#nikpriceghost

“Open it.” Very helpful of Ghost. There’s irritation bubbling up John’s veins; if his temper fuse was just an inch shorter, he would blow up on Simon and let out all the frustration on the Lieutenant and his sometimes fantastically inappropriate sense of humour – now is really not the time or place, not when he’s tired like an old race dog. But – he doesn’t; instead, Price grabs what looks like a beer can and cracks it open.

A forceful geyser of something colourful and sparkling shoots up, making him wince, and settles on his desk, shoulders and hat in an even layer of tiny paper confetti. Price blinks, still holding the now empty can, and slowly moves his stern gaze back up to Ghost towering over the unnatural disaster.

“Happy birthday,” Simon hits him with the same deadpan stare. There’s a pause.

“He forgot, didn’t he?” suddenly chimes in a smooth rumble with a familiar accent from the doorway – Ghost has to step aside with his broad shoulders to reveal Nikolai standing there, leaning on the frame with his arms crossed and a softly disapproving look in his smiling eyes. “I knew we should have intervened sooner. John, it’s your birthday, solnyshko, get out from that desk.”

John has to steal a glance at his watch to see the date – and it stings him in the back of his neck with some bitter realization that he indeed forgot completely. His birthday never seemed like a big deal to him, but the sharp, head-on imagery of him not noticing his own life passing – quite literally – while he’s wasting it on useless paperwork for assholes who don’t know how to be useful at all – feels like a sharp blade slashing his skin and letting hot liquid blood drain from his slouched form. Nik smells this metaphorical blood like a white bear in the vast icy desert and pushes off the doorframe, making his way to Price.

“Captain? How copy?” His big fingers with a faint smell of machine oil and iron tilt John’s chin up and carefully pick a blue confetti piece out of his beard. “Come, John. Lieutenant shall finish the paperwork for today, he knows how to forge your signature, right?”

Ghost lets out a calculated grunt – enough to confirm without directly incriminating himself – and walks around the desk from the opposite side of Nikolai, successfully capturing Price in a bear trap between them.

“Ya’re the only one with a birthday ‘ere, sir,” rumbles he with an underlying tease and leans down, pulling his bally up to let John feel his hot scarred lips against his ear. “Gotta celebrate for the three of us, eh?”

His close breath and a brush of a kiss prove enough to distract John in his sleep-deprived state, and before he knows, his prized boonie hat flies off his head to land onto Simon’s smug skull. He himself is pulled out of his chair by a pair of burly arms – very unceremonious of Nikolai – and thrown over a mighty shoulder.

“See you later, Lieutenant,” purrs Nik, patting outraged Price on his arse, and carries him out of the office just like that – ignoring every bit of objections falling from the Captain’s lips and rolling off the pilot’s broad back like sea waves roll off the big dark rocks in the ocean. The last thing Price sees, before Nik shuts the door behind them, is Ghost squeezing his fat arse into the desk chair and rubbing his big hands together, almost too devilishly delighted to take over the paperwork.

Price has no idea when they had the time to do all this – but back at home there’s a whole feast awaiting. Nik sits him down in front of the table and turns into a caricature of every grandma – especially a Ukrainian one – ever, filling John’s plate with a hot, savory meal. While Nik pours him some soup, he makes sure Price is chewing on a gloriously shiny pirozhok with cabbage and egg filling; after that – assembles a crisp sarnie to go with the soup, stoically withholding every commentary on English cuisine he has stuck on his tongue.

“You are not getting away from this table until I see you unbuckle your belt to breathe,” threatens he in a sultry, rumbling voice, kissing a crumble off the corner of John’s soft lips, and John has no choice but to grunt, stuffing his face with full, heavy spoons, watching from the corner of his eye as Nikolai assembles some kind of soft honeyed meat slices on a plate for the second course.

It seems though that it was Price who underestimated the degree of his hunger, because he clears out both plates and polishes it with a healthy little bowl of buttery potatoes before he actually starts to feel full. Nik comes to rescue – pushing a mug of black tea towards John, he slides his arms around his waist and undoes his belt, using this as an opportunity to slide his big palms under John’s shirt and pet his hairy belly, now healthier and rounder with proper food being processed inside. His hands stay respectful, without escalating the touch, but don’t go away either, as if Nikolai is mesmerized by the feel of John’s warmth in his arms and can’t make himself let go of this treasure.

“Makin’ me regret that last plate, Nik,” grumbles John a bit self-consciously, leaning his head back to find the man’s cheek and nuzzle it with a satisfied grunt.

“Bullshit. You’re beautiful,” Nikolai huffs, squeezing the softness of Price’s lower belly, and dips his head to kiss his throat. “I’m just trying to stay patient until Simon gets here. But you’re making it so fucking hard, John…”

“What am I making hard, hm?” Price chuckles – a soft, finally weightless sound, not burdened by the responsibilities and expectations of him he left in the office, and Nik almost growls in response, leaving a longer, wetter kiss on his neck, unable to resist this more relaxed Price. His big palm covers John’s eyes, forcing them to rest, and Price lets out a breathy sigh, feeling Nik’s lips slide over his slightly greasy from the stuffy cabinet work skin, badger-striped stubble teasing and prickling tender little folds around his neck.

“I see you turned the birthday boy into the birthday meal.” They both miss Ghost’s arrival, too busy with the long, sweet kisses – Nik doesn’t seem fazed at all, pulling back and brushing his thumb over John’s lower lip. When their eyes meet, Price feels the rumbling tired ocean inside of him get hit with a heavy thunder of love in Nikolai’s gaze, making the waves surge up into the skies and splash around like a fan made of water feathers. His breath stutters, and Nik smirks – a kind, just a little playful expression, before straightening up and finally letting Simon get an eyeful of slightly rosy, satiated, relaxed Price with adorably ruffled hair.

“Simon,” John tries keeping his voice straight and clears his throat, sitting up in the chair. “Good to see ya, uh…”

“He’s ready for cake,” announces Nik proudly, and Simon nods, pulling his bally off and landing a hasty kiss on Price’s cheek as he passes him on the way to the kitchen. There’s the sound of the fridge door opening and closing, rattling of cutlery, then silence and – a click of a lighter.

Nikolai stands behind John’s chair, peacefully taking out stubborn confetti pieces that got stuck in the fluffy strands, already having cleared out the space right in front of Price – and Ghost appears from the kitchen, gracefully clicking the light switch with his arse so that the little flames on a hefty round cake shine brighter.

“S dnyom rozhdenya tebya,” muses Nikolai the immortal tune, same for every language, and winks at Simon, who sets the cake on the table with poorly hidden pride. Price bites his lip for a second, almost panicking he has nothing to wish for – but then shakes it off and blows out the candles, leaving that distinctive smell in the air.

“Good job, luv,” mutters Ghost gruffly, as Nik goes to turn the light back on. There’s wonky, ugly icing writing on the cake – and light chocolate brown doesn’t flatter the little… caterpillars of letters at all. John doesn’t even need to guess: it’s clear that it’s a creation of Simon and his fingers with fucked up joints, probably shaking like crazy as he was squeezing something so different from a rifle trigger making this cake. “Ya like it?”

John looks at the cake again, squints, weighs the probabilities, and finally asks:

“Did ya draw a prick on me cake, Riley?”

Ghost scoffs, crossing his arms, and looks like a child who was told that his ugly ass scribbles won’t get the front placement on the fridge.

“That’s J for John, ya bastart,” grumbles he and reaches out, turning the cake around to show the backside. “Now this is a prick…”

Price doesn’t miss the absolute delight shining in Simon’s eyes as he presents his masterpiece, the whole poker face ruined by the small smile lines in the corners of his eyes. He almost calls out the cheeky bastard for it, but Nik distracts him with packaging rustling, and next to the cake there appear gifts.

The distraction works again – while John is busy looking through the presents, his partners work swiftly, clearing up enough of the table for the tea and cake part of the birthday party. Lifting his eyes from his dream rugby match tickets there was no chance for him to get, Price catches Nik pulling Ghost in by the back of his head and placing a soft peck on his mangled lips – and it feels like an even greater gift. There are others: a sharp new Swiss knife (“For your fishin’ trips, old man,” adds Simon, passing by with a hot teapot), a bottle of Scottish whiskey – no need to guess who it’s from, several books with a card signed by Kyle’s calligraphic handwriting and a quality beard brush with a nice wooden handle with a cheeky note from Kate.

“It got wonky after baking so there’s more filling on one side,” Simon’s low grumbling pulls John back to the dining table as he plops a generous cake slice on a plate and pushes it closer. “For your fat arse, sir.”

“Ya’re one to talk,” scoffs Price and gives Ghost a squeeze before reaching for the teaspoon, but Nik intercepts him and shoves the first cake bite into John’s mouth himself. “So tha’s the plan? Feed me till I can’t walk?”

Nik and Simon share a glance; Ghost shrugs and lets the sly Russian do all the talking.

“The plan is to do whatever the hell you want, solnyshko,” purrs Nik, picking up a rogue olive from the appetizer plate and throwing it in the air, catching with his mouth with disgustingly low effort, as if he didn’t even notice it. “Do you want to go out? Could dance the night away or get drunk… or what else do you Brits do to celebrate surviving another year.”

John opens his mouth, the answer ready on the tip of his tongue, and suddenly shrinks like an old balloon, rapidly getting into his head with a new heavy weight on his shoulders. From under his fluffy eyebrows, he casts a quick glance at his partners, worried they might have noticed the sudden change in his demeanor – but they stand there, both picking bits of his birthday meal, serene and relaxed, two steady mountains just waiting for his word, whatever it is – like they always do.

Simon’s jaw is unchlenched like it always is when they’re together at home, Nikolai exudes patience. They’re both waiting – with a calmness that slides off the slopes of their broad shoulders like warmed up buttery frosting off a spoon, leaving a greasy, smooth, sweet residue of a lack of expectations. Even the paraffin droplet sliding down the cheap birthday candle cools off and rests in place, stopping the fire clock timing John’s decision and letting him actually think what he wants.

He just wants to sleep.

There’s a voice inside him, pressuring him to live up to the demand to “celebrate for the three of them”, mocking Price for becoming a boring old man at such a young age, preferring his bed and blackout curtains to a nice party or at least a proper pub crawl – after all, his partners are ready to celebrate all night, why isn’t he?

But his eyelids are drooping and his headache just starts to get fucked from the first proper meal in quite a while, and the back of his head is actually itching to sink into the soft pillows. Price taps his fingers on the table near the teaspoon they fed him the first cake bite with and clears his throat before finally outing his deepest, darkest desire.

“Good,” just says Nikolai, cupping his cheek to wipe a smidge of icing with his thumb off the moustache, and starts gathering dirty plates. “Simon, take him to shower. I’ll join later.”

And just like that – Nik goes on to clean up the whole table, while Ghost sits next to Price, watching him eat his cake with a soft look on his face – his white lashes form a misty veil over his dark eyes, giving him a surreal, angelic look, enhanced by the messy slightly coiled blonde strands hanging onto his forehead. There’s a hidden, tamed fire in the brown depths of his irises – calmer than the devilish torches in Nikolai’s; both sharing that inexplicable burning adoration whenever they look at Price – a feeling he still struggles to accept he evokes and deserves.

He chews on the slightly dense sponge cake Simon baked for him, watching Nikolai’s huge forearms, bared from under rolled up sleeves and covered in long, dark fur, appear in his line of sight, pick up a few plates and disappear again – accompanied by a soft purring melody Nik’s humming under his nose. There’s something like an invisible warm blanket settling on his shoulders as he processes this whole birthday arrangement – the way warm breeze at the southern shores slowly covers one’s feet with little dunes of dry sand, a soft, ticklish, friendly feeling.

It doesn’t go away when Simon tugs him inside their comically small shower cabin – only grows as Ghost crowds him under the warm waterfall and brushes his scarred fingers through John’s heavy, darkening hair, massaging slightly pine-scented shampoo into the roots and running his hands over Price’s physique with reverence. Simon behaves – only letting something slip when he runs his palm down John’s shaped thigh, feeling the smooth, soapy skin under his wet fingertips; their freckles on pale skin align, as if they’re two parts of a mirky reflection of night sky in the windless surface of the ocean, and Simon lets out a raspy, shaky breath, squeezing John’s flesh and pressing their lips together in a spontaneous, blood-rushing, overwhelmed kiss.

“Easy, lad,” murmurs John, licking the warm, faintly chemicals-tasting water off his lips, unable to hide the flush in his cheeks from this kind of raw need for him. Ghost huffs and snorts under the water stream like a dog, resuming his devoted worship of Price’s body, rinsing him off and then wrapping in a warm fluffy towel. He helps to dry his rich chest fur and beard before simply picking John up and carrying his warm, softened by warm shower, hearty meal and overwhelming care body to their bedroom.

There’s an outrageously huge pillow nest on their bed, and Simon puts John in the centre of it, letting him sink into the supported softness before climbing in with him. It’s only when he pulls Price to his broad, hot chest with barely visible dusting of soft blonde curls, that John can feel how fast Simon’s heart is beating. Their hands find each other in the thick blanket mess, and John presses his ear to listen to the rapid heartbeat, still in awe that he’s the reason for that. Ghost’s big embrace envelops him, and scarred lips press to the top of John’s head, muttering something indistinguishable – like a doberman grumbles, expressing its undying love.

Price dozes off to this lullaby, missing the sound of the shower starting and ending again, and only stirs awake when the mattress dips under Nik’s weight.

“Happy birthday, my love,” whispers Nikolai, when John tosses and turns, seeking him blindly, and kisses his temple. “Rest. It is your day.”

His heavy arm wraps around John’s waist, the heat of his broad chest with rich dark fur pressed to Price’s side seeps into his tired bones, and finally Nik’s huge bear paw covers the lock of John’s and Simon’s fingers, to keep them warm and secure – all night.

John Price feels the sea waves sting his eyes and nose before he allows himself to soak in the peace and falls asleep, with the only expectation hovering above him being – the expectation to let himself be.