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The forest was painted in deep, orange and blues hues of sun as the Mosvich rattled down the uneven dirt path. Putin gripped the steering wheel, his eyes drooping. They have been on the road for so long, bumping against the dirt and dodging the authorities, but Putin did not mind. He is a free man after-all. A free man that is exhausted but still awake enough to be handy to keep this busted up car running with little more than a wrench and a prayer.
"Almost there," he murmured to himself, voice thick with sleep.
Finding a thicket of trees that offered some semblance of privacy, he eased the car to a halt and cut the engine. The sudden silence was heavy, broken only by the ticking of the cooling metal. Putin lets out a wide, jaw-cracking yawn, stretching his arms until he remembered, with a sudden ,heart-rattling jolt, who exactly was sitting directly behind him.
He freeze, slowly turning his head over to peer the seat..
Putin face softens as he sees the rare sight of Kirenenko slumped against the window, his signature red-striped prison garb slightly rumpled. His sneaker magazine rested precariously on his chest, rising and falling with his steady breathing.
It was... strange, Putin thought. In a good way of course! Just normally, Kirenenko is a force of nature, a blank face full of indifference or a terrifying whirlwind of violence. But here, the dim light of the Mosvich, he looks soft. The permanent prominent scowl was gone; the sharp, dangerous edge of his silhouette had been blunted by sleep. He looked almost…tender.
He’s so peaceful, Putin thought, a small, adoring smile tugging at his lips.
A breeze hit his skin for Putin to realize it was growing chilly as it turns to night. Shivering, Putin reaches down and presses a button for the car to give a worn, patched up blanket. Moving with the practiced stealth of someone who had survived many "incidents," he leaned over the back of the seat to drape the fabric over his companion.
He had barely tucked the corner under Kirenenko’s chin when the world flipped.
Kirenenko’s eyes didn’t even open, but his reflexes were instantaneous. A powerful hand shot out, seizing Putin’s wrist. Before Putin could even let out a surprised gasp, he was yanked over the seat with terrifying strength.
He landed with a soft oomph directly on top of Kirenenko. He expected a punch, or perhaps to be thrown through the roof, but instead, Kirenenko’s arms wrapped around him in a crushing, possessive embrace. The rabbit pulled Putin flush against his chest, tucking his head under Putin's chin as if he were nothing more than a large, sentient pillow.
Putin lays there, pinned and blinking rapidly in the dark. He looks down at Kirenenko, expecting to see a murderous glare, but the other rabbit was still fast asleep. No noise, no movement, just the steady, rhythmic thrum of a heart that beat with surprising strength.
“You really are full of surprises…”, Putin whispered, his heart finally slowing down.
Kirenenko felt cold to the touch at first, like the steel of the tools Putin loved so much, but a deep, radiating warmth began to seep through their clothes. The steady thump-thumpof Kirenenko’s heart was hypnotic. It was a miracle that this heart beat at all.
Putin thinks back to the jagged lines that crisscrossed Kire’s body, scars from the explosion that had once torn Kirenenko and his twin brother apart, only for their organs and skin to be stitched back together into a singular, patchwork existence. That heart had survived being split and shared; it had survived the burns and the betrayal of their former life as mob leaders.
Putin knew those stitches better than anyone. He remembers the panicked, clumsy moments when he had to play mechanic with Kirenenko’s very life, from trembling needles to shaky fingers attempting to close his wounds. All to keep Kirenenko away from the golden gates that guides his shimmering golden halo above his head. Remembering it gives Putin the shivers of the terrifying sight, the sight of Kire drifting to the “other side” but Putin always manages to pull him back, much to his or Nenko’s luck.
Kirenenko has died by accident time and time again in their travels(mostly from Putin), yet he always returned. There was a profound irony in it, Putin thinks.
Kirenenko, the former boss of the Mafia, a man whose hands were stained with the grit of the underworld, was now radiating a warmth that felt almost holy in the dark of the car.
Putin reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing Kire’s side to feel the pulse beneath the stripes. Feeling the life there, the tension finally bled out of Putin’s limbs. His eyelids grew heavy again. As he began to drift off, he felt a familiar weight settle onto the back of his head. Leningrad, sensing the peaceful atmosphere, hopped up and curled into a green ball atop Putin’s head, completing the huddle.
The Mosvich sat silent in the heart of the woods, a tiny island of warmth in the vast, cold night. They were fugitives and oddities, but they had each other. And for now, that was enough.
The deep parts of the forest slowly dissolved into a pale, misty yellow as the sun began to crest the horizon. Inside the cramped, silent interior of the Mosvich, the air was still and thick with the scent of old motor oil and the lingering warmth of the shared blanket.
Kirenenko’s eyes snapped open.
There was no grogginess, no slow climb to consciousness; one moment he was under, and the next, he was fully present. He didn't move, his body remaining perfectly still as he assessed his surroundings. The first thing he registered was the weight, a warm, steady pressure on top of his torso.
He looks down to see a rising and fall snot bubble then Putin, his face resting on top of Kirenenko’s. On top of Putin’s head, Leningrad was a motionless green lump, his throat pulsing faintly in sleep.
For several minutes, Kirenenko simply stares at Putin. The silence was absolute, save for the cooling metal of the engine and the soft whistle of Putin’s nose. Normally, such an intrusion on his personal space would have resulted in someone being launched through the windshield. But the morning chill was sharp, and the weight on his chest was… grounding…warm
His gaze drifts down to his limp arm, holding onto his magazine. The vibrant page of the limited edition shoes on the page caught the morning light. At Zrzolov’s tower. The target.
Kirenenko reached out with a slow, uncharacteristically careful movement, his large hand hovering over Putin’s shoulder. He didn't shake him. Instead, he simply tightened his grip for a second, a blunt physical tether to pull Putin back from his dreams.
Putin’s nose twitched. He let out a soft, confused mumble before his eyes shot open suddenly. He rises up and finds himself staring directly at the red-and-white stripes of Kirenenko’s chest then up to his face.
His head tilts to the side.
Realization hit him like a physical blow.
"E-Ehh?!" Putin scrambled backward, his limbs tangling in the patched-up blanket as he tried to retreat to the driver's seat. Leningrad was sent flying, landing with a soft thump at the front passenger seat.
Kirenenko blinks at Putin sputtering rampant apologies. But midway, Kirenenko doesn’t let him finish. He sits up, the blanket sliding off his shoulders, and pick up his magazine. He point a single finger towards the windshield and then taps the magazine page showcasing the reason why he is even here. The shoes.
Putin looks unsure of what he is trying to say before jerking up with epiphany.
They were behind schedule.
"Right! Driving! Moving! We’re going!" Putin tumbled into the driver’s seat, frantically shoving the key into the ignition.
The Mosvich let out a series of pained coughs before the engine finally caught, rattling the entire frame of the car. As Putin gripped the wheel, his face still flushed a deep beet-red, he glances in the rearview mirror.
Kirenenko was already back to his magazine, his expression as unreadable and stony as ever. But as they bumped back onto the uneven dirt path, Kirenenko reached down and folded the blanket neatly on the seat beside him rather than tossing it to the floor.
The shop was waiting, and the hunt for the sneakers was back on.