#oleksandrovych

[da-egg-carton]

MISHA AND TALIA AT THE AIRPORT ON MY HANDZ AND KNEES

my dears my loves my everythings

not big on backgrounds and i don’t want to try right now so they’re at the airport in spirit

[ocelotrevs]

There is an Undisputed Heavyweight Boxing Champion of the World.

HIs name is Oleksandr Oleksandrovych Usyk.

[dadsinsuits]

Ihor Terekhov

[thepastisalreadywritten]

It’s been a year since Russia invaded Ukraine, and the battle continues.

Military and civilian deaths and injuries on both sides have been estimated in the hundreds of thousands, and millions more Ukrainians have been displaced.

What set the stage for today’s conflict? Here’s a look back at the long, intertwined history of the contentious neighbors.

The two countries’ shared heritage goes back more than a thousand years to a time when Kyiv, now Ukraine’s capital, was at the center of the first Slavic state, Kyivan Rus, the birthplace of both Ukraine and Russia.

In A.D. 988, Volodymyr the Great, the pagan prince of Novgorod and grand prince of Kyiv, accepted the Orthodox Christian faith and was baptized in the Crimean city of Chersonesus.

From that moment on, Russian leader Vladimir Putin recently declared, “Russians and Ukrainians are one people, a single whole.”

Yet, over the past ten centuries, Ukraine has repeatedly been carved up by competing powers.

Mongol warriors from the east conquered Kyivan Rus in the 13th century.

In the 16th century, Polish and Lithuanian armies invaded from the west.

In the 17th century, war between the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and the Tsardom of Russia brought lands to the east of the Dnieper River under Russian imperial control.

The east became known as "Left Bank" Ukraine; lands to the west of the Dnieper, or "Right Bank," were ruled by Poland.

More than a century later, in 1793, right bank (western) Ukraine was annexed by the Russian Empire.

Over the years that followed, a policy known as Russification banned the use and study of the Ukrainian language, and people were pressured to convert to the Russian Orthodox faith.

Ukraine suffered some of its greatest traumas during the 20th century.

After the communist revolution of 1917, Ukraine was one of the many countries to fight a brutal civil war before being fully absorbed into the Soviet Union in 1922.

In the early 1930s, to force peasants to join collective farms, Soviet leader Joseph Stalin orchestrated a famine that resulted in the starvation and death of millions of Ukrainians.

Afterward, Stalin imported large numbers of Russians and other Soviet citizens—many with no ability to speak Ukrainian and with few ties to the region—to help repopulate the east.

These legacies of history created lasting fault lines. Because Eastern Ukraine came under Russian rule much earlier than western Ukraine, people in the east have stronger ties to Russia and have been more likely to support Russian-leaning leaders.

Western Ukraine, by contrast, spent centuries under the shifting control of European powers such as Poland and the Austro-Hungarian Empire — one reason Ukrainians in the west have tended to support more Western-leaning politicians.

The eastern population tends to be more Russian-speaking and Orthodox, while parts of the west are more Ukrainian-speaking and Catholic.

With the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, Ukraine became an independent nation. But uniting the country proved a difficult task.

For one, “the sense of Ukrainian nationalism is not as deep in the east as it is in west,” says former ambassador to Ukraine Steven Pifer.

The transition to democracy and capitalism was painful and chaotic. Many Ukrainians, especially in the east, longed for the relative stability of earlier eras.

"The biggest divide after all these factors is between those who view the Russian imperial and Soviet rule more sympathetically versus those who see them as a tragedy," says Adrian Karatnycky, a Ukraine expert and former fellow at the Atlantic Council of the United States.

These fissures were laid bare during the 2004 Orange Revolution in which thousands of Ukrainians marched to support greater integration with Europe.

On ecological maps, you can even see the divide between the southern and eastern parts of Ukraine—known as the steppes—with their fertile farming soil and the northern and western regions, which are more forested, says Serhii Plokhii, a history professor at Harvard and director of its Ukrainian Research Institute.

He says a map depicting the demarcations between the steppe and the forest, a diagonal line between east and west, bears a "striking resemblance" to political maps of Ukrainian presidential elections in 2004 and 2010.

Crimea was occupied and annexed by Russia in 2014, followed shortly after by a separatist uprising in the eastern Ukrainian region of Donbas that resulted in the declaration of the Russian-backed People’s Republics of Luhansk and Donetsk.

Today, the two countries find themselves in conflict yet again, fault lines that reflect the region's tumultuous history.

Portions of this article were originally published during the 2014 Crimean crisis. It has been updated to reflect current events.

[the-choir-inbox]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MISCHA!!! 🥳🥳🥳🎁🎁🎁🎁🎊🎊🎊🎊🎊🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉😘😘😘

Thank u all 4 the bday wishes :-) -Mischa

[the choir on tci may perpetually be the same age, it may not quite be august for them; but i suppose we could pretend, if only for a day. happy birthday, mischa oleksandrovych bachynsky!]

[wtwn-is-more-oceans]

lets get a piper and oleksandrovych sibling moment godbless

godbless

I hope u know how hard your son is to draw 👊💥👊💥👊💥

[4pplec0re]

mischa oleksandrovych drawing i did cuz i had him dye his hair in a roleplay server so he posted this on his insta

[enter-the-rickyverse]

pssstt… special request from @the-choir-inbox ….

i want to see my boy ricky bailey playing video games with misha oleksandrovych 😁😁😁😁 thank you oomf

i didn’t feel like cropping noel out 🙁

Here you go, friend!!

I gave them some Bad Egg merch

[harrietwritesstuff]

Title: And, all your blood in the water Chapter wordcount: 2,742 Chapter: 2/2 Notes: Thank you for all the lovely feedback about Ch 1! This is, I think the longest single fic I've written in a while and I've kind of enjoyed it. If you squint, I suppose this could be a prequel of sorts to Soloveiko has Landed.

A big thank you to @daria-autumn-girl who read various iterations of this and provided some pointers and ideas before it finished up as it is now. ♡

There is light suddenly, noise too - not just the endless, pounding rain. There are voices that sound faintly familiar - he recognises Oleksandr vaguely, a few others. There's someone beside him, it could be one of his team members or even a stranger; Maks can't tell. Whoever it is takes the weight from him. He tries to keep hold but his hands are numb and then, suddenly - it's enough; he is weightless, sinking down into the earth, his knees submerged into the mud. He is stopped by someone else's gentle hands, their strength.

His own is gone now, drained away. He did what he needed to - got them to safety. Got Vova to safety.

He sags forward into the loose embrace, allows whoever it is to lift him up.

“Maks?”

“President-” the words feel like grit in his mouth, his teeth chattering, breaking the syllables down into shards.

That was the weight.

Пане Президент. Volodymyr Oleksandrovych.

Vova.

His stomach flips.

“Need to-”

He needs to say something else but can't speak; his whole self is numb with shuddering cold, as though there is ice in his veins.

“Maks? It's alright. We've got him. Let's see to you, hm?”

“No-” the dull, blunted part of his brain that provides speech still somehow recognises that - he is collateral to all this, his job is to protect the President; he is the priority. That's what he needs to say.

“Don't. Not me. Him.”

It feels like some strange reversal of the words he has screamed in his nightmares. 

Don't. Not him. Me.

This can't be a nightmare then. It's real.

The voice in his ear has endless reserves of patience. 

“Listen to me; he's alright. We've got him. We've got the both of you now. Bogdan will look after Volodymyr- I will look after you. That's how this is going to work.”

His mind is too slow, too heavy, too cold to reply save for a faint hum of assent. He rests his head against the anonymous individual’s shoulder- listening vaguely.

“We'll take your vitals, then get you somewhere warm and safe where we can check you over properly.”

He's fine though. Just cold. Tired. Nauseous. His joints are painful in an oddly unspecific way. Everything aches. His back is sore and his ribs feel bruised, his ankle throbs uncomfortably, his knee too, just out of time with his heartbeat - a wholly disorientating situation; his body feels strangely disconnected.

He tries to say something but the words won't come, his face numb with cold. What does he need to say - what does he need to tell them? 

Vova’s height, his weight, his blood type, that he’s hurt - you need to help him. Leave me.

“Can you stand up for me?”

Wasn't he already standing? Maks tries to think, to re-engage with his body despite the roaring in his ears, the blurred world around him that seems to swing toward him and then away again. Oleksandr watches with a pang of distress as Maks struggles to pull away from his gentle grip and stand unaided. After a little while, he manages it, swaying dangerously, his face pinched and exhausted. His eyes are glassy as Oleksandr glances quickly over him. Aside from the dirt, his knuckles scraped raw; there are no obvious injuries. His gaze flickers briefly over the dark, sodden material of his combat trousers, his sweatshirt - it would be impossible to tell if he was bleeding.

“Maks? Are you bleeding?”

Numbly, he shakes his head.

“N-no. Vova- h-”

His words are lost, drowned out by the rain.

“Okay. Good. Thank you. You're upright and breathing - that's a good sign.”

As though he'd heard the words and felt somehow especially contrary, Maks takes one more swaying step and his knees go from under him, his muscles screaming in protest. He can't move any further, can't go on. He doesn’t know how to. Oleksandr holds him upright.

“Well. You're breathing. That's- something I suppose. What were you doing out here?”

He doesn't really anticipate a reply as he drapes Maksym's arm around his shoulders, one arm around his waist and half drags, half carries him to a waiting vehicle. The journey passes in a haze; his tiredness dragging him down and before he can ask about Volodymyr - the world flickers away from him, having managed only a slurred hum as an approximation of a syllable - not even a word. He sits slumped against Oleksandr’s shoulder, motionless, his breath a quiet wheeze. Someone wakes him once they stop moving, and he limps wherever he is gently guided - stumbling through a door, down a corridor; everything faceless somehow, white - bright. He doesn’t know where they are - only that it's safe. He doesn’t have to think now, and he is glad of it. All he knows is that his hands feel strange, utterly empty. Again and again he flexes his fist, nails digging into his palm. 

Someone unlaces his boots, helps him out of his soaking wet clothes, mumbling vague apologies as the material scrapes across his over-sensitive skin and he flinches. He doesn't care, hasn't the energy to. All he can think of is; 

Where's Vova? Why aren't you helping him? Why are you here, with me?

He stands in a scalding hot shower, feeling the water sluice over his raw skin, his breath catching sharply in his throat. The nausea has gone now at least, but his legs ache, every movement sending a dull shard of pain into him that drags through his trembling muscles. The bruises circling his ankle, snaking upward to his knee have already coalesced into a multitude of different shades of purple. He leans out a hand, presses a palm against the cold tiles to steady himself, his eyelids heavy. As he closes his eyes, he sees Vova before him; deathly pale, the jagged edges of the wound in his side, the blood. His stomach turns, his hands shaking against the tiles as he fights to steady his breathing, to stem the panic, the dread that rears its head again. Maksym stands in the shower for as long as he can bear to, until his legs almost give way, his skin red raw. Eventually his heart stops pounding, his hands stop shaking.

What feels like hours later, but could be minutes - his sense of time utterly skewed, he sits mutely in a blank, tired treatment room, clad in a borrowed pair of loose jogging bottoms, a t-shirt. He picks anxiously at the hem of it, fiddling with a loose thread, tugging at it until the thread snaps. He hears the door open, and glances up, feeling briefly as though he’s missed a step on the stairs. It is not who he had hoped for, instead, it’s Oleksandr, followed by a young man in a doctor’s uniform who gives his name as Vasyl.

He talks quietly to Maks, narrating his actions in a low, almost soothing tone. He applies salve to raw knuckles and blistered heels, takes his temperature and mumbles a quiet apology as he presses a cold, hard stethoscope against his chest, his back - listening to the slow rasp of his breathing. Oleksandr frowns vaguely as Maks bears being fussed at by Vasyl in silence. He looks warm at least, now he’s clad in dry clothes, even if they aren’t his own familiar uniform. Someone has found a blanket and draped it over his shoulders, and a ceramic mug of tea sits abandoned beside him, the steam forlornly curling into the air. He seems more himself, the colour back in his cheeks - which isn't saying much compared to the state they’d found him in.  The warmth of the clinic, the chatter and movement seems to have given him a little more energy - his movements now are less jagged and strange as he responds quietly to any questions.

“Someone knew-” Maksym’s eyes are half closed and his voice is hoarse, ignoring the shushing noise from Vasyl who is crouched at his feet, gently manipulating his ankle to figure out if it's broken or just sprained.

“What?”

“Fuck- that hurt! You asked why we were there. It was a front line trip. Organised. Cleared. But they knew we were there-”

Even though his words are slow, each one of them requiring effort, Oleksandr's blood runs cold.

“You mean-”

“I don't kn- will you stop that!” He opens his eyes properly to scowl and rasp his displeasure at Vasyl who frowns back.

“Your right knee and ankle-”

“Sprained. Could have figured that out by the delightful array of swollen, technicolour bruising without needing to wrench my foot off-” Maks glares down at his tormentor who slinks away, muttering about a knee support, some painkillers. He rubs a hand through his hair, wincing as the movement drags at his shoulder. He sits for a moment, frowning.

Everything aches terribly and he'd very much like to lie down. His head throbs. He sighs.

“I don't know how. Or who. But they knew we'd be there. The trips are always-” Maks hops off the treatment table, not bothering to hide a rush of swear words as the movement sends a shuddering spike of pain up his leg. He waves away a helping hand from Oleksandr and limps to where his trousers are folded, now clean and dry. He retrieves his phone, stabbing irritatedly at the broken screen before he drops it back from where he’d gathered it.

“Fucks sake. Look, the trips are always- kept quiet. Just me, a handful of others from the team know when and where we're going-”

He looks carefully at Oleksandr who blinks back.

“So- you think someone-”

“Ratted us out. Or there's a mole. Someone. It wasn't dumb luck that they got us. I don’t think.”

Maks rubs a hand over his face. All of a sudden, the thought of it is sickeningly insurmountable; as though, no matter what he does, how hard he tries - there might be a day when his best is not enough. Or maybe it was just that- dumb luck? They were just in the wrong place at the wrong time; the one thing he could never predict. His mind flickers, stutters over the idea until it coalesces into something too large, too all-encompassing.

He looks tired again, wan, his gaze faded to the middle distance.

“Why don't you get some rest? I'll get you back to your digs.”

“No. I need to see-”

Vasyl bustles back in.

“Right. Your own clothes which I’m sure you’ll be glad of. Then we’ll find a brace for your knee and get you some painkillers. You'd do well to stay off your right leg for now, get some rest, keep-”

“Where's the President?” Maksym snaps the question, ignoring how it scrapes against his raw throat as he towers over Vasyl in a manner that would have been mildly alarming were he not currently clad in a t-shirt a size too small. Unperturbed at being interrupted, he hands Maksym his own t-shirt and sweatshirt - watching with a raised eyebrow as Maks pulls them on, wincing slightly before emerging a little ruffled but certainly warmer.

“Where's Volodymyr?” he feels like an oddly stuck record, as though no-one is actually listening to what he’s asking.

“He’s fine.”

“Not what I asked. Where is he?”

“Getting the treatment he ne-”

Maksym recognises evasion when he hears it and his stomach drops.

“Fine. If you won’t tell me that, how is he at least?”

The young man blinks, pushing his glasses up his nose. Maksym resists the urge to shake him.

“He’ll be fine. Just a little-” 

Frustrated with the lack of discernible information, Maks can't bear to hear much more, limping heavily out of the room and down the faceless corridor. It isn’t panic in his stomach, or at least that’s what he tells himself; it’s the same, dull, driving need that kept him going before that drags him onward now. He needs to see Volodymyr. Every room he tries does not yield what he wants - there are storerooms, empty treatment areas, doctor's offices with mildly bemused occupants as Maks slams the door closed. It becomes a sisyphean effort as desperation floods his tired movements; his steps growing slower as the hurt grows more savage, threatening to engulf him entirely, each door he closes whittling away at the hope he cradles in his heart.

The last room down the corridor has a window beside it, the blinds half drawn - just open enough to see inside. Maksym stops short, his heart thumping in his throat, his hand reaching out to rest against the wall, to shore himself up against the pain in his leg, the nerves clenched, his breath unsteady. He takes a quiet breath in and chances a look. The lights are dim at least, nothing horribly clinical about it, instead it’s almost gentle. Vova sits facing the window, his features in shadow, hands folded in his lap. There’s a pad of clean, white dressing taped against his ribs, moving slightly with the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. That one simple movement, quiet and insistent is the most beautiful thing Maksym has ever seen.

“Maks?” Oleksandr’s voice is soft, gentle almost, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

He doesn’t, can’t move - his heart stuck somewhere in his throat. He is torn between going inside the room; to fill the gaping void in his chest, to fill the emptiness of his hands, and leaving Vova be; giving him a moment of quiet. 

“Mate? Let's get you home, eh?”

How can he explain, to Oleksandr, to anyone - that home isn���t a place for him now? It’s wherever Volodymyr is; in the depths of a rain drenched forest, his exhausted muscles screaming for relief - in the back of a car, bouncing over potholes, watching as the sun hits Vova’s eyes and turns them gold. Even just watching the early morning sunrise with him over Khreschatyk street, palms warmed by a cup of coffee, heart warmed by a quiet, genuine smile that he likes to think, to hope, is just for him.

He sighs quietly and turns away. This time, he lets himself lean against Oleksandr as they make the slow journey back out to the car. They drive back to Kyiv in silence.

Maksym has left his heart behind him.

A week later, in the gloom of his office, Vova watches Maks carefully; his tired, drawn face, the uneven limping gait that dogs his steps.

He looks drained.

“Maks?”

“Sir?”

“I think- you should go-”

He doesn't have a chance to explain himself, to say anything further before Maks cuts in.

“Sir, I-” He sounds stricken. “I don't- I didn't-”

He stumbles over his words as they come out faster than he meant them to, not quite thinking properly. Nights of broken sleep from either his aching bones or the whine of the sirens; the throbbing hurt of his knee and ankle, and the driving miserable slog of their awful journey through the trees have left him off kilter. Every time he closes his eyes, he can feel the rain on his skin, Vova’s blood under his fingernails.

His brain feels as though it's full of fog.

Why does Volodymyr want him gone? Does he think- surely not? 

“I wanted- I wanted to stay with you till- I don't understand-” to his horror, his voice quivers on the last syllable - almost pathetically wounded.

“I know, Maks. I know.”

Vova’s voice is full of nothing but endless patience.

“You're exhausted.”

“But-”

He tries to shore himself up; to argue that he doesn't need rest - that he's fine as long as Volodymyr is - but a sudden change in topic renders him mute. 

“You held me - didn't you?”

“What-” He fumbles with the sudden change of pace, blinking owlishly.

“All those miles. All that way in the rain and the mud and not once did you let go-”

He strides forward, takes Vova's face in his hands

"as if I'd have done anything else. I love you."

He is rooted to the floor, does not move to touch Volodymyr. Instead Maks nods mutely, shoving his shaking hands into his pockets, not sure where this will lead, his heart thumping. He watches silently as Volodymyr presses a hand briefly against his ribs and the image lingers behind his eyes, burnt onto his retinas, bloodied gauze, the slack weight of Vova in his arms and his stomach turns.

Both of them are silent, until -

“You've- you've carried me through so much-”

Vova's voice shakes. They both ignore it.

“You've more than earned a break. Please, Maks. Go. Rest.”

“I dont want to be-”

“I just ask one thing of you. Come back to me- when you're better. Promise?”

Maksym looks at those wide brown eyes, soft and gentle - beseeching - and knows he would do anything this man asked him without question. The words that he longs to say sit dormant in his mouth.

I love you-

What he says is;

“I promise.”

[als-notebook]

one dance

Mischa becomes bold, and offers Noel a dance. (I don’t know what kind of event they’re at, I just wanted them to dance together)

Mischa Oleksandrovych Bachinski stood at the party with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall casually. He wore a collared shirt and a dark blue tie, black dress pants, and black boots. His blazer was tied around his waist messily. He couldn’t quite remember what the formal party was even for, but he didn’t care to remember. All he knew is that he was required to go. Frankly, he was a bit annoyed. He didn’t really want to be here. But alas, here he was.

Mischa glanced casually to his left to a familiar face. It was Noel Oscar Gruber, who stood fidgeting with his hands. He wore his hair neatly done, as per usual, but unlike his typical fashion, he sported a black and red suit, neatly ironed out. He had thrifted it a week prior, Mischa knew, but you could hardly tell if it wasn’t for the mismatched shades of red of his tie and blazer.

Noel looked nervous, or perhaps a bit anxious, Mischa observed. After a few seconds of Mischa studying the boy, he looked over, meeting his eyes. Noel gave Mischa a friendly, sweet smile that made his stomach do all sorts of flips.

Mischa had suspected he might be developing a crush on Noel for a while now. He had tried to ignore it, but once he discovered his bisexuality, he knew for sure that it had to have been more than just a friend thing. He didn’t want to ruin what they had. So as he did with most things, he kept it to himself.

By now, Mischa was full-on staring at Noel. Noel waved a hand in front of his face. “You okay, Misch?” Misch. It was a simple nickname, but one he cherished every time he heard it. He would let Noel’s voice linger in his mind for as long as he could. He tried to swat the feeling away.

“Yeah. I am good,” he replied slowly. “I just… I thought you looked nice.” Mischa felt a bit daring tonight. A few compliments wouldn’t hurt, right? And he really did think he looked nice. Noel chuckled, picking at his chipped nail polish. “Ahh… Well, I would have chosen something a bit more… myself, I guess. But you know how it is.” Mischa did know what the boy meant—His mother was kind, but she tended to get worried about Noel. She didn’t want his self-esteem ruined by some immature teenagers. But little did she know, she was hurting Noel by not letting him express himself more than he ever would have been hurt by those teens making fun of it. He had trouble saying no to her, even then. Noel probably would have preferred an outfit a bit more extravagant. More unique. More… Noel.

“Well,” Mischa started, “I think the suit looks good on you.” Noel’s face flushed crimson and he smiled at Mischa even wider. Noel looked away, back to the crowd of tens under the dim, blue light. Mischa couldn’t help but smile at him, amused by his reaction. Noel looked so beautiful tonight, he thought. God, why wouldn’t these feelings go away? The comforting silence between the two lingered for a few moments that felt like eternity. A lovely, fuzzy eternity that Mischa never wanted to end.

“I wish I had someone to dance with,” Noel said casually, breaking the silence. Mischa took an abnormally shaky breath. His gaze finally left Noel, turning to the crowd, instead. Several couples had started to dance with each other. The songs became slower. The teens had become quieter.

“Maybe we can dance. Together,” Mischa said softly, his voice cracking in an uncharacteristically nervous tone. Noel glanced back at him. The lights turned red now, highlighting his warm brown eyes. They almost shimmered like sweet red wine.

“You would dance with me?” Noel asked, turning his body towards Mischa. 

“If you want to,” Mischa stuttered out. Was his accent a little more obvious, or was it just him? Did Noel also feel his blood rushing to his face so fast he might faint?

Noel smiled at him. A sweet smile, as if coated in honey. One that might make Mischa sick if he took it in all at once. His body was turned toward Noel, now, but he looked away, casually. He brought his hand to the back of his neck, which was cool from sweat. Mischa took his hand off of it, wiping it on his pant leg. “I’d love to dance with you. I didn’t know you could dance,” Noel said, a teasing tone in his voice. Mischa wore a crooked smile.

“Hah… Yes. My mother taught me.” When Mischa spoke of his mother, he usually had a sad tone to his voice. Tonight, he simply smiled, reminiscing. “That’s sweet,” Noel replied, tilting his head and studying Mischa’s face. Mischa looked back at him, once again meeting his eyes. Mischa held out his right hand to Noel, smirking playfully. “Shall we?”

Noel put his hand to his chest, grinning. “What a gentleman!” The other boy took Mischa’s hand, and Mischa pulled him closer. He put his left hand gently around Noel’s waist. Noel reached up, putting his right hand on Mischa’s shoulder. Noel looked at Mischa with an expression that could only be described as admiration. Mischa looked back at him longingly, as they began to step to the rhythm of the music. The lights changed to a lovely shade of lavender.

Occasionally, Mischa would let go of Noel’s waist and lift his hand in the air, prompting him to do a spin. When he turned back to Mischa, he fell right back into his hands, as if a puzzle, finally complete. Mischa couldn’t keep his eyes off of Noel. And it seemed neither could Noel keep his eyes off of Mischa.

Their sweet moment quickly became bitter at the sound of a boy muttering something under his breath.

Noel’s loving gaze shifted to a horrified one. He was like a deer in headlights. Noel looked over at the boy, still holding Mischa’s hand with his other hand on his shoulder. Mischa looked at Noel, and then the boy, confused. He had heard him whisper something, but he couldn’t quite make it out. 

Now, Mischa noticed that several other couples were staring at him and Noel as if they had two heads. He looked puzzled and confused. What could possibly be wrong with this? Noel looked around, almost in a panicked or embarrassed state. The normally confident boy suddenly seemed so… self conscious. Mischa looked at him, concerned. “Are you okay?” Noel didn’t reply to him, but rather addressed the third boy. “What did you just call me?”

The boy scoffed and rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to his friends. But he still glared at them briefly. Noel’s eyebrows furrowed, and he bit his bottom lip, looking back at Mischa. His eyes sparkled with dozens of emotions–some kind of mix of horror, humiliation, embarrassment, sadness, anger… Mischa’s eyes locked on his, soft and empathetic, even though he didn’t really understand what was going on. “Are you okay?” Mischa repeated, tightening his grip on Noel’s hand. “What did he say?” Noel frowned, his own grip loosening. “He called us–” Noel began, his voice quickly getting caught in his throat. Tears welled up in the other boy’s eyes, and he slipped away from Mischa, quickly leaving the room. “Noel?” Mischa said, defeated. His arms dropped to his sides, and he stared at the direction Noel left from, not really knowing what to do. He turned to look at the boy and his friends, frankly pissed off; “Fuck you, asshole.” He flipped them off, and they laughed at him mockingly as he walked away, unbothered by their extra torment. 

Mischa found Noel right outside, away from the crowds in the dark. He was crying. Mischa frowned, and set a hand on his shoulder, letting him know he was there. Startled, Noel sucked in a breath, turning to face Mischa. Despite his tears, Mischa still couldn’t help but find Noel so, so beautiful under the bright moonlight.

Noel sniffled and wiped his tears away with his sleeve. “I didn’t think you would follow me.” Mischa smiled sheepishly, almost amused Noel would think such a thing. “Of course I followed you,” he said, “I would follow you to the ends of the Earth.”

Noel stared at him, doe-eyed. The poet seemed shocked by Mischa’s words, almost befuddled he’d come up with something so romantic. “...That’s beautiful,” he remarked, now turning his body toward Mischa, his gaze still locked on him. Mischa brought his hand up to touch his neck, his face dusted a light vermillion. “It is true.”

The poet smiled finally, cocking his head. He reached out to Mischa, grabbing his wrist and sliding his hand into his. Mischa simply let it happen, truthfully becoming a bit flustered. He stared at Noel with all of the love in the world, as if they were the only two people on the planet now.

“I’m sorry I acted like that,” Noel said, a little embarrassed, “it wasn’t even that big of a deal. I guess it was just… the breaking point.” Mischa chuckled, bringing his hand up to swipe a tear from the other boy’s cheek. “Do not even worry about it. I get it.”

“When did you get so sweet?” Noel questioned with a smirk, teasingly. Mischa rolled his eyes playfully, and replied, “Something about poems and red roses.” Noel smiled even wider, ear to ear, his face looking awfully rosy. He looked at Mischa for a moment, and then came closer to him, pressing a kiss onto his cheek.

Mischa grinned like a little boy. He felt relieved, refreshed. For once, he felt like he wasn’t alone anymore.

[harri-etvane]

That is the sweetest thing oh my god 🥹

I do not need to write a three part fic about Vova in his glasses. I do not need to write a three part fic about Vova in his glasses--

I'm writing a three part fic about Vova in his glasses ok they're just too cute ;;

[da-egg-carton]

scratches chin. tci Misha and noel ? 😵 please

i don’t know what misha is explaining, but he seems very passionate about it

[panimoonchild]

Value your life, the best of us pay the highest price for it

On May 17, Lieutenant Colonel Denys Oleksandrovych Vasylyuk, Chief of Staff, First Deputy Commander of the Aviation Squadron, pilot of the 831st Tactical Aviation Brigade, was killed while performing a combat mission.

Since the beginning of the full-scale invasion, Denys has flown dozens of combat missions and is a full holder of the Order of Courage.

"Fearless and unbreakable. Denys loved his family, his life, his service, his own, our Ukrainian sky…" the 831st Tactical Aviation Brigade wrote on its Facebook page. Pilots do not die, they remain in the sky forever. Eternal honor and memory 🕯

Young and bright personalities die, while monsters of the modern world live to be 60 and even 80+. I am comforted by the news of the death of the Iranian president. I'll share something funny.

Now back to our reality.

You can help by supporting a fundraiser for electronic warfare equipment for the electronic warfare unit that protects Kharkiv and the region. A little less than 300 thousand UAH are left before the fundraiser closes. Support the right cause!

[capturedukrainians]

Region: Kherson Settlement: Kakhovka Full name: Skotar Oleg Oleksandrovych Date of birth: 20.11.1967 City of last residence: Pankeevska 118/121 Circumstance: They were taken by the Russian military

[the-jam-to-the-unicorn]

I will never get over the fact that VOLODYMYR OLEKSANDROVYCH ZELENSKYY CAN'T LOOK AT HIS WIFE WITHOUT FALLING IN LOVE ALL OVER AGAIN AND SHOWING IT ON HIS FACE

WE STAN A HUSBAND IN LOVE AND SHOWING IT TO THE WORLD

[mariacallous]

The Cabinet of Ministers of Ukraine dismissed all the country’s deputy defense ministers – including Hanna Maliar – during a meeting on Monday, Sept. 18.

Taras Melnychuk, the government's representative in the Verkhovna Rada, confirmed that this decision affected six deputy heads of the Ministry of Defense and the state secretary of the ministry.

Who exactly was fired?

The government dismissed:

Volodymyr Gavrylov – Deputy Minister of Defense of Ukraine

Rostyslav Zamlynsky – Deputy Minister of Defense of Ukraine

Hanna Maliar – Deputy Minister of Defense of Ukraine

Denis Sharapov – Deputy Minister of Defense of Ukraine

Andriy Shevchenko – Deputy Minister of Defense of Ukraine for European Integration

Vitaly Deinega – Deputy Minister of Defense of Ukraine for Digital Development, Digital Transformations, and Digitalization

"The Cabinet of Ministers of Ukraine also dismissed Vashchenko Kostyantyn Oleksandrovych from the post of State Secretary of the Ministry of Defense of Ukraine," Melnychuk wrote on his Telegram channel.

Why did the dismissals take place?

It is important to note that these dismissals are a standard procedure that occurs whenever the head of the ministry changes. Subsequently, the government either reassigns the dismissed deputy ministers or appoints new ones.

The former head of the ministry, Oleksiy Reznikov, was recently replaced by Rustem Umerov, triggering the latest development.

On Sept. 6, People's Deputy Oleksiy Goncharenko reported via Telegram that three deputy ministers of defense had submitted their resignations even before the appointment of Umerov.

According to Goncharenko, statements were submitted by Volodymyr Gavrylov, Vitaly Deinega, and Andriy Shevchenko. However, Deinega denied his resignation and announced that he would cooperate with the new minister.

"The new minister and I will resolve our differences, and then I will provide a comprehensive update. I believe that we both have expectations from each other, and it will take time for us to align our strategies," Deinega noted on Facebook.

But adding to the intrigue, Ukraiinska Pravda reported on Monday lunchtime that all deputies have written applications for resignation voluntarily after the request of Umerov and will not return to these positions.

A source close to the Ministry of Defense said “a complete update is underway.”

Umerov's reaction

In his Facebook post, Minister of Defense Umerov, said: "Reboot. We've started. We're working as usual. The rest of the news – later. Right now, the focus is on Rammstein."

Kyiv Post also inquired about the possibility of reappointing any of the dismissed ministers to which the press secretary of Umyerov responded: "There will be news on this matter later."