Chapter Text
Cold.
It seeped through the skin, biting into the bones with thousands of icy needles. Not air, but a thick, prickly mass that enveloped and sucked away the last drops of warmth. The wind, thin and sharp as a razor, whistled in his ears with a monotonous howl, the only song in this white hell.
Sasha was kneeling in a snowdrift. His hands, wrapped in bloody rags, dug into the frozen ground over and over again. Every blow was a thud that echoed through his body. He couldn't feel his fingers or his face. All he could feel was the overwhelming, deafening pain and the sense of duty.
Duty to Olya.
Her lifeless body lay beside him, covered in a layer of snow. Her white face, framed by her blonde hair, seemed to be sleeping. But she was sleeping too deeply, too coldly.
"I can't leave her here. "You can't."
The thought was searingly clear, the only island in the growing fog of his mind. He dug. First with his fingernails, then with a stick, then with his hands again. The rags on his palms tore apart, and the rough ice began to scrape his skin again, mixing snow with blood.
Suddenly, through the general icy burn, a strange, deceptive wave of warmth ran through his stiff legs. Hot moisture trickled down the inside of his thighs, a brief, treacherous respite from the all-consuming cold. For a second, he thought it was a hallucination, a product of his exhausted mind, desperate for any kind of warmth.
But no. The warmth was real. A thick, unpleasant warmth that quickly turned into a clammy cold on the frozen fabric of his pants.
The realization struck him with a new force, sharp and humiliating. His own body, pushed to its limits, had betrayed him. It had committed this pathetic, animalistic act, over which he had no control.
"No. No. NO."
Fury, bitter and helpless, flared up in him for a moment, only to be extinguished by the same chilling indifference of exhaustion. Not now. Not now. He had to dig.
He clenched his jaw, feeling hot tears well up in his eyes and freeze on his eyelashes. He continued digging, ignoring the hot trickle, ignoring the new, deeper cold that clung to his legs. He dug until his eyes went dark and the howling of the wind merged with the roar in his own head.
Sasha jerked and sat up in bed. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. His heart was pounding in his throat, frantic like a trapped bird.
Silence. Not the howling of the wind, but the echoing, hollow silence of his dorm room.
He ran a hand over his face. His skin was dry and hot. No ice.
The mind, poisoned by the memory, immediately turned to the real sensations. And he felt it. That same, hated, familiar cold. Chilling, clammy. Not on the skin, but through the fabric of the sheet. On his thighs.
For a moment, he just sat there, petrified, trying to will the reality away. To undo what had happened. But the cold, wet patch only pressed unpleasantly against his skin, mercilessly confirming the fact.
Slowly, as if his limbs were made of ice again, he swung his legs off the bed. In the moonlight that filtered through the curtains, a shameful stain darkened the white sheet. Small, but to him, it was as large as a crater.
A quiet, choked sound escaped his throat, something between a moan and a growl. He dug his fingers into the edge of the mattress, and the thin metal of the headboard creaked softly as it gave way to his grip.
Shame. Hot, searing shame, a thousand times more unbearable than the cold of long ago. And behind it, rage. Powerless, inward-directed rage. He, the Quasar of Iron, capable of dominating metal and bending steel with his will, was defeated by his own body. Again.
He stood up abruptly, tore the wet sheet from the bed, and balled it into a tight, ugly ком. His actions were sharp, honed by repeated practice. No wasted energy. No unnecessary thoughts.
He threw the ball of fabric into a corner, into the darkness, away from himself. Then he went to the window and opened it, letting in the cold night air.
He was leaning on the windowsill, looking out at the sleeping city. A cold breeze blew across his flushed face, but it could not wash away the inner heat of shame. He breathed deeply and evenly, forcing himself. Making my heart beat more calmly.
It was a war. Quiet, dirty, without rules or mercy. And on this night, as on many others, the enemy won a small, vile victory.