Success Can Be Bitter, Darling
Sergeant de la Iglesia's assigned mission hadn't been labelled to indicate a high level of danger. Surely, he and his men had been warned to be aware of their surroundings and to never forget they'd be crossing enemy territory, but the mission appeared to be easy, at least on paper. The objective was to reach a village where, according to the circulating rumours, the chief could prove to be a useful ally.
But then, when in the world has reality ever stuck to plan.
Thus, not even four days after the beginning of Leo's mission, Leo's men had come across these five children, crying and lost. Leo had a tender heart and paid little attention to those who were telling him it could be a trap. Instead he ordered some rations to be shared with the kids, while using Behrooz to find out which village they came from. Establishing that they could help the children on their way home was nothing but a little detour; things were set into place.
The following day Leo's squad had walked into an ambush. One man was killed on site. One of the children was wounded too, destined to die later. Behrooz panicked and fled. Leo and the survivors, running away from the firing, found themselves alone in an unforgiving territory on a path they barely knew.
Deciding to help the children, however, proved to be the right thing. The older one, that very same girl Yuri and the others had seen not long before, knew very well the way bound to the village Leo was interested in. Her help added to the pieces of information Behrooz had gathered before fleeing was enough for the squad to avoid getting lost.
Moreover Leo was so desperate to end the mission and to keep what remained of his squad safe, that he forced the pace. He also ordered his men to carry the children and did so himself when the kids' short legs couldn't keep up with adults' pace. Above all, despite Chris' protests, he refused to stop ignoring the pain his fresh wound caused him. When it became infected, he simply gritted his teeth and leaned on Guang Hong for support.
Leo de la Iglesia collapsed within next three days, dropping to the ground just a few miles from the village. He died in the following hours, feverish and delirious. The others did the only thing they could: they buried the body, recorded the coordinates, and proceeded.
They had been told that the village was controlled by a local tribe who sympathised with a mujahedeen group. The idea was that it could provide valid support in the fight against the Soviets.
So, no one among Leo's men was prepared to be greeted by a blast of bullets at the village door.
One was killed right there. Under Chris's orders, the survivors – three, excluding him and Guang Hong, retreated.
Apparently – as they would soon discover- the former chief had died, leaving behind a son too weak to maintain the power. Not even one day into his rule, he had been killed by a rival tribe and from the power vaccum a new man took control. The new self-appointed chief had utilized the villagers' rage and pride to push the idea that everyone was an enemy and encouraged his people to go into complete isolation.
After another long night of reflection and discussion, Christophe decided to find shelter in a cave he had seen nearby, launch a distress signal via radio, and wait.
In their conditions trying to go back sounded like a suicide; they were in a territory they barely knew, as American soldiers who shouldn't be there.
It looked like suicide, also, considering what little they had left of water and military rations; enough to survive if they stayed put - Guang Hong had discovered a not yet dried stream a few miles away - but too scarce for any great movement.
Troubled about what to do, after another period of tormented reflection, Christophe decided to send the two oldest children to investigate. They didn't come back. Sometimes, though, they could be seen hanging around in the distance, which gave Chris hope they weren't held as prisoners. As for the two younger children who had stayed with them, they simply sneaked from the American reconnaissance team to run right against the legs of a woman passing by with her own baby strapped to her back. Apparently not all the villagers were hostiles – or maybe she was from a different one – because, after having examined the children and listened to them, she took each by the hands and guided them away. Chris followed them with his gaze until they become as small as dots on paper.
Sometimes one of the children they sent the first time, the only girl in the group, a motherly sister who had always her little brother attached to her leg, snuck outside the village and brought them some food. However, each time they tried to ask information about the situation, they were meet by with fearful silence. Still she seemed well fed, clean, and she didn't show any external sign of having been beaten. In their current situation they could do little to help her.
Above all, as days passed, the hopes of having someone rescue them became smaller and smaller. Some of the survived soldiers had become restless.
"Umm, Yuri, I can't breathe!"
It was maybe the third time Guang Hong tried to point out that fact, louder with each attempt, but Yuri hadn't show any signs yet of wanting to let him go.
"Is this something he normally does?" Victor asked JJ in a whisper. He shrugged, looking as puzzled as Victor was.
"Yuri!"
This time the exclamation was accompanied by a subtle threat of a kick in the balls. Sighing, Yuri freed Guang Hong, who stood a bit uncertainly on his feet and looked around. A flood of questions erupted from his mouth, all of which could be summarised as "why are you here" and "why are you with the Soviets?"
"It's a long story," Yuri only replied. Guang Hong nodded, an avid look for Yuri's canteen as his eyes glanced up and down. Yuri gave it to him. Guang Hong gulped the water in long sips, totally ignoring Yuri's advice of slowing down.
"Private Katsuki, I understand the importance of this moment, but we can't stay here," Georgi intervened. All the others nodded in agreement.
"Alright, we need to warn the others. You've said there was a problem with the village? We'll have to discuss the situation," Victor recapped. As his voice lowered to silence, Guang Hong grabbed Yuri's arm.
"Is this what I think I'm seeing?" he hissed, walking down the trail. Yuri shrugged a little.
"That depends. What are you thinking?"
"That Victor Nikiforov just talked to us"
"Then, yes, you've just seen that."
There was a pause, a silence full of repressed curiosity, in the awkwardness that was impregnating the moment. Indeed, having found a member of Leo's squad, the mission hadn't proved to be a complete failure. Still, nobody ever dared to believe it all ended there; especially considering how the villagers had treated Yuri and JJ, soldiers in the US army uniform should've been allies. Still in war, alliances can change as swiftly as the wind. Then there were Yuri, Otabek, and the prisoner who had stayed back and with whom the group had to reunite with.
Yuri took a deep breath. One step at the time.
And the first step, apparently, was to re-assemble the squad.
"Staying here is not safe. Let's head back!" Victor ordered, starting to walk down the trail. All the others hastily followed. Yuri kept close to Guang Hong, happy to see him worn out, but alive and well.
"And the others?" Yuri finally asked. Guang Hong slowed down his pace, a new heaviness in his words.
"There were eight of us. One was killed in the ambush. Leo died a few days later, blood poisoning. The others disobeyed Chris' orders to stick together and ran away a couple of days ago. It's just me and Chris now," he recapped in a monotone voice, as if he was issuing a report. Yuri remained silent in acknowledgement.
It had made him loose contact with reality for a fraction of a second; the information, however, was distant, like it was meant for someone else. Leo was dead, just like old Phichit, like Emil, like private Yegorov, like all the soldiers in that Bolivian jungle. Yet death sounded like a dream, a legend in a far away land. Death was only a word, a sound, and ink on paper. It meant everything and nothing
Leo was dead. Phichit was dead. Guang hadn't asked Yuri for news about Corporal Chulanont yet. He feared that moment. He swallowed, wondering whether to tell Guang Hong the truth there and now or to wait for a quieter moment; not that there was a right moment to tell someone that a dear friend had blown up. The memory twisted Yuri's stomach.
Any other possible indulgent thought about the subject was prevented by Plisetsky's harsh voice welcoming them back. There was a familiar anger in his tone, something that Yuri had come to accept as part of the man's personality; there was also a note of concern and relief. Now Yuri had no doubt Plisetsky cared for all of them; his roughness was just his way of showing it.
"Please, tell me I haven't wait for nothing!" he huffed at Victor.
The man shook his head. "Negative," and as he was saying that, he raised his pointer finger towards Guang Hong. Plisetsky squinted his eyes.
"Sergeant de la Iglesia?" he wondered, loud enough for Guang Hong to hear him.
"Private Ji," Guang Hong replied. Plisetsky furrowed his brow, rummaging through his memories to associate some details to a name he wasn't hearing for the first time. When he remembered, no more than ten seconds later, he nodded in acknowledgment.
"Is he –" Victor glared at him – "Are you the only survivor?" Plisetsky resumed, speaking directly to Guang Hong. The man repeated what he had told Yuri. As he spoke, his gaze moved around until it lingered on Otabek and Behrooz, waiting a couple of yards away. Feeling observed, they returned the gaze. Not even having the time to blink, Behrooz had covered the distance and was now standing in front of Guang Hong.
He opened his mouth, but if it was to apologize for having abandoned them or something else, no one knew as Victor's intervention interrupted him.
"Can you lead me and Private Katsuki to Major Giacometti?" Victor asked. Guang Hong started to move, gesturing for the General to follow him. "Meanwhile, I trust that Captain Popovich and Captain Plisetsky will sort out a plan to lead all of us back safe and sound!" he added.
"I'm coming with you!" Plisetsky told him. Victor accepted it with no further ado, just shooting Georgi a meaningful glance.
Guang Hong led them down a secondary trail to a half-hidden cave he and Giacometti had elected to be their shelter. Some ashes indicated the remnants of a fire they lit at night to keep themselves warm or boil water. Boot footprints were scattered all over the dusty floor, in between some empty food packaging. A possibly broken radio creaked in the background.
Major Giacometti was instead waiting at the front opening, rifle armed and pointed outside. Guang Hong, who had told the other three men to wait a moment, indicated for him to lower it down. Giacometti did it with suspicion in his eyes. Just like it happened with Guang Hong, he was becoming paranoid.
"It's fine!" Guang Hong assured him, forcing his voice to be cheerful. "They found us!" He continued. As it was some kind of signal, Yuri came closer. Seeing his uniform, Chris' face beamed.
Then Plisetsky imitated Yuri's action - Chris frowned, a finger back on the trigger. Yuri hastily explained that the Soviets, for the extraordinary occasion, were on their side.
Finally Victor arrived. Face to face with an old friend he had lost track of, Chris fell for a loss of words. He and Victor stood there, in silence.
Christophe was the first to break it.
"Victor Nikiforov, it's been a long time," he started, stepping forward, arms crossed to his chest.
"A long time indeed," Victor admitted, sheepishly.
"Twenty years," Christophe pointed out, arms still folded. "Look at you, where has old Vitya gone?"
"I may ask you the same question."
Christophe cocked an eyebrow. "I've never gone anywhere. Don't forget that."
He didn't show any willingness to disentangle his arms.
"Look, Chris, I'm sorry. I wanted to write you, but you know me. You know how bad my memory is," Victor's apologies sounded more like a pleas.
"Yes, I know it too well," admitted the other. Then, much to Victor's surprise and relief, he burst into a laugh. He encircled Victor in a bear like hug.
"I've missed you, my friend," Chris exclaimed, patting him on the back. He was about to ask news about his life, when Katsuki's quiet coughing and Plisetsky's angrier yelling got their attention.
"Good God. Now, can we focus? I'm looking forward to end this mess!" the former grunted.
Since Yuri Plisetsky's concerns were solid, they hurried to reunite with those left behind and to put some miles between them and the village.
From one thing and to another, soon it was almost late afternoon, with the sun already descending across the horizon, far in the Western sky. It had been, indeed, a day full of events, from the two Yuris' fight to Plisetsky almost 100 feet above the void; not considering the rush of emotions caused by finding out that only Guang Hong and Chris had survived, while Leo wasn't as lucky. In the end, Yuri felt it was later than his wristwatch actually said.
"You know. It's a surprise not seeing you with Phichit," Guang Hong started, a friendly hand on Yuri's shoulder. Yuri flinched. He felt his mouth go dry and tears pricking at the corner of his eyes
"I mean, you were almost inseparable," Guang Hong continued, the tone of a person who was finally allowing himself to relax after a long time.
Yuri gasped on thin air. Words blocked in his throat. He chocked on them.
"Corporal Chulanont died yesterday," Plisetsky intervened. Guang Hong stared at him. He looked at Yuri, as if he was expecting a rebuttal.
"What?" he exclaimed, voice slow, hope for a contradiction pouring from every single letter.
"I shot him," Plisetsky pointed out. Guang Hong took Yuri by the shoulders. His shaky fingers dug into flesh. He shook him.
"What is he saying? Why are you sticking with these men? What's going on?"
There were tears now in Guang Hong's eyes.
Looking at them hurt. It made Yuri's chest clench. When he spoke, his voice was flat, like he was recalling something that happened to a stranger.
"He had too. It was an act of mercy. Phichit had stepped on a mine. He wouldn't have survived. He …" He trailed off. He sniffed.
The most pressing subject surely was to decide how to split off and return each group to safety. As the Red Army was still in the Afghanistan territory, coming across the American soldiers would prove to have a disastrous effect - something they have been well aware of for all the length of the mission – it was imperative for the Americans to leave the country as soon as possible.
Captain Popovich, who despite his animosity towards Victor, had actually obeyed his sugar-coated order to think about a good plan to sort things out, was still discussing with Otabek and Michele to prepare for as many unexpected events as possible. He had came up with the suggestion for the Americans to reach the Pakistani border, saying that once crossed it they would be safe, safer than they were now, at least. The problem was how to reach it. Walking all the way there was out of question. Neither they could use military vehicles. Calling via radio for a helicopter to pick them up was an even less viable option. The more they brainstormed, map at hand, the more they felt lost. Victor, remaining faithful to his fame of being a strategist, suggested to use civilian cars - it was welcomed with a murmured of agreement – but left the actual how to further thinking.
"There's a neutral village in the valley down here. Three days of walk maximum. The road will be downhill," Behrooz intervened at a certain point, after the umpteenth pointless discussion. He spoke in broken English, giving the Otabek the responsibility of translating the parts in Pashtun, and while doing so he indicated the path on the map.
The promise of a compensation, maybe a little bribery, would grant them a car or two with which to travel to the border. Behrooz then proceeded in suggesting what he, as local, considered the safest road to the border. Once again he traced it on the map.
The path down to the valley was blurred in Yuri's memory. Behrooz guided them through new trails, hidden and faster shortcuts, and they rucked almost nonstop for two days. Yuri's muscles ached and his lunges burned. He felt numbness creeping under his skin.
At dawn of the third day, they reached a point where the trail forked. One way ran all the way down to valley. The other started to climb once again up the slope. As Behrooz explained, it sloped down again in a few miles.
"The village is about fifteen miles inland," he explained. Yuri nodded. Soviets and Americans stared at each other. The time to part ways had come. Uncertain and unresolved issues suddenly required their attention. One of them was Behrooz's fate.
Yuri had naively promised - assured –Behrooz he would see his family soon, but that belonged to ages ago. He glanced at the Soviets, who had become so familiar in little over a week. He diverted his gaze from Victor because it made his chest hurt, skipped Georgi, and stopped at the other Yuri.
They stood there in awkward silence. It was Behrooz who broke it. He took a step towards Plisetsky and, as he did so, Yuri noticed how the surveillance over the man had become less and less strict with each passing day. Captain Plisetsky had long since stopped throwing threats to the prisoner's life.
So, when their roads parted, Yuri couldn't know that on the way back to the Soviet base Plisetsky turned a blind eye to Behrooz, muttering for him to run and not look back. The official story was that he had died falling down a slope.
"Well, I know it's strange to say, but thank you for everything," Yuri reprised, not referring to anyone in particular. He neither expected an answer or the kind of promises that always accompany a departure from a good friend. Indeed, without saying a word Yuri Plisetsky turned his back on him and started walking, a tacit signal it was time for the others to follow his example. Soon Lieutenant Altin was at his side, Behrooz a step ahead. Captain Popovich seemed to ruminate on something to say, but in the end discarding whatever idea crossed his mind.
Only Victor didn't move. On the contrary he stepped closer to Yuri, announcing he would accompany them to the village and to the Pakistani border. He turned a deaf ear to Plisetsky's protests of how dangerous it was.
"They are my responsibility," he began. His voice had a stern and serious tone Yuri had come to recognize it for the occasions where Victor didn't permit any disrespect to his authority. It was the tone he used in the sandstorm. It was for when he wanted to use the power that came from being the crown jewel in the Red Army.
He would escort the Americans up to the border and beyond, leaving them only when he was sure of their safety.
"You do realise they aren't children, right?" Plisetsky exclaimed. "They aren't cadets who have never done a solo mission!"
Victor answered that, yes, he was well aware of the fact Plisetsky had so kindly pointed out. This, however, didn't change anything. He had made his decision and Yuri Plisetsky was free to think of it as an extra safety measure if he wanted to. Victor told him when the other lamented having to come up with a good excuse to justify Victor's absence.
"Safety for what? Back at the camp nobody apart from Yakov knows about them," he quickly indicated Yuri and the others - "They only know we left to hand over the prisoner and doing some training in field!"
"Then you'd better invent something else. You've got plenty of time, Captain," Victor retorted, voice indicating the subject was closed. His eyes shot Plisetsky an almost pleading look. It wasn't the General speaking, but the man, that Victor Nikiforov who had fallen in love at the wrong time with a man he shouldn't have fallen for. He hadn't told Yuri anything about his feelings to show respect for Yuri's grief; this last journey may be his last chance. Plisetsky acknowledged this in silence.
"Fine!" he grunted.
"I hope the trucks we left behind are still there and operating," Victor told him. Then he continued, "I'll send you a message once we've crossed the border."
Plisetsky snorted his approval.
For a fraction of second, Yuri was glad for Victor's decision for no other reason than having been granted more time to confess what his heart was feeling. His silent prayers to the void had been answered, he could have some more days with him, lingering in just the sensation of being near him. Yuri felt like he was starving, and Victor was the only thing able to satisfy his hunger. He wished to have another quiet chat just like they had few nights prior and then another one and another one. His body, his hands, his face, ached from the loss of that same touch he had so often shied from.
Then, as Yuri cherished the unexpected opportunity, he remembered it had been Phichit who urged him to confess his own feelings to Victor; he recalled that his friend was no more, how horrible his death had been and everything else. Hopes and wishes came crumbling down into a dull nothingness. He had no right whatsoever to use his extra time with Victor for his egoistical purposes. Victor's love wasn't something he was worthy of.
"You're not so bad," Plisetsky unexpected compliment snapped him back to reality. He had his hands hovering in mid-air as if he didn't know what to do with them. Yuri's mind travelled back to their first encounter once again, when the very same man had mocked him and doubted his competency. He didn't believe that Plisetsky had completely changed or considered him a friend yet, but for sure something was different. Yuri knew nothing about him, but he had observed him. He had witnessed Plisetsky slowly exiting his isolation. He had seen his wall of reticence being cracked open little by little.
In the last days, Plisetsky had eaten with them at dinner. He still used colourful language, but fewer insults were directed to Behrooz or the Americans. Anger changed from directness and a strong sense of righteousness. Above all Yuri saw a young man that kept his head and shoulders up high despite the heavy responsibility resting on them.
Whatever Yuri saw in his same sake, neither friend nor enemy, it didn't impede him from tackling the other in an unexpected and bone crashing hug.
"Next time I'll make you pay for this!" Plisetsky vowed for the final time as he let go.
"I'll look forward for it!"
Then everything moved in fast forward.
As it was easier than walking they practically ran down the trail, rucksacks bouncing on their backs with every step. Dust and little rocks jumped around their boots as the soles collided with the ground. Being taller, Victor and Chris were the fastest, their strides covering almost two metres at a time. To be on the safe side, they had positioned themselves in a column formation, as far as the size of the road allowed.
Victor, JJ, and Michele covered the outer sides, being the ones who were less tired, at least in comparison. Nonetheless, issues like the formation to adopt, seemed to have lost importance when the only thing the group wanted was to put an end to a mission that, as Plisetsky had said a lifetime ago, was doomed from the start.
They barely stopped at night, conceding just few hours to catch their breath and let their minds wander in a half-asleep state, each lost in his own little world. Yuri and Guang Hong found comfort in each other, relinquishing in memories of when they were still young and in training, pain turned into melancholy at each shared anecdote.
Do you remember when?
There were little smiles stretched under tears-filled eyes.
Not far away, profiles barely visible in the almost pitch-black night, the moon hidden behind some passing clouds, Victor and Chris were quietly chatting. They spoke half in English, half in French, with some Russian words thrown here and there as a memento of the times spent together in Leningrad during their youth. Not quite strangers but no longer close friends, reached for the person the other had been once as they searched for a common ground to fill the twenty-year gap or start anew.
Where have you been? What have you done? How did we end up like this?
Above all there was palpable tension crackling in the air, every step, every word. It was the tension that often accompanied the end of a task, when people dare to let their guard down and disaster strikes. So when the village Behrooz had talked to them about appeared before their eyes, bloodshot from not having slept properly in days, no one had the courage to feel relieved. It was like a curse, the idea that the moment they felt dared to feel happiness something would rip it away.
Yuri was the one chosen to approach the villagers. The reasons behind the similar choice were multiple. After Giacometti he was the oldest, apart from Victor, and way more experienced than Michele or JJ or Guang Hong.
"Besides, you have a thing for dealing with people," Guang Hong told him to assuage his unexpressed concerns. Maybe, Guang Hong added, it was because Yuri had grown up in a resort.
Yuri had had neither the heart nor the strength to remind them that the last time he visited the hot springs was when he was seventeen, half his age now. Even then between school and the hours spent at the ballet studio, the amount of work he did at the resort was minimum.
Still Yuri took a deep breath and nodded. It was true that his upbringing made his natural demeanor to be more courteous. Years in the brash Army environment hadn't been enough to make Yuri forget all of that.
With the locals, he discussed the purchase of two cars, under the promise of future compensation. The cars were old, painting scratched by the sand and one tossed out black smoke when turned on. Still, they seemed to be working. Yuri negotiated for them to throw in of a couple gallons of gasoline. He then communicated with the others via radio to inform them about the positive outcome of the negotiations. The villagers were welcoming and kind, so the others could join him. All apart from Victor, as Yuri considered it safer not to let the local Afghan know the presence of a Russian in the proximity. They might have been peaceful, but he didn't want to risk anything. So Victor was momentarily left behind, waiting to be retrieved once the exchange for the cars had been completed. Michele and Chris took the first shift of driving.
Victor in the meantime had stowed his Soviet jacket into his ruck for safety's sake. Once in the car, he took the safety of his rifle off, pointing it out of the car window, like a reminder of the threat that still lingered over their heads.
The thing Yuri remembered the most about the journey to Pakistan was his desperate struggle to not fall asleep. He felt exhaustion deep in his bones and the saying "too tired to sleep" truly didn't apply to him. On the contrary, he would've fallen right into Morpheus' sweet embrace the moment he had closed his eyes for any longer. The car's movements from the bouncy road didn't annoy him. Instead it was like the rocking of a cradle, lulling and luring him to a sleep he couldn't surrender to.
However, despite one's efforts, sometimes sleep won. Each time Yuri jerked back to consciousness at every hole and rock the car bumped into. His eyes snapped open, his hands curled around the rifle from muscle memory. Each time Yuri pinched his own cheeks and arms to keep himself awake.
Once Yuri's body leaned on the side as he slid unwillingly into sleep so that his heavy head ended up resting against Victor's shoulder. If the General smiled fondly, Yuri didn't know. He just woke up once again, discovered how close his face had been pressed against Victor's crook, and poured out excuses. He let his nails bite into his palms so hard that it drew blood.
"It's not a problem if you sleep a little more," Victor tried to reassure him, uselessly.
"I'll sleep when I'm home," Yuri simply replied.
The journey lasted several days, driving almost nonstop apart from the inevitable pauses to switch drivers to avoid unlucky accidents. Nevertheless, every shift lasted hours - Yuri's was six. During it he acknowledged nothing besides the dust and sand spraying road in front of him and the voices that were muddled from the car's radio. Sometimes anonymous villages entered his peripheral vision, but Yuri cared little about them, more interested in keeping the lowest profile possible. Each time a suspicious military vehicle appeared in the distance, his heart jumped into his throat, only to subside when the danger had passed.
As if Lady Luck had finally turned a kind eye on them, they reached the border without any major complications; safe behind the appearance of two old cars going about their business in the vast nothingness of the Afghan flatlands.
They crossed the border, at a point where the surveillance was looser. The moment they passed the imaginary line dividing the two countries, Yuri dared to look back one last time. He looked in front of him, almost expecting a clear difference in the landscape to be proof of being in a different nation. But the surroundings hadn't changed in the slightest; the same bare mountains and hills, the same sand-covered flatlands, the same villages, and the same wires.
They drove to a small, abandoned airport not far from Quetta, the car lights shining bright in the starry night. They had driven all night, the sun about to rise beyond the horizon when they finally reached the town. After having been sitting for so long in a cramped space, Yuri legs hurt, all pins and needles. He tentatively touched his own calf, the gesture sending an unpleasant jolt through his entire body. Being finally able to stretch was a relief. Yuri stumbled on uncertain legs the moment they touched the concrete ground.
"I'm contacting Captain Plisetsky," Victor informed them, having taken the radio from the car trunk. Bent over the car hood, with a map stretched on it, held in place with his elbow, and a flashlight in the other hand, he calculated the coordinates to be relayed back to the American soldiers' superior. "You can start finding shelter there," he continued, pointing a finger towards a structure in concrete that one hosted the airport's main terminal. The old parking lot outside the structure was still half-recognizable, the lines on the pavement faded from the sun and the occasional rain.
The inside of the airport was empty, almost all the furniture had been taken away or destroyed from neglect and human vandalism. There were still some plastic chairs attached to the floor where the departure/arrival area had once been. Yuri flopped on the nearest one, soon imitated by the others. Michele then looked around.
"Do you think this place has a toilet?" he wondered out loud.
"Well, it's an airport. It should have."
"A working toilet, I mean," Michele clarified.
Yuri shrugged. "Guess you have to find out. I don't have high hopes, but it would be great. My kingdom for a shower."
The others chuckled.
Major Cialdini reached them after five days, dressed in simple civilian clothes and driving a car with no markings. He looked tired, but overall, he seemed to be fine. Seeing him Yuri let his body relax a little from the tension he had maintained up the then; the possibility of going home already diffused in his mouth like a good taste. He snapped to attention when his superior approached him. The others did the same. Victor simply nodded.
The Major walked toward him, expression unreadable. "I see you took good care of my boys!" he said.
Victor gave him a grimace in return: "Not enough, I fear."
More than anything it pained him seeing the shell of a human that Yuri was on the verge of becoming. His tired smiles were hollow. His eyes were always fixated on a distant point as if he didn't want to face reality. When addressed he answered in monosyllables, polite but monotone.
If ever a laugh escaped his lips in response to a joke from Guang Hong or Chris, because even in pain there can be space for amusement, a dark shadow over on him the moment he noticed what he was doing. The sadness on his features thus deepened. It wasn't the first-time Victor saw someone in the same condition as Yuri's; he knew he wasn't the first to suffer the loss of a close friend nor he would be the last. He also knew one day he would heal, the image of Corporal Chulanont being blasted by a mine reduced to dull memories, the excruciating guilt transformed to the willingness not to waste his own life. However, this knowledge provided little consolation when under his very eyes the man who unknowingly brought him back to life was slowly slipping into the deep pit of depression.
Yuri was so different from the person who had gotten drunk and told him while laughing that he would have even been a spy to win his appreciation. The man who had conquered Victor's interest had been a blabbering mess that had brought light in the darkest moment of Victor's life; he had been a novelty and a breath of fresh air in the midst of dusty bureaucrats. The person in front of him seemed to have lost the ability to smile. Once warm brown eyes, sparkling with life, dulled into nothingness.
And Victor wasn't yet ready to let him go. Some days prior, before they crossed the Pakistani border, Victor had lowered his voice for Yuri to be the only one to hear him in the backseat.
He had reached out and put his hand on Yuri's knee; the man flinched, but neither refused nor returned the gesture.
"You know, you don't have to go with the others. If you want, I can make it so you can stay. Mila works for the KGB, I can get you a new passport, a new identity. I can make it so you appear to have died. I can-" he went on, voice on the verge of desperation.
But Yuri had raised his hand to silence him. He had shifted in his seat and turned his back on him. Despite his efforts to hide it, Victor could feel the slight tremor in his limbs; he didn't need to see Yuri's face to imagine his gritted teeth, his closed fists grasping his shirt where his heart beat. He could almost imagine what thoughts were swirling in Yuri's mind.
Throwing away his past for the faint hope, the vague illusion that his idol felt something for him. Absurd.
"I have a family. I cannot do this to them," was the answer he finally received.
If Yuri had ever believed in dreams, he had stopped long ago, and if some fancy sparkle remained, the mangled head of Phichit had wiped it out.
Deep inside, Victor couldn't agree more. He thought back to his family, to that father who had persecuted him all his life and who was now underground, under a tombstone like hundred of others in a cemetery in Moscow. He thought about his mother, still alive but small and strong.
"I understand."
They didn't address the subject anymore. Up till now
Knowing he couldn't stay in Pakistan any longer, Victor approached Yuri when the man sat alone to eat some rations. Blinded by desperation, he flopped down next to him and reiterated his proposal. He wasn't General Nikiforov, the pride of the Red Army. He was Victor. He was Vitya. He was a man in love and people do crazy things when they are in love.
"Are you sure about my proposal? We have still time, if you want –"
"Yes, General, I'm sure."
Victor shut up instantly, the rank used by Yuri when he had hoped to be on first name basis with him was like a cold shower.
"I understand."
Yuri had his rucksack between his legs, the front pocket half undone. Not saying a word, Victor slipped a piece of paper into it, being careful not to be seen by anyone but Yuri.
Yuri didn't comment at the gesture. He just stood up and left without looking back.
"If hadn't been present, I wouldn't believe he glomped you three years ago," Cialdini's voice came behind Victor's back. He turned, shrugging.
"Neither would I," he replied, distractedly.
"You know, General, Katsuki had always talked about you. He tries to be discreet. I imagine you have noticed how reserved he is. But his passion for you is more visible than he imagines."
"Yes, being the youngest General in history in the Red Army makes people and other soldiers passionate about you," Victor said, no emotion in his voice.
"Yeah, I imagine it's like that."
Victor left at night, without any further notice or farewell. Having informed Major Cialdini of his decision, there wasn't any more need to delay his departure.
"Where's Victor?" Yuri asked in the morning, rubbing the grogginess from his eyes. For the first time in days, he had had a full eight hours of sleep and not being used to it he felt numb. Guang Hong was still lingering in the last available minutes of sleep, while JJ and Chris were having breakfast and Michele was paying visit to the toilet.
"He left last night," Major Cialdini answered. "I'm arranging for our departure. We'll leave tomorrow at the latest," he added.
Yuri nodded. He then excused himself to retire to his grief once again. After the disaster in Bolivia, he had found consolation thinking that it was impossible to ever feel worse than he had felt then. Boy, he was wrong.
He stood not quite leaning against the wall, dumbfounded, as his sleepy brain hadn't yet grasped the meaning of Victor's departure.
"Gone?" He repeated under his breath, starting to wander around the airport with the hope to clear his mind. Of course Victor would leave, the timing was perfect, but deep inside, Yuri didn't believe he would actually go. A part of him believed he would've fought more for him. After having been an imaginary part of half his life, Victor had entered it by random chance, and left it again. But nothing happened. Victor was gone for good; forever out of Yuri's reach. He had been given the opportunity of a lifetime and wasted it, but it was fine, it was how it was meant to be. He had never had a chance. Some people are destined to be alone and Yuri was one of them.
Now Victor was as good as dead: deep inside Yuri was not yet ready to accept the idea. He couldn't. He dropped to the floor, hands hanging between thighs, and hung his head. He wished for the possibility to go back in time to restart everything once again, as his mistakes and ignored opportunities laid before him.
Later, somehow, moving as if in trance, Yuri got on a plane bound stateside. He flopped back into his seat, and with trembling fingers, he opened the paper Victor had secretly slipped into his rucksack. It was a letter.
Dear Yuri,
I hope you will forgive me if I confess to you that I'm glad to have had the luck to spend these past days with you. I know it sounds inappropriate in the light of the most recent events – no words can express my deepest sympathy and concern - but those days have truly been the brightest in my life after a long time. I will cherish them jealously for all the time I will be granted onto this Earth. I'm well aware you don't remember our true first encounter, back at the banquet in Geneva in 1985, but let me tell you that if the price to pay for what my life had become was to meet you, I wouldn't change anything.
I am a too clever man to confuse love with infatuation and I know that men – especially old, tired men like me - love to surround themselves with illusions to survive in this world. But I also know that the love able to bind a person forever to another one may as well as come from a well cultivated infatuation.
I think I have loved you since they night we first met.
Unfortunately Fate had not granted us the right conditions to cultivate this blossoming feeling. It saddens me deeply. But my love had been in every little gesture you accepted from me; in all the times your shy nature had welcomed my touch.
Yuri had to stop reading because the words started to move on the page, and his vision was becoming blurry. He ducked his head, brought the letter to his chest, there where his heart was beating faster than usual. He could hear it pounding in his ears
If we lived in a different world, I would've dared to invite you to dinner and I'd be on a plane bound to America. Or to Japan. Or wherever you want to go. Instead an iron curtain, a war, and people prejudices separate us.
Yuri felt his breath hitch in his throat. He coughed once to get rid of the imaginary lump in it. Then he coughed a second time because his throat kept feeling tight. The sensation was familiar and extraneous at the same time, like something not experienced for a long time. Yuri brought a hand grasp under his chin, on his Adam Apple. Just like his throat was tight, his heart felt heavy. If sadness had a taste, it couldn't be different from the one that was in his mouth right now.
Right after Phichit's death, Yuri had felt pain and desperation. Now he had no other words to describe this feeling other than sadness; pure, simple, necessary sadness.
In my arrogance, I dare to believe that my feelings are reciprocated. If not, burn this letter and make me a memory, one of those destined to fade. But if I am right, I pray to be able to reach you before someone else steals your heart. One day.
With love,
Victor
When he finally read the signature, Yuri already had tears streaming down his cheeks. He balled the letter in his fist; his tight chest was now shaking with irregular sobs. All the emotions he had repressed in the past days, the pain he had pushed back into his guts, they were all coming back full force in that very moment. It was a wave about to drown him.
Yuri cried for Phichit. He was crying for Leo. He was crying for Chris and Guang Hong, who would have to learn to live with survivor's guilt. He cried for Emil. He cried for Michele.
He cried for the stranger he had killed. He cried for Yuri Plisetsky and his stolen youth. He cried for Victor, for a Destiny that was cruel and maybe didn't even exist, but still was perfect to blame.
Eventually, he cried for himself
Notes:
Wow. We're almost there. I can smell the ending of this project. The mission has ended and finally I was able to write the letter scene. I had it ready since ages. Poor, poor Victor. But I swear everything will be fine.
I suggest to listen to "You're my sunshine" at the end of the chapter, as the song fit well with Victor's feeling.
I've also made two aesthetics, one for Yuri and one for Victor.
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post/160048880742/gwen-chan-katsuki-yuri-military-au-he-was