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Useless.
That was how Dimitri felt now, with one hand cuffed to a pipe, his clothes and hair dishevelled, one eye puffing up, and a bloodied nose.
This wasn't supposed to happen again, he swore it to himself that he would not allow the past to repeat itself.
It was just meant to be an excursion to and from the market, nothing more.
Dimitri’s stature leant him some credence to the notion that he was a man who could handle his own – unless one was looking closely, he would appear to have no missing parts. All of this to say, he should have been fine. He was always fine before.
Perhaps he should have thought twice, for once. Maybe then he wouldn't be in this pitiful state.
For the first time in his life, with regards to situations such as this, Dimitri had fought back. It was a sorry sight: he was not a good fighter (even before the missing hand, he was laughable in the ring), and all too easily was he subdued. Now he was here, blindsided, captured, and bloodied, and for what?
It had been said in passing, from one captor to another, something about a large sum of money…
“You won't get anything,” he had spat, the swelling in his face still fresh and tender. “I'm not worth much these days.”
Almost with glee, one of the men, of whom he did not recognise nor could make out the features of due to the coverings, had crouched before him and grabbed his hair with such force it made Dimitri whine.
“Artemy Romanov says otherwise.” There's no time for Dimitri to react before his head is canted to the side, as he's looked over like a cow at auction. “They're paying a hefty price for a pitiful excuse for a son.”
That had quieted Dimitri for some time now. Hearing his father’s name from a stranger was enough to send him back into his own mind, trying to carefully excavate the reasons as to where this man had gotten that name, the implications of what was said.
It had been years since he had left home, if his parents had wanted his return, they would have orchestrated it through other means… The memory of receiving such a letter demanding that he upend everything to return back home in the post escapes him.
It had been some days now, and if Dimitri were of sounder mind, he would be much more disgusted with his state of being, the conditions he’s in, how much his muscles hurt from this forced position, and how his stomach gnaws him from the inside out. None of these things bother him, not when his brain is working overtime to fit the puzzle pieces together.
He loved his parents as much as any son would, and they loved him – this had to have been the reason for these drastic measures, surely. If he was not loved, his parents would not have taken these steps, would not have made him relive this trauma.
Oh, after all this time, he was loved! He was really, truly loved!
Fresh tears relight the tracks down his cheeks, and his heart hurts so terribly that he fears he may either go into cardiac arrest or cease to be from heartache alone.
Perhaps he had been wrong, about everything, this whole time.
—-
Artemy Romanov was an imposing man, both in stature and personality (and the parent Dimitri took after the most, at least in appearance). He was a man one could hear and see coming from some distance away, and yet here, in solitude, he haunts Dimitri silently, his silhouette and face casted in the shadows. Such features dissipate when focused on.
Often did Dimitri wonder what his father’s face looked like without disappointment etched onto it – would the man be softer around the edges, his eyes kinder? Would his father look more like him, then? It was a recreational habit in the past for Dimitri to imagine just what exactly his father’s face would look like when proud; it was so few often an expression he was privy to, that the memory of it eludes him.
Perhaps if he was lucky (and he was not a man to readily admit a thing such as this), when his family was reunited, that he may even be granted an embrace, from both of them. The image of this is so sickeningly sweet that it makes Dimitri’s stomach turn as though he had fallen ill.
It strikes him, suddenly, that his return to Saint Petersburg would mean the split from… Even after all this time, it remains a struggle for him to call Vasily Pavlichenko his partner. Yet, even that title feels far too vague, far too insufficient to what the other man was to him, really.
The revelation ricochets off the wall of his mind, and forces another forward: It had been some days now, and the sniper was a skilled man who had no trouble tracking both game and man alike… Dimitri cannot fathom the notion that tracking him down was some feat that would trouble Vasily, it is not something he can wrap his mind properly around.
Perhaps he truly was wrong, about everything.
Maybe his presence was merely tolerated – something that Dimitri is used to, but never fails to pain him on some level. To entertain the idea that Vasily tolerated him, that he might be thankful to be left alone eviscerates him in such a way that would embarrass any man.
The memories of their time together play in a reel in his mind, and Dimitri looks over the Vasily in his imagination with a fine toothed comb for any sign of disdain, of annoyance, anything to confirm the unfounded suspicions in his mind.
The only thing Dimitri can make out, in his frantic recounting of moments they shared, is the softness in the other man’s eyes that seemed to always be there, even if only marginally at times.
The two ideas war in his mind for some time, and his boots become scuffed with how he kicks at the wall in frustration each time he can’t discern the reality.
—-
When he brings up the idea of sending for Vasily, that Dimitri would return home willingly, but please if he could just bring his friend with him up to his captors, he’s met with a scoff and harsh shove. Though their faces may be covered, he can tell by the crinkles in the corner of their eyes that they’re sneering at him. No answer bar that one is given to him.
This is not to say that Dimitri had given up – he was not above begging and pleading, not above promises of money and his own personal debasement for them to listen, to agree. This goes on for some time, of how long he does not properly know, for his good hand remains bound, the other taken from him, and so he cannot check the pocket watch he normally kept in his coat (which, to his surprise, was still on his person).
Perhaps a few hours had passed, he had tried to count the time with the intervals of being checked up on, of being permitted to eat and relieve himself, but there was no way to be certain, not really. And like the incident in his youth, they feed him by hand the most miserable meal he could conceive: bread that had become so stale it had truly lost any sort of remarkable flavour, neither good nor bad in taste.
It is during one of these humiliating acts of being fed that a commotion rings out above them. One of the captors breaks off to investigate the dull thuds that echo down to the basement, and Dimitri recognises the sound to be one eerily similar to how bodies had fell when he was still following Vasily whilst he was hunting that other man. It does not occur to his mind right away, but his subconscious has already made the correct assessment of the cause of that sound.
Sweat breaks out and begins to make itself known on the cloth surrounding the face of the only other man in the room, and Dimitri keeps his stare locked on him, wide eyed but investigative. He was scared, of course, but he wasn’t an idiot – he knew to watch for any opening, any sign to tell him what he should make of the situation. So he liked to think, at least.
Another heavy, wet sound reverberates above them, and the basement grows silent. Dimitri is about to open his mouth when he’s pulled to his feet, and the cold steel of a revolver pressed just under his chin.
He wasn’t the praying type before, and he certainly wasn’t going to start now.
“Are you mad?!” He yelps, his voice embarrassingly high in pitch. Before the shorter man can reply, the door swings open with a creak that’s very telling of its age.
It’s comical, really, how time slows like how it did in the stories he would read. If Dimitri was more steadfast in such high intensity situations, he would have recognised the barrel of the rifle that enters first.
It does not register what it is that he is seeing until his eyes land on the opposing piercing blue ones. The amalgamation of emotions is far too complex for Dimitri to even put into words (not that he had the time to, anyway).
As delighted, at first, as he is to see Vasily – or, rather, just his eyes and the splotches of golden hair that peek out from under both hat and hood – it troubles him how the other man looks through him, how he seems to ignore Dimitri’s presence altogether.
Any annoyance he would typically feel, or any concern from that is shoved immediately aside as the barrel of the gun in his neck pushes in further, forcing him to crane his head to try and alleviate the pressure, though the act is in vain.
The ringing in his ears and the blurring vision make it impossible to make out the one sided exchange between the two men. When the click of a trigger and gunshot echoes in the confined space, making the ringing increase tenfold, Dimitri is convinced he’s been killed.
How terribly bland the afterlife was…
Instead does he falter in step, and when the corpse’s arm hooks into the space between his own bound arm and torso, he nearly falls alongside it. The grasping of his collar holds him steadily in place.
Once more is his face wet with tears, though he does not remember when they started, and all is silent as the two men stare at each other. Vasily’s face is obscured, but Dimitri looks at him agape, and when the realisation of what had happened and the implications of such dawn on him, he melts.
The sight of a grown man sobbing uncontrollably is not a pretty one, and despite his good looks, Dimitri is no exception to this. Vasily can barely free the other man from his restraints, and underneath the wracking of his body and pathetic sobs, grunts of either annoyance or frustration can be heard.
There is no amount of consolation given that settles Dimitri down: he clings to Vasily like a bur, his eyes and cheeks red from the crying, his head pounding from the pressure exerted into releasing the cocktail of emotions felt. Vasily is a patient man (though one needed to have a great amount of patience when it came to dealing with Dimitri), and despite the ongoing threat of potential danger, he allows him this grace of feeling unabashedly, surmising that it is not one that has been granted very often in the other man’s twenty-nine years of existence.
When Dimitri is finally able to compose himself, he's grateful that some of the light had returned to Vasily's eyes, but not much. The older man checks himself over once, twice, and then a third time before finally bringing his attention back to the other.
“Are—” Dimitri pauses his question as goes to place both… hands. Right. He pulls back, rolling the sleeve up to look at the stump, before glancing about the room. Vasily gets the hint, and moves with efficient grace to locate the prosthetic.
It takes some time, but nothing too great, and when the hand is found and brought forth, Dimitri takes it with still trembling hands. Whilst the other's eyes still remain on him, Vasily balances his rifle against himself, and signs: Cannot stay here long.
“I– Of course,” Dimitri replies with haste, doing his best to reattach his hand. “I know this.”
A flash of hurt passes over Vasily’s face at the curt tone he receives, but it disappears just as soon as it came. He watches with a glint of curiosity the way that Dimitri struggles, how his fingers actively work against him, how the other man's body had not stopped shaking once since their reunion.
“Son of a–” Dimitri’s voice rises in pitch, and cuts off embarrassingly so when, out of nowhere (so he perceives), Vasily’s once gloved hands cover his own. In his haste, he had missed the younger man setting the rifle against the wall and removing his gloves.
“Mmph,” he hums, and it's one Dimitri is familiar with. Over the course of time he'd had come to decipher the limited sounds Vasily would make – if one were to ask him, he would not admit it still, but to Dimitri it felt like a secret language betwixt them both. A childish notion, but one he cherishes. This hum, he knows: stern, but gentle, and one he assumes to translate to: allow me.
“Hm,” Dimitri hums in return, not mocking in any sort of way, but apologies and gratitudes were a hard mountain to cross for him. His hand falls away, and he watches as Vasily reattaches his hand, and makes him whole again.
“You… did not have to,” his voice is strained, and Dimitri steels himself lest he begin to cry, again. In this small gap of time, it seems Vasily’s presence has soothed him almost back to normal. Almost.
“Mmmh.” This one he knows is to get his attention, Dimitri looks up just in time to see Vasily sign, rapidly, he notes. It comes to his realisation that the other man really had come a long way since Dimitri had first taught him.
Don't be foolish. Need to go.
All Dimitri can muster is a jerky nod, and a mumble of agreement.
____
The journey back was a quieter one, though both of them understood that goading the other into talking would not go well. In the sanctity of their home, now properly cleaned and at ease, Dimitri finally cracks open.
“I suppose this is you returning the favour of me saving your life, Vasya?”
He sits at the table whilst Vasily prepares a tea for each of them, though he takes more care into preparing Dimitri’s rather than his own. Regardless, he catches this poor attempt at humour.
“Hmmm.” Though the younger man does not turn around, Dimitri can surmise what he means.
“I do… suppose I need to thank you. Properly.” His brows twitch as he looks at his intertwined fingers, and pulls forth the memory of how gentle the sniper's hands were when it came to him.
The words still don't come through, and when Vasily places the tea in front of him, he just pushes and pulls the prosthetic fingers open and shut, nervously.
Across from him does Vasily sit, donned in more comfortable clothes now – how Dimitri prefered to see him, in truth. Stealing a glance up his way, he takes note of how shaggy the other man's hair had become, and that he ought to try and broach the subject of getting a haircut later.
Dimitri is just glad that Vasily looks at him, now, with life in his eyes. It suited him much better than the hollowness he was met with earlier.
“It was my parents, allegedly. No, it had to have been. They used my father's full name.” Dimitri grits his teeth as he speaks, keeping his gaze away as if shamed. He allows his hands to be burnt by the teacup until Vasily reaches across, and gently pulls it from his grasp with a tenderness Dimitri is still unused to.
“I suppose they want me to return home, but how they found me is lost on me.” He shoots a stern look towards Vasily. “I've had no contact since… well, I suppose shortly before I found you. Back then.”
Vasily nods in a manner that Dimitri misinterprets as solemn, but really it's in understanding. He signs: Why the stunt?
“The stunt?”
You were gone for a few days.
“Hm,” Dimitri turns his hand over, looking at the tender redness left over from the teacup. “I've not a clue, not really. It feels…” He does not ask it but the question lingers around him: why would they put him through that again?
Vasily hums, though it's more an acknowledgement this time, a means to let Dimitri know he was indeed still listening.
“It does feel quite purposeful, yeah?” This is accompanied by a bitter laugh. Dimitri cannot meet Vasily’s eyes. “I can't say I understand it, though…”
The memory of the incident will always remain fresh in his mind, but the aftermath is much more hazy, and reveals itself in glimpses, often at the most inopportune times. It had taken his parents far too long to rescue him, that when they did, their son was maimed. Now that Dimitri recalls it, the relief in their eyes had only seemed to last when they saw that he was, at the very least, still alive. Even in the hospital, the chasm between himself and his parents seemed ever present, if not worse.
Dimitri makes a sound that closely resembles a suppressed choke. He poorly masks it with another lifeless laugh.
“No… No, they love me,” he says, much quieter now, his brows twitching as his expression remains conflicted. “I'm their son… They love me. They love me.”
As Dimitri’s voice dwindles to a whisper, it's evident to Vasily that the older man is doing his best to convince himself of the claim.
_____
It is much later that night when Dimitri removes himself as quietly as he could from the comfort of their bed. Clad only in a robe, he haunts the kitchen table once more, with his chin in his hand as he ponders over the entire ordeal once more.
He was a smart man, he had made himself a sort of a jack of all trades, and yet sleuthing was an area he was lacking in. No matter what angle he attacked it from, he could not properly fathom the reasoning behind his parents’ actions. Dimitri’s eyes are dull and distant as he listens to the ambience of the wildlife outside their home. Of how much time that had passed eludes him, but he does not visibly start when Vasily appears silently in the doorframe. In fact, it was his turn not to acknowledge the other's presence at all.
“...– Mi'ya.”
That does the trick. Dimitri knows that speech was a hurdle Vasily was always going to be jumping over, and while the other man was getting better at it with practice, it was still a Herculean task to exercise his voice. Hearing it now knocks him back into reality. He turns suddenly, looking over at Vasily with a somber expression.
“I am alright,” he reassures him. “I just could not sleep, that is all.”
“Hm.” Now that Dimitri was looking at him, Vasily switches back to signing.
Are you hungry?
The question makes Dimitri’s lips twitch into a half heartedly grin, one that was reminiscent of the way he would grin when particularly smitten with Vasily before either had confronted the other or their own feelings. The question is innocuous, but therein lies a double meaning.
Neither men were particularly good at traditional means of emotional support, and both of them had learned the other's unorthodox way of being there for one another. Dimitri was all too familiar with how Vasily baked his support into his meals.
“No, I am alright, I assure you. Really.”
You look hungry.
“In more ways than one, hah–! Perceptive bastard.”
Vasily visibly relaxes upon seeing the light return to Dimitri’s eyes. He moves to stand beside the older man, and, like an owner would a dog, brushes Dimitri’s hair back over and over. Unashamedly does he lean into Vasily’s side, his temple pressed firmly in for comfort.
“Might I be honest with you, Vasya?”
“Mhm.”
“I could not help but fear you would not…” No, he cannot admit that he feared Vasily would not have come for him. “... That you would not find me.”
Vasily knows him well enough by now to understand what he had truly wanted to say. Without speaking any which way, he tilts Dimitri’s head up by his chin before signing.
I will always find you.
The breath that hitches in Dimitri’s throat is audible, and he turns his head abruptly away. Not even the dimmed light could hide the way his face flushes.
“You terrible man!” His voice is incredulous. “Say that you love me rather than… that!” Despite his embarrassment, he steals a glance up to Vasily, who meets him with a raised brow and amused smirk.
That? It's not a genuine request for clarification.
“Had I not known any better, I would swear you enjoy reducing me to a lovesick schoolboy!”
The sound of a chair scraping towards him leads Dimitri to turn his head. The closeness between them, in every sense, does not alarm either man like it used to.
I would swear you enjoy acting like one.
“Oh!” Dimitri’s tongue presses into his cheek, but he breaks the facade for a moment. His eyes are downcast as he studies the dip of one of Vasily’s collarbones that is not covered by his robe.
“Do you promise that?”
“Hmph?”
“That you will always find me.”
Stupid man.
Dimitri scoffs, but Vasily does not let him off the hook that easily. Both hands cradle his face, stern and unwilling to let him break free.
Yes.
“Hm,” Dimitri nods. “You will always find me, and I will always be there to heal you. I suppose, then, it is a fair deal.”
Vasily does not respond, but he holds Dimitri’s face steady still, who does not seem to desire freedom from this grasp.
“Seal it with a kiss, then, this promise.”
“Ah,” Vasily nods, and then signs: A kiss?
“I would like for you to kiss me.” Dimitri is allowed to bring his face just a breadth closer. When Vasily makes no effort to move just yet, he huffs, knowing this game well enough by now. “If you would be so inclined, Vasya. Please.”
That was more than enough teasing, it was far too late, and both of them had been through enough. Vasily leans forward slightly, and Dimitri, in his greed, cranes his head forward past the halfway mark. As rough as either man was or could be, most each kiss shared between them is as tender as could be. Of course, this one was no different.
Dimitri was a man who came from money, who has had an innate greediness in some regard or another cultivated within him: even now, he takes more than what was asked for, what was offered. His lips part and meet Vasily’s for a second, third, and then fourth time. Perhaps he was lucky to find a partner who's desire for him matched, and even surpassed at times, his own for them.
Even when they break the kiss, neither seems willing to break the closeness. Dimitri keeps his forehead pressed against Vasily’s.
“Keep finding me, please.” Once more, Dimitri’s voice is reduced to an intimate whisper. He hears Vasily huff, and, to his surprise once more—
“Ah'ways.”