The first time they hold hands is the Christmas after Oleander’s seventeenth birthday. By this time Nikita had stopped brushing their relationship off as nothing, and yet still refused to actually admit that its something. He’d reasoned with Ollie that the age gap was too much and their innocent relationship was at risk, but Oleander wasn’t persuaded. He’d decided a long time ago that those things weren't a real reason to snuff his feelings. Not that he hadn't tried, for years he’d been telling himself this thing with Nikita was some youthful crush but he’d finally given up on actually believing it. Even if Nikita never loved him, these feelings were a life long condition for Oleander.
They’d gone to fight club as usual, pretending it was a normal night despite Eustass and Vitaly’s persistence that it was Christmas and they should stay home. Thatcher and Bellamy had shipped out the night before. They’d been gone for 20 hours already but Ollie and Nikita pretended they hadn't kept track, they didn’t care-
But they did, and it was keeping them from spending the holiday home with their remaining family.
Oleander watches Nikita fight with careful concentration, tracking each movement and every blow landed, memorizing injured inches of skin that would demand his attention later. Tonight Ollie flinched every time someones fist grazes Nikita’s skin, his nerves already frayed and raw after telling Thatcher goodbye; watching Nikky’s hands clench at his sides when Bellamy finally turned away.
Nikita won his fight and then two more, agreeing to the additional time because he wouldn’t go home and he was desperate to shake the heaviness in his heart. He could breathe a little easier each time he felt Oleander’s eyes on him, knowing that no matter what Ollie would always be waiting in his corner of the ring.
By the time Nikita has finally finished, Oleander’s nose and cheeks are tinted pink in defense against the cold. His small form is nearly swallowed by one of Nikita’s wool jackets, but under the hoodie his lips are upturned in a prideful smirk.
“Took you long enough.” He’d pulled two cigarette’s before Nikita reached him. One hanging loose and lit between Oleander’s lips while the other was being twirled between elegant fingers. Instead of handing off the unlit cigarette, Oleander plucks the one from between his lips and gently slides the filtered end into Nikita’s awaiting mouth. The Russian started to ask the obvious questions, but decided it would do him no good. Oleander never revealed how he came to acquire such products at seventeen years old. Eustass was too much of a looming threat. Nikita’s hesitance gave Oleander the chance to bring the remaining cigarette to rest between his teeth, hands coming to cup Nikita's burning ember. He stretched until they were eye level, taking his time in pressing the end of their cigarettes together. When he inhaled, it was sensual and slow, a contrast to the rude way he blew smoke out into Nikita’s face.
“I was almost tired of waiting.”
“But you wouldn’t leave. No matter how tired you are.” Nikita called his bluff, not missing the way Oleander fought off a smile. It was one of his favorite joys in the word; being the only person with the power to make Ollie uncontrollably happy. He couldn’t even hide it. That made Nikita special.
“Come on, loser. I’ll buy you pizza for Christmas dinner.” Eustass and Vitaly would be furious that they skipped out on a holiday meal with the family but it didn’t matter. Tonight they needed to be alone, together.
Oleander’s cigarette had burned down by the time they started the walk back to Nikita’s car. Their close proximity had chased the cold away despite December’s dry chill. Oleander wondered how Thatcher was spending his Christmas and the thought left him jadded enough to attempt stealing Nikita’s cigarette. The Russian merely moved his hand out of reach.
Oleander huffed his annoyance, and for a moment Nikita was certain he would try again-
But instead Oleander merely reached for the hand hanging limp at his side. He hadn’t had the time to wrap it yet, giving Ollie full access to his busted knuckles and bruised skin.
For once Oleander didn’t notice the eyes on him. His attention was taken by the darkening colors marring fair skin, the bloody splits made when Nikita had stretched that skin too far. He takes his time inspecting the damage, thumb rubbing tender circles again Nikita’s inner wrist. He wondered how something so strong could be so fragile.
“It’s just a hand.” Nikita felt too hot under Oleander’s careful eyes. Or maybe it was just being near Oleander in general.
“It’s your hand.” Ollie says, and he doesn’t bother with an explanation but instead laces their fingers together, careful of Nikita’s injuries even as he presses fingertips into the pale skin of Nikita’s wrist, like he could leave fingertips behind and never be forgotten.
Nikita doesn’t pull away, and even though Bellamy is gone and it isn’t the Christmas he wanted, it’s more than enough.
He was home even if his father wasn't.
