Chapter Text
December, 1940
Shane
Two days later, Shane was wedged into the back of a truck with his knees braced against a crate of ammunition, his rifle strapped tightly across his chest.
Avery sat opposite him with his helmet between his legs, his hands folded.
Haas was beside Shane, shoulders tense, staring out through a slit in the canvas where countryside flashed by in blurred streaks of grey.
Paul had been forced to ride in the truck behind them, full of other injured soldiers.
The butcher's wagon, it was called, due to the fact that most of the soldiers inside were missing various limbs.
None of them had exchanged a word since Shane had read Irina’s letter.
The last forty eight hours had been spent in silence, apart from a knock at the apartment door later that afternoon informing them of immediate relocation.
They hadn’t been told much. Just that they were being moved to a place that saw more combat.
Shane’s thumb stroked the crucifix around his neck absently, feeling the worn edge of Irina’s letter rubbing against his shirt.
He kept it folded in a neat square in the pocket over his heart.
The picture he had taken of Ilya was tucked between the pages.
Still here.
Still with me.
A line from Irina’s letter echoed in his mind.
I will always be watching over all of you, keeping you safe.
He hoped that she was.
He would need it now, more than ever.
My third son.
Shane swallowed hard.
The words had carved something out of his chest the moment he read them.
He had always seen Irina as a second mother figure.
She had always carried herself with quiet grace.
She had corrected his terrible Russian with endless patience.
She had scolded him and Ilya when they bickered, then laughed before she could stop herself, shaking her head.
A particular memory drifted to the front of his mind.
It had been the summer after he had turned sixteen, and Shane had stopped by the boarding house looking for Ilya.
He’d been out.
Like he had been every day that entire summer.
Shane felt like Ilya had been avoiding him since his birthday gathering at the lake, but he couldn’t figure out why.
He'd sat on the steps after no one had answered his knock at the door, his chin in his hands.
For a long time, he'd just sat there, picking at a loose splinter in the wood beneath him.
Until the front door to the boarding house had creaked open, and Irina had walked in, returning from her night shift.
She had paused briefly when she saw him sitting there, and smiled softly.
“Dobroye utro.”
Shane had met her eyes.
“Dobroye utro.”
His pronunciation had been terrible, but she had smiled wider at his effort.
“You are improving,” she said, taking a seat next to Shane.
Shane huffed a quiet laugh.
“I don’t think I am.”
Irina hummed softly. “I think you are.”
“Spasibo.”
She nudged him gently. “See? Very good.”
He blushed, staring down at his shoes.
She had studied him for a moment.
“You are here looking for Ilya, yes?”
Shane sighed.
“Yes.”
She tilted her head slightly.
“He is not here.”
“He never is.”
Shane resumed picking at the splinter.
“I think he’s avoiding me.”
Irina hadn’t answered right away.
Instead, she folded her hands in her lap, and mulled over what he’d said.
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t know.”
He hesitated.
“Ever since his birthday he’s been… weird.”
She hummed thoughtfully under her breath.
“You did something?”
He frowned, contemplating.
“I don’t think so.”
“That is not very confident answer.”
He sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“It’s the only one I have.”
Irina studied him quietly.
“My son has always been… sensitive,” she said gently.
Shane huffed.
“And he has a very big heart,” she added.
“I know that much.”
Irina had shaken her head.
“No,” she corrected. “You do not.”
He looked at her in confusion.
“What do you mean?”
Irina had only smiled.
“You will understand, someday.”
He frowned.
“That’s not very helpful.”
Irina had simply chuckled under her breath.
“No,” she agreed. “But you will see.”
She watched him carefully for a moment, her expression thoughtful.
“Sometimes,” she said slowly, “it is much easier to face the whole world than it is to face one person.”
Shane had been completely lost.
“I don’t know what that means.”
She had only smiled back.
“Maybe not right now.”
They had sat there for a moment in silence, until Irina glanced at him again.
“You have been coming here often.”
Shane felt a blush creeping up his neck.
“Have I?”
She had tilted her head, assessing him.
She reminded him so much of Ilya when she did that.
“And you have waited,” she pointed out.
“Well… yeah.”
Irina’s smile widened, just slightly.
“You are very patient.”
“I’m not patient,” he muttered.
“You are sitting on our steps at sunrise.”
Shane turned beet red.
“Well… I just figured he’d show up eventually.”
Irina studied him for another moment.
“My son,” she said lightly, “is very lucky.”
Shane looked back up at her, confused.
“How?”
Her eyes had softened.
“Not everyone has someone who waits for them.”
Shane opened his mouth to protest as Irina stood, brushing invisible dust from her skirt.
“He will come home soon.”
Then she had paused, looking back down at him with a faintly amused expression.
“And when he does…try not to make it too difficult for him.”
Then she had gone up the steps, and disappeared inside their room.
Shane blinked, the memory dissolving as the truck jolted violently over another stretch of broken road.
The wooden crate dug into his knee, and he remembered where he was.
He wasn’t sitting on the steps in the boarding house, next to Irina’s comforting presence.
He was in a truck bed halfway across the world, a rifle pressing into his chest, and Irina was dead.
For a moment, Shane wondered if she had known.
About the real reason Shane kept showing up on those steps every morning that summer.
If she suspected what had happened between him and Ilya when they’d said goodbye.
Shane swallowed, and forced the thought away.
The truck hit another rut in the road.
The metal frame rattled loudly, the canvas snapping above them in the cold wind.
Shane shifted again, the rifle strap digging into his shoulder.
Across from him, Avery spoke for the first time in days.
His voice was quiet.
“You alright?”
Shane didn’t answer.
Avery understood, and didn’t press further.
For a moment, Shane closed his eyes.
The convoy rumbled onward through the frozen countryside.
Irina had once told him that some things took time to understand.
Somewhere, beyond the miles and oceans between them, Ilya was still alive.
And now, Shane understood.
He needed to cling to that thought like it was the only thing he had left.
Because it was.
~
By the time the convoy finally slowed, it was almost nightfall.
The truck rolled through a narrow stretch of forest before the trees suddenly broke apart, revealing a small city in the distance.
Or what was left of one.
Ruined buildings appeared along the roadside, their windows shattered and roofs half-collapsed beneath a thin layer of snow. Smoke drifted lazily from somewhere in the distance.
Shane noticed a stretch of iron on the ground, stark against the snow.
Train tracks.
Railroads meant supply lines.
Which meant the Allies had been sent to take them back from Nazi control.
Shane swallowed.
They drove slowly into the city.
The streets were overflowing with rubble. Whole buildings had collapsed into the road, forcing the convoy to crawl through narrow passages cleared just wide enough for military vehicles to pass.
There were soldiers everywhere.
They moved through the streets carrying crates of ammunition, coils of wire, and battered equipment.
Somewhere in the distance, artillery thundered.
The sound carried through the frozen air.
“Front’s not far,” Avery muttered.
The truck finally turned sharply into a narrow street, and ground to a halt.
The engine cut.
The canvas flap at the back of the truck was yanked open.
“Out!” someone barked.
Shane swung down from the truck bed, boots crunching against the frozen street.
The cold bit through his uniform instantly.
A battered stone building loomed in front of them them. It was three stories tall, its windows boarded.
Barracks.
Shane could hear Paul complaining already.
“Second platoon, inside!” one of their lieutenants barked, waving them toward the entrance.
Shane grabbed his pack from the truck bed, and slung it over his shoulder, following Avery and Haas toward the door.
“Hey!”
Shane turned.
Paul was limping toward them, one arm still bound tight against his chest. A medic trailed a few steps behind him, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
Paul looked pale and exhausted, but his expression was the same familiar mix of irritation and stubborn pride.
“Don’t you bastards start unpacking without me,” he panted.
Haas snorted.
“Pretty sure the medic told you to lie down somewhere.”
Paul shot him a glare.
“Pretty sure I didn’t ask for your input.”
He finally caught up to them and stopped for a moment, catching his breath.
Up close, Shane could see the strain in his face. The ride hadn’t done him any favors.
“You should be in the infirmary,” Shane said quietly.
Paul waved that off with his good arm.
“I’m fine.”
“You got stitched together with sewing thread.”
“And yet,” Paul said, stepping past him toward the door, “I am miraculously still alive, no thanks to your shitty operating skills.”
Avery shook his head as he followed Paul inside.
“Stubborn idiot.”
“Yeah,” Haas muttered. “But he’s our stubborn idiot.”
The moment they stepped inside, the wind ceased.
The inside of the barracks was dim, and smelled faintly of smoke. Rows of cots had been set up across what looked like an old shop floor, packed close together beneath the boarded windows.
A dusty lantern hung from a beam overhead, casting dull yellow light across the room.
Several soldiers were already inside, stacking rifles and dropping their gear beside empty cots.
Paul glanced around the room, and grimaced.
“Oh good,” he muttered. “I had gotten too used to having a normal place to sleep.”
Haas tossed his pack onto the nearest empty cot.
“Cozy.”
Avery dropped his rifle on the one next to his.
“At least it’s indoors.”
Shane dropped himself next to Haas, and Paul lowered himself carefully onto the cot beside Shane’s, letting out a long breath.
Outside, engines rumbled as more trucks rolled into the street.
Through the boards over the windows, the distant hum of artillery echoed in the barracks.
Paul cocked his head, listening.
“Front’s a tad closer than I’d like it to be.”
Avery leaned back against the wall beside his cot.
“Close enough to keep things interesting.”
For a while, none of them said anything.
The room slowly filled as the rest of the platoon filtered inside. Packs thumped against the floor. Boots scraped across the stone. Someone cursed when they realized the roof leaked in one corner.
The lantern swung slightly overhead.
It was freezing.
Shane leaned forward, unstrapping his pack and setting it at the foot of the cot. His fingers were stiff as he unbuckled the straps.
Haas had already started settling in, shaking out a thin blanket before draping it across his mattress.
“Where do you think we are?” he asked.
Shane shrugged.
“Polish-Ukrainian border.”
He glanced across from them, where one of the guys from their unit had answered Haas.
He lay sprawled on his cot, staring at the ceiling.
“Lwów,” he said after a moment.
Haas frowned.
“Never heard of it.”
“Rail hub,” the soldier replied, still staring at the ceiling. “Big one.”
Haas nodded.
Outside, another truck rumbled past, its engine echoing down the narrow street before fading into the distance.
Paul shifted on his cot and winced.
“Well,” he muttered, “that’s just wonderful.”
Haas glanced at him.
“What is?”
Paul gestured vaguely toward the boarded window.
“If it’s a rail hub, it means the Nazis have been running supply trains through here.”
Avery finished unlacing his boots and pushed them under the cot, nodding along to what Paul was saying.
“And if we’re here…” Haas began, his face turning white.
“We’re here to stop that,” Shane confirmed.
Paul sighed.
“Merry Christmas, boys.”
In the chaos of relocation, Shane had forgotten.
His heart clenched when he thought about Ilya, entirely alone.
~
When morning came, it was grey and bitterly cold.
The wind had picked up overnight, howling through the streets and rattling the boards over the windows so hard that Shane had thought, at one point, they might rip off entirely.
Someone kicked his cot.
“Wake up.”
Shane opened his eyes.
Haas stood over him, already half dressed, pulling his jacket on.
“Patrol.”
Shane pushed himself upright, breath puffing out in front of him in the freezing room. Around them, half of their platoon was already moving. Boots thudded against the floor, gear clattered softly as rifles were lifted and packs slung over shoulders.
Across from him, Avery was tightening the laces of his boots.
Shane reached down, and began pulling on his own.
“Where?” he asked.
“Outer district,” Haas said. “Lieutenant says we’re checking the southeast. Make sure any patrols didn’t sneak into the city overnight.”
Shane nodded, and finished getting dressed.
Beside him, Paul was propped slightly on one elbow, watching the room come alive with dull irritation.
“Have fun,” he muttered.
Haas glanced at him.
“You sure you don’t want to come?”
Paul raised his injured arm slightly.
“Yeah, let me just run a few laps to warm up first.”
Shane slung his rifle over his shoulder.
“You’re supposed to be resting anyway.”
Paul scoffed.
“Resting in a building full of snoring idiots while you all get to wander around the scenic ruins of Eastern Europe.”
Avery walked past them, adjusting his gloves.
“We’ll bring you back a souvenir.”
Paul rolled his eyes.
“Fuck that. Bring me coffee.”
Shane paused beside his cot, checking the chamber of his rifle out of habit.
“You don’t need any. You are energetic enough to begin with.”
Paul lay back, staring at the ceiling.
“I want a lot of things that I don’t need.”
Shane exchanged a look with Avery, and they left the barracks.
The city looked hauntingly different in daylight.
It looked worse.
Snow had settled overnight across the rubble, coating shattered bricks and twisted metal in a thin white layer that made the destruction look almost peaceful- until Shane noticed the burned tanks and artillery positions dug into the streets.
Their lieutenant walked down the line that had grown outside, giving quick instructions.
“Two-man spacing. Eyes open. We’re just making sure the perimeter’s clean.”
Shane shifted his rifle strap higher on his shoulder.
Avery stepped up beside him.
“Ready?”
Shane glanced once back toward the boarded windows of the building where Paul was still stuck inside.
Then he nodded.
“Yeah.”
They stepped forward, falling into formation.
The three of them moved down a narrow road that sloped gently away from the center of the city, boots crunching softly on the frozen ground.
Shane kept his rifle angled across his chest, eyes moving slowly over the buildings as they passed.
Most of them were empty, windows blown out, doors knocked off of hinges.
One apartment building had collapsed entirely, spilling bricks and furniture into the street.
Haas nudged a brick with his foot as they passed.
“This place looks like the dregs of hell.”
Shane made a small noise of agreement.
“Been fought over already,” Avery said quietly.
Haas looked around, his eyes caught on a distant sign that was half buried in the rubble.
Słoneczna Piekarnia, it read.
“You think there were any survivors?”
Shane spoke this time.
“No.”
They continued walking.
The street narrowed as it sloped downhill, the buildings leaning inward like they were trying to collapse into each other.
Shane kept his pace steady, eyes sweeping from doorway to window to rooftop the way they’d been trained.
The cold had stiffened his fingers around his rifle, but he hardly noticed.
Haas stopped briefly at the next intersection, crouching to examine something in the snow.
Shane stepped up next to him, looking down.
Boot prints.
“Civilian,” Avery said after a glance. “Too small for army boots.”
Haas straightened.
“Meaning someone’s still around.”
“Or was,” Shane added darkly.
None of them said anything to that, and kept going.
They finally reached the outskirts of the city, where civilians had once lived.
Most of the houses were torn apart from gunfire.
A bicycle lay on its side near one of them, its front wheel bent almost in half.
A child’s wooden toy sat half buried in the snow beside it.
Shane forced himself to look away.
Avery slowed slightly as they passed the house.
“Looks like they didn’t get much warning,” he muttered.
Haas glanced over.
The front door hung crooked on one hinge, swaying slightly in the wind.
“Or they left in a hurry.”
Shane didn’t say anything.
He was looking down the street.
The houses thinned the farther they went, and the land sloped downward toward the rail lines they had seen the night before.
The tracks cut starkly across the white landscape. Freight cars sat frozen on twisted tracks, some burned, others riddled with bullet holes. Makeshift barricades had been thrown together along the embankments.
Even from this distance, Shane could see the movement of distant figures between the rail cars.
Avery followed his gaze.
“Not ours,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” Haas muttered. “And I'm willing to bet they’re not planning on leaving.”
A distant crack echoed through the air.
Not artillery this time.
The shot of a rifle.
The three of them froze automatically.
Shane dropped into a crouch beside the broken fence line, eyes scanning the area around them.
Avery and Haas shadowed him.
“Too far to be shooting at us,” Avery murmured.
Another shot rang out.
Then silence.
Haas exhaled slowly.
“Fuck.”
Avery shifted slightly.
“Could’ve been a patrol,” he said quietly. “Or someone testing their rifles.”
“Or someone getting shot,” Shane muttered.
He watched the embankments.
There were sandbags there now, ones he hadn’t noticed before. A machine gun had been mounted behind them.
“They’ve fortified it,” he said quietly.
Avery nodded.
“Which means command already knows.”
Haas squinted down toward the rail yard.
“There’s so many of them.”
Avery huffed a laugh. “That’s kind of the point. That’s why they sent us here. They want an even match.”
Shane finally stood.
“We’ve seen enough.”
Avery gave the rail yard one last long look before nodding.
“Yeah.”
They turned back toward the city.
~
By late afternoon, the sky had turned dark grey, the only illumination coming from the dull lanterns in the barracks and the faint orange glow of distant fires somewhere distant from the ruined skyline.
When the time for dinner arrived, darkness had settled over the city.
Tin cans clattered as the evening rations were passed out, and the air filled with the low murmur of tired voices, the scrape of spoons, the occasional burst of laughter that rose above the rest before dying back down again.
Shane sat with the others near the middle of the room, hunched over the empty ammo crate they had been using as a makeshift table.
“Well,” Paul announced grimly, poking at the stew in his tin. “If I die tomorrow, at least I know it may be from malnutrition.”
Haas snorted.
“Were you expecting fine dining?”
“I was expecting,” Paul sighed, “that the chef wouldn’t try to kill us off at every meal.”
Shane glanced up from his own tin. “We don’t have a chef.”
Paul waved his good hand. “Semantics.”
“You’re lucky if they even remembered to kill whatever this used to be,” Avery said.
Paul lifted his bowl in a mock toast. “Here’s to extremely low standards.”
Someone nearby laughed.
Haas scooped up a spoonful of his own stew, and stared at it suspiciously.
“What do you think is in this?”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered,” Paul said darkly.
Avery lifted his own spoon and studied it for a moment.
“I believe the best option would be to avoid thinking about it.”
At that, Haas shoveled another spoonful into his mouth, grimacing as he swallowed, and reached for his coffee.
“God,” he said, choking slightly. “My mother would cry if she saw what we were eating.”
Paul leaned his head back against the wall. “Make sure not to mention it in your next letter. Instead, express your enthusiasm about the neighbor’s new puppies to distract her.”
Haas rolled his eyes, and Shane found himself smiling.
Actually smiling.
The sound of their voices filled the space between them, the same rhythm of teasing and sarcasm they’d had for months now. It reminded him of evenings back home, sitting at the kitchen table.
Normal conversation.
Normal life.
Haas pointed his spoon at Paul.
“Admit it,” he said. “You’re just pissed you didn’t get to go on patrol today.”
Paul scoffed.
“Oh, absolutely,” he deadpanned. “I’m heartbroken I missed the thrilling experience of trudging through snow and staring at empty buildings.”
“You’re jealous,” Haas added.
“Of you?” Paul huffed in surprise. “Please. I’d rather get shot again.”
Avery’s mouth twitched.
Shane chuckled quietly, surprising himself.
Paul’s gaze shifted to him immediately.
“Well, would you look at that,” Paul said, raising his brows. “He does have a sense of humor after all.”
Haas peered at Shane, squinting slightly.
“It’s a Christmas miracle.”
“Fuck off,” Shane muttered, but the corners of his mouth curled up.
Paul’s grin widened.
“There he is.”
Around them, the barracks buzzed with noise. Spoons clanged against tin cans. Someone three cots over started telling a story too loudly, the punchline already forming before he even reached it. A chorus of laughter followed.
Shane took a sip of his coffee.
It tasted like burnt water.
Paul shifted with a slight wince. “You know what I’ve been thinking about?”
Shane eyed him over the rim of his cup. “Do I want to?’
Paul grinned. “Probably not, but you're going to hear it anyway.”
Shane rolled his eyes.
Paul leaned forward. “I’m willing to bet all of you that we’ll regain control of the rail yard in a week.”
Shane scoffed.
Haas snorted in his stew.
Avery just rolled his eyes.
Paul spread his good hand. “What?”
“You’re deluded,” Avery said.
Paul huffed. “I’m serious.”
“Easy for you to say, you didn’t see how many soldiers they had down there,” Haas said, wiping his mouth.
Paul waved his spoon dismissively.
“Numbers don’t mean anything.”
“They do when they’re aiming a rifle at you,” Haas replied.
Paul pointed at him with the spoon.
“Confidence, Haas. That’s your problem.”
“My problem,” Haas replied flatly, “is that you apparently suffered brain damage along with your shoulder injury.”
Avery fought the smile already forming on his face.
“That would explain quite a bit.”
Paul looked between them, offended.
“Both of you are severely lacking in optimism.”
“We lack stupidity,” Haas corrected.
Paul leaned back against the wall.
“I’m telling you,” he said. “A week.”
Shane shook his head.
Paul’s eyes snapped to him.
“Oh, come on, Hollander. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I’m on whatever side refuses to entertain your delusions.”
Haas barked a laugh.
“Write that down,” Avery said dryly. “Hollander choosing reason over chaos.”
Paul scoffed loudly.
“You’re all cowards.”
“Cautious,” Avery corrected.
“Cowards,” Paul repeated firmly.
He pointed his spoon toward Haas again.
“How long do you think it’ll take then?”
Haas leaned back slightly.
“A month.”
Paul looked personally offended.
“A month?” he said. “By then the war will be over.”
Avery raised an eyebrow.
“That’s an impressive level of optimism.”
Paul shrugged.
“They wouldn’t have sent us here if they didn’t think we could do it.”
“They sent us here because we’re expendable,” Avery replied.
Paul paused.
Then he shrugged again.
“Well, my resolution for the new year is to focus on the positive things in life, and that sentiment isn’t very cheerful.”
That manage to pull a genuine laugh from Avery.
Shane felt one slip out of himself too, before he could stop it.
Paul immediately looked over at him.
“There it is!”
Shane frowned. “What?”
“A laugh.”
“Yeah,” Haas said, glancing at Shane. “I heard it too.”
Shane rolled his eyes.
“You’re imagining things.”
“No,” Paul said with satisfaction. “That was definitely a laugh.”
Avery tilted his head.
“We should document this moment.”
Haas grinned. “It will appear in footnotes when they write books about the war.”
Paul nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly. The Day Shane Hollander Laughed.”
Shane shook his head, fighting the smile threatening to appear on his face.
“You’re all idiots.”
“Funny idiots, apparently.”
Shane rolled his eyes in response.
Haas shoved another bite of stew into his mouth and grimaced.
“Ugh,” he muttered. “This food should be classified as a weapon. If the Nazis tasted this, they’d surrender immediately.”
Paul snorted. “You should run that strategy by command. Maybe they'll rank you up.”
Laughter erupted in their small circle.
And, before Shane could stop himself, he joined in.
The warmth of it lingered for half a second.
Then his chest tightened, and his smile fell immediately.
The noise of the barracks suddenly disappeared around him, and the thought struck him so suddenly, he flinched.
Irina was dead.
Ilya was on the run.
And here he was.
Laughing.
Like he didn’t have a care in the world.
Shane stared down at his stew.
The smell suddenly turned his stomach.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
No one had noticed the shift.
Paul was still arguing with Haas about military strategy. Avery was calmly discrediting both of their arguments.
Shane sat there with the echo of his own laughter still ringing faintly in his ears, feeling like he had just committed an act of betrayal.
He should be grieving.
He should be angry.
He should feel devastated.
Instead, he had laughed.
Something inside him twisted sharply.
The room suddenly felt too loud.
Too bright.
Too normal.
The laughter around him kept going.
He set his stew down on the crate with more force than necessary. It splashed over the edge of the can.
Haas glanced up.
“You done already?”
Shane nodded, and stood. “I need some air.”
He stepped past them before anyone could say anything else.
The cold hit him immediately when he stepped outside.
Shane stood alone in the street.
He walked around the side of the barracks, until he reached the narrow alley behind the building.
A few empty crates were stacked there beside a rusted oil drum.
It was the closest to privacy he would be able to get.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the pack of cigarettes he had swiped from Paul that morning.
Shane had grown to find the pungent smell of the smoke comforting.
It reminded him of Ilya.
He lit one, and stared at the brick wall of the barracks in front of him.
A strange numbness had settled in his chest.
He didn’t know if he was falling apart.
He couldn’t tell what he was feeling.
Everything inside of him was tangled.
Grief, anger, guilt, and pain were all knotted together in his chest so tightly, he couldn’t separate one from the other.
Shane reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out Irina’s letter.
He unfolded it carefully.
He could just make out the words on the page in the dim light spilling into the alleyway from a nearby street lamp.
His throat closed as his eyes ran over the words, but he kept reading.
He had read it so many times, he already knew the words by memory.
But reading them again felt necessary.
My third son.
He lowered the letter slightly, and held up the photograph that had been tucked into it.
Ilya, standing in the kitchen doorway, his face bathed in warm sunlight.
He had only let himself look at it twice since he’d left home.
And now, he allowed himself to study it for the third time.
At the way the light reflected off of his curls into the camera lens.
At the cleft in his lip.
At the scar at the corner of his eyebrow.
He had never asked Ilya where he'd gotten it.
A part of him didn't want to know.
He realized he had no idea what Ilya looked like anymore.
If he still sounded the same.
He also realized, suddenly, that he didn’t feel anything.
Two nights ago, the grief had hit him like a physical blow.
His hands had shaken so badly he could barely hold the letter after he'd read it.
His tears had stained the page.
And now, he felt almost nothing.
His insides felt almost as numb as his fingers curled around the cigarette, exposed in the freezing air.
It was a stark contrast to the boy he had been when he’d taken the photograph resting between them.
That boy had been sensitive. Had worn his heart on his sleeve. Shed tears easily, before he could help it.
It had only been a year ago that he had read novels in his free time, argued about hockey statistics with Ilya, and spent entire afternoons trying to pronounce Russian words properly just to make Irina laugh
He couldn’t even remember what that felt like anymore.
Somewhere along the way, the war had changed him.
He had hardened.
And he hadn’t even noticed when it had happened.
All he knew was that now, the tears wouldn’t come.
He tried to bring them to the surface.
He felt like he should be crying.
Someone he loved like a mother had died.
He should be overwhelmed by grief.
Instead, he just felt hollow.
Who even are you anymore? he asked himself.
The wind shifted slightly, carrying the distant hum of artillery through the air.
Shane placed the photograph carefully back between the pages of the letter, folding it back into his pocket.
The cigarette had almost burned to the filter.
He threw it into the snow, watching the embers die.
For several seconds, he stood there in silence.
My son trusts you with his life. Therefore, I do as well.
The idea that Ilya trusted him with his life felt absurd, when Shane couldn’t even protect people he didn’t know from dying in a town square.
He blinked hard, angry at himself.
He had sat there, in the barracks, reminiscing about normal life at the kitchen table, when it was his fault Irina was dead.
He should have gone to Montreal.
He should have done more to protect them.
He had done nothing.
He had let Ilya walk away.
He felt as though he had spit on Irina’s memory by allowing himself warmth and jokes and normalcy, when she had most likely died afraid and alone.
Another thought rose to the surface.
What if the laughter wasn’t just betrayal?
What if it was proof?
Proof that he had already changed so much, that even Irina’s death could be buried deep inside of him, like everything else?
Eventually, you file it away somewhere.
Paul’s words echoed through his mind.
Shane’s stomach turned.
It had been almost like a reflex. He had not stopped moving long enough for reality to set in after he'd read the letter.
He supposed that was simply a byproduct of war.
It didn’t give grief proper space to settle.
There was always another order.
Another relocation.
Another patrol.
Another moment where someone shoved a rifle into your hands, and told you to keep moving.
He leaned back against the brick, closing his eyes for a moment.
He tried to imagine Irina’s voice.
The way she had sounded when she laughed.
The memories were clouded by the sounds of gunfire and blood on his hands as he dragged Paul back to their building.
He tried to focus, and recall a single memory he had from before the war.
None appeared.
They had all been stained by the darkness.
Even the memory of Ilya’s lips against his had faded away.
It had all blurred into something ugly.
Men he had shared meals with being blown apart.
Civilians dying in the crossfire while he stood there, helpless.
The desperate look in a soldier's eyes, as Shane tightened a belt above their severed limb.
The memories surfaced with such clarity that Shane felt his stomach twist again.
He could still hear the screaming.
He could still feel the warmth of slippery blood beneath his fingers.
Shane squeezed his eyes shut.
Screaming.
The smell of Irina’s soap.
Mud splattered on his boots.
Ilya laughing at a joke Shane’s father had made.
The whistling before the first bomb dropped.
More screaming.
His mother's arms around him, wrapping him in an embrace.
Paul gripping the table, face white, as Shane dug the bullet out of his shoulder.
He exhaled slowly, and opened his eyes again.
In the midst of his jumbled blur of memories, he could distinguish one person better than the rest.
Leaning over the table with a pencil behind his ear, trying to solve the crossword before Shane’s father did.
Laughing so hard, he had to brace himself against the counter.
Sitting at Shane’s kitchen table, staring at the first birthday gift he had ever received, dumbfounded.
His face buried in Shane’s shoulder, his body racking with sobs.
His face flush with fury, eyes wild, before he buried his first between Gordon Price’s teeth.
Their fingers brushing, as he pressed the gold chain into Shane’s palm.
“...I cannot do more than give you a piece of myself to carry with you.”
His hand on Shane’s wrist. “...You won’t. You won’t have to. We can figure it out. Run, if anything.”
The look in his eyes before Shane pulled him by the collar, their lips crashing together.
The soft press of his mouth on Shane’s forehead before he had walked away.
Ilya.
It was always the memory of Ilya that brought Shane back when he felt lost.
But something had slipped through the cracks.
Something Shane had avoided admitting to himself for years.
Something Irina had probably understood long before he did.
He had always told himself it was just friendship.
The natural closeness that came from growing up alongside someone.
But the truth had been there from the beginning, staring him in the face.
He had never looked into its eyes until now.
Shane had spent years pretending those memories meant nothing more to him than friendship.
Brotherhood.
Pretending that the way his thoughts circled back to Ilya, over and over again, was simply friendly.
The moment by the lake, after the news broke about the war, had shattered that lie.
The night they had kissed, had destroyed it completely.
Standing in the dark alley now, surrounded by the distant thunder of artillery and the cold wind pressing against him from all sides-
Shane realized something with sudden, terrifying clarity.
He was in love with Ilya.
Fully.
And he had been from the first day they had met.
From the first moment their eyes had met across the classroom.
He had known, even then, that Ilya was his.
Had felt it in his bones.
He knew he loved him long before that last night, when he couldn’t suppress it any longer, and had kissed him like he’d been dying and Ilya was the oxygen that Shane needed to breathe.
In some ways, he still was.
When the war came and everything had started falling apart, it had only made that truth more obvious.
Because even in the middle of chaos, Shane’s thoughts always circled back to Ilya.
It had never been just friendship.
He had been lying to himself for years.
The war had stripped away all of excuses he had forced himself to believe.
He wasn’t afraid for the same reasons he had been back then.
Now, he was afraid for something much worse.
He didn’t know where Ilya was.
Didn’t know if he was safe.
Didn’t know if they would ever see each other again.
The thought made something inside of him ache.
But it also grounded him.
Because if Ilya was still alive somewhere in this burning world, then there was still something left that was worth fighting for.
He reached up and briefly touched the cross resting against his sternum.
Still here.
Still with me.
He turned, and walked back to the barracks.
~
February, 1941
Shane
He sat on the low stone step outside the barracks with his rifle resting between his knees, staring out at the empty street.
It was early morning, but he had been awake for hours.
Sleep came to him rarely now, and when it did, it haunted him with fragments of memories from the last few months.
The sound of the first artillery barrage he had ever experienced, the shriek of the shells cutting through the air so suddenly that he had frozen in place before Avery tackled him to the ground.
The explosion that followed had rattled his teeth so hard he thought his jaw might crack.
Another darker memory, that had occurred in a narrow street northwest of the city.
Shane had turned the corner with his rifle raised, and nearly collided with a soldier coming from the opposite direction.
They had both stopped.
For a fraction of a second.
Long enough to see each other's faces.
The soldier had barely looked older than him.
His eyes had widened.
Shane had pulled the trigger.
He had acted reflexively.
He hadn't even hesitated.
That memory replayed in his mind on a loop whenever he closed his eyes.
Shane exhaled slowly, watching the thin cloud of breath fade into the air.
There had been dozens of moments like that in the months since they’d arrived in Lwów.
Too many to count.
A mortar blast that had thrown him hard enough into a trench wall, that he had been knocked unconscious and dragged back to the barracks by Haas.
Dragging a wounded soldier through the mud, while bullets rained in the air above them.
Avery’s face devoid of color, as Shane pressed his hands against the deep laceration in his thigh.
And those were just highlights.
Everything else had become background noise in his mind.
Now, Shane could watch a man die in front of him, and keep moving.
Because stopping meant someone else would die next.
He sat on the step, staring up at the grey sky.
After a while, the door to the barracks creaked open behind him.
Shane didn’t turn. He already knew who it was from the uneven rhythm of the footsteps that followed.
Becoming a soldier had made him pick up on patterns without realizing.
Paul limped out into the cold morning air, and lowered himself onto the step beside Shane with a quiet grunt.
He stretched his injured arm carefully, rotating the shoulder with visible irritation before letting it fall back against his side.
“Cold enough for you?” he muttered.
Shane huffed.
“A little warm for my taste.”
Paul snorted softly.
They sat there for a moment in silence, watching the deserted street.
“Shoulder bothering you?” Shane finally said.
Paul rubbed it, and winced.
“It’s fine. Just stiff.”
Shane made a noise of acknowledgement.
The wound had healed badly, leaving Paul’s entire shoulder tight and unreliable.
Some days, he moved almost normally. Other days, like today, the arm hung awkwardly at his side.
“You should still be in the infirmary,” Shane said.
Paul scoffed.
“And miss all the fun?”
“You’ll be useless in a fight if you can’t keep your rifle steady.”
“That’s why I have you to cover me.”
Shane sighed loudly, rubbing his eyes with his hand.
Paul watched him.
“When’s the last time you slept?” he asked.
Shane shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Paul gave him a sideways glance. “If you’re too sleep deprived to think clearly under attack, I’d say it does.”
Shane sighed again.
“I can’t sleep, even if I try.”
Paul nodded.
“I understand.”
He looked out across the snow-covered street again.
“You hear the rumors?” Paul asked after a moment.
Shane shook his head.
“Command’s finally going after the rail lines.”
Paul watched him carefully, waiting for his reaction.
Shane looked at the ground.
“We all knew it would happen eventually. That’s the only reason we’re here.”
Paul nodded slowly.
“Yeah.”
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.
“I heard Avery talking with the lieutenant last night,” he said quietly. “Sounds like they’ve been moving artillery into position all week.”
Shane kept staring at the street.
“It’s bound to be a bloodbath regardless,” he said quietly.
Every time they had approached the rail yard since arriving to Lwów, the fighting had been brutal.
They had been forced back every time, losing several soldiers in the process.
“About time,” Shane added.
Paul glanced at him. “You sound thrilled.”
“I’m tired of dancing around it. The sooner we do what we came here to do, the sooner we leave.”
Paul huffed a small laugh.
“Fair.”
They fell back into silence.
The wind stirred loose snow across the empty street.
Behind them, the barracks door opened again.
Haas stepped outside, pulling his coat tighter around himself as he glanced between the two of them.
“You both look miserable,” he observed.
Paul didn’t look at him. “It’s early.”
“It’s almost nine.”
“That’s early.”
Haas rolled his eyes and sat down next to them.
“You hear?” he asked.
Paul nodded. “Railyard.”
Haas grimaced.
Avery appeared a moment later, limping only slightly as he stepped outside and adjusted the bandage beneath his trousers.
He sat next to Haas.
“You boys ready for tonight?”
They all turned to face him.
“Tonight?” Shane asked.
Avery nodded slowly. “Command just confirmed it.”
Paul let out a slow breath.
“Well,” he said. “That’s nice.”
“Tonight,” Haas repeated quietly.
“Artillery’s supposed to soften the place up first,” Avery said. “Then infantry moves in once it’s dark.”
Paul grimaced.
“Fantastic.”
Shane said nothing.
He watched the snow drift across the street, already picturing the scene in his mind. The tangled maze of tracks. The sandbags. The armored train cars.
He could already hear the gunfire.
Haas glanced over at him.
“You’re awful quiet,” he said.
Shane shrugged.
“Nothing to say.”
Paul studied him for a moment.
“Try not to get yourself killed tonight,” he muttered.
Shane huffed faintly.
“You first.”
Paul smirked.
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
Avery pushed himself to his feet with a small grunt, adjusting the strap of his rifle.
“Well,” he sighed. “Guess we should enjoy the calm while we still have it.”
Haas stood, brushing snow from his coat.
Paul followed suit a moment later, wincing slightly as his shoulder protested against the movement.
Shane remained seated for another second, staring at the desolate street in front of him.
Tonight.
The word settled heavily in his chest.
Then he stood, lifting his rifle.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly.
They headed back inside.
~
By the time they assembled outside the eastern edge of the city, darkness had already swallowed everything whole.
The only sounds were the dull crunch of snow beneath their boots, and the occasional metallic clink of rifles shifting against belts as they marched to their positions.
Paul, his protests ignored, had been ordered to stay in the barracks.
His shoulder made him a potential liability. One they couldn’t afford.
Avery had been ordered to stay behind as well.
Shane knew he wouldn’t.
If Avery decided he was going, there was very little anyone could do to stop him. The same stubborn streak that had carried him through months of fighting would drag him into the rail yard tonight, orders be damned.
And Paul had never been particularly good at letting someone else take risks without him, not when there was promised vengeance in the air and a chance to prove he was still useful.
Shane kept his eyes forward as they marched.
If he let himself think too hard about who would disobey and who could die because of it, he wouldn’t be able to move at all.
Ahead of them, the ground dipped slightly.
Beyond that rise, lay the rail lines.
Before he even saw it, he could smell the faint bite of smoke, the metallic tang of something burned too many times, and the oily residue of machines that had been running without rest.
The air in this area felt different.
The lieutenant in front raised his hand.
The group slowed immediately, quietly dropping into crouches along the edge of a shallow embankment overlooking the yard.
Shane knelt in the snow beside Haas. He adjusted his grip on his rifle.
From their position, he could see the freight cars that sat in crooked rows, some tipped, some torn open, their interiors gaping.
Sandbag walls and crude barricades had been thrown up between tracks, creating a maze of cover. Smoke drifted lazily from the aftermath of old burns, and in the distance, a faint orange glow was visible.
The minutes passed in tense silence.
Then, the first distant boom echoed across the frozen landscape.
Shane felt the ground shudder beneath his knees.
Another explosion followed seconds later.
Then another.
The horizon beyond the rail yard illuminated briefly with a flash as the first shells struck their targets, setting them on fire.
The enemy positions erupted into chaos.
Figures ran between cars.
Shouts echoed faintly in the distance.
Beside him, Haas exhaled shakily.
Shane tightened his grip on his rifle so hard, his fingers went numb.
They both knew what came next.
The artillery would stop.
And that would be their cue.
The barrage continued for another minute. Shell after shell screamed overhead, slamming into the rail yard with deafening force.
Metal shrieked as one of the freight wagons tore loose from its wheels and tipped onto its side.
Snow and dirt sprayed across Shane’s coat with every impact, pelting the back of his neck, slipping down his collar.
And then-
Silence.
The sudden cessation of noise made his ears ring.
The lieutenant’s voice cut through the darkness.
“Move!”
The line surged forward.
Shane rose with the others, boots slipping slightly on the frozen slope as they rushed down the embankment toward the rail yard.
Gunfire erupted almost immediately.
Muzzle flashes burst between the rail cars, as the enemy soldiers recovered from the bombardment.
Bullets whistled through the air.
Shane dropped behind the rusted frame of an overturned freight wagon, and fired twice at a shadow moving between the tracks.
The figure collapsed.
He didn’t stop to stare.
He sprinted across open ground between two sets of rails as gunfire ripped past his shoulder, snow and gravel exploding at his feet.
Something rebounded enough to make him flinch, but his body didn’t slow. He hit the ground behind a stack of sandbags hard enough to bruise his ribs, breath punching out of him.
An enemy soldier rounded the corner of a train car barely ten feet away.
For a fraction of a second, both of them froze.
Then the soldier raised his rifle.
Shane fired first.
The recoil kicked into his shoulder, and the soldier crumpled against the metal siding of the train.
Shane turned, scanning the chaos around him.
He didn’t hesitate anymore.
He hadn’t for a long time.
He simply kept moving, looking for his next target.
He broke into a sprint, weaving between track lines, stepping over frozen debris, over something soft in the snow he refused to look down at.
Another enemy soldier lunged out from between two rail cars.
Too close to shoot.
Before he could even react, the soldier slammed into Shane with enough force to knock the air from his lungs.
They both crashed back into the snow.
The impact vibrated throughout his spine. His rifle skidded away, disappearing into the darkness.
The soldier grabbed at his collar, trying to pin him down as they struggled on the ground. Shane drove his elbow into the man’s jaw.
He heard a crack at the impact.
The soldier recoiled, grunting in pain.
Shane didn’t hesitate.
He shoved him off and scrambled for his rifle, his fingers stiff from the cold.
Shane rolled onto one knee and raised his rifle, just as another enemy soldier barreled into him from behind.
The impact sent him flying. His helmet struck the frozen ground hard enough to make his vision white out, a burst of pain exploding behind his eyelids.
For a second he couldn’t hear anything but a high pitched ringing in his ears, couldn’t feel anything but the shock vibrating through his skull.
He willed himself to focus.
He forced himself up on his forearms, his lungs screaming in protest, and pointed his rifle at the soldier who had shoved him from behind.
The sound of the shot cracked through the air like a whip.
The soldier dropped like a stone.
Shane forced himself upright, swaying as he stood. His head throbbed.
The world tilted.
The snow at his knees looked too bright, like it was glowing.
He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision.
Behind him, he heard the telltale sound of a rifle being clicked into place.
Only then did the realization hit him.
He had forgotten about the soldier he had wrestled to the ground moments before.
By the time Shane turned, it was too late.
The enemy soldier slammed into him again, dragging them both down.
Shane staggered and threw out a hand, grabbing the soldier by the collar as they crashed into the snow.
The impact drove the air from his lungs again.
They struggled in the snow, Shane gasping for breath, his teeth clenching so hard his jaw ached.
The enemy soldier’s weight was pressing against his ribs.
Shane's lungs were on fire.
The soldier tried to pin Shane onto his back, but Shane twisted sharply, driving his knee into the soldier’s stomach, forcing him down instead.
The soldier gasped- a sharp, involuntary sound.
Shane’s hand found his rifle.
He planted the barrel between the soldier’s eyes.
He felt himself shaking with rage, his breathing ragged.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
He pressed down slightly and then-
The world around him slipped away.
The noise from the battle faded into a dull roar.
Shane stared down the length of the rifle.
The soldier stared back, chest heaving, eyes wild.
In the brief flashes of light from the gunfire, and the flickering glow of the flames burning in the distance, Shane could see his face clearly.
The sharp line of his nose.
The shape of his mouth.
The scar at the corner of his eyebrow.
And his eyes.
The color of seaglass.
Flecks of amber scattered in the irises.
Shane’s breath caught in his throat.
He would have recognized those eyes anywhere.
No.
It couldn’t-
The enemy soldier beneath him wasn’t a stranger.
It was Ilya.