Collars and Crossfires

“You don’t have to."

The parish grounds had a way of swallowing sounds once night settled. Even the bells seemed muted, as if the old stones absorbed every echo. Sergei Rozanov moved quietly through the dim corridor, extinguishing candles one by one, leaving behind trails of faint smoke curling into the air like tired prayers.

His mind wasn’t on closing duties.

It kept circling back to the woman from earlier—the way she’d clutched the wooden pew as though it were the last solid thing in her world. Her voice trembled with something deeper than panic. A missing girl. A place near the old rail line. Men she thought she’d seen.

Men she wouldn’t describe.

He paused in the sacristy, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He could almost hear the woman’s voice, the way fear had cracked her words apart. He recalled the senior priest's dismissal of the claims, and he clenched his fist in annoyance.

Something is wrong.

He locked away the thought—just for the night. Just until morning.

Then a sound split the silence.

Not loud.

But sharp.

A choked, strangled inhale—as though someone had forgotten how to breathe.

Sergei stiffened.

It came again, followed by the clatter of something small hitting the floor.

He was moving before he could think.

Down the corridor.

Past the chapel doors.

Toward the guest rooms.

Andrei.

The hallway leading to the guest quarters was colder than the rest of the building, the old windows letting in ribbons of chilly evening air. Sergei approached the last door on the left—Andrei’s—with his brows drawn tight.

He lifted his hand to knock.

But froze when he heard it.

A harsh gasp.

The scrape of a chair leg.

The frantic rattle of something plastic being shaken.

Then—

“Come on…open…open…”

Andrei’s voice. Strained, cracking.

Sergei didn’t knock.

He pushed the door open.

“Andrei?”

The room was dark except for the weak glow of the bedside lamp. Andrei sat on the edge of the narrow bed, hunched forward, shaking violently. A small pill bottle slipped from his fingers, bounced once, and rolled across the floor.

His breaths came too fast, too shallow. His chest rose in sharp jerks.

Sergei stepped in cautiously, leaving the door half-open behind him.

“Andrei, look at me.”

Andrei didn’t. His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers clawing at the sheets as if anchoring himself to the room. His eyes were red-rimmed, wild with panic, but stubbornly turned away.

Sergei knelt to retrieve the pill bottle.

“You’re having a panic attack,” he said gently. “It’s all right. I’m here—”

“I said—don’t—”

Andrei’s voice broke as he pressed his palm to his sternum, trying to force the breath back into his lungs. “Don’t…touch me.”

Sergei didn’t.

He simply moved slowly enough, so Andrei could see every motion.

He sat at the far end of the bed, leaving a broad, careful space between them.

“Breathe with me,” Sergei said quietly. “In…one, two…out…one, two—”

“Stop.”

Andrei wasn’t shouting—he didn’t have the breath to. The word came out cracked, terrified, defensive. “Just—don’t try to fix me, I'm fine.”

“I’m not fixing you,” Sergei murmured. “I’m staying. That’s all.”

Something flickered in Andrei’s expression—anger, or guilt, or the stubborn instinct to run even when there was nowhere to go.

His hands shook again when he reached toward Sergei for the pill bottle.

Sergei saw the tremor and didn’t hand it over.

“I’ll open it,” he said softly. “Your hands—”

“I can do it.”

But Andrei’s fingers convulsed before he even touched the lid.

Sergei opened it without a word, placing the pill in Andrei’s palm without brushing his skin. A small, respectful distance.

A fragile boundary.

Andrei swallowed it dry and slumped back slightly, exhaustion washing over him in slow, deep waves.

His breathing steadied—barely.

But he looked…drained.

Fragile.

More human than he ever allowed himself to be in daylight.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Andrei muttered hoarsely.

“I know,” Sergei said. “But I’m not leaving.”

A silence stretched between them. Loud as the hawks that scoured the building.

After a moment, Sergei stood.

“I’ll get you something warm.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes,” Sergei said calmly. “You do.”

When Sergei returned with a cup of warm milk, Andrei had curled sideways on the bed, staring at the wall, posture rigid as if ashamed of himself.

Sergei placed the mug on the bedside table.

“Sit up slowly.”

Andrei did, though everything in him seemed to resist accepting help. His hands were steadier now, enough to take the cup without spilling it.

He drank.

The heat softened his features, just barely.

Sergei sat again at the foot of the bed—not close, not imposing—simply present. The wooden frame creaked softly under his weight.

Andrei finished half the cup before lowering it to his lap.

He should thank him. This annoying, strange handsome man who had run to help him without a single thought. Despite his attitude towards him.

Sergei was so pious.

Andrei could learn a thing or two from him.

He didn’t say anything though. He simply couldn't. He was always drained after an episode — worn out and spent.

Sergei leaned back in his palms, breathing with the rhythm of the cooling night air.

“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” he said simply.

Andrei stiffened, then…exhaled, as if the fight inside him was finally too heavy to lift.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Another long silence.

This one was softer.

Eventually, Andrei lay down slowly, turning his back toward Sergei but not pushing him away.

His breath evened out.

The trembling eased.

It was nearly half an hour before he finally fell asleep.

Sergei didn’t move the entire time.

When Andrei’s breath settled into a steady rhythm, Sergei stood. He placed the empty mug on the table, pulled the blanket higher over Andrei’s shoulder, and stepped quietly toward the door.

He looked back once.

Just once.

At the man who wore his pain like armor.

Then he closed the door softly behind him.

Andrei slept without another cry that night.