#the beginning must've been atrocious concerning their communication

[kiruuuuu]

Kapkan/Fuze oneshot in which they resolve an argument in their own way. (Rating M/E, fluff + not very explicit smut, ~4.5k words) - written for @yovelie! Thank you so, so much for commissioning me again, I’m enjoying your requests immensely ❤ Find my commission info here!

This has also been posted to AO3! You can read it here :)

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Shuhrat gets assigned a new room. Not much changes, except that he doesn’t need to hide his cigarettes anymore since none of his new comrades smoke and the little thief with the lisp has been reassigned. His new roommates are improvements in some regards and worse in others, neither of them snore but one of them has a habit of getting up late, risking the ire of their superior, one talks too loudly and another has a buddy system going on with someone outside who hides candy and naughty pictures on the outskirts of their training grounds in return for a little cash. Shuhrat gladly trades one or two of his smokes for chocolate and biscuits despite them being worth less and turns down any other offers. He has no use for the other wares his roommate provides.

And then there’s the guy with the shockingly bright eyes. Sometimes they’re aqua blue, sometimes a pale grey, and Shuhrat spends too much time figuring out their real colour.

The guy is not dim – can’t be, not with how much respect he seems to have earned, not with how long he’s survived in Spetsnaz so far without suffering any major injury, has gone a few years and his track record is allegedly excellent. And still, his equipment malfunctions surprisingly often.

Making a show out of sighing, explaining the basics and looking down on him is beneath Shuhrat, so he silently shows him how to maintain his guns, demonstrates simple repairs with an air of irritation and maybe slams the fixed piece onto the table separating them with a little too much force. The man possesses the opposite of a green thumb for electronics and the likes, it’s as if he produces his own magnetic field designed to destroy and whenever he’s entrusted with anything, he inevitably ends up turning to Shuhrat for aid.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t have time for this. He could be sleeping instead of messing with the tiny radio but his pride won’t allow it despite how exhausted he is most of the time. In climbing ranks quickly and proving himself, he’s hoping to bring honour to himself, his family and his new home country – and fixing someone else’s mistakes isn’t really part of it. And yet he stays up late to dull his favourite screwdriver on this stupid transistor radio just so he can present it to its clueless owner the next day and collect his well-earned payment of crinkling skin, a flash of teeth, and sparkling green or grey or hazel.

Sometimes, they spar. He’s banned the other man from using knives after bleeding through his thick jacket one day and since then, it’s become routine, a quick gaze and a nod enough of a signal for them to slink away and throw each other onto mats or the soft earth outside, taking no longer than fifteen minutes to vent their pent-up aggression and return to their daily duties. Once, they find a stash of their roommate’s under some shrubbery and decide to leave most of it out of goodwill, though piercing eyes lock onto a chocolate bar which ends up snapped in half and quickly wolfed down by the both of them. Neither of them pays the pictures any heed.

When he comes back from a week-long training trip, he mockingly asks a different colleague about grey-blue-eyes’ gadgets self-destructing without him there to repair them.

All he receives is a short laugh and the meaningful reply: “They only do that when you’re around.”

~*~

Fuze wakes up with five minutes left to get ready. He examines the large, empty bed, throws a glance at the alarm clock and decides to be reasonably grumpy for the rest of the day. As a shower is out of the question, he goes through a slimmed-down version of his morning ritual and devours the still-warm pancakes he finds in the kitchen. Since his clothes have already been laid out – and it’s a tighter shirt than what he’d normally choose, but at this point he can’t be picky –, he manages not to be late after all, arriving at base just in time.

Just in time for Kapkan to bitch at him, too.

“Did you drop your brush down the toilet? What happened to your hair?” Kapkan seems offended at how Fuze’s hairstyle is going to reflect badly on him, as if their CTU was a family and he’d failed one of his children’s behavioural education.

“I overslept”, he states simply as it’s the truth but somehow it makes the other man flush in anger.

“Well, it’s not my fault you can’t set your alarms properly”, he snaps and earns odd looks from the other three Spetsnaz who seem taken aback at his foul mood.

“No”, Fuze replies politely. “It isn’t. And no one implied it was.”

Kapkan turns even redder and storms away dramatically as he seems to find no more wisdom to bestow upon Fuze, leaving the rest of his CTU to look after him, puzzled.

“Is he alright?”, Glaz wants to know, concern shining through his features. Fuze decides it’s best not to answer as he doesn’t want to poke the bear any more than necessary, and collects his lunch which has been placed on top of his locker for later consumption.

.

Around noon, he gets asked for the fourth time.

“What’s up with Maxim?”, Mira yells through half the workshop as usual and turns quite a few heads in doing so, attracting everyone’s attention without being aware – Fuze is unsure how she does it as every other gaze he notices lingering on him burns uncomfortably on his skin and reminds him of the times he had to present anything in class, stumbling over unfamiliar words and hearing the usual boys snicker at his expense. Kapkan once called him allergic to attention jokingly, adding how it was typical for someone from Uzbekistan. When Fuze told him it was the smarter choice to be invisible as an Uzbek in Russia, he grew quiet. It took him a week to apologise.

At this point, Fuze has grown tired of the question. He supposes it’s fair enough, seeing as Kapkan and he are usually inseparable, huddling in a corner while they’re on their phones or occasionally lost in a topic, never more than a few metres apart in the workshop, and definitely not actively avoiding each other. It’s no wonder everyone has noticed though he wishes he weren’t the focus of the resulting curiosity. “We had a disagreement”, he clarifies for everyone’s benefit and hopes this ensures no more nosiness. The Spaniard isn’t as persistent as Ela is, at least normally, and she seems appeased with the answer.

“What about?”

Well. Not everyone is.

“I am not at liberty to say”, he addresses Rook diplomatically and doesn’t miss the raised eyebrows following his statement. Maybe he should’ve worded it differently – this will only pique everyone’s interest even more and the last thing he needs is literally all of their colleagues scrutinising their interactions, watching them out of the corners of their eyes. Capitão already noticed them bickering over a dessert recently, he doesn’t need to add to potential suspicions.

True to his fears, the Frenchman turns to his small group and murmurs: “Did he accidentally disclose a state secret or what?”

Before he can dispel this notion, however, Kapkan bursts into the room. He presumably came straight from physical training as he’s still sweaty, and despite all occupants of the workshop openly staring at him, his eyes snap to Fuze immediately.

It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done in his life not to let his gaze run over Kapkan’s form, bask in the damp t-shirt clinging to muscles visible through the slightly translucent fabric nor dwell on the messy wet locks. He might’ve gotten away with it (as everyone else’s attention is directed towards the same target his own is) were it not for Kapkan’s impatient expression. Wordlessly, Fuze reaches for his bag, pulls out the extra water bottle and the towel he packed this morning and tosses both towards the man who looks more akin to the animals he likes to hunt than his normal, civilised self. Fuze feels a prickling at the back of his skull. An itch with which he’s intimately familiar.

Kapkan nimbly catches the objects despite his bad throw (and this only serves to heighten the tingling), turns on his heel and vanishes once more, in his wake leaving Fuze a little short of breath and unable to concentrate on his current collaboration with the taciturn Japanese man whose direct style of communication he appreciates.

For a lack of a better option, he starts gathering all the equipment Kapkan will need once he’s showered and changed and piles it up on his usual table.

.

Standing on the threshold of his flat, Kapkan reminds him more of a feral cat than ever – he’s always moved with such grace when he’s uneasy, as if anxiousness triggered slumbering feline instincts in him. Fuze prefers it when he’s comfortable enough to let his guard down, to stubbornly keep throwing rubbish at the bin until he finally lands it but he can’t deny enjoying Kapkan’s proximity when he’s charged like this, tension in his muscles and ready to pounce at any time. Especially when, on very rare occasions, he reluctantly allows Fuze to pet him nonetheless.

“You’re early”, Fuze informs him. He’d pair it with a smile but he’s still miffed and doesn’t bother to hide it.

“Are you cooking?” Kapkan is mirroring his disapproval and a scowl is pulling on the corners of his mouth.

“Salmon and baked potatoes.” The frown dissipates. It’s one of Kapkan’s favourites and Fuze knows it. “You made breakfast and lunch, so I thought it fair if I made dinner.”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t get up on time”, comes a hostile response apropos of nothing.

Ah.

That’s what this is.

Fuze fights the urge to assure Kapkan again that no one claimed otherwise and instead steps aside so Kapkan can enter his abode which is really their abode as the other man’s apartment is as much of a front as Blitz’ occasional assurances of not wanting any more sweets. It’s believable when met with no scrutiny but ultimately serves no purpose other than to project outward for the benefit of their colleagues.

Now he reads it in Kapkan’s body language, too, a slight duck when the Russian passes by, bright eyes darting around, conscious footfalls. He leaves the man to it and enters the living room, pushes the coffee table aside, moves the couch, picks up some dirty dishes and places them next to the sink in the kitchen. They include a butter knife he prefers to be out of reach. The potatoes will take a while so he can wait with the salmon, meaning he has at least a quarter of an hour of free time.

Convenient.

Blocking the first three punches half-heartedly thrown at him once he’s back in the other room is comparably simple, withstanding the leg sweep which follows isn’t – and yet he manages. One of his jabs lands on Kapkan’s ribs but he suffers a graze on his cheekbone for it, and now that the niceties are over, he follows an impulse and goes for the crotch. His world tilts and the cream-coloured rug is suddenly his sky instead of the ground; his ankle slams against the edge of the table and causes a painful sensation of white noise in his toes. He should’ve known better.

“You should’ve known better”, Kapkan deadpans and takes a few steps back to catch his breath. “I told you it would never work again.”

He did – more than two years ago. Groaning quietly, Fuze rises and shakes out his foot cautiously until he can feel his sole again, pointedly ignoring the small smirk on Kapkan’s face.

When they’re back at it, the Russian takes care not to move too much and pretends they’re wrestling in cramped conditions so Fuze doesn’t need to strain his aching leg. He gets the air knocked out of him several times and manages to make Kapkan stumble, trades a knee to his guts for an elbow in Kapkan’s sternum and laughs when they briefly hold on to each other to not lose their balance. They give as good as they get and yet Kapkan’s features are soft, eyes gleaming mischievously when he finally fells Fuze with one swoop.

Giddiness has taken over both of them at this point, relief bubbling up with nowhere to go, so they roll over the floor, haphazardly throwing limbs everywhere until Kapkan hits his head on the radiator and then his teeth are on Fuze’s throat, and at least one of them lets out a low growl. A button rips, callouses brush over the bumps of Fuze’s abs, there’s unruly hairs tangled in his eyelashes and a warm weight grounding him. Kapkan becomes the space between his hands, a writhing and squirming mass whose undulations resonate with Fuze’s quickening heartbeat so he adapts, tugs and shoves and yanks and only stops once all the skin is available to him.

The spots where he got hit still ache and the scorching tip of a tongue only inflames them further, seeking them out with enviable precision and pressing against soon-to-be bruises, so he returns the favour with fingertips and earns a variety of primal noises in return, rumbling against his own chest. Another struggle breaks out and this time Fuze is victorious, ends up on top and snarls at the hand pulling on his hair. His own hands are occupied, one used to prop himself up so his mouth can seek out its counterpart and the other between their slick bodies, leaving Kapkan’s to roam freely and weaken his focus with every erogenous zone they relentlessly attack. Leftover energy crackles between them and Fuze begins rolling his hips, thrusting into his grip and sliding his hard shaft over Kapkan’s. The cavern of his mouth houses the first few moans until Kapkan breaks free and releases several into their living space, echoing off the walls and sweet to Fuze’s ears.

He needs to see. He cranes his neck so he can drink everything in, the sight of two torsos glistening with sweat, two blunt heads rubbing together, strong thighs, an abundance of marks on pale skin, some of which he put there, most of which he didn’t. And when his gaze wanders further up, there are two icy grey eyes staring directly into his mind, dismantling his composure with their intensity and communicating without words. The only syllables escaping swollen lips are part of his name, strangled, pleading, outraged.

“You’re beautiful”, Fuze addresses the wild being below him, the creature which allowed itself to be tamed, the deity benevolent enough to put up with him. He speaks the truth, never before has he witnessed anyone this chock-full of life and determination and resilience. Claws draw blood and fangs bury themselves in his shoulder to interrupt the mantra calling for Fuze as if he wasn’t here with him right now, and his tempo is unchanged, fast, impatient.

The climax hits him harder than expected and they both spill onto Kapkan’s flat stomach together, moving in unison, gasps and pants mingling as they revel in the moment before beginning to come down. The afterglow transforms Kapkan into something with fewer edges, less tension, and though it’s sure to change once he’s sobered up, Fuze makes use of the moment by examining the now decidedly human features of the entity sprawling on the carpet in front of him.

“Why”, Kapkan mutters, disgruntled, and motions to the mess on his upper body, just as the timer in the kitchen goes off.

“Because I need to finish cooking”, Fuze replies, smacks an inviting-looking thigh and flees before Kapkan can retaliate. The fish should go into the pan right now if he wants to time everything perfectly, so he foregoes dressing in favour of fetching the apron someone gifted Kapkan as a joke a while ago. He’s not keen on hot oil splashing onto any of his exposed body parts.

The gaze in his back is tangible, even if he didn’t hear Kapkan enter the kitchen. His presence is unmistakable, the air of a different quality whenever he inhabits a space.

Once the salmon is almost done, Fuze asks without turning: “Are you still mad?”

And the waves of irritation rolling off of Kapkan who silently moves to his side to glare at him accusingly are answer enough. Even so, his aggression has mellowed into childish pouting and his yes is followed by entrancement undoubtedly caused by Fuze’s backside perfectly on display and framed by the wine red fabric. In contrast, Kapkan is fully clothed again.

They chat briefly while gorging on the food and the way Kapkan piles up even more on his plate after tasting it tugs on Fuze’s heartstrings. Kapkan washes up of his own volition and pretends to be unbothered by Fuze lounging on the sofa for two hours, restlessly moving about the flat, tidying shelves which don’t need to be tidied. He overlooks the space available between Fuze’s legs where he normally lies and even heads out to buy some beer. Fuze acknowledges the bottle set in front of him with a nod and tries his best not to let his amusement show.

Long after they’ve turned off the light, Kapkan scoots closer on the mattress and presses his back to Fuze’s.

.

The next morning, Fuze wakes up to the smell of freshly-baked waffles. His bed is large and empty and his alarm clock informs him that he has ten minutes left to get ready. What a luxury – if he’s lightning quick about it, he can even squeeze in a shower. After having gone through most of his morning routine, he notices the single piece of clothing laid out for him to wear for the day and barks out a laugh. Maybe he should cook more often. He stores the apron in the kitchen where it came from and chooses a less revealing outfit he knows Kapkan still likes instead. He arrives at base just in time.

“Is this going to be a trend? Are there wild birds nesting in your hair?”

Tachanka, Finka and Glaz are already tired of Kapkan’s antics. It’s obvious in the resigned glances they exchange and the sigh one of them accidentally lets out. They’ve spent the previous day hovering around the two, full of hesitation of whether they should intervene and try to mediate or leave them be altogether and Fuze imagines it’s draining, to neither know what’s wrong nor what the best course of action is. Kapkan is famous for being quick to annoy yet holding a grudge goes against his usual behaviour, whereas Fuze is known for being unflappable. If their team is this worried, it means Fuze has let some of his internal imbalance show on top of Kapkan’s attitude. And he assumes they’re unaware of its source being the brilliant light inside him, eternally trapped rays refreshed every time his eyes make contact with Kapkan’s.

“I overslept again”, he responds, tone gentle. Kapkan used to remind him whenever they entangled their limbs before drifting off to sleep, so Fuze remembers whenever they cuddle in bed. Since Kapkan is upset, there’s no reminder.

“Again? How?”, Glaz hopes to de-escalate the situation by speaking up before Kapkan can snarl at him again.

“Sweet dreams wouldn’t let me go”, Fuze says, making sure to not break eye contact with Kapkan as he takes out an extra pen. He knows the other man has forgotten his.

And once again, his workday begins with Kapkan storming off while blushing furiously.

.

When Fuze gets asked the eighth time, he decides he’s had enough. Kapkan has sulked sufficiently and he’s not going to stand for everyone on base getting involved in their private matters – if he can avoid a repeat performance of the week when Kapkan was made of sharp remarks and pointy looks, he’ll gladly do so. Seeking him out and dragging him to an empty meeting room is surprisingly difficult since the other man seems dead set on refusing cooperation, but mutely remaining by his side and waiting patiently does the trick.

Kapkan’s dissatisfied grimace melts the second Fuze pulls out the ring.

“What”, says Kapkan.

“It’s for you.”

“We said we wouldn’t do rings. We said we wouldn’t do anything.” He takes it nonetheless and inspects it against the light, runs a thumb over its smooth surface. It looks like it belongs already.

“It’s a wood ring. Grey maple.” The colour of your eyes.

“I’m not gonna wear this. People will ask.”

“You don’t have to wear it.”

Kapkan pushes it onto his right ring finger, blinking a little too often. Its neutral grey and simple make suit him perfectly, adorn without being tacky, decorate without drawing too much attention. He needs two minutes to compose himself during which he keeps turning and moving his hand as if to get used to the sight. “Is this an apology?”, Kapkan eventually wants to know.

“Only Sasha, Glaz and Lera will ask. Wedding rings are worn on the left hand almost everywhere else.”

He can’t stop touching it, distractedly explores its surface with his fingertips. “Why this one? Why wooden?”

“Because it’s unusual.” Some of Kapkan’s scorn returns at the word, so Fuze continues speaking: “Your brother married before you and inherited your grandparents’ rings. My family will never approve and so I don’t want any of their tokens. This is made for you and no one else. Not many people have wedding rings made of wood but it’s beautiful nonetheless. It suits you.”

The moment Kapkan understands is the moment Fuze knows without a shadow of a doubt that he will carry this ring to his grave. He might not wear it in public, might not wear it the majority of time but have it on him regardless. It’s a promise, a reassurance, a reminder, and for a moment Kapkan looks so helpless that Fuze is utterly incapable of resisting the urge to lean in and press their lips together.

Again, he should’ve known better. He’s done this only once before, displayed carefully controlled affection in public, in a place where they could be seen and paid the price for it, was starved of caresses and devoted gestures for a while as punishment and vowed never to repeat this mistake – Kapkan neither forgets nor forgives easily.

And yet, when Fuze withdraws, the stormy eyes piercing his skull aren’t furious. Not angry at all.

Kapkan drags him back in and kisses him, properly this time – what they did the previous evening hardly deserved the title, more akin to frenzied feeding instead of a soft slide of lips on lips, but this. This is blissful, warm and gentle.

He’s accepting Fuze’s explanation and acknowledging the fact it’s no apology as well. Fuze will not apologise for the emotions roaring in him whenever he’s basking in Kapkan’s presence.

.

They must be emitting a peaceful aura when they return seeing as their entire team once again stares at them, thunderstruck.

Finka, of course, is the first one to notice the grey band on Kapkan’s finger and speak up about it. “What happened to you guys? Did Shuhrat propose?”

The smile on Fuze’s lips seems to be his permanent companion now. “I did not propose, no.” It’s not even a lie.

“You know I’m married to my work”, Kapkan adds dismissively and this, too, isn’t a lie – he is indeed married to a certain part of his work. He’s emphasising his claim with how barren his apartment is every time he invites anyone over, comes across as single-minded and devoted to his work only because he’s scattered his belongings and memorabilia all over Fuze’s flat instead.

“But you guys are good now?”, Glaz clarifies and makes no effort to hide his relief when the two of them nod. “I’m glad. What did you even fight about?”

They exchange a glance and no more is needed for them to be on the same page. “Shuhrat called my favourite shirt ugly”, Kapkan replies drily.

Fuze still can’t stop smiling. “I said it was unusual”, he corrects gently and doesn’t add: and therefore suits you.

And all they earn are more blank stares, a lack of understanding born from the fact they will never know just how long it took both of them to accept themselves. How much of his life Kapkan wasted desperately trying to fit in, be normal, be like everyone else. How terrified he’d been at first, mirroring Fuze’s trepidation, both of them stumbling and stepping on each other’s feet like unskilled dancers too stubborn to quit, how the happiness Kapkan felt whenever he saw Fuze drove him to tears at some point. How he shied away from anything considered abnormal. They won’t know of Fuze’s own struggle, his reluctant acceptance of being other and the journey towards coaxing Kapkan out of his shell so he could share Fuze’s self-approval.

Whenever he declares any part of Kapkan outside of the norm, he earns panic, confusion, and hurt. He’s still self-conscious about his body and unconsciously hides it whenever he can despite Fuze’s best efforts, and so his comment sparked a half-silent argument full of accusing glares and unfinished sentences, the underlying issue never really spoken out loud. Kapkan doesn’t appreciate being reminded of how unusual they are, having found each other in their line of work, whereas Fuze has trouble taking the other man’s insecurities into consideration despite sharing them to a certain point. They kept snapping at each other about the piece of clothing but were really referring to an entirely different subject instead.

Neither of them will tell the other Spetsnaz about any of this. They’re keeping this secret close to their hearts.

“Maybe I should’ve called it special instead”, Fuze admits and hardly registers Tachanka's amused that actually makes it worse because Kapkan knows exactly what he means, and though he plays off the colour on his cheeks as anger while he complains about this new choice of words, Fuze has no doubt ire isn’t the emotion flooding Kapkan’s face with this flattering pink.

An hour later, Kapkan seeks him out under the guise of his phone malfunctioning, asking Fuze to fix it and in the process mentioning his pistol being strangely inaccurate as well. Fuze promises to take a look and suggests assisting him with his newest EDD prototype, to which Kapkan enthusiastically agrees.

He is certain he won’t oversleep the next day.