He snorts. “Go do your job, Ari.”
“Somebody has to,” I mutter, and stalk off before I say something stupid in English. Behind me, I hear Niko call the squad back into position, his voice carrying across the field. I make it behind a stack of half-frozen crates before the tension in my shoulders finally snaps, and I slam the clipboard down, then begin to pace like a caged animal.
“Blyat’,”Fuck. I hiss under my breath. “Idiots. Vse dolboyoby.”All idiots.Niko, with his open heart and soft spots. The British lance corporal, with his sad eyes and complete lack of self-preservation.
Why does this bother me so much?
Protective little brother, sure. That’s the obvious explanation. I’ve earned that paranoia by watching too many men end up in pine boxes because someone made one stupid choice.
But there’s something else, too. Something about Varrik specifically that has my hackles up.
He’s not loud or a show-off type. If anything, he’s understated. The good soldier prototype. The kind the top brass writes about in pamphlets. He’s got that quiet, relentless kind of competence. Combine that with a bleeding heart and suppressed attraction in the Russian army? Catastrophe.
I dig my fingers into my hair and tug, growling under my breath. The worst part is he’s not even aware of half the wayshe’s putting himself in danger. I watched his face just now when Niko talked about his fiancée and the baby.
I saw that tiny flicker of pain. Emotions can leak. People will gossip. If some bored conscript sees the way he lights up when Niko walks into the room and decides to mention it in the wrong ear? That’s all it takes.
I lean back against the crate and tip my head up to the low, colourless sky. The wind knifes across the yard, flinging ice crystals into my face like the world is agreeing with me aggressively. I step sideways so I can see them again through a gap between containers.
Niko’s all business now, barking drills and counting off reps. But there’s still warmth in his face when he corrects Varrik’s stance, with a hand firm on his shoulder. And Varrik — of course — goes stock-still at the touch, then moves exactly how he’s asked, as if obedience is his primary language.
Whatever this feeling is about Varrik, it’s tangled. Protective fury wrapped around something more intrusive. Almost as if I can’t stop prodding at him to see where he’ll push back, excellent, new variable, let’s see what happens if we squeeze.
I’m going to get myself in trouble at this rate.
He’s the one who needs to be careful, and here I am considering how hard I can poke before he snaps. “Eto ne igra,”This isn’t a game.I tell myself firmly. Except everything in my blood says it is. A dangerous one, yes. But the only kind that holds my attention anymore.
Out in the field, Niko blows his whistle and dismisses the squad. Varrik begins to walk away, and I hate that part of me wants to walk over, grab his stupid face and say,“Stop looking at my brother like that. You’re on the wrong continent for this.”I hate that another, smaller, more deranged part of mewonders what it would look like if he ever looked atmethat way on purpose.
I slam the heel of my hand against the crate. “Nyet,” I snap at myself. One of the younger soldiers loading ammo nearby jumps, glances over, and I level him with a look strong enough to peel paint. He goes back to his work very quickly.
I push off the crate, roll my shoulders, and make a decision. I can’t stop Niko from being friendly, that’s who he is. I can’t control where some British idiot points his eyes, but I can control how close Niko gets to the blast radius. I’ll keep an eye on him from afar, make sure he doesn’t do anything catastrophically stupid, and if he steps too far, I’ll correct him. Hard.
Otherwise? I have better things to burn my brain cells on than two men fumbling their way through an impossible dynamic.
Satisfied enough to move, I turn on my heel and stalk away, my boots hitting the frozen ground a little harder than necessary, and each step knocks out curse after curse.
By the time I hit the edge of the training ground, I’ve talked myself into a full feral spiral, muttering under my breath in a mix of Russian and English that would probably get me sent to a psychologist if anyone listened closely.
“He'd better stop staring at him like that. He'd better stop staring atanyonelike that. He’d better stop breathing so... so seriously, k chertu, what is wrong with him...” I jab my hands into my pockets so I don’t punch a wall, and I don’t dare look back.
If I do, I’ll snap, and then do something I can’t easily explain in a report. So, I walk off the field, past the barracks, and past the motor pool where some poor bastard is arguing with an engine.
I walk until the shouting on the training ground is just noise, and my breath is the loudest thing I can hear.
I seriously hate him.
I stalk across the base like a small, furious weather system, swearing at the snow, the wind, the bureaucracy, the British army, and myself in equal measure. I’m going to stay away from him and watch from afar.
...right after the next joint sparring session.
Seven
Caiden
Something is wrong with me. Not physically. Physically, I’m fine, just tired, sore, half-frozen, and entirely convinced Russian oxygen has something personal against me, but otherwise operational. No, the real problem is my brain. My brain is malfunctioning because it hasn’t shut up abouthimall day.
Ari. Arseny Zakirov. Sergeant problem and walking hazard symbol.
