Page 39 of Last Violent Call
At the front of the line, Marshall passed their tickets forward, flashing that smile of his. The attendant ripped a notch into the tickets without looking for longer than a second. Gave the slips back. Waved them through.
“Platform number one,” Benedikt reminded.
“You’re my only number one,” Marshall replied, somewhat nonsensically.
A flurry of freezing wind blew around them. The train loomed up ahead, the steam funnels on the head carriage rising into the smoggy air, its engine already rumbling. The chains around its sides rattled with every gust, like an orchestral welcome while the passengers boarded. Their tickets put them in soft-class, among the first few carriages with either one or two beds to every compartment, which fortunately meant they wouldn’t be sharing a room with strangers.
“I beg of you,” Benedikt said, starting his climb up the steps, careful to hold the handrail so he wouldn’t slip on the ice-cold metal. “Stop flirting with me while we’re on an important mission.”
Though Benedikt didn’t swivel around to look, he knew that Marshall had a sly expression while he proceeded after him. “Can’t I? You don’t look like a married man. Seems like delicious low-hanging fruit to me.”
They had left their wedding rings at home—there was no use playing with fire while traveling. As perpetually ready as Marshall was to finish a fight against anyone trying to start one, they really were on a tight schedule for this trip and had no time to be getting into arguments with bigots. If anyone asked, they were roommates.
“Don’t you dare bite me when I least expect it.”
Marshall only clacked his teeth in response. With the slightest twitch of his lips, Benedikt entered the carriage and shook his hair out,getting rid of the water droplets that had condensed in his blond curls from the cold. A gray-haired woman strode toward him immediately: the provodnitsa, coming to check tickets. She hesitated for a second when making eye contact with Marshall, but he extended their tickets and asked about her day in Russian, establishing himself as a native instead of a foreigner before a snap judgment could be made.
Marshall was far better at mimicking the Moscow accent than Benedikt was. They both had rather irregular ways of speaking when they weren’t watching themselves, the result of learning the language from Russians in Shanghai who had come from all over the place, fleeing war or oppressive regimes. Where Benedikt had a hard time telling the difference between which parts of his speech were mere habits and which were proper rules, Marshall had long learned how to adjust in public. It didn’t matter as much for Benedikt. Hiding in the Soviet Union had been a matter of safety while the Nationalists were after them in Shanghai, but here, his face gave him the privilege of blending in and brushing away questions before they were even asked.
“All the way to Vladivostok?” the provodnitsa said, eyeing the print on their tickets.
A clatter of footfalls sounded from the steps outside, bringing in more passengers who were embarking. From the corner of Benedikt’s eye, he caught sight of a man squeezing into the carriage despite the orderly procession, pushing close to the provodnitsa and offering his ticket even while she was already holding two.
The provodnitsa eyed him, unimpressed. He was Russian, a briefcase clutched tight in his other hand. Benedikt would have marked him to be in his fifties, but when he discounted the deep-carved forehead wrinkles, he wondered if the man was younger in actuality and only prematurely haggard.
“Sir, please hold on.”
“Just take it, would you? I have business to attend to.”
Before the provodnitsa could clutch the ticket properly, he had shoved it against her shoulder and pushed through the passageway, striding fast into his allocated compartment and slamming the door closed.
“Chert poberi,” Marshall muttered. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
But the old provodnitsa looked unfazed, likely used to rude passengers. She folded their two tickets, pursing her lips. Though the Trans-Siberian Express’s last stop was Vladivostok, many had destinations along the way instead, needing to be ushered off by the provodnitsa in those few minutes that the train paused at that station. She had a lot to keep track of.
“Lucky for you two, you’re right next door to him. Go on and get settled.”
Marshall was prodding for Benedikt to hurry along before Benedikt had registered the instruction. They maneuvered out of the way, shuffling into the compartment and dropping their luggage on the floor. The room was small despite the luxury of a soft-class ticket, which was far more expensive than hard-class carriages near the back of the train. The two categorizations were named plainly to represent their arrangements: where the more expensive ticket in soft-class got additional space and nicer decorations, hard-class was crammed with four to a room.
“A bunk bed,” Marshall remarked as he closed the door after them, taking inventory of their room. “Are you going to miss the warmth of my embrace at night?”
“I’m actually going to have such a great time freed from the relentless twitching you do in your sleep.”
Marshall was quick to protest the accusation, making a scowl. The two of them alone at last, Benedikt finally felt some of the weight lift off his shoulders, his tense mood fading away. They were on board. The train would release its whine of steam and begin to move when the clockstruck the minute of departure, and nothing was going to go wrong.
Benedikt reached out, a hand sliding along the back of Marshall’s neck, then up, up, into his thick crop of hair. When his fingers threaded in, Benedikt felt all his remaining tension bleed away from his spine, slithering to the floor like a shed skin.
“I’m joking, Mars. If you decide to sleep on the separate bunk, I’m going to assume our relationship is under strain.”
In a flash, Marshall’s scowl turned into a grin. “Relax,I’monly pretending. Don’t forget”—there was a glint in his eye when he tapped a finger to the inside of Benedikt’s wrist, right at the point where his pulse was beating—“you were the one who admitted you were in love with me first. You can’t fool me.”
Benedikt rolled his eyes, removing his hand with a huff, but his chest warmed a few degrees nevertheless.
Sometimes Benedikt didn’t know how to handle the extent of the feelings living in his heart. Almost five years had passed with his love in the open instead of trapped in the dark, and it would still blink its bewildered eyes when it was seen clearly, surprised to have been acknowledged. He had assumed that there wouldn’t be much change: he had grown up with Marshall Seo, after all; he had already been sharing an apartment and most of his life with him before Marshall went and faked his death and drove Benedikt to such depths of anguish that everything he had pushed down and down and down came surging to the surface.
But there was a stark difference between Marshall’s patient, controlled love, burning on low while he waited for Benedikt to shake himself into order, and Marshall’s unabashed love, given the kindling to blaze. It was the whisper of contact when he grabbed Marshall’s shoulder to say goodbye leaving their apartment in Shanghai, contrasted with the whole-body hug that Marshall gave him at the doorway of their smaller one-bedroom in Moscow, laughing when Benedikt said he absolutely had to go and laughing harder when Benedikt didn’t actuallyattempt to extricate himself. It was a longing glance across the kitchen in the days before, measured against reaching over the counter without hesitation now—thumbs brushing along cheekbones, legs flung over laps, lips colliding and colliding with the softest impact.
He had never even considered what he was missing until he had it. He couldn’t imagine the same thrill replicated with anyone other than Marshall.
