Page 178 of Enemy Within

If Sasha looked dour before, he looked downright miserable after Sergey spoke. He rolled his napkin around his fist, grimacing as frustrated rage played over his face. He sat forward, hunching over his lap. “Why do you do this, Sergey?” he growled. “Why do you keep pushing? You know we—” His voice cut out, and he shook his head, looking down.

Hope crashed and burned. Sergey’s heart crumpled, paper crunched in a closed fist, or ash flicked away, useless and unneeded. He’d never learn, it seemed. He had an open wound named Sasha, and he loved to pick at it, pluck the scab off and keep it bleeding.

Sergey nodded, mostly to himself, and took another drag of Ilya’s cigarette. He stubbed it out in Sasha’s untouched marshmallow cake and then stood. Silently, he buttoned his jacket and walked away. Every step ached and felt like failure. If he only tried harder, if he only tried to reach inside Sasha, where maybe there still was an ounce of affection—

No. He’d done all he could do. He had to move on.

ILYA STARED AT SASHA across the table, burning holes through him as the smoke from Sergey’s cigarette ash continued to curl over the table. “You are a fool, Sasha.” He pulled out another cigarette and stood, shrugging into his white smoking jacket. His medal gleamed, proudly displayed over his heart. A Hero of Russia.

Sasha glared at Ilya, his former boss, and Sergey’s closest friend. “Russia needs him. You know that.”

“What about what he needs, hmm?” Ilya grasped the back of his chair and leaned over the table, growling at Sasha. “What about his happiness? Maybe you are okay with being a Soviet-era drone, but the rest of us have moved on. We live in the twenty-first century, yes?” Ilya shook his head, snorting. “You should not have come. You gave him false hope, and when you leave, I will have to pick up the pieces.” He slammed his chair against the table. “Again.”

Ilya stormed away, crossing the room and shedding his wild anger as he sauntered up to a group of politicians, Federal Councilmen who worked closely with the FSB. Arms thrown wide, he greeted them warmly and then passed out cigars to all the men.

“Tati…”

Sasha whipped around, glaring.

Anton stood behind him.

He looked away. “Do not call me that.”

“I thought you were going to try and fix things with Sergey.”

He said nothing. He stared at Sergey’s cigarette, stuffed into the melted marshmallow cake. Soon, the whole dessert would fall apart, slide into its component pieces across the plate. “Tatiana stuck to her convictions,” he said slowly. “She knew what was right. She did her duty.”

“And she was miserable her whole life.” Anton slid out a chair and sat down, facing Sasha. “It is a cautionary tale, Sasha, not a prescription. Not something to look up to.”

Ilya was right. He shouldn’t have come. Sasha looked down, glaring at the floor. How fast could he get out of there? His flight wasn’t until the morning. Could he hitchhike that night? “Misery is a small price to pay for a better world.”

“Is that what you think this is?” Anton’s frown twisted until he stared at Sasha with a mixture of pity and frustration. “You think no one will accept it—”

“You have no idea what I have been through!” Sasha’s blood boiled, surging through him as his gaze snapped to Anton. “Iknowit will not be accepted! Iknowhow bad it gets!” He’d been beaten for who he was. He’d almost died. Had almost been killed because he’d been born loving men. There was no world, no place for him. Certainly no place for him and Sergey, and their ill-fated love. Had stars ever been crossed in a worse way? It was the worst thing in the world for Sergey to love him back.

Sergey thought the world would open before him, that people would always love him, would always accept him. He was too much of an optimist, sometimes disgustingly so. A Western trait. How had he come to see the world so brightly?

“Do you not understand? We already accepted it.”

Silence. Sasha stopped breathing.

Anton kept going. “You think we did not know about how you felt?Everyoneknew. We all called you Tati.”

“Shut up…” Sasha hunched forward again, clasping his hands together. “Do not say another word!”

“Weallknew, Sasha. Everyone in the insurgency. How are you kidding yourself that we did not, with how obvious your feelings were?”

“Shutup!”

“You and he were our favorite gossip, Sasha. All those nights we spent fighting, on patrol, on guard duty. We always would say, ‘when would they finally get together’? When would you crack and finally kiss him? When would he realize what was right in front of him? We had money on it—”

He stormed away, heading for the balcony doors. The room spun, the walls bleeding gold and crystal as braying laughter and revelry mixed with the tinkle of glass and the blaring music. He needed air. Space. Needed to get away. Maybe he’d jump, fling himself from the balcony. He’d have space then.

Anton followed him outside. “Sasha!”

“What?” He whirled, throwing his hands wide, and faced Anton. “What do you want from me? Why are you saying these things? Why do you want to—” His lips clamped shut. He couldn’t say another word. He’d fly apart if one more word passed through his lips. He’d fall to pieces, lying on the ground with his soul shattered like glass.

Anton shook his head. “I want you to see what we already see. That it is okay, Sasha. What you feel. What he feels. It is okay.” He shrugged. “Maybe not for everyone. Maybe do not have a gigantic wedding. Just a small one.” He tried to grin.