Work Text:
“Hey Tolya,” Tamar said, settling down on the armrest of the chair Tolya was sitting in.
He sat with a cup of tea in one hand and a poem in the other, enjoying a small break from all the war meetings and whatnot. In another life, he would’ve liked to be a scholar. Or maybe even a poet, though he honestly wasn’t sure if his own creative skills were good enough for that.
“Hello,” Tolya said without looking up at her.
Tamar placed a piece of paper in Tolya’s lap. He looked at it, confused. It was a poem. Not just any poem — a poem he hadn’t ever heard of before! There were of course many of those, but how had Tamar of all people found one he hadn’t read? She’d made it very clear that she did not share his passion for poetry in the slightest.
“What’s this?” Tolya asked.
“A poem.” Tolya could practically hear Tamar smirk.
“I can see that.” Tolya gently put down his cup of tea and picked up the poem. “But what kind of poem is it? Where did you get it? Why did you get it?”
Tamar clicked her tongue in faux disapproval. “So many questions. Nadia gave it to me, said you might like it. I don’t know where she got it. For all I know, she wrote it herself.”
Tolya rolled his eyes. “If she had any lyrical talent, I think we’d both know.”
“Just read the damn poem,” Tamar said, shoving him gently before she stood up and started walking away. “I think you’ll like it.”
So Tolya read it.
And Tamar had been right. He did like it. A lot.
It was about a warrior who was trying to make sense of her life in a world where all wars had ended. The poem detailed her grief, the connections she made with others, her growing hope for a good life, the respite she found in her faith, her struggles with her trauma, and her questions about her identity now that her core reason for existence — fighting in wars for her country and people — was gone.
The story was powerful, and it resonated with Tolya in a way he hadn’t expected.
But one thing that stood out to him especially was the fact that the woman didn’t have any interest in pursuing a romantic or sexual relationship. Not only did she simply not do those things during the story of the poem, she made it very clear that she had no interest in it and she never would.
“‘I was not created to feel those urges or want those things. It does not make me nor my life worth any less,’ she said, her chin lifted in prideful defiance.”
Tolya stared at those lines in awe. He knew what he was. He knew that he didn’t want romance nor sex — he’d known that for a very long time — but never before had he seen a character who was the same. A character who was like him.
He held the piece of paper close to his chest, overcome with emotion.
A good poem often had the power to make him weep, and this was no exception. He cried longer than a poem had ever made him cry before.
Tamar came back while he was crying. She sat down quietly on the armrest of his chair and stroked his back. Without any words passing between them, she understood how much this meant to him. She understood how grateful he was.
Regardless, when he’d calmed down, Tolya thanked her and Nadia for giving him the poem.
“No problem,” Tamar said softly. “You deserve to see yourself in the things you read, just like everyone else.”
Tolya smiled and turned to hug his sister, who hugged him back fiercely. He vowed to find some poems that Tamar could see herself in (if she ever changed her mind about poetry).