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On April 1st, 1967, the moment the clock struck midnight and marked his eighteenth birthday, Nikolai set his plan into motion. For years, he had vowed to leave home the moment he was of age, to escape with his closest friend, Fyodor, and carve out a life of their own. Now, that promise was finally becoming reality.
As the first traces of dawn crept over the horizon, Nikolai stuffed a leather bag with all the essentials—several layers of warm clothing, every last hryvnia he had saved (which amounted to a meager 1,000), a well-worn hairbrush, and, just in case, a small knife. His heart pounded in his chest, but not with fear. Excitement buzzed through his veins, electrifying his every movement as he swung the bag over his shoulder and slipped soundlessly out the window.
Below, Fyodor was already waiting in the pale morning light, dressed in his usual dark attire, a small leather suitcase held firmly in one hand. His expression remained as unreadable as ever, but the faint glimmer of anticipation in his crimson eyes betrayed him. Without a word, they turned on their heels and strode toward the train station, their breath visible in the crisp spring air. The cold bit at their exposed skin, painting their cheeks pink, but Nikolai barely noticed—he could hardly stop himself from grinning. This was it. The first step toward freedom.
Upon reaching the station, they pooled their money together, just enough to secure a private cabin for the long journey ahead. The ticket had cost them a hefty 3,000 hryvnia altogether, nearly draining their funds, but Fyodor assured Nikolai with quiet confidence that they would find jobs the moment they arrived in the city. Nikolai had no reason to doubt him. Fyodor had always been the clever one, the planner, the strategist. If he said they would be fine, then they would be.
Their cabin was small but comfortable, furnished with a single modest bed and a window overlooking the vast countryside. Nikolai set his bag down and stretched, only to realize a small dilemma.
“Oh,” he murmured, glancing from the bed to Fyodor. “There’s only one.”
Fyodor hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flickering with something indecipherable, but before he could protest, Nikolai grinned and patted the space beside him. “C’mon, Dos-kun! I’m tired, and if we sleep, we’ll get there in no time.”
Fyodor sighed. “You’re planning to sleep for three days?”
“Well… we can try! Think of it this way—it saves us food money.”
A quiet chuckle escaped Fyodor’s lips as he shook his head. “That logic is ridiculous,” he murmured, but despite himself, he climbed into bed. He had intended to maintain a respectable distance, but in typical Nikolai fashion, that plan was swiftly discarded. Within seconds, Nikolai wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close, ignoring Fyodor’s immediate stiffness.
Fyodor’s breath hitched, his face burning hotter than he would ever admit. Desperate to keep Nikolai from noticing, he buried his face into the other’s chest, hoping to smother the betraying warmth creeping up his neck. Nikolai only laughed—a bright, carefree sound that sent an unfamiliar flutter through Fyodor’s stomach.
With a contented hum, Nikolai absentmindedly ran his fingers through Fyodor’s dark hair, his gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the sky was a breathtaking blend of pink and blue, the soft hues stretching endlessly over the fields. A sunrise welcoming their new beginning.
As the rhythmic chug of the train filled the room, Nikolai’s eyes slowly drifted shut, and, despite himself, Fyodor allowed sleep to claim him as well.
As Nikolai slept, his subconscious dragged him deep into the shadows of his past, dredging up memories he thought he had buried. They started small—minor slights, quiet frustrations—but with each passing moment, they grew harsher, cutting deeper.
“Keep your temper, boy! Don’t give in to wrath!” his mother had scolded.
But all he had done was ask a question. The first time, she brushed him off with a vague, "You'll find out soon enough." He hated waiting. So he asked again, his voice firmer this time, more insistent. And for that, he was reprimanded. Yet his mother could raise her voice at him whenever she pleased. That didn’t seem fair.
“Don’t use such language! That’s the devil’s tongue!” his father had snapped.
All he had done was mutter a bitter "Blim!" under his breath when he realized he had forgotten his homework. And yet, his father—so pious, so righteous—used words far worse when grumbling about his mother to his coworkers. That didn’t seem fair either.
“Don’t judge others unfairly!” his mother had admonished.
He had made an offhanded complaint about a classmate who had rudely interrupted him, frustration slipping into sharp words. Looking back, maybe he’d been a little harsh—but it wasn’t as if he’d said it to the boy’s face. And yet, his mother would freely gossip about the neighbors, speculating about their lives, their choices, their worth, all without speaking to them once. That hypocrisy stung.
“Don’t wear your hair so long!” his father had chastised, his voice laced with disapproval.
Nikolai had grown it long enough to braid, stubbornly refusing to cut it. Why should he? Girls were allowed—encouraged, even—to wear their hair long. Why was it different for him? Why was everything different for him? It hardly seemed fair.
“You spend an awful lot of time with that boy…” his mother had remarked one evening, a pointed edge to her tone. “You’re getting older now. Don’t you want to spend time with some nice girls?”
But why should he? Why should he force himself into something he didn’t want? He liked spending time with Fyodor. He found him infinitely more interesting than any girl his mother tried to push onto him. In truth, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. There was nothing wrong with that.
So he voiced his opinion.
The response was instant. Cold, sharp words, their voices rising in outrage, disappointment dripping from every syllable. And then—a slap, ringing through the room, searing across his cheek like a brand.
The memories crashed over him all at once in his sleep, a relentless storm of disapproval, scorn, punishment. Voices overlapping, berating, condemning. Wrong. Unacceptable. Disgraceful.
He jolted awake, his breath sharp and uneven. Instinctively, his fingers reached for the bandage covering his now mostly healed cheek. The sting of that night still lingered, a ghost beneath his fingertips.
For a moment, he simply breathed, his heart racing as his mind adjusted to the present. The rhythmic chug of the train. The soft creak of the wooden cabin. The gentle glow of dawn spilling through the window.
Right. He wasn’t there anymore.
He turned his head, gaze falling upon Fyodor, still sleeping soundly beside him. Peaceful. Unbothered. The complete opposite of the turmoil raging in Nikolai’s mind.
A warmth spread through his chest, quiet but certain. This—this—was home. Not the house he had fled from. Not the people who had tried to mold him into something he wasn’t.
Here, on this train, heading far, far away from that suffocating world, he was finally free.
And as he looked at Fyodor, curled up beside him, his resolve solidified.
He would keep his promise—the one that had caused him so much strife, the one that had earned him nothing but pain from his parents.
He would spend the rest of his life with this young man.
Nikolai passed the time cycling through distractions. First, he gazed out the window, watching the endless countryside roll past in a blur of greens and golds. It was interesting—for a few minutes. Then, boredom set in, and he turned his attention inward, memorizing every minute detail of the cabin: the number of panels on the wall, the pattern of the upholstery, the way the dim light from the lantern flickered across Fyodor’s sleeping face. But soon, even that lost its appeal, and his restless fingers found his sleeve, meticulously tracing each individual thread as if unraveling some great mystery.
Rinse and repeat.
By the time Fyodor finally stirred, Nikolai had nearly lost his mind from the monotony. He practically bounced in his seat, excitement sparking in his chest at the prospect of actual interaction.
“Dos-kun! You’re awake! Good morning! Did you sleep well? How much longer until we’re there? Did you know there are 24 screws in this room—at least from what I can see? Also, there’s—”
“Kolya.” Fyodor’s voice, still heavy with sleep, cut through the verbal onslaught. “One thing at a time.”
Nikolai blinked, then gave a sheepish grin. “Right! Thanks, Dos-kun.” He took a dramatic breath, as if resetting himself. “First off, good morning! Did you sleep well?”
Fyodor ran a hand through his messy dark hair before offering a slow nod. “Yes, thank you. And good morning to you too.”
“Great! Now, how much longer ‘til we’re there?”
At that, Fyodor glanced out the window, his sharp eyes scanning the position of the sun against the shifting landscape. A moment of quiet calculation passed before he answered.
“Two and three-quarter days.”
Nikolai stared blankly. “…How many hours is that?”
“Fifty-four.”
Nikolai let out a dramatic groan, flopping backward against the cabin wall. “That’s sooo long!”
“Patience is key, Nikolai.”
“I don’t have patience!”
Fyodor sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “Clearly.”
Nikolai huffed before perking back up. “Well! Back to what I was saying—there are exactly 24 screws in this room, from what I can see.”
Fyodor stared at him for a long moment, then deadpanned, “What incredibly valuable information, Nikolai. I’m so glad you dedicated your time and focus to counting that.”
Nikolai narrowed his eyes. “…Is that sarcasm?”
“Yes, idiot.”
He gasped. “Oh. Well! You never know when it’ll come in handy!”
Fyodor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right…”
And thus, the longest journey of Fyodor’s life began.
A while later, the time mostly filled with Fyodor quietly reading and Nikolai alternating between asking questions, rambling about random observations, and fidgeting with anything within reach, breakfast finally arrived. A sharp knock at the cabin door announced the arrival of a waiter, who stepped inside with a polite—if slightly skeptical—expression. His eyes flickered between the two young, shabby-looking passengers before wordlessly handing over a menu.
Nikolai’s eyes widened as he scanned the options. “Wow! So many fancy choices!”
Fyodor barely glanced up from his book. “This is normal food, Nikolai.”
“Yeah, but it’s being served on a train! Therefore, it’s fancy.”
Fyodor sighed, closing his book with an audible thud. “Your logic never fails to amaze me.”
“Thank you, thank you.” Nikolai grinned, giving an exaggerated bow before shoving the menu toward Fyodor. “What do you want to get?”
“I’m not really hungry—”
“We’ll have two sandwiches, please!” Nikolai interrupted before Fyodor could finish.
The waiter, unfazed, scribbled the order onto his notepad before retrieving the menu. “Is that all?”
Fyodor nodded, but Nikolai wasn’t done. He grabbed Fyodor’s shoulders dramatically, tilting his head and widening his eyes in what he hoped was an irresistibly cute plea.
“Can we please get cookies too?”
Fyodor gave him an unimpressed look. “We don’t need cookies.”
“Yes, we do! Everyone needs cookies! Cookies make everything better. Cookies are life.”
Fyodor blinked. “What? I don’t even like sweets.”
“Cookies, Dos-kun!” Nikolai insisted, gripping his shoulders tighter as if that would somehow transfer his enthusiasm.
Fyodor let out a long-suffering sigh. “Why do you even bother asking if you’re just going to answer for me anyway?”
Nikolai grinned. “Mmm, to see if I can convince you or not.”
The waiter cleared his throat, his patience wearing thin. “So… is that all?”
“We’ll have cookies too!” Nikolai declared triumphantly before Fyodor could object.
The waiter scribbled down the addition with a slight smirk, gave a curt nod, and left the cabin.
Fyodor leaned back against the wall, rubbing his temples. “You’re so childish…”
Nikolai gasped dramatically. “Just because I admire the great culinary masterpiece that are cookies does not make me childish! It just means you have no taste!”
Fyodor huffed but didn’t argue further, choosing instead to bury his nose back in his book. Nikolai, satisfied with his victory, leaned back with a smug grin, already looking forward to the cookies. A while later, the waiter returned, balancing a tray with two plates of sandwiches and a small plate stacked with cookies. The moment the cookies came into view, Nikolai’s face lit up—brighter than Fyodor had seen in a long while, which was saying something. It was almost comical how a simple plate of cookies had managed to coax out his widest grin yet.
Before the plates were even fully set down, Nikolai wasted no time in snatching up a cookie and biting into it with enthusiasm. “So yummy!” he declared through a mouthful, kicking his feet under the table.
Fyodor, still absorbed in his book, gave only the barest acknowledgment. “Mm. Glad you’re enjoying them.” He barely spared a glance at the sandwich Nikolai had placed in front of him, clearly having no intention of eating.
Nikolai swallowed and squinted at him. “C’mon, don’t you at least want a cookie?”
“No.”
“Too bad!”
Before Fyodor could react, Nikolai grabbed a cookie and shoved it toward his face. Fyodor’s lips clamped shut in firm defiance, brows twitching in irritation. Nikolai grinned mischievously, undeterred. He pressed harder, trying to force it past his lips, but Fyodor refused to yield.
So, Nikolai took it a step further—using his other hand to pinch Fyodor’s jaw and force his mouth open before stuffing the cookie inside.
Fyodor coughed and spluttered, struggling to chew as he shot Nikolai a murderous glare. “What the—Nikolai, did you seriously just shove that in my mouth?!”
Nikolai giggled, patting Fyodor’s head patronizingly. “Good Dostoy! You ate a cookie like a big boy!”
Fyodor swatted his hand away, scowling. “Never do that again.”
“Or what?” Nikolai smirked, already reaching for another cookie in challenge.
Fyodor narrowed his eyes. “Or I’ll never let you get cookies again.”
Nikolai gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as though Fyodor had just plunged a knife into his heart. “Nooo! Don’t threaten me like that! I’d rather you take my life! Fine, fine! I won’t do it again!”
Fyodor huffed, brushing crumbs off his lap before picking up his book again. Yet, for some reason, his mind kept drifting back to the feeling of Nikolai’s fingers pressing against his face, the fleeting warmth of his touch… his lips so close to his own.
Why was his face hot?
Fyodor clenched his jaw, his grip on the book tightening. He hated the way Nikolai got to him like this—how effortlessly he could fluster him without even trying. It was infuriating.
Meanwhile, Nikolai was happily chattering away, finishing off his plate of cookies along with his sandwich. He chewed thoughtfully, eyes flicking toward Fyodor’s untouched meal.
“Are you going to eat that?”
“No, you can have it.”
Silence.
Normally, Nikolai would have immediately grabbed the plate with an enthusiastic "Thanks, Dos-kun!" before scarfing down the extra food. But this time, he didn’t move.
Instead, he leaned forward slightly and repeated, voice lower, more deliberate—“Ahem. I said. Are you going to eat that.”
Fyodor looked up from his book, his expression carefully indifferent—until his gaze met Nikolai’s.
His heart skipped.
Nikolai’s eyes were locked onto him, steady and unwavering. Not teasing. Not playful. Just… expectant.
Fyodor swallowed, shifting slightly under the intensity of that gaze. “…Fine.”
With a reluctant sigh, he shut his book, setting it aside. Picking up the sandwich, he took a slow, small bite, avoiding Nikolai’s pleased grin.
“Yay!” Nikolai clapped his hands, beaming as though Fyodor had just performed a great feat of strength.
Fyodor rolled his eyes but kept chewing. He wouldn’t admit it, but somehow… the sandwich didn’t taste quite so bad.
A couple of hours passed in their usual rhythm—Fyodor engrossed in his book, Nikolai bouncing between asking questions, rambling about odd observations, and fidgeting with whatever he could get his hands on. It was their routine: Fyodor’s steady silence met with Nikolai’s restless energy.
Neither of them had noticed the sky growing darker, the thickening clouds rolling in, or the way the light had dimmed in their compartment. Not until a soft pattering sounded against the window.
Nikolai paused mid-motion, his fingers still tangled in the bristles of the hairbrush he’d been meticulously counting. He turned toward the window, blinking as he watched the raindrops steadily streaming down the glass. “Wow, it’s raining!”
Fyodor barely looked up. He merely hummed in vague acknowledgment, flipping a page.
The rain quickly escalated, pounding against the window with a force that drowned out even Nikolai’s chatter. The wind howled, rattling the train slightly. This time, Fyodor finally lifted his gaze, his eyes widening just a fraction. It hadn’t rained this hard all year.
“Wow, it really is raining.”
Nikolai huffed. “That’s what I just said!”
Before Fyodor could respond, a sudden clap of thunder split the air, loud enough to make Nikolai flinch. He let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest. “Ahh! Dos-kun, are we gonna get struck by lightning? Is this how it ends?!”
Fyodor glanced at him, unsure if Nikolai was being genuinely fearful or just annoying on purpose. Either way, he kept his tone even. “Just watch for the lightning and count the seconds until the thunder. Divide by five, and you’ll get the distance in miles.”
Nikolai blinked. “Wow, you’re so smart, Dostoy!”
Fyodor narrowed his eyes slightly. He wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or genuine admiration, but for the sake of his sanity, he chose to believe the latter.
The next flash of lightning illuminated the compartment for a split second. Nikolai immediately started counting—out loud.
“One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three—”
Fyodor closed his eyes briefly, already regretting his advice.
“The lightning is three miles away!” Nikolai announced proudly.
“I gathered that.”
Another boom of thunder followed, and before Fyodor could even turn back to his book, Nikolai had started counting again.
“Nikolai, you just counted. You don’t need to do it again.”
“But what if it’s getting closer?”
Fyodor sighed. “Fine.”
Annoying as it was, he had to admit Nikolai had a point. Not that he would ever tell him that. They waited for the next strike, and this time, the thunder followed four miles away. Fyodor allowed himself to relax a little, certain the storm was passing.
But then—
Another flash. Another clap of thunder, much louder than before. And once again—
“One Mississippi, two—”
Fyodor groaned. “Now what?! We’ve already established it’s moving away!”
Nikolai just grinned. “Yes, but I’m bored, and this is fun!”
“Count in your head!”
“I can’t count in my head.”
Fyodor turned to him fully this time, incredulous. “What?”
Nikolai shrugged. “It’s too difficult. I get distracted by my other thoughts.”
Fyodor let out a long, exhausted sigh. “God, I hate you—”
Another crack of thunder, even closer this time. The train rattled beneath them, and the windows shuddered in their frames. Lightning flashed immediately after.
Nikolai yelped, immediately grabbing onto Fyodor’s arm and clinging to him like a lifeline. “Ah! I knew I should’ve kept counting! Now we’re all gonna die!”
Fyodor stiffened, feeling the warmth of Nikolai pressed against him. His first instinct was to pry him off, but then he felt the slight tremor in Nikolai’s grip. He was actually scared—trying to mask it with his usual dramatics.
The train shook harder as the wind outside picked up, and Nikolai clung even tighter. “You’re squeezing me.”
“Save me, Dos-kun!” Nikolai whined.
“What am I supposed to do?” Fyodor deadpanned.
“Something! Anything! Spew some nerdy nonsense to give me a sense of hope!”
Fyodor exhaled sharply. “Like what?”
“Make something up! I can’t tell the difference!”
Fyodor pinched the bridge of his nose before begrudgingly giving in. “Lightning can’t strike trains because of a special type of metal they’re made from.”
Nikolai immediately perked up. “Oh! That’s cool!”
Fyodor stared at him blankly. “I just told you I made that up.”
“It’s worth a shot, okay?!” Nikolai huffed.
Fyodor rolled his eyes. “What…? Whatever. As long as you let go.”
“No.”
Of course.
The train rattled once more, shaking just enough that Fyodor gave up on trying to read. He shut his book and finally turned his full attention to Nikolai. Now that he was properly looking at him, he could see it—beneath the exaggerated theatrics, the wide grin, the dramatic gestures—Nikolai’s fingers were gripping onto him just a little too tightly. His eyes, though still alight with mischief, held a flicker of unease.
He was genuinely nervous.
Fyodor sighed internally before, with a rare gentleness, he wrapped his arms around Nikolai in return.
“We’ll be fine, really.”
Nikolai hesitated for a moment before mumbling, almost begrudgingly, “…Okay. Whatever you say, Dostoy.”
The next two days passed in much the same way. The storm eventually gave way to clear skies, the heavy rain replaced by golden sunlight streaming through the train windows. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks remained a constant backdrop, but as the hours dragged on, so did the tension in their small cabin.
Nikolai grew more restless with each passing day. At first, he merely fidgeted—tapping his fingers against the armrest, bouncing his leg, humming tunelessly under his breath. But soon, his energy became impossible to ignore. He rocked back and forth in his seat, then took to pacing the cramped space, muttering to himself about how small everything felt, how slow the train was moving, how bored he was. Fyodor, who had tolerated this at first, eventually snapped.
“Take a walk, Nikolai. For both our sakes.”
Nikolai huffed dramatically but did as he was told, wandering off down the corridor. Fyodor let out a deep sigh of relief, savoring the brief silence.
But even he wasn’t immune to the strain of monotony. His usual patience had worn thin. The books that normally absorbed him failed to hold his interest, his eyes skimming words without really absorbing them. And as much as he liked to consider himself above such trivial discomforts, he found himself growing irritable—especially with Nikolai’s never-ending antics.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the train’s intercom crackled to life.
“We have arrived in Moscow.”
The words had barely registered before Nikolai let out a squeal so piercing that Fyodor—who prided himself on composure—actually winced.
No human should be capable of making that sound.
Fyodor exhaled in relief, running a hand through his hair. Finally.
They gathered their things. Fyodor, ever meticulous, took it upon himself to remake the bed exactly as they had found it. Nikolai, meanwhile, practically vibrated with excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited by the door. The moment they were allowed to disembark, he shot down the steps and into the street like a cannonball.
The moment his feet hit the pavement, Nikolai twirled in place, arms outstretched as he took a deep breath of crisp, spring air. “Ah! Fresh air! Freedom!”
Fyodor stepped out beside him, adjusting his coat as he surveyed the city. Moscow stretched wide and open before them, bustling with life even in the biting cold. The streets teemed with people, the hum of conversation and the distant sounds of traffic weaving together in a familiar urban symphony. Snow, trampled and slushy, clung to the edges of sidewalks, and a sharp wind cut through the air, stinging against exposed skin.
Fyodor sighed. It was good to feel the start of a new life.