up to inspect the injury pressing his fingers close, drawing a sharp breath from his friend which he ignores.
‘It’s not too deep.’ He concludes. ‘How much blood did you loose.’
‘Not much.’
‘But enough ?’
‘Not much.’ He repeats, he didn’t lose enough to put him in serious danger, he will just be tired.
‘Sit !’ He commands and lead Goncharov on the edge of the fireplace.
Without much care he removes his coat and strip him chest bare. Ignoring the protest.
‘Why would you hide that from me ?’ He asks, inspecting, in more clearer light, the wound.
‘I didn’t want you to worry.’
‘That’s stupid, I always worry for you, won’t change much to know if you’re hurt or not.’
‘You don’t have to, I’m fine.’
But it’s not like Andreii can help it. They both know it.
‘Who got you ?’
‘Miron.’
‘He will regret it, don’t worry.’ It drags a smile out of Goncharov.
‘I’m not. But you don’t have to.’
‘You will need stitches.’ He ignores him. ‘Where is your pack ?’
‘In the pocket of my coat.’
Andreii search around, gathering everything he will need for the process. Sewing kit, bandages and compresses, that bottle of vodka he curses at having to waste on a wound, he still grabs two shots in the cupboard though. He takes on some clean rags too and settle a pot near the fire to warm water.
Goncharov observes him both in owe and horror, appreciating the way his friend has his way around his house, not asking before opening a cupboard and knowing already where most things are. But he is afraid he will find the bag he packed, the one that lies in a corner of the living room and that Andreii hasn’t noticed yet.
‘On the floor.’ He instructs and Goncharov does, settling his back against the warming stone of the fire place.
Andreii is meticulous at preparing the tools properly, focused. He’s less intense than when he prepares a torture set though.
Andreii must judge him too straightened because he grabs his tight and drags him a bit closer to him so just his upper back rest against the fire place. The position is a bit uncomfortable so he settles both his arms on the edge of the stone for support and tries to relax and follow Andreii’s lead. Even when he parts his knees open and push one of his legs on the floor, knee on the side. Goncharov feels exposed in a way he rarely found himself to be. The precise, almost mechanical way Andreii moves and touches make it just bearable.
He finds comfort in the shot of vodka he is given. Glasses touch gently and the alcohol burn their throat, pooling warmth in their stomach. Despite the polar winter outside, chest bare and the timid fire Goncharov find himself far from cold now.
He is offered a second shot, then a third. Kostya would have loved it, he knows, even if it’s not as guts wrecking as the stuff he produces himself. Careful hands drag him out of his wandering mind. He feels light-headed.
‘Ready ?’
He nods.
Vodka pours on the cut, burning high, the pain creep on all side making him feel raw. Andreii sterilise the hooked needle then proceeds. He takes on a sharp breath when it breach his skin, disliking the way the thread fell on his flesh. A knot is made and Andreii proceed to the second one. He can’t help a tremor. Usually he handles that whole process way better.
‘Don’t move.’ Andreii scold him. There is no warmth in his voice of hands, Goncharov know it’s due to concentration more than resentment for his lie.
‘How many ?’
‘Six of them. Just tying the second.’ He raises his eyes to his friend once he finished. Goncharov is not sure what that stare mean, but it’s intensity echo to something that has been left unsaid so many times. ‘Try to relax.’
‘Easy to say. Give me another shot.’
The liquid does little to help. Still he tries to force his muscles loose.
‘Fourth done, two more to go.’
‘Make it five.’
‘It will be six.’ Goncharov grunt, his vision blur through the fifth.
He gets back to himself when a warm damp cloth his pressed against his face gently rubbing the dizziness away.
‘It’s done, just have to patch you up.’
Goncharov looks down, the stitches feel strange and raw on his already sensitive skin, but the work has been done well. Andreii is better at destroying that fixing, but he does do a good job if it includes flesh or him. His flank is bloodied and sticky with sweat and his groin is tense. He notices with horror the strain his erect cock place on his pants. He didn’t notice, didn’t feel it, but there is no way Andreii didn’t remark it.
‘Stay tranquil.’ Andreii tells him with a soft voice.
‘I.. ’
‘I haven’t finished.’
He has little time to gather any thought that hands are on him again, the damp cloth wiping the mess, cleaning the wound gently and thoroughly. His injury is then properly dressed and bandaged with the same care. Never Andreii raise his eyes on him outside of his work, still Goncharov doesn’t miss the blush that colour his cheeks.
There is an untold reason why Andreii never stick with any woman he goes out with. Most says it’s because he is too much of a lover to settle on just one person. Goncharov doesn’t believe it true, even if Andreii play with that reputation. There are little things he seems to be the only one to have noticed about his old friend. New ways he found to interpret words and gestures at time, some things he never questioned about before he questioned himself, his own words, his own gestures, and the intense clenching he felt around Andreii at time. Suddenly it was an echo rather than an oddity to dissect.
Soon it was quiet words exchanged with eyes and touches that only them, he believed, could know and understand. He wasn’t sure though, couldn’t be, nothing was ever said directly, hopes and promises were barely brushed and offered, kept tightly by fear.
There was nothing to be done anyway, if any of it had been true. It was forbidden, if he couldn’t push the thoughts away completely, he could prevent from putting words on it. From expressing it further than what he couldn’t control. He came to resent it all from the moment he found out, he was dedicated to Katya and those thoughts should only be of and for her. Hating it didn’t stop it any easier though.
He came to resent Andreii for it sometime, for enticing it in him, and for putting less effort in preventing it from bleeding out in between them. And sometime he cursed himself from thinking Andreii could ever have thought about him in such a way that he felt anything more than the deep loyalty and care two friends could feel for each other after so long.
Nothing was said, straight and direct, and it drove him mad at time, he hated to second guess.
Andreii says nothing about his hard-on and he wishes he had so he could propose an excuse for it.
‘Let’s get you up and in bed.’ He simply says, waiting for a nod before he embraces him with too warm arms and help him on his legs.
His touch is firm and confident, fingers spreading on his chest and Goncharov can feel every millimetre of it. He passes his own arm on his shoulder as they walk toward the bed. He feels dizzy and rest heavier on Andreii who support him like it’s nothing. He hadn’t planned to sleep, but it may be wiser, even a few hours. He couldn’t argue Andreii out anyway, reassure him enough for him to leave him alone. Not even with a direct order.
So he let himself he handled. Andreii won’t even let him remove his own shoes, and the position between his legs doesn’t elude him even if the line is never passed. He sigh when the blankets rest heavily on his body, now watching Andreii order things around, closing the door safely, cleaning the mess, placing a new log inside the fire, blowing the candle out last, once he made sure his rifles and gun are loaded and ready. Then he climbs with him in bed. Just like they’ve done so many times before. It’s normal, nothing to think about.
‘You can go.’ He says to Andreii, knowing the answer already.
‘I’m staying, if they show up they will eat bullet.’ It drags a small chuckle from Goncharov.
Andreii feels warm against him, despite being tense, every brush of touch incite a hard stop. He will keep watch, as he does, but definitely will fall asleep at some point. Thankfully Andreii learned not to keep his finger on the trigger, it ended poorly the last time.
They settle in the quiet and the unsaid, none of them move for a long time and despite his closed lids, Goncharov is not sleeping, he can’t, he still need to leave soon. He awaits for Andreii to relax in their shared warmth, knowing soon he will fall asleep, his breath tickles his neck and sends shivers all the way down.
He will allow it tonight, because once it becomes steady it will mean he can leave, and because he won’t see Andreii for a long time after tonight, so he can allow it.
It’s hard to part from the warmth of the bed, the warmth of his friend.
He dresses quietly, making sure not to put strain on his stitches then grabs his bag. Before he leaves he throws a last stare at Andreii and wish it wasn’t so difficult to leave that to stay and takes what could be his was not so tempting.
He closes the door quietly and let the bitting and fresh air of Russian winter clear his mind. He’s going to Naples.