john and nikolai have had more than their fair share of spats over the years. insults hurled, punches thrown, low-blows traded. twenty-two years is a long time to call someone a friend. there was bound to be a couple of bumps in the road, but never anything they couldnât come back from. until now, that is.
john price would like to consider himself a benevolent man. heâs not beyond reason, he doesnât hold unnecessary grudges, heâs happy to put the past behind him, in most cases. honestly, he never imagined that nikolai could do anything heâd think was unforgivable. itâs nikolai, for godâs sake. his best friend. his dearest comrade. his most trusted confidant. this is the man he calls when he needs to bury a body. the one heâd run to if the sky fell. heâs the one john would want at his side while he laid on his deathbed. theyâve killed for each other, countless times, taken bullets for each other, made promises that theyâll take to the fiery pits of hell.
nikolaiâs his friend. his brother, in everything but blood. the other half of his soul, if you will.
at least, he was.
that was before nikolai decided to fuck his kid. his only child. his pride and fucking joy. the same man who held him while he cried about the divorce. the same one he confided in when your mother took you and moved you far, far away, where he could only visit once, maybe twice a year. the one he bragged to when you graduated school, then when you got accepted to university, then when you got your first adult job.
johnâs forgiven nikolai for plenty over the years, things that most men would draw blood over, but this â this is a line he never knew he had to draw.
it isnât the first time heâs dropped by nikolaiâs unannounced. itâs been an unspoken, iron-clad agreement for decades that, if and when one of them needed something, anything, they turned to the other. it isnât the first time that heâs stumbled upon the russian in a compromising position, either. usually, they would laugh about it. john would say he was sorry, and nikolai would shrug it off, because their friendship was worth more than a good time with a stranger.
but this time, it isnât a stranger â itâs you. his kid. and his best friend. you, in nothing sans your underwear and a sweatshirt too large to be your own, strewn across nikolaiâs lap like it were made to cradle you. too comfortable. too familiar. too domestic.
thatâs the worst part, somehow. he knows, immediately, that this was not some spur of the moment decision. it wasnât like you ran into him at a pub and didnât recognize each other, or that you were both drunk and not thinking straight.
itâs a tuesday night, and nikolaiâs at home, watching cartoons, with a lapful of you, petting your hair and nosing at your cheek like heâs got the fucking right. thatâs not something you do with a one night stand. itâs not something nikolai does with anyone, at all, because he always claimed that he would never let anyone, no matter how lovely, clip his wings. and yet.
you look horrified, your earlier bliss gone in the blink of an eye, trying desperately to grab for the blanket youâd thrown aside to protect your lower half. but nikolai â he doesnât even flinch. he manages to sweep you off of his lap and get to his feet a split second before johnâs heavy fist strikes him square in the face. he doesnât retaliate, doesnât react at all, really, just sighs deeply through his nose, and levels john with a look so cold it wouldâve sent a shiver down his spine if his rage hadnât already boiled his blood.
he shouldâve known something was off. nikolaiâs been distant lately, and, while that in itself isnât unusual for the man, flighty as he is, itâs unlike him to have been so hard to reach. not literally, he showed up when he was needed, but mentally. john summed it up to the toll of war, which they all struggle with now and again. he shouldâve known better. but in no world would he have suspected this.
âyou bastard,â he doesnât even look your way. he canât stomach it. âi should shoot you dead, you slimy piece of shit!â
but nikolai â nikolai doesnât regret a goddamned thing. not even as johnâs trigger finger twitches like heâs imagining what his brains may look like splattered across the persian rug you picked out last month.
john could kill him, right here and now, and he still wouldnât regret it.
truth be told, he didnât know who you were, not at first. he hadnât the slightest clue. heâd never met you, hadnât seen a picture of you since you were a babe. at first, you were merely a sweet soul in search of a safe place to land, and he was a only man with a soft spot for broken things.
you were young, and pretty, so easily flustered, clinging to each and every scrap of affection he dished out like youâd been starving for it. by the time he found out, he was too far gone â not that it mattered.
because johnâs version of your story and yours are two very different accounts.
the way john told it, he did the best he could. he called as often as he was able, visited whenever his job allowed, kept tabs on you and all of your accomplishments, loved you as wholly and as truly as any father should. and, maybe, to him, it really was that simple.
but thatâs not the version of the story you knew. to you, it was missed birthdays and christmases, it was waiting by the phone until bedtime came and your mom dragged you away, it was countless unanswered letters, it was being bullied in school because, while your peers got to go home to two parents, you barely had one, what with your motherâs two jobs and endless string of boyfriends. it was being made to grow up too fast because no one in your life was willing to nurture the child within. it was searching for a fatherâs love in every corner of the world because yours wasnât around to give it.
but nikolai did. he gave it gladly, and in abundance, and never asked for anything in return. he was willing to be anything you needed him to be. sometimes, a lover, and sometimes, something else altogether.
he could he turn his back on you, knowing what he knows? knowing that he enabled it? he couldnât. he didnât. he wonât.
âyou do not want to do this, john.â he warns, trying his damndest to position himself between you and your father. he knows john would never hurt you, at least not physically, but you shouldnât have to see this, either. just a moment ago, you were so happy. warm, safe, and at peace in his arms. and now ⌠well, this certainly isnât how he had intended for your night to go.
he was destined to find out eventually, nikolai knows that. he would have told him himself, he was only waiting for you to be ready. heâd hoped, though, that this part might happen when you didnât have to bear witness to it.
âthe hell i donât!â the captain spits, nostrils flaring, teeth bared. heâs beyond angry, beyond reasonable. nikolai canât blame him, truly, but he also knows that his fury isnât nearly as justified as he believes it to be. he was hardly much of a father to you to begin with. âtheyâre my kid, nik! mine! what the fuck is wrong with you?â
âlower your voice,â he wonât shout in front of you. god knows youâre scared enough as is. he wonât say any of the things he wishes to say, wonât point out johnâs absence, his fabrications, or the damage heâs done to you, because you donât need to hear it, even if he does. and thatâs the difference between john and nikolai. even now, your father isnât thinking about you. heâs thinking about how heâs been betrayed, about his friend going behind his back.
âoh, you fuckinâââ john goes for his gun, as nikolai figured he would, his hand halfway to his holster when your bare feet hit the floor, your eyes wide and glossy.
something strangled, confused between a sob and a shout, catches in your throat, and john, for the first time, looks at you. nikolaiâs arm extended, protecting you from him, your cheeks damp, hands shaky where they grip your blanket for dear fucking life. the captain pauses, tongue running over his teeth, and nikolai sees the war waging in his mind.
his hand drops, and nikolai can breathe again. at least john loves you enough not to kill him right in front of you. it doesnât count for much, butâs itâs something.
âfuck you, nik.â the man, quivering like a bow string pulled taut, has one foot out the door already, his back turned like he canât stand to look at either of you any longer. itâs for the best. thereâs no bloodless resolution to this. nikolai sorely doubts itâs over.
the front door slams hard enough that a paintingâs knocked off of the front roomâs wall. it was one of your favorites, too. a shame. heâll find a suitable replacement. but only after heâs soothed you.
âyour face,â you fret, lower lip wobbling, arms wrapped around your middle like youâre resisting the urge, the need, to reach for him. itâs a sorry sight. a regression. you were getting so comfortable, you finally stopped doubting your place here, and this â itâll have set you back.
but nikolaiâs patient.
âiâm fine, lapushka, come here, come here,â he coaxes you into his arms without hesitation, a big hand cradling the back of your head, cheek pressed to your hair. âshh, now. iâll handle it, hm? everything will be okay, i promise you.â
and it will be. with or without johnâs surrender. if keeping you happy, safe, means cutting him out of your life â both of your lives â so be it. heâll have a choice to make. nikolai made his long ago, and he has no intentions on changing his mind.
you sniffle against his chest, hiccuping as you try, valiantly, to catch your breath, too stubborn, too scared, to cry openly. he holds you a bit tighter.
âshh, iâm here. papochkaâs here. everything will be okay, malysh.â
