Chapter Text
The gulag was cold. It was always cold. The stone walls were bare and uninsulated, drafts constantly getting in through the cracks in the brick. The metal bars clinked and moved slightly every time a particularly strong gust came through, almost like a very depressing windchime.
Cells were tight, holding no more than the bare minimum necessary for living. A bunk bed with two thin mattresses, a small table with 2 stools, and a sink, cracked mirror, and toilet in the corner. Although, the accommodations weren’t as bad as the guards. Nobody dared go near them, even the most confident prisoners found themselves trembling if they caught the attention of the officers of the gulag.
Except for Makarov, that was. His ego had yet to deflate after the stunt he managed to pull off at the airport, the mere thought of it keeping him afloat through the harsh conditions. The look on Price’s face when he realized he’d been pulled off target was –for lack of a better word– priceless. He couldn’t wait to finally see him again, and make him watch as all of Makarov’s plans came to fruition.
It would be a day to remember, that’s for certain.
Makarov laid on his bunk in his cell, counting the hours before he’d be allowed out for the day. Maybe he’d just nap until the guards banged on the bars, he had nothing better to be doing. A half-read novel was placed on the side of the steel bedframe to keep it on the right page, the pages flapping as a gust of wind came through, which meant one of the guards was leaving the cell block.
Makarov pulled the thin blanket over himself and tried to fall asleep. He managed to drift off into a light sleep, a few outside sounds still making their way into his head.
For once, Makarov’s dreams were sweet. He heard Price’s screams as he struggled against his captors, listened intently as Price was dragged kicking and screaming to be presented to Makarov, thrown down to his knees in front of him. Utterly, wonderfully helpless. A smile tugged at his lips, the dream was so vivid, he couldn’t wait for it to come true.
That dream was interrupted when one of the guards shoved the metal door open with a deafening clang. Makarov shot up, nearly smacking his head on the bunk above him.
“Aye, this should teach you a lesson.” One of the guards spat before throwing someone else into Makarov’s cell, “Stop bitching.”
The other prisoner jumped up and slammed into the bars, rattling them as the guards just laughed at him. And then, in an all-too familiar voice speaking broken Russian, he screamed, “I’LL MAKE YOU REGRET THIS!!”
Ah hell.
The prisoner turned around and they locked eyes. The reality of what was happening had begun to set in, Makarov didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Who exactly was being punished, here? Neither held the upper hand, neither had weapons, neither had backup, both were trapped.
Makarov stood up, never breaking eye contact with Price, and for what felt like hours they stared each other down.
Their staring contest was only broken up when one of the guards slammed the butt of his gun against the bars, “C’mon, fight! Give us a good show!”
“Fuck. You.” Makarov and Price growled in unison.
They looked back at each other, the same thing running through both of their minds. On the one hand, they were both too proud to just do as they were told like this, on the other, they’d both get the shit kicked out of them by the guards if they didn’t. Either way, they weren’t getting out of this unscathed.
They both wordlessly decided to at least suffer with some semblance of dignity.
The guard, Officer Abramov, shoved the doors open again, “Fine. Have it your way.”
Five guards rushed into the cell, their sick grins telling just what was about to happen. The first guard swung at Makarov’s face, hitting him right below the eye and almost knocking him over. Another guard rammed his fist into Price’s kidney, and then striking him again once he doubled over. Makarov tried to kick at Officer Abramov, who caught his leg and shoved him to the floor, aiming his rifle right at Makarov’s head.
Price jumped and shoulder checked the guard who punched him, only to be met with another fist to the face. Price tripped into the side of the bedframe, trying to catch himself before he was hit again and knocked to the floor.
Another guard stomped on Makarov’s gut, if he had anything in his stomach he would have vomited. Officer Abramov turned his attention to Price, taunting him and ordering him to lay down and take it.
Makarov couldn’t tell why this pissed him off so badly, but it did. He shot up and rammed into the guard from behind, knocking him out of the cell and onto the stone floor.
“Oh, now you’ve done it!” Officer Abramov roared,
The guards left Price on the floor and grabbed Makarov by the arms, restraining him and forcing him face down on the bed. Makarov’s blood ran cold as another guard pulled at his belt, he struggled hard against the guards pushing him down, but 3-on-1 he wasn’t strong enough to.
“Stop bitching, Vladimir,” One of the guards grinned, “This’ll only be as hard as you make it.”
Makarov couldn’t let this happen, not now, not in front of Price. He kicked and swore, but nothing had any effect. His face burned red as a guard pulled off his pants.
Price averted his eyes, he couldn’t watch this. He’d imagined doing horrible things to Makarov, but watching it unfold like this was different. It wasn’t some triumphant moment against his greatest adversary, it was a prisoner being abused by sadistic guards working for his own nation.
To his credit, Makarov didn’t ever stop fighting, but only so much could be done without armor or weapons. His grunts of frustration quickly turned to frantic threats and shouting as the first guard was upon him, pressing in hard and fast.
“Do something!” Makarov shouted in English, Price was ready to throw up. Price grabbed a guard’s vest and pulled hard, but Officer Abramov pointed his gun at him, forcing him back with his hands up.
“Stop making a scene or we’ll have to make use of that mouth of yours.” Officer Abramov ordered.
“You will all regret this!” Makarov’s voice cracked painfully as the guard thrusted harder, it felt like his insides were bruised, internal bleeding evident on the rapist’s dick when he finally finished and pulled out. Officer Abramov passed his gun to another guard and reached down to grab Makarov by the face,
“You’re gonna behave, and you’re going to swallow, yes?” Officer Abramov said as he unzipped his fly.
Price turned his head away again, but from the glimpse he caught he could have sworn he saw Makarov’s lip tremble. The angry shouting muffled down to wet coughing and gasping. A second guard was now also having his turn, spitroasting the poor bastard while the other two guards held him down.
Price couldn’t help but wonder if he was next in line for this treatment. He stood with his hands up, eyes trained on the ceiling trying to block out the horrible, painful sounds coming from his old enemy. He felt his cheeks reddening as the anxiety gripped his gut, the feeling being the closest thing to sympathy he’d ever had for Makarov.
Officer Abramov groaned, and Makarov gagged.
“Swallow.” Abramov ordered. Price couldn’t tell if Makarov did as told, but Abramov smiled.
The guards then filed out of the room, leaving Makarov on the floor scrambling to get his clothes back on. “I hope this has been a lesson for both of you.”
Price slammed on the bars, then turned to see Makarov stumble back to his feet, noticeably limping. He tried to sit back on the bed, grabbing the bedframe to stabilize himself, he hissed in pain and stood back up.
Neither said a word. Makarov gritted his teeth, he was stronger than this, nevermind the tears threatening to bead up on his lashes. His gut churned, and at once he lunged to the side and purged his already empty stomach into the toilet. He tried to catch a breath but he gagged again, turning to the sink he took the chipped cup and filled it with water, trying to wash the ungodly taste out of his mouth.
Price had absolutely no idea what to do. He paced the length of the cell, noticing the blood seeping down the back of Makarov’s pant leg as he washed his mouth out over and over. Price felt a pang of ..guilt? Maybe? For not doing anything, not being able to do anything.
Price glanced over at the mirror above the sink, seeing in its reflection a look of utter panic on Makarov’s face. It was as if all of the confidence had been sucked out of him, like it finally hit him how helpless he truly was here. Price felt the same, if they could go so far as to brutally beat and rape the leader of the Russian Ultranationalists, they could do the exact same to him as well if he stepped too far out of line.