Moscow, 1854.
The airship is tiny.
Otabek would call it closer to a canoe than a true ship – but only privately, of course, as captains are notoriously touchy when it comes to their vessels.
He moves on, walking quickly, but not too quickly, and purposefully, but not too purposefully. If no one looks too closely, he's just another worker on the bustling docks, clad in a nondescript jacket with his cap pulled down low over his face. It takes all of his willpower not to glance over his shoulder. Instead, his eyes skim over the vessels tethered along the piers.
A military charter, no. A Ryabushinsky merchant ship, definitely not. He'd rather take his chances with the soldiers.
Everything is too rich, too official, too guarded.
Beggars can't be choosers, and right now, Otabek is several steps below even the roughest panhandler. He turns back to the tiny airship.
The crew is unloading their cargo. He counts only two, a redhaired woman and a blond man, and slips aboard as they're wobbling down the gangway with a heavy wooden crate and a slick sheen of sweat.
There's no time for Otabek to catch his breath, not without wasting his scarce lead, and he's too exposed standing around on the main deck. If his lungs weren't already burning, Otabek would gasp with relief as he spots the unlocked hatch leading to the lower decks.
Or… the lower deck, at least. This certainly isn't a luxury cruiser, he muses ruefully, surveying the tiny room.
The bow and stern are still half-packed with miscellaneous freight, leaving barely enough space for him to stretch his arms. It smells of burnt aether, hot and heavy, and the only light is what filters weakly through the portholes set on either side.
The engine hums in the center of it all. It inhales and exhales like a living creature from within the column rising through the center of the ship. Though the workings are ensconced in their metal sheath, Otabek hears gears clicking under the soft whoosh of steam. It would have been a mechanical marvel in its heyday, but now even an expert would be hard-pressed to keep it in top condition.
"Sorry," he murmurs, prying open a maintenance hatch as he discards his bulky jacket and reaches into the toolkit fastened to his belt. One pressure valve is enough, he decides.
It's only a few seconds' work to reroute the steam and coolant to the auxiliary system, but it will be several thousand verst before the effects are noticeable. Otabek closes the hatch and scans the berth once more. If he's lucky, the crew and their unseen captain will load their next shipment and stay above-deck, leaving him undetected until he can sneak off at the next port. However, he'd better make himself scarce.
Footsteps sound above him. Otabek pushes himself deeper into the nook between a heavy, dusty trunk and the starboard hull, hoping that the box isn't one more thing to be left in Moscow. He holds his breath as the hatch creaks open.
"- not my problem if he got scammed," a man growls, altogether too near. His vowels carry the ill-defined curve of a Moscow accent, and they're accompanied by a heavy thump as something's set down none-too-gently. Otabek thinks it must be the blond crewmember he'd seen earlier. "Potselui moyu zhopu."
Otabek bites his lip, willing the man to leave. He'll try to commandeer the ship if necessary, but with nothing more threatening than an antique pistol and a screwdriver, he doesn't fancy his chances.
Boots clunk on the wooden boards as the crewman stomps off, followed by the snap of the hatch swinging shut. Otabek lets his muscles relax as he settles into the cramped space. He doesn't dare move.
After a few minutes, the engine wakes from its gentle, humming slumber and rises to a steady roar as the ship lurches beneath him.
:: :: ::
"This isn't a passenger vessel," snarls Yuri. The stowaway only fixes him with an implacable, impenetrable gaze. "Who the hell are you?"
"I'd like to talk to your captain," the man replies. He inches sideways but freezes as Yuri's wrist twitches, dark eyes falling to the pistol in his hand. "I'm sure we can reach an agreement."
Yuri snorts. "I'm the captain, and the only agreement you're getting is that you talk fast." He narrows his eyes. "Really fast."
The man could at least look a bit intimidated. It's infuriating. Instead, he merely straightens up and meets Yuri's glare.
"Boarded in Moscow," he says. "Getting off at your next stop. Where is that, by the way?"
"Jail, for you." The stowaway's hands tighten into fists and Yuri smiles to himself. This is his ship. He's not going to hand anything over to an incompetent petty criminal. "Unless you're a gambling man, in which case, I'd like to remind you that I'm fully within my rights to throw you overboard. Your choice."
"Your ship's engine will malfunction soon." His expression still hasn't changed. "Safe passage, and I'll repair it before any damage is done. I'll also address some other issues you haven't noticed yet. Otherwise, this will be a lengthy, inconvenient, and expensive misadventure. Your choice."
Malfunction? Not likely.
This was sabotage.
"Ah, suka, blyad!" Yuri hisses. He's no mechanic, and neither is Mila nor Sara. They can keep it running well enough between ports and that's about it. There's a flicker of movement in the background. He doesn't look. "Fucking bastard. You thought destroying my ship would make me help you?"
The man gives him what might turn out to be a wry smile if Yuri had a microscope on hand to inspect it, but by now his attention is entirely focused on the pistol in Yuri's white-knuckled hand.
"No," he says carefully. "It was a last resort, in case someone held me at gunpoint. Which I don't recommend, by the way, unless you want to risk blowing out the starboard stabilization coolant lines."
In other words: treat them to a very rough landing.
"I'm quite a good shot."
"And we're at very close range."
Well, he's certainly not a coward. An idiot, yes, but evidently a skilled idiot. Yuri can – grudgingly – respect that. He lowers his gun.
He doesn't think he needs it now, anyway.
"What do you want, then?"
"I'll fix the faulty valve gear and do what I can for your altitude regulator as a gesture of goodwill, you refrain from shooting me or having me arrested, and we part ways at your next stop after mutually beneficial cooperation.
Yuri considers it.
"What do you think, Captain?" Sara chimes in, appearing like a shadow from behind a stack of crates. Yuri grins broadly as the man's face pales. He hadn't heard her approach, of course. No one ever did. "That enough to buy a ticket?"
"I think we have a few more details to work out," Yuri drawls. "For example-"
Mila's bright hair draws his attention as she sticks her head through the hatch. "Oi, Yura- what the hell? Who are you?"
"Exactly what I'd like to know," grumbles. Yuri. "Crewman Babicheva."
She ignores the ladder and drops down with a heavy thud, saluting him as she lands. "Yes sir, Captain Plisetsky, sir! What are your orders, Captain Plisetsky, sir? Shall we escort him to the brig, sir?"
Yuri exhales through his clenched jaws. "I'll let you know."
He turns back to the man, who hasn't moved a hair. Sara's heavy wooden sap tends to have that effect on people, even before she hits them with it.
"We don't have a brig," Sara hums thoughtfully. "But I suppose we could clear out the pantry."
Yuri sighs. "You, what's your name?"
"Otabek, Captain."
At least someone around here shows some respect, Yuri thinks ruefully. He waits for Otabek to continue, raising an eyebrow as the silence drags on.
"Well, Otabek," Yuri says when it becomes clear that no other information is forthcoming. "What's wrong with my altitude regulator?"
"The secondary valve compressor needs to be replaced."
"The last engineer insisted that it's perfectly fine." Yuri shrugs, ignoring Mila's smirk. "Evidently, we both think he's full of shit. How'd you know?"
"Heard it taking off. It whistled as the pressure changed in the final phase of ascent." His eyes flick to the side as Sara lets out an impressed huh.
"And what would you say the chances are that I find someone who can finish all the repairs, on short notice, without my ship catching fire halfway through the next flight?"
"Not great. You'd probably be better off putting the money towards a new engine."
Yuri watches him carefully. "And would you say that the reward for handing you over to the authorities might be enough to make up the difference?"
Otabek gives him another miniscule smile. "No, I shouldn't think so."
"Well, you're less of a crook than my usual engineer," Yuri decides. He waves Sara off and she tucks the sap into her belt. "Give your gun to the ginger menace and fix my boat. Nice pistole, by the way." He nods to where the pearl handle is visible under the hem of Otabek's vest. "Family heirloom?"
A pause. "Probably."
Yuri holds out his hand. "You've got your deal, Otabek. Welcome to the Bezumiye. I'm Captain Yuri Nikolaevich Plisetsky."
"Otabek Altin."
Otabek's hand is warm and rough with callouses.
At the very least, this will keep life interesting.
:: :: ::
Otabek is surprised when he's left mostly to himself as he works on the engine. Plisetsky had returned to the main deck as soon as Otabek was satisfactorily disarmed. Mila watches him for a few minutes until the captain shouts and she follows him up through the hatch. The Italian woman, who'd been introduced as Sara, had simply vanished while his back was turned.
If he thinks about it, Otabek isn't sure whether she's in the room with him or not. He prefers not to think about it.
He wipes as much engine oil as he can from his face and climbs up to the main deck. Plisetsky leans on the ship's wheel as a cat winds its way around his legs.
"Did you break my ship, Altin?" he demands.
"I un-broke what I could, and I have instructions for your mechanic," Otabek tells him. The captain taps his foot. "I'll repair my insurance once we're docked," he amends. "She's fine for now."
"Good enough." Plisetsky checks the compass array, nudging the wheel before turning back. "Now. I am interested in how you ended up on my ship, and in such a hurry that you didn't have time to stop and introduce yourself."
Otabek takes a moment to stare at the bright sky beyond the windows enclosing the ship. Gray clouds form a false earth beneath them, flowing and rippling. He can't see Mila or Sara.
Captain Plisetsky commands a small ship, one that isn't in direct service to the tsar. That would have gained him a few friends and many more enemies. It's unlikely that he'd be able to turn a profit at all if his business ventures stay strictly legal, and that's without the question of why Yuri Plisetsky was here.
The gearbox in Otabek's toolkit nags at his thoughts.
"I drew some unwanted attention," he says. "It seemed prudent to leave Moscow without delay."
The captain laughs. "What, did you sabotage their ship too?"
"No." Otabek catches Plisetsky's glance, but he doesn't elaborate. "Where do you stop next?"
"Yekaterinburg." Yuri is watching a cloudbank ahead. It rises above the grey sheet, roiling into thunderheads. "Mila!" he yells. "How's the rigging?"
"Fine, Captain Yurochka, sir!" Mila's answering shout echoes down from above – Otabek spots her perched in the network of ropes that connect to the sails on either side of the ship and the balloon above. "Storm's passing south of us, anyway. She'll be fine."
Otabek grits his teeth. It might have been better to stay in Moscow and take his chances. He'll never be able to get on a train or another airship, and now he'll have to cross the entire country.
He'll do what he can. If nothing else, he might be able to get a message out from Yekaterinburg.
"If you have paper and a pen, I'll make a list of parts for your mechanic," Otabek says, and returns to the engine.
In the end, Yuri Plisetsky solves his problem for him.
"Finished breaking my ship?" he asks, smirking as Otabek disentangles himself from the engine's inner workings. His modifications have been carefully removed, leaving the Bezumiye as good – or better, if he allows himself a moment of pride – than she'd been before. "Those parts on your list. They'll have to be specially fabricated."
Otabek nods as he repacks his toolkit, doing his best not to reveal the entirety of its contents.
"And then I have to find someone competent enough to put them in."
"Yes." Otabek stands up. It isn't his concern.
"Which you, I suppose, could manage."
"If I had the parts, yes," he replies shortly. He wonders if he can get his pistol back before they dock, and if it would do any good should they decide to turn him in after all. He remembers the silence with which Sara had appeared behind him and the grace with which she scales the rigging. It isn't encouraging. He has to trust that his intuition regarding Yuri Plisetsky and his crew is correct. "Captain-"
"It might be worth my time to drop you off where you need to go," Yuri says, "if you were to spare my ship the ministrations of fools."
Time. Otabek can't stop in another city, can't afford to spend several days waiting for machinists and then even longer tinkering with repairs, but if they were to get close… "Where were you planning to commission the replacements?"
"St. Petersburg."
Otabek's heart leaps. "We have a deal."
"Excellent. Where is it you're trying to go?"
"Helsinki."
It sounds plausible enough.
:: :: ::
Otabek Altin is a curious mystery.
"Offer him a job and be done with it," Mila says, sitting down next to him with a cup of tea. They're in the tiny four-berth cabin. With the table crammed in and bolted to the floorboards, there's barely enough room to sip their drinks without knocking elbows. "Unless you have a different plan."
"You think I should hire him?" Yuri turns his pocket watch over in his hands, flipping it open and shut again without checking the time.
Mila laughs. "No."
"What, then?"
"If we're smart? He fixes the old girl, one of us beds him…" She coughs meaningfully. "Then Sara whacks him over the head and you call on your old friends and use the reward money to fix whatever traps he's left in our pipes."
He glares at her. "Yes, if you must, no, no, and no."
"Of course, Captain." Mila props her feet on the table. It's quite a feat in the cramped space. "I defer to your orders, sir."
His vision goes a bit black around the edges as he holds back a shout. It's a mark of maturity. Or something. "What the hell do you want, Mila?"
"Well, Captain," she drawls. "I want to know why you're taking such an interest in him."
"He's doing his job and I don't have to pay him," Yuri snaps. "Wish I could say the same for you. And stop it with the fucking captain thing."
Mila isn't taken aback by his outburst. Instead, she's vaguely smug. "Would you like my report, then, Yura?"
"Yes, Mila," he grinds out. "Please."
"The price of steel is going to spike due to the eastern rail expansion. Speaking of, we'll want to avoid several ports along that route because word is the officials are taking bribes to ground airships and reduce competition." She thinks for a moment. "The situation in Ukraine isn't great, neither is Estonia, but it's better than the south. We'll have to take the long way around to get anywhere near our drops. Oh, and Kazakh rebels attempted a coup in Cherdyn."
"How did that go?"
"Poorly. Sources say that survivors have been taken to St. Petersburg for trial, so we'll want to be careful when we dock. It might be… tense, depending on whether the Kazakhs make a move. Are you sure we can't put off the repairs?"
"Unfortunately, yes." At least, if Otabek was going to put the Bezumiye back together. Yuri sighs. "Make sure they won't find anything if we get searched. Including our guest. Tell Sara to lie low in St. Petersburg, in case anyone remembers that warrant. There's more?"
"Crimea, of course. The war's gotten worse. Forces are converging on the peninsula, and it's going to be ugly."
"Of course. Anything else?"
Mila swings her feet off the table and gulps down the rest of her tea. "Bored, Yura? I do have some suggestions."
"No. Thank you, Mila."
Yuri drums his fingers on the table.
"I couldn't turn up anything on him," she finally growls. "Not a scrap. Not that I could ask around much unless we want the authorities up our asses – hello, sirs, I've got a stowaway engineering savant with a bent for sabotage who seems to be on the run from the law, sound familiar?" Mila sighs. "None of my contacts recognized the descriptions I could give, though, which means he's never worked in Russia. Not officially, anyway. Someone would know him if he had."
Mila gets answers and Yuri has rarely, if ever, seen her come back empty-handed.
No, he's certainly not bored.
He wanders out of the cabin and finds Otabek scratching Potya's chin.
"She's the one who found you," Yuri comments. "She's a mouser, and good at it."
"Are you calling me a mouse?" Otabek asks, with a hint of humor flickering in his brown eyes.
"Fits pretty well, doesn't it, Altin?" Yuri wishes he could master the utterly blank stare that Otabek seems to wear without effort. "So. From Moscow, or just visiting?"
"I've lived a lot of places," Otabek says, tickling Potya's ears as she purrs. "Would you like a list?"
"Maybe." Yuri eyes him. "I'd be interested to hear where you trained."
"I just picked things up here and there, Captain."
"You're not Russian," Yuri guesses. "You're an engineering expert, and military-grade, I suspect, because no one learns stuff like you have without being scouted. However, you keep unfriendly company in Moscow and stow away on airships."
Otabek doesn't look up. "You make a lot of assumptions."
"I do," Yuri agrees. "A deserter? Or a spy? If you're coming from Crimea, you're dumber than I thought."
"Then it's a good thing I'm not." Otabek stands up. "We've met before. Do you remember?"
Yuri blinks at him. If this is a distraction, it's a damn good one, because all thoughts flee his mind at once. "What?"
"The St. Petersburg Aeronautical Academy," Otabek says levelly. "We were in different programs, of course. Only Russians were trained for military command." He gestures to the pocket watch, its chain now dangling from Yuri's clenched fist. "I thought I must have been wrong. I didn't expect to find Yuri Plisetsky captaining an antique delivery vessel, but when I saw the insignia…"
He walks away, leaving Yuri to stare after him, gaping like a fish.
It's several hours later that he realizes Otabek had dodged his questions with a dancer's grace.
:: :: ::
Otabek wishes he'd found a different method of stemming Yuri's flow of questions. He'd begun to curse his usually-obedient tongue as soon as the adrenaline ebbed, leaving him twitchy and frustrated.
This is why you keep quiet, he reprimands himself over and over again. It doesn't matter who he is.
He watches the captain as they eat dinner. The four of them are sitting around the sturdy oak and brass table; it's the only furniture Otabek has seen in the ship, aside from the meager offerings in the cabin.
"We've been toying with the notion of adding another lens to the solar concentrator," Yuri says nonchalantly, and tears off a piece of his bread as if he'd commented on something no more notable than a passing bird. "The extra speed could be useful."
Mila rolls her eyes at Sara, who giggles into her napkin.
"That's a pirate trick." Otabek isn't sure whether Yuri is joking or not. Yuri himself might not know - he oscillates between scorching intensity and insouciant disregard as quickly as the winds shift.
"Yura gets bored and thinks up new and exciting ways to doom us all to a fiery death," grumbles Mila. "When he's not picking up strays."
"It usually works," Sara says. She shrugs. "The idea is that it's probably better to blow up than get caught, anyway."
"As first mate, I veto the whole idea." Mila glares at Yuri. "And suggest the captain take up scrapbooking."
Yuri glowers back. "You're not the first mate." Sara opens her mouth and he shoots her a look. "Neither are you."
"Your cat is not-"
"Potya doesn't argue with me, so yes, she is." Yuri slurps his soup and adds, as if it's an afterthought, "Naval protocol specifies pursuit of suspected pirate vessels over unoccupied areas. They either explode, which is ideal, or they're overtaken eventually – can't usually outrun anything built this century, not if it's military."
Mila's voice rises. "Like I said-"
"Otabek," Yuri says, interrupting her. "Thoughts?"
"The problem is water loss, not the pressure itself." It's well enough if Yuri thinks him a pirate, Otabek decides. Unless he misses his guess, he wouldn't be the first on the Bezumiye. "Any rust or irregularities in the solder will allow steam to escape. They get a dry spot, usually in the coolant lines, and then… well. As you said."
Sara tilts her head as she listens intently. "So, with a discrete, isolated secondary cooling system…"
"The extra weight would counteract any gains in small ships. They've been adding extra lenses to warships for years now, but those can take the bulk." His mind is racing now. "It might be more effective if you transitioned all non-propulsion systems to clockwork energy storage to reduce the water load and retrofitted a secondary engine system instead of trying to force it all through the main line."
A small frown creases Yuri's forehead. "Would that work?"
"Theoretically." Otabek doesn't let himself say more, though the ideas are pouring through his mind. Yuri is too interested, too focused on Otabek. "It's too expensive to be feasible."
"Ah." He sounds disappointed, and Otabek almost can't stop himself from going over the work and materials – surely he could find a way.
They finish the meal in silence.
Mila and Sara trade glances that Otabek can't decipher. Yuri eats with one hand, alternately shuffling through a stack of documents and pacing around the deck as he checks instruments and makes minor adjustments. He seems unable to sit still for more than a few seconds. The longest that Otabek has seen him remain motionless is when he fixes someone with one of his fierce green stares or the scarce seconds he spends gazing thoughtfully out of the tall windows that enclose the main deck.
"Right," Yuri says, his eyes fixed on the glimmering remnants of the sunset.
Mila scrambles to her feet. "Dishes! I've got the dishes," she calls, gathering their plates and bowls. Sara stands up too and opens a hatch set into the deck. It's full of ropes and sturdy climbing harnesses.
"Glass?" she asks, and Yuri nods.
Otabek stays quiet. He knows every piston and valve that keeps a ship in the air, but crewing one is a different story.
He catches on quickly once Sara and Yuri start pulling rags from the storage compartment.
"Afraid of heights, Otabek?" Yuri throws him a harness. It's old but well-made and carefully oiled, with no cracks in the leather or rust along the anchor points. The straps are a familiar weight around his hips and shoulders, though it would be morefamiliar if they weren't quite so far from the ground.
"Not as such, no."
"Good. You're on barnacle duty."
Otabek holds back a sigh. Scraping off the crust of insects, dust, bird droppings, and assorted but unidentified substances is one of the less savory maintenance tasks. "You clean her in-flight?"
"Dock time is expensive," Yuri's eyes are sharp with a question Otabek really hopes he doesn't decide to ask. "Besides, it'll hurt less if you fall from up here."
Mila laughs from where she's filling a basin with hot water piped from the recirculation tubing, but Otabek can't disagree with Yuri. A tumble from fifteen arshin – or fifty, if he missed the raised piers – would certainly be a slower landing than one from-
"We'll drop to..." Yuri studies Otabek. "Fourteen hundred sazhen."
Sara scales the brass rungs set atop the cabin and swings herself onto the catwalk above. Otabek takes his time as he follows her through the network of rigging that leads to the crow's nest where she's waiting for him.
The view is breathtaking: the Bezumiye forms a bubble of light below them, oil lamps flickering behind the bank of windows that form the upper hull, and then falls away to either side to reveal the ship's sails and the countryside below them. To Otabek's left, the horizon is marked by an orange smudge that arcs across the sky, and to his right, the world disappears into a field of inky darkness scattered with the flickering stars of town lights.
Sara nods to him as she turns a wheel and unlocks another heavy hatch in the ceiling. This one is made of thick, riveted steel with a rubber seal around the rim that leaves oily black smears on her arms as she hauls herself up into the airlock.
It's difficult to tear himself away. Otabek is at home in the belly of a ship, built for it the same way an engine is, but he too feels the lure of beauty as he takes one last lingering glance. There will be time enough to stare while they're working.
Out of habit, he also inspects the crow's nest. This, he realizes, is where Sara must spend most of her time – there's a half-finished letter resting among starcharts and heavy logbooks on the thin shelf that serves as a makeshift desk, and he makes out a few words of Italian penned in a neat, looping hand before he heaves himself through the hatch.
He spins the hand wheel to seal the chamber and Sara peers at a dial until the needle twitches.
"That's altitude," she says, flicking the pressure valve open. A low hiss fills the room. "Twenty minutes. Ever spidered before?"
"Yes," Otabek replies. Spidering. It would seem that his guess about Sara's past isn't too far off the mark.
"Not in flight, though." It's not a question, but she's not teasing him. Instead, Sara flashes him a reassuring half-smile as she checks their harnesses and lines; it's an interesting expression on the face of someone who'd introduced herself with a club only the week before. "Don't look down." She giggles. "And despite what Yura might say, he's never actually keelhauled anyone."
The twenty minutes feels like forever. Otabek, normally patient, finds himself adjusting and readjusting the leather straps. He's gone over the ropes three times before Sara glances at the barometer array, opens the outer hatch, and lashes their safety lines to a metal hook welded to the frame.
"Here we go," Sara says, and she steps into open air. "Really, don't look down!"
Otabek climbs out.
Then, despite himself, he looks down.
After that, he pays very close attention to Sara's soft chatter. She's in her element, leaning back into her harness with a loose confidence as she polishes the glass.
Icy air nips at the back of his neck, but the Bezumiye'swarmth is enough to keep the chill from Otabek's hands even as his clothes get soaked. The water cannister strapped to his back threatens to pull him over even with the harness holding him firmly in place. He can see why they waited until night to approach the task, though: every speck of dust on the windows is visible, backlit by the yellow glow of oil lanterns inside. Its black maw also swallows up the earth beneath them, leaving him able to pretend that it isn't quite so far away. The ship moves slowly, powered only by wind and clockwork without the sun to give them steam.
Inside, Yuri sits at the table perusing stacks of paperwork and several ledgers, jotting down the occasional note. He looks up at them. Sara sticks out her tongue and he lifts his hand, flicks a rude gesture in her direction, and goes back to his work.
"You two have met before, yes? Yura mentioned something about it."
That part of his past is a safe enough topic of conversation. "Yes. The academy."
"It's a small world up here."
"I suppose so." Otabek pauses for a moment, watching Yuri rake a hand through the blond hair that now falls loose around his shoulders. Curiosity wins out. "I wouldn't have expected to find him… here."
Not on the tiny, antique Bezumiye, with its crew of three humans and a cat. Not with dubiously legal business ventures and no epaulettes on his patched coat.
"You thought he'd be a soldier." Sara hums to herself. "Officer Plisetsky."
"When I left, I heard they'd pushed up his testing. He was expected to be the youngest graduate in the school's history, and had a position already secured on the flagship under Nikiforov."
"Nikiforov retired before Yura graduated."
Otabek nods. It's common knowledge, even outside the sphere of those who had reason to note such things. "He would have had his pick of offers."
"Oh, he did." Sara's expression remains neutral, and it frustrates Otabek that he can't pick out the meaning behind her words. "He served his two years, resigned on the day, and bought the Bezumiye with everything they eventually paid him."
"Why?"
Sara smiles. "Ask him yourself."
"What did you say about keelhauling?" Otabek grimaces.
"He won't. He'll shout for a bit, but that's just Yura. Oh," she says, looking up and over into the darkness. "Look."
Otabek turns his head. The moon is rising over the horizon, brighter than he's ever seen it and nearly golden where it floats in the velvety black sky. It seems near enough to touch.
"Oh," he breathes.
"It's not the same with glass in front of you," murmurs Sara. "Sometimes, when it's just me out here, I can convince Yura to put out the lamps for a bit."
Otabek pictures how it would feel to be suspended in the darkness, the Bezumiye nearly invisible except for warped reflections of stars and moonlight traced across its glass. It must be beautiful.
He shudders.
"Mila's never taken me up on it either."
"What about the captain?"
"No." She shrugs at his surprise. Yuri didn't seem like one to get nervous. "He'll never leave the helm if one of us is out here. And believe me, that's where you want him if something does go wrong."
Otabek closes his eyes against a wave of vertigo as he's reminded about why he prefers the engine room to the outer hull. The something that went wrong could be anything – wind, a malfunction in the machinery, a rusted fastener in the harness. His lack of vision doesn't help and he opens his eyes, gazing down into the warmly lit deck of the ship as he catches his breath.
Yuri sits at the table, his ledgers pushed to the center as he doodles absentmindedly. Occasionally, he glances up to Sara and Otabek, fixing them with a green stare until Sara gives him a slight nod.
"I think he'd like it," Otabek says, half to himself and half to Sara.
"Yes. I think so too." Sara sighs, turning her face to the moon for one last look. "Well, that's enough for tonight. Let's get back inside."
Otabek groans with relief.
His ears pop as the chamber's air pressure increases, and he finds himself shivering in his damp, filthy clothes.
"It takes some getting used to." She looks him over with less quiet amusement than his sorry state probably deserves.
"Did it ever bother you?" He wonders if she grew up on a ship, scaling the rigging before she could walk.
"No." Sara's expression is distant. It's tinged with something that might be regret, or possibly anger. "It's easier than the trapeze. We never had safety harnesses there."
"The trapeze." Otabek is hit with another wave of vertigo and a sudden headache, and he's not sure whether it's the altitude or yet another piece that he can't fit into the Bezumiye's puzzle of a crew.
"Yes."
She doesn't elaborate, and Otabek doesn't ask. Though he's more sure than ever that he never wants to become her enemy, it isn't caution that stills his tongue. Otabek respects Mila's sweet, razor-edged smile and her empire of information. He enjoys the game as he dances around Yuri's questions, toeing the line between confession and concealment – foolish, yes, but a thrill that makes his heart beat faster than the winds whipping past him as he dangled outside the ship.
But Sara had never demanded his secrets. For a short while, he'd been able to let his guard down. Otabek decides that the least he can do is return the favor.
Besides, he's beginning to shiver hard enough that he's not sure she could understand him if he did give voice to his curiosity.
"Oh, one more thing," Sara says, interrupting his quiet misery. "Mila's probably going to invite you to bed."
Otabek chokes. "I thought- I assumed that you-"
"We are." Sara smiles. "She did ask me first. I only thought it fair to give you some warning."
Otabek can't tell whether he's being threatened or encouraged. He swallows. "Uh, I appreciate the compliment, but-"
"She won't hold it against you, should you refuse." Sara looks him over. There's something uncomfortably knowing in her expression. Otabek blushes, though he isn't sure why, and hopes that it's hidden by the windburned flush that burns across his face and ears. "Nor would… anyone else, should you accept."
"Thanks." He pretends that he doesn't know what she means. "I'll keep that in mind."
:: :: ::
"Drip on my deck and you're mopping it," Yuri says, scowling to hide his amusement. Sara is pristine, aside from frizzy strands of windblown hair and wet patches that stain the knees of her trousers, but Otabek… well. He's drenched, shivering, and Yuri is fairly certain that the emotion lurking behind his stoic expression is the beginnings of abject misery. "Go get cleaned up."
Otabek nods and turns to the small wash closet, but stops. "These are my only clothes," he admits.
Yuri can't see Mila's face from where she's brewing tea, but he can feel the leering thoughts she's throwing his way.
"I'll dig something up," he says brusquely.
Yuri finds a loose tunic in the plain wooden chest that serves as his closet and appropriates a pair of Mila's trousers. They aren't quite long enough, and it isn't the height of fashion, but Yuri would prefer to deal with Otabek's bare ankles than the more revealing alternative.
Mila is closing the wash closet door as he exits the sleeping cabin.
"All yours, Cap'n." She winks at him, and Yuri's flash of annoyance is quickly soothed by a loosening in his chest that he doesn't care to name.
Life on the Bezumiye leaves little room for the luxury of privacy. Their bunks are crammed into the same tiny cabin. They eat together, work together, live together, and though that has instilled a certain sense of when to be silent, solitude is a concept that they all left at the dock.
Yuri opens the door without knocking and curses himself immediately as Otabek looks up. He isn't startled, though he does seem surprised by the unannounced company.
Otabek hasn't undressed completely, but rivulets of water trickle down his bare back.
"I- clothes." There's a starburst of pale marks scattered across Otabek's shoulders. Yuri can't quite tear his eyes away from the scars. Or he tells himself he's inspecting the scars.
Otabek catches him staring in the warped, circular looking glass. "Boiler explosion." He shrugs. The constellation across his back shifts with the movement. "I wasn't quite fast enough."
Yuri winces. "In the air?"
"No, at port."
"You haven't always been such an expert in sabotage, then?" Yuri grins. Otabek doesn't react, but it's a careful, controlled lack of reaction, and Yuri files it away for later consideration before switching gears. "I'm sorry about Mila. She can come on a bit strong."
"She only asked. I appreciated the simplicity, and she was quite courteous. And Sara tipped me off," he admits.
Yuri knows he should drop the subject and leave, but his sharp curiosity gets the better of him for an instant. "Not interested?" He sighs. "My apologies. That was inappropriate."
"We're not well suited, I believe." Otabek laughs softly. "And I don't think she would be pleased if I were to… become attached."
"Ah. No, likely not." Well then. It would appear that their rogue mechanic is a bit of a romantic. It's a thought Yuri is hard-pressed to ignore as Otabek runs a wet cloth over his neck.
Prickles of heat dance across Yuri's own face and arms. The wash closet is barely large enough for one person, let alone two, and it's thick with steam from the basin of water. It's stifling.
Fresh air, Yuri decides. He needs fresh air.
"Hang your clothes in the engine room," he instructs, as if Otabek hadn't seen each of them leaving their washing to dry while he was digging through the ship's belly. He backs out onto the deck before he can spend too much time thinking about how long Otabek must have spent working shirtless, his upper body covered with smears of oil, while his only shirt hung dripping behind him.
Otabek calls out a question before he can shut the door.
"Captain. If you don't mind my asking… why did you leave the military?"
It's not exactly a secret, but it isn't a story he tells often. Yuri considers telling Otabek that he does mind, but… no. That isn't quite the truth.
"Their battles weren't any I found myself particularly inclined to fight," he says at last. "Nikiforov had the right idea, pompous ass that he is."
"Is that why he retired?"
"Retired? Hah," Yuri snorts. "You don't actually believe that, do you? He's not even forty. He defected, and Mother Russia couldn't deal with the embarrassment. We have a nice little cover-up to save face."
"Defected." Otabek is looking at him now, his back to the basin and mirror, eyebrows pulled together in what Yuri has learned to recognize as surprise.
"After the first meetings with Japan." Yuri shakes his head at the memory. "He ran off with one of their ambassadors, and then sent in his letter of resignation on the back of a copy of his marriage documents. The military couldn't do shit because technically, he has diplomatic immunity."
"That is… quite the dramatic exit."
"Of course it was." Viktor wouldn't have settled for anything more mundane, Yuri thinks with fond exasperation. The rage and abandonment, harsh as they were, have mellowed over the years. "So, what about you?"
"Me?" Otabek's face is blank again. Yuri watches him calculate, sorting out his secrets and the fragile trust that has been building between them.
"You're not exactly in uniform these days, Altin. What happened?"
For a moment, he thinks he's pushed too far, but then Otabek gives him a wry half-smile.
"The year before I was due to graduate, my family's village was raided under suspicion of harboring rebels," he says quietly. "I went home to help the survivors rebuild. I didn't try to go back to the academy, and I doubt they would have allowed me to return."
"Oh." Yuri blinks, shaken by the admission. "I'm sorry, Otabek."
"I am grateful that you chose not to fight those battles, Captain." Otabek picks up the cloth from where he'd left it draped over the edge of the basin, and Yuri knows that nothing more will be shared.
Yuri leaves. At first, he thinks to go and ask Sara what she learned from her time talking to Otabek while scrubbing the hull. She won't tell him much, not unless she thinks Otabek is a threat, but Yuri isn't worried about that anymore; he's not sure he ever was, past the first few minutes.
He doesn't even try for the scraps she might have shared. Yuri yearns to know Otabek, to understand him, but not as a collection of secrets that have been pried from him.
They'll make land in St. Petersburg soon. The repairs will take a few days, but no more than a week or two.
Then, as promised, Yuri will leave Otabek Altin in Helsinki and they'll part ways.
Yuri glowers, pushing the roiling disappointment from his thoughts. Something bigger, sharp and dark, rises on his mind's horizon. This, too, he ignores.
"Should have thrown him overboard," he mutters to himself. "He's too much trouble."
:: :: ::
Otabek is still shaking by the time he pulls on the borrowed clothes and towels off his hair as best he can, but it's not from the chill. That has been thoroughly baked out of his body by the steaming water – one oft-overlooked benefit of working on an airship – and the hot, damp air in the wash closet.
Nerves, he tells himself, still humming from his hours suspended outside the ship and with no outlet to direct them. Exhaustion. He had dinner not too long before, but Otabek is already fantasizing about wrapping his shaking hands around a mug of tea that's more sugar than liquid.
He wishes that he could convince himself that it's merely stress and fatigue, but Otabek gave up lying to himself when so much of his life had became lying to others.
He has to get to St. Petersburg – he's cutting it too close already – and then, with a bit of luck, things will move quickly. Otabek doesn't have the luxury of gallivanting across the sky forever, even if the shadow of their uneasy truce wasn't dogging his heels, any more than he has the comfort of self-deception.
Even so…
Otabek wants to know when Yuri had chosen to break from the navy, from the medals and honors and power that waited for him. He wants to know when he'd met Mila, because the irritation and care that sparks its well-worn path between them must have taken more than a handful of years to become as solid as it is. He wants to see Yuri's face as he spiders down the side of the Bezumiye, his fear and excitement and freedom as he glances down to the earth below.
Otabek tries to remember when he'd stopped being Captain Plisetsky and become Yuri.
For an instant, he'd thought that Yuri was about to reach out and trace the scars cut by shrapnel, run cool fingers across Otabek's bare shoulders, the outline of his spine and hips.
Otabek sighs and adjusts the ill-fitting trousers one last time before stepping out of the wash closet.
They will dock in St. Petersburg the day after tomorrow, and he has a job to do. Otabek should pray that it goes quickly, that there's no need for delays or last-minute adjustments. But if there are, if there's enough time for him to make good on his deal and repair the Bezumiye…
Otabek puts that thought aside, too. Either there will be time, or there won't – it's as simple as that.
Mila, with her web of information, will figure out who he is, though perhaps not before Yuri's quick mind lands on the suspicion he must eventually reach. There will be no returning to the Bezumiye after that, whether Otabek has finished the repairs or not.
But he believes – or perhaps hopes – that Yuri will eventually forgive him his subterfuge.
:: :: ::
"Yura, do you enjoy tormenting yourself?" Mila says lightly, but there's an edge of frustration to her teasing.
"No, you've got that covered," he snaps. "Why, may I ask, do I not have the cargo papers? You know as well as I do that the harbormaster-"
"I gave them to you an hour ago." All trappings of humor have been stripped from her voice. She shoots him a reproving glare. "Yuri Plisetsky, far be it from me to tell you that you can't make yourself miserable, but you are the captain and I expect you to act like it. You can talk or you can sulk, but I'm doing my job and you'd better do yours."
There's a warning in her voice. That, more than her words, stops Yuri short. She wouldn't leave the Bezumiye, not for one bout of admittedly bad behavior, but…
"I'm sorry." Yuri kneads his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Thank you, Mila."
"I didn't mean to upset you," she says, more softly now. "Just- it's so easy to ask. You seemed to have forgotten that."
"I'm not jealous," Yuri replies. He's gripping the ship's wheel tight enough to bring an ache to his knuckles, but he keeps his voice level. "I don't care if you-"
There's a spark of panic as he whips his head up, peering around the main deck.
"He's with the engine," Mila tells him.
Yuri takes a breath to steady himself. "You can bed whomever you like. Even if I were interested in doing the same, I know you weren't laying claim to him. Though I do," he continues, managing a small smile, "occasionally wish that you didn't always try to teach by example."
"Yura…" He watches her weigh whether or not to push the subject, already knowing where her decision will fall. "It's obvious that you fancy him. I certainly don't trust him as far as Sara could throw him, but you can take care of yourself. You're past the shyness of a schoolboy's first crush, so why-"
"He'll be gone in a fortnight." Privately, Yuri half-expects Otabek to vanish moments after they dock, slipping away into the crowds.
"All the more reason not to waste time."
"Perhaps." Yuri's mood darkens once more, and Mila rolls her eyes. He sighs. "Could you have kissed Sara and then watched her walk away?"
Mila's eyes widen. "You think he's your Sara? Yura…"
"I don't know, and it's easier not to find out." He's trying not to meet her gaze, as if he can hide the malaise of bitter confusion from both Mila and himself. "It's… I want to understand him. Yes, I'm quite aware that he's lying about almost everything, but at the same time, he's not lying at all.I can't let him go, but I can't stop him."
Yuri can almost feel Otabek on the lower deck – only a few arms' lengths away, if he's settled in his usual spot, working on the secret project he's been keeping so carefully hidden.
Mila's hand rests on his shoulder for a moment. She'll help him pick up the pieces later, but only after it's fallen apart. Now isn't the time.
"St. Petersburg," she says thoughtfully. "I wonder if…"
He can only nod. Even the sky doesn't seem a private enough place to speak his nascent suspicions aloud.
"That's a dangerous world, Yura."
"I don't think he's a dangerous person," Yuri tells her. "Not to us. Not if he doesn't have to be."
"I've never been worried about Otabek himself. I don't trust him, but I don't believe that he's personally a threat." Mila shrugs. "However, he keeps dangerous company. Not that I'm opposed, if I know who I'm dealing with."
That brings him a snort of laughter. "At least I'm not planning to fake his death," he retorts with a smirk. "Twice."
"All in the name of love." Mila smiles up at the crow's nest with fond eyes. "Don't give up so easily. We could use a mechanic. Besides," she whispers, leaning in as if to share a secret, "do you know how often he works shirtless? And do you think we can get him to take anything else off?"
A hot flush blooms from his ears to… lower. Much lower. He's never had many opportunities to drop in on Otabek, as his waking hours are largely confined to the main deck, and the realization hits him with simultaneous regret and relief. Yuri's dignity had scarce survived the few minutes in the wash closet.
"But if I hear any more talk of adding extra solar condensers, I'll be out the emergency hatch," she warns.
Yuri claws his composure back into place and breathlessly agrees. He'd never seriously considered it, not until Otabek brought up secondary engines. He's sure that Mila will come around eventually, if they manage to scrape up a feasible design and enough cash.
He shakes himself out of the daydream.
"Have everyone prep for descent. That faulty regulator might make this rough."
"Got it, Cap'n." Mila grins and hops up from where she's been leaning against the instrument panel cabinet. "Think the good harbormaster will take an interest?"
"Undoubtedly," Yuri huffs, rolling his eyes. "I swear Utkin hates me, God knows why."
"He thinks you're hiding something."
"Hah. Prick."
"And you did tell him that he looks like a hog's backside, Yura."
"It was a compliment."
"I'll make sure we're all squared away," she says. "Good thing we're not making any big deliveries, what with Sara and Otabek. Might get a bit cramped down there otherwise."
Another thing to consider. If they do get around to overhauling the engine, it's past time to make some upgrades to their storage compartments. Yuri makes a note to bring that up later, if…
If Otabek decides to trust him.
If he makes it through what Yuri thinks is coming.
If he isn't misinterpreting the warmth in Otabek's face when their eyes meet, how their conversations linger moments – or hours – longer than necessary.
If…
No. Just if.
:: :: ::
Otabek fears that his exhaustion might be as obvious on his face as it is within his body. He dares not let himself be seen coming and going from the docks too often, leaving scant few hours for sleep as his days are split between managing repairs on the Bezumiye and his own activities.
Waiting is both a torment and a relief. Otabek arrived as other pieces were still in motion, but he's on edge, constantly anticipating the moment in which it will all come to a close. When he dreams, he dreams of blueprints, each angle traced into his mind with exacting precision. They cannot, after all, risk any physical evidence.
Not beyond what lies in his toolbox.
"Otabek!" Yuri calls from where he's standing on the opposite side of the deck, and Otabek starts.
"Captain," he acknowledges, cursing himself for the lapse. He has no reason to be nervous, not so far as Yuri is concerned. "Is there a problem?"
"No." Yuri looks at him, and Otabek wonders once more whether he's given too much away in their word games. He's never been gifted in conversation, and his silent refuge is no match for Yuri's quicksilver tongue. Or, perhaps, he simply couldn't bring himself to hide from Yuri. "The last of the parts just came in."
"That was fast." Otabek waits for Yuri to ask where he's been, what drives him out at all hours of the day and night, but the question never comes.
Yuri simply replies, "I was owed a few favors. Called them in."
Once again, Otabek has the impression that Yuri knows more than he's saying. What need has he for such haste? It would be easy to make the final, dangerous slip into trust.
I am grateful that you chose not to fight those battles, Captain.
Perhaps he already has.
Though he might be willing to risk himself, Otabek can't allow his emotions to endanger the others - or Yuri and his crew, should it come to that.
"I believe I will be able to finish the major installations this afternoon." This part will be quick, at least. The difficult repairs are behind him now.
"You can take a break, you know."
He can't, not really. Otabek dips his head, neither agreeing with nor refuting Yuri's statement.
Otabek suspects that this will be his last evening on the Bezumiye. There will be no opportunity for proper farewells.
"Captain," he says softly. "Yuri. Though I regret the circumstances of our introduction, I appreciate my time aboard your ship and in your company."
"I've met companions through stranger means." Yuri's voice is equally quiet, an intimate whisper on the otherwise empty ship. He steps closer. "Though not by much, I'll admit."
"I would like to hear those stories," Otabek murmurs. The knowledge that he never will is bitter, though it's tinged with the sweetness of Yuri's presence.
"Otabek." Yuri hesitates, and Otabek wishes could know what words Yuri silently weighs. "You're welcome aboard the Bezumiye, whenever and wherever our paths may cross."
This is a farewell. Otabek is certain of it now. Before he can waver, Otabek gently catches Yuri's hand and lifts it to his lips.
"Thank you."
There's tension in Yuri's slim, strong fingers, roughened by the scars of military training and years of sailing. He doesn't move away, nor does he motion to pull Otabek closer. He simply stares down, a smile on his mouth and sadness in his eyes, waiting.
"I will see to the engine," Otabek says. It's not the answer Yuri is looking for, but it's the only one that he can give.
He works until dinner and excuses himself as early as he can. Otabek allows one last, lingering glance over his shoulder.
Mila and Sara clear their dishes from the table, moving together as if each step has been choreographed: Sara lifts a bowl and passes it aside, sure of where Mila's hand waits to accept it. It's a dance of hypnotizing familiarity. Sara nods to Otabek, only once, and turns away.
This, too, is a goodbye.
Yuri stares into nothing. His face shifts with his thoughts, creasing into a quick frown, flickering into a wry smile, and sneering with sudden frustration. His soup and bread lie cold before him, long since forgotten.
Otabek slips away into the streets.
They're waiting for him.
"One hour," Sezim murmurs. "Ready, Altin?"
:: :: ::
The steam tunnels are so hot that each breath feels like drowning. Despite the humidity and the cloth tied across his face, Otabek's mouth is dry with dust.
He moves slowly, counting each step and crawl. There is no light. He navigates through the maze only by his memory of the blueprint's delicate tracery and what he can feel on the grimy walls.
The pipes – and the air – grow hotter as he gets closer to the central boiler. Otabek wills himself not to cough, not to hiss with pain, as he drops to his stomach and wriggles under a corroded tangle of rusty exhaust ventilation. A sharp edge catches his cheek, and the drop of blood that streaks down his face is cool on his skin. Another pipe leaves a searing welt where it brushes his shoulder.
And then he's through. There's no door into arched stone cavern that houses the furnace; instead, the steam tunnels form pipe-filled tendrils that snake away and curl through the earth. There's enough light to see, cast by the flickering embers, and Otabek peers through the dull red glow. Five tunnels branch out from the central hub, three that he can see fading into shadow and two more that rest in his mind as thin lines of ink.
A prison is not an airship: it cannot be allowed to drift through the night, powered by wind and clockwork. There are no solar condensers in this stone belly.
Otabek doesn't bother with the long, careful process of removing the locks set into the ancillary valves that direct the cooling water to be heated and pressurized once more. Instead, he opts to puncture the metal, driving the chisel into an aging seem with a quick blow from his hammer.
Water pours from the hole. It's hot, painfully so, but it isn't the deadly steam that fills the outgoing pipes.
Otabek finally, carefully, removes the small box that rests in the bottom of his toolkit and unlocks the latch holding it shut. The clockwork gleams, shimmering with oil, and seems to undulate in the low light. He lifts the device, inspecting it one last time.
His moth, ready to fly to its flame. The segmented body slips smoothly through the hole in the damaged pipe and disappears. The water will carry it to the boiler for its mechanisms to be spurred to life in the rising heat.
Otabek ignores his scalded fingers as he hastily seals the hole with a plug of wax putty. It won't hold for long, but that doesn't matter. It's time to go.
He almost makes it, fumbling through the darkness. Almost. The pipes are beginning to groan and wheeze as the pressure fluctuates, but the heat is almost bearable and fresh air is filtering down towards him.
He's nearly to the exhaust grate when the boiler gives way. The explosion rocks the very foundation of the building and it feels like the earth itself is shuddering, raining rust and mortar from the tunnel ceiling as it shakes.
Otabek throws himself outside. He can't hear the pipes blow behind him, not over the deafening ringing in his ears, but a wave of steam rolls out behind him. He drops flat to the soil, wrenching his shoulder as he falls, but the deadly cloud billows out over him and he's left aching but alive.
There must be shouting inside, yells of fear from the explosion that shift to anger and frustration and surprise as the security systems lose pressure and begin to fail, one by one. All that Otabek can make out is the tinny hum filling his head. He raises his hands to block it out, dizzy and disoriented, but of course it makes no difference.
Another shockwave rumbles through the earth as the auxiliary power fell prey to the same fate. Foolish, really – it wasn't only airships that could use dual, discrete steam lines. His moth had laid its eggs, and they were carried directly to the backup boilers as emergency systems rerouted the steam.
The others would lead the prisoners to freedom. Otabek doesn't know how they'll get out or where they'll go: his job is finished, and he cannot give up the details of their escape.
He's left to his own exit.
His lungs ache from the tunnels' abuse as he climbs to his feet, holding his injured arm tight to his chest. He can't move it correctly, and his arm screams with pain – it must have been dislocated in the uncoordinated fall to safety. All he can do is stumble through the bare field, empty of guards as they rush to assist inside, and into the dark alleys of St. Petersburg. The only sound he can hear is the high, tinny whine in his ears.
It's time to disappear for a long, long while, and before anyone thinks to search the city for Kazakh accomplices, but Otabek can't think well enough to hide. He lets his feet take him where they will, hoping that it's as far as possible from the prison.
:: :: ::
"Yura," Sara calls, swinging down from the crow's nest. "Eastern dock, third pier from center."
Yuri's already on his feet. "A patrol?"
"No. Otabek."
He came back.
"Anyone following him?" Mila asks, jumping up to catch Yuri before he can leave the ship.
"Doesn't look like it," Sara replies brusquely. "But our friend Oleg is making his rounds."
"Shit." Yuri bites his lip. "Mila, grab your flask."
She complies. "We're not seriously trying this one, are we? Only an idiot would fall for it. You're just going to get us searched again."
"Luckily, Oleg Utkin is our idiot. You've got a better idea?" He lifts an eyebrow and she shrugs. "Mila, you're our distraction. Sara, get on top, keep an eye out. Set something on fire if you have to. Not the Bezumiye."
Yuri doesn't run. Running draws attention. He strolls along the docks, just another captain looking to spend his pay on whatever sleazy nighttime entertainment the city has to offer.
He sees Otabek one pier off from where Sara had spotted him, but he's no longer making his way to the Bezumiye. He's standing off to one side, shrouded in shadow, as if weighing whether or not to turn tail.
Mila's voice lifts, slurred and loud, from the other side of the docks.
"Oi," Yuri hisses. "Over here!"
Otabek doesn't react. He only looks up with a start as Yuri draws close. There's a dark streak of what looks like dried blood on his face, almost hidden by smears of oil and dirt. He blinks.
"Don't just stand there, you idiot," Yuri growls. "Come on, the entire military is on the streets and probably heading this way!"
Otabek shakes his head, lifting one hand to his ear. The other arm is held close to his body. He steps forward with a wince and then pauses.
He can't hear. Yuri sighs. Well, he wouldn't be able to, not if he was near the center of the explosion that had left the Bezumiye's sails quivering.
"I shouldn't have come back," Otabek mumbles, low enough that Yuri has to lean in to catch his words. "Wasn't thinking. I'm sorry. Dangerous."
Yuri grabs Otabek's hand, the one that isn't tucked gingerly against his side, and meets his gaze. He doesn't need words for this conversation. He only has to curl his fingers into Otabek's and raise them in a mirror of their earlier exchange.
His lips come away dusty and bitter with oil, but he still smiles as Otabek dips his head in ascent and allows Yuri to lead him back to the Bezumiye. They skirt through shadows and Yuri strains his ears, trying to listen for both of them. Mila and Utkin argue, her voice thick with pretend drunkenness and ribald teasing. Shouts rise through the surrounding city as soldiers pour out, storming around under the raised docks.
When they make it back to the ship, Yuri unceremoniously shoves Otabek into the smuggling compartment set into the lower deck. Sara follows him down.
"Get Mila before she makes too much of a scene," she whispers, and the hidden hatch vanishes into the scuffed floorboards.
:: :: ::
"How's the shoulder?" Yuri's question is short and sharp, but Otabek smiles.
"Better." It is, but he won't be using it normally for quite a while. His left ear will likely remain muffled forever. It was, Otabek decides, well worth it in the end. "Thank you."
"So." Yuri settles on the floor next to him, watching as Otabek makes one-handed adjustments to the altitude regulator's calibration. He hadn't quite managed to finish the final touches before… everything. "Still want to get to Helsinki?"
Otabek snorts, but Yuri's face grows serious.
"Beka. What do you want to do?"
"I need to disappear for a while," he says finally. "As far from Russian officials as possible. If they didn't guess that I was involved, someone will make the connection soon. I wasn't invisible. And then… I suppose that depends."
"There aren't any soldiers on my ship," Yuri tells him. "Not anymore."
"And after?"
Yuri smirks. "Sara and Mila are getting bored of deliveries. I could use a change of pace too, now that you mention it."
"Yura-"
"Welcome to the Bezumiye, Otabek."