Archive of Our Own

Code 21 on the outpatient form indicates a road accident. There is no specific code for a car crash.

Code 4 indicates that the patient has died. There is no specific code for the death of an innocent driver.

There is no specific code for a toddler rescued from the wreckage, crying.

There is no specific code for loss.

It is not quite a week after the accident when Nikolai explains to Polka that Seryozha will not be coming home anymore. The bruises on the little one’s chest, previously deep red, have faded into greenish-blue patches, looking just as if he had splattered himself with watercolours whilst painting shirtless in the summer heat – though thoroughly covered in sunscreen and wearing a bucket hat – under the parasol in the yard behind the Muravyov-Apostol dacha.

“Seryozha had to leave for a journey,” Nikolai repeats the same narrative on the umpteenth cross-examination, “and he can't just come back to us from where he went.”

Polka sits in his lap, merely watching him with his large, clever eyes, which painfully remind Nikolai at every moment of Sergey’s always attentive gaze.

“And can’t we go after Seryozha?”

“We cannot follow him there.”

Polka certainly cannot; not as long as Nikolai’s heart beats and there is strength in his arms.

Sergey is to be buried tomorrow.

Months ago, the little one's bed had been moved from the right side of the door – the nursery and their bedroom shared a wall there – to the opposite side of the room, just under his window. It had been Polka's idea, saying that it was easier to see the sky and the trees and the birds from there, and after some thinking, they’d agreed. Polka was almost five, they said, and a very good sleeper, rarely waking up at night, and even then he would come to them himself if something was wrong; if he had a bad dream or just didn't want to be alone. There was no particular reason for them to be constantly alert for his cries during the night anymore.

So, the bed received a new place, and the nursery a completely new layout and appearance. He and Sergey had even painted bright, translucent bubbles all over the blue walls, because Polka’d asked for them. They finished the whole job within twenty-four hours, and Nikolai was once again confirmed of his belief – one he had never once dared to utter aloud – that Sergey and he were made for each other: this time, because both of them agreed not to go to bed until they were completely done.

It also turned out that precision and perfectionism aside, the paintbrush can easily fall out of a person's hand if their loved one hugs them from behind and kisses their neck.

Since Sergey has been gone, Polka’s entire rearranged and renewed room has stood empty. He does not dare fall asleep without Nikolai [what if you get lost too, Niko, while I am asleep?]. Nikolai, guarding the little one’s dreams, tries to endure the unendurable; for as long as he does just that, he won’t do anything irreversible.

Whilst Sergey was alive, they used to wake Polka together every morning. This had its own special routine: first, the curtains must be drawn to let the light in, the window opened slightly to let some fresh air in, then, sitting on the edge of Polka’s bed, calling his name and gently tapping his shoulder. Then came the mandatory good-morning-hug, then they made the bed together, Polka got dressed, the three of them had breakfast together, then brushing teeth, and off to the car. Nikolai tries to maintain this exact same routine, aside from going to the kindergarten: the psychologist suggested that the little one could stay at home with him for two weeks, so they could deal with the grief together in a safe environment.

It was about time that something went wrong.

Nikolai wakes to the bedroom door swinging wide open, and a completely dishevelled, groggy Polka in his pajamas toddling in with near-silent steps.

“Seryozha?” he mutters questioningly.

Of course he is calling for his brother. Who else would he be looking for half-asleep?

Nikolai props himself up on his elbow. The movement makes him dizzy. He should eat; yesterday he had no appetite for dinner, but that doesn’t matter, when even Polka has not had breakfast yet.

Polka reaches the edge of the bed. The ridiculously high bedframe had been Seryozha’s choice, and when they bought it eighteen months ago, Polka could only climb onto the mattress with assistance. Now he can manage it on his own.

“Seryozha isn’t here, little one. It’s just me. What would you like?”

Instead of an answer, Polka merely stretches out both arms towards him. It seems it is too early for a conversation.

Nikolai understands the question.

“But of course you can come up,” he says, and pulls the child up to him with gentle firmness.

“No one was there when I woke up,” he announces, his voice somber with disappointment.

It flashes through Nikolai’s mind that this little boy, ever since Seryozha had been looking after him (since he was nearly two years old), had never had to wake up alone in a dark room. In the mornings, it was natural to be woken up by his brother, and at night, if he had a bad dream, Sergey sensed the trouble and always arrived in time to soothe him.

He should have carried out this task now, but he failed.

How terribly disappointed Seryozha must be in him now.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, horrified to feel his voice beginning to crack. “I overslept. I didn’t mean to.”

Sergey’s side of the bed is also made.

Polka curls up beside him by the headboard, tucking himself in with the corner of the duvet. “Can we have a lazy day today?”

“If you want to. Do lie back down if you want to rest some more.”

“But I don’t want to be alone!” Oh, little one, neither do I. If only the fact that I am here could be a comfort. “May I stay here?”

Only one conceivable answer exists: “Of course.”

Polka runs back to his room for his blanket and his pillow, but minutes later Nikolai is already soothing him back to sleep in the big bed, which Polka, apart from sleeping in, mostly likes to use as a trampoline.

His heart aches from how much he loves this little life.

At first, he does not notice that Polka is clinging to the sleeve of his t-shirt [Sergey’s t-shirt], only when he is about to rise from the bed to prepare breakfast for them. His hand catches in Polka’s hand, and Polka, without opening his eyes, asks in a sleepy mutter:

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, little darling.”

He lies back down beside him. Polka’s embrace tightens around his arm. Nikolai wraps his free hand around his back.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

On the endlessly long stairs, he prefers to scoop Polka up, and in the underground carriage, he holds him with one arm, just to be sure he is still there. Polka looks around quietly, dangling his feet. Everything is interesting to him: the stations, the clothing of his fellow passengers, the rattling of the carriage, the names of the stops. Nikolai cannot help but envy him for this curiosity.

An elderly lady from the opposite seat makes eye contact with him. Your son is just beautiful, she says, and smiles at Polka, and Polka smiles back shyly, then takes cover under his jacket, burying his face into his shirt to hide from the stranger. Nikolai shifts him into his lap, murmurs a quiet thank you to the lady, and from then on, all his attention belongs to Polka – his son – again. They go two more stops, then get off; Nikolai carries him in his arms again, and the little one clings to his neck like a koala cub.

It’s almost night outside. Polka sees shapes in the clouds floating across the rosy-orange sky: over there is a tiger, further along a horse, and that one, there is a fox, you see it too, don’t you, Niko?, and Nikolai nods, yes, of course, you spotted that very cleverly, and he does not see it, but he knows that Sergey would see everything; moreover, he would be the one pointing out even more shapes to Polka.

According to his watch, they cross the threshold of the flat at twenty to seven. They are a good half-hour behind schedule regarding the little one’s routine, but this is always the case after playtime; there is nothing wrong, time simply flew by at Pestel’s. He should be glad that Polka is loved so much by his uncles that they enthusiastically spend so much time with him.

Tonight, it is particularly easy to put the little one to bed. He still chirps away at dinner, but then he is already yawning during his bath, and whilst he brushes his teeth, Nikolai stands behind him on the stool just to be safe, lest he should happen to topple off it.

“Where would you like to sleep, little one?” he asks the boy, who is already in his pajamas.

Polka says nothing, he merely runs into the master bedroom. From the rustling of the bedding, Nikolai hears him climbing into bed, under the child’s duvet. He feels the question is somewhat redundant, given that he can count on one hand how many times Polka has slept in his own room since the funeral; at the same time, he must make sure the little one knows: he has a choice, Nikolai expects nothing from him. Deep down, he is glad that he will not be alone tonight either. Perhaps, if he is lucky, he might even be able to get a little rest himself.

He checks whether he locked the door, turns off the lights, then gets into bed beside Polka, who in the meantime has cleverly switched on the bedside lamp. They spend another quarter of an hour cuddling and reading a story, then comes the good-night kiss and turning off the light. Another day has ended without Seryozha.

“Niko?” He flinches when the little one calls out from the darkness a few minutes later. “Why did that lady think that I am your son?”

“Because we look similar, little one,” he replies after some hesitation.

“Really?”

“Really. You know, your hair is a lovely dark brown, and mine is something like that too. I’m also older than you, convincingly older. And the lady didn’t know us, and people sometimes draw the wrong conclusions when they don't know enough about something.”

“What is a wrong confusion?”

He can almost picture Polka frowning. Just like Sergey used to.

“It means they think they know something, when in fact they are mistaken, even if they are guided by good intentions. Like the lady.”

“But Niko, then what am I to you?”

It is easier to be honest when tired, the thought flashes through Nikolai’s mind.

“You are my husband’s – Seryozha’s – little brother. He was your guardian too, from a very young age. And I have been your guardian – someone who cares for you until you come of age – since Seryozha left. But in reality… Polka, I am more than certain that I love you the way someone loves their son. To me, you are just that, no matter what anyone says. And I will always think of you as such, come what may.”

By the time he reaches the end of his words, Polka is already snoring peacefully.

He may be biased, but he is very much convinced that Polka is an infinitely intelligent child, especially for his age.

At times, however, he feels the little one understands nothing. Or simply does not want to understand anything he is told.

Polka is quiet all day, quieter than usual. Nikolai gives himself a good scold for only noticing it now; after dinner, he retired to the living room, where the little one initially followed him, turning the pages of colouring books on the carpet until he eventually wandered off towards his room. Nikolai thought then that he was bringing some other toy – he made a resolution that no matter what he returned with, he would play with him, no matter how tired he felt – however, all this happened a good twenty minutes ago.

Judging by the faint rustling, Polka must still be in his room. Nikolai is relieved; found him. He gets up to see what he is doing, to entertain the little boy who should not always be playing alone just because he himself has been on rock bottom for months now.

Polka is standing by the wardrobe, his hands crossed against the dark wood, his forehead resting on his clasped arms. Nikolai does not understand the position until he catches Polka’s faint whispering:

“...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen... twenty!”

Polka looks around excitedly, then his eyes catch Nikolai lingering in the doorway, and a wide smile appears on his face.

“What are you doing, little one?” Nikolai asks softly.

“Niko, help me seek!” Polka yelps enthusiastically, then begins to look around the room himself. He looks into the wardrobe, under the bed, among his toys; Nikolai does not know what they are looking for, but he helps nonetheless, bending down to check if what they are looking for is hiding under Polka’s desk.

“What are you playing, Polka?” he inquires when Polka steps beside him to inspect the desk too, in case Nikolai has missed something.

“We’re playing hide-and-seek with Seryozha. It’s his turn to hide now, he told me at bedtime yesterday.”

“At bedtime?”

“When I was asleep, he told me.”

“In your dreams?” Nikolai tries to help. Dear God...

“Yes!” Polka is delighted to have been helped out. “He told me not to be scared, but he is going to hide very well.”

Relatives keep questioning him, asking if he is seriously intending to raise a child who will never call him his father?

The answer: yes. Yes, yes, and yes.

“Seryozha cannot come right now,” Nikolai repeats for the umpteenth time. He does not know what else he could say.

“Why? When is he coming? Where is he? Who took him away? Why isn’t he coming for me?”

“He cannot come for you right now, Polka, he…”

“Don’t lie to me! He said he would always come for me!”

“I am so sorry–”

“Don’t just be sorry!” the little one stomps on the ground. “Bring him back!”

Nikolai acknowledges defeat as tears run down on Polka’s face.

He cannot do anything but wait until Polka runs out of strength, and no longer screams, but merely sobs until he can hardly catch his breath. Words are of no use. Nikolai just holds him, rocks him, strokes his back, and his soul aches with the child’s soul.

“Do not hate me,” he begs silently, “please do not grow to hate me because he was the one who left, and I was the one who stayed.”

His hands tremble as he helps Polka refresh in the bathroom later. He washes his eyes and little face, red from crying, with cool water, tames his dishevelled hair a bit, and his hands tremble, his whole body trembles, but he must hold out; for Polka and for Sergey, he must and he will always hold out.

It is half past three in the afternoon, and he is in a meeting with the Novosibirsk team along with several colleagues, when his private phone rings – the one on which only his younger brother, Polka’s uncles, Polka and his own doctor, and Polka’s kindergarten teachers can reach him. It is precisely the latter calling. His stomach churns with anxiety. He excuses himself, hurries out of the room, and steps aside in the corridor.

“Nikolai Romanov speaking.”

“Nikolai Pavlovich, good afternoon, it’s Katarina Feodorovna, I’m calling regarding Ippolit. Please, you really ought to come and get him if you can. There has been an accident–”

After the call, Nikolai summons a taxi and heads out for the kindergarten. Polka is alive, so he himself will go on living a little longer.

He would rather die himself than have to bury another loved one.

It is only later that they piece together, him and the kindergarten teachers, what might have happened, why Polka had dashed headlong out onto the road. It all happened so quickly that the teachers only realised when the little one was already lying in front of the cars – which by some miracle had braked just in time – with his hands pressed over his ears [the honking, the screeching brakes, the shouting all hurt him], crying and calling out for the two people who had promised him they would always look after him.

Nikolai’s soul aches so much it feels as though it might tear apart, yet at the same time, he is terribly angry. With himself, with the world, and even with the little one. Anger loosens his tongue and deprives him of better judgment.

“You cannot see Sergey in the street because Sergey is not coming back,” he says to Polka through his teeth, already in the safety of their home. Seeing the child’s attentive face, he continues more gently. “He isn’t coming back because he cannot come back. You must understand. If he could come back, he would have come back to us by now, little one. He would never have left us of his own free will.”

“But he left us anyway? Why did he leave us? Why can’t he come? Who is keeping him there?”‘

“He didn’t do it of his own free will. If it were up to him, he would be with us forever, but it wasn't up to him. Right now… he is in a place where good people go, but once you get in there, unfortunately, you can never return home.”

“But can’t he come back in secret? I promise I won’t tell anyone he’s here. We’ll look after him.”

“No, little one, not even in secret.”

It is only in hindsight that he realises how closely Sergey’s friends and his younger brother worked together to keep an eye on him, to keep him alive.

Mikhail takes him to his favourite barber when he does not trust himself enough to raise the razor blade to his neck.

Serge Trubetskoy and Ryleyev postpone their move abroad, even though they have already bought a flat in Vienna.

Matvey, whenever his depression allows him, sends him peer-reviewed studies from his university email address about holistic methods to ease the processing of grief.

Pestel makes sure that Polka is not afraid of cars.

Misha, Seryozha’s Misha, to his credit, persistently comes to see them even when nobody calls him – and Nikolai has not looked at his phone very often as of late. The whole arrangement functions on a sort of unspoken agreement. He knows their routine, knows that Nikolai has changed nothing about it, so he always manages to ring the bell during Polka’s playtime in the afternoon and take over the task of entertaining the little boy for a few hours. He could send him away, but he does not have the heart, especially knowing how attached Polka is to his small army of uncles. He can hide himself away from the world as much as he likes, but he cannot isolate Polka, who has his whole life ahead of him.

At such times, he usually retreats to the bedroom. He closes the door behind him just enough to leave it ajar, then climbs into bed, where all strength drains from him. From outside, he hears the sounds of Polka and Misha playing, and he is glad, from the very depths of his heart he is glad that the little one is happy now. Yet the gnawing absence, the Seryozha-shaped void in his chest, cannot always be filled even by his laughter.

Sleep does not reach him; it outright overcomes him.

He wakes agitated. He is confused, and when he sees the time on the clock on the nightstand, he knows instantly that he has once again failed. It is ten o’clock in the evening, he fell asleep, Polka has not had dinner, has not bathed, he has not put him to bed. And everything in the flat is deathly quiet.

Nikolai steps out into the corridor – as if he were still dreaming, but somehow painfully awake – and looks around; everything is in its place. He is not dreaming, certainly not, but it is dark everywhere. He looks for Polka’s room. Please, let him be alright…

The door to his room is closed, even though he usually leaves it slightly open for the little one. Before he can touch the handle, someone calls his name. He freezes. The voice is not his, but who else would be calling at this hour?

Misha is standing in the doorway of the living room, illuminated by a faint light source behind him; an orange lava lamp, banished from Polka’s room, provides the light. Misha looks as if he has seen a ghost.

Even amidst his greatest misery, Nikolai retained enough self-awareness to know that in his current state, that is not far from the truth.

“Polka is asleep,” Misha whispers. “Everything is fine.”

Nikolai’s grip on the handle loosens. He opens the door slightly – Polka is indeed sleeping soundly – and having peeked in, he leaves it that way. He looks at Misha. He is nervous. He feels ashamed.

Within ten minutes Misha gathers his things, and Nikolai accompanies him to the door. They have not spoken to each other since Nikolai woke up, but it is obvious Misha wants to say something. Nikolai does not want to hear it. He does not need anyone reproaching him for anything.

“Thank you for looking after Polka today,” he says finally, before Misha can speak.

Misha nods nervously but does not cross the threshold, even though the front door is open, as if he is afraid that if he steps out now, Nikolai will never let him back in. He is always a little bit afraid of that.

“Look,” he begins, “if you need anything…” Nikolai nods. Misha frowns. “I’ll call you.”

He does not continue, and Nikolai says nothing either. The terror that Polka might have been alone and could have harmed himself has not yet passed, yet at the same time, anger is swiftly awakening within him – both at himself for falling asleep, and at Misha for not waking him up. It is one thing for Misha to come by to see them, and another to be unable to act as a proper guardian. He did not want to be seen like this.

“Who asked you to come in the first place?”

His voice is sharper than intended. Misha shudders.

“No one. That’s exactly why I’m here.” Before Nikolai can answer, he continues: “Seryozha would have wanted me to come.”

Nikolai is silent. He has not heard the name spoken aloud by anyone else for a long time. As if scolded, he steps back, but Misha is still not past the threshold.

“I couldn’t look him in the eye if I didn’t do this,” Misha says, then grimaces. He falls silent, thinking. He has already started something, he might as well finish it. “You’re going to destroy yourself if you keep doing this.”

As if I weren't broken beyond repair already, Nikolai thinks, but only lets out a grunt. “Any other observations?”

“I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I.”

“But Polka, he needs you. More than anything. He needs you most right now. Until you don’t get better…”

“Goodnight.”

“…he won’t either.”

“I said, goodnight.”

“I’ll call you. Goodnight.”

[Polka tugs at the sleeve of Misha’s jumper.

“Aren’t we going to say goodnight to Niko?”

“Let him sleep, Polka. He must be very tired today.”

“Okay. Then I’ll say goodnight to him tomorrow.”

“What do you usually do before bed?”

“We brush our teeth together, then Niko reads to me. Two bedtime stories! Then a hug and a kiss. And he says goodnight to my plushies too.”

“Let’s go brush your teeth then.”

Apart from the fact that Misha’s moustache tickles when he gives him a kiss goodnight, he did everything right in the evening routine. Though in Polka’s biased opinion, he didn’t read as well as Niko usually does.]

Over time, he finds himself beginning to plan further ahead than the next day, the next week. The future gains colour and space once more; calendar entries, theatre tickets, invitations to kindergarten celebrations, trips with Polka to the Karelian forests, and playdates with his uncles.

Polka, though there is no doubt he remembers him, asks after Sergey less and less frequently, and somehow this hurts no less, only differently.

Polka being ill had always affected him more than when he himself came down with something. However, it had never happened before that he was left alone with the little one whilst sick. They both suffer through that week in their own way.

He wakes up slowly and very painfully. He could hardly have slept more than four or five hours, if the restless tossing and turning in the too large, too empty bed – which he will never have the heart to replace with a smaller one – can even be called sleep. He had soaked through his pajamas, and probably the bedding too, but right now, he has no strength to change or to put on fresh linen. He is cold, and his stomach is wrenched into a knot with anxiety as he listens out towards the nursery – had Polka had a bad dream, he would have dragged himself over even on all fours to soothe him.

Last night the little one had wanted to sleep with him, but Nikolai was afraid of infecting him, so he said no, and even though his throat was already hurting, he read him two bedtime stories as compensation.

Now, his sense of time has failed him; from the drawn blinds he cannot even estimate what time it is, only that it is Sunday. He reaches for his phone, every muscle protesting as he sits up. Since his hand is on the bedside table anyway, he takes one of the painkillers and washes it down with a glass of water poured yesterday. His head throbs slightly less. His throat, however, is still terribly sore.

His phone shows a quarter past nine in the morning. The bedroom door is open. Only now do the sounds from outside reach his awareness.

On weekends, Polka usually wakes up at eight.

“Polka!” he calls out. It is simultaneously a request (please, come here!) and a question (my God, are you alright?).

He is already preparing to stand up, but the little one is quicker than him: his feet patter on the floor (he has socks on, you can hear it; pray he doesn’t slip on the wooden floor), and a few moments later the door is already opening.

“Niko, you’re awake!” Polka cries out happily, and with all the confidence of a six-year-old, he is already climbing onto the bed for the mandatory morning hug.

He is hopelessly dishevelled, and his eyes are bleary; his face should be washed.

There is no world in which Nikolai would push him away, illness or not – Polka’s touch does not hurt for a moment, unlike the uncomfortable chafing of the duvet cover. Kisses on the forehead are forbidden for now, the doctor said. It will be a miracle if the little one doesn’t catch it from him.

This was the hardest thing to explain to Polka, that for now, he must make do with hugs.

“How come you’re up already, hmm? Are you hungry?”

Polka does not just hug him, he clutches, clinging to his t-shirt. Sergey’s old t-shirt. A childhood habit he still hasn’t outgrown.

“I woke up and came over to you, but you were still asleep. I didn’t want to disturb you. And I was hungry too.”

Indeed, as he gently pulls away, Nikolai sees that his mouth is smudged. Guilt strikes him in the chest.

“You made yourself breakfast, by the looks of it.”

“Bread and butter,” Polka hums affirmatively.

“Just butter?”

“And some jam.”

Nikolai closes his eyes; sighs.

Whilst Sergey was alive, Sunday breakfast was a feast: sparing no time or energy, he would go shopping on Saturday so they could cook together the next morning whilst Polka played in the living room. And now it is not even just about that: true, Polka is big enough to reach the sliced bread, the butter, the jam, and the butter knife, but anything could have happened to him, and he was not there to catch him or help him.

“Next time, do wake me up,” he says finally, ruffling Polka’s hair to show the little one he is not angry. At least, not at him.

“You were coughing very badly! We learned at kindergarten that sick people need rest.”

And his small hands reach up to smooth his palms against Nikolai’s face. They remain motionless like this. Polka studies him, as if he might find the answer to the world’s greatest questions in Nikolai’s gaze.

He used to look at Sergey like that. He should be looking at him now too.

Nikolai has only one argument left: “And little boys who get up early need an adult to look after them.”

“Does that mean I can sleep here tonight?”

Sometimes a terrifyingly vast amount of trust is reflected in his gaze. Even on his better days, Nikolai does not find himself worthy of it.

“It means you can bring over a few books, and Inspector Rex too if you like, and then you can play here this morning.”

Polka nods gratefully and is already off to gather not just the books and the almost life-sized plush dog, but knowing him, half the nursery as well.

The headache, the sore throat, the emotional and physical exhaustion stemming from a near-burnout state (as the doctor put it), the aching permeating his entire body does not vanish without a trace just because the little one is there with him, happily chirping away about his plushies’ adventures as he plays, but it makes them considerably easier to bear.

It is at school that it really begins to show just how much Polka is Sergey’s brother: for years he is top of the class in several subjects, he is sent to recitation contests, he has to be given extra tasks in French and English, otherwise he begins to get bored. Nikolai is unspeakably proud, and as at such times and generally always, he is terrified that he will ruin something: that he will overload Polka, or conversely, fail to help him properly develop his talent.

Ironically, it is Matvey – Matvey, who prefers children, with the exception of his own younger relatives, only from afar and with a healthy dose of misanthropy – who, during a visit, hurls a textbook on educational science at him with the exclamation, “What a child needs is for you to provide a secure background, not for you to be his father and teacher in one person!” It is nearly as thick as the manuscript of his forthcoming memoir.

Nikolai takes the advice and over the years puts into practice some of what he read in the book. He sits with Polka on the sofa whilst the boy cries in his arms over his first B in mathematics in the third grade; later he fights his battles with him, like in high school, when he slams his physics textbook to the floor and declares that he has no interest in mathematics and will not put a shred of effort into getting anything better than a passing grade; instead, he will learn so many foreign languages by the time he is eighteen that he will easily be accepted into modern linguistics at university.

His ambitions are impressive, Nikolai must admit. He is far less keen on his arrogance.

Mostly because the only place he could have gotten it from is himself.

The anniversaries of Sergey’s death and the surrounding days always take a toll on him. The tenth all the more so because Polka is going through adolescence, rebelling and defying him on every possible front – whenever he isn't barricading himself away in his room, that is.
Nikolai tries incredibly hard to be understanding with him, and to believe what the textbooks and Matvey say: this phase will not last forever either.

Polka is already a high school student, fifteen years old, when he hurls it in his face that he hopes he never ends up like him.

“So what exactly is your problem now?” he asks, dangling his legs from the kitchen counter, feigning bewilderment with angrily flashing eyes and all the indignation of a teenager.

They argue in the kitchen, because they always argue in the kitchen. Seryozha was only ever willing to do so there, too.

Seryozha would surely handle this whole thing completely differently. Better than him in every conceivable aspect.

“Over the past week, you have slept at home maybe once,” Nikolai replies, trying terribly hard to force a calmness into his voice, though he can feel himself that he isn't quite succeeding, “and on the other days, I didn't hear you ask, or at least indicate, that you would be spending the night elsewhere.”

“But I always texted you in the evening!”

“At night, and only because I had been calling you to find out where you were!”

Polka rolls his eyes, drums his fingers on the counter, and overall radiates that he finds this entire conversation utterly pointless and a burden.

“I didn't even know I had to account for when, where, and with whom I am,” he throws out poutingly. “My grades are good, so I really don't get what your problem is. I just want to live a little.”

“My problem, as I said, is that you stay out until late at night without a word. Look, it’s not about your grades; they aren't what’s important to me, you are. I know you can look after yourself, I’m not asking you to account for your every move…”

“I sure hope not…”

Nikolai chooses not to even acknowledge the interruption.

“The point here is that you are a minor, and I am responsible for you. In the summer, you can stay out as much as you like, but during school time, I would much prefer it if you slept at home for the most part.”

“Other people’s parents don’t stress out over this.”

“I don’t care about other people’s parents! That is their business, and this is ours.”

“What, are you afraid of being alone, or…?”

“Ippolit!”

“I hope I never end up like you.” Polka jumps down from the counter and stomps across the flat straight to the front door, where his recently discarded schoolbag lies beside the shoes. Nikolai watches him helplessly, gripping the table. His face burns – both with anger and shame.

He has never raised a hand to Polka, and he never would, and the number of times he has raised his voice at him can be counted on one hand. He does not do so now either, even though part of him believes he shouldn't let him walk out right now.

He feels as though Polka had struck him across the face.

“I very much hope so too,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

Polka calls out to him one last time from the door: “Oh, and I’m sleeping at Misha’s tonight!”

His voice drips with contempt, and Nikolai knows, without having to ask, that he does not mean his younger brother Mikhail.

Sometime around the age of sixteen, Polka, in all probability, concludes that he is not the worst person in the world. He could find no other explanation for why, from one day to the next, the boy is talking to him normally again.

Once, a little while ago, Polka confessed to him that his strongest recollections of Seryozha were physical sensations: he never forgot what his embrace felt like, or how he used to sit on his shoulders, tucked him in to sleep, perched him on the kitchen table and let him taste the cream for the Marlenka cake. Still, he knows his face better from photographs than from his own memories.

Today he catches Polka rummaging through his wardrobe. This is by no means the first time; in recent months he has taken quite a liking to "borrow" his clothes, including shirts, polo necks, and jumpers alike, with only his trousers being safe, thanks to their difference in height. He has already noticed the recurring theft, of course, and even found it amusing in a way.

Now, however, Polka is holding a black linen shirt that belongs not to him, but to Sergey. Two more shirts lie neatly folded on the bed. Nikolai recognises both, because they are his.

And Polka is looking at himself in the mirror as if trying to solve a riddle: Where does Seryozha hide in my features?

“I know what you are thinking,” Nikolai says softly. “Yes, Polka. You look just like him.” He sighs, almost sheepishly. “I’m going to be honest with you: sometimes almost unbearably so.”

“And are you angry that I took his clothes?”

“I’m not angry. He would have given them to you anytime anyway, it’s just…” If only I were as generous as he was. “Ah, never mind. I could never be angry.’ And already he is drawing Polka into his arms to forestall any explanations.

It’s been too many years since he’d felt this fabric, now smoothing over on Polka’s back, beneath his palm.

Polka is seventeen. They’re vacationing in Croatia, six days and five nights at a hotel in Fiume. A two-room suite, an all-inclusive package, because we are going on holiday after all, Niko, someone else can really cook for us for a couple days! The heat is unbearable during the day, so it is in the final light of the sun dipping behind the undulating mirror of the Adriatic when they take kilometres-long walks through the city. The camera clicks every second in Polka’s hand: an entry-level Nikon, a joint birthday present from the two Mishas. The only reason Polka doesn't leave him behind is that he critically inspects every single shot before searching for a new subject. Nikolai soon finds himself among these subjects, alongside various doorways, rooftops, and signboards. Stand up straight, look over there, look here, don't tense up, try to act as if you aren't standing here under duress – the instructions just keep coming. It is easier to put on a flattering expression when he remembers that on their vacation last year, Polka barely even looked in his direction.

A quarter of an hour later Nikolai watches from a respectable distance as Polka buys him a vanilla gelato for his efforts. He orders and thanks the seller in almost fluent Croatian. They’ve barely moved a few meters from the stand when a group of people comes up to Polka to ask him to take some photos of them. Polka, speaking Italian with increasing fluency by the minute, charms every member of what turns out to be a family from Firenze.

The daughter, probably around fifteen, invites him to come along – even though Nikolai’s command of Italian might leave something to be desired, one does not need a language exam to grasp certain things –, but Polka declines. “I’m here with my father, I wouldn't want to leave him alone,” he explains with polite insistence. Nikolai is grateful for it, grateful to him, grateful for their life. He knows this is a moment he’ll look back to for strength during difficult times. He has a whole collection of memories for this specific purpose.

The Aperol and the tiramisu he gets for Polka a few streets down are not bought out of gratitude, but written off as a father’s love.

They both believe that the best way to minimise the chances of getting on each other’s nerves is to spend time as they see fit. If necessary, then separately, even.

The hotel boasts a well-equipped wellness area, which becomes Nikolai's regular haunt from the very first day, whilst Polka frequents the outdoor pools, but strictly after three in the afternoon, and even then, only after applying half a tub of sunscreen on his face and shoulders. Nikolai is far from being worried about the boy being lonely without him. He has a hunch as to why and with whom he disappears for a while, but he doesn’t press the issue. Polka had received the necessary enlightening on such matters [‘Oh my God, Niko, don’t you start with the birds and the bees, I know everything!’] over the years, in accordance with his age, and even if Nikolai does not always trust the young man’s sound judgment, he certainly trusts the impact of his lectures on the importance of using protection, regardless of the partner’s gender.

Nikolai’s favourite pastime in the hotel is indulging in the simplest of pleasures, like soaking in thermal water, getting a massage or enjoying aromatherapy. When he tires of pretentiousness, he settles on a deck chair and reads – he has a Krasznahorkai with him at the moment, though in hindsight it might’ve been better to pack something else. Still, it is precisely because of the Krasznahorkai book that he finds company too: a German man, roughly his own age, strikes up a conversation on the pretext of Sátántangó.

Over dinner, Nikolai tells Polka what a pleasant surprise it was to come across a conversation partner so unexpectedly, to which the boy just grins fondly. “See, and you always nag me about being antisocial!”

Nikolai meets the man the next day too, and the third day as well; given the moderate size of the hotel and the city it is just impossible to avoid running into anyone. They have an amiable exchange of opinions and ideas in German, and when Polka announces he’s going out in the evening and thus won’t dine with him, he accepts the man’s dinner invitation as well.

Their mutual sympathy – on Nikolai’s side – lasts until the German’s hand, in an unguarded moment, strays onto his knee, and with the same confident yet sugary smile he’d used when he first spoke to him, the man invites him to his room.

The offer is politely declined, though not without a trace of indignation. “I’m married.”

He had worn his wedding ring all week.

The other man shrugs. “So am I. For my part, that’s not an issue. My wife knows about it, if that reassures you.”

This does not reassure Nikolai in the slightest, and dinner ends swiftly thereafter. He returns to their suite alone and goes to bed early after a thorough shower. Sleep, however, eludes him for hours, so upset is he. He twists the ring on his finger. Did someone seriously just try to seduce him?

Polka only gets home in the morning.

“What did that German bloke want from you?”

For a moment, Nikolai does not understand why Polka is asking, since he hadn't brought him up again after that dreadful evening. His shock and self-loathing had already softened into a mild disgust. In hindsight, he finds the situation so absurd that he answers quite matter-of-factly: ‘He suggested we continue the evening in his room.”

“…and?”

“There is no "and". I made it clear I wasn't interested in such things.”

I recoil at the very thought of him touching me.

“Alright. I see. Anyways… look, speaking of which… if you wanted to start dating again…” Here he pauses, taking a spectacularly deep breath. “Well, I wouldn't mind. If you wanted to. Or if it would make you happy.”

The only reason Nikolai doesn't interrupt him after the first couple words is that he always makes a point of listening to Polka all the way through, but now...Where did he even get that idea?

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to, and in all probability, he could not find it in himself to do it either.

“You are more than enough.”

Polka’s relief is perhaps even more apparent than the way he tensed up just a moment before.

Nikolai adds: “Besides, I know nothing of how to date.”

“But come ooon!”

“I never knew how to.”

“Nikooo. Then how did you find Seryozha?”

Nikolai had long since learned that whenever he shares a laugh with Polka, his chest doesn't echo with the emptiness he’s familiarised himself with over the past one and a half decade.

“Actually, it was him who found me.”

“Do tell!”

And Nikolai tells.

“Sometimes I heard you crying when you thought I was already asleep. I don’t know why I didn't go to you. It must have been dreadful to bear that weight all alone. Can you forgive me?”

“You were just a child, Polka.”

“I knew you were sad even when you smiled for my sake.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Niko… you did everything you could for me. Everything's fine.”

“…”

“Do you ever dream about him? About Seryozha?”

“I haven't managed to so far. And you?”

“Oh, I… I do, actually. I dream about him quite often.”

If only you knew how lucky you are.

Polka is a first-year student at university when something happens. Nikolai has been preparing himself for it mentally for some time. He catches the little one [who has long since ceased to be a child, but is a wonderful, clever young adult], reclined on the sofa, staring blankly, smirking into his mobile phone whilst obviously texting with someone. Whenever the phone pings during the day, he reaches for it with dizzying speed. Even a blind man could read from his face whether it is the long-awaited person who had messaged him or if he has merely received a spam email. Moreover, on one occasion, having arrived home from work earlier than usual thanks to a meeting cut short, he can hear Polka giggling as he’s talking to someone on the phone in the living room. He hangs up as soon as he notices him having entered the apartment, as though Nikolai has caught him not in a private conversation, but smoking cigarettes at the very least.

The situation could not be more obvious, and that is precisely why Nikolai does not pry. When the time comes, Polka will take him into his confidence anyway. Or so he hopes.

Although Polka has long since outgrown the habit of pouring his heart out to him while perched on his bed at the most impossible times [usually in the dead of night], yet his knack for getting the urge precisely when Nikolai is working from home has not changed one bit. It’s late at night, and she’s hunched over a contract amendment in sweatpants and a robe when Polka shuffles over to him and pulls out another chair.

“Niko?”

“Yes?”

A deep sigh – a habit Polka could only have picked up from him, for Sergey had always been far more direct than him –, then: “I just want to say, so that you know, that… well, I’ve been seeing someone lately. We’re dating. And it seems pretty serious. I mean, on both our parts. And I didn't want to keep secrets from you because I’ve no reason to, so… Yeah, that’s the big news,” he concludes hurriedly.

The tips of his ears are already turning red.

Nikolai, apart from being quietly amused, sincerely thanks him for his honesty and assures him that he’s happy for him and trusts his choice in love. Furthermore, if and when the occasion arises, he would be delighted to meet his suitor.

Polka kindly but emphatically asks him never to call him his suitor again, then indicates that he won't be sleeping at home tomorrow night, but will return the following morning, and “then we can have brunch at that posh restaurant you’re so obsessed with these days, if you’re up to that”.

Anastasiy’s official introduction takes place over a dinner at home. Polka planned everything down to the smallest detail, including the menu, the decoration, even the topics of conversation. For the former, Nikolai was particularly grateful: whilst he wouldn't have minded having to cook alone, it’s nice to chat with Polka while doing so. And he especially appreciates his dear child helping him out with a few suggestions on what to ask Stas – as he calls him – about, and what not to.

A few hours later, Anastasiy walks through the door holding a bottle of wine to accompany the main course, smartly dressed up, with a hint of anxiety in his eyes which he quite apparently tries to hide behind the firmness of his handshake. Polka hovers at his heels, and Nikolai hides his smirk upon seeing the incredulous disappointment on his face when Anastasiy only gives him a discreet kiss on each cheek as a greeting.

The evening unfolds splendidly. The thread of conversation begun at the table is spun further in the living room, and they twist and turn it until they notice they have very nearly talked themselves into the next day. By then, the young men have shed their shyness and are curled up in each other’s arms on the sofa. It does not escape Nikolai’s attention how Polka constantly strokes Anastasiy’s arm or side, just the way one tries to comfort a nervous, frightened dog, nor the courtesy with which the man responds to even the slightest of Polka’s movements: he hands him his glass a moment before Polka reaches for it, and when Polka was about to stand up from the table in the dining room, Anastasiy was already jumping up to pull out his chair.

The man practically forgets about his own glass of wine, hanging on to Polka’s every word instead, drinking them all up. He looks at him as if he would like nothing more than to kneel at his feet.

Nikolai wants nothing more than Sergey to live to see this, too. Knowing his husband, things might not have settled with a single dinner [nor would he blink an eye so easily at the eight-year age gap between Polka and his man]. Instead, he would likely subject poor Anastasiy to further trials – say, invite him to a hiking trip or a visit to the theatre, to ensure that he could keep up with and is worthy of Polka in every respect.

His husband would certainly not hesitate to voice what he himself is thinking of.

That is: Anastasiy is practically a young Nikolai, whom no one had yet loved for being who he is. And Polka is a young Sergey, who took his loneliness, worn like an overcoat, and stripped him of it with a gentle yet certain hand.

After Anastasiy has set off for home, they clear the table and wash the dishes together. He’s aware that Polka wants to ask him something, he even knows what that something is, and it’s clear as day that he expects the initiative for the conversation to come from him. Nikolai feels distinctly cheerful, partly from the fine wine, partly from the good company, and he has no intention of making things easy for his dear child.

“Well?” Polka finally blurts out, wringing the tea towel in his hands out of nervousness. “What do you think?”

Nikolai takes his time smoothing the tablecloth on the table before replying.

“Well, Polka… I have to say, I’ve never seen a man quite so wrapped around a man's fingers as much as your Anastasiy is wrapped around yours.”

They celebrate Nikolai’s fortieth birthday with the three of them. Polka and Stas – he calls him that now too, when he isn't addressing them collectively as my sons – arrive early in the morning. They bring cake, good cheer and, as a surprise gift, box seat tickets for von Dantzig’s Swan Lake matinee, for which they then set off within an hour. In the box, champagne and canapés await them, laid out ready, and as always, the final scene of the piece, when Alexander carries the dead Siegfried in his arms, brings tears to both his and Polka’s eyes.

At home – or rather, in his apartment, since Polka has been sharing his time between his childhood home and his beloved’s khrushchevka for quite some time now, and if they wanted to quantify the matter specifically, the results would suggest he actually lives at Stas’s rather than with him – they eat a late lunch, then spend the rest of the day lounging, rejoicing in the pleasant company.

Some old photo albums emerge – the ones in which Sergey had begun to collect photo prints, first of the two of them, then of Polka and the three of them when the little one came to live with them, because he didn’t really trust digital technology. Polka’s old drawings, certificates from various academic and sport competitions also emerge from a safely guarded folder. The room is now filled with bitter-sweet nostalgia. Polka at some point makes a comment on the absurdity of Nikolai’s big day being all about him. Nikolai merely waves it away, choosing not to give voice to the fact that if the two of them didn't come over, he wouldn't celebrate the occasion at all.

The whole thing would be meaningless alone, because he could only think about where they would be right now if Seryozha were alive, what his beloved would have thought up; would he whisk him away abroad for the weekend, or would he take him to the dacha? Would they have gone on that horseback trip in Iceland they’d talked about so many times, if they hadn’t already? Would he have grey hairs too by now?

Late in the afternoon, when saying goodbye, Polka takes him aside for a bone-crushing hug and to exchange a few words in private.

“We’re going to celebrate many more of your birthdays like this, right?”

For a moment, Nikolai is quite at a loss for words from the sheer shock. “I’m sorry, Poli, but I don’t quite follow.”

“I just want to say… you’ll stay with us for a long time, won’t you?”

Nikolai cannot recall when he last saw Polka being tormented by a question to such an extent. With elemental force, the urge to help him overcome his fears – just as he had when he was a child – surges through him, and he pulls him into his arms once more. He, too, is startled by the weight of Polka’s words.

“Come now, where on earth would I go?” he deflects with forced cheerfulness in his voice, and ruffles the little one’s hair. Once, a long time ago, they had a bet as to whether he would grow taller than Seryozha. Polka firmly maintained that he would; Nikolai himself, on the other hand, was somewhat more sceptical. He turned out to be right in the end; the crown of Polka’s head still only just reaches his shoulder.

Polka squeezes him even tighter for a moment, then lets go. “I read a study for one of my social psychology classes the other day about the mortality statistics of widowed men. Guess it maybe hit a bit closer to home than I thought it would,” he confesses. “Please don’t think I'm an idiot. Stas suggested I should talk to you about this.”

“Your beloved gives excellent advice, and I’ve no intention of thinking of you as anything related to that. The fact that you worry… means a lot to me. Just don’t overdo it.”

“So I’ve no reason to? To worry?”

It is impossible to tell whether he is asking in general terms or if he knows what has been crossing his mind lately – especially since he knows for sure that Polka , even without him, would never be alone in this world again.

“I will be here for you for as long as you need me,” he promises.

Sergey would never forgive him if he harmed himself.

Even if, lately, he stops by in his dreams almost every night.

When the young men announce their engagement – which he already knew was about to happen, as Stas, like the old-fashioned gentleman he is, had asked him for Polka’s hand weeks before – Nikolai only cries tears of joy.

He feels Sergey closer to him with every passing day.