Chapter Text
As the last of the patrons filtered out of the bar and the closing hour had gone with the sun, Roman began with cleaning behind the counters. He’d need to hire help. In fact, he’d needed help for the past couple months, but just never found the time to hire, nor did their little town have a surplus of people willing to work waiting tables, dealing with mean drunks and sweeping up broken glass. It was just how things went, and he couldn’t, rather, wouldn’t, complain. The fact he had a bar to call his own to begin with was nothing short of a miracle.
The daily stressors of work faded when he thought of Mykola, for more than one reason. Bad days came and went, with images of bloodied uniforms and discarded bullet casings crunching under genuine-issue boots. And on those days he had Mykola to card through his hair and explain this or that medical procedure with no detail spared, even though he wouldn’t remember the words. He liked his voice, he liked when he talked, and he liked when his brain went quiet to listen in.
Roman was as familiar with them as the next veteran, but Mykola left those front lines not only with a leg that would never heal—not fully—but also something far worse lingering in his head. Things he struggled to even partially describe to Roman, things he refused to talk about. Roman supposed it was only fair. Medics on that eastern war line had been tasked with sewing together soldiers that had been blown across multiple feet of trenches.
He didn’t want to imagine that. He didn’t want to believe Mykola had needed to work with his hands against dying flesh, red and wet and fleetingly alive, to treat boys whose chances of survival, while slim to none, were still much better than the ones they’d left behind. Silently, he’d curse every cruel sergeant that tasked kids with sewing each other together again so they could be sent back to the places that left them torn and shattered. Then again, it wasn’t as though those sergeants had started the war either.
Black silhouettes of tables and chairs scattered around the place stared back at him, only partially lit by whatever little light got through the glass panes from the joint effort of the moon and dying streetlamps outside.
In the dim light of the back bar, Roman shook his head free of those thoughts, or at least he’d tried to, as he swiped over the smooth marble with a worn rag. Lifted it, turned it over and repeated the motion. It was meditative, cleaning, and he’d never appreciated it when he was younger and dumber.
Now, keeping his hands busy meant keeping his mind busy, and if his mind was kept busy, it couldn’t wander back to the images of mangled bodies and things that no longer even looked like they’d once been people, that it so fervently held onto.
Dutifully, he moved to the other side where spillt beer droplets littered the edge of the bar top as footsteps sounded from the stairwell just around the corner of it. Slow, rigid footfall, with pauses that stretched long enough to make one think it had ended. Roman wondered if Mykola had gone without his cane or if he’d simply put more caution into his steps considering the lack of daylight.
A word Roman wouldn’t let his sister say was muttered into the still air, and it made him smile. Of course, it was entirely possible both options were true.
Roman’s hands faltered, and he held off on moving toward the couple dirty glasses he’d so conveniently left to be cleaned at the end of his shift, but been too busy to get around to. As was usual by then.
“Need any help?” he called out.
“Come here and I’ll kill you.”
It appeared Mykola’s mood had yet to improve.
“Suit yourself,” Roman replied to the empty seats before him and got on with rinsing the rest of the glassware.
By his third champagne shoot a familiar and very welcome face showed up from where the staircase ended. Mykola limped around the bar and sat down at the higher stools, resting the bad leg on the free seats beside him, so it lay stretched out.
Roman would be done cleaning soon, and though the counter blocked his view of Mykola’s leg, he could see he’d reached out to rub over above his knee. Some days it eased the pain and some days it made it worse. Roman wasn’t sure what the case was that evening and he didn’t quite trust himself to guess correctly.
Stairs were most probably the biggest inconvenience Mykola ran into when staying with him, and Roman was sorry for it, but there was no way to move the bedroom downstairs, save for plopping the mattress down behind the counter, which wasn’t a viable option for a myriad of reasons. Besides, Roman was healthy still and well enough he could carry Myko upstairs when one too many drinks—or rather, just the one drink—rendered it necessary.
But tonight he likely wouldn’t let him, even if he insisted. Roman knew Myko well enough to know off days had him convinced he was a burden, and any amount of physical effort spent on him wouldn’t be tolerated in the slightest. It was hard to argue with someone armed with a cane, especially when Roman found himself within its swinging distance. It was never anything more than a gentle tap on his head, but the sensation wasn’t pleasant. So he conceded and decided he’d pick a different battle, some other day. One he’d be more likely to win.
He pressed his rag covered fingers into the glass to wipe it dry as he watched Mykola wince.
“Bad day?” he asked and felt it was a stupid question.
“Bad week,” Mykola murmured, pain woven in his voice. “Sorry about earlier,” he added.
“You wouldn’t kill me,” Roman said with an easy smile. “Can’t serve you drinks on the house if I’m six feet under it.”
“No,” Mykola hurried to add, “I meant the glass.” He tried facing Roman, but sitting sideways made that more effort than he was ready to expend at such a late hour. Not to mention it pulled at the muscle in his thigh that so loved to burn. “If I’d just… stayed upstairs with Mocktail.”
“Don’t worry about the glass, I have hundreds and they’re dirt cheap. Though—speaking of mocktails—you want one?”
Mykola’s brows furrowed. “Now?” he asked. “You’ve already put everything away.”
Before the sentence had finished Roman pulled a pretty flask of rosé from somewhere in the underbar.
“This one has a couple sips leftover and I’d rather finish it off before Monday rolls around.” He shrugged. “You can’t serve a near empty bottle. Especially not after it’s been sitting for a weekend.”
Mykola eyed the rosé on the counter. “It won’t be too much trouble?”
“Come on,” Roman urged, “Don’t make me drink alone on a Friday night. You’d be doing me a favour, really.”
Their eyes met, and something in Mykola’s told Roman he’d won the second he suggested it.