Crisis Of War

{ LII }

{TRIGGER WARNING! EXPLICIT CONTENT! DO NOT READ IF YOU CAN'T HANDLE IT, THANK YOU! Otherwise, enjoy!} 

I hear Nikolai struggling on the other side of the door and knock, waiting for him to let me in. 

'Who is it?' He asks, the sounds stopping instantly. 'It's me.' 

He moves around again and I can hear glass shatter on the other side of the door, before I hear a loud thud. 

I open the door and look inside, noticing that he's struggling to get back on the bed. 

And the glass was a bottle of water, something he's not drinking. What he is drinking though, looks a lot more like whiskey. 

'What the fuck are you doing?' I ask as I move closer to him. 

The strong smell of whiskey fills my nostrils and I frown at him, waiting for an explanation. 'I'm just having a drink, can you help me up the bed.' 

Since he's still struggling to climb his big ass on the bed, I help him a little before I take the bottle from his grip and place it on his nightstand. 

'You shouldn't be drinking.' He rolls his eyes and tries to get a little comfortable. 'I don't really give a fuck.' 

'I can tell.' I mutter, walking to the other side of his bed, 'You might as well pull the stitches out and bleed to death.' 

He chuckles softly, staring at the stitches on his leg. 

Three lines running up his leg. 

'I might as well, right?' He jokes, making me wonder if he's legit or not. 'So what brings you to my humble abode, Neveah?' 

I can tell he's drunk and I wonder why no one watched over him, or how he even got the whiskey in the first place. 

'I have a question and I need you to be honest.' He nods and pats the empty space on his bed. 

I stay put though, not moving an inch as he slightly looks up at me. 'I've never lied to you before, have I?' 

Nikolai has never lied to me, at least not that I know of, but I have a feeling he might lie about this. 

'Did you say something to piss Tiago off?' He stills again, simply staring at his stitches for a couple of seconds, before he sighs deeply. 'Did he tell you I did?' 

'He barely wants to look at me.' 

'So you came to me.' He scoffs and tries to move his leg so that he can sit differently. But he quits when he realizes it's not going to work. 

'What's that supposed to mean?' I ask, wondering where his bitchy tone is coming from. 

'I've been shot three times and I've been operated on for over an hour, yet everyone seems to care more about Leonardo, who barely has a scratch-'