"An End"
17th of March, 1921

Trotsky was strolling along the red brick wall. The crisp air stung as he inhaled it, but his breaths were calm and happy- a weight had been lifted off his chest. The proposals he had put forth a year prior had finally been accepted, and a theses for the implementation of the New Economic Policy. He was particularly pleased to know that the concept of a grain tax had been accepted, where it had previously been opposed by eleven votes. But now everything was different, as Lenin was on his side again. The conflict in the party was far from over, as the two months of embittered discussions were likely to lead to the formation of factions in the party, but knowing that Lenin and himself formed a solid front again formed a major element of relief.

Expecting that he would not be alone much longer, Trotsky leaned against the wall and complacently observed the inner grounds of the Kremlin. Indeed he was right, when he saw Lenin approach in the near distance. Trotsky smiled, knowing now that his relationship with his comrade had been rid of all disagreements.

"Good morning, comrade," Lenin said. Trotsky did not look at him, but showed that he was glad to see him with a wily smile. Lenin couldn't help but chuckle at the sudden change in Trotsky's appearance, in comparison to how he had behaved all through the congress.

"I saw you standing outside," Lenin spoke in a casual tone. "And as I found it most unusual, I decided to ask you why,"

Now Trotsky turned to Lenin suddenly, opening his mouth as he eagerly searched for the right words. "When do we ever have the time anymore to stand out side just for the sake of being outside?" he finally asked, smiling at Lenin when he finished his sentence. Lenin laughed again, so profoundly did Trotsky's mood amuse him.

"I mean it," Trotsky mumbled, looking down at his feet now while his smile slowly faded. Now Lenin nodded, as he too leaned back against the wall.

"I know," he sighed.

"Well we do now," Trotsky clarified. "For a while," he added, and Lenin understood what he meant.

"I must say, I feel rather foolish," Lenin confessed. And to Trotsky's look of confusion, he explained "it took me a year to realize your plans for the economic policy were exactly what Russia needed."

"Like you said. I am always right," Trotsky grinned, turning towards Lenin as he got back on his feet.

"I must say, it is refreshing to see you this carefree, comrade," chuckled Lenin, "surprising, almost."

"Well, I would assume it should be surprising. I could not have foreseen us turning to capitalism as a relief to our Russia's problems."

"It is but a temporary measure," Lenin sighed. His voice sounded monotone, unenthusiastic, as if he had uttered the same sentence many times already.

"Everything seems to be," Trotsky grinned. "War communism. Now the NEP."

"Indeed," Lenin inhaled sharply. His complexion seemed to turn a few shades whiter, as he took another shuddering breath.

"I'm sorry, I- didn't mean to offend you," Trotsky spoke hurriedly, noticing the sudden change in his comrade's conduct. Lenin, however, was quick to dismiss the subject with a shake of the head, and then took a few steps towards one of the gates nearby.

"Shall we spend a few more moments outside, just for the sake of being outside? Moscow awaits," he said with a complementary wave towards the gate.

But they never made it to a gate, as just a few seconds later Lenin's breathing became irregular again, and he seemed about to crumble into a heap. Trotsky instinctively leaped towards him, and caught him. Trembling, Lenin rested in Trotsky's arms, and they exchanged a worried look. Then suddenly they were surrounded by a group of guards. Trotsky hadn't even seen them approach, but they quickly, quite literally, took Lenin off his hands. Stumbling, the party began to make their way back to the building. Trotsky stepped forward, stretching out his hand in an attempt to make himself useful.

"Do not worry yourself, comrade, we'll take him back," one of the men hurriedly told him, looking back over his shoulder as he walked. Trotsky nodded, at him, pulling his hand back and awkwardly clenching it into a fist at his side. He tried to maintain a composed face, to feign nonchalance, though he suspected something about his face would betray him.

Nobody looked back at him, however, and so he stood frozen outside, feeling as though he had lost his sense of direction, not knowing in which direction he wanted to walk.

And just like that, it all came to an end.