dig the grave but don't bury yourself

he could blend in with the snow

"Hey, hey! Back off!" Ivan runs up to the stocky teenager and delivers a swift kick between the legs. Even a half meter shorter than Liam, Ivan Fedorov is the best football player at his primary school. All he needed was a couple strong kicks before Liam is groaning and pleading mercy.

Ivan blows a strong raspberry at the fleeing figure, with a technique he learned from his pa. Shows Liam right, for bullying someone—especially one Ivan's age! Everyone knows that anyone in this neighborhood younger than Ivan was under his protection. No one got past Ivan, not if he had anything to say about it.

He looks down at the still quivering soul Liam was bullying, and he blinks at the sight. The blooming bruises are the most colorful thing about the boy; everything else about the kid is strikingly pale. His skin is as white as his hair, and his hair is too white to be called blonde. At least he was wearing a brown coat, but it's dwarfed by a scarf that, you guessed it, was white.

(A blizzard is coming over the horizons, his pa had warned before he went out to play ball. Ivan absentmindedly realizes that the kid would blend in perfectly in with the snow.)

"Hey." The boy flinches, and Ivan squats down to poke his shoulder. "Hey! It's okay, I scared them off. You're safe now."

The shaking stops, and the boy squints open an eye. Ivan sucks in a breath. That wasn't normal. (Purple eyes, more vibrant than the bruises.) 

(Well, at least it wasn't white again.)

"Uh—" The kid winces as he pushed himself up with his arms. "H-hello? Erm, thank—thank you. For saving me."

Ivan waves his hand. "No worries, Liam is mean." He narrows his eyes at the memory. "I know him: Liam. He goes to my school! I'll make him apologize."

The boy's eyes widen. "Ah, that's okay. I can just—" He looks around for an exit, just in time for Ivan to hear a loud, "Maxim!" to their right.

A woman runs in, with brown hair like Ivan, but more straight to Ivan's curly, and pretty blue eyes. She doesn't look anything like "Maxim," but the kid scrambles up and hides behind her with the same energy as a child who hasn't seen his mother in years.

"Maxim! Are you alright? What happened?" She peels out of the hug to squat down and check Maxim's face.

Maxim shakes his head. "Bullies," he mutters, "but, uh..." He looks Ivan's way, who sends a sheepish smile and waves. The woman glares, and Maxim quickly clarifies. "Not him! He helped me."

"You did?" She asks.

Ivan nods. "Liam was bullying him, ma'am."

"And you just decided to take the time out of your busy day to save someone you don't know? From 'Liam'?" Her tone sounds as sharp as the Russian cold, and he swears he sees red flash in her eyes. Which doesn't make sense at all, because they're blue.

He might only be eight, but Ivan feels like this is personal. But he's also eight, so he decides to not think too hard on it. In any case, his pa always tells him to make a good impression on mothers, and honesty always gives points in Ivan's corner.

"Liam's always been a bully, ma'am," Ivan says, "so I kicked him where the sun doesn't shine."

She doesn't talk long enough for Ivan to start worrying about the blizzard again. But before he can make an excuse to leave, she begins to bark a harsh, abrupt laugh.

"Well, then! I like you." She clasps a hand on her son's shoulder, who yelps. "Has he introduced himself yet?"

"No, ma'am." She raises an eyebrow at the kid's direction, who hastily steps forward and outstretches a hand. He gulped and met Ivan's eyes with a strange amount of determination. Huh. Maybe he does have a backbone. 

"Ma—Maxim. Maxim Kirill-Vitali. Nice to meet you."

"Hi!" Ivan shines his infamous toothy smile, and he grips Maxim's hand tightly as he shakes it. "I'm Ivan Fedorov. I play football and have a little sister named Sofia. I hope we can become good friends."

Maxim narrows his eyes. "Really?"

"Yeah!" Ivan then pauses and rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry if I'm going too fast. My pa always tells me I'm kind of pushy. Could... we be friends?"

There's a second that stretches too long, but Maxim slowly smiles. A great big, toothy smile that's a lot like Ivan's smile, but his teeth shine too, well-cared for and kind of sharp. His purple bruises stretch as purple eyes glisten, and immediately, Ivan hopes they can still be friends a decade later and decades after that. 

"Sure!"