NIGHTSHIFT
A/N – Hello everyone! Now, before you flame the hell out of this fic, allow me to fully acknowledge the fact that it is probably one of the worst crap I've ever regretlessly written and furthermore, I am doing this for a dear friend who has requested not this AU but this pairing and the… outcome. Also, please bear in mind that this is NOT SUPPOSED to be historically accurate in any way, I did not do any special research aside from what I used to hear back then combined with my own twisted mind, so don't get your hopes up in that respect. That being said, enjoy!
Andrei – Moldova
Tsvetan Borisov - Bulgaria
Head in his hand, Alin watches absently as his little brother pokes petulantly at the potato stew, the fork which is slightly too large for Andrei's small hand clinging against the chipped porcelain. They're both hunched over one corner of the kitchen table, randomly open school books, a few notebooks, pencils and the like occupying the rest of it.
"Katya cooks better than you," Andrei points eventually, like he always does every time his older sibling presents him with some uninspired crap because he couldn't be bothered with anything else (and the potato stew is two days old, too).
Of course she does, and it's one of the many reasons why Andrei is overjoyed when Alin must work overtime and leave him in the care of their cheerful neighbor, herself a mother of three. Katya and her husband Eduard are gentle, softspoken and they have a way with kids, while Alin (even if he skillfully conceals it most of the time) is easily exasperated.
"Eat up, you have homework to do and it's getting late."
"And you forgot to buy summer salami!"
Alin scowls and purses his mouth into a grimace – it's the second nightshift in a row tonight and he's slept all day, shopping and pretty much anything else be damned. Of course, he wishes he could do better for Andrei, better than this rented shithole of an apartment, better food on the table, better than his old clothes and books, a better school and altogether better perspectives. But their parents are gone, Alin is still very young himself – only twenty-three - and with the change of circumstances he has had the earth swept from under his feet, so all he's been able to do was to barely keep things afloat. The hard way.
"Finish that and shut up," he says dryly, yet his voice lacking the harshness to make it serious, and the little boy just sticks his tongue out in reply.
"Katya says you should get married," Andrei points philosophically, taking another bite, and waves his fork. "She says that you must have a girl somewhere, but you're keeping her all to yourself."
"But that's the idea about having a girl," Alin replies and stands to put his empty plate in the sink. "You don't share," he adds and chuckles. It's kind of early to be having this sort of conversations with Andrei, so he'll smoothly dismiss the subject for now. Yeah, he's good at doing that in a large variety of circumstances, so it shouldn't be a problem.
"You never tell me anything," his little brother presses, pushing the food aside and picking up a notebook. "Eduard tells us a lot about what he does at the factory, all the stuff he makes and fixes every day and it sounds really interesting!"
"I don't work in a factory, I told you that before," Alin grumbles with a sigh. It's late by now and he digs inside the worn wardrobe which will probably collapse one of these days if no one does anything about it and retrieves his jacket, stuffing his keys in the pocket. He throws a look around, wondering what he's forgotten this time and will realize only when he's already in the bus. "Do your homework this century and go to sleep. I'll make toast tomorrow for breakfast, okay?"
Andrei rolls his eyes.
Outside it's started to rain and even if Alin crosses the large, concrete courtyard with large strides, he still gets pretty much soaked until he reaches the metal door with the peeling grey paint and makes his way inside, away from the downpour. He walks down the corridor lit by dirty, flickering bulbs with blue light, shaky from the cold and cursing under his breath all the way to the locker room.
"You're late, comrade, it's ten minutes past nine thirty."
But Alin turns his back on the man who has just said that – a green-eyed, pale Bulgarian who has done boxing since high-school and is therefore much more suited for this job (and who mysteriously manages to troll all his shifts…) – and begins taking out his street clothes.
"Fuck you, comrade Borisov," he replies, hurrying to get out of the wet garments.
The other bursts into laughter and a rough towel hits the back of his head next, but he takes it anyway and wipes the moisture off thoroughly before reaching for his uniform.
"Damn, you're such a damsel in distress, Vasile," the Bulgarian states amused and a soft, repeated click resounds in the otherwise deserted locker room as the man lights up a cigarette.
Waves of fresh, suffocating smoke drift into the already polluted atmosphere as Alin walks up to the sink to hang the now damp towel on the bare nail next to it and his gaze accidentally drops onto his own reflection in the stained mirror. He looks rather awful these days and he's sure his former classmates from the university wouldn't even recognize him now.
The light-brown, coppery tinged hair which had once looked so poetic is cropped very short, close to his skull, his cheeks have lost all that childish plumpness from before , there are dark circles under his eyes from all the lost sleep and the paleness of his skin stick out against the navy blue of the uniform vest. Oh, and there's also that ominous-looking dent in the bridge of his nose, glorious mark of the military instruction days he's surprisingly survived somehow. But even with all that, his slender build and delicate limbs make him look much younger than he really is – his boots look too large for his legs and the leather belt with the faded iron buckle hangs heavily around his hips - and as a result all the other guards pick on him.
"Straighten that collar, comrade," Borisov teases him. "Braginski is in tonight and we wouldn't want him to catch you looking unkempt."
Of course, Tsvetan, like many others, must have wondered at first how the hell did the Romanian land this job in the first place – and he still acts like he's not clarified to this day because Alin is kind of short-fused upon occasion and that's fun to watch – but the truth is that the delicate former university student can be quite rough (albeit while not necessarily comfortable with it) and violent when the circumstances call for it. In fact, the misleading element of his youthful appearance makes him all the more effective when it comes to striking fear into someone who gets on his bad side. But well, this job and this environment has really brought out the worst in all of them.
"Why the hell is he in tonight?" Alin grumbles, struggling with the worn belt buckle which has gotten crooked somehow and as a result is an absolute pain in the ass to click in place.
"Because – I heard – there might be some trouble coming up with the new inmates," the Bulgarian replies, taking a long, thoughtful drag of his cigarette. But his serious expression dissipates quickly, replaced by a broad, mischievous smile. "You weren't thinking of taking a nap under my nose, were you?"
To be continued