[February 19, 1964, 6:15 am]

[charushkin.livejournal.com]

Matvei was late for breakfast.

The mess hall buzzed with whispered conversation. Another corpse. Another body.

The one that had been his friend, and explained the quiet of the bunk below his from last night.

He hadn't taken the news well, although he had acted to perfection. Didn't cry, didn't avert his eyes when Ilya delivered the news somberly, Andrei's hand on his shoulder. Didn't say much when a few well-meaning rankmates asked him if he wanted to crash with them to not have to be alone.

Matvei had grieved too much in his lifetime, and he no longer wanted to. He felt sick and tired of it, and had hardly slept, his mind ticking. Options, plans.

He'd avoided facing his friends again, and he could tell they understood: he didn't want to hear it again, didn't want their looks of pity. He needed some time alone, as much as they worried for his health.

Ha.

Matvei found himself with a tray and nowhere to sit. The hall was almost full, and he didn't want to sit with the Ocelots. He wanted to be alone.

The table at the north-east of the kitchens had several spare seat, and several dark uniforms.

Sergei's death had driven away Matvei's usual sense of propriety and he sat himself down unapologetically at the MENT table, and glared at his food, as though it was all its fault that he didn't feel the slightest bit hungry, ignoring how obviously he clashed with the ranks sitting down nearby.

Comments

[nikanor-liadov.livejournal.com]

Peripherally, he was aware of the newcomer to their table. His eyes registered red and black, and bright cropped blond hair. Blue eyes and lithe physicality. A little sullen attitude went with the setting of the tray.

Nika hardly looked up from his tea, only mildly surprised that Ocelot had decided to join them. He did, from time to time, but Liadov expected it had a lot to do with Volgin's mood on any given day.

"Good morning, Major," he said, absently, browsing his notebook. "How's the shooting been?"