Page 82 of Break Me Apart
Niko answers the door, looking marginally more put together than yesterday. That counts as progress. His eyes are clearer, though the skin around them still looks dark. He’s actually shaved this time, combed his hair back, and has a clean shirt on. The sort of tiny things men do when they’re trying to convince themselves that function is back, or at least available on request.
“Hiya,” I say.
“You’re early,” he says, stepping aside.
“You say that like I’m interrupting something glamorous.”
His mouth twitches, which is about the best I can hope for before lunch. Vladimir is awake, which means the flat feels immediately less haunted and more like a place containing an actual small person with very loud opinions. He’s sitting on the floor near the sofa with a wooden spoon in one hand and something sticky on one knee, looking at me with that serious, assessing stare toddlers do so well, as if he’s not sure whether I’m welcome or simply tolerated.
“Well,” I say to him, crouching down, “you look busy.”
He considers me, then holds the spoon up as if offering a truce. I pick him up without asking, because by now we’ve all stopped pretending I need permission for the practical parts. He comes up onto my hip easily enough, warm, sturdy, and heavier every time I lift him, then immediately puts one hand on my cheek and one in my shirt collar as if checking I’m built properly.
“All right, mate,” I mutter. “Bit invasive, but fair enough.”
Niko makes a quiet sound that might have been a laugh in a less exhausted life. “You don’t have to—” he starts, then seems to hear himself and gives up halfway through the sentence.
“I know,” I say. “Still here, though.”
That earns me a proper look. Tired. Grateful. Slightly ashamed of the gratitude. All the usual ugly things grief does to a decent man.
He nods once and lets it go.
We move around each other more easily now. Not comfortably, exactly. Nothing about this is comfortable. But there’s a routine to it. I wash bottles, stack dishes, wipe down whatever Vladimir has managed to smear in the last hour, and Niko eats because I put food in front of him and stand there long enough that eating is easier than not.
He’s still trying, but sometimes he stops mid-task and gets this look, like now. He’s standing with a spoon in his hand and staring at nothing. It doesn’t last long because Vladimir shouts at him, grabbing his attention.
The kid’s got lungs on him.
He also, increasingly, knows how to use them. At eleven months, he’s not a baby in the fragile sense anymore. He’s all elbows and hot little hands and absolute certainty that whatever you’re holding should really be his. He points at things with stern authority, says sounds that are very clearly meant to be words and then gets ragingly cross when the rest of us fail to keep up. He wants to walk everywhere, even when walking is slower, harder, and objectively not the best plan.
A man after Ari’s own heart, really.
I get him settled against my shoulder while Niko eats, rubbing slow circles over his back until the wriggle goesout of him. There’s something in that which calms me more than I’d expected when this started.
Niko watches us from the table over the rim of a mug that’s gone cold. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. The gratitude is there anyway, enough to feel even when he’s trying very hard not to make a thing of it.
I leave later than I intended and earlier than I want to, which seems to be the pattern now. There’s never a clean point where going feels kind and staying feels wise. You just pick one and hope you’ve judged it right.
“I’ll be back later,” I say as I pull my jacket on.
It isn’t framed as a promise; it doesn’t need to be. Niko nods. “All right.”
Vladimir, from the floor, smacks a spoon against a block and says something that might be “ta”if you’re feeling generous. Which obviously makes me grin. “Exactly,” I tell him.
The rest of the day passes without any issues, which is its own kind of mercy. I don’t see Ari properly. Only once, from a distance, crossing the yard between buildings. He’s with somebody else, expression unreadable in that way he does so well.
We don’t acknowledge each other much. That’s the rule, and we both know it. Still, the sight of him moving around on base and not just somewhere in the back of my head waiting for dark, calms me more than I’d ever admit aloud.
After lights out, I lie on my bunk with my hands behind my head and stare at the ceiling.
Fragments of the night before keep coming back, but not in any neat order. I’m not thinking about the kissing, oddly enough. Well, not at first. I’m more focused on just how good it felt to be next to him again, even when he wasn’t saying anything.
I turn onto my side and close my eyes, holding onto that thought for as long as possible.
We’re here together for at least five months.
And that one single thought is enough to let sleep take me eventually, whether I’m especially keen on theidea or not.
