Chapter Text
Misha had long stopped being self-conscious about his size.
Mother Russia bred strong men and women, built sturdy and tough to survive her cruel and unforgiving winters. Big men were common, as were big women like his sisters. But even in the little village Misha grew up in he stood out among his fellows. Always too tall, too wide, always worried about breaking furniture and taking up too much space ever since he was a fat little boy. He was used to people staring when he entered a room, every time he entered a room. He was used to feeling eyes on him. Over the years, it had gradually stopped feeling as though those eyes were crawling under his skin.
But still, he could always feel them.
He could tell the difference, too, in the way that he would be watched. An ability earned from years and practice and the pressing need to read his environment at a glance.
Wonder was the first and most common reaction when people first caught sight of him. Awe at the size of his hands, or the negligible distance between the top of his head and any given ceiling. Children especially liked to stare. Their little mouths falling open, eyes widening in a way that always made him smile, even as their parents took them by the hand and dragged them away from the giant they themselves had just caught sight of.
Fear was extremely common as well. Misha hated that, once. When he was a younger, kinder man, unable to fathom fear of the unknown or the perceived threat of a thing simply because it was different. He remembered the years of hurt and confusion as his classmates shrank away from him or flinched when he offered a handshake. Girls and women huddling close to each other or the other men beside them as he passed on the streets. And men, men far smaller and weaker than himself, barely able to meet his eyes should they have occasion to speak.
Men looked at him in other ways as well. Challengingly. Threateningly. Other big men – never quite as big in the ways that he was, though he had met several who were undoubtedly stronger than him – would size him up openly. They would look at him as if his simply existence was a threat to their own masculinity and power, and he could see the little wheels turning behind their eyes as they decided whether or not that threat was enough to confront him over. Some did. More than a handful of foolish men had come to him looking for a fight. Some had gotten one. If they were crude enough, or if Misha had had a bad enough day to accept the vague challenge of a perfect stranger.
But again, those were the troubles of a younger man. Misha was no longer hot-headed and soft-hearted. The jeers and threats of other men didn't rile him now as they did in his youth, and it had been many long years since he had been properly harmed or insulted. Life had taught him in excess that there were things worse than being called rude names, or being looked at with unkindness.
And yet he still felt it when people looked. Always, always looking at him.
There was another kind of look he received. Not often, and never when he was expecting it. Never when he knew how or was able to return such a look, no matter how much he may want to.
Some men looked at him in fear and others in anger, but Misha was far more attuned to the men who looked at him with interest.
It took him a very long time to understand what the feeling was, and the intent behind it when he caught another man glancing at him from across the room. It wasn't fear and it wasn't anger and it wasn't quite wonder, but until the point that Misha figured it out he had no idea what it could be. He didn't know that men could look at each other like that. He didn't know, for the longest time, that he was not alone in his desires.
The men who looked at him this way did not often fit into any of the little categories he'd made up for the usual sorts of gawkers. They weren't all tall or short, they weren't all small or weak or big and strong like himself. They weren't simply poor men or rich men, men with fine clothes and soft hands from a life free of labor of any kind, or men whose palms were so thick with calluses that they could feel only the roughest of textures.
It was all these men and more, in many combinations, that caught his attention as they watched him from across a darkened pub, or a pool hall, or a market. The look was the only constant between them.
A glance, at first. He'd feel the eyes on him and turn, and catch them as they turned quickly away. And if they looked again, and held his eyes, the he would know. Sometimes it was a curiosity that twinkled in their eyes. Sometimes, if he was the one caught looking, it was an acknowledgment. We are the same, a strangers eyes would tell him, and Misha was able to feel slightly more relaxed in his environment because of it. He was the odd one out for one less reason. It was remarkable the comfort such a thought could bring.
And sometimes, if the room was dark enough or there were few enough people between them who might intercept the exchange, Misha might look at a man and see returned nothing but want. Raw desire, attraction to him, laid out on their face for all to see so that there could be no mistake about it. These looks were not fleeting. They lingered, boring into the back or side of his head, waiting impatiently for his attention.
Misha never knew how to feel about those looks. To so brazenly display his desires was a foreign, frightening concept to him, even as he rapidly approached middle age. Sometimes he returned those looks. Held the heavy, enticing gaze with his eyes, waiting for whatever next step might follow such an interaction.
But nothing had ever come of it.
Perhaps there was something wrong him, Misha had often thought. Something that was missed at a glance but easily seen under closer scrutiny. Whatever it was those men saw when they were eying him from the shadows, it seemed to evaporate as soon as he returned their interest. They would look at each other, eyes meeting eyes across whatever space lay between them... and then, always, the men would turn away.
Misha never understood what he was doing wrong. He waited, always waited, for some kind of signal or sign for what he was meant to do next, and yet he never received it. No suggestive tilt of the head, no clandestine hand gesture to wave him over. Nothing. There was always nothing. These men who looked at him – who wanted him only moments earlier – gave him absolutely no indication of what exactly it was they wanted him to do or say.
They ignored his further attempts at eye contact, and then eventually they left. Or Misha did, when he couldn't stand it any longer. He'd pay his bill and walk out, hoping in vain that one day one of those men might follow him out and explain in simple, easy to understand words what it was they wanted.
Misha knew what he wanted. It had taken him a long time to understand it, and then a longer time to admit it to himself, but he had lived long enough and seen enough hardship to acknowledge his own deepest, darkest desires.
He was attracted to men. Sexually and emotionally and romantically, in all the ways it was possible to be drawn to a person, and he had only ever felt such things towards other men.
He had been with women – many women, in fact – over the years in the misguided attempt to 'fix' himself. He had courted women and slept with them, spent years with them, very nearly married one for his mother's sake, but in his heart of hearts Misha had always known the truth about himself. It was only so long that he could continue living the lie.
Everything that he had ever had or tried to have with a woman, he wanted to have it with a man.
But those desires seemed destined to remain in the realm of fantasy. He was in his forties now, growing older with every passing day. If no one had wanted him when he was young and handsome then how could they want him now when he was old and fat and bald?
His current circumstances did not exactly foster the possibility of romance either. It was true that he lived and worked exclusively with seven other men – eight, if Pyro could be counted as such – far from the prying and judgmental eyes of the public. But even over the years, these had remained working relationships only. Friendships, certainly, but not what he truly wanted.
Misha's friendships with other men had always felt odd. He never knew when too much was too much, or when certain actions crossed the invisible lines that society had placed so firmly between them. How close was he allowed to stand without imposing? How long was a handshake or a hug allowed to continue without becoming too intimate or uncomfortable? How was he to know if an advance was being made toward him, or if was safe for him to make such an advance?
Most of the men on his team were easy enough to read. Sniper and Engineer adhered strictly to the perceived social rules about men and personal spaces. A friendly pat on the shoulder or a brief, one-armed hug was the most they would exchange even times of joy. They were the quickest to shift aside when someone sat next to them, ever careful that limbs such as elbows and knees never so much as bumped against each other. Scout and Demo were less careful. The Demoman slung his arm around people's shoulders at any opportunity, though Misha was certain much of that was the need for someone to lean on and help him balance. Scout was young. The rules of his generation were less harsh than those of his older fellows. He was comfortable enough to give full hugs, to rest his feet on another man's lap, to nudge and poke and grab and tease. Sometimes Misha wondered about Scout, actually. And Spy, who had always remained on the fringes of social intimacies, yet never seemed averse to it. But again, he wouldn't know where or how to begin such a conversation.
Pyro broke all the rules, if they were aware of them at all. Misha doubted it. Whoever or whatever the arsonist was behind that mask, he believed they would not fit in a box of any kind no matter how hard someone tried to stuff them into one.
Soldier had never touched him. In nearly two years of acquaintance, not once in Misha's memory had the American laid a hand on any of them except in violence.
And then there was Medic.
Of all his teammates, it was the Medic that Misha thought of truly as his friend. They worked well together on the battlefield, moving as one as they mowed their enemies down in droves and led the hardest pushes to victory for their team. Medic was there to heal his wounds and in turn Misha did his best to keep the man from harm.
They got along just as well during off hours. Medic was the only one of them who knew him as anything other than his title of 'Heavy.' Misha had trusted the doctor with his name, and though it was technically an accident it still stung slightly that the man had not returned the courtesy. But still it was Medic that Misha sought out for conversation or advice, or a game of chess after a long and stressful day. And it was because of the Medic that Misha cursed himself for being so obtuse, and so indecisive.
The doctor was a charming, eccentric, occasionally terrifying man with a dazzling smile and the habit of invading people's personal spaces to an alarming degree. He and Misha spent so much time together and were so close that Misha was almost certain the man felt something for him as well, but nothing had ever been expressed aloud. Medic was always grabbing his arms and hands, standing too close to him, looking him hard in the eyes during even the simplest conversations. He'd been doing this since their very first meeting, which only served to knock Misha even further off balance. Was this simply how Medic was, or did it make him special in some way?
He had never pushed the issue. Never leaned closer when Medic pressed their shoulders together, had never dared to close his hand around Medic's own or let their eyes remain locked for too long. No matter how badly he wanted to, he'd never allowed himself to close the small distance the doctor left between them,
Medic was a very attractive man. He was fit for his age and clean and always finely dressed, even when the blood on his clothes was thick enough to seep through to his skin. He and Misha were very different kinds of men. Not only that, but Misha had observed Medic's chummy, too-close-for-casual-comfort interactions with other teammates besides himself.
And of course, there were the whispered rumors about the good doctor's wife.
Misha wasn't going to humiliate himself by vying for the affections of a married man. If Medic truly had a pretty wife out there somehow, then what could he ever want with big, hairy old Misha?
It was a painful thing to do, but he had made the quiet decision to let the torch he carried for Medic to go out on its own. There was no point in fanning the flames that would only burn him in the long run.
Despite all of that, Misha also refused to let his friendship with the doctor fade away. He enjoyed the company and conversation just as much as he had before. True friendships were few and far between in his life and he wasn't so foolish as to throw a perfectly good one away over his own hurt, unspoken feelings.
He joined Medic in the recreation room/mess hall that evening on the grounds that the other man was determined to win back his honour on the chessboard. Misha had been on a winning streak for the last few weeks in a row, and Medic's frustration was clearly starting to show in his hunched shoulders and slanted, furrowed brow. He hadn't made a move in nearly five minutes.
“Is your turn, Doktor,” Misha rumbled, trying not to let his amusement show. He had to stifle a laugh when Medic shushed him harshly, pale eyes never leaving the checkered board.
Misha contented himself sit back in his chair and wait. Medic could beat him quite easily this match, if only he would apply strategy and think ahead in the long run, rather looking only for moves that would grant him an immediate edge. Planning and anticipating consequences for his action was not one of Medic's strong suits. In games and in life he was always pushing forward, always forcing progress for the sake of progress with scarcely a glance at his past mistakes. It was something Misha envied about him. To not be haunted, tormented by his follies. Although he knew the doctor well enough to see that he was not as unaffected as he pretended to be.
It was a cool Spring morning outside, raining softly against the high windows of the rec room. There were no battles left to fight that day. Despite the bloodshed that he knew would take place tomorrow, Misha felt completely at ease in the base in the company of his comrades. He leaned comfortably in his chair, hands folded casually across his stomach as he watched his closest friend struggle with the challenge at hand. Some of the others filtered in and out of the room, popping in to the kitchens or sitting to read under the good lighting. It was a calm day. A quiet day, and nothing was out of the ordinary.
And then Misha felt the eyes on him.
He ignored the feeling at first. It was likely Sniper or Demoman behind him, observing his game with the doctor. Perhaps taking bets on who would win. Misha paid it no mind.
When it persisted, he chanced a glance around.
The Sniper and Demoman were indeed behind him, sitting quietly side by side at the long dining table. The Scotsman was clearly assembling a bomb of some kind in the middle of the mess hall, using a pair of thin pliers to curl a length of wire into the desired shape. He appeared entirely focused on his work.
Sniper was similarly absorbed in whatever it was he was writing that was making him scowl so fiercely. Misha looked over just in time to watch him scratch out a line of text. His eyes were not the ones watching the chess match through yellow tinted lenses.
“Aha!” Medic exclaimed, snapping Misha's focus back to the board in front of him. The German doctor was smirking in devious satisfaction, an expression Misha adored to see. “Let's see what you make of that, mein Freund.”
Misha looked at the little checkered board, taking a moment to register the change that had taken place. Medic had moved his knight to G4, right into the path of Misha's white king. To take the piece, however, would have put his king in further jeopardy. He deliberated a moment, then moved the king out of harm's way back to G1.
Medic's knight quickly swooped in to capture his pawn at E3.
Heavy frowned. What was the doctor doing? He had left both his knight and his own queen in mortal danger depending on Misha's next move. Did he think Misha wouldn't see the opening provided to him?
After a moment of hesitation, Misha shifted his queen out of danger to D2.
The widening smirk on Medic's face told him immediately that he had mistake.
Misha watched with sharp cobalt blue eyes as the doctor reached forward with long, clever fingers and pinched that black knight between his knuckles, and swapped it neatly for Misha's bishop on G2.
Misha's eyebrows shot up.
He looked over the board once, and then again, to be sure that he was truly seeing things correctly. Medic was smiling like the cat who got the cream, and yet...
Misha moved his king forward a single square and took the knight. Medic responded by moving a pawn – which Misha immediately took. Knight to D4. And he still had no idea what the other man was getting at.
He'd been so wrapped in the flurry of activity on the chessboard that he'd almost forgotten about the feeling of being watched. The weight of the eyes on him now crept back into his sense as he pondered his next move, unsure exactly what brilliant strategy he was meant to be missing here. Medic had no poker face to speak of. He was smiling because he was certain of his victory, even though all that Misha could see was foolish, obvious mistakes.
He rubbed a hand over his broad chin, waiting to see what exactly Medic planned to do next. And as he sat, he took another chance to look around the room in search of the mysterious gaze that plagued him so strongly.
Misha looked out of the corner of his eye toward the door to the kitchen. He thought he might find someone there, peering around the corner for whatever purpose to watch him without his knowing. But there was no one.
Medic put his bishop on B7...
...directly into the path of Misha's king, again.
Misha saw the move. His eyes darted between the remaining pieces on the board and tried to put everything together, tried to follow the line of thinking and plan his next move with care, but the thoughts weren't coming together.
The eyes were still on him. He could feel them boring into his face, making the skin of his forehead itch in sympathy of the mock irritant. Misha scanned the room once more, looking over Medic's shoulders and over the top of his head, trying to find the eyes that vexed him.
“Heavy?” he heard the doctor ask, and heard the hint of the concern in his voice.
“Извините.”
Misha made the first move that popped into his head and took his king out of danger, shifting it back to F1. He sat back in his chair and frowned at the board for a moment longer, and then looked up.
Directly across from him, gleaming in the space over Medic's left shoulders, Misha found them.
The eyes were grey. He knew that, even from this distance. He couldn't truly see them from where their owner stood in the shadows, leaning against the wall beneath the high windows. Perhaps it was the light that prevented Misha from seeing him before. Perhaps the smoke that coiled from the observer's mouth had been thick enough to obscure the glimmer of his narrowed eyes on the other side of the room.
It was Spy that watched him.
“There.”
Misha's gaze dropped automatically to the board. He scrambled to remember how it had been before and to see what move he should make next. Then he realized how unnecessary, and impossible such a thing would be.
Medic had moved his black queen to D7. And Misha's white king, still sitting pretty on F1, had absolutely nowhere to go.
A laugh bubbled its way up Misha's throat as he realized the brilliance of what had happened. Medic had beaten him by playing his own expectation of the man's skill level against him. He knew what Misha believed he would do, so he had done the opposite and come out on top for it.
“Very clever, Doktor,” Misha told him, meeting the man's excited smile with one of his own. “You plan this very carefully.”
Medic was a man whose ego was easily inflated with even the lightest of praise, and Heavy delighted to watch it swell under his words. His breast puffed out in pride, a fanciful mimic of the doves he so doted on. Heavy wanted to tell him he was beautiful.
“I was worried I wouldn't quite get away with it,” the doctor said, his chest deflating slightly beneath his waistcoat. An almost sheepish expression crossed his long face as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the round little table they played their game on. “You seem quite distracted today, Herr Heavy. I fear that may have had more to do with my victory than my own personal cleverness.”
Truthfully, Misha did not entirely disagree with that assessment. He was distracted, and not paying as much attention as he typically would. While he certainly hadn't let Medic win on purpose it was likely he hadn't presented as much of a challenge as he was capable of under normal circumstances.
Misha's eyes flicked back over Medic's shoulder, searching for the ashen gaze that had haunted him and diverted his interest from the match.
But Spy was gone. Misha couldn't say with certainty whether he'd ever actually been there at all.
He turned his gaze back to Medic and smiled.
“Nyet, Doktor. I give my full attention to you, always.”