A/N: This was originally a piece written for my creative writing class (An assignment which I procrastinated on and got an "A" on by the way). I had this idea in my head for awhile and so "WA-LA", spew forth this. This isn't met to follow any particular timeline or something about zombies. Just for my enjoyment and my grades. All said and done, basically I thought I'd share this piece with you guys. Enjoy. Or not. Whatever.
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Nikolai never considered himself a man with much intelligence; in fact it was a surprise he found himself capable of simple tasks such as breathing.
He glanced across his kitchen table, a mug in his right, as his pale blue eyes met with his guest's. He couldn't help but notice how the morning light managed to soften the already soft features of his friend.
Takeo, the guest and friend, in turn gave a brief yet gentle smile before dropping his dark eyes onto the table's top. He blinked thoughtfully, looking hesitant all the while. Nikolai caught his expression.
"What is it friend? You look troubled."
Takeo looked at him once more briefly.
"I-" he paused. "-I don't think it's my place to say."
Nikolai watched the Asian finger the rim of his mug.
"Go on. There's not much that can upset me." Nikolai let out a hearty laugh at his friend's expense as he saw Takeo's expression change to accommodate a raised brow and crooked smirk. "Okay, so much still pisses me off. You know me too well Takeo!" He chucked once more.
Takeo let out a small sincere laugh.
"Really, what did you have to say?"
Takeo bit his bottom lip, casting his eyes to the window on his right. The sounds of Moscow waking up were heard much throughout that morning with the noises of passing autos and chirping birds.
Nikolai followed his friend's eyes, watching him with innocent curiosity, the morning light still feathering Takeo's delicate Japanese features.
It was funny how they got here in the first place having been enemies of a war that felt so long ago. They were always at each other ends, taunting one other with words that were never to be repeated in front of either one of their mothers, whom were both regrettably long gone in the hands of Death.
They could have easily blamed their hatred of one another on the Russo-Japanese war, considering he was of Russia and Takeo was of Japan, but in reality they had nothing to fuel their hatred on beside pure dislike from whatever they pulled from in their first eye contact with one other.
Initially Nikolai didn't like how expressionless his friend appeared to be with his dark eyes and folded lids. He found that Takeo always had a way of sitting silently, no matter how intense his pains were, his gaze aloof. The Asian was capable ignoring everything with a patience still yet to be understood by Nikolai himself. If he had so much whispered to him, Takeo didn't as so much turned his head like heavy stone lying on poor man's leg.
"Do you remember when you-" Takeo tore his gaze away from the open window. "-you mentioned a daughter. Did you-"
Nikolai turned away. An old memory came to play in his mind as he closed his eyes. He could still smell the blood and sweat on Takeo's shirt and remember how calmly Takeo ran a hand through his messy fawn curls. How he remembered how hard he cried against the Asian's shoulders and how Takeo sat there with him resting his head against his, not saying a word and how he didn't hate him for it. How he remembered their hate for another vanished like a spec of dust against a gentle breeze.
The Russian smiled across at Takeo, his cheeks still rosy from his earlier moments of laughing. Takeo couldn't help notice how young his friend seemed right then.
"Her name is Anushka. It means grace, I think. Either way I think it is a beautiful name. It was my mother's."
Takeo watched him almost sadly despite the quiet smile that graced his lips.
"Your mother's?" Takeo spoke. An unpleasant feeling swelled in his throat.
Nikolai kept his grin. "Da. My mother's."
A moment went between them, the sounds of passing autos and chirping birds still enriching the air. Neither of one of the two looked at each other.
"She is so beautiful. Takeo, sometimes I think she isn't mine…I am too ugly to be her father."
Nikolai chuckled once more, this time less lively than Takeo was used to; his smile did nothing to mask the sadness he felt.
"Ha! Anushka! She cannot be mine!" Suddenly Nikolai's voice softened. "You should see she her Takeo. You would say the same. A girl of such beauty cannot be mine."
Takeo only stared back at his friend, swallowing in the image of the Russian in front of him grinning a cloak to cover the broken heartstrings that rested in his chest. At that point Nikolai almost appeared to be talking to himself.
It was 1945 and Nikolai could hardly believe the war was over. By then he was no longer a prisoner under the Germans, but instead he was once more a Soviet soldier fighting in the fronts. He had escaped imprisonment with a narrow margin. He and Takeo had been a more than the German's new laborers; they had been their test subjects. They had made a run for it when the Germans began pulling back as the Russians were pushing through the east. At some point he and Takeo split, leaving the two to find their own way home, leaving Nikolai still wondering how was it that Takeo had became a prisoner of the Germans in the first place.
Eventually Nikolai found his way back into the Soviet army and within a few months the war in Europe came to end. To his relief the army soon enough made their progress back to the home country.
It was a strange experience for him to be back home in his country's capital. About five years had passed since he left and Nikolai couldn't help but feel nervous. He found himself homeless and lost, spending most of time in churches, praying for some sort of forgiveness.
When he cried in Takeo's shoulders, Nikolai admitted many things, many of which probably didn't make sense to his friend at the time. He told him how horrid he felt about everything. How everything he'd done was his fault and he was too insipid to try to think right. How maybe if he weren't so drunk all the time he would be living a happier life.
He had come home one summer night drunk. His wife at the time, Klava, wasn't fond of his late night drinking. They screamed and cursed each other, forcing their blood pressure to rise towards near boiling. Nikolai being as drunk as he was had lifted his a hand in the air and swung hard enough to knock Klava to the ground. And when he did so, he ceased to have noticed their daughter peeking from behind door.
Anushka was only four at the time and the experience was enough to scar her. Nikolai and Klava heard her cry and within moments the home almost appear to shook with unease.
Nikolai ran after her, calling for her, heart pounding, praying his daughter hadn't seen the ugly scene that had unfolded before her. He went into her room, calling her name, and at last he caught glimpse of pale skin under her bed.
He couched towards the bed, holding out a hand, tears spilling out his eyes, saying he didn't mean to hurt her mother. Anushka didn't bulge. She was too afraid of him and was instead busy trying to push herself further away from him-
Nikolai forced himself to stop. He stared emptily into the inside of his mug. He had only so far told Takeo part of his pathetic life as a father; a father who not only hurt his wife but his daughter in doing so. A father who left his family because he was too lost in his own stupidity to try to fix anything-
He couldn't keep talking without finding himself leaking like broken pipe. It was too much to bear; the images of Anushka crawling away from him burned him like hot iron. For a moment the noises that flooded through his kitchen window amplified in volume so much he almost ceased to feel Takeo's hand on his shoulder.