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“So, how are you… settling in?”
It takes everything in him to restrain himself, to sit across from her in this chair, the same one he sat in months ago and sobbed out a broken apology, and converse casually about his arrival, as if it is benign as the weather.
Margo though is nothing if not guarded; he’s known this far too well and for far too many years now. That brief glimpse he had of her that night in London, without her carefully placed armor and before everything fractured blindingly between them, was special and rare.
He knows he trampled all over it.
Even when he had been pulled from Lefortovo and plopped in front of her, even when their teams landed together on the surface of Mars, she had not much to offer him beyond a brief touching of their hands and some stoic words.
But then again, the trust between them had long been broken by then.
“I am fine. Thank you, Margo. You needn’t worry,” he replies calmly. He watches as she nods, once.
“And your…” she clears her throat, “lungs? And everything… else?”
He knew she would ask. Margo is inquisitive in everything she does. He does not want to overlook this — her concern for his well-being, nor the fact that she used everything within her power to get him and his family safely here. It can be dismissed as just that though: concern.
Or worse, guilt.
He smiles politely.
“The doctors have been… investigating,” he says. “It should clear with this final round of antibiotics.” He pronounces the last word wrong, he knows. An incorrect stress or an e sound where there should be an i. He sees her lips curve up slightly at it.
“Good. I’m glad,” she says, before clarifying, “… to hear it.”
Her foundation did crack one other time: their last farewell. Sergei almost hates to admit it, but hearing her resolute denial about his departure, seeing the tears form in her eyes, the lump in her throat as she begged for more time — it had given him such comfort, in a perverse way, that she may have felt something, anything, for him even after all that had transpired.
He inhales and exhales through his nose, wishing for anything more from her in this moment now. It is the first one they have ever had that is free of their impossibilities, free of watchful eyes, free of time constraints, free of the tragedy that has enveloped them for so long.
But there is nothing. Not even a hint.
He knows he’s already taken too much from her. Far too much.
Still, he dares to ask it.
“I… was hoping we may… have some time… to talk.” He cannot help but look up at her with such expectation, no longer having the strength to keep what he feels for her buried.
She looks back at him, head-on, for the briefest of moments, before pressing her lips together and closing her eyes, unreadable as ever. Squaring her shoulders, she stands up, turning away from him and slowly stepping towards the piano.
His heart doesn’t fall — yet. But he does feel it rattling faster in his chest.
He watches her take a deep breath – her fingers at the side of her skirt playing a rhythm against it. And though Sergei spent many long nights over the past two years in utter despair, it is this — her silence, the uncertainty of it all — that he finds the most unbearable.
Seconds tick to minutes. But he allows her this moment, for as long as he can. Eventually, he decides to stand. She nearly glances over her shoulder at the sound but falls short of facing him, whether out of fear or something else he does not know.
He steps towards her tentatively, so slowly so that he does not startle her. Still, she does not turn.
He’s close enough to reach for her but pauses. Her arms cross in front of her, and he can see the pulse in her neck beating erratically.
“Margo,” he says quietly as he can. “I do not wish to cause you discomfort.”
She shakes her head slightly, implying he is not, but still doesn’t say a word.
And there they stay, breathing, quiet.
He knows not to push her, but god, it is difficult.
Eventually, slowly, cautiously, she turns to face him. It causes his eyes to light up more than they should given the accompanying uncertainty in hers – uncertainty he knows he put there. When he sees the tears at the edge of her eyes, his heart creeps into his throat and he tries to swallow it down.
He steps slightly closer still, and unlike their goodbye months ago, she doesn’t recoil. Under any other circumstance, it would be nothing, but it is so much for her , he knows, to stay in front of him. His heart is soaring already at even this and his head is so, so, far ahead of himself… so far ahead of her.
It always has been this way.
She is the one to reach for his hand, unfolding her arms. It is tentative but purposeful as she places her palm in his, curling her fingers around his. His eyes are transfixed on this one small gesture, unable to tear them away, needing to commit it to memory. When he finally looks back up at her, her tears are starting to spill over. They do not seem so sorrowful — or so he hopes.
His heart pounds in his ears but also aches and for what he does not know. She is here, in front of him, she has reached for him, and this time, she is not pulling away.
He has longed for it so long that it does not feel real.
He takes another small step tentatively closer, close enough to breathe her in, to feel her breath on him. It is at this that she slowly, so delicately, melts into his chest, closing the gap between them. He feels his heart could leap out of it were she not there to hold it in.
When her head falls gently onto his shoulder and her arms link so softly around him, his breath catches in his throat. Much more abruptly than he wishes, he brings his arms to rest around her upper back, pulling her all the more closer.
She starts to weep so quietly against him. It is not borne solely from sadness he senses. The warmth and tenderness radiating from her chest is palpable. He dares to kiss her temple, still holding her, and exhales unsteadily against her, unsure whether to smile or cry himself.
He will not be the one to propel them forward from this, as much as he wishes to. He will hold her here for as long as necessary. For as long as she’ll have him.
It is already so much more than he could have hoped for.
Eventually, the feeling of her soft hiccups against his chest subside. But as she slowly lifts her head, it is as though they have been transferred to him. He chokes up, overcome with anticipation, but swallows it down as much as possible.
She looks so curiously at him.
“Margo,” he manages to get out quietly. He takes a deep breath. “Would I be permitted to… kiss you?” he nearly whispers.
She smiles slightly at his words through her tear-stained eyes, and he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful in his life. When she nods up at him, the joy that washes over him is one he has not felt in years.
He floats his hands up, lightly brushing her neck, her ear, her check, her chin. Wiping away what tears he can. Her features soften as he does, and slowly, he closes the gap between them, touching his lips to hers.
It is so pure, so soft, so overwhelming, and it causes his heart to expand almost painfully in his chest.
He does not linger long. Instead, he brings his forehead to hers, their breaths both so shallow, and he shakes his own head against hers in disbelief, tears already forming in his own eyes.
Her hands cling to his torso more tightly, and at this, he cups her cheeks with both his hands and he kisses her again. And again.
And again.
She’s lightly gasping between each one by this point, more than he is with the shape of his lungs. It is not out of passion. No. It is much too tender for that. But out of relief, of freedom to do so, of something else he hopes she feels.
The feeling of it all has become too much for both of them. She leans back into his chest, curling into him, and he envelops her into a deliberate embrace, running his hands along her neck, her shoulders.
He exhales deeply.
I… I do not think,” he starts quietly, still caressing the back of her neck as he does, “I can go any longer without telling you.”
He’s wanted to tell her for so long for so many years. He’s tried to express it in other ways, tried to make her see, through carefully purchased jazz records, through engineering fixes he was never permitted to share, through hastily scribbled equations, through standing next to her for the Mars landing, through apologies, through goodbyes.
He is done with these veiled gestures.
She stills but eventually nods against him. He will not try to raise her head. It would be too much for her to see him and hear him during this, he knows.
It may also be too much for him, if he’s being honest with himself.
He kisses her temple again and pulls her even tighter. “I love you, Margo,” he says quietly into her ear.
He feels her face scrunch up and she nods against him more, clutching him tighter.
“You do not need to say anything,” he adds quickly. “I merely needed you to know.”
He will not hear it from her. He knows this. It is fine. It will take time.
There is much to repair.
And so he holds her until their tears have temporarily run out. Until she pulls back. Until she brings her lips to brush softly against his. Until they both smile, finally, against one another.