#Vasya is the van being like.. I should just.. go

[hannahofathousanddays]

Morozko and Medved, circa Every Year Since the Beginning of Time (colorized)

[kindness-ricochets]

Y’know sometimes you just get an idea in your head and it won’t stop until it’s been heard? So here’s a fanfic scribble that insisted on being heard. (Nikolai is a real challenge to write but I did my best.) ----------- The sun shone hot and bright from a clear summer sky, and the horses’ hooves churned the racetrack dirt hard enough to make the stands shake. Or maybe that was the cheering. The standing crowd thundered their appreciation, and those from the penny seats to the boxes were not much better. The entire affair was an overwhelming, contagious flurry of heat and color, the thrill of the race and the veritable orchestra of the spectators’ emotions. Fourteen-year-old Nikolai Lantsov stifled a yawn.

Beside him, Vasily swore and smashed his fist on the railing. He hid his wince rather less well than Nikolai had hidden his yawn.

“I had money on the bay!”

“Shall we leave?” Nikolai suggested, trying not to sound too hopeful. He had been excited when Vasily invited him to the races at Caryeva. Vasily rarely had time for has little brother. After hours of sitting in the summer heat, watching Vasily drink and curse, Nikolai struggled to sit still. At the very least, he wished he had a book, but Vasily had sneered when he tried to bring one. Nikolai wished he hadn’t minded so much.

Vasily drank deeply, slugged his brother too hard on the shoulder, and said, “I thought you liked horses.”

Nikolai liked riding horses. Watching others ride horses round a track over and over was somewhat less engaging. Now, down on the ground, he saw another round of horses and riders lining up. It seemed interminable.

How did anyone enjoy this? How did anyone enjoy so much sitting, watching? Nikolai wanted to be in the races! With the bang of the starting gun, he wished he, too, were flying out of the gate!

But he wasn’t.

He was sitting in a shaded box, far from any action more than his brother guzzling an endless supply of champagne. One drip too many of melt and the ice resettled, rattling almost as excitingly as the distant action.

Vasily swore and hurled his glass. Nikolai bolted to the railing, but he couldn’t see where it landed. Hopefully no one had been hurt. He turned to his brother, not sure what to say.

“That filthy little—number 17 was a sure thing!”

Apparently not, because he had lost.

“I’ll buy her and sell her meat to the peasants.”

“Vasya!” Nikolai didn’t know if he was asking his brother to be calm or to spare the horse’s life. Maybe both. She had only been a fraction of a second slower than the other horse; she was still one of the best horses on the track.

Vasily scoffed. He drank.

Nikolai slouched and waited for it to be over.

=================

Later, Vasily told his brother to “wait here” in a corridor in a part of the racetrack most never saw. The floors were clean and waxed, unmarred by the unwashed mass of the standing room crowd. Nikolai caught a glimpse of the office into which his brother disappeared and understood Vasily was going to barter for horseflesh—whether to own, to ride, or to slaughter, none could say. His brother was unpredictable that way.

Nikolai wasn’t the only tag-along left to stand outside. There was also a small boy standing quietly against the wall. They looked at one another for a moment. He felt like the boy was asking him for something, but he had no idea what it was.

“Did you enjoy the races?” Nikolai asked. Maybe it was because these were offices of commerce that he spoke in Kerch without thinking.

The boy gave a solemn nod.

“Yes, I did, as well. My brother’s going to buy himself a horse or seven.”

“I have a horse,” the boy said.

“Do you,” Nikolai said, admittedly losing interest. He should’ve known this was another nobleman’s son. He was well-dressed, after all, and standing in the corridor while his guardian bargained with the same breeders as Vasily. It wasn’t fair to the child, but Nikolai had no wish to chat with a baby courtier. They were all the same: dull, scheming, deferential…

The boy nodded again.

“You can pet him if you want.”

Nikolai looked back to the child and immediately his attention softened. Yes, he had a horse: a small, pale purple figurine. Nikolai crouched in front of the boy and gently stroked the toy horse.

“May I?” Nikolai asked, reaching for it.

The boy nodded.

Nikolai took the horse and made it run, offering the best hoof impressions he could. The boy replied with a smile, which only encouraged Nikolai, who made the horse rear up—not especially convincingly, but then neither was his ‘neigh’ and the boy giggled anyway.

“Does he have a name?”

“Fish.”

“Your horse’s name is Fish?”

He nodded.

Nikolai laughed. “I like it,” he said. Then, getting an idea, “How would you like to pet a real horse?”

The boy nodded eagerly, then hesitated. “My papa…”

“What’s your name?”

“Wylan Van Eck.”

“You wouldn’t happen to be related to the Van Eck on the Kerch Merchant Council?”

“My papa.”

“Well, Wylan Van Eck, I am Nikolai Lantsov. Do you know what that means?”

“You’re the king?”

That shouldn’t have hurt the way it did. Nikolai knew it wasn’t an intended insult. There was no malice in Wylan’s open expression, but there was an echo in his words of too many slights, too many reminders of Nikolai Nothing.

“My father is the king.” Maybe. “I’m a prince. You should always do what princes say, you know.”

He said this seriously and Wylan’s eyes widened. Nikolai had the feeling that if he told the boy to do anything he would—it was a dangerous trait. Nikolai had known enough men who would see that eagerness as an invitation.

“Let’s go see the horses, and you can tell your papa it was my idea—no, I will tell your papa it was my idea.”

Nikolai found that he very much liked being looked at the way Wylan looked at him then. He remembered so many days following after the brother who wanted nothing to do with him, not understanding Vasily’s rejection but feeling the sting of it nonetheless. When Nikolai was grown, he would not make younger people feel so small when. He would be someone to look up to. When Nikolai was grown—

His thoughts were interrupted by a small, warm hand in his. Nikolai gave Wylan’s hand a gentle squeeze. Fourteen years felt like so few sometimes. But it wasn’t nothing.