FOUR
ARSENY
I know something is off with Niko before he says a word to me. Not because he turns into a different person; that would almost be easier. If he started sulking in corners or biting heads off for the fun of it, fine, I could work with that. I grew up with him. I know all his ugly little moods.
But this isn’t that.
He still laughs too loudly in the mess when someone says something stupid.
Still throws his arm around people’s shoulders when he’s joking.
Also, still pokes fun at me in front of the others because apparently being my older brother isn’t enough for him; he also needs a hobby.
If anyone watched him for five minutes, they would say he’s fine.
I’ve lived with him in one form or another for most of my life.
Five minutes means nothing.
It starts with small things.
He reads the same letter twice at breakfast and doesn’t realise he’s doing it. He puts sugar in his tea and leaves it untouched until it goes cold. He misses a joke that is very obviously aimed at him, which in itself should qualify as a medical emergency.
He says he slept fine when he looks like he’s been dragged through three countries and a fistfight.
I notice because that’s how brothers work when there are only two of you and the rest of the world has spent years trying to knock bits off both.
Later, as I step out of the barracks block, pulling my gloves on, I spot Niko by the truck, talking to Petrov with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
He looks normal enough until Petrov says something, and Niko takes a minute to nod.
Then he glances down at the cigarette and realises it’s burned nearly to the filter.
He swears, flicks it away, and sees me watching. “What?” he asks.
“You nearly smoked your own fingers,” I joke, he snorts, shoving my shoulder when I get close enough.
“You’re pleasant this morning,” he mumbles.
“I know. You’re lucky I haven’t improved with age.”
“You’re not even twenty-one yet.”
“And still somehow the more mature one.” Petrov laughs and walks off before Niko can tell him to mind his own business. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and looks out across the yard instead of at me. There it is again, that tiny hitch. That half-second where he disappears somewhere else.
“Have you forgotten how to talk?” I ask.
“No.”
“Good. I was worried. You’re not bright at the best of times.”
He looks at me then, his mouth twitching slightly, but it doesn’t fully turn into a smile. “Didn’t your mother teach you any respect?”
“Our mother had bigger problems.”
“That’s true,” he says lightly. Still, he’s quieter than he should be, not sulking exactly; he’s just... elsewhere.
By midday, I’ve gathered enough little scraps of wrongness to annoy me.
On exercise, he loses track of a count he should be able to do in his sleep. In the stores, he forgets to sign a form and stares at it as if the paper has insulted our mother.
At lunch, he takes a letter out of his pocket, unfolds it, reads a line, and shoves it back in again the second he realises I’m looking.
I sit opposite him with my tray and kick his boot under the table. “Do that again, and I’ll break your ankle,” he threatens, looking up at me.
“You’re distracted.”
“No, I’m eating.”
“You haven’t touched your food.”
“Maybe I enjoy taking my time.”
“Maybe you need psychiatric help,” I joke. He leans back in his chair and gives me a long look, the kind that says I am two seconds from being strangled with my own scarf.
“You are deeply irritating today.”
“And yet lovable.”
“Fucking asshole,” he mumbles. I tear a piece off my bread and throw it at him. He catches it mid-air and throws it straight back, hitting me in the chest then falling into my soup. Across the table, one of the men starts laughing. That’s the brother I know. Only it lasts about three seconds.
Petrov talks about leave rotas, wives, girlfriends, and whether any of them will still be around by summer, and Niko goes quiet in a way that grabs my attention.
I say nothing then because there are too many ears around us, and Niko is proud in ways that can turn feral if you poke at them in public.
So, I wait.
That’s another thing brothers are for. Knowing when to be an asshole and when to keep your mouth shut.
By the end of the day, the light is already starting to go. Winter up here doesn’t bother with proper afternoons. The sky dulls early, grey bleeding into darker grey until the whole base looks flat.
I find Niko outside the barracks, his coat unbuttoned, another cigarette lit, staring out beyond the wire as if Murmansk has suddenly become scenic.
I stop beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and he offers me the packet without looking at me. “Trying to kill yourself early?” I ask, taking a cigarette from the pack.
“Trying to enjoy five minutes without hearing your voice.”
“You should ask nicely then. I can be very cooperative when properly bribed.” He huffs a laugh through his nose and lights mine for me. We stand there in silence for a minute, smoke curling white in the cold. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“Are you training to be my wife now?” he asks, dragging on the cigarette, eyes still ahead.
“No, I like men who are less annoying.”
“You’re a little prick,” he says, shaking his head.
“I’m a concerned little prick.”
“You don’t look concerned.”
“This is my concerned face,” I say, pointing at it.
“You look constipated.”
“That’s just my superior bone structure.”
He laughs again, then goes quiet. I manage to smoke half the cigarette before Niko finally speaks again. “Cassie’s not right.”
I blow smoke out slowly. “Define not right.”
“I don’t know.” That, more than anything, tells me this is serious.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I ask, turning my head to study him properly.
“I mean, I don’t know,” he confirms, flicking ash to the ground. “In every letter she says she’s fine, and then half the things she writes don’t sound fine at all.”
“Such as?” I ask, holding his gaze for a second.
He takes his time responding. Not because he’s trying to be dramatic; that’s definitely not his style.
“She says she’s tired,” he says at last. “But everyone with a baby is tired, so that by itself means nothing. Then she says she hasn’t been sleeping because Vladimir’s been restless, only the next letter says he’s sleeping too much, and she keeps waking him to check he’s breathing.
Then she says she doesn’t like taking him outside in case people look at him. ”
“Look at him, how?” I ask, my frown visibly forming.
“She doesn’t say.”
“That’s helpful.”
“I know.” He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand and goes on.
“Last week she wrote that the woman downstairs keeps listening at the door. Before that, she said she thinks someone’s been moving things in the flat when she’s out — except she’s barely going out at all, so I don’t know when that would be.
Then she writes two pages about the baby and what he’s wearing and whether his cheeks feel hot and whether his cry sounds different, and it reads like she hasn’t sat down once since the last letter.
” I say nothing, but he glances at me anyway, already knowing what I’m thinking. “Say it.”
“All right.” I stub ash off my cigarette. “It sounds bad.”
He lets out a breath that might be a laugh if there were any humour in it. “Very useful. Thanks oh wise one,” he says, dripping with sarcasm.
“I’m full of wisdom. Ask anyone.”
He shakes his head and looks away again. That’s the thing with Niko. People think that because he jokes, grins and carries on, nothing gets to him. They’re wrong. He feels things hard. He just hates letting other people see.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask.
“A couple of weeks.”
“A couple of weeks?” I ask, turning to face him fully.
He bristles immediately. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting. I’m asking why I’m only hearing about this now.”
“Because I thought it would pass.”
“On what basis?”
“On the basis that she’s alone with a baby, I’m stuck here, and maybe everything looks worse on paper.
I call when I can, but half the time she sounds normal for five minutes, and then she goes off somewhere strange.
Starts talking too fast. Jumps from one thing to another.
Or she goes quiet, like she’s listening to something.
Then she tells me she’s fine and asks when I’m coming home.
What am I supposed to do with that?” he asks, the last part sharper than he means to, but I let it pass.
“Do you trust her on her own?”
His head snaps round so fast I almost take a step back. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Nothing, I’m only asking.”
“Don’t,” he snaps, grinding the cigarette under his boot.
“Niko—”
“I said, don’t.”
“I’m not saying it to be cruel,” I tell him.
“I know.” He drags a hand over his face and blows out hard through his nose. “She loves Vladimir. She loves him so much that she sounds frightened half the time. Like if she takes her eyes off him for one second, something bad will happen.”
I know Cassie well enough to know she isn’t stupid or weak, no matter what half the world probably thinks when it sees a young woman with a baby and a man in uniform writing from miles away.
She has steel in her, or she would never have lasted with Niko in the first place.
He’s not easy. None of us are. “What do you want to do?” I ask.
“What do you think I want to do?”
“Break several laws and drive down there?”
“Pretty much.”
“It’s reasonable.” He gives me a hard look, waiting for me to mock him. “What can you do?”
“I can write, I can call, I can ask the neighbour to check in, except I don’t trust people I’ve never met properly with anything important, or I can put in for leave and get laughed out of the office.”
“You could still try.”
“I am trying.”
“No, I mean properly.”
“What does that mean?” he asks, his eyes narrowing at me.