Work Text:
The gentle breeze from the open window carried the fresh scent of rain, the chill of winter still lingering in the air despite the change of season. The city streets outside were quiet, bathed in the fading glow of the setting sun. It was May, and yet the promise of spring felt distant, the warmth of summer almost impossibly far away.
Viktor sat alone in his small office, the clutter of the day’s work spread haphazardly across his desk. His computer hummed softly, casting a pale light on the scattered papers. The coffee in his cup had gone cold hours ago, its bitterness long forgotten on his tongue. A half-eaten sandwich sat beside a stack of files, waiting for him to pick it up again. Dimka had made it for him that morning, laughing as he shoved it into Viktor’s hands before rushing out the door.
"Make sure you eat something today, you workaholic," Dimka had teased, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek before disappearing down the hall. "Don't forget I'll be out tonight, love you!"
The phone settled on the corner of his desk suddenly rang, sharp and abrupt, cutting through the stillness. Viktor’s hand hovered over the receiver for a moment before he picked it up, his stomach tightening instinctively.
Calls this late were rarely anything good - especially considering his profession.
"Detective Zujev," he said as he held the phone to his ear, his voice steady despite the wariness creeping up his spine. "Who is speaking?"
The response came in a gruff, unfamiliar tone. "Detective Smirnov, Tsentralny District. I need to confirm something with you, Detective Zujev."
Viktor frowned, the name ringing no bells. It wasn’t unusual; the city had thousands of officers, and it was impossible to know them all. Still, his pulse quickened. He couldn't think of any case he was currently involved with that would require this Detective Smirnov to contact him.
"Go on," he prompted, his voice calm despite his racing mind.
"Do you know a Dimitri Astarov?"
For a moment, Viktor froze. The name hit him like a blow, echoing in his mind as his grip on the receiver tightened. His mind raced, all sorts of horrible possibilities and fears surging to the forefront of his mind.
"Dimka...?" The nickname slipped out before he could stop it, his voice barely a whisper. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak more clearly. "I, ah... yes. Dimitri and I are... friends. Has something happened?"
Friends. The word tasted bitter on his tongue, a lie he hated but had grown used to. In a country like Russia, for men such as them, there was no room for the truth - not in public, not at work. Their love existed only behind closed doors in the privacy of their own home.
There was a pause on the other end, then the sound of a throat clearing. "Yes. Astarov. I’m sorry to inform you, Detective, but we found him earlier this evening. You were listed as his contact."
No.
Viktor’s heart plummeted. He straightened in his chair, his pulse pounding in his ears. "What? What do you mean, you 'found' him? Is he-"
"I’m afraid it’s bad news," Smirnov interrupted, his tone flat and practiced. Viktor recognized it instantly - the detached voice of someone delivering death. He had used it himself countless times.
But, this couldn't be..?
"A group of men attacked him near Ligovsky Prospekt. Witnesses say there was some sort of... disagreement, regarding Astarov’s choices."
"Choices?" Viktor’s voice sharpened, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. He already knew, deep down, what Smirnov meant, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking.
"They took issue with something he was wearing," Smirnov continued, his words careful, clinical. "A rainbow-colored hoodie. Things escalated."
Viktor’s stomach churned. He could see it all too clearly: Dimka, walking home, that infectious grin lighting up his face. Carefree. Defiant. Wearing the hoodie Viktor had given him - a stupid, reckless gift, meant to be a quiet rebellion, a small piece of freedom in a stifling world. It was a gift that had been an idiotic choice, one Viktor should have never made.
Viktor had known would cause more trouble than it was worth.
"And?" Viktor forced the word out, though it felt like shards of glass in his throat.
"It seems the men accused him of being a homosexual," Smirnov said bluntly. "When he didn’t deny it, they attacked him. He sustained significant injuries. By the time assistance arrived, he was already gone. I’m sorry to inform you, Detective, that Astarov is deceased."
No.
The world tilted on its axis. Viktor gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles white. The words didn’t feel real.
"Did you catch them?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. Justice was nothing but a fairytale for men like Viktor and Dimka.
"No suspects identified yet," Smirnov admitted. "Witnesses say it was five men, but no clear descriptions. And you know how it is, Zujev - people aren’t exactly lining up to help in cases like this."
"Cases like this?" Viktor repeated, his voice dangerously low.
"Come on, Detective," Smirnov replied, his tone almost patronizing. "Sometimes people with... interests like Astarov’s put themselves in risky situations. Wearing something like that in public? It wasn not exactly a wise decision. Between us, police to police, I doubt much will come of this investigation. Witnesses said it’s possible Astarov provoked them - perhaps that he even started the fight himself."
The words hit Viktor like a slap. His chest tightened, rage and grief tangling together in a knot that threatened to choke him.
"I see," he forced out, his voice cold and clipped.
"Look, Zujev, we have bigger problems to deal with than... these kinds of cases. You understand, of course."
"Hmm. Is that all?" Viktor gritted out through his clenched teeth.
Smirnov exhaled, as if relieved. "Yes. We’ll keep you updated if anything changes."
The line went dead.
Viktor lowered the receiver slowly, his hand trembling. The room seemed to close in around him, the faint ticking of the wall clock and the hum of his computer the only sounds in the oppressive silence.
The sandwich was still on the desk, half eaten. The last thing Dimka has given him. The last thing Dimka would ever give him.
He could almost still hear Dimka’s laugh echoing in their tiny apartment, teasing Viktor for how carefully he folded his shirts. "You act like wrinkles are a crime, Vik," he’d say, draping himself over Viktor’s back like a lazy cat. "Do you file your socks alphabetically too?"
Viktor had always rolled his eyes at Dimka's teases, shrugging him off and shooing him away with a smile.
He would never smile at Dimka again.
Viktor sat there, staring down at the sandwich as Smirnov’s words replayed in his mind. Casual. Indifferent. The way he had blamed Dimka for his own death. Viktor’s chest tightened, the pain rising like a tide, threatening to drown him. The way Smirnov acted was nothing unfamiliar to Viktor, his attitude was one held by many of Viktor's colleagues - but when it was Dimka that was so emotionlessly being discussed, it hurt all the more.
Outside, the rain began to fall in earnest, streaking the window with rivers of gray.
Reaching for the bottom drawer of his desk, Viktor pulled it open with shaking hands. Beneath a stack of old files lay a photograph, worn at the edges from years of secret handling. Dimka’s face stared back at him, bright and alive. He was holding a basketball, the rainbow hoodie slung over one shoulder. Viktor stood beside him, grinning despite himself, his arms draped around Dimka’s shoulders.
They had been so happy. So carefree.
"I had told you to be careful," Viktor whispered, his voice breaking. His fingers traced the curve of Dimka’s smile, now frozen forever in the past. "I had told you not to wear it out."
But Dimka had always laughed off Viktor's worries, kissing them away with a grin. "You worry too much, Viktor. It’s just a hoodie. What’s the worst that could happen?"
Now Viktor knew.
The worst had happened.
The tears came suddenly, hot and unrelenting. He clutched the photo to his chest, his body shaking with silent sobs.
The badge pinned to his belt felt heavier than ever, its weight a silent reminder of a system he had pledged to uphold - a system that had failed Dimka, and countless others like him. It was a system that claimed to serve fairness but turned a blind eye to those who didn’t fit its narrow ideals. Its promises had always been false, its scales tipped by prejudice, and Viktor had been complicit in its silence.
And he couldn’t even mourn Dimka openly, couldn’t scream or rage or demand justice. He could only sit in the suffocating quiet of his office, drowning in a grief that no one would ever see; knowing that Dimka's murderers would never be brought to justice, knowing that Dimka's case would join many others - forever unsolved and forgotten.
Dimka was gone.
Somewhere outside, Dimka’s killers walked free, their faces unremembered, their crimes unpunished.
And there would be no justice.