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The revolution's triumphs seemed to never die off, only at nighttime, when the citizens of Havana, and the rest of Cuba tried to rest from the excitement they felt at the victory they've achieved over Batista's dictatorship. The fight was relentless, people - fighters, brave martyrs - had died from both sides, casualties were taken, and yet, one thing was never lost. Hope. The hope people had in the revolution, the revolutionaries, and him. Him, who was celebrated as a hero when reaching the city - of course, along with Fidel, who was currently building up the new economical and political system in Cuba, while accounts followed one another.

Meanwhile, Che Guevara himself didn't partake in any rest of relaxation at that moment. His military service - which he wasn't sure how he even managed to fulfill - was over, and instead of taking off a well deserved rest, he insisted on helping Fidel. It wasn't just hospitality towards his friend, but the injustice he felt towards the old system that made him want to create one that actually worked fine for everyone - which seemed even more difficult, as he got into economics more and more. Other people who volunteered or helped any way in the revolution had taken positions in the newly forming party - each working in specific fields that would help build the system. Volunteers, statistics, journalists were needed.

That's why Che was grateful to have you.

You met with him back in Guatemala in 1955, where you made an interview with Cuban leftist exiles as a student journalist about the events of July 26th, 1953. Your article never made it into the newspapers - the editor found it too "dangerous" for the current political climate, and suggested you don't move around "leftist" circles anymore. Of course you didn't listen - why would you?

As your little get-togethers with the team of young, open minded people your age became more frequent, you were introduced to an idealistic young man, who was travelling across Latin America and was also interested in joining the movement, and was especially interested in your rejected article. He introduced himself as Ernesto, but the nickname "Che" stuck to him over time. He heard you were living in Mexico, which made him glad because that was his exact destination to meet a certain man named Fidel.

You quickly became friends with the idealistic, yet rebellious and occasionally disrespectful young man. You were loud, unapologetic, opinionated, and maybe that's what perked his attention about you - and the reason you became friends with him. When he suggested you travel to Cuba with him and Fidel, you didn't take the revolution seriously at first. Were they really going to try the impossible, and revive the movement? You thought about your future, wished him the best of luck, and refused the offer.

Yet, when you heard the news from there for the first time, the very much needed aid, and that the dictatorship and the U.S. was actually scared of something - someone this time, it made something in your heart change. You bought the first train, then ship ticket, and travelled to Cuba as fast as you could. Nevertheless to say, Che was happy to see you again, and welcomed you in the team.

The almost four years of fighting, living in small villages, sleeping in forests, running out of aid and scared of getting attacked any time made your nervous system absolutely fried to the point you had a hard time even communicating with people. And that was something he was good at. Sometimes, on rest days, he pulled out a book of classical literature, or poetry and read out loud to you. Well, of course not just to you, but anyone else who was sitting around. Yet it felt personal - every time. That was his charm. He made everything feel personal.

After Batista fled the country in december, and the victory you prayed for actually came, it didn't mean you, or anyone from the revolutionaries were able to finally rest. You helped Fidel with questioning the population - about their work environment, well-being, and their needs of living. You were stationed in a small village around an hour from Havana, where surprisingly, the rural living conditions and the city's conditions had such an intense difference, that they didn't even have a proper road to drive on.

It was quite late when you were finished for the day - the sun had already set over the orange horizon, and you weren't even done with the whole area!

It was even more late when your truck finally reached Havana and the office. You quickly got out into the night, with all the papers and questionnaires stacked under your arm as you made your way up the old stairs - so strange walking these steps that once politicians stepped on. And now those politicians were your friends. When you knocked on room 53's door, you heard the faint voice of Che. You gently opened the door, closing it with your leg as you made your way towards his table.

"I brought the reports. They're not finished, but-"

He wasn't there, but standing at the balcony, a cigar in his mouth, looking over the dark, dimly lit city. He was leaning against the corridor with one hand, his position relaxed, while the light from the room hit his face just right to enhance the sharp, dark features of his face. Your heart stumbled over your words, your lips slightly parted.

You really hated yourself for this. He was a good friend of yours, an even better leader of the others - he was charismatic, charming, and of course everyone loved him. You hated that you loved him too. And you knew that he probably knew, or at least suspected something, because he just loved to criticise your work - maybe to get some anger out of you. He wasn't a bad person, but it made you go crazy sometimes.

You slowly walked over to him after putting your papers down, leaning over the barrier as well. You tilted your head towards him, looking down at the burning cigar.

"It's bad for you" you reminded him gently, even though you knew he knew. His asthma was something he tried to ignore, yet when the weather was too dry - or on the contrary, was too humid and hot, which was common in Cuba - his state had worsened. You noticed it in his breathing, the way his shoulders lifted up, gathering up as much oxygen as he could, before letting out - and yet, he still smoked that shit. He just shrugged his shoulder, before shaking his head slightly

"It helps"

"With what, exactly?" you asked.

"Thinking." he hummed, taking another drag before breathing it out. "It doesn't go into my lungs anyway"

"Well, what did your doctor say?"

"I am a doctor. Did you forget?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, looking down at you. You grinned at him, and shook your head, before gently taking the cigar from his hand to take a drag. Soon, you were coughing that awful smoke out, followed by his laugh - a genuine, hearted small laugh - before he took it back.

"How are things going?" you asked again, this time, he took you seriously. He looked down at the city, the hot summer night in mid july kept both of you warm, even if the sun has set in a while.

"People trust us. What did they say today?"

"Well... They're grateful for you. And us." you said slowly. "I've heard Batista was somewhere in the U.S."

"Of course he is. Everyone's in the U.S. who doesn't want to be here." he said, and turned around to walk back to his table. You followed him, as he looked through the papers you've brought, squinting occasionally when he couldn't read your handwriting. You found it quite adorable.

"I'm leaving tomorrow." he said casually, to which your eyebrows shot up. You knew he would be leaving to a diplomatic mission, and tour around the world, especially the Eastern block, but didn't expect it to be this soon.

"So soon?" you asked, walking over to him.

"Yes. Fidel said it's for the best I go." he said, placing your stack of papers over the table. "I will need a translator who speaks russian and english."

He finally looked up at you so casually as if he was just talking about the weather, which made you blush to your ears. You happened to speak russian and english. And he happened to know that.

"Do you?" you asked with a small smile, to which he nodded again. A few seconds of silence came in, which stretched on for almost a minute. He just kept looking at you, for so long you felt like it was eternal. You tried not to look into his eyes too deeply, afraid that you'd might fall into them.

"... Will you come to Europe with me?" he asked finally, his voice oddly quiet and calculated for him. You nodded slowly.

"Yeah. Yeah, uh... sure."