Archive of Our Own ^beta

The rain drilled down against the dark streets of Naples, and Goncharov hunched his shoulders to keep the cold at bay. Streetlights glowed pale as ghosts, and the pocket watch was heavy in his pocket. It was the only thing he’d been able to take from Russia—the only thing, not including his long time girlfriend Katya.

He shoved his hands deep into his jacket, trying not to think of her. Katya. Katya, her hair nearly as pale as the white of her many layered fur coat as she took Sofia in her arms. Devil red lips, a lipstick shade he’d bought for her, pressing against the other woman’s mouth.

Goncharov took off his hat, clutching it to his chest in his grief. He needed to lean against the side of a building for a second, reeling as though he had been shot. The sound that left him was inhuman.

As he stood in the street, trying to compose himself, a noise from his right caught his attention. The door of the shop next to him swinging open, a couple walking out into the night. Arm in arm, laughing amicably. Once, that might have been him and his Katya.

The warm glow of the shop was enticing, and he was pushing the door open and striding inside before he realized what he was doing. It was silent apart from the ticking of the large clock hung at the back of the shop. It must be broken, with how loudly it was ticking.

The smell of coffee hit his nose, and he inhaled deep as he looked around the café. It was nearly empty, only three people lingering at a table near the window. Three customers, and the man behind the counter.

His hair was dark, falling into his face which was turned down as he cleaned the counter. But when Goncharov walked towards him, he looked up.
His eyes were a perfect, warm brown.

“We’re nearly closing,” the man said. “You’re almost out of time.”

As if Goncharov hadn’t been running out of time since he saw Katya’s lips collide with Sofia’s at the farmer’s market that day. As if he hadn’t been running out of time since he left Russia. Running out of time, running from his home. Goncharov was always running.

But the strong lines of this man’s face were almost enough to make him feel like for a moment, he could stop.

Goncharov’s eyes dropped down to his name-tag.

Andrey.

The clock moved, but the noise was the only indication that time was still running.

“I don’t drink coffee,” Goncharov said. “It pairs badly with my cigarettes.”

“We have fresh tortellini,” Andrey offered.

Goncharov laughed. “I wouldn’t even want that served at my funeral.”

“Men like us are always headed for our funerals, one way or another.”

“You said you were closing soon. When does your shift end?” Goncharov asked.

“It already ended. Sometimes everything ends, but we’re still here.”

The clock on the wall stopped, and they both looked towards it.

“Well,” said Goncharov. “Looks like we’re out of time.”

“No,” said Andrey. “We were always out of time.”