Work Text:
The snow is cold and white, covering the long stretches of No Man’s Land in front of them. Andrey blows against his hands, his gloves not enough to keep his fingers from becoming stiff in the December air and his breath forming clouds of steam in the freezing air. Flakes of ice have covered Major Thiem's uniform.
“It’s Christmas Eve”, the major says. It takes a few moments until the words register in Andrey’s brain and he looks up into his newest commanding officer’s face. The stream of strangers Andrey has met in the trenches is endless, he’s lost track of them, watched too many die in the last months. This officer is his fifth.
He hopes Dominic will stay longer than the last one. Longer than the 23 days it took for Major Schmitz to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Andrey can still see the lifeless eyes in front of him, and he prays that Major Thiem - Dominic, as most call him - won’t suffer the same fate.
Andrey likes Dominic, he’s capable, friendly, and always there for his soldiers, and Andrey would really like to see him not get shot in the head, stabbed in the abdomen, or blown to pieces by a grenade.
“Yeah… I sent a letter home a few days ago, I hope my mother is happy to hear from me. Hear that I’m still alive.” It becomes harder and harder to keep himself from falling into cynicism. Andrey likes to think he’s an optimist, but the way the last months have kept eroding that.
Major Thiem pats him on the shoulder.
“I’m sure she’ll be… where are your parents from?”
Asked like an innocent question, it’s much more than that to Andrey. He’s been shoved into a uniform and ordered to shoot Russians on the frontlines in Halychyna, and he’s been doing that ever since, because he was born and raised in the empire, even if his mother is just as much Russian as the men he’s killed.
“Klagenfurt”, he just says, the city where his grandmother was born and where he’s spent a large chunk of his youth. He doesn’t want to think too hard about anything. It’s christmas , he tries telling himself. Focus on the beautiful things .
Dominic goes on, in idle chatter, clearly enjoying the peace that has enveloped the battlefield right now.
There’s a truce right now, Andrey knows that. No fighting for the holidays, time to get their dead back and give them proper burials, time to rest and pray and die later, he thinks. As if any of this makes a difference.
When christmas is over, they will go back to shooting each other and the majority of them will return home in bodybags. The evening sun paints the sky a fiery red, reflecting of the sky and the color reminds Andrey of gunfire and explosions.
Major Thiem has procured a pot, something bubbling over a campfire that tries to be mulled wine. To raise morale, and to celebrate the holiday that unites them all.
For proper mulled wine, they of course lack all the ingredients, but Major Thiem’s concoction still tastes like Christmas and alcohol, so the soldiers are happy enough, chugging down mug after mug, every single one bringing the mood up.
Andrey clasps the steel mug in his hands, enjoying the heat in his fingers, through the fraying fabric of his gloves. It’s almost painful, but it’s still better than freezing. The snow has picked up and is covering everything in sight.
In the afternoon, they held a small mass for the deceased, and now the snow makes it look almost peaceful. If Andrey ignores the soldiers, the barracks and trenches and fortifications and everything, it almost reminds him of home.
They’ve lit a fire, the golden glow reflecting off the white snow, and from the distance, Andrey sees a small group approaching. They’re barely visible against the darkness and the faint glow of enemy lines behind the horizon. Instinctively, trained by months of war, his hands reach down to grab his bayonet, but there’s nothing but the fallen tree he’s sitting on. Rough bark scrapes against his gloves.
“Calm down… they don’t want to fight”, Major Thiem says and now that he’s looking closer, Andrey can see the people carefully stepping over snow-covered battlegrounds.. They’re wearing russian uniforms and they don’t carry weapons.
At least not visible ones, a cynical voice in his mind whispers, but he shoves it down. Instead, they’re holding a… bag?
Dominic stands up and approaches the strangers, flanked by two of his soldiers. The Russians stop and raise their hands, and Dominic shouts something. Then, there are voices, a wild mixture of languages Andrey struggles to understand, with bits of German from the Major and Russian from two of the Strangers, and others, a moment of tension and fear… and then Dominic laughs and waves Andrey over.
“Andrey, would you translate?” he asks and Andrey can’t help but nod. He steps closer and takes a look at the men. It’s three, all in russian uniforms. A tall, lanky one, an equally tall, dark haired, bearded guy who’s holding the bag, and a third one, also with dark hair, but a bit shorter than the other two. From up close, the three Russians look like they could be his neighbors back home. Or his grandfather’s neighbours in Moscow. Not that Andrey has ever been to Moscow, but he’s seen photos, of his mother’s parents and their house, and he’s learned just enough Russian to understand the gist of what the tall, bearded Russian is saying. Khachanov, he says it’s his name and so Andrey tells his Major and then tries to understand the words they’re saying.
“They… have presents, I think”, Andrey tries to translate for Dominic. “They brought bread… and if we want, meat. For a… stew?”
He barely understands the quickfire russian. He’s not familiar with the language, it was rarely spoken at home.
“That sounds wonderful!”, Dominic exclaims. “Invite them to our fire!”
In careful words, Andrey communicates the invitation and just a few minutes later, there’s a second pot, a bunch of men standing around it and discussing the dish. From what Andrey gathers, they settle on goulash, and then he tunes the conversation out. The whole scene is too surreal for him to fully grasp.
The tall Russian without a beard sits down next to Andrey on the broken tree. Now, in the light of the fire, a steaming mug in his hands, he looks almost boyish. Warm, hazel eyes, dark blond hair peeking out from under his cap and a lanky build… he looks good, Andrey thinks, and immediately forces the thought back down. There’s a time and place for these thoughts, and right now and here is definitely neither one of these.
“I’m Daniil”, the Russian says and takes a sip of his mulled not-wine. “And you?”
“Andrey…”
“Nice to meet you!” Daniil smiles and immediately, Andrey notices he has dimples. They’re adorable and Andrey wishes he could have met Daniil in any other place.
Any other life.
He imagines sitting next to him in school. Imagines him walking into his father’s restaurant. Imagines him in a well-tailored suit, a bookstore, a coffee house, a university, and a tennis court. A thousand places that are not here, now, Halychyna in the winter cold. He wishes for nothing more than peace.
“Why do you speak Russian? Your name also sounds very Russian.” Daniil seems intent on starting a conversation, and because these hazel eyes look so open and honest, Andrey feels his resistance melt away.
Andrey takes a sip of his drink, it’s his fourth cup already… the only way to forget the grim reality for a moment. Then another, bigger one. He starts to feel a pleasant buzz circulating throughout his body.
“My mother is Russian. And my grandfather on my father’s side… I don’t really know much about my russian family, I’ve grown up in Klagenfurt.” The name sounds off, in a sentence of russian words, and it’s the first time Andrey has talked about it in months. Usually, he keeps his family heritage to himself, he’s sure that everyone suspects it, but as long as Andrey doesn’t talk about it, it won’t affect the way his comrades trust him.
But here, with Daniil by his side, in the warm glow of the fire, the words start flowing out of his mouth. It feels like they’re on the same wavelength, Andrey thinks.
For every little thing Andrey tells him, Daniil opens up just as much, and by the time Andrey is on his sixth mug, he feels like he’s known Daniil for years.
They’re laughing, shoulders bumping into each other, and then someone shoves a bowl and two spoons into their hands.
“We’re out of bowls, gotta share”, a freckled boy from Andrey’s regiment says and disappears again.
Daniil grips the bowl in one large hand, holds it between them, and together, they dig in. The conversation between them ebbs away, but never completely stops, their spoons clinking against the bowl and Andrey feels warmth taking over his body. He’s not quite sure if it’s warmth from the fire, the hearty, spicy goulash, or Daniil’s body heat, but in all likelihood it’s everything.
He doesn’t move away from Daniil all evening, instead inching closer and closer to the source of warmth. At some point, Andrey feels an arm wrap around his shoulder.
Someone starts singing a russian Christmas song and Daniil’s chest vibrates as he joins in. They sing and sing, carols in German, Russian, Hungarian. The fire burns down, but there’s always something to bring it back up. It’s almost like a normal christmas party and the alcohol makes Andrey stop questioning everything after a while.
The snow ceases, making room for a starry night sky.
And for a moment, just one moment, Andrey forgets where he is. What he is. What tomorrow will bring.
He leans in closer, his head now resting on Daniil’s shoulder.
“It feels like I’ve known you forever”, he says. “I wish we could just stay like this.”
“Don’t think about it”, Daniil whispers.
The carols and loud voices around them have quieted down, most around them too drunk or too tired to still celebrate. The Major has disappeared into the barracks a while ago and the fire has burned down to embers.
“Your hair is just as bright as the fire.”
A hand reaches out, pushing a strand of ginger hair out of Andrey’s eyes. Daniil’s fingers burn on his skin and he closes his eyes, trying his best to force the blush from his hot cheeks. But he can’t help himself, he feels them redden, feels the hand cupping his chin now.
“I wish we could be like this forever”, Daniil whispers and leans in.
His lips are chapped, taste like goulash and alcohol, and still, it’s the best kiss Andrey has ever felt. Not that he has a big range of comparison, but it’s still better than he could have ever imagined.
He relaxes against Daniil and inhales. It smells like earth and wood and snow and war, but all that counts at this moment is that it smells like Daniil.
“Andryusha…”
The pet name fills Andrey with warmth and without thinking about anything else, he curls his fingers into the heavy wool and pulls Daniil closer.
Focus on the beautiful things , he thinks and kisses him like it’s the last time he’ll ever kiss someone.