Work Text:
The ceiling might just be the most interesting thing Nikita has ever laid his sleepless eyes on.
His room was dead silent; he could only hear his own soft and deep breaths rhythmically flow through his body. The white—gray in the darkness—of the ceiling morphed into strange patterns, shapes, and cloud-like structures, appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye, however slow that blink may be.
Nikita was motionless, completely so. His back was flush against the mattress, which felt somehow stiffer and more crude than usual. Scuffed up hands flat beside him, he hadn't moved a single inch in God knows how long.
He knows he should move.
But he won't, anyway.
He knows the team is probably, maybe, looking for him—is it time for VOD review?
He doesn't know, in the end.
He blinks away another mess of shapes, which oddly reminds him of the Vitality logo with an emotionless sigh. His shoulders ached, as did his hands and arms, the right one especially. Another sigh.
The darkness of the room was nice, he concluded, as he slowly closed his eyes.
The life of a sportsman, even if it's esports, is not for everyone. Is it for Nikita? He's not so sure anymore. Not right now, at the very least.
He had always been sure of one thing: that he was sound enough to be able to handle something like the VCT. Camera shy and more than a little awkward, yes, but certain enough to let his gameplay do the talking for him when needed.
Thoughts slowly crept through his weary brain, one after another, chasing after slumber with weak steps. He was so focused on his own thoughts that the soft creak at the end of his bed almost fell on deaf ears. Nikita cracked his eyes open, his face still blank, as if it could even be seen in the darkness.
That silhouette and posture are unmistakable; it's Saif.
Nikita wanted to sway Saif, tempted to nudge him with his leg to get Saif to just leave. Nikita wanted to be on his own and leave him be, but he couldn't muster up the strength—courage—to push Saif away. So, instead, the two of them stared at each other in the dark, faces both obscured.
Neither Nikita nor Saif said a word as Saif visibly adjusted his eyes to the darkness of Nikita's room. His squinting eyes slowly opened up more, his usual brown eyes now black, scanning the laying man's face.
Subconsciously, Nikita synced his breath with that of the Swede.
Nikita struggled to figure out why Saif was here; what did he want? Why now, of all times? Can't this wait until tomorrow?
As if he could read the laying man's thoughts, Saif sighed, "Are you okay?"
Okay? Nikita paused for a moment. "Yes," he said, not sure if he was lying to himself, to Saif, or to both.
The bed they were on creaked again, louder this time as Saif adjusted his seating, turning more toward the Russian with a little shake of his head. His usual cheery, over-the-top voice was monotone, clearly just as tired as Nikita's. "No, like," he annunciated, "are you really doing fine?"
Before Nikita could even form a coherent thought at the question, Saif went on, "You weren't at review" (was he really here for that long?) "And I, you know," he shrugged, feigning neutrality, "got worried about you."
Nikita averted his eyes from the others, his face still staring upward. His brain muttered a quiet thank you to his earlier self for turning the lights off, lest he have to see Saif's pleading face. He hummed an acknowledgement, not saying anything before he pushed himself to a sitting position, the ache in his right shoulder increasing twofold.
The bed creaked like old furniture as Nikita leaned his back against the cold white wall. Despite the bedframe being only a couple years old at best, the sounds were deafening in the silence—the result of multiple of Vitality's members throwing themselves onto his bed, he presumed.
"I'm good," Nikita said at long last, the chilly wall against his clothed back waking him up ever so slowly. He brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and got himself comfortable as he finally mustered up the courage to bring his eyes back to Saif’s.
Despite Nikita himself saying he’s good, Saif let out a dejected sigh. He had known him long enough to know something was wrong, but he also doesn’t want to push Nikita; this is just the way he is.
The Swede contemplated nothing for a few short seconds before pushing himself properly onto the bed with a small grunt, leaning himself against the wall, propped right next to Nikita. The two stared into the darkness together, thinking of nothing and everything at the same time.
Nikita was lost.
The lights of the Valorant Arena stage make him dizzy. Today, especially, they were bright—too bright. Too bright for Nikita to handle.
The pats on his back from his teammates made him feel as if he was going to throw up any second. He couldn’t bring himself to face the crowd as he watched the players of Koi step to the front of the stage, all of them bowing for the first time in a long while.
It should’ve been him there.
It would’ve been him there had he not left.
He left. It was of his own accord to leave. Would Koi have done better with him on the roster? Worse? Nikita furrowed his brows as he faced the rest of Vitality, furiously blinking away any tears threatening to escape. Nikita felt pathetic; this emotional turmoil was all on stage, no less.
The cameras scrutinized him, the lights were blinding him, the people were mocking him, and his teammates were staring at him.
He wanted to cry.
“Hello, Nikita?” Saif waved his hand in front of Nikita’s face, “Snap back to reality.”
Nikita’s breath hitched for a mere moment as he adjusted himself again: he’s not at the arena.
He’s at home.
Saif sighed for what felt like the tenth time in just a minute. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he shook his head before facing the Russian. “I’m worried, man.” Nikita could see Saif’s hand twitch in the darkness; he wanted to reach out to touch Nikita and comfort him, but he couldn’t. Nikita wasn’t going to move either.
He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, swallowing down any doubts as he left Saif in the quiet.
He’s at home.
Is this home?
“Saif,” he said, barely louder than a whisper, “can I leave?” A simple question, “Leave?” the speaker repeated, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, of course.” Saif stuttered, his voice regaining some of that pep as he leaned closer to Nikita. “Where do you want to go? I can drive us.”
So sincere, Nikita almost felt bad. Almost. “No,” Nikita averted his eyes, not wanting to see the suddenly returned smile on the man’s face. “Can I leave?” he repeated his question, voice somehow not cracking, breath somehow steady, and heart rate not clamoring.
Even with his face turned away from Saif, he could see the other blink confusedly, shoulders drooping down. “You mean, like...” He couldn’t find the words; try as he might, “Like, leave? Leave us?” Nikita didn’t like his usage of the word ‘us.’ He let out a small breath with a shallow nod, tilting his head away from Saif.
He could hear the other shuffling around, getting on his knees instead of leaning his back against the wall, and suddenly feeling two hands on his shoulders. Despite his better judgment, Nikita brought his eyes to Saif’s, facing the man—his teammate. His friend. He was scared, but so was Nikita. He averted his eyes once again.
“Leave? No,” Saif’s voice was wavering; he was stuttering. Even in the dark, anyone could see that his face was red. “No, no, you can’t leave, what?” He was rambling, desperation seeping through his voice with each and every word. “I-fuck, I tried so hard to get you here, you know that?” Nikita’s shoulders began to hurt more, Saif gripping them for dear life, as if the Russian was going to up and disappear the second he let go, even just a little bit.
A deep breath in, a deep breath out, Nikita was slowly processing the words Saif was spilling out: “I’m not letting you go.” Whether that was a promise or a request to himself, Nikita wasn’t sure. “Not again.”
Nikita felt a small shake go through him. “Look at me,” Saif whispered. Every atom in his body was telling him to just stand up and leave, get out of here, but it was Saif, for God’s sake, so Nikita slowly, carefully, brought his eyes to that of Saif’s. For the first time during their conversation, Nikita was facing the Swede fully.
He hadn’t clocked in how messy the other’s hair was, how red his face was, or how desperate he looked. Nikita’s deep breaths turned shallow, scared, and weak. The usual joy of Saif’s voice was replaced with fear; the neat dark brown hair was akin to a bird’s nest, and his clothes were a randomly thrown-together mess of items.
Nikita blinked slowly, like a cat, as he stared into Saif’s eyes, searching for anything readable in there before Saif spoke again, still quiet and worried. “Do you trust me?” he asked. Simple, a yes or no question.
Nikita didn’t have an answer to a yes-or-no question.
Afraid, Nikita tore his eyes away, staring at the floor. He breathed in, his heartbeat thumping in his ears as he felt Saif’s hands get sweaty on his shoulders. Just leave, he told himself. Pull yourself together; for fuck’s sake, get up.
But he couldn’t.
“I don’t know.”
Saif responded to his near-answer with a scoff as he shook Nikita, hands sneaking from the man’s shoulders to the area between that and his neck. “Look at me, Nikita.” Not a question, not an order; a request. His voice was desperate, akin to that of a weepy beg; he sounded like he was going to cry.
He wanted to look, but instead, Nikita tilted his head away. Saif’s hands were so warm on his skin, so uncomfortable, but not in a way that made him want to pull away. What is this? Nikita kept his eyes on the floor, squinting.
His non-action was followed up with another quiet grunt by Saif, the hands trailing up to Nikita’s face, cupping his cheeks, “Please.”
He looked.
Nikita slowly, carefully, brought his head to face Saif, his eyes discreetly staring into Saif’s. Was he crying?
“Don’t leave me, please.” Saif’s voice had gone from a plea to a full-out beg. Nikita’s whole body began to shake as he leaned into Saif’s touch, bending in and putting his head on the man’s shoulder. He gradually, gently, wrapped his shaking and aching arms around Saif’s waist, huffing out a trembling breath while tears welled up in his eyes.
Saif let his hands fall from Nikita’s face as he mirrored the man’s actions, the two hugging in the dark. It was quiet; all that could be heard were the silent sobs between the two men, one out of desperation and the other out of fear. “I can’t let you go again, Nikita,” he pulled him in closer, clutching onto him. Nikita was sure his tears were staining Saif’s shirt, but that matters the least right now.
He languidly pulled himself out of Saif’s grasp, facing him with low shoulders and an embarrassingly red face, puffy eyes, and wet cheeks. Nikita let his head droop downward. “I’m scared,” he admitted, to which Saif slowly, ever so carefully, intertwined their hands together, placing them on their touching thighs. He wasn’t pushing Nikita; he was being mindful and deliberate with all of his touches.
“You’re okay,” Saif assured him, squeezing his hand. “But tell me.” He kept his eyes fixated on the Russian, watching his chest heave in small bursts as he sobbed out little tears. “Do you trust me, Nikita?” His voice was still trembling, still not clear, and still just as afraid as Nikita’s was.
The question Nikita couldn’t answer before rang in his head like a bell, such as how the lights of the stage blinded his eyes; this one blinded his mind.
He willed his head upward, facing Saif once more, taking in the man’s disheveled appearance. The question he left unanswered before now required something to be said, and with his shaking voice somehow managing to not crack, he whispered out an affirmation, “I do.”
Saif let out a breath, one he’d been keeping tightly inside for God knows how long, and let go of Nikita’s hand, instead bringing it up to his face again. He cupped both his cheeks, warm hands holding him, eyes admiring him even in such a situation.
No words were said between the two, just trembling breaths and exchanging air before Saif began to lean in, his eyes never leaving Nikita’s. “You’re okay,” he sighed through labored breaths, “and I’m here for you.”
“No matter what, I’ll always be here for you.” Saif placed his forehead against Nikita’s, knocking them softly together. “I know it’s hard for you, but I’m here—I'm always here.”
Not one to take initiative, Nikita pushed his fears down, mirroring the movements of Saif and leaning in, pressing his lips to the other man’s. How did he get here? He wondered and wondered, but his mind threw up a blank as he closed his eyes, feeling Saif’s hands tighten the hold on his face. The previous uncomfortable feeling he had felt from Saif’s hands on his skin made sense to him now, at long last.
The kiss, though brief and merely a fleeting touch of lips, felt as if it lasted for forever.
Nikita was the first to pull away, immediately averting his eyes as he brought his hand up to his mouth, hiding his face. Another small thank you was told by his brain, thank you, so that Saif doesn’t have to see his beet red face—both from crying and the embarrassment of initiative.
Saif chuckled, shaking his head all the while as he knocked their foreheads together again with a soft click. “I love you, Nikita.”
The words scared Nikita, if not for a brief moment.
Love? Maybe.
He was still scared, still terrified. Is this his future? Forever to be on the sidelines, watch others get ahead as he’s in the back, crying, begging for something more.
His heart rate, fast from both the impromptu kiss and the flooding memories, thoughts, and worries, was through the roof. He should leave, shouldn’t he?
No.
No, he shouldn’t.
Nikita gathered himself in his mind, blinking outwardly and letting his hand drop down, facing Saif once more in the dark.
He sighed out a breath through a small laugh. He is scared; yes, he is worried. Camera-shy, awkward, not one for talking—maybe he isn’t made for esports, but he doesn’t have to be perfect; no one is, especially in a field such as this one.
He doesn’t have to be perfect—not with Saif.
“I love you, too.”