Remind Me

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/55111858.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandoms: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally, Anastasia (1997)
Relationship: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 &
Broadway)
Characters: Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway), Dimitri |
Dmitry (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Historical, World War II, Friends to Lovers, Angst,
Hurt/Comfort, Whump, injured!dmitry, nurse!Anya, Blood and Injury,
One Shot
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-04-10 Words: 8,111 Chapters: 1/1
 Remind Me
by izloveshorses

Summary

It was even darker down here, but once her eyes adjusted she could just make out the
silhouette of his profile. She rushed down as fast as she dared, needing to make sure she
wasn’t just seeing what she wanted to see.

“Dmitry?”

“Hey,” he croaked. She reached him, kneeling beside him, touching his face. Her eyes
adjusted more to see his lips pulling at the corners. His face, though caked in a layer of dust,
was, as always, too handsome and smug for his own good. “You okay?”

The question was so ridiculous coming from him she wanted to laugh. “Can you move?”

“I’m a bit stuck,” he said, the sound of metal creaking and fabric shifting.

She could make out jagged masses around them, stone and concrete and steel, the bones of
the building exposed. The fact that he hadn’t been crushed— that neither of them had been
crushed, really— was probably a miracle. But she probably shouldn’t speak too soon.

Notes

Hi, this is like, really angsty asljkhdf so please forgive me. A bit out of the usual stuff we get
for this pairing, but. who doesn't love a good wwii home front au? and who doesn't love
thinking about their blorbo covered in blood?? <3 I've been playing with this idea for a while
in my head but didn't start writing it down until recently.

Anyway. Research for this was very scarce, so if you care a lot about historical accuracy and
stuff this may not be the fic for you lol. If you're just here for vibes, welcome :) If we ignore
all the laws of physics, anatomy, medical care, architecture, war, history, logic, and common
sense, this will be a fun read!

Thanks for reading and supporting me over the years, it means the world <3 please come yell
at me on tumblr if you feel like it :)

warning for descriptions of blood and injuries, but it's not excessively graphic.
Anya coughed, and a layer of dirt and dust sputtered in the air.

It was so dark she wondered if, briefly, she’d gone blind. But she blinked and found faint,
dark shapes around her. What had happened? One minute she was marching down the steps,
the next everything was black and loud. She couldn’t stop coughing.

Was it an earthquake? German bombs? A freak accident in the boiler room? Whatever it was,
clearly most of the building had collapsed on top of them, and it was strong enough to even
obliterate half the basement as well.

The dust settled a little more and she was able to see a bit better. There was just enough light
to navigate, to see that she needed to climb her way out of this basement, to see that the
building had completely collapsed above. She tentatively stepped forward, her foot catching
on a loose brick. Where the rickety stairs and overhead cellar door used to be was now a pile
of broken concrete and splintered wood. She would not be exiting the way she came in.

Slowly the memories of the previous events caught up to her: she was still at the hospital
with the other Red Cross trainees when Dmitry, her neighbor and the local postboy, showed
up, pretending to have some sort of ailment again. He rubbed his right shoulder and rotated it
in its socket, exaggerating his complaints and trailing behind her.

Anya had rolled her eyes but felt a smile betray her nonetheless. He’d fallen from a tree when
he was a boy and the injury never quite healed properly, enough to shield him from the army
draft, so it very well could be bothering him enough to complain. But after his constant
pestering she knew this was nothing more than just one of his ploys for attention.

Everyone else was busy and it was already so late in the evening so Anya had volunteered to
make a supply run, and, since Dmitry was there, she let him give her a ride on the mail cart.
This wasn’t the first time, but she still teased him for driving slow, and he teased her for
driving too fast that one time he’d given her the reins. On the way, he had asked her how she
was liking it so far— being a nurse, he meant— and she lamented how she still wished the
factories would’ve hired her. When the war started, her older sisters all joined the Red Cross,
abandoning their studies to focus on the important war efforts instead. Anya had also left
school, inspired to follow in their footsteps. But Anya wanted to work in the factories,
thinking welding metal together and wielding flamethrowers sounded much more appealing.
But, predictably, no one allowed a Romanov girl into such rough work. It just wasn’t proper.
So here she was, learning how to dress wounds and treat infection.

Dmitry had waved his hand dismissively. “You’re too pretty to work in the factories,
anyway.”

She had laughed, assuming he was just teasing as always, though the comment had made her
gut twist in such a frightening and pleasant way. Dmitry was normally about as sincere as
dirt. But when she looked up at him again, his eyes flitted away and he rubbed the back of his
neck, changing the subject.
They turned onto a road a bit further out of town than the trodden path, leading up to where
the nearest training camp had been set up. There was this old farm house long forgotten and
long abandoned that had been refashioned into a place to store medical equipment once the
war began. The town had been trying to restore and modernize it but the project had been
abandoned when obvious issues took higher priority. It still had scaffolding up and around the
brick, and on the inside they’d added steel support beams and other modern features, but
nothing was quite finished. Didn’t matter much to the hospital or the military, apparently. A
dry cellar was a dry cellar.

When they arrived, Dmitry followed her down into the basement, helping her carry up the
supplies, content to talk about nothing the whole time. And then there was that moment on
the stairs. Where he’d stopped talking and she wondered if this was it. The moment they
stopped dancing around whatever this was between them.

But the moment passed as sudden as it came, and with a blink Dmitry mumbled something
about grabbing his satchel down by the shelves, and clomped down the steps.

Anya had been deciding between shaking it off or following him down there to kiss him
herself when everything went dark.

Now, as Anya remembered everything, she pivoted, scanning the debris. Where was Dmitry?
She stumbled down further into the cellar, into the black oblivion, into the mess of rubble and
stone.

It was even darker down here, but once her eyes adjusted she could just make out the
silhouette of his profile. She rushed down as fast as she dared, needing to make sure she
wasn’t just seeing what she wanted to see.

“Dmitry?”

“Hey,” he croaked. She reached him, kneeling beside him, touching his face. Her eyes
adjusted more to see his lips pulling at the corners. His face, though caked in a layer of dust,
was, as always, too handsome and smug for his own good. “You okay?”

The question was so ridiculous coming from him she wanted to laugh. “Can you move?”

“I’m a bit stuck,” he said, the sound of metal creaking and fabric shifting.

She could make out jagged masses around them, stone and concrete and steel, the bones of
the building exposed. The fact that he hadn’t been crushed— that neither of them had been
crushed, really— was probably a miracle. But she probably shouldn’t speak too soon.

She needed more light so she could assess him more closely. She crawled off to her left after
catching her bearings, and managed to dig her way into a cabinet, shoving bricks and rubble
out of the way, careful not to injure herself on the splintered wood. “Aha,” she called when
she found a flashlight, stumbling her way back. “Let’s get us out of here.”

When the light clicked on she couldn’t stop herself from letting out a gasp. Dmitry blinked at
the sudden brightness, but other than dirt and a busted lip and a cut on his bruising cheek his
face was unscathed. The rest of him was in much worse shape. A steel beam had fallen on
him, cutting diagonally through his left thigh, and dark red was staining his middle.

Okay. Assess damage first, then address the most important injury. Setting the flashlight on a
rock that came up to her knee and angling it towards his wound, she knelt beside him again
and started lifting his shirt, unbuttoning the last few buttons. The fabric snagged on
something. A metal rod, something threaded for an engineering purpose that was lost on her
and a little crooked from the impact, was jutting out from his lower right abdomen, piercing
right through him. By the looks of it it wasn’t a clean cut, either. She tore and lifted the
stained crimson undershirt just out of the way.

God. There was so much blood. And she hadn’t even looked at his leg yet.

Dmitry tapped the jagged tip of the rod. “I don’t think this is supposed to be there.”

She didn’t respond or laugh. She couldn’t say anything.

“That bad, huh?” He tried to smile. “It’s not a great spot. But you try looking better than this
after a building falls on top of you.”

This earned a smile. At least he was still Dmitry, just as stupid and charming as ever. She
pressed her palms around the wound, hoping the pressure would stop the bleeding. Blood
leaked between her fingers. “It doesn’t seem to have pierced anything vital, but we won’t
know that until a surgeon can get a better look at you.”

“You sure?”

“I mean, maybe your appendix.”

“But we don’t really need that, anyway.”

“No.” This was good, at least. Definitely not ideal, but not the worst possible outcome. If it
had been just a little to the left, or further up… She tucked a hair behind her ear. “Can you
wiggle your toes?”

His feet were still in his boots, but she could see faint movement. “Yep.”

“That’s good. No nerve damage, then.” Now… where to start. Get the beam out of the way or
deal with this puncture wound first? Better staunch the bleeding here before she tried to move
him. She still had her nursing pack on her. Nothing in here would get this beam off of him or
dig them out of this rubble, but there could still be something useful in here. At least tie them
down until they were found.

“You got any morphine in that bag of yours, by chance?” Dmitry asked.

She set out some gauze pads. “Nope.”

“Darn. Aspirin?”
She turned to dig through the rubble where the cabinets used to be. “I’m afraid you’ll have to
tough it out this time, Sudayev.” She opened another drawer, and finally found a dusty bottle
of cognac. This would do. She pulled the cork out with a pop as she knelt next to him again.

Dmitry’s eyebrows rose, his lips parting in a pleasantly surprised smile. “Oh, good idea.
Don’t mind if I— ah—” he hissed when she tilted the bottle over his wound, his stomach
visibly tightening with pain. “That was mean.”

“Drinking it would only dehydrate you, anyway.” She poured more of the liquor over her
own hands, set the bottle aside, and arranged the gauze pads from her bag in a tight circle
around the rod, piling them high, the white absorbing the red immediately. The air smelled
dusty and moldy, and now the cognac would stink them both up, but the smell of blood was
still too sharp in her nose. “It’s really important that you keep still, okay? Don’t need you
making this any worse.”

“Aye-aye, doc. I’m not going anywhere.” He watched her work. He could pretend he wasn’t
in pain all he wanted, but his breaths were short, hissing through teeth, his skin pale. “Aren’t
you gonna try to get that out of me?”

She shook her head, working on padding up the entry wound on the other side, on his back.
“That’s up to the surgeons. If we yank it out of you it could tear more tissue and you could
bleed out.”

“Oh. Well, we don’t want that.”

“No. But,” she blindly searched for any looseness underneath, “if we stabilize it enough so it
doesn’t wiggle around, you might be able to sit up and we can look for a way out. Once we
get the beam off of you, of course.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

She used as many pads as she dared. “Okay, I need you to put as much pressure on here,” she
guided his hands to surround his wound, “as you can. Okay?”

“Okay.” He started pressing down. Hopefully this would stop the bleeding…

“Don’t stop until I tell you.” She started wrapping his middle in brown bandage. Over his
abdomen, under the gap between his back and the torn up concrete, and up and around again,
and again, and again, pulling tight as she went. She would probably have to redo all this work
again soon, but. It was what she could think of and what she had available. “Okay,” she said,
tying the bandage into a knot. “That should help.”

“Thanks,” he cracked a grin. He coughed, wincing, and tapped the steel beam. “Wanna help
get this off of me?”

“Yeah. Let’s do that.”

As she carefully tiptoed around the rubble, trying not to trip, he said, “Maybe this will prove
you’re strong enough to work in the factories.”
Anya let out a laugh. “Where I truly belong.”

He grinned. In the dark, with dust and dirt floating in the air and coating his face, his teeth
were so pearly white they were almost blinding.

“Okay…” she found a spot where she had good leverage and could plant both of her feet
without slipping. “I’m gonna lift it and try to move it over here. Do you think you could
move your leg out of the way?”

“Maybe.” He wiggled his toes again. “I think so. Let’s try.”

“Okay. Ready? One, two…”

Anya used every muscle in her body to lift that beam. To her surprise it came up a few
inches, digging into the pads of her fingers, muscles straining in exertion. But when she lifted
it she mistakenly looked at the deep gash it had carved into his thigh. Torn skin, bits of
crushed bone. And spurts of fresh blood.

In panic she let the beam slip and fall back down, landing right where it came from, and
Dmitry let out a yell.

“Sorry! Sorry sorry sorry.”

“Don’t…” his teeth were locked, chest heaving, “don’t do that again. Please.”

“Sorry.” She knelt to check, making sure he wasn’t injured anywhere new.

“Should we try again?”

Anya shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He lifted a brow, a prompt for an
elaboration. She stood and put her hands on her hips. “Good news and bad news.”

“Give me the bad news first.”

She pursed her lips. “Bad news is the beam cut through an artery.” She swallowed. “But the
good news is the weight of the beam is keeping you from bleeding out.” And dying.

He nodded. “Thank god for this beam.”

She let herself smile. Because, even though their situation was more than grim, he still gave it
his all to lighten the mood. And then her smile fell. Because he was trapped under this beam
until someone found them. And they were trapped under this building until someone dug
them out. And that could take days.

He didn’t have days. He probably didn’t have hours.

“What’s plan B?” Dmitry asked.

She looked at him. He had beads of sweat on his forehead, brow crinkled in pain, but his lips
were still pulling at the corners, eyes warm and playful as ever. It did something to her
stomach. To her heart. She needed to keep it together for him. This was not the time to
despair.

“Plan B…” Anya pushed her hair over her shoulder. “Let’s see if we can’t get you sitting up.”
She searched beneath him for the other end of the rod, hoping to hold it steady so he could sit
up, and then maybe she could find something to fashion a tourniquet for his leg, and… But
her fingers only found more coarse concrete. The rod had been part of a deeper structure,
attached to the stone he’d fallen on top of. Her heart sank. Even if she could get a tourniquet
for him, he would still be stuck until someone else showed up.

“What’s wrong?” Dmitry asked when she stilled.

She bit her lip. “It might be better if you just stay here. I think this rod is about as stuck as
you are.”

Dmitry’s face was unreadable. Anya busied herself by digging through her bag again, finding
one nutrition bar at the bottom. She wished they had some water, they would start showing
signs of dehydration soon. They could ration this until someone found them. Hopefully. She
broke it apart into small squares, passed one to Dmitry. Mostly just to keep her hands and
eyes busy. Because if her hands were idle they would shake. And because if her eyes weren’t
occupied he would be able to see the fear and sorrow in them.

But she couldn’t be satisfied with her work. No matter what, it wasn’t enough to save him.
Bandages wouldn’t get them out from under this debris. Gauze pads wouldn’t stop him from
bleeding out or his wounds from getting infected.

She’d never felt so useless.

“What now?” Dmitry swallowed the bite she’d practically forced on him.

Anya took a deep breath. “Now we hang tight. I’m sure someone will find us soon enough.”

His smile was crooked, wasn’t so much of a smile as it was a grim line of doubt. “You’re
going to make a terrible nurse.”

“Excuse me?”

Now he was smiling for real. “You’re just a really bad liar.”

She swallowed. Of course he could see right through her. Frustrated, she let out a huff,
gesturing around them. “You need a real doctor, not some trainee nurse who hasn’t—”

“Hey, Anya,” he soothed, catching her hand, “it’s okay.” He swallowed, thick. His grim
determination fell into something scary: sincerity. “You should… you—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted. This was the last thing she needed to hear. “I’m not leaving you.
Don’t be stupid.”

He wet his lips, brown eyes vulnerable. “I was gonna say, please don’t leave me alone.”
A lump sat in her throat. “I won’t.” She squeezed his hand. “I promise.” He was holding onto
her so tight she could almost say he was, well, holding on for dear life.

The tension lingered in the air a moment too long. And then Dmitry said, “You're hurt.”

She was vaguely aware of a cut on her forehead, but it was such a laughably minor injury in
the midst of everything else going on that she’d decided to ignore it. “It’s fine. Just a
scratch.”

“No, let me fix you up so we’re even.”

She looked down at him. “I’m not exactly able to fix you up, Dmitry.”

He still gestured for her to come closer so he could swab away the bit of blood on her skin.
“You’ve fixed me in other ways,” he said after a minute.

She broke eye contact at that. He’d made comments like that before, ones that left her
wondering, wanting. She could never tell if he was just teasing as he always did or if he was
actually being sincere for once. You’re too pretty to work in the factories, anyway. Wondering
and wanting.

But there was no denying the sincerity here. She just… didn’t know how to respond. How to
face what had always sort of been there between them. Even though they had probably
missed their chance.

Anya let him press a bandage on her forehead, his thumb stroking her skin. His brow always
crinkled a bit when he was this focused. His eyes were dark, steady, clear. Honey warm and
so brown she could get lost in them.

Dmitry let his hand fall away, yet she didn’t lean back. “I bet this isn’t what you signed up for
when you took Vlad’s offer for a job at the post office.”

“You mean getting kababbed isn’t an occupational hazard?” He laughed, almost self-
mocking. “The irony is, if I had actually gone to the front, we wouldn’t be in this mess right
now.”

“No, you could be in the same mess, just in a trench in France.” And alone. Anya would be
alone down here, too. She pushed his bangs off of his forehead. His skin was damp and filthy,
but his hair was softer than she ever could’ve imagined. “I can’t picture you as a soldier,
anyway.”

He laughed once, wincing. “I only envy them because girls seem to like men in uniform.”

“Who told you that?”

He shrugged. “Just seems impressive, I guess. Come home with battle scars and tragic
stories, and girls will want to take care of you as much as you want. Or so they say.” He wet
his cracked lips. “But you were always impossible to impress.”
She laughed. “You might be surprised.” He quirked a brow at her. Anya took another gauze
pad to wipe at his cheek. He winced and flinched, but let her gently dab at his cut. He looked
so small, so young, like this. So scared. He’d always seemed too old for his age to Anya,
after losing his father and everything else that happened to him. But now, here, he seemed too
young. A boy in over his head. “You don’t have to go off to war to get battle scars, Dmitry.”
She sighed. “You of all people should know that.” With his broken nose that would be
forever crooked, with his shoulder that never healed right, his bloody knuckles, his dad’s
death that transformed the trajectory of his life.

His jaw flexed under her fingers, his throat bobbing. “What do you think it was?” he asked,
changing the subject. “Bomb?”

Anya shrugged. “I don’t know. Whatever it was was enough to make this whole building
collapse.”

He took a weak breath. “You don’t think… why would they attack our village?”

“You think it was an attack?” Guilt made her stomach sink. She hadn’t thought of that. Oh
god, what was happening? Her family… Vlad, Lily…

“Did you hear anything else?”

“No, nothing.”

Dmitry nodded. “Must’ve been a misfire then. Or something else entirely. Hopefully.” A
stubborn lock of hair had fallen back over his forehead. She took it upon herself to brush it
away again. “And we’re a good distance away from town, anyway.”

Worry still clung to her stomach. But Dmitry’s gentle logic managed to soothe her, the more
she thought about it. They were far from town. And there was no strategic reason for the
Germans to attack their village like this. But if they did anyway… No. Anya didn’t know the
fate of her family, or the rest of town. But she would be damned if she couldn’t tie Dmitry’s
string of life back together, fiber by fiber, until her hands bled, even if the Fates had other
plans. He would not fade away from her on her watch.

“We can’t help them from here,” she decided aloud. “No use worrying about them. For now,
let’s just focus on keeping ourselves together, okay?”

His smile finally returned. “Good plan.”

Anya wasn’t able to really keep track of time down here, but she figured enough time had
passed to check his bandages. They’d already bled through. As she redressed his wounds, she
could almost consider herself relatively calm. Until Dmitry started falling asleep.

“Hey,” she rushed to touch his face, nearly in panic, “stay awake, okay?”

“Sorry,” his lids were heavy. “Just. So cold. So tired.”

“I know, but you have to stay awake.” His eyes fluttered shut again. For some reason she
thought if he fell asleep, he wouldn’t wake up again. And she would lose him. She lightly
smacked his cheek. “Hey, look at me— Dmitry, look at me, don’t stop looking at me,
understand? You have to stay with me. Don’t” — her voice caught— “don’t leave me alone
down here. Don’t make me do this by myself.”

Dmitry swallowed, focusing on her more clearly. “Okay.”

“Talk to me,” she insisted. As long as he was talking, he was awake. As long as he was
awake, he was alive.

“About what?”

“Tell me a story. You were always good at that.”

Dmitry took a labored breath. He started rambling about his medical exam at the military
office, how everyone there was a jerk and shamed him for his inability to go off and fight.
How he secretly never wanted to go in the first place, no matter how honorable it was to kill
Nazis. How his father had dodged the draft in the first war. How he wasn’t sure what his
anarchist father would think of his son not only working for the postal system but thoroughly
enjoyed making the deliveries. How Dmitry did his best to keep it going, how there were
worse ways to keep himself off the streets, how he wouldn’t mind spending his life like this.
What was left of it.

None of this was new information to Anya, exactly, but she listened all the same, letting him
talk as much as he was able. At some point she sat behind him with her legs crossed so he
could rest his head in her lap. Here she could watch him, meeting his eyes upside down, and
keep an eye on both of his injuries. Even as he rambled the despair would creep into her chest
like a disease. And there was no hiding from his ever perceptive watch.

Dmitry coughed again, perhaps the most painful thing he could possibly do to himself right
now. “Do you always cry this much at the hospital over every patient?”

She laughed, sniffing. “No.” And then, before thinking the better of it, “I’ve never had a
patient this important to me.”

The silence was too thick, too heavy. Maybe she’d gone too far. There was nowhere to hide
here, really. She’d run out of things to keep her hands busy or her eyes away from his.

“Anya?”

“Yes?”

“If we survive this,” he took a shaky breath, “remind me to tell you I love you.”

At first Anya wasn’t sure if she’d heard correctly. What was she supposed to say? She
swallowed around the lump in her throat. “Why won’t you tell me now?”

He lifted a hand, gesturing to the bleak space. “It’s not the most romantic setting, is it?” She
laughed, watery and sad, and shook her head. “Telling you right before I die would only look
desperate, anyway.”
“You’re not dying,” she snapped. “I guess that means you have no choice but to survive.”

His lips twitched. “It would seem so.”

They let the silence linger for a minute, the words exchanged sinking in. Floating in the air
like the dust. Dmitry’s stare was so intense and focused, he could’ve been studying a
masterpiece.

His lips parted. “You wouldn’t… be upset? If I told you that?”

She wiped her nose. “I would tell you I’ve loved you since I was eight years old.” Since
she’d known him.

A grin split his face, teeth bright against his filthy skin. Down here, his smile was as radiant
as the moon. “Well,” he swallowed, audibly, “good to know.”

The small bit of bittersweet joy lingered in the air. Like they were both holding their breath at
the same time. Anya, still crying, tried to compose herself. “Is that why you let me call you
Dima sometimes?”

A name only his father had called him, he’d shared with her once, like it was a secret. A
name no one else had ever used for him. A name, to her, that was more fitting to who he was
than any other diminutive— boyish and playful and patient. Dima was someone she had
wanted to know this whole time, someone she could love.

“You can call me whatever you want,” he whispered. “Even the things you used to call me
before we got along— like, ‘stupid tall oaf’ was one of my favorites.” She laughed at that.
God, he was so idiodic and perfect. “I suppose, if we make it out—”

“When.”

“Right. When we make it out, we’ll have to go on a proper date before this confession.”

Her thumb rubbed his cheek. She ran her fingers through her hair, less with worry than with
affection. “You’re probably right. No need to rush into things.”

He huffed a laugh. “No. Any ideas?”

“We could go dancing…”

His eyebrows shot up. “Dancing?”

“I’ve always wanted to go to Sully’s,” she said, somehow finding it in herself to smile, “when
the band is playing.”

“Yeah?” Half his mouth lifted. “I’m no good at dancing, but that sounds nice.”

“I can teach you the steps.”

“Okay. What day?”

She fixed his shirt collar. “Next Friday?”

“Next Friday it is. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Her throat was tight. “Don’t you dare be late.”

The other corner of his mouth lifted. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

In the silence that followed, reality caught up to her. Anya looked around, the flashlight
casting nightmarish shadows across the rubble, the walls closing in tighter and tighter, the
threat that what was left of the ceiling could give way any second and there was nothing they
could do about it. Her hands wandered down his chest, felt his heartbeat. His bandages were
already red. The beam loomed over them both like gallows. And the reality they were trapped
in, so starkly different from the moment they just dreamed up, was too overwhelming.

She squeezed her eyes shut so tight she saw blotchy patches of color, willing the tears away,
like this was all some horrible nightmare and when she opened them they’d be laughing in
her garden again, or she would be kicking her legs after hopping up onto the counter at the
post office while he listened to her talk about her day, or he would be finding any excuse to
follow her around the hospital, or they would be leaving notes for one another in their shared
and decrepit copies of Dostoyevsky novels, or…

She felt a soft, tentative touch to her cheek. Dmitry had lifted his hand to brush away a tear
that had escaped. And he lingered there.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he whispered.

Part of her wanted to believe him. But, based on the tears of his own leaving tracks on the
layer of dirt on the side of his face, he didn’t quite believe himself, either.

Time didn’t really matter anymore. Minutes bled into hours, or perhaps days, Anya couldn’t
really tell the difference at this point. Dmitry was barely conscious enough to respond in
more than short words. Anya was struggling to stay awake, too. She kept nodding off,
startling with a gasp and a stroke of Dmitry’s cheek, just to reassure herself he was still here.

She checked his wounds regularly; he was still bleeding too much to her liking. She’d run out
of bandages so she took to tearing off strips of her skirt to do the job. All the while listing
whatever good news came to mind, just to keep him awake and herself from falling apart.
Alexei decided he wanted to become a doctor. Maria’s most recent letter was longer than the
last. The hyacinths were blooming in the garden again. Dmitry would have to start delivering
bouquets soon, he always enjoyed that. And then when she was done working she would sit
behind him again, holding his face in her lap, desperately trying to keep his eyes focused on
hers.
Anya was scared as shit, but she was still calm. Until now.

Stone crunched and rumbled overhead, and Anya protectively hunched over Dmitry’s body,
fearing gravity would finally have its way. But nothing happened. A voice was calling for
anyone down here. Anya’s was hoarse, but she managed to alert them that they were here and
more than alive. The voice, perhaps an angel, said they would send down a medical team.

But when she looked down, Dmitry’s eyes were shut. She lightly tapped his cheek, but unlike
before, his lashes didn’t even flutter.

“Dima?” She tried again. “We’re almost out, come on.”

Nothing.

This was when she finally, truly, panicked.

Her breaths came out hard and fast, words jumbled. “Dmitry, look at me, remember? You’re
supposed to look at me.” She felt for his pulse under his jaw, and for one heart-stopping
second she couldn’t find it. But it was there— faint and incredibly weak, but there. “Wake up,
come on! You’re scaring me.”

A sob shook through her. She was too preoccupied to notice the three pairs of boots and more
beams of light making their way through the debris. “Are you okay?” one of them asked.

She ignored him. “He’s not waking up!”

It only took seconds for the medics to determine Anya was not the priority in this situation.
No, not medics. Red Cross nurses. The light from her flashlight was just strong enough to
make out the special armband. Did her sisters have to dig out dying boys from collapsed
buildings, too? Would this be Anya’s future? More boots made their way down through
whatever gap they were able to widen above ground.

Even with all this activity, Dmitry was still unconscious. Anya’s tears landed on his pale
cheek. “Why isn’t—” she tried calming down enough to get her words straight. “Why isn’t he
waking up?”

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” one medic said, voice too sterile and unattached. “He needs
surgical attention immediately. We’ll take care of it from here. Can you stand, miss?”

Two tried to lift Anya up by the elbows but she yanked her arms free. “Help him first!”

Not ones to waste time, they moved on, focusing their attention on the broken boy before her.
Good. In the meantime Anya just kept crying. She’d been holding herself together for so
many hours now, she was out of energy to bottle it all up anymore.

The next few minutes were a mixture of confusion and all business, as more and more medics
surrounded them. A team was working on clearing more rubble overhead while the medical
officers were stabilizing Dmitry enough to get him to the hospital. When Anya made it clear
she would not leave until Dmitry was above ground too, they just let her be. Her hands were
shaking too much and eyes too blurry with tears to be much help anyway. Sitting where she
was, still with Dmitry’s head in her lap, she was out of the way.

They lifted his torso just enough to saw away the rod from the ground, while other people
were taking care of his leg. Anya let out an embarrassing sob when they lifted the beam and
blood immediately soaked the ground. They fashioned a tourniquet for him and the word
amputation was thrown around. For one moment, she was grateful he was unconscious, so he
couldn’t hear the terrifying things they were saying.

“You left the beam on him?” one of them asked. Anya nodded. “Good thinking.” And they
went back to ignoring her.

Dmitry was still unconscious for the whole experience. They were taking too long. They
were working so fast Anya’s head was spinning. She should’ve been elated that they found
them, but this sense of dread, of complete wrongness that made her feel on edge. And then
they were lifting him up onto a stretcher, the rod still angled perpendicular out of his
abdomen, and Anya realized she would have to stand, too. Someone helped her onto shaking
feet. Her eyes were stuck on the head of brown hair, the hand dangling from the side of the
stretcher, limp.

And then. There was the sky. Fresh air. No more walls. The stars were out. The moon was
almost blinding. How many hours had they been trapped? Someone put a blanket over her
shoulders, shined lights in her eyes, put a warm drink in her hands. She was shaking. “Is he—
will he…”

The medic helping her into the back of the second ambulance pursed his lips. “You did a
good job,” was all he said, his tone dismissive. “The best you could.”

Staring down at the rust color under her fingernails, Anya wiped away a tear from her cheek,
fresh from the sight of them closing the ambulance doors, wondering if that was the last
glimpse of Dmitry she would ever have.

Anya plunged her trowel into the soil. It scraped through, scooping up enough for her to plant
these new tulip bulbs.

She had never really cared about the garden before, frankly. A small part of her still didn’t.
But lately she didn’t much care for staying indoors for too long. Needed to be under the open
sky, needed to dig her nails in the dirt.

“Hey, Nastya,” a voice said quietly. Anya paused. She hadn’t noticed her brother approach at
all. She nodded hello, squinting in the evening sunlight. “Mamma said to call you in, dinner
is almost ready.”
Instead of going inside and washing up like what was expected, she used her hands to pull
some of the soil back, tucking in the bulb. “I’ll be inside in a minute. Thanks.”

Alexei still lingered above her. “How are you doing?”

Anya pursed her lips. “Fine.”

His silence made her look up at him. When had he gotten so tall? So old and mature? He had
only been a fourteen-year-old boy when the war started. Now, at seventeen, his soul was
thrice that age. Already his boyish mischief was gone. Replaced with grown up dreams of
becoming a doctor, serious conversations about how, even though his hemophilia kept him
from the front, he would still do his part in the war effort. “Have you heard anything?”

“No,” Anya shook her head. “No, and I don’t really want to talk about it.”

But it consumed every waking thought.

A week had passed since the incident. It had been a misfire of nearby artillery. The front lines
had been inching their way closer and closer to their little village, but nobody had anticipated
anything quite so destructive. Thankfully it was just one shell. Thankfully it had only hit just
outside of town. Thankfully it was just two injured, and not more.

Anya had only spent one night at the hospital, just so the doctor could monitor her vitals for
anything dangerous. Other than a few scrapes and some dehydration she was relatively fine.
On paper.

Once she was released she tried to visit Dmitry, too aware of her promise not to leave him
alone. But apparently the surgery was a grueling one, and now his wounds were infected, and
the doctors didn’t want anyone getting in the way at this time. Her fists had clenched at her
sides. Fine. She would finish her certification and be right back, no sweat.

But when she was back in training, her hands shook so much, her mind still too rattled from
the whole experience, that they made her go home, rest for a week. She almost laughed. Rest.
How could she rest? How could she relax when she felt like she would never be able to scrub
her hands clean of the blood of someone she loved? When, every time she closed her eyes for
the night, she dreamed of dark cellars and a dying boy? Her family was as gentle as they
could be about it, but ultimately the only person Anya wanted to talk to about the whole thing
was stuck alone in some hospital room. Where he would very likely remain until it was too
late.

And here she was. Wondering and wanting and waiting. And worrying. Thinking and
ruminating over every decision she made in that cellar. It would tear her apart.

How was she supposed to live with herself, after doing everything in her power to save him
but it wasn’t enough? And, even worse, what was she supposed to do with the love sitting in
her chest for him that she never got to share? That she’d wasted all that time, all these years,
caring more for her pride than honesty with herself about how much she felt for him? How—

“They let me start my apprenticeship,” Alexei said, pulling Anya from her thoughts.
She smiled up at him, genuinely happy for her brother. “Oh, that’s so exciting—”

“I’m working with his doctor,” he went on. “Dmitry’s doctor.”

Her smile fell. “Oh.” She picked up her trowel again, digging another hole in a random spot.

“He says you saved his life.”

Anya froze.

“I still don’t know all the details of what happened,” Alexei continued, almost like he
rehearsed this. “But everything you did— it was the right choice, Nastya. He even got to
keep his leg.”

Something was sitting on Anya’s chest. She couldn’t breathe.

“I just thought you should know.”

She was too choked up to say anything. Alexei started to move back inside, but she snagged
his hand, looking up at him. “Thank you,” she finally whispered.

He just smiled, like he knew something else she didn’t. And then he went inside.

Anya continued to mull this new revelation over while she cleaned up her mess. Dmitry.
Alive. Maybe they would let her visit him in the hospital now. Should she go right away?
What was she doing here? Why were her hands shaking so much? She needed to wash up.
Not for supper, but. To visit the hospital. At least try again. She didn’t think she could eat
right now, anyway. What would it be like if they let her see him? Would he make a stupid
joke or would he be too delirious and broken? Would they pretend like everything was
normal or would they mention what happened?

What if… what if he regretted what was said?

The thought made her stop in her tracks. It could’ve been some delirious, infection-riddled
confession that he may not even remember making. Or a terror-induced vomit of words.
Something that only came out because they weren’t sure if they would live to see the
consequences of voicing such feelings aloud.

And yet… she wondered. She wanted. She hoped.

You’re too pretty to work in the factories, anyway.

He’d been saying it quietly this whole time. If he denied it, or deemed that moment in the
cellar invalid, well. She would just have to say it first, then.

Anya was already marching through the tall grass onto the dirt road, busy wiping her hands
as best she could, too eager to reach her destination to be patient, to notice anyone else on the
road.
She noticed the crutches first, the shoes. How even with a limp his gait was familiar to her
ears. The sunset bathed him in gold, like he was stepping out of heaven itself. Anya halted.
Though hunched over crutches, he still towered over her, even from an arm’s length away.
She felt like she was staring at a ghost.

He looked just as grief-stricken, but with a shaky breath, like he hadn’t been as prepared for
this moment as he thought, one corner of his mouth lifted, and just like that his grief was
masked. “Hey,” Dmitry said. Like they just happened upon each other at the market or
something.

“Dima?” Her voice was hoarse. “When did you—?”

“Just a few minutes ago. Wanted to see you first, but—”

He cut himself off when she threw her arms around his neck. “Easy,” he murmured as he
caught his balance. Anya was already crying, burying her face in that space between his neck
and shoulder. It didn’t occur to her until she realized tears were streaming down her face that,
even though Alexei had said he would return home soon, she didn’t quite believe she would
see Dmitry again, that they really had made it out alive. That the threat of losing him forever
scared her more than she was willing to admit. “We’re okay.” She clung onto him as tight as
she dared. With a clatter as his crutch fell to the dirt, his free hand came around her back,
holding her close. Strong. Dependable. Alive. She could feel his steady pulse through his
chest. He was worse for wear, for sure, but just as strong and sturdy as he always was.

Her inhale was shaky as she tucked her face into his shirt, blocking out everything but his
smell. Dmitry nuzzled her neck, every nerve inside her focused on the spot where his nose
and lips and cheeks and breath touched her skin. God. She hadn’t lost him. She hadn’t lost
him. He was really here.

He started to pull away, in spite of her efforts to keep him close, and his hand came up to her
face, tilting her chin this way and that. “You okay?” he asked, voice a little breathless.

He was the one who had almost died and yet he was worried about her? What a ridiculous
reason to cut their hug short. “Am I okay? Last time I saw you, you were—”

“Skewered on a spit?” He smiled, as quick and short as the joke that didn’t quite land. “I
didn’t see you…”

“I know.” Her eyes fixed on the bit of bandage peeking out from under his shirt collar. “They
made me go home.”

“Why?”

She thought about how hysterical she was, how much of a mess the ordeal had turned her
into. It was too embarrassing. “Because apparently playing favorites isn’t good nursing
behavior.”

He grinned. And then a blush bloomed on his cheeks, slightly sheepish. “But considering I’m
still standing here, favoritism actually saved the day, no?”
She stared at his sternum, his eyes too warm and intense. Her hand trailed down his chest
until she met his middle, where she could feel the stiff bandages wrapped around his torso
through the fabric of his shirt. She took in the dense cast around his left leg, his right hand
gripping the handle of his crutch. Her lip caught between her teeth. How remarkable it was,
that only days ago this skin was slick with blood, so pale and feverish, that she wasn’t sure if
she would ever see him upright again. But here he was. Laughing and breathing and
standing.

“You saved me,” he rasped, less playful this time. “I don’t… know how I can ever repay—”

“Don’t,” she met his eyes again, shaking her head, “you don’t need to do that. Not with me.”

His dark eyes swam through hers, serious as ever. Perhaps he was thinking about what had
been said, too, how they never quite got to finish that thought. Waiting for the other shoe to
drop. Perhaps it had been tearing him apart, too.

His breath loosened, shoulders dropping a bit. “Look, Anya… I won’t be able to go dancing
anytime soon,” he ducked his head and shuffled his crutch, a little sad, like he’d already
resigned himself to be rejected, “but we can go to the cinema, maybe, or something. If you
still want that… but I’d understand if you’ve… changed your mind, now that we’re not…
you know…”

She shook her head. He still didn’t get it? After all of that?

He was still fumbling something stupid when she lifted herself to her toes and pressed her
lips to his, effectively hushing him. It was short as a sigh, but Anya couldn’t help but think
this was a long time coming, and the effect was immediate— his furrowed, troubled brow
softened, the corners of his mouth pulling into a smile. “A movie is perfect,” she said,
finally.

His free hand came up to cup her cheek, eyes crinkled at the corners, searching her. And he
dropped his head to kiss her again— just a slow, curious brush of his lips over hers, more
breath than anything, and yet Anya felt that kiss in her bones, in her lungs, in the flesh under
her skin.

“Wanna come inside for dinner?” she asked, voice softer than she expected. “I’m sure there’ll
be plenty…”

Dmitry exhaled, eyes softening, and his hand fell to her shoulder, down to cup her elbow. His
forehead dropped to touch to hers, their noses bumping. “In a minute. I’m not… ready to
share you quite yet.”

Anya knew what he meant.

His head tilted up towards the sky. Something she often found herself doing lately. Perhaps,
when one wasn’t sure if they’d end up bleeding out underneath a building again, they
couldn’t take for granted any glimpse of the sky in all its forms they could get.
She wrapped her arms around his waist, careful not to squeeze too tight. He rested his chin on
the top of her head and his arm came around her back to pull her close. His heartbeat was
loud and strong against her ear, something so comforting and steady and reassuring. She
hadn’t felt safe since that night in the cellar. Nor had she felt like she truly returned home.
Until now.

“Dima?”

“Hmm?”

“Remind me to tell you I love you.”

She felt him inhale. Slowly. “Why won’t you tell me now?”

She looked around, taking in the view of the sun setting over the hills, and pretended to be
unimpressed. “Too cliche.”

He threw his head back and laughed, so boyish and loud and easy, the sound did something
wonderful to her heart. Maybe something healing. “We’ll hit that sweet spot eventually.”

No, the war was not over. The nightmares would still come. Dmitry had a long road of
healing to do, and Anya did too, frankly. But if they can smile and laugh together like this
after all of that, well. Maybe they were in better shape than they looked. Maybe the healing
had already begun.
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