Tumbling Down: Angst, PG, Parts 1-6
Flight 751. Flight 751. Flight 751. 751.
“Flight 751 has crashed.”
My world shattered.
Title: (And They All Came) Tumbling Down 1-6
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG
Players: Various; Sergei Fedorov (POV)
Pairing: Sergei Fedorov/Nikolai Zherdev
-
Part One
It was just barely dawn when frantic knocking sounded on the door to my apartment. I heard shouts, from different voices, and erratic pounding as they tried to break through the thick wood. I couldn’t be bothered to go and open it. Instead I sat slumped in my computer chair, staring at the screen of my laptop, reading those horrible lines over and over again as I had been for the past two hours.
Russian Plane with 250 Aboard Crashes Near Ural Mountains.
No survivors have yet been recovered.
No survivors.
The phrase repeated in my head like a death knell. I refreshed the page constantly, hoping for some change-just one, god; please, just let at least one have survived. The thought was selfish and horrible but I didn’t care, my hands shaking as I pressed the mouse button mechanically.
Refresh. No change.
Refresh. No change.
Refresh…
The door slammed open at last, my nice little landlady probably having let them in. Footsteps pounded on the wooden floorboards. Louder, louder. A tentative voice at the doorway, inquiry barely breathed.
“Sergei?”
It was Rusty. That meant Rick was probably there as well. I pressed refresh again.
“Sergei…jesus…”
Slow steps easing toward me.
Refresh.
A hand resting on my shoulder.
Refresh.
Pulling me away from the computer.
I screamed.
Strong arms hauled me away from the dully-lit computer screen as I thrashed and writhed. Terror raced through my veins at being separated from that little bit of hope, denial rising in my throat-he’s not gone he’s not gone-as I was forcefully dragged from the room; from within sight of that horrible article. I kicked and swore and bellowed as Rick and Rusty pinned me against the couch, not letting me return to my mind-numbing, empty vigil. Comforting arms-Marc’s-wrapped around me despite my thrashing, holding me close and whispering nonsense into my ear. I felt his tears splash on my face and froze, shocked at those salty droplets.
“Don’t cry, Marc,” I ordered. My voice was high-pitched and bordering on hysteria, fingers curling into the flesh of his biceps. “There isn’t any reason to cry. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t there. Don’t cry.”
“Oh, Sergei…” Marc whispered. I raised my gaze to Rusty, looking at him over Marc’s shoulder. His eyes were red and puffy, his hand clenched tightly with Rick’s. Rick looked pale, and haunted; empty. I watched them both with wide eyes.
“He’s not,” I whispered. Yet even as I spoke the words aloud I knew I didn’t believe them. I slumped in Marc’s grasp, staring at the cold, unyielding wood at my feet. The world and reality reasserted itself on my consciousness, cruel and convincing, and I found myself stunned, and so very, very empty.
Nikolai was gone.
--
Part Two
I don’t remember much of the week following the crash. Rusty moved in for a little while, keeping track of me while casually stowing all sharp or toxic objects out of easy reach. I spent most of my time in my room-laptop removed-sleeping or awake, staring at nothing. Sleeping was comforting, and I let my body slow down in order to get in more hours of that peaceful obliviousness.
Igor visited. He showed up right on my doorstep, shocking the hell out of Rusty. He sat at the side of my bed, talking to me quietly in Russian-reminiscing, telling stories; talking until he was hoarse and had to take a sip of water. It grounded me, slowly pulling me back to the world with the memories of Russia our language conjured. Igor was patient and non-inquisitive, waiting for me to come to him.
So he was there the evening I suddenly, abruptly burst into tears, sobbing as the truth hit me with crushing force. He wrapped me in his arms and held me while I cried and hiccupped and soaked his shirt with salty tears, unable to keep my grief back any longer.
Nikolai was gone. That sweet smile, those deep gray eyes that were so alive, so in love with life-I would never see them again. The warmth of him lying beside me on the bed: cold. The gentle sound of his breathing: silent. I found myself looking around for traces of him that weren’t there, shocked by their lacking. The spilled coffee grounds that Nikky never, ever cleaned up? They weren’t there. I had stared at the pristine white counter for a whole five minutes, wondering what was wrong.
When I’d finally realized what was different, I’d rushed to the bathroom, emptying my stomach of the bare amount of food it held. Nausea was like a kick to the gut, and I’d cried as I’d retched, gagging on air when there was nothing left.
When I was more coherent, after a few weeks, Igor let me know a listing of the names of survivors had been released.
Nikolai’s wasn’t on it.
The living passengers were staying at a hospital in Ekaterinburg, which was swamped and overburdened. I sent off a check of about five million or so-Igor had given me a vaguely disapproving look; did I want people to know my relationship to Nik, the only person on the flight I had known? But I didn’t care. Damn the media. Damn the rumormongers. Fuck, even damn hockey to hell. There wasn’t anything left for me in it. I was close to retirement, anyway. Let me stay at home, locked in my expensive house, surrounded by material things that neither attracted me nor repulsed me. Let them talk. Let me die a bitter, empty man.
The world had taken too much away from me for me to care.
Wanting to get me out of Columbus, away from the constant reminders of Nik, Igor proposed we go to Ekaterinburg and see to the survivors. I agreed, dully. It didn’t matter where I was-Columbus, Ekaterinburg, Moscow, Miami, anywhere-I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was in me, part of my soul that I couldn’t leave behind with a simple change of scenery.
There was nothing that could ever fix me again.
--
Part Three
Flight 751 had crashed in an open field of tall grass. Withered stalks and scorched earth scented the air with the smell of charcoal, and I gagged a little in my throat.
I had to avert my eyes from the plane’s twisted, mangled remains, unable to take the sight of the melted metal. My heart clenched painfully in my chest at the thoughts racing through my head.
Were you still alive when the plane hit the ground? Did you feel the burning heat, that had risen to such a temperature it melted steel like wax? Or had you already been gone, suffocated by the lack of oxygen as it escaped through the gaping hole in the side of the plane?
Nikky, I love you, please come back to me. Come back. I can’t think about you dying. I’ll give anything, anything at all-take my life, take my soul; just come back…
“Sergei.”
I raised my gaze at Igor’s quiet voice, painfully grateful for the outside distraction from my thoughts. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I barely noticed them. A comforting hand rested on my shoulder, squeezing gently.
“Come. Let us see to the survivors.”
We went to the hospital the plane crash’s survivors had been taken to, Igor driving while I stared out the window. Everything was running smoothly, patients taken care of and well-rested. The head administrator came and thanked me personally for my donation, and I had never before been so satisfied with the usage of my money. I walked through the wings housing the patients, seeing children walking around with IVs trailing behind them; parents embracing their children, people their lovers, siblings, friends.
It hurt.
I envied them. Envied them and felt so much guilt at my envy that I had to lean against the wall, digging my fingernails into my arm. The pain shocked me, reprimanded me, and it stemmed the self-disgust that rose in my throat.
“Mr. Fedorov?”
I looked up to see a white-clad doctor standing a respectful distance away. I’d long since lost Igor in the crowd of patients and well-wishers-and mourners.
“Yes?” I asked wearily, scrubbing my face with my hand. “What is it?”
“Sir, I-think there’s something you should see.”
God, if it was another burned, broken yet happily alive child, I didn’t know if I could take it. I didn’t know if I could bear another. But I followed obediently, my feet dragging on the floor as the doctor led me to one of the rooms.
Inside were two beds, curtained off with makeshift sheets. One was empty, while in the other sat a young man with sun-kissed skin and dark brown hair. A bandage was wrapped around his forehead.
As the world spun in front of me Nikolai raised his gaze, eyes blank and confused.
“Who are you?”
--
Part Four
“I’ll be taking him back with me to America.”
The doctor nodded briskly, glancing at the young man standing behind me. Nikolai was subdued, his eyes on the ground in front of him.
He remembered nothing of the accident. Nothing of his life-his family, his career; nothing. His English had vanished, as well his knowledge about the game of hockey. That had been the worst-seeing the lack of comprehension in those gray eyes as I spoke of the sport he loved; the game he ate and drank and breathed.
Nik had spoken in the past of his family. It had seemed to me that he’d grown up as I had; with a controlling, oppressive father that pushed and pushed until you were too tired and beaten to push back. Nik had been shipped off to cousins he’d barely known so that he could play in the Russian Superleague instead of the small Ukrainian hockey league. His parents had become distant, emotionless entities except for the few phone calls and letters telling him to play hard, and play well.
I wasn’t planning on sending him to his parents.
There weren’t very many problems with me taking custody of Nikolai. The hospital was more than happy to let me take him after my support, plus the fact no one was paying his bills (I took care of them later). The only obstacle had been Viktor Tikhonov, who had showed up a day earlier. Ostensibly to confirm Nikolai’s status of life or death-a ‘friendly’ hand to take care of him, if he lived.
‘Get out,’ I’d told him the instant he set foot through the door. Nikky had been sleeping after a painful session involving needles and blood, through which he’d had a death grip on my hand, despite having only ‘met’ me two days previous. Viktor had smiled, the expression more of a grimace than anything.
We’d exchanged cool words and I had informed him there was no way in hell I would let him take Nikky. He’d backed off at my adamancy, but I still was wary, even after he’d left.
The doctor handed me the signed forms, wishing us both luck. I guided Nik outside to the waiting car that would take us to the airport. The drive would take a few hours, and I made sure Nikky was settled comfortably before motioning the driver to go.
Nik smiled at me, hesitantly, his voice shy and subdued.
“Thank you for this-for taking care of me. I-I’m sorry I can’t remember things…”
I smiled at him encouragingly, patting his hand. It hurt that I couldn’t touch him. It hurt that I couldn’t take him in my arms and sob my joy into his shoulder, thanking all there was for their grace in keeping him alive.
Instead I sat back in the seat and hid the raging emotions within me.
“It’s alright, Nik. It’s not your fault. Remember, even if you don’t remember us-your friends will take care of you.”
‘Lover!’ my mind screamed in agony. ‘You’re his lover!’
But my face betrayed no emotion, and I sat quiet in the car despite the turmoil in my heart. The trip to the airport was silent.
And I felt like crying.
--
‘No, Viktor. He’s been through too much. I’ve been through too much. I lost Vlad and I almost lost Slava-I’m not losing Nikolai as well. After all these years I’ve not only found someone worth loving-but someone worth dying for. Nik has been through hell here in Russia, and over in America as well.
‘I don’t care if he never remembers who I am. I don’t care if I never get to touch him or kiss him ever again, so long as he is safe. So long as he is alive.
‘I will take care of him no matter what.’
--
Part Five
“He’s alive?! Rick! RICK! Nikky’s alive! Jesus-we’ll be over right away-”
“No!”
I winced as Nikolai raised his head, looking up at my panicked outburst. He had been curiously examining the delicate glass Faberge replica on the table-you picked it out, Nikky, don’t you remember? you’d smiled and said it was the color of my eyes…-while I called Rusty. My Czech teammate had demanded I call him upon my return from Russia, still concerned with my state of mind. I would have called him in the cab coming from the airport, but Nik had fallen asleep on my shoulder and I’d have damned myself to hell before I’d moved him. I hadn’t even wanted to wake him up when we’d pulled up to my apartment, but the cabbie had glared at me.
I smiled reassuringly at Nik and waved my hand, turning away from that inquisitive gaze.
“He doesn’t remember anything, Rusty,” I explained quietly. “Not a thing.”
“What? You mean-nothing?”
“Nothing. His life, hockey-”
“The two of you?”
“Nothing,” I repeated flatly. I didn’t like remembering that part. It still hurt far too much.
“God, Sergei, I’m sorry… But-alive! Is he going to be alright, do you know? Is he okay?”
“Minor cuts and bruises. His ankle was twisted pretty badly, but it’s a normal sprain and’ll heal completely in a few months. It’s mostly just his head…”
“Well, that’s good to hear. I think. Damn. Do you think-could we come by sometime? Even if he won’t remember us…”
I glanced over my shoulder. Nikolai was sitting down on my couch, his hands in his lap. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes were tired.
And he looked so lost while in the midst of the keepsakes and reminders from our life together that I wanted to cry.
“I-I don’t know, Rusty. Maybe. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”
Seeming to sense the pain in my voice, Rusty acquiesced.
“Alright, Sergei. Get some rest, okay? Take care of Nikky, but take care of yourself, too.”
“I will,” I whispered. I hung up the phone and turned back to Nik, who was struggling to stay awake. He was nodding off, slumped against the arm of the couch, and I approached him carefully.
“Nikolai,” I called softly. He blinked up at me with sleepy eyes, mumbling incoherently.
“Sergei..?”
My breath stuck in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. It had sounded so like him; so like the voice I remembered waking up to-
“I’ll show you to the guest room,” I croaked. Nik nodded and levered himself to his feet. I’d bought him a walking stick to help him keep the pressure off his ankle, and helped him hobble to the rarely-used guest bedroom. It was simple, with various little mementos scattered around: pictures of the guys from the team, the puck from Nik’s first NHL goal, the plaque from my 1000th game; the absurdly large stuffed bunny he had won for me at a fair.
I helped him into bed and arranged his ankle so it was elevated. Surrounded by a mountain of blankets, he looked so small and sweet as he thanked me with a shy smile. I could barely keep myself from kissing him goodnight, and fled to my room.
That night I dreamt of fire and brimstone. Of metal, twisting round and round like a slinky toy. The devil came to me and asked if I would trade my soul for Nikolai’s, but when I screamed that I would he only laughed and disappeared back into the flames.
I woke sweating and shaking, and threw up in the bathroom.
I didn’t even try and sleep after.
--
Part Six
“You were crying in your sleep last night.”
I froze in the midst of reaching for the carton of milk. Nikolai was sitting across from me at the table, his eyes on his bowl of cereal, slowly stirring the contents. I forced myself to complete the action-that’s it, Sergei, close fingers around carton, retract arm-and offered him a reassuring smile.
“Bad dreams. Don’t worry about it.”
But instead of cheering him up, my words seemed to make him curl in on himself even more. His shoulders slumped and he ducked his head uneasily. I frowned in concern.
“You said my name.”
Shit.
My already-miniscule appetite having vanished, I sighed and leaned my elbows the table, scrubbing my face with my hands. I was exhausted and bleary from having gotten only a few hours of sleep, and I was starting to wonder if I was going to be able to survive this heartache.
“Sergei, I-am I a good person? I know I’m supposed to get my memory back, but-I don’t think I want to be someone who makes others cry…”
I looked up. Nik looked so lonely, so sad. Without thinking I reached out my hand across the table-but as soon as I began the action I wanted to stop it. What if he doesn’t..?
But he did. Shyly, he slipped his hand into mine. He met my gaze with a hesitant, apprehensive smile, and I returned it gently.
And tried not to let a huge, inane grin spread across my face at the simple gesture.
“Yes, Nik. You were-you are-a good person. You’re a wonderful person. Don’t ever think differently. Last night, I-I was just dreaming about the crash. I thought I had lost you; and I’m so glad that I didn’t.”
He nodded, brightening a little, and I squeezed his hand comfortingly. It tore my heart when he let go so we could eat, but the touch of his fingers against my skin burned warm and comforting even after, and I felt a little bit of peace salve my battered soul.
Later, after I had made sure Nik was comfortable and settled-at least, as much as he could be-I suggested he ‘meet’ Rick and Rusty. I gave Rusty a ten-minute lecture over the phone, reminding him that it would be the first time Nik would remember seeing them, and that he still couldn’t remember any English, and not to stress him too much…
Eventually he had just hung up on me.
They showed up at the door, and I answered it with Nikolai standing shyly in the background. Rick’s features had been set, determined to be reserved, but when he caught sight of Nik tears welled in his eyes and he went right over and hugged him. Thankfully, I had told Nik that might happen, so he was prepared and patted Rick on the back awkwardly.
“Hey, Sergei,” Rusty greeted as I closed the door. His eyes were on the other two, glistening, a smile on his face. When Rick finally let go he held out his hand to Nik, warm but reserved. <“Hello, Nikolai; I’m Rusty. Rostislav Klesla.”>
His accent was bad, but it was still Russian so Nikolai understood it. He nodded, pleased, and said a quiet hello. Rick pointed to himself, declared, “Rick Nash,” and then proceeded to pull Nik back into the living room, gesturing and talking the entire way. Rusty and I hung back in the foyer, the Czech defenseman looking at me with concern in his eyes.
“Sergei, how are you holding up? Are you alright? You’ve lost weight…”
I deadpanned, “I will be sure to inform EA Sports.”
When he didn’t let up his worried stare I sighed and dropped the act, rubbing my face with my hand.
“I’m not okay,” I confessed, my voice muffled through my fingers. “I don’t know when I’m going to be okay again. But now isn’t the time for that-all I’m concerned about right now is Nik. He’s all that matters to me, Rusty.”
“But you can’t help him if you’re killing yourself at the same time,” he replied in a soft tone. I offered him a tired smile as Rick and Nik came back from the living room; still trying awkwardly to communicate through hand-gestures, though they were laughing as they did it.
“I would die for him.”
Rusty’s response was cut off as the two approached. Rick had an infectious grin on his face, and Nik was smiling, his eyes lit and animated. I could have kissed the young Canadian for that, except I knew Rusty probably would have punched me for it.
We talked for a while, Rick and Rusty asking questions and receiving answers as I translated to Russian to English and back again. We talked about their relationship to Nik, the team, some memories; I could see Nik taking it all in, his eyes flickering in recognition or confusion as some things sounded or felt familiar while others didn’t. After about an hour they left-I didn’t want to overwhelm him, and had scheduled an appointment with a well-known neurologist over at Ohio State’s neurology department.
But even after they were gone, a happy glow remained in Nikolai’s face, and seeing him smile gave me hope that someday, maybe, things could be right again.
--
“Flight 751 has crashed.”
My world shattered.
Title: (And They All Came) Tumbling Down 1-6
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG
Players: Various; Sergei Fedorov (POV)
Pairing: Sergei Fedorov/Nikolai Zherdev
-
Part One
It was just barely dawn when frantic knocking sounded on the door to my apartment. I heard shouts, from different voices, and erratic pounding as they tried to break through the thick wood. I couldn’t be bothered to go and open it. Instead I sat slumped in my computer chair, staring at the screen of my laptop, reading those horrible lines over and over again as I had been for the past two hours.
Russian Plane with 250 Aboard Crashes Near Ural Mountains.
No survivors have yet been recovered.
No survivors.
The phrase repeated in my head like a death knell. I refreshed the page constantly, hoping for some change-just one, god; please, just let at least one have survived. The thought was selfish and horrible but I didn’t care, my hands shaking as I pressed the mouse button mechanically.
Refresh. No change.
Refresh. No change.
Refresh…
The door slammed open at last, my nice little landlady probably having let them in. Footsteps pounded on the wooden floorboards. Louder, louder. A tentative voice at the doorway, inquiry barely breathed.
“Sergei?”
It was Rusty. That meant Rick was probably there as well. I pressed refresh again.
“Sergei…jesus…”
Slow steps easing toward me.
Refresh.
A hand resting on my shoulder.
Refresh.
Pulling me away from the computer.
I screamed.
Strong arms hauled me away from the dully-lit computer screen as I thrashed and writhed. Terror raced through my veins at being separated from that little bit of hope, denial rising in my throat-he’s not gone he’s not gone-as I was forcefully dragged from the room; from within sight of that horrible article. I kicked and swore and bellowed as Rick and Rusty pinned me against the couch, not letting me return to my mind-numbing, empty vigil. Comforting arms-Marc’s-wrapped around me despite my thrashing, holding me close and whispering nonsense into my ear. I felt his tears splash on my face and froze, shocked at those salty droplets.
“Don’t cry, Marc,” I ordered. My voice was high-pitched and bordering on hysteria, fingers curling into the flesh of his biceps. “There isn’t any reason to cry. It wasn’t him. He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t there. Don’t cry.”
“Oh, Sergei…” Marc whispered. I raised my gaze to Rusty, looking at him over Marc’s shoulder. His eyes were red and puffy, his hand clenched tightly with Rick’s. Rick looked pale, and haunted; empty. I watched them both with wide eyes.
“He’s not,” I whispered. Yet even as I spoke the words aloud I knew I didn’t believe them. I slumped in Marc’s grasp, staring at the cold, unyielding wood at my feet. The world and reality reasserted itself on my consciousness, cruel and convincing, and I found myself stunned, and so very, very empty.
Nikolai was gone.
--
Part Two
I don’t remember much of the week following the crash. Rusty moved in for a little while, keeping track of me while casually stowing all sharp or toxic objects out of easy reach. I spent most of my time in my room-laptop removed-sleeping or awake, staring at nothing. Sleeping was comforting, and I let my body slow down in order to get in more hours of that peaceful obliviousness.
Igor visited. He showed up right on my doorstep, shocking the hell out of Rusty. He sat at the side of my bed, talking to me quietly in Russian-reminiscing, telling stories; talking until he was hoarse and had to take a sip of water. It grounded me, slowly pulling me back to the world with the memories of Russia our language conjured. Igor was patient and non-inquisitive, waiting for me to come to him.
So he was there the evening I suddenly, abruptly burst into tears, sobbing as the truth hit me with crushing force. He wrapped me in his arms and held me while I cried and hiccupped and soaked his shirt with salty tears, unable to keep my grief back any longer.
Nikolai was gone. That sweet smile, those deep gray eyes that were so alive, so in love with life-I would never see them again. The warmth of him lying beside me on the bed: cold. The gentle sound of his breathing: silent. I found myself looking around for traces of him that weren’t there, shocked by their lacking. The spilled coffee grounds that Nikky never, ever cleaned up? They weren’t there. I had stared at the pristine white counter for a whole five minutes, wondering what was wrong.
When I’d finally realized what was different, I’d rushed to the bathroom, emptying my stomach of the bare amount of food it held. Nausea was like a kick to the gut, and I’d cried as I’d retched, gagging on air when there was nothing left.
When I was more coherent, after a few weeks, Igor let me know a listing of the names of survivors had been released.
Nikolai’s wasn’t on it.
The living passengers were staying at a hospital in Ekaterinburg, which was swamped and overburdened. I sent off a check of about five million or so-Igor had given me a vaguely disapproving look; did I want people to know my relationship to Nik, the only person on the flight I had known? But I didn’t care. Damn the media. Damn the rumormongers. Fuck, even damn hockey to hell. There wasn’t anything left for me in it. I was close to retirement, anyway. Let me stay at home, locked in my expensive house, surrounded by material things that neither attracted me nor repulsed me. Let them talk. Let me die a bitter, empty man.
The world had taken too much away from me for me to care.
Wanting to get me out of Columbus, away from the constant reminders of Nik, Igor proposed we go to Ekaterinburg and see to the survivors. I agreed, dully. It didn’t matter where I was-Columbus, Ekaterinburg, Moscow, Miami, anywhere-I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was in me, part of my soul that I couldn’t leave behind with a simple change of scenery.
There was nothing that could ever fix me again.
--
Part Three
Flight 751 had crashed in an open field of tall grass. Withered stalks and scorched earth scented the air with the smell of charcoal, and I gagged a little in my throat.
I had to avert my eyes from the plane’s twisted, mangled remains, unable to take the sight of the melted metal. My heart clenched painfully in my chest at the thoughts racing through my head.
Were you still alive when the plane hit the ground? Did you feel the burning heat, that had risen to such a temperature it melted steel like wax? Or had you already been gone, suffocated by the lack of oxygen as it escaped through the gaping hole in the side of the plane?
Nikky, I love you, please come back to me. Come back. I can’t think about you dying. I’ll give anything, anything at all-take my life, take my soul; just come back…
“Sergei.”
I raised my gaze at Igor’s quiet voice, painfully grateful for the outside distraction from my thoughts. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I barely noticed them. A comforting hand rested on my shoulder, squeezing gently.
“Come. Let us see to the survivors.”
We went to the hospital the plane crash’s survivors had been taken to, Igor driving while I stared out the window. Everything was running smoothly, patients taken care of and well-rested. The head administrator came and thanked me personally for my donation, and I had never before been so satisfied with the usage of my money. I walked through the wings housing the patients, seeing children walking around with IVs trailing behind them; parents embracing their children, people their lovers, siblings, friends.
It hurt.
I envied them. Envied them and felt so much guilt at my envy that I had to lean against the wall, digging my fingernails into my arm. The pain shocked me, reprimanded me, and it stemmed the self-disgust that rose in my throat.
“Mr. Fedorov?”
I looked up to see a white-clad doctor standing a respectful distance away. I’d long since lost Igor in the crowd of patients and well-wishers-and mourners.
“Yes?” I asked wearily, scrubbing my face with my hand. “What is it?”
“Sir, I-think there’s something you should see.”
God, if it was another burned, broken yet happily alive child, I didn’t know if I could take it. I didn’t know if I could bear another. But I followed obediently, my feet dragging on the floor as the doctor led me to one of the rooms.
Inside were two beds, curtained off with makeshift sheets. One was empty, while in the other sat a young man with sun-kissed skin and dark brown hair. A bandage was wrapped around his forehead.
As the world spun in front of me Nikolai raised his gaze, eyes blank and confused.
“Who are you?”
--
Part Four
“I’ll be taking him back with me to America.”
The doctor nodded briskly, glancing at the young man standing behind me. Nikolai was subdued, his eyes on the ground in front of him.
He remembered nothing of the accident. Nothing of his life-his family, his career; nothing. His English had vanished, as well his knowledge about the game of hockey. That had been the worst-seeing the lack of comprehension in those gray eyes as I spoke of the sport he loved; the game he ate and drank and breathed.
Nik had spoken in the past of his family. It had seemed to me that he’d grown up as I had; with a controlling, oppressive father that pushed and pushed until you were too tired and beaten to push back. Nik had been shipped off to cousins he’d barely known so that he could play in the Russian Superleague instead of the small Ukrainian hockey league. His parents had become distant, emotionless entities except for the few phone calls and letters telling him to play hard, and play well.
I wasn’t planning on sending him to his parents.
There weren’t very many problems with me taking custody of Nikolai. The hospital was more than happy to let me take him after my support, plus the fact no one was paying his bills (I took care of them later). The only obstacle had been Viktor Tikhonov, who had showed up a day earlier. Ostensibly to confirm Nikolai’s status of life or death-a ‘friendly’ hand to take care of him, if he lived.
‘Get out,’ I’d told him the instant he set foot through the door. Nikky had been sleeping after a painful session involving needles and blood, through which he’d had a death grip on my hand, despite having only ‘met’ me two days previous. Viktor had smiled, the expression more of a grimace than anything.
We’d exchanged cool words and I had informed him there was no way in hell I would let him take Nikky. He’d backed off at my adamancy, but I still was wary, even after he’d left.
The doctor handed me the signed forms, wishing us both luck. I guided Nik outside to the waiting car that would take us to the airport. The drive would take a few hours, and I made sure Nikky was settled comfortably before motioning the driver to go.
Nik smiled at me, hesitantly, his voice shy and subdued.
“Thank you for this-for taking care of me. I-I’m sorry I can’t remember things…”
I smiled at him encouragingly, patting his hand. It hurt that I couldn’t touch him. It hurt that I couldn’t take him in my arms and sob my joy into his shoulder, thanking all there was for their grace in keeping him alive.
Instead I sat back in the seat and hid the raging emotions within me.
“It’s alright, Nik. It’s not your fault. Remember, even if you don’t remember us-your friends will take care of you.”
‘Lover!’ my mind screamed in agony. ‘You’re his lover!’
But my face betrayed no emotion, and I sat quiet in the car despite the turmoil in my heart. The trip to the airport was silent.
And I felt like crying.
--
‘No, Viktor. He’s been through too much. I’ve been through too much. I lost Vlad and I almost lost Slava-I’m not losing Nikolai as well. After all these years I’ve not only found someone worth loving-but someone worth dying for. Nik has been through hell here in Russia, and over in America as well.
‘I don’t care if he never remembers who I am. I don’t care if I never get to touch him or kiss him ever again, so long as he is safe. So long as he is alive.
‘I will take care of him no matter what.’
--
Part Five
“He’s alive?! Rick! RICK! Nikky’s alive! Jesus-we’ll be over right away-”
“No!”
I winced as Nikolai raised his head, looking up at my panicked outburst. He had been curiously examining the delicate glass Faberge replica on the table-you picked it out, Nikky, don’t you remember? you’d smiled and said it was the color of my eyes…-while I called Rusty. My Czech teammate had demanded I call him upon my return from Russia, still concerned with my state of mind. I would have called him in the cab coming from the airport, but Nik had fallen asleep on my shoulder and I’d have damned myself to hell before I’d moved him. I hadn’t even wanted to wake him up when we’d pulled up to my apartment, but the cabbie had glared at me.
I smiled reassuringly at Nik and waved my hand, turning away from that inquisitive gaze.
“He doesn’t remember anything, Rusty,” I explained quietly. “Not a thing.”
“What? You mean-nothing?”
“Nothing. His life, hockey-”
“The two of you?”
“Nothing,” I repeated flatly. I didn’t like remembering that part. It still hurt far too much.
“God, Sergei, I’m sorry… But-alive! Is he going to be alright, do you know? Is he okay?”
“Minor cuts and bruises. His ankle was twisted pretty badly, but it’s a normal sprain and’ll heal completely in a few months. It’s mostly just his head…”
“Well, that’s good to hear. I think. Damn. Do you think-could we come by sometime? Even if he won’t remember us…”
I glanced over my shoulder. Nikolai was sitting down on my couch, his hands in his lap. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes were tired.
And he looked so lost while in the midst of the keepsakes and reminders from our life together that I wanted to cry.
“I-I don’t know, Rusty. Maybe. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”
Seeming to sense the pain in my voice, Rusty acquiesced.
“Alright, Sergei. Get some rest, okay? Take care of Nikky, but take care of yourself, too.”
“I will,” I whispered. I hung up the phone and turned back to Nik, who was struggling to stay awake. He was nodding off, slumped against the arm of the couch, and I approached him carefully.
“Nikolai,” I called softly. He blinked up at me with sleepy eyes, mumbling incoherently.
“Sergei..?”
My breath stuck in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. It had sounded so like him; so like the voice I remembered waking up to-
“I’ll show you to the guest room,” I croaked. Nik nodded and levered himself to his feet. I’d bought him a walking stick to help him keep the pressure off his ankle, and helped him hobble to the rarely-used guest bedroom. It was simple, with various little mementos scattered around: pictures of the guys from the team, the puck from Nik’s first NHL goal, the plaque from my 1000th game; the absurdly large stuffed bunny he had won for me at a fair.
I helped him into bed and arranged his ankle so it was elevated. Surrounded by a mountain of blankets, he looked so small and sweet as he thanked me with a shy smile. I could barely keep myself from kissing him goodnight, and fled to my room.
That night I dreamt of fire and brimstone. Of metal, twisting round and round like a slinky toy. The devil came to me and asked if I would trade my soul for Nikolai’s, but when I screamed that I would he only laughed and disappeared back into the flames.
I woke sweating and shaking, and threw up in the bathroom.
I didn’t even try and sleep after.
--
Part Six
“You were crying in your sleep last night.”
I froze in the midst of reaching for the carton of milk. Nikolai was sitting across from me at the table, his eyes on his bowl of cereal, slowly stirring the contents. I forced myself to complete the action-that’s it, Sergei, close fingers around carton, retract arm-and offered him a reassuring smile.
“Bad dreams. Don’t worry about it.”
But instead of cheering him up, my words seemed to make him curl in on himself even more. His shoulders slumped and he ducked his head uneasily. I frowned in concern.
“You said my name.”
Shit.
My already-miniscule appetite having vanished, I sighed and leaned my elbows the table, scrubbing my face with my hands. I was exhausted and bleary from having gotten only a few hours of sleep, and I was starting to wonder if I was going to be able to survive this heartache.
“Sergei, I-am I a good person? I know I’m supposed to get my memory back, but-I don’t think I want to be someone who makes others cry…”
I looked up. Nik looked so lonely, so sad. Without thinking I reached out my hand across the table-but as soon as I began the action I wanted to stop it. What if he doesn’t..?
But he did. Shyly, he slipped his hand into mine. He met my gaze with a hesitant, apprehensive smile, and I returned it gently.
And tried not to let a huge, inane grin spread across my face at the simple gesture.
“Yes, Nik. You were-you are-a good person. You’re a wonderful person. Don’t ever think differently. Last night, I-I was just dreaming about the crash. I thought I had lost you; and I’m so glad that I didn’t.”
He nodded, brightening a little, and I squeezed his hand comfortingly. It tore my heart when he let go so we could eat, but the touch of his fingers against my skin burned warm and comforting even after, and I felt a little bit of peace salve my battered soul.
Later, after I had made sure Nik was comfortable and settled-at least, as much as he could be-I suggested he ‘meet’ Rick and Rusty. I gave Rusty a ten-minute lecture over the phone, reminding him that it would be the first time Nik would remember seeing them, and that he still couldn’t remember any English, and not to stress him too much…
Eventually he had just hung up on me.
They showed up at the door, and I answered it with Nikolai standing shyly in the background. Rick’s features had been set, determined to be reserved, but when he caught sight of Nik tears welled in his eyes and he went right over and hugged him. Thankfully, I had told Nik that might happen, so he was prepared and patted Rick on the back awkwardly.
“Hey, Sergei,” Rusty greeted as I closed the door. His eyes were on the other two, glistening, a smile on his face. When Rick finally let go he held out his hand to Nik, warm but reserved. <“Hello, Nikolai; I’m Rusty. Rostislav Klesla.”>
His accent was bad, but it was still Russian so Nikolai understood it. He nodded, pleased, and said a quiet hello. Rick pointed to himself, declared, “Rick Nash,” and then proceeded to pull Nik back into the living room, gesturing and talking the entire way. Rusty and I hung back in the foyer, the Czech defenseman looking at me with concern in his eyes.
“Sergei, how are you holding up? Are you alright? You’ve lost weight…”
I deadpanned, “I will be sure to inform EA Sports.”
When he didn’t let up his worried stare I sighed and dropped the act, rubbing my face with my hand.
“I’m not okay,” I confessed, my voice muffled through my fingers. “I don’t know when I’m going to be okay again. But now isn’t the time for that-all I’m concerned about right now is Nik. He’s all that matters to me, Rusty.”
“But you can’t help him if you’re killing yourself at the same time,” he replied in a soft tone. I offered him a tired smile as Rick and Nik came back from the living room; still trying awkwardly to communicate through hand-gestures, though they were laughing as they did it.
“I would die for him.”
Rusty’s response was cut off as the two approached. Rick had an infectious grin on his face, and Nik was smiling, his eyes lit and animated. I could have kissed the young Canadian for that, except I knew Rusty probably would have punched me for it.
We talked for a while, Rick and Rusty asking questions and receiving answers as I translated to Russian to English and back again. We talked about their relationship to Nik, the team, some memories; I could see Nik taking it all in, his eyes flickering in recognition or confusion as some things sounded or felt familiar while others didn’t. After about an hour they left-I didn’t want to overwhelm him, and had scheduled an appointment with a well-known neurologist over at Ohio State’s neurology department.
But even after they were gone, a happy glow remained in Nikolai’s face, and seeing him smile gave me hope that someday, maybe, things could be right again.
--