Chapter Text
The parcel arrives sooner than Sergei thought.
The notification for pick-up at the post office shows up in their sun-bleached mailbox on a Tuesday. It’s nestled between a stack of bills and flyers, and he pockets it quickly and as discreetly as possible. Thankfully, Margo seems not to notice this concealment on their short walk to their front door.
He will have to determine how to pick it up, without her noticing. But for now, he clears the strategic planning of this from his mind – lest she notice his distraction.
It is not until after dinner – a hearty and savory feijoada in the slow cooker, from a recipe that Igor gave them to try – that Sergei’s thoughts return not to the parcel… but to the circumstances that prompted it all. As he is seated next to her on the teak couch to watch the evening news, his gaze drifts, as it often does, to their sparsely adorned surroundings. The off-white and beige bare walls, the state-owned, utilitarian-esque furniture, and the pitiful lack of anything beyond briefing notes and orbital launch specs littered about a few coffee tables to suggest that anyone truly lives here.
It has started to bother him.
The one purchase they made – the upright piano, made of local imbuia wood, which Margo had said produced a richer sound compared to the others she tried in the store – was carefully tucked away from sight in the spare room.
Sergei deeply wishes it were in the living room.
Even acquiring the piano seemed to take some convincing on her part, and he is not entirely certain why. What little he remembers of her office in Houston was tastefully decorated – albums and a record player in the corner, service awards on the walls, photos of her milestones at NASA carefully curated on the side tables, and her grand piano the centerpiece of it all.
He worries, as he often does, that her seeming aversion to material things now is, perhaps, an after effect… of the instability and upheaval they both have been through, too many times.
A small, insecure part of his heart thinks that maybe, she believes this too is impermanent.
It is not that he thinks decorating their home will solve this. Nor does he long for anything extravagant. He is also well aware that their history is shaky, uneven, and full of dark passages best left unearthed. But some keepsakes, to remember the few bright spots by, he thinks, would be nice.
He has become overly sentimental in his old age, he thinks.
Later that night in bed, with her head on his shoulder, her soft breath gracing his neck, her arm draped gently on his chest and both of his around her, he chides himself for his earlier moodiness and pulls her closer, breathing her in and humming as he does. He feels her smile against him.
He reminds himself to be grateful that they are here. That he has her, and that this is more than enough.
Perhaps the idea of this gift is frivolous.
Still, he hopes she likes it.
*******
He keeps it in the back of the closet of the spare room, still wrapped in its narrow, rectangular cardboard box, until the occasion arrives.
It is clear she has not remembered the date. This does not bother him. Surely by now, most of the world has forgotten too. Much has changed, grown, expanded since then.
Sergei, however, has never forgotten. Even during the years she was lost to him.
Margo lingers at the COPE that evening. The launch pads will be in use tomorrow by Telefónica, and there is much to prepare in terms of trajectory calculations for the satellites based on the incoming weather system. For Sergei, this is fortuitous. It allows him time to go home alone and prepare.
He does not plan on wrapping it and presenting her with it. This would be something to cause her discomfort, he knows.
Instead, he heads into the spare room with a box cutter and slices open the clear tape wrapped tightly around the cardboard’s long edge. Carefully, slowly, he lifts the creation out of its protective wrapping.
His chest aches at the beauty and nostalgia of it all as he takes it in for the first time.
He heads into the living room and, grabbing a small hammer and a couple of nails, he stands on one of the wobbly kitchen chairs and carefully hangs the canvas above the mantle.
When he is done, he dismounts from the chair, standing back a ways to take in the stunning contrast of it to the off-white walls and the warmth its sweeping colors bring to the room, and smiles.
*******
It’s not quite dark when Margo returns from the COPE. He sits across from the foyer on the couch.
“How were the rest of the preparations?” he asks, putting down his novel as the door closes with a click behind her.
She gives him a tight lipped smile as she takes off her coat and shoes, putting on her slippers.
“Long,” she replies simply, rubbing her forehead. But when her hand drops, he sees the satisfaction in her features. It was one of the first things he noticed about her, all those years ago, aside from her vivid auburn hair. For Margo, hours can be well spent despite the problems that need solving, despite the exhaustion and frustration they may cause. The color from her strands has since faded, but this drive inside has not.
She enters the living room, presumably to join him on the sofa, but the addition to the wall gives her pause. A curious frown covers her face. She walks up to the mantle, her back to his.
He cannot see her face, but the loud breath she sucks in is audible.
Sergei grows warm with anticipation.
She remains silent for longer than he wishes. It is difficult, but he gives her a wide radius to settle into the memory… and this recreation of it all. It is a little how he felt asking her to come to Brazil – uncertain and waiting, as her mind works through the possibilities before settling on one that fits.
“It… it was today,” she finally says, quietly. “Wasn’t it?” She looks back at him then and the tenderness in her eyes sends him a relief he needed.
“Yes,” he replies.
She turns back to the painting.
“Twenty years ago,” he adds quietly through a small smile. He sees the back of her head nod.
Slowly, he stands from the couch, shuffling to her side where they can both take it in together. The brush strokes on the canvas transport him to a different time and place, lifetimes ago now – forming the exact moment where, on one of the darkest days on Earth, the Soyuz and Apollo capsules defied orders and met together, in a gesture of peace, in her orbit.
“Where did you….” she trails off, the rest of the sentence implied.
“It… ah… was with Aleida’s assistance,” he admits.
She steps closer to the painting, squinting through her glasses to read the artist’s signature.
His heart stops for a moment. He's not sure how she will interpret this next bit.
“And also–”
“Wayne Cobb." The emotion in her voice is thick, but he senses the marvel in it more than the sadness.
“Hmmm,” he says in agreement.
Aleida had been the one to suggest they ask Wayne. The man had been more than willing, affably describing what he could recreate over the video call between them, though Sergei could hear the underlying grief there.
It was one Sergei himself once understood well.
Sergei knew not much of Molly Cobb, the first American woman in space, though the tension was obvious – between her and Margo – over the years. He does remember Molly behind Margo on the video call that day in Mission Control, her eyes filled with the same annoyance as Margo’s held for him… the two of them seemingly united in their aims, at least once.
He glances at Margo now and sees her swallow it down – the emotions that are there with these remembrances. His hand gently reaches for hers, and she twines her fingers in his, but their focus remains on the canvas. A stillness, a reverence settles between them and the artwork. They stay before it, admiring the details Wayne captured – the intricacies of the latching and pedal mechanisms, the army green of Soyuz and the blue-gray of Apollo, hovering above a sea of clouds and ocean, the meeting of two nations that bound them to each other… for better and for worse.
He hopes she’s remembering the better.
He closes his eyes for a moment.
In theory, if you give me your hand…
… like that. So, all seems good, no?
No. Yes. Umm… Seems Good.
He reopens them and inhales, squeezing her hand in his, softly once.
“Is it…” he starts, cautiously, breaking their reverie, “is it alright?”
She nods, the hint of a tender smile curving the corner of her lips upwards, and leans her temple to his shoulder. A warmth swells in his chest.
“The walls were a little bare,” she eventually says.
He lets out a small chuckle.
“Thank you, Sergei,” she adds, softly.
She needn’t thank him. In fact, he feels as though he should be thanking her. For agreeing to this, for uprooting herself because of him, once again.
He leans closer to the top of her head, brushing his lips there once and lingering.
“I am… glad you like it,” he says through a small smile. More relieved than glad, he thinks. But perhaps that too will come.
The next year, on the date in question, Margo suggests they go to a jazz lounge in the Renascença district. The venue is quiet and muted with dark mahogany wood, plush chairs, and just a piano player – not a full band – but it is the subtlety they are looking for. They drink one too many caipirinhas and return home warm and giddy.
It becomes their tradition.