Page 12 of Break Me Apart
“That’s true,” he says lightly. Still, he’s quieter than he should be, not sulking exactly; he’s just... elsewhere.
By midday, I’ve gathered enough little scraps of wrongness to annoy me.
On exercise, he loses track of a count he should be able to do in his sleep. In the stores, he forgets to sign a form and stares at it as if the paper has insulted our mother.
At lunch, he takes a letter out of his pocket, unfolds it, reads a line, and shoves it back in again the second he realises I’m looking.
I sit opposite him with my tray and kick his boot under the table. “Do that again, and I’ll break your ankle,” he threatens, looking up at me.
“You’re distracted.”
“No, I’m eating.”
“You haven’t touched your food.”
“Maybe I enjoy taking my time.”
“Maybe you need psychiatric help,” I joke. He leans back in his chair and gives me a long look, the kind that says I am two seconds from being strangled with my own scarf.
“You are deeply irritating today.”
“And yet lovable.”
“Fucking asshole,” he mumbles. I tear a piece off my bread and throw it at him. He catches it mid-air and throws it straight back, hitting me in the chest then falling into my soup. Across the table, one of the men starts laughing.That’s the brother I know. Only it lasts about three seconds.
Petrov talks about leave rotas, wives, girlfriends, and whether any of them will still be around by summer, and Niko goes quiet in a way that grabs my attention.
I say nothing then because there are too many ears around us, and Niko is proud in ways that can turn feral if you poke at them in public.
So, I wait.
That’s another thing brothers are for. Knowing when to be an asshole and when to keep your mouth shut.
By the end of the day, the light is already starting to go. Winter up here doesn’t bother with proper afternoons. The sky dulls early, grey bleeding into darker grey until the whole base looks flat.
I find Niko outside the barracks, his coat unbuttoned, another cigarette lit, staring out beyond the wire as if Murmansk has suddenly become scenic.
I stop beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and he offers me the packet without looking at me. “Trying to kill yourself early?” I ask, taking a cigarette from the pack.
“Trying to enjoy five minutes without hearing your voice.”
“You should ask nicely then. I can be very cooperative when properly bribed.” He huffs a laugh through his nose and lights mine for me. We stand there in silence for a minute, smoke curling white in the cold. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve said that already.”
“Are you training to be my wife now?” he asks, dragging on the cigarette, eyes still ahead.
“No, I like men who are less annoying.”
“You’re a little prick,” he says, shaking his head.
“I’m a concerned little prick.”
“You don’t look concerned.”
“This is my concerned face,” I say, pointing at it.
