Two #2
It’s chaos. They bark jokes at each other between gasps, and the loudest one goes down in the mud laughing. Then one of the others comes over and hauls him up by the armpits.
Varrik’s easy to pick out now. He’s not the fastest and not the showiest. He doesn’t try to dominate the space, but he is relentless.
Every time they hit the sandbags, he’s the one who picks up an extra if the man beside him falters like it’s nothing.
Every time they line up for the next sprint, he subtly adjusts his pace so the slowest one doesn’t fall off the back and get roasted by the trainer.
It’s almost instinctual, as if he doesn’t know he’s doing it.
His form is clean. No sloppy knees, no wasted motion, and he moves like someone who decided a long time ago that you don’t stop just because it hurts.
He finishes his leg of the circuit, sweat darkening his shirt between the shoulder blades, and bends over with his hands on his knees. If I were a decent person, I’d look away and give him that moment of privacy.
I am not a decent person, obviously.
He drags an arm across his face, pushes the hair off his forehead, and straightens. That’s when he spots me by the fence. He freezes for just long enough to recalculate, then, instead of pretending he hasn’t seen me, he jogs over.
“Enjoying the show, Sergeant?” he asks.
There’s actually a ghost of humour buried in there. Progress. “Mm. Six out of ten.”
He huffs out a tiny laugh. “Room for improvement, then.”
“There’s always room for improvement,” I agree, “but that’s not why I’m here.”
“No?” he asks, his brows ticking up.
“No,” I say. “I was bored.”
Men like him don’t know what to do with boredom. It leaves a gap, a crack in the walls. “Don’t you have a schedule?” he blurts, then looks like he wants to bite his tongue off.
I bark out a laugh. “You’re adorable. Is that your way of calling me lazy, Lance Corporal?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” I say, amused. “And you’re not entirely wrong. I just have a very flexible interpretation of ‘schedule.’”
He shakes his head slightly. “I prefer not to flex too much.”
“Of course you don’t,” I murmur, letting my gaze slide over him blatantly now. “Boys like you snap when you bend.”
“Boys like me?” he repeats, confusion in his expression.
I tip my chin toward the yard. “Climbers,” I say. “Good records, never late. Not quite ‘one of the boys,’ but not far enough outside to be a problem. Enough brains to get noticed, with enough self-control not to make a fuss about it.”
He doesn’t flinch outwardly, but something locks in his face. “And what does that make me, Sergeant?” he asks softly. “A pet?”
“Pets like praise, you seem like the type,” I say, grinning and letting the corner of my mouth lift.
His eyes remain locked on mine. “VARRIK! Stop chatting with the locals and get back in rotation!” His CO shouts. He gives me the quickest look, half apology, half something harder, then turns and runs back to his unit. I watch him go. If this keeps up, I might actually start worrying about myself.
The mess hall that evening is a beige riot. Overhead lights humming like insects, the air thick with the smell of overcooked vegetables, cheap meat, too many bodies, and not enough ventilation.
I stand just inside the door for a second, letting my eyes adjust as I scan the room. Threat assessment, yes, but also entertainment assessment: who’s drunk, who’s sulking, and who looks like they’re about to start a fight over the last piece of bread.
I spot Niko first, sitting at a side table. He’s not quite in the corner but clearly out of the main flow of traffic, laughing at something one of his men said, his hand wrapped around a chipped mug.
Across from him sits Varrik.
He’s out of his field jacket, now in just his uniform shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. He’s listening to my brother talk, his head slightly tilted.
I grab a tray and let the cafeteria line shove me forward. I toss food onto the plastic without looking. There’s something that might be potatoes, something that might be meat and something bright green that’s definitely a cry for help. With my tray loaded, I walk straight to their table.
Niko spots me and grins. “Ari!” he calls. “We were just talking about you.”
I drop onto the bench beside him and set my tray down with a thud. “Ty vryosh,” I say. You’re lying. “You were talking about yourself. You just happened to use my name.”
“Oh look, he can detect bullshit. We’re saved,” he snorts. “Caiden, Ari is the reason I have permanent stress headaches.”
“Varrik,” I greet him dryly. Varrik’s posture straightens, and his expression flicks from relaxed to formal.
“Sergeant,” he says with a nod. “Your brother’s been very efficient.”
Niko makes a small, pleased noise. “You hear that?” he says under his breath in Russian. “Efficient. That’s better than ‘pain in the ass,’ I’ll take it.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I reply. “He’s British. For them, that’s practically a love confession.”
Niko smirks, then switches back to English. “Don’t let him scare you off, Caiden,” he says. “He’s only dangerous if you’re stupid.”
“Or if you’re boring,” I add.
Varrik’s mouth quirks. “I’ll... try to avoid both, then.”
I stab a forkful of potato and immediately regret it; it tastes like wall insulation. “The kitchen staff should be court-martialled,” I announce.
“That’s rich,” Niko replies, “from a man who once ate tinned fish that expired before I was born.”
“Expired dates are a capitalist conspiracy,” I say. “This is a war crime.” Varrik huffs a tiny laugh. Good. I prefer to see what people do when they let their guard down.