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Sometimes things have to be okay before they can get worse.
It’s a party somewhere in Rome, opulent and glitzy, the night Solo thinks that maybe everything’s going to be alright.
It’s before everything, before kryl’ya nadezhdy, before he felt like he was drowning while trapped in his own body. While he still held to the hope that America would withdraw, would see sense.
But now, slightly inhibited and smartly dressed, Solo feels lighter, as if tonight is a much-needed break from reality. He doesn’t really know many of the guests. There are a good number of them, and he hasn’t really been trying to make friends since arriving in Rome. He knows Alexander and Victoria, that’s enough for now.
The Island retreat is a model of modern luxury, built like a palace that’s been crossed with a mansion. Fruiting trees, crystalline waters, opulent halls carpeted with read velvet… he sometimes feels out of place here, his childhood grounded in something closer to poverty.
“We should have made you do the cooking!” shouts Alexander over the din of chattering voices, he’s bareback, and no surprise. Solo knows that the italian has had mixed feelings about his wings since the war ended. “I don’t know who Victoria hired but mio dio, they need some improvement!”
Solo grins, the muscles a little stiff from disuse. Fuck, when was the last time he smiled like this? He shoves the thought away, ignoring the guilt. Tonight. He’ll just let himself have tonight, free of memory and burden. “I’m flattered,” he says, drawl amused, “but I doubt anyone else has noticed.”
“I did,” says Alexander, forcing his way free from the crowd and draping an arm around his shoulders.
“Yeah, but you’re spoilt,” quips Solo before pressing a quick kiss to the italian’s jawline. “Shouldn’t you be hosting?”
Alexander drags a long sigh. “Don’t you start. The night is young, we should all be enjoying the party, not waving fake smiles over the top of glasses, amore.”
Solo snorts.
“There you are,” says Victoria’s voice, and a moment later she’s joining them on the balcony, champagne glass held in her long fingers. She kisses Solo’s cheek before directing a glare at her husband. “The nerve of you, leaving me alone out there.”
“You can handle yourself,” says Alexander, before he yelps as she tweaks his ear. “ Ahi !”
Solo huffs a laugh, and while it’s a little strained from his aching lungs, it’s not faked. Sometimes, on these good days, it’s easy to pretend that nothing happened. That he’s been here for a long time, that he belongs here. That he hasn’t somehow stolen a chance at further life while others were cheated out of it.
“And don’t even get me started on you,” she says to Solo, who smirks. “You’re just as bad.”
He blows a kiss at her and she pulls an unamused face. Which means nothing, he can see her lip twitching.
Tonight. Just tonight.
It feels like a prayer to any god who might be listening. Solo just wants one blissful night of peace, pretending he’s not to blame for anything.
He just wants quiet.
He wants it to be over.
It’s the next night, when he’s bundled up in a woollen sweater, dozing lightly against Victoria’s legs, that the broadcast graces the national news. The dove. The ruins. The decimation of a once proud land.
The guilt. It turns the warming smoke of his cigarette sour as he watches the newsfeed, knows from Victoria and Alexander’s silence that they’re watching too.
There’s a curse, low and italian, before there’s a scramble and the tv switches off. Solo swallows. There’s a hand on his shoulder, narrow, almost like a vice. Memories flood the room, thick like congealing blood.
They don’t say anything after. They don’t have the words. But something in the air changes that night. Glass broken, powdered underfoot.
Something blows over them like a chill wind.
Downstairs, in the bathroom, there are razors waiting silently.
Quietly.