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“I see why you didn’t end up drinking during dinner like you said you would. Prefer to drink in solitude?”
Sam peered blearily from the bottle he had been staring at for the past minute or century. Idiot stood at the entrance of the carriage, pressing the rusty doors shut with moonlight draped across his pensive features. Its luminosity was unwavering in the absence of thick clouds that never left the Moscow skies. A distant memory buzzed in Sam’s mind, one of a bright-eyed Duke staring in amazement at the satellite that seemed to engulf the clear night sky, head craning to face the heavens. He was always looking up, Sam thought, even amidst the devastation they called home; eyes fixed above.
Idiot crossed the metal ramp in a few strides, stopping to lean against the edge of Krest’s workbench. Dinner was a jovial affair celebrating their get-away from Volga and the newly acquired carriage. Laughter and light-hearted chatter shadowed the heavy tug of grief raw in everyone’s hearts. Tearing his eyes away from the empty seat and untouched bowl he had instinctively set, Sam had intercepted Krest with a quiet request to stay in the man’s railcar for some time. A flicker of understanding had flashed across Krest’s face and wordlessly he handed Sam a bottle of leftover vodka. Sam had fled the parlor, unable to stand another minute in the vigil no one was willing to acknowledge. He wasn’t going to read a second eulogy. He couldn’t.
Idiot stood unmoving besides Sam, radiating heat that provided little comfort. He stared off into the horizon as snow-kissed trees streaked past. If Sam squinted past his doubling vision, he could even see traces of mourning etched into his expression. Then again, Idiot always looked like he was mourning something. A consequence of knowing far too much, Sam supposed.
“Do you believe Alyosha? That Du- he’s out there, waiting for us?” Sam fought to keep his words from slurring, stumbling over Duke’s name- the syllables suddenly barbed-wires inside his throat. Part of him wondered why he bothered asking. Idiot, ever pragmatic and tactful, had softened Alyosha’s hopes of Duke’s survival with his promises of Valhalla. A suitable final destination for their prince indeed. Perhaps he asked for the same reason Alyosha still believed, desperate for that sliver of faith; as if Idiot’s vindication could make the fantasy into reality.
But Idiot, whose heart remained tethered and battered, simply smiled sadly. He said nothing. There was no need to. He placed a hand against his back, warm against the biting wind. Sam wondered if he held Duke’s hand now, if it would feel just as warm or if it would be cold. He collapsed inwards, palms digging into his face.
“Fuck,” He sobbed. “Fuck.”
Idiot turned his head to the side as Sam wept, his hand a grounding presence against his shaking back. Tremors wracked Sam’s body as he curled into himself. Tears slipped past his fingers and spilled into a bottomless well where he poured everything in his soul and more; it never was enough. In an effort to muffle his cries, Sam bit his lip until he tasted sharp iron amidst salt. If Duke was here, he’d smack the back of his head and tell him there was no point in crying over something beyond his control. If Duke was here.
He remembered, a lifetime ago, reading aloud a hastily written tribute for the Spartan’s newest member, ill-prepared for his untimely death (when is anyone ever prepared to face it?). He remembered the moments following the 3-volley salute, just before he was ready to drink to Duke’s memories and swallow his regrets of never getting to know the man properly- Duke appeared, covered in blood and grime and breathing, with a crooked smile across his bleeding cheeks.
Would it be better if Duke hadn’t denied fate then, back when all Sam had left to mourn was what could have been? Following his close encounter with death, Spartan’s newest sought out the only American on the force. Sam had half expected to be turned into a spectacle, like he had been for some other Rangers. To his surprise, Duke had met him with an earnest and nearly overwhelming curiosity about the world beyond Moscow. And so, happy to indulge in stories of what was once his home, the two traded tales of above and ones of below. It was impossible not to be drawn into Duke’s orbit, his infectious enthusiasm and unwavering resolve to find excitement in the bleak depths of the Metro. “Uncle Sam”, he had been the one to crown Sam with the cheeky title. “Duke of Darkness”, he had dubbed in turn.
Now Duke was dead once more, leaving behind more memories and futures than Sam could hold in his hands. Sam sat motionless with his tear-stained face still obscured by his fingers, feeling more hollow than human. He tried to imagine Duke standing in the Valhalla Idiot had spoken about- clean fields, gaping mountains, air free of the poison they breathed into their lungs– but could not. Who would listen to his outlandish stories? Who would cook for him? How could Duke possibly be anywhere but with them?
“You should head back in.” Sam croaked. Idiot spared him an indecipherable glance, hand still against his back.
“It’s cold out here.” Idiot replied. So was Volga, Sam thought. So was the bridge.
“Go,” He said instead. “I just need some more time alone.”
Neither man made a move. The Aurora pressed on, klicks away from the church, towards a destination Duke would never see. Finally, after a few heavy beats, Idiot sighed and dropped his hand. He tilted his head back, eyes fixed above, but found nothing. Then, he laughed bitterly to himself, as if seeing something funny in the stars.
“‘To love is to suffer and there can be no love otherwise’, huh?” He said softly to himself.
Then, quiet as he arrived, Idiot left Sam alone in the railcar. Snow flurried past the train, nipping at his numb cheeks. Suddenly, Sam was struck by the realization they had no body to bury. They had nothing left of Duke.
He took another swig of the bottle, alcohol burning down his throat.