The Last Miles Are Always The Hardest
"Here, drink this."
As he heard these words renewed gagging shook Yuri's entire body, forcing him to bend over once again. A bitter taste invaded his mouth, the leftover lunch in his stomach ended up on the ground. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, yellowish acid strings hung from his chin. He wrinkled his nose at the strong smell.
"Drink!" repeated Plisetsky, shoving a canteen under his nose. Yuri took it with trembling hands, taking an unsure sip. The water barely poured down his throat as a new surge of nausea forced it back up. Yuri coughed, a muddle of acid, water, and spit sputtering all over. Under Plisetsky's look of disapproval, he grabbed the canteen and tried to take another sip, slower this time. He used the water to wash his mouth, sloshing it from cheek to cheek, before swallowing it.
Yuri cleaned his hands on the front of his trousers. His throat burned. On his dusty face, tears had left two pale trails. Crust was forming at the corners of his eyes. He sniffed. He then dried his nose on his sleeve, which was so dirty by now that some mucus wouldn't have made any difference.
Phichit was gone. It was the only thing Yuri could focus on. Phichit was gone, and Yuri couldn't do anything to change his Fate. He could still hear his friend's laughter from the evening before, the appropriate response for some silly story that Yuri had ended up mangling, but Phichit had laughed all the same. Phichit's laugh had been a cure-all; his jokes were the rope Yuri used to escape the pit of depression he'd fallen in after shouldering the blame for his entire squad's death.
And now the rope had snapped.
He felt himself drop to his knees. Phichit was gone, the only person who had ever believed in him was gone, so there was no use in going on. He had always been a burden. His family had been so quick to send him away when things had started to go wrong, as it's normally done with a burden. After all no one here considered him useful, neither his comrades or the Russians.
Especially Victor Nikiforov; Yuri had seen the way he looked at him, the sadness in his eyes. He saw the disapproval that lingered in those ice-blue irises; the disappointment hidden beneath the kindness.
Plisetsky grabbed him before he could touch the ground.
"Not now!" he hissed and started to walk, dragging him along. His pace was fast; his manners rude. Apparently Plisetsky didn't care about him dislocating a shoulder, as long as he kept moving.
"He's right," echoed Michele, passing on the other side. "If you stop, it's the end."
"But the body!" Yuri protested, fighting against the two, uselessly. Despite his slender body, Yuri Plisetsky was a strong man. He yanked Yuri while Michele pushed him, an open palm right between his shoulder blades.
"Please save us the effort of knocking you out and having to carry you!" Plisetsky threatened. He soon after added, "Victor is taking care of it."
He then looked over his shoulder to assure that everything was fine. Yuri tried to imitate the gesture, but Michele prevented him, slapping his nape.
"Don't watch!" he hissed, hand still pushing on Yuri's back.
I have already watched, I want to watch, just fucking let me go.
Just leave me here.
This was what Yuri would've liked to have shouted.
"It's no use," he simply muttered under his breath. "You can let me go," he continued, feeling Yuri Plisetsky's fingers still hooked around his wrist, like a teacher would do with an unruly child. His request landed on empty ears. Plisetsky yanked him forward till they had put a few miles between them and the place where the deed had been done
While walking in a pitch-black, blurred pit of despair and numbness, Yuri barely registered Behrooz saying that less than a day's march separated them from the village. The information entered one ear and out the other. Has he said something?
That night Yuri took his rations and sat by himself, struggling with the image of Phichit's body clawing at his mind and twisting his stomach. He ate in miniscule bites, chewing on the dry food and hating himself because Phichit was dead. While he continued to feel thirsty and hungry, as if nothing had happened.
He fell asleep from exhaustion; as soon as he closed his eyes, his friend's eyes started to haunt his dreams, forcing him to wake up in a bath of cold sweat. The starry night was beautiful as always, the moon distant and mocking. The rabbit on the moon was working like it always had done since the moon had first been in the sky.
The morning after found Yuri strangely, forcefully cheerful.
"Good morning, lovely day, isn't it? If we move we can cover ten miles before nine!" he woke the others up, lightly kicking their sleeping bags to force them out of sleep. "Come on, we're losing time!" he insisted, rolling up his sleeping back at record speed. The horizon was not yet tinted by the pinkish and orange hue of the dawn. The higher part still had the velvet blue colour of the night. Venus shone in the distance, as the moon slowly faded.
After all, Phichit would've been sad if he knew Yuri had cried. It was like how Michele had said: you can't stop.
"You think you can fool me?"
As he sat in the shade, the midday scorching sun obliged them to pause for a while, especially after JJ had shown the first signs of a heat exhaustion, Yuri lifted his gaze from the canteen he had been examining just then. Plisetsky stood there with his hands on his hips, the image almost funny. With that pose, he seemed more like an angry housewife than a soldier.
"Excuse me?" Yuri replied, voice deadpan. He could swear seeing a vein swell on his namesake's temple. Yuri Plisetsky closed his fists; then decided to open his arms to underline his exasperation.
"This!" He stomped his feet for maximum drama effect. "You've been so disgustingly full of energy since this morning. It makes me sick. People don't react like this to a comrade's death –"
"Phichit wasn't a comrade, he was a friend," Yuri corrected him without skipping a beat. There was a deep coldness in his tone, signalling how dear the difference was to him and wouldn't allow a second mistake.
As usual Plisetsky didn't care. He had never cared.
"Whatever, people don't act like this," continued Plisetsky. Almost amused by his distress, Yuri's lips quirked upward, in a hollow grin than didn't reach his eyes in the slightest.
"Would you prefer for me to cry, throw a tantrum, and be a burden?" Yuri suggested, closing the canteen without giving it a second look
"That's not what I'm saying."
"Are you sure?" Yuri insisted, surging to his feet. He was shorter than the Russian, but with his back straight and head high he could more imposing than what the eyes gave away. Plisetsky took a step back.
"Isn't t what you've been waiting for all day? To see my breakdown? To prove your prejudices? What better moment than now? The only person who believed in me is no more; it's a matter of hours before I'll go to pieces. What are the bets, tell me!? What are the bets on this old Private?"
Yuri was on the verge of shouting, a shower of words pouring from his mouth with all its venom charged with hate and self-doubt. "And you, above it all. I bet you killed him to watch me fall," he sputtered, accusation heavy with every word. Oh, that condescending smile of Plisetsky's was burned into his memory.
"What the fuck you talking about?"
"You shot him!" Yuri snapped, voice rising. Carefulness be damned.
"It was an act of mercy!" Plisetsky hissed.
"He could've survived!"
Yuri was shouting now.
The slap came from out of nowhere. Plisetsky hit him hard on the cheek, so hard Yuri's head turned as he fell to the ground. He spat out a tooth, blood and saliva staining the collar of his uniform.
"I have all intentions to punch you until you've come back to your senses," Plisetsky warned, fist already half raised. "And I'll punch you too," he menaced towards Leroy and Crispino, who were approaching, attracted by the commotion. There had been four Americans. Now the number had been reduced to three, two of whom were struggling.
Yuri sat for a moment on the ground, examining his tooth, the left canine.
"So?" Plisetsky questioned. Yuri did not say a word. He simply crouched, curling his knees to his chest; he jolted forward to return the punch.
Yuri didn't like to brag, but he could proudly claim, albeit mostly to himself, that he had a talent for hand to hand combat.
The thing was being the kid that other children used to pick on had forced him to learn how to defend himself, if he didn't want his bento box being stolen on a daily basis. It had been that same ballet training, which other boys mocked him for, that gave him both strength and agility.
He ducked as Plisetsky charged forward with another punch aimed towards his cheek.
He heard Captain's Popovich distressed call for them to stop, along with Victor's orders to leave them be. "It'll be a special exception, Jora."
Yuri paid dearly for the moment of distraction, as Plisetsky successfully managed to grapple and flip him over, in a tangle of arms and legs. Yuri tasted blood. It felt good this time. He rammed his head against Plisetsky's chin, the crown colliding with the hard bone. The Russian groaned. As he lifted his hands to the wounded area, Yuri took advantage of this to free himself and stand. The other did the same thing.
They separated once again. Each gasping for breath. They grappled with each other, with less and less precise movements; tiredness started to show. Each punch was a little less angry. Each kick was a little less hateful. Soon their energy was drained, making every following movement more mellow than the last.
In the end, they both laid on the bare ground; faces covered in sweat, dust, and blood. They glanced at each other. Smiles grew on their faces.
"Thanks."
Yuri was the first to break the silence. He didn't feel better in the slightest, but fighting with Plisetsky had somehow helped him to get rid of the false cheer that had tormented him the past few hours. Above all, it had kept Phichit's death and what it meant at bay for a while. He stood and offered a hand to the Russian, who in the end accepted it.
"I hope you're satisfied with yourself," Michele mumbled, eyes full of disapproval. He raised a finger to point at the sun, already on his way towards the horizon, the clock signalled that 1300 had just passed. "Your little fight made us lose precious time," Michele continued. His shovel talk was cut off, however, at the beginning with Victor's arrival.
"They haven't, Sergeant Crispino. I'm glad these two have finally sorted things out. If only things could always be so simple," the General simply remarked. The last part of the phrase was accompanied by him staring at Yuri, a knowing look in his eyes. Yuri averted his gaze, hands curling tightly around the straps of his rucksack. He had just noticed that, along with his own, Victor was also carrying Phichit's ruck.
To not waste his sacrifice
"You're not the only one who has suffered," Plisetsky told him as soon as Victor had left, wiping his nose. "If it hadn't been for Lilia…" he trailed off. His usual discretion, along with the habit not showing any weakness, prevented him from opening up too much. It was nonetheless too late, as Yuri's curiosity had already been lit.
"Lilia?"
"Yes, Yakov's ex-wife. Lilia Baranoskaya."
Yuri froze, metaphorically at least. In truth he continued to walk, but his mouth fell open. He shook his head as to clear it. "Lilia Baranoskaya? The ex-Bolshoi Prima, that Lilia Baranoskaya?"
Now it was Plisetsky's turn to be surprised. He turned to watch Yuri. The scoff in his voice did little to hide his sincere surprise. "Of course, who else," he replied. "How do you know her?" he asked right after. Yuri huffed, the ghost of a laugh barely audible.
"You're kidding, right? Everybody in the dance world knows her," he affirmed, matter-of-factly.
"You did dance?"
Plisetsky seemed more confused than ever; or intrigued. It was difficult to say. Yuri couldn't help but smirk.
"Yes, Ballet. But people made fun of me for it," he answered. The information fell easily, that thin string in common between him and the Russian was well welcomed, despite having been discovered in the strangest way at the worst moment ever
"That's bullshit!" Plisetsky exclaimed.
"And you?" Yuri asked, curiosity creeping in words.
"A little, but wasn't my thing."
He trailed off once again, back tracking into safe and neutral territory as soon as Yuri Katsuki tapped into his past nobody was allowed into. Otabek had to wait years before Plisetsky could feel comfortable enough to open up to him, telling him how dancing had been both a blessing and a curse. He appreciated, still, the fact that Yuri Katsuki respected his silence and made no attempt to break it before he could feel comfortable enough to do so himself.
"Chulanont make fun of you too?" Yuri Plisetsky managed to ask. Yuri laughed a bit, a sad and fond laugh, the kind reserved to a dear but old memory.
"Never."
On the contrary, Phichit had been deeply fascinated by Yuri's flexible body and his graceful movements, happy to find a person who could understand his profound passion for dancing musicals. "My grandma was a dancer, she moved with the wind," Phichit used to recall, before diving into childhood memories.
He was born in Thailand, in a big family living in a colourful house in the slums of Bangkok. Then his father, a famous baker in the area got the idea of opening a bakery in the US and, despite all their doubts, the whole family participated in this adventure. Unfortunately, America was very different from the Promise Land Phichit's father had pictured; in the end, despite having great success in the Thai neighbourhood, the pastry shop never had any major success, and having a family with four sons and two daughters to provide for, saving money became a problem. The difference between Yuri and Phichit, however, was that the latter's family never lost their hope or optimism and stuck together as much as they could.
Lost in his memories, Yuri became silent. Plisetsky waited a few minutes, but when it was clear that the Japanese man wasn't going to speak any time soon, he left him alone. It was clear that part of his mind had escaped to some distant land, a happy place with no pain. Where he had no intention of coming back any time soon, as if this could help him go on.
"This is no place for him."
This was what Yuri had thought about Phichit Chulanont the first time they had met at Basic in Fort Knox; and he had no doubt the Thai had probably had similar thoughts about himself.
"Chulanont. Phichit Chulanont," the man had introduced himself, with an iron-like but friendly handshake.
Yuri honestly didn't remember their first encounter all that well, details lost to the past and Phichit's swirling personality. Before that, Yuri didn't know a person could talk that much. He was sure, however, that they had started to chat during chow. Phichit was a concentration of optimism.
"Had to help my family," was his answer when Yuri asked him why he had enlisted. That had been the start of a lifelong friendship. Phichit's warm personality had quickly captured Yuri, winning his trust and pushing past his shyness. He always had a joke ready to lighten his morale after a particularly gruelling day of training, and apparently, he was immune to a sentiment called "hate."
Phichit had a natural talent to make friends. In no time, the two of them had acquired two new friends: Leo de la Iglesia, a half-Mexican with a passion for music, and Guang Hong Ji, a Chinese immigrant way more dangerous than his looks led you to believe.
"And you? How did a Japanese man from Kyushu end up in the US Army?" Phichit inquired one evening, when it was acceptable to pose a similar question. Yuri told him the story of how his family was forced to send him away from home.
"Guess you can say I've enlisted to help my family too," he concluded, shrugging. They were polishing a whole pile of boots the chatting helped them to get through the heavy work, especially after a day of training. It was probably a punishment for something Yuri couldn't recall anymore. Still, he remembered the smell of shoe polish in his nostrils and how Phichit's topic of choice had jumped from his childhood to his favourite Thai movie to how much he loved computers.
Yuri hadn't mentioned Victor Nikiforov at the time, not yet. Nonetheless, as Phichit would soon discover, being a friend with him meant having an indirect knowledge of the Russian General. If the name had only rung a bell in Phichit's head before, vague memory of strategy class and enemy analysis, now it was the sign of Yuri's eyes starting to sparkle and his mouth to speak nonstop.
Phichit had always listened to him.
He had listened to him the day before, no more than three hours prior his death.
"Last night Victor talked to me," Yuri began knowing that with Phichit, there wasn't any necessity to introduce the topic. Actually, this always made things so much easier. He paid little attention to the fact he had referred to the General by nothing but his birth name. Phichit nodded. His tongue clicking against his palate was a sign that he was all ears.
"Well, we've already talked, but this time it was different," Yuri clarified.
"He spoke about paths chosen by Fate and destiny." Yuri recalled, with doubt normally associated with something so absurd it couldn't have actually happened; how Victor's hand had been so close to his face he could almost feel its warmth and the way Victor's body had bended with the intention of leaning towards him, his profile well outlined by the stars' light.
Phichit didn't make a sound besides a sporadic "mmm" to signal he was actively listening. He didn't have to wait much before Yuri resumed. His voice had familiar hints of panic.
"What can I do, Phichit? He's here. He's so close, and every time he looks at me I feel my heart bursting. I love him, and I can't even tell him."
As his friend finally admitted what Phichit had suspected since the day Yuri shared the secret of a dossier, compiled with the passion of a person who had nothing else to hold on to, Phichit switched from his comrade-mood to his best-friend-mood.
"Tell him!"
Yuri jumped in place. The reaction caused a hullabaloo of darting eyes and hands on rifles. Michele, who was walking right behind Yuri, stopped abruptly and crashed into his back, cursing.
"What's there?" came Victor's question from the end of the column.
"Yeah, I hope it's something important," echoed Plisetsky from the front. Yuri felt his face burning in embarrassment.
"Nothing, false alarm," Phichit assured, a look of complicity in his eyes. There was another pause of doubt, people looking around with a new surge of paranoia, but nothing different from the ordinary was found.
"Ok, let's just keep moving," Victor ordered in the end. They all rushed to comply.
With the attention no longer on them, Phichit didn't lose any time to get back on the topic they were discussing prior. Yuri sighed in understanding. "I can't tell him. He's Victor Nikiforov. He's a legend, and I'm just me," he said, the last two words bearing all the nothingness and meaninglessness he was feeling.
Probably doesn't even like men; if so, not men like me.
"You're more than what other people would hope to bargain for," Phichit countered.
"What if he doesn't want me? He can't want me. This is silly. He's everything, and I'm nothing-"
Yuri hadn't even finished that last sentence when Phichit had yanked him to the side of the column, gesturing for the others not to worry about them. Having been already witnesses of Yuri's anxiety, they all simply assumed that was the case and let them be, just slowing down the pace a bit. Phichit dug fingers into Yuri's shoulders, staring at him in the eyes with a look reserved for when he wanted to be very, very serious.
"Yuri Katsuki, never ever say you're nothing. I'm your best friend, and as your best friend I'm allowed to slap some sense into that head of yours if you ever doubt yourself again."
"But….Victor!"
"Listen. Victor fucking Nikiforov may be a great General and everything, but if he doesn't see how good you are, then I'll have to kick his butt into tomorrow. I'll make him regret the day he's hurt you," Phichit threatened, launching significant glances to the Russian man.
"If he doesn't want you, he doesn't deserve you. Never forget this. So," he restarted, complicity softening again his features "when do you plan to tell him?"
"When this is all over," Yuri trailed off, unsure of his own decision. Phichit didn't seem to agree with him. According to him, indeed, the end of the mission was too late.
"Tell him tomorrow, I'll wait for it!" he insisted. He had insisted so much that in the end Yuri was forced make a promise. Three hours later, Phichit Chulanont met his fate, and Yuri discarded any intentions he could have of confessing his feelings to Victor Nikiforov.
Above all, Phichit had been there to listen and sustain him when the shame of that failed mission had fallen on his shoulders, like a stain he couldn't wash away.
Yuri remembered it as if it was yesterday: the late spring of 1986, Bolivia, Pando region.
The mission should've been simple, a quick raid in a drug-dealer controlled village, under the bigger operation that would come to be known as Operation Blast Furnace.
The air was so humid it gave them the sensation of breathing water. Mosquitoes landed non-stop on every inch of their skin, biting with no mercy. Soon the tickling of their minuscule bodies became an annoyance: a drop of sweat or the brush of a leaf was enough for the men to slap and scratch the just touched area. They slapped their arms, their legs, and their faces. It was a continuous sound of sweaty skin against sweaty skin, palms coming down with a "thump" and a "thud."
Until Yuri ordered his men to stop, telling them to actually keep a hold on their rifles. His men whined. He himself couldn't deny that resisting the urge to scratch the bites was actually torture. It burned and pricked, and it was everywhere.
At night, Yuri's nails joyfully dug into skin. In the morning, there was blood under them. But the apparent soothing was always short lived.
"Hey, aren't you used to it?" one of his men exclaimed a day fucking similar to all the others, in between the panting and curses at all the damn mosquitoes and beetles and whatever born-from-hell creature that crept under the leaves and between the roots. It wasn't the first time his men commented about his ethnicity, origins, or even young age – the fact that Yuri appeared ten years less than his actual age didn't help. Normally, he would have let it slide, but the fact was that he was exhausted and on the verge of exploding. He stopped and spun on his heel, a dangerous smile lingering on his lips.
"Yeah. Lemme clear two things straight. I know my English may be not so good, so I'll speak slowly for you to understand. One: my hometown is on the coast. Seaside. Got it? Sand and sea. Not jungle. I'm not from Iwo Jima. I'm not from Okinawa. My hometown's called Hasetsu. On the seaside? Got the difference?"
The men nodded, discomfort slowly appearing on their faces. Yuri kept grinning.
"Second, I haven't been home in almost nine years, understood?" Yuri continued, now mouth stretched in a full, toothy smile.
The men nodded again, shifting weight from one foot to the other and launching glances here and there. Yuri took a step forward, expression suddenly dead-serious.
"Now," he began his warning, accent willingly heavy on each single syllable, "if I hear any of you talking shit again about my person and my origins, if any of you ever dare to question my authority in any way, they'll have to burn this fucking jungle to the ground to find you. Understood?"
It had felt strange, but not in a bad way. Sure, there hadn't been any further jokes. In retrospect, he wished he hadn't been so harsh. The menace was still lingering in the air when the first bullets started flying over their heads. A man on Yuri's right shouted and dropped dead, a blood patch expanding on his chest.
Blood splattered Yuri's face. Another man cried, bending to grab his pierced leg; his voice full of pain and desperation.
Yuri's brain short-circuited.
All of the sudden, he didn't know anything beside the certainty that he was in hell, a burning hot, humid, green Hell. Years of training and instructions disappeared with the rising cries of men being cut down by a hidden enemy. Oh god, they were being shot. Someone was shooting them. Good god, the kid on his right had been killed? How old could he been? Twenty? Oh god, he was dead and Yuri had had no problem threatening him just moments ago.
His head started to spin, bullets coming from everywhere. Someone grabbed his arm and yanked down. Yuri barely registered the fact. His ears filled with the whistle of the bullets, the cries of pain, curses and words in a language he didn't understand.
"Corporal, what do we do?"
Of course, they depended on him. He was supposed to guide them; he was responsible for them. How was it? There was a scheme of manoeuvre, he was sure, but he couldn't remember anything about it. The air was so hot and humid, and everything was so noisy, so, so noisy. Oh god, god, god, from where was the shooting coming from? He didn't know. It was impossible to figure out, that fucking jungle looked all the same. "What do we do?"
Again, that request. He didn't know. He didn't fucking know. He only knew it was difficult to breath. His throat hurt. Yuri tried to inhale, but it was useless. The cries were so loud. He couldn't breath. Oh god, it couldn't happen to him. It couldn't happen now. He thought he had learnt to control his anxiety; he was sure. He had studied so carefully all those coping techniques, fighting every day to keep it under control. That was his first command, his first solo mission with a squad under his responsibility. He had promised everything would be fine.
And now he couldn't breath. Why was it so difficult to breath? Why was everything so blurry? Where were his glasses? Oh god, not his glasses! He touched his face in panic. No, they were still there; but his sight didn't improve at all.
Everything continued to spin around.
To Yuri, what had happened next was a distant memory of a dream belonging to someone else. One of his men had pulled him in between some bushes, and emptied a cartridge from there. He then launched an SOS via radio. They were the only two survivors. At the time, Yuri was too shocked to fully comprehend what had happened, let alone guide them back to safety. How they managed to do so was an answer that belonged to a land he had been unable to reach for a long time. All he wanted to do then was to curl up on the ground and sleep forever.
They are all dead. All dead.
He had accepted his demotion with no protest. His superiors had been more clement than he deserved, Cialdini, above all, interceded in his defence. "It happens. It's not your fault," Cialdini tried to reassure him. Phichit told him the same. Yuri, however, knew better. It was his fault. If it hadn't been for his anxiety, his men would've been still alive.
Victor Nikiforov would've never let something similar happen.
The day they finally arrived at the village, about two kilometres away from it, they stopped at the beginning of a trail that lead up to the complex of houses. Yuri was struggling with himself to keep moving. He barely had any sleep the previous two nights, too tired and with a mind that constantly flashed image of Phichit's death, no matter how hard he tried to shift his focus onto something else. The others weren't in any better shape, expressions stuck in a general grimace of "Now, what?"
Indeed, the hopes to find someone from Sergeant De La Iglesia's squad had became so thin everyone almost preferred to indulge ignorance than having the truth being slammed in their faces, whichever it might have been. It didn't help one bit that the two most optimistic people of the group were gone.
"So, now what?" Plisetsky huffed, tapping a foot impatiently.
From nowhere, a little girl ran before their eyes, a basket bouncing against her slim back. A kid, no older than five, followed soon after. He was barefoot and carried a bundle of wood in his skinny arms. As he rushed forward on unsteady feet, he tripped on an exposed root, fell to his knees and let the wood roll all over.
With his knees now scraped, he started to cry. The little girl, however, apparently wasn't in the mood for consolation. Instead, she gave him a cuff behind the ear and ordered him to recollect the wood. The kid - her brother no doubt - cried louder. This won him another clip, on the same ear. Sniffing and muttering what all the kids in the world are known to mutter when they're bossed around by their older siblings, the kid stood and started to recollect the wood, without much willingness nor success. Mucus shone under his small nose.
The kid was at his third attempt, when his sister was moved to mercy.
"There!" She told him in Pashtun, dividing the weight. "Now give me your hand."
Whether or not the kid protested his sister's decision, Yuri didn't know. The words were indeed covered by Behrooz's excited exclamations. He was pointing at where the children had just been, kept frantically reiterating the same phrase.
"They're them!"
"Them who?" asked Yuri Plisetsky, the tone of a person who couldn't take any more shit for the day, the week, and probably the whole month.
"The children!"
This time it was Yuri Plisetsky turn to snap. As it often happens, he did it out of nowhere and even at the wrong moment.
"Enough!" he exclaimed, cheeks becoming red with surging anger; the sentiment nourished by the frustration he had felt the previous day. Behrooz, half-speaking in English and half-relying on Otabek for a translation, goofily attempted to calm him down, saying that he had recognized two of the children Leo de La Iglesia had taken under his wing. It meant the others couldn't be far, as Sergeant de La Iglesia would've never abandon a child, he knew it. Plisetsky clenched its fists.
"How can I know you're telling the truth? Stop this farce. The first two kids we see, and suddenly you know them!?" he cried, accent heavy on his English.
"Yuri, please!" Otabek intervened.
Crying out that he didn't want to listen, Plisetsky took a step backwards. His foot found nothing but air. The other food slipped on smooth rock.
He dropped under their very eyes.
"No!"
Otabek sprinted forward. He jumped, body stretched out, but his gesture proved to be in vain. Or, it came too late as another person had already acted.
Behrooz was lying on his stomach, the upper part of his body leaned out over the abyss; a hand was grasping the edge of the cliff, the other was tight around Plisetsky's.
"Hold on!"
He panted, face twisted in the effort to sustain Captain Plisetsky's body. Plisetsky kicked the air, uselessly trying to find a grip on the wall. There weren't any ledges big enough for the tip of his boots to fit in. With one hand secured in Behrooz's, the other scratched aimlessly on the rock. His sweaty palm glided against it. He felt his hand became slippery.
"Fuck, that hurts! What are you doing? Help me!" he cried. Behrooz most recent, but useless, attempt to lift him had sent jolts of pain to the juncture between arm and shoulder. Indeed, Plisetsky was too heavy for a single, old man to carry him back to safety.
As if woken up by Plisetsky's protests, both Georgi and Otabek finally moved. They formed a human chain, the latter grabbing Behrooz by the waist, and pulled. JJ and Victor soon came to help them. They pulled again. They pulled until Plisetsky could throw himself to the safety of the area just before the cliff. He was still cursing the world under his breath, left arm cradling the right one. After a while, he carefully rolled a shoulder and welcomed the discovery it wasn't dislocated with a reassured smile.
He stretched it a bit. He then noticed Otabek's meaningful look. He turned towards Behrooz.
"Listen," he began, head a bit ducked and voice more uncertain than usual. "I am grateful for you having saved me."
The man stood there in wait, making no sound. Yuri took a deep breath. The effort of having to admit his errors was well visible. His face twisted in subsided pride.
"I was-"
Behrooz lifted his chin as an invitation to continue. Yuri nails bite into palms
"I was wrong, alright? But I had my motives and -", but Otabek's hand on his shoulder silenced him. Understanding the message, Yuri Plisetsky breathed again and forced himself to apologise without any ifs-ands-or-buts.
"I'm sorry, I was wrong."
Behrooz didn't say anything for a while. He just stood there, arms crossed, and a satisfied expression on his face. Then his wrinkled visage melted into a smile. He had a moment of hesitation, before reaching out his hand for Yuri Plisetsky's to shake it. He did it.
"I've told you, I'm a good man."
When Plisetsky had calmed down from the fear of the fall, despite the fact he would've never admitted it, the group returned to the previous problem of approaching the village. As they were discussing how many and which people were better to send in avant-garde, a voice rose up above the others, the tone demanding to be listened to.
"I'll go."
Six heads lifted towards JJ. In the passing days, his presence had been useful but not essential. Yuri had to admit he had often wondered what were Second Lieutenant Leroy's strong points, besides being able to repair a broken truck and telling horrible jokes. They would have forgotten about him, had it been possible with JJ continuing to remind them how lucky they were to have him around. Plisetsky always seemed on the verge of murdering him, when he wasn't directing his hate towards Yuri. Nonetheless, there was no doubt that Jean-Jacques Leroy was a trained soldier, just like all of them, born and raised in a family with a strong tradition in the military, if Yuri recalled correctly.
Moreover, JJ was probably holding up the best among them, at least psychologically. Thus, the possibility of leaving the floor to him was, indeed, alluring.
After a moment of reflection, Victor agreed: "All right. But I cannot let you go alone." He turned towards Yuri, almost mechanically. The man felt a resurgence of contrasting thoughts and feelings, but repressed them as quickly as they came.
"You're right, General. I'll go with him," he offered. Contrary to both JJ and Michele, he knew Leo and his squad, and held some vague information about their mission, which the Soviets were unaware of.
He had the feeling this could come in handy.
With hands on his rifle, Yuri and JJ jogged up the uphill trail. The village was now clearly visible to the naked eye, a group of ochre coloured houses, not different from any others they have already came across during their journey, came into view.
Two women were walking in their direction, each carrying a bucket against her hip. They were dressed in modest clothing, wearing long brown robes hiding any shape. Their heads were wrapped in hijabs, but the faces were exposed. As soon as Yuri noticed them, he quickly grabbed Second-Lieutenant Leroy's wrist to drag him back behind some rocks. The latest events had made him weary. The same, however, could not be said for JJ. The man freed himself, and almost ran towards the women.
"No! Wait, they can't"
Speak with strange men.
Yuri tried to warn him.
Too late. JJ had already left his hiding place, and was now strolling towards the women, a wide smile stretching his face. Yuri crossed fingers, hoping that being from a military family taught JJ how to deal with a similar situation.
"Me and my friend" JJ began. Yuri repressed the instinct to face palm. With his hideout revealed, he found no choice but to step into the light.
He darted a pleading look to JJ, hoping some common sense could be transmitted by stares. "If you could help us," JJ continued, English fast with a strong Canadian accent. Yuri wondered if JJ had actually looked at the issue of the two women not understanding him.
His doubts were short lived. Indeed, a woman had just picked up a stone and threw it at JJ, yelling. Her friend soon did the same. With the arm already raised, she noticed Yuri. She aimed at his head and flung the stone. The stone hit him in in the temple, hard. It wasn't enough to knock him down, but to break blood. Instinctively, Yuri crossed his arms over his head to protect it. Whatever the reason – maybe they had offended the women without knowing it, maybe they had scared them, maybe they had changed alliance in the past days – it was clear the two of them weren't welcomed anywhere near the village.
And maybe it had been the same for Leo and the others. The first thought, however, that Yuri had was to grab JJ's wrist and suggest a not-so-subtle retreat.
As Yuri and JJ ran from the two women, in a not so manly way they had to admit, Victor and Georgi, who separated from the rest of the group to explore a bit of the area, were facing a soldier dressed in a dusty US uniform who had all the intention to shoot them.
"Stop right there," the stranger shouted, rifle raised and pointed at Georgi's heart. Victor took his rifle safety off in response. The stranger shifted his own rifle towards him and back again, eyes peering from above the cloth that hid his mouth. If he had recognized Victor from his fame, he showed no sign having done so. Or if that were the case, it only made him wearier.
His hands trembled around the rifle's handle; sweat beading his brow and trailing down a small, button nose. He had almond-shaped eyes, now squinting in the light of the lowering sun, red rays painting abstract figures on one half of his body.
"Guys, those villagers are –" came a familiar voice in the distance
All of them, stranger included, lifted their gazes towards JJ, who was rushing down the track. Yuri followed right after, cradling a cheek in his hand.
"Crazy," JJ ended the sentence. He stopped abruptly before the scene that was unrolling under his eyes. At his side, Yuri seemed just as puzzled; not worried, if the US uniform of the new pawn meant anything. Indeed, under the layer of dust, the stranger's long hair and the stubble was strangely familiar.
The stranger's eyes lit up with interest as soon as he noticed Yuri's presence. He slowly lowered his rifle. He mouthed a single name; two syllables only.
"Yuri?" he asked, taking a step forward.
"Guang-Hong?" Yuri wondered in reply, tilting his head like he wanted to see the scene from a different angle.
The stranger slowly pulled down the cloth, revealing a small, baby face. Brown tufts covered in dirt fell over his honey-brown eyes.
He nodded. Yuri's crushing, bone-breaking hug, forced him to let go of the rifle.
Notes:
So, after the disasters of the last chapter, finally we have a joy. 'na gioia, as we say in Italy. I tell you, this had been one of the hardest chapter to write.
