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Sitting in that cold cell, all alone, thinking and yearning. Nikita could have anticipated something like this happening, but that didn’t make it hurt any less when the person he cared about the most was calling him the true killer when they both knew they committed those crimes together.
He hated him, he hated him as much as loved him; loathed him as much as he needed him. Nikita never stopped requesting to be with Artyom, while of course the jail Artyom was being housed in was safer, he would be lying if didn’t say he missed him. It was like missing a limb, sometimes Nikita would turn to his side expecting Artyom to be there, and when he wasn’t, it was like a stab to the heart.
So when Nikita heard the news that he and Artyom would be doing a TV interview, he counted down the hours until he could finally see Artyom again. When the day finally arrived Nikita was wracked with nerves. He hoped Artyom would be happy to see him, but remembering the last time they saw each other, he wasn’t hopeful.
When they first walked past each other, Nikita to the private holding cell and Artyom to the interview room, Artyom gave Nikita the same cold eyes he only used to stare at other people with, never Nikita. Artyom wore the same awful expression when it was Nikitas's turn to be interviewed.
Just as luck had it they would both be staying in the same holding cell overnight, something about weather delaying the flights. Nikita sure as hell didn’t feel lucky, especially when he stepped into the cell and saw Artyom's arms crossed, gazing anywhere but Nikita. They sat in silence for what felt like hours but was most likely 20 minutes before Nikita decided to speak up.
“It’s been a while.”
Artyom remained unmoving, gaze fixed in a corner.
“I keep writing asking for them to transfer me to where you’re held.”
Artyom finally responds, “I know,” with a pause “I’ve been asking too.”
“Really?” Nikita asks, voice waving ever so slightly.
“Yeah, I can’t stand the thought of others messing with you, and with where you’re held… I know how cruel the other inmates can be,” Artyom answers.
After a beat of silence, Nikita speaks up, “I thought I’d never see you again.”
Artyom finally looks over at him, eyes filled with a swirl of emotions.
Nikita, feeling the weight that this might be the last time he sees Artyom, decides to speak his mind, “I’ve missed you, you know.”
“It's been lonely without you, no one understands me like you do,” Artyom says, looking down at his feet.
“Then why did you look at me like that, why did you call me a maniac,” Nikita exclaims, scooting closer to Artyom.
“I had to, that was the only defense that would save my ass. It kills me to look at you like you’re just another piece of meat,” Artyom says, making eye contact with Nikita.
They hold each other's line of sight, eyes filled with yearning and sorrow. Nikita is the first break, looking back down at his feet. An overwhelming silence takes over the cold cell.
Nikita, feeling brave after being away from Artyom for so long decides to do something they haven’t done for a long time. Nikita slowly inches his hand closer to Artyom's hand resting on the steel bench. Finally placing it on top of Artyoms, too frightened to make eye contact. Artyom turns his palm up and firmly grasps Nikitas's hand, running a comforting thumb over his hand, a familiar, soothing gesture.
“It’s been so hard without you… I-, I need you,” Nikita says, the tremble in his voice apparent.
Artyom, tired of pretending like he doesn’t miss the comforting form of Nikita, decides to put down his defenses and wraps Nikita in a hug. Nikita instantly hugs back, nuzzling himself into Artyoms shoulder, Artyom resting his cheek against the top of Nikitas's head begins petting his hair, knowing how that always seemed to calm Nikita down.
“I need you too Nikita, of course I do,” Artyom whispers.
They stay wrapped in each other's arms until they feel the pull of sleep. Artyom jostles Nikita out of their current position, he is met with a disgruntled groan. Artyom can’t help but stare at Nikitas's grumpy expression, made even more endearing by his messed-up hair.
Artyom then lays his legs on the wide bench, using the wall to support himself, he stares at Nikita, who gives him a confused look back. After opening his arms Nikita gets the message, scooting back into a similar position, his back on Artyom's stomach, as he feels familiar arms wrap around his torso.
“This is more comfortable,” Artyom mumbles, putting his chin on Nikitas's shoulder.
Nikita merely smiles resting his head against Artyoms, slowly drifting to sleep, not caring about the judgemental looks they know the guards will give them in the morning.