Work Text:
"This is gonna be the best day of my life!!!!! My li-i-i-i-i-i-fe!!! Woo, woo-ooh, woo," screamed Usman at the top of his lungs, his head bobbing to the rhythm of the song in the back seat.
"This is gonna be the best day of my life!!!! Woo, woo-ooh, woo!!! My li-i-i-i-i-i-ife!!!!" chimed in Amru Magomedov, his best friend, joining in with matching shrieks.
The two 10-year-olds glared at Umar, who was unluckily trapped right between them. Pestered by their wide-eyed stares, 12-year-old Umar had no choice but to start singing along too.
"Woo, woo-ooh, woo.... Woo... Woo, woo-ooh, woo.... I howled at the moon with friends!!! And then the sun came crashing in!!!" Having started with a timid mumble, he was now completely swept away by the sheer excitement and attitude of his little brother and best friend.
"Woah-oh-oh-oh, oh, oh-oh, oh. Woah-oh-oh-oh, oh, oh-oh, oh," Usman and Amru screamed in unison, looking ready to leap right out of their seats if physics allowed it.
Up in the passenger seat, Islam watched the scene with a wide grin—well, as wide as his small, puppy-like smile would permit. Khabib, however, was having a completely different experience.
This was already the fifth time “The Best Day of My Life” had blasted through the speakers, and he was at his absolute limit. He had already tried turning down the volume and changing the track, but the boys had gone completely feral, leaving him with no choice but to accept his cruel fate.
Khabib cast a sidelong glance at his boyfriend. How on earth did Islam endure this?! He watched Islam hold up the camcorder he had bought, filming the kids in the back. Islam wore an expression of intense focus, yet a ridiculously happy smile was plastered across his face. At that sight, Khabib’s heart skipped a beat....
Maybe, just maybe, he could survive this a little
longer, he thought, tearing his gaze away to focus back on the road.
"So, boys, what are we doing this weekend?" Islam exclaimed once the song finally faded out.
God eternally bless his boyfriend if he managed to make them stop singing, Khabib prayed.
Usman squirmed frantically in his seat before blurting out, "WE'RE GOING TO CELEBRATE MY BIRTHDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS!!! WE'RE GONNA EAT A HUGE CAKE, GO CAMPING, HUNT ANIMALS AND GHOSTS, AND THEN WE'RE GONNA PITCH A TENT AND AND AND AND..."
The boy was so breathless that Islam had to step in, gesturing for him to calm down and take a breath.
Khabib glanced into the rearview mirror. How did such a tiny body contain so much energy? Usman was vibrating with excitement; he had been talking about this birthday for weeks—truthfully, ever since January 4th, the day after his older brother Umar’s birthday. Khabib still didn’t know how he had ended up in this situation, or how Islam had gotten roped into it, but here they were: Friday, April 16th, driving out to celebrate Usman’s birthday on the 17th.
And to top it off, the kid had insisted Khabib and Islam bring Amru along because, obviously, he couldn't celebrate without his best friend.
Khabib just hoped Amru’s family would take Usman off their hands when it was the other boy’s turn for a birthday.... A single day without Usman would do wonders for all of them.
Khabib checked the GPS. They only had 10 kilometers left until the foot of the mountain. With any luck, the kids would finally shut their traps.... Or not, he thought as he heard them start singing all over again.
Islam turned toward him, and this time Khabib noticed the camera was aimed right at his face. Knowing his good side, he seized the opportunity, clenching his jaw slightly and intentionally flexing the muscles in his arms for his boyfriend.
"Hmm, Khaba, what a driver you are," Islam teased, letting his hand slide slowly up Khabib’s biceps.
"EW, GROSS!" Amru and Usman yelled in unison.
Islam yanked his hand away as if he’d been burned. He watched his boyfriend sink back into the driver's seat, cheeks flushing red, and let out an exasperated sigh.
"One more remark out of you two, and I'm dropping you on the side of the road—no camping, no birthday, got it!?" Khabib snapped in an authoritative tone, glaring at the two boys through the rearview mirror.
The pair exchanged unimpressed looks before dissolving into giggles and mocking Khabib and Islam.
"Hmm, you're so muscular, Khabaaaa!" Amru chimed in, mimicking Islam and dragging out the end of the name.
Usman pretended to flex imaginary biceps, pulling a face. "Yeah, Isu, look how buff I am! I'm the strongest guy in Makhachkala."
Umar, stuck in the middle and usually above such nonsense, tried desperately to suppress a laugh before finally cracking and joining in with
the two troublemakers.
"I am going to murder both of you in these woods and leave you to rot!" Khabib barked, pushed well past his breaking point by their antics.
An instant, heavy silence blanketed the car. The boys stopped laughing immediately, and even Umar stared at Khabib, caught between mild fear and confusion at his older cousin's sudden outburst.
"Oh, come on, nobody's doing that, especially not Khabib," Islam intervened smoothly to thaw the frost in the cabin.
He shot Khabib a sharp look, clearly warning him to behave unless he wanted things to get ugly. He understood his boyfriend was exhausted, but still—he couldn't seriously threaten to murder two 10-year-olds and a 12-year-old?! Even for Khabib and his dramatic flair, that felt a bit excessive.
"Pfft... you're supposed to be on my side," Khabib grumbled, deeply offended.
Islam tapped his forearm. "Just drive, please," he said, cutting off any potential argument before it could flare up.
The small group finally arrived at the parking lot by the forest entrance. Khabib killed the engine and practically vaulted out of the SUV, desperate for fresh air and the few fleeting seconds of peace before the two terrors emerged.
Islam, more cautious, opened his door and helped the children out one by one, making sure nobody left anything behind. His boyfriend really was a saint, Khabib thought, wondering what he’d ever done to deserve someone like Islam in his life.
"LETS GOOOOOOO!" Usman screamed, charging toward Khabib and tugging aggressively at the hem of his t-shirt to rush him along.
Despite himself, Khabib found Usman cute and dropped a heavy hand onto the boy’s head before walking over to pop the trunk.
Usman and Amru were practically vibrating, struggling to keep themselves from diving headfirst into the back to grab whatever they could and sprint off.
"Okay, okay, calm down," Khabib commanded in a strict tone.
The effect was instantaneous; the boys snapped upright, their postures straightening into eager attentiveness.
A satisfied smirk touched Khabib's lips as he reached in to hand out the kids' backpacks, helping them adjust the straps over their shoulders. Then, he grabbed the remaining gear—the food bag, the tents, and his and Islam's personal bags.
"WHAT?! WHY ISN'T HE CARRYING ANYTHING?!" Amru squawked, pointing an accusing finger at Islam, who was holding nothing more than the camcorder and a small digital Sony camera.
"He's carrying the cameras, that's enough," Khabib replied gruffly, loathing having his decisions openly questioned.
Amru frowned and shot a look at Islam, who just offered a small, knowing smile that seemed to say: That's just how things work around here.
"Don't bother arguing, it's always like this with Khabib. If Islam's around, he automatically gets treated like a princess," Usman whispered confidentially to Amru before shoving his friend's shoulder to get moving.
The two little boys sprinted as fast as their legs could carry them to keep up with Khabib's long strides at the front. Umar walked beside Islam, preferring his calm, soothing presence to Khabib's sheer unpredictability.
The young boy stared at Islam's hand, fighting an internal battle of hesitation—he wanted to reach out, but feared rejection. He twitched his fingers toward the larger hand before pulling back. Before he could retreat entirely, however, Islam caught his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Umar looked up to find Islam beaming down at him, feeling a sudden rush of warmth bloom in his chest. He smiled back, stepping a bit closer to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with the young Makhachev.
They had been walking through the dense forest for nearly two hours. Khabib kept furiously flipping the map over, turning it this way and that with heavy, exasperated sighs.
"Are we lost, Khabib?" Usman asked suspiciously.
The boy pinned Khabib with a look Khabib despised above all else: the look of a judgmental critic who thought he was dealing with the most incompetent being on Earth.
"No! I know exactly where we are, we're right... here," Khabib snapped, stabbing a finger at a random spot on the map.
Usman leaned in to inspect it, then stepped back, looking even more skeptical than before.
He pivoted toward Islam and announced loudly, "Khabib is totally lost and he's too proud to admit it!"
Without warning, Khabib lunged forward, dropping his gear with a loud thud to grab Usman and clamp a heavy hand over his mouth. The boy thrashed, letting out muffled wails of protest.
"HE'S GONNA KILL US!!! OH MY GOD HE'S GONNA MURDER USMAN!!!!! HELP!" Amru shrieked hysterically in the middle of the deep woods.
Islam sprinted over, desperately trying to pry Khabib's arms away.
"Let him go, Khaba! Khaba!" he pleaded, panic bleeding into his voice as he tried to break the chokehold.
Umar, meanwhile, had unclipped the digital camera and was rapidly taking pictures of the chaos. If nothing else, he needed photographic proof of this unhinged weekend.
"No, I am not letting him go! He's driving me insane with his constant backtalk!" Khabib roared, hoisting Usman completely off the ground so Islam couldn't reach him.
"No, Khaba, tomorrow's his birthday! You have to put him down!" Islam insisted, still trying to ease the struggling child back to terra firma.
"LET MY BEST FRIEND GO, YOU BRUTE!" Amru yelled, charging into the fray.
He threw his arms around Khabib's leg, trying to scale the young man like a tree to rescue his companion.
"AHEM!! AHEM!! Hello?"
A strange man’s voice echoed from behind them.
The stranger stared blankly at the tableau: Khabib holding Usman high above his head like a trophy, Amru clinging desperately to his thigh, and Islam standing on tiptoe trying to catch the dangling boy.
"Everything alright? Need a hand?" the man asked, his eyes drifting over to Umar, who was busy snapping photos of the spectacle.
Khabib and Islam instantly shoved each other away, shouting in unison, "Everything's fine, thanks!"
The man looked them over again, his gaze darting from the children to the young adults before asking cautiously, "Are you lost?"
"NO," Khabib bellowed.
"YES!" everyone else shouted back.
Khabib shot them a glare that clearly communicated high treason.
"NO, we are not lost, thank you, sir," Khabib insisted through gritted teeth.
This time, Umar stepped up to his cousin.
"Khaba, please. I'm sick of walking, and we've passed this exact tree three times—I took a picture of it..." he said, pointing toward a massive, gnarled oak.
Khabib closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Fine," he muttered, caught between utter exhaustion and crushing defeat.
"We might be... slightly lost. But only SLIGHTLY."
The man eyed them curiously, wondering if they were out here alone. Realizing it was too late to back out, he let out a soft sigh.
"Alright. My name is Nikolai. There's a campsite not far from here; let me guide you. I'm already set up there, it's a really decent spot."
The boys nodded eagerly and fell in behind Nikolai. Umar kept his hand firmly locked in Islam’s, while Usman and Amru immediately launched back into a rousing rendition of “The Best Day of My Life,” much to the despair of Khabib, who was left muttering curses under his breath at the treacherous map.
Twenty minutes of marching and singing later, the small group reached the clearing. It wasn't overly crowded—just two tents, presumably one for Nikolai and his wife, and another for his kids.
Aside from that, the area was spacious and clean, the ground covered in a soft bed of fresh green grass. Dense forest loomed behind them, while the front opened up to a breathtaking view of a towering mountain peak. Wooden picnic tables and benches were scattered neatly around the site.
"Here we are!" Nikolai announced with a wide, welcoming smile.
"FINALLY!" Amru and Usman cheered, dropping their heavy packs onto the dirt.
"Hey, hey, pick those up right now," Khabib scolded sternly.
The two boys groaned, snatching their bags back up.
"Ah, kids, they're always a handful, eh?" Nikolai chuckled warmly.
Khabib gave him a flat, unamused look. "You have kids?"
Nikolai stared off into the distance for a brief moment before his eyes snapped back to Khabib.
"A wife and two daughters. My wife’s name is Elena. She has long blonde hair, light brown eyes, and a lovely smile."
Islam offered a soft smile, finding the man's fond description adorable.
"And two daughters," Nikolai continued smoothly, "probably around the same age as your boys here. The older one is 12, her name is Sacha. Long brown hair, skin as white as ivory, and pretty brown eyes. Then her little sister, Aya. She has short brown hair that sticks out in all directions—my wife and I begged her to keep it long, but she insisted on cutting it, so we finally caved. She has Sacha’s smile, but her mother's eyes."
"Awwww, you must love them so much... are they here with you?" Islam asked, visibly excited at the prospect of meeting them now that they'd been described in such detail.
Nikolai locked eyes with him, then slowly swept his gaze over Usman, Amru, and Umar, lingering on each child for a beat too long before answering.
"Not yet. But soon. The girls had a few things to finish up in town."
Islam felt Amru and Usman drift closer to his sides. By pure instinct, he rested a hand protectively on each of their heads.
"Oh, right. Well, I'm sure the kids will have fun playing together once they're here..."
The man nodded, keeping that same fixed, analyzing smile on his face, before it widened into something sharper.
"Oh, absolutely. There isn't much else to do out here in the woods, anyway."
"Right. Well, thanks for showing us the way, but we have things to do," Khabib cut in abruptly, stepping physically between Islam, the kids, and Nikolai.
He placed a heavy hand on Islam’s shoulder, guiding him a short distance away for some privacy.
"He's weird, Khaba. Did you see the way he stared at the kids? It looked like he was... cataloging them," Islam whispered anxiously, frowning up at Khabib.
God, he's cute, Khabib thought. Islam was utterly adorable when he furrowed his brow, those big brown eyes shining with worry, his lips pursed in a slight pout. Khabib wanted to devour him whole when he got like this.
"Khaba?!" Islam snapped, waving a hand back and forth in front of Khabib's face.
"No way, Isu, you're overthinking it. He's probably just jealous because you're young and stuck with an absolute hunk like me," Khabib replied breezily, swatting away the concern with a dismissive wave.
He flashed Islam a cocky grin, slung an arm around his waist to pull him close, and murmured darkly into his ear, "Let's pitch this tent fast so we can finally have some alone time."
Islam flushed, giving Khabib a sharp elbow to the ribs.
"Behave, Khaba. We have to watch the kids, remember?"
Khabib grinned, planting a quick kiss to his cheek.
"They can find something to do... They're big boys, Isu. Just think—you and me, alone in a tent..."
Khabib knew he was winning. He caught the flash of hesitation in his boyfriend's eyes.
"ISLAM, I'M STARVIIIING!" Usman bellowed, suddenly spinning around to face the two young adults.
Usman crossed his arms, pinning them with an impatient, scowling glare. Islam sighed, pulling away from Khabib. Usman beamed in triumph as Islam walked right into his trap.
Khabib let out a heavy, murderous expiration of breath, staring daggers into the back of Usman's head. If God didn't grant him extraordinary patience today, he was going to commit a felony. And honestly? He hoped God denied him that patience. Usman needed to learn a lesson.
Fuming, Khabib ripped open a tent bag with far more aggression than necessary. He was over it. He knew the kids were coming, but Usman's blatant monopolization of Islam was driving him insane. He flung the tent poles and fabric onto the ground, where they scattered haphazardly across the dirt.
Umar picked up the instruction manual and walked over.
"Khaba, shouldn't we follow the guide?"
Khabib raised an eyebrow, radiating supreme arrogance. You underestimate me, kid.
"No need, Umar. I've got this."
"Uhm... are you sure? Tents look kind of complicated," the boy offered timidly, looking thoroughly skeptical.
Umar stared at the manual, utterly baffled by his cousin's refusal to ever read directions or ask for help. He watched as Khabib began hammering stakes randomly into the ground—directly contradicting every single diagram in the booklet.
Umar stepped closer, holding the manual out like a shield.
"Seriously, Khaba, the pictures show it goes the other way—"
"I told you, I know what I'm doing, Umar. Just watch," Khabib interrupted with absolute conviction, driving the final stake into the earth.
He yanked the rainfly taut, leaving Umar to stare blankly at a structurally dubious, heavily leaning dome.
Khabib planted his hands on his hips, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow before gazing at his lopsided creation with immense pride. Sure, it leaned a bit to the left, but it was standing.
Therefore, victory was his.
At that exact moment, Usman and Amru came tearing past. Khabib watched in slow motion as Amru caught his foot on a stray root and crashed directly into the fragile tent.
"NOOOOOOO!" Khabib screamed.
It was too late. The monument to his engineering genius collapsed in a heap of fabric and broken poles.
Khabib squeezed his eyes shut, actively praying for the strength not to commit a crime that would be studied in law schools for decades.
"Oh no, Amru, are you okay?" Islam’s voice drifted over.
Khabib briefly contemplated hoisting Islam over his shoulder, grabbing Umar, and abandoning the other two heathens to the wolves. Well, maybe he'd keep Umar—his cousin was a bit boring, but at least he hadn't destroyed anything yet.
"I hurt my knee," Amru whined loudly, milking the sympathy.
He knew Khabib wouldn't comfort him; Islam was his only safe bet.
Islam knelt beside the boy, quickly inspecting the scraped knee. It was superficial. He told Umar to fetch the first aid kit and antiseptic wipes from his bag, swiftly cleaning the wound before applying a dab of healing ointment.
Usman watched the scene, and the second he was certain his best friend was fine, he launched himself backward onto Islam's crouching back, clinging like a koala and wrapping his arms tightly around Islam's neck.
Seeing his cue, Amru scrambled up and threw himself into Islam's arms as well, chorusing, "Thank youuuu, Islam!"
Islam chuckled, instinctively wrapping his arms around both of them. Over their shoulders, Usman locked eyes with Khabib, wearing a brilliantly petty, triumphant grin. Khabib was staring back at them, his face a twitching mask of pure, unfiltered wrath.
What Khabib didn't know was that Usman had thoroughly briefed Amru before the trip. The only reason Usman had insisted Amru come was to execute a devious plot: enlist his best friend to help monopolize Islam all weekend purely out of spite.
The root of this vendetta traced back to last month, when Usman had begged his parents for a new squishy toy shaped like a block of Swiss cheese, and Khabib had publicly mocked him, calling it a baby toy. Usman never got his cheese.
So, he had stewed in vengeful fury for weeks. If he couldn't have his toy, he reasoned, Khabib wouldn't get to have HIS favorite toy—Islam. It was a flawless, beautiful plan.
Usman stuck his tongue out at Khabib to twist the knife, and the adult’s reaction was instantaneous. Khabib marched over, snatched Usman off Islam’s back, and dumped him unceremoniously onto the dirt.
"KHABA! What are you doing?!" Islam yelled, springing to his feet, still holding Amru.
He glared at Khabib in utter disbelief before gently setting Amru down and kneeling beside Usman.
"He's provoking me, Islam! He's doing it on purpose!" Khabib defended himself, his face scrunched up with jealous rage.
"He's a child, Khabib! For the love of God, stop acting like one. Besides, tomorrow's his birthday, try to be nice!" Islam scolded, turning his back to check on a sniffling Usman.
"Yeah, it's my birthday tomorrow, Khabaaa," Usman wailed, laying it on ridiculously thick just to stoke the flames.
Amru hovered nearby, casting wary, fearful glances at Khabib. He was more reserved than Usman, and seeing how roughly his own cousin was handled made him terrified of what Khabib might do if he got too close to Islam.
Umar remained utterly indifferent, entirely desensitized to the endless turf wars between Usman and Khabib. Frankly, he was baffled that a 23-year-old man would engage in such vicious psychological warfare with a 10-year-old... but then again, Khabib's ego was roughly the size of a small planet, so maybe it wasn't that surprising.
Umar pulled the digital camera from his pocket and flicked it on, capturing the chaos. At least it would make for a funny photo album down the line. Or so he hoped.
"Aaaaahh, who built this tent?! That's not how you do it at all! Let me help," Nikolai's cheery voice interrupted out of nowhere.
To everyone's surprise, Khabib eagerly accepted the older man's help. Together, they rebuilt both tents in under half an hour. This time, neither structure leaned, and neither looked like a stiff breeze would flatten them.
Khabib actually warmed up to Nikolai—he was fast, efficient, and gave clear instructions. Everything a man like Khabib respected. Grateful, they invited the man to share dinner with them around the campfire the boys had helped stoke.
Umar sat next to Khabib, the camera and camcorder resting by his feet. Usman and Amru flanked Islam on either side, while Nikolai occupied a solitary log on the edge of the circle.
Usman pulled a squishy ball from his pocket, casually tossing it to Amru, who lobbed it back.
"Hey, easy, please," Islam gently reprimanded, afraid they'd knock something over.
Usman threw it a bit too hard; Amru missed, and the ball bounced away into the brush. Usman scrambled up to chase it, but Islam caught him by the back of his hoodie, yipping him backward onto his rear.
"Aw, Islaaam! I need to get my squishy!" the boy whined.
"Not alone. Wait until we finish eating, and you can go look for it with Khabib," Islam said firmly.
"No way am I going anywhere with him," both cousins declared in unison.
Usman crossed his arms and pouted when Khabib stuck his tongue out at him.
Islam pinched the bridge of his nose, completely out of ideas for managing the two men-children.
"Ah, toys... you know how it is. My young daughter, Aya, used to collect those too. She had squishies in every shape imaginable," Nikolai said cheerfully, instantly pivoting Usman's attention.
"Which ones does she have?!" Usman demanded, his prior annoyance forgotten.
"Oh, all sorts! An ice cream cone, a banana, a little Minion, a cat, and... a block of Swiss cheese," Nikolai listed, flashing a wide, bright grin at the boy.
"SWISS CHEESE?! SHE HAS A CHEESE SQUISHY?! WOOOOOW, CAN SHE BRING IT TOMORROW?!" Usman shrieked, hopping up and rushing over to stand right in front of Nikolai.
The boy practically vibrated with excitement, staring up at the man with wide, starry eyes, hanging onto his every word.
"Hahaha, yes, I'll tell my wife to pack Aya's squishy collection for tomorrow," Nikolai promised warmly.
Umar watched the exchange, a strange prickle of unease hitting the back of his neck. He picked up the camera, framing a quick shot of the group. The flash went off, cutting through the encroaching darkness of the forest. Umar waited for the screen to load the image, then frowned. His eyes widened in sudden, sharp shock.
Usman was alone in the frame.
The space where Nikolai had been sitting was entirely empty, as if Usman had been talking to thin air.
Umar’s heart slammed against his ribs. He fought down a sudden wave of panic, scanning the clearing. Everything looked normal: Khabib was eating, Amru and Usman were chattering with Nikolai about toys, and Islam was taking a sip of water.
Umar exhaled hard, convincing himself it was just a glitch. He raised the camera again, pointing it at Islam, and fired the flash. The preview loaded—Islam was smiling back at him, but the longer Umar stared at the screen, the more a knot of dread tightened in his stomach. A strange, greyish smudge stained the background behind Islam.
Frowning, Umar turned the camera over, inspected the lens, and wiped it clean, telling himself it was just dirt.
Yet the malaise refused to lift. He counted to three in his head, turned the lens toward Nikolai, and snapped another photo. The wait felt agonizingly long, his pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against his ears. When the image finally resolved, Umar let out a shaky breath: Nikolai was there. The first glitch must have been a fluke.
He shifted slightly to frame Khabib next. The flash bounced off the stainless-steel plate, catching the dark canopy above.
"Let me see. I bet I look the most photogenic," Khabib boasted, and Umar silently handed over the screen.
However, the second the photo loaded, Umar gasped, dropped the camera into the dirt, and scrambled backward to his feet, shattering the calm of the clearing.
"Okay, Umar, I'm starting to feel insulted. You're taking pictures of everyone, but when it's my turn you act like you've just seen a ghost," Khabib teased good-naturedly.
He couldn't have been more accurate. That was precisely what Umar was looking at. Staring right back from the screen, pressed flush against Khabib’s shoulder, was a face—distorted, deathly pale, and cast in a translucent grey blur.
The boy couldn't form the words. He had no earthly idea how to explain what was on the screen without sounding completely insane. It was impossible. He couldn't speak.
"Umar! Hey, Umar, breathe! UMAR, BREATHE!" Khabib panicked, dropping his plate.
At first, he thought his cousin was playing an elaborate prank—he was used to the boys' antics. But the absolute lack of color in Umar's face made panic curdle in Khabib's stomach.
"Umar, buddy, breathe. It's okay, hey—I was just joking around," Khabib soothed, stepping forward to help the boy regulate his hyperventilating.
Islam was on his feet in a heartbeat, rushing over, closely followed by a bewildered Usman and Amru.
Umar stared at Khabib, his vision finally clearing, the roaring in his ears subsiding just enough for him to lunge forward and bury his face in Khabib's chest, wrapping his arms around his waist.
He let out a terrified, breathy sob: "There's something standing right next to you, Khaba."
By pure instinct, Khabib wrapped his arms around Umar, resting a hand heavily on the back of his head and pressing him tight. But as the words registered, Khabib froze. A cold sweat broke out across his shoulder blades. He forced his voice to remain level, rubbing Umar's back.
"What do you mean, something's with me? Of course there is, you guys are all right here—"
Umar violently shoved himself backward, screaming, "No, not us! A GHOST! I SAW IT ON THE CAMERA! LOOK!"
He began frantically rummaging through the grass for the dropped device.
Islam fixed Khabib with a questioning, heavily alarmed look. Khabib silently closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, silently communicating: I've got this.
"NO! NO! WHERE IS IT?!" Umar cried, sweeping his hands wildly over the dirt.
"Right here," Nikolai said calmly, holding up the camera by its strap.
Umar snatched it out of his hands with a violent jerk, tapping frantically at the screen.
The display flared to life, and Umar shoved it directly into Khabib's face, wailing, "LOOK! THERE'S A FACE RIGHT NEXT TO YOURS!"
Khabib stared at the screen. It was pitch black. He saw nothing. He glanced up at Islam, who leaned in close to peer at the display, but got the exact same result: a dead, black screen.
"Umar... you probably just caught a smudge of dust on the lens. It happens," Islam offered gently, trying to soothe the boy as he carefully retrieved the camera from his trembling hands.
Umar snatched it back to his chest, shaking his head frantically. "I'm telling you, it's HIM! He disappeared from a photo earlier!" he shrieked, pointing a trembling finger straight at Nikolai, wide brown eyes wide with absolute terror.
"Alright, calm down, Umar. We don't make accusations when we don't know what we're talking about," Khabib reprimanded, stepping forward.
Sensing his cousin was past the point of reasoning, Khabib moved to block his view of Nikolai, hoping cutting off the sightline would help ground him. Still, he couldn't wrap his head around why his usually level-headed cousin was having such a hysterical reaction.
Once again, Khabib rested his large hand on top of Umar's head, smoothing it down gently to his shoulder. Umar immediately folded back into him, clutching a fistful of Khabib's shirt.
"Look, it's getting late. We should probably get the kids ready for bed," Islam intervened smoothly, hoping to defuse the tension with Nikolai.
He nudged Amru and Usman forward toward their tent, but Nikolai’s voice halted him in his tracks.
"Ah, yes, I understand... My daughter Sacha had such a runaway imagination, too, just like Umar here. She loved inventing stories. Ghost stories, possessions, murders... Oh, kids will be kids."
Usman whipped around, his face dark with sudden fury.
"Don't talk about my BROTHER like he's crazy!"
"Usman," Khabib warned, his voice a low, hard rumble.
Lifting Umar into his arms, Khabib carried him over to Islam, who took the boy, settling him against his hip and wrapping supportive arms around his waist.
"I'm going to go find Usman's damn toy before
another crisis hits," Khabib announced tightly.
"I want to come!" Usman instantly chimed in, his anger vanishing as quickly as it had arrived.
"Me too! Me too!" Amru chorused, bouncing on his heels.
Khabib exhaled a long, defeated breath. He knew when he was beaten. He told the boys to grab their flashlights, and within seconds, both kids reappeared, each armed with a heavy-duty torch.
Khabib motioned for them to follow, leading the way into the dense, black treeline in silence. He swept the beam of his flashlight across the forest floor, but saw no trace of the squishy toy.
After five minutes of fruitless searching, he snapped. "What did your toy even look like, Usman?!"
"Usman?" he repeated, his voice echoing off the silent trees.
He spun around—and found the clearing behind him entirely empty. The kids were gone.
Khabib didn't panic right away. He was used to Usman’s stupid practical jokes. He took a slow, centering breath and bellowed into the dark, "Usman! Amru! I'm giving you ten seconds to get out from behind those trees before your little prank has serious consequences."
He stood his ground, crossing his arms, and started counting aloud. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5... I'm warning you—"
CRAC. CRAC.
A sharp snap of a twig echoed to his left. Khabib whipped his flashlight around, stabbing the beam into the underbrush. Nothing. He exhaled sharply. If they thought they could scare him, they had another thing coming.
CRAC. CRAC.
Another heavy crunch. Khabib snapped the light toward the sound again. Absolutely nothing. Just the dark, mocking silhouettes of the trees.
"That's it, you're on your own, I'm leaving!" he yelled into the void, hoping to force them out of hiding.
He turned to walk back, but the second he did, the heavy sound of footsteps erupted behind him—faster, closer, heavier. He spun around. Empty. He swept the beam in a frantic 360-degree circle. Nothing.
Khabib wasn't a superstitious man. He didn't scare easily. But a cold, greasy film of sweat was beginning to bead across his skin.
He swallowed hard, turning back toward the campsite, when another sound sliced through the dark. It wasn't snapping branches or footsteps this time.
It was a harsh, rhythmic, metallic scraping. A sound that made every hair on his arms stand straight up. But what truly froze his blood was the faint, distorted sound of a child singing beneath the metallic screech.
Focus, he told himself, dragging in deep, deliberate breaths. Panic solves nothing.
He managed to steady his pulse—until a child's blood-curdling scream tore through the silence of the woods.
Khabib’s heart slammed into overdrive. His first and only thought was of Usman and Amru alone out here. He broke into a dead sprint toward the source of the sound, driven purely by raw terror. Another scream ripped through the night, closer this time. He plunged headfirst into a dense thicket of brambles where the noise seemed to originate.
Nothing. Just a single flashlight lying in the dirt, its bulb flickering weakly. Khabib snatched it up with a trembling hand, dropping it instantly when he realized the casing was completely shattered, crushed inward.
"God..." he whispered to himself.
His brain short-circuited. He had found the broken light, but the children were nowhere in sight.
"KHABAAAA! HELP!"
The voice belonged to Usman, echoing from the deep dark. Khabib spun around and bolted blindly in the direction of the cry.
He ran without thinking, abandoning all sense of direction. His veins pumped pure adrenaline, his jaw clamped shut, Usman's desperate screams looping endlessly in his mind. He pushed his body to the absolute limit, desperate to reach his cousin before it was too late.
He tore through the pitch-black woods, deaf and blind to everything except the desperate need to save them. When he finally burst back into the campsite, chest heaving and lungs burning, he froze.
Everything was pitch black. The campfire had burned down to cold, dead ash. The tents looked wrong—he counted only two instead of four, though his exhausted brain barely registered the discrepancy, chalking it up to fatigue.
A figure stepped out from one of the tents, alerted by the noise. A wave of immense relief crashed over Islam. He was finally back. He’d been gone for hours. Islam rushed forward, throwing his arms around Khabib—who instinctively caught him by the shoulders, spun him around, and violently shoved him to the ground.
"Khaba, it's me!!" Islam cried out in sheer panic, completely bewildered by his boyfriend's aggression.
Khabib stared down at the dirt, recognizing Islam's terrified face in the pale moonlight. He scrambled back up as if electrocuted, whipping his head around to scan the shadows.
"Hey... are you okay?" Islam asked cautiously from the ground, utterly lost.
He reached out, trying to understand what had snapped in his boyfriend's mind. Khabib’s gaze remained locked in a dead stare on the kids' tent.
"I put them to bed when you didn't come back... I... I was so scared something had happened to you," Islam whispered softly, his voice trembling like a secret shared between lovers.
"What? Isu, what are you talking about? I was gone for maybe 10 minutes," Khabib said, disbelief bleeding into his tone.
"Khaba... it's 1:30 in the morning. You went looking for Usman's toy around 10:00 PM."
Khabib felt as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. He had been gone for three and a half hours?! Impossible.
He would have known. A primal shiver crawled down his spine as he remembered chasing the phantom voice of Usman through an endless, winding maze of trees. He violently shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory.
He looked down at Islam. His boyfriend's eyes were swollen, the rims red, his irises shining with unshed tears. He'd been crying. Khabib's heart cracked. He couldn't believe he had made Islam cry.
He needed to fix this, and fast—but first, he had to confirm one terrifying detail. "Are Usman and Amru here?"
Islam nodded numbly. "It took forever to get them to settle down, but they're asleep in the tent with Umar."
Khabib exhaled a ragged breath, pulling Islam into a fierce embrace. His boyfriend wrapped his
arms around Khabib's neck, breathing shakily.
"What are you doing, Khaba?!"
"I'm going to make it up to you for scaring you," Khabib murmured, his mood abruptly shifting back to cocky confidence.
He hauled Islam toward their tent, slipping inside while keeping him pressed tight against his chest, before gently laying him back against the sleeping mat. Khabib crawled over him, his hands sliding over Islam’s fever-warm body. He captured Islam’s lips in a desperate, bruising kiss.
"Let me apologize properly for terrifying you, Isu."
On the other side of the camp, inside the tent housing the three boys, sleep was proving elusive. Umar, Usman, and Amru sat huddled in a tight circle around an old, rusted radio they’d dug out of the dirt while looking for the squishy toy.
Finding it had superseded their fear, and they’d smuggled it back without telling the adults. Now, all three stared down at the battered object, each waiting for someone else to be brave enough to turn it on.
"You guys should throw that away," Umar warned, breaking the heavy tension in the tent.
"No way! We found it, we're keeping it," Usman retorted defensively.
"Bet it doesn't even work," Amru muttered, eyeing it skeptically.
"You're supposed to be on my side, Amru! You're my best friend, you can't contradict me in front of my brother!" Usman whined.
Amru made a face. "Why can't I?"
"Because it's my birthday!!" Usman hissed, his voice rising.
Sensing a brawl about to erupt, Umar reached out and snatched the radio.
"Shut up, both of you. We need to sleep. The faster we sleep, the faster we celebrate your birthday, Usman."
"It İS my birthday! It's almost 4:00 AM, it's officially April 17th!" the boy shot back, caught between frustration and hyper-active excitement.
"Yeah, but if we don't sleep, we never get cake," Umar reasoned.
Usman stubbornly shook his head.
"No, it's my birthday, I do what I want!" And with that, he lunged forward, tackling his older brother to the canvas floor.
The two Nurmagomedov brothers wrestled in the cramped tent, leaving Amru paralyzed and unsure how to intervene. Panicking as they thrashed toward him, Amru tried to yank the radio out of harm's way, but Umar's flailing foot struck the device—and it hissed to life.
“Is... is someone there? I repeat, is anyone there...?” a raspy, distorted male voice crackled through the static.
The transmission instantly froze the boys in their tracks. They broke apart, staring down at the speaker in wide-eyed horror.
“I repeat... does anyone read me? Is there anyone out there...?”
The voice carried a sharp, undeniable edge of panic and terror that was impossible to ignore.
"Is... is somebody there?" Amru whispered cautiously, creeping closer to the radio.
Completely transfixed, he picked it up and gave it a small shake.
"Hello? I'm here, mister!"
Umar and Usman watched warily, neither daring to touch it. Finally, Usman swallowed hard and crept toward his friend.
"Amru? Amru...?"
Amru didn't blink. His warm, expressive brown eyes had gone completely flat, grey, and translucent.
A terrified shriek ripped from Usman's throat as he threw himself at his friend.
"Leave my best friend alone! We don't know who you are, Mr. Radio!"
Amru dropped the device. A shrieking, metallic whine pierced the air, forcing the boys to clap their hands over their ears.
"Turn it off!" Usman screamed, pressing his palms harder against his skull and looking wildly at his older brother.
"No, you do it! YOU brought it in here!" Umar yelled back over the screeching feedback, but Usman refused to budge.
The noise grew deafening. The children dropped to their knees, whimpering in agony—until the static abruptly cut out, replaced by a clear, desperate voice: “Do not wander into the woods! Run! Run before you find Nikolai, or you will never leave!”
The boys stared at one another, paralyzed.
Umar's mind raced back to the photos—to how Nikolai hadn't appeared in the frame, how he’d materialized out of nowhere, how he'd cataloged them like livestock.
Before Umar could speak, a chilling sound ripped through the speaker: a man screaming in pure, unadulterated agony, begging, “Please! No! PLEASE, DON'T KILL ME—!” before the audio dissolved into a harsh, dying hiss of white noise.
The children didn't hesitate for another microsecond. They bolted out of the tent, scrambling headlong into the dark toward Khabib and Islam's shelter.
"KHABA!! KHABA!!!"
"ISLAM!! ISLAAAM!!"
"Please, open up!" they wailed, hammering their fists frantically against the zipped canvas door.
Inside, Khabib cursed under his breath. He was shirtless, hovering over Islam, who was similarly stripped. Things had just been starting to get good, and once again, his cousins were managing to torpedo the mood.
Islam reached to unzip the flap, but Khabib caught his wrists, pinning him back to the mat.
"Ignore them for five minutes. It's just another one of their stupid farces... we have much better things to do."
Khabib peppered Islam's face and collarbones with hot kisses. Islam squirmed softly beneath him, letting out a breathy, tender moan. Khabib never grew tired of those sounds; he wanted to swallow them whole and hoard them.
"Hmm, Khaba..." Islam panted, growing flushed and responsive.
"Yeah, Isu? Baby, I know what you want," Khabib murmured, sinking his teeth softly into the sensitive skin of Islam's throat.
"Then give it to me..." Islam teased softly.
"Oh, trust me, Islam, you're not going to forget tonight because I'm gonna—" Khabib started, before being violently cut off.
"KHABIB! ISLAM! PLEASE, OPEN THE DOOR!" the kids shrieked in unison, pounding harder.
"FOR FUCK'S SAKE, CAN YOU LEAVE US ALONE FOR FIVE MINUTES?!" Khabib roared in frustrated fury, yanking the zipper down and throwing the flap open.
The children didn't wait for an invitation; they dove inside, practically hurling themselves on top of Islam as if trying to physically crawl inside his body for safety.
"What is wrong with you guys now?!" Khabib barked, at the absolute end of his tether.
He was a second away from a full detonation. Nothing about this cursed weekend made sense, and it was barely 3:17 AM. They still had an entire day ahead of them. To top it all off, it was officially Usman's birthday, meaning the kids were bound to be insufferable.
Islam, completely disoriented, wrapped his arms around the three trembling bodies collapsing over him.
"Hey, hey, calm down, boys. What happened?" he asked, all traces of his prior mood evaporating.
"Nikolai's going to kidnap us and kill us," Umar stated flatly, his voice terrifyingly calm given the declaration.
Khabib raised a skeptical eyebrow, crossing his bare arms over his chest.
"I don't think one guy can kidnap all of us, Umar."
"BUT WE HEARD VOICES WARNING US!" Amru cried out, pitching forward.
"YEAH! AND AMRU GOT HYPNOTIZED BY THE VOICES!" Usman screamed, flailing his head back and forth between Islam and Khabib.
"Okay, okay, boys, that's a bit far-fetched, don't you think?" Islam tried to reason, stroking their hair.
"We we’ll figure it out tomorrow morning—" Khabib started, before snapping, "Now go back to your tent."
Instead of arguing, the three boys simply collapsed against Islam’s sides, refusing to move an inch.
"Ugh, I hope this weekend ends right now," Khabib muttered, flopping down onto the sliver of mat left on the opposite side of Islam.
The kids shifted, settling in. Usman climbed right onto Khabib's bare chest, laying his head down. Umar stretched out sideways, resting his arms and head across Khabib's biceps, while Islam wrapped a hand around one of Umar's ankles. Amru pressed flat against Islam's other flank like a limpet.
Despite the sheer absurdity of the situation, the scene was undeniably domestic—the two young adults boxed in by sleeping children, finally quiet.
SCRATCH. SCRATCH.
Islam turned his head. The harsh, scratching sound against the outer canvas wouldn't stop.
“Islam... Islam, can you open the door for me, please?”
Islam blinked heavily against a thick wall of exhaustion. Who was outside at this hour? He checked his watch: 3:17 AM. Funny, he thought sluggishly, I could have sworn it was already 3:17 a few hours ago... But his tired brain didn't pause to analyze it.
“Islam, please, I'm cold out here...” the voice whispered again.
Islam furrowed his brow, rubbing his heavy
eyelids.
"Usman? What are you doing outside?"
“Please, Islam, I'm cold. Hurry.”
He shifted, carefully untangling himself so as not to wake the kids. Half-asleep, Islam crawled toward the zipper. A dark silhouette was pressed against the exterior mesh. He reached out to pull the slider down—and froze dead in his tracks.
"Islam, what are you doing?" Usman's sleepy voice muttered from right on top of Khabib's chest.
WAIT.
Usman was right here.
Usman was inside the tent.
Then who was outside, using his voice?!
Islam yanked his hand back as if burned. Every trace of sleep evaporated instantly, replaced by a spike of raw, unadulterated terror. Something was fundamentally, horrifyingly wrong, and they needed to run now.
He watched the silhouette outside. It was growing larger. The shadow shifted, stretching, swelling from the size of a child into the bulk of a full-grown man—then distorting further, sprouting extra limbs, shifting heads, warping into an impossible, multi-jointed mass of angles and meat.
And then, the shadow stopped moving.
Islam felt his blood run cold. He couldn't remember ever being this terrified in his entire life.
"Khaba... Khaba, wake up," Islam choked out, his voice a breathless rasp.
He repeated it like a sacred, desperate prayer to a divine savior: "Please, Khaba... please, wake up."
The silhouette outside shifted again, accompanied by a wet, sickening pop of bone snapping into place. A fresh shiver of horror raced down Islam’s spine. He prayed louder, his lips barely moving.
“Khaba, please wake up.”
Islam was completely paralyzed, staring at the monstrous silhouette pressed against the nylon. Without warning, the shape lunged forward, swallowing the tent whole in pitch-black darkness.
Islam’s scream tore out of him:
"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"
He thrashed wildly, shaking Khabib and the kids with both hands.
"Hurry, hurry! We have to go! Wake up!”
Usman was already half-up, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
"What's going on...?"
"We're leaving, Usman! Pack your bag—no, don't pack, just get dressed and go!" Islam sobbed hysterically, trying to shove the three kids toward the exit all at once.
Khabib, jolted awake by Islam's screams, assumed his boyfriend was having a nightmare. But one look at Islam's face told him this was infinitely worse than a dream. Islam was darting back and forth in the cramped tent like a trapped animal, trying to dress the kids while sobbing openly.
Khabib might have laughed at the frantic panic if not for the absolute horror painted across his boyfriend's features.
"Hey, hey, Isu, calm down," Khabib soothed, reaching out to grab his wrist.
Islam violently shoved him away.
"No, Khaba, we can't calm down! We're all going to die! Can't you see the monster outside?!"
Khabib looked toward the tent flap. He saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. No shadow, no monster, no distortion. Just the quiet nylon wall.
"There's nothing out there, Islam. Look for yourself and calm down," Khabib said, stepping forward and slowly unzipping the flap.
Islam watched Khabib's hand move in agonizing slow motion. He knew things should be happening at normal speed, but the adrenaline warping his perception made every second stretch into eternity.
The zipper hit the bottom. The tent flap fell open—and Islam saw a knife plunge straight into Khabib's throat.
Blood exploded outward in a violent, crimson geyser, splashing hot and heavy across Islam’s face.
"Islam... Isla... Isu..." Khabib choked, his hands flying up to grip his gushing neck in a futile attempt to stem the flood.
Islam threw himself forward, tackling Khabib backward out of the tent. He clamped his own hands over the wound, but it was too late—the dark, thick fluid spilled endlessly between his fingers, soaking his palms, defying every effort to stop it.
"No, no, Khaba, you have to survive!! Please, don't leave me! No, not you!" Islam wailed, pressing down harder and harder, but Khabib was already losing color, his eyes glazing over.
"NO, KHABA, STAY WITH ME! I NEED YOU..." Islam broke down completely, sobbing hysterically over the dying man.
He pressed down one last time, but it was over. Khabib lay motionless in the dirt, the knife still buried in his throat, his clothes soaked through with dark blood.
Stumbling to his feet, Islam forced himself upright. He had to find the kids and get out of here. He spun around, searching for the campsite—and realized the tents were gone.
Entirely vanished. A wave of violent nausea hit him so hard he doubled over, fighting the urge to vomit.
"U... Umar? Usman? Amru...?" he rasped, his throat raw from screaming.
Silence answered him.
Islam tried again, shouting this time: "Umar?! Usman?! AMRU?!"
Only the empty, mocking hush of the forest answered. He breathed like a trapped animal, panic clawing at his throat. He spun in frantic circles. Everything was gone. The tents, the gear, the benches—all wiped away as if humans had never existed here.
"Islam? Is-laaaam...?"
Umar's hesitant voice cut through the dark.
Islam whipped around, hope flaring in his chest. Umar stood right in front of him, wearing the exact clothes he’d disappeared in. The crushing weight on Islam's chest eased slightly. At least one of them was here.
"Islam? Isuuu?"
Usman's voice echoed from behind him. Islam spun around again, whiplashing.
Usman stood there, holding his squishy toy, flashing a small, innocent smile. Islam’s brain short-circuited. If they were here, where—?
"Where's Amru?!" Islam demanded, turning back toward Usman.
"I'm right here, Islam!" Amru answered, stepping out from the shadows in the center.
"What the hell is going on...?! We have to leave, right now! Follow me!" Islam dropped the questions; processing would come later.
Survival came first.
"No, unfortunately, I'm not going anywhere," Amru said, his voice dropping an octave into a chilling, gravelly register.
"What?" Before Islam could react, a massive, writhing wave of black shadow surged forward, swallowing Amru whole.
The boy vanished into the dark as though he had never existed.
Islam froze. His heart skipped three full beats.
Amru had just been devoured by the dark, vanishing right before his eyes.
"Islam, save me!" Umar screamed.
Islam turned toward him. The boy was weeping openly. Islam lunged forward to grab him, but froze at the next voice.
"No, Islam, come save ME... I'm younger," Usman whimpered from the opposite side.
Islam whipped his head back and forth between the two children, paralyzed by the impossible choice.
"ISLAM, COME GET ME!"
"NO, ME, PLEASE!"
"ISLAM!!"
"ISLAAAAM!!!"
His head hammered with blinding, agonizing pain. His heart battered against his ribs, desperate to escape. His vision blurred at the edges. His knees buckled, and he collapsed hard into the dirt, his muscles finally refusing to carry him.
Islam's eyes dilated in sheer terror as another shadow detached itself from behind Umar. He scrambled backward, trying to push himself up, but his limbs failed him. He could only watch as the shadow swept over Umar, sucking the boy down into the earth until nothing was left.
Frantic, Islam twisted toward Usman. He dragged himself forward across the dirt, reaching out desperately for the child.
"It was supposed to be the best day of my life," Usman whispered hollowly, just before the darkness surged upward, swallowing him whole as well, leaving Islam face-down in the wet dirt and grass.
"NOOOO! NOOOO! NOOOOOO!" Islam screamed, clawing bloody gouges into the mud, weeping salt tears into the earth.
"You took too long to choose," a voice hissed.
The colossal shadow materialized directly in front of him, towering over his broken body.
"Why?! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!" Islam sobbed, his voice cracking into a broken wail.
"Why...?"
"Why...?" the shadow echoed, its voice a horrific cacophony of overlapping whispers.
"WHY?! BECAUSE IF I, NIKOLAI SOKOLOV, HAD TO WATCH MY FAMILY DIE IN THIS FOREST, EVERYONE ELSE WILL SUFFER THE SAME FATE!" The monster lunged.
"NO! NO, LEAVE ME—!"
"Islam!? Islam?? Isu?!"
A familiar voice cut through the dark.
Islam bolted upright, sucking in a massive, ragged lungful of air that made him cough violently. A large, warm hand clamped onto his shoulder, grounding him.
"Hey, take it easy, Isu," Khabib murmured softly, rubbing his shoulder.
Islam couldn't believe his eyes. Khabib was right here, alive and breathing. His gaze dropped frantically to his boyfriend's neck—smooth, unblemished skin. No knife. No blood. Nothing.
He darted his eyes around the cabin: they were sitting in Khabib's SUV, parked quietly on the side of the road.
He exhaled a long, shuddering sigh of relief, before a sudden, spiking wave of dread hit him. He grabbed Khabib's arm.
"Khaba... where are the kids?!"
Khabib arched a skeptical eyebrow at his boyfriend's frantic state.
"Back there. We pulled over at a rest stop because you were thrashing around so wildly in your sleep."
"We haven't reached the forest yet?" Islam demanded, breathless.
"No... what is wrong with you?!" Khabib asked, deeply perplexed by the sheer terror etched across Islam's face.
Without a word, Islam threw his arms around Khabib's neck, burying his face in his shoulder and hugging him with terrifying force.
"Thank God."
Khabib automatically wrapped his arms around Islam, dropping a quick, affectionate kiss onto his cheek—a habit that had become second nature—before trying to gently loosen Islam's death grip.
"Isu, babe, you can let go, I'm not going to vanish, I promise."
"Hmm... Khaba, do you still want to play that stupid roleplay where I'm a cop arresting you and you have to bribe me to avoid jail?" Islam whispered directly into Khabib's ear.
He knew it was cheap, but he needed a foolproof way to cancel this trip. There was no earthly way he was letting them set foot in those mountains.
"Ahem... Isu, babe, are you sure you're okay?" Khabib asked, deeply suspicious.
"Do you want to or not?!" Islam pressed, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with him, radiating absolute urgency.
"Yes! I mean... yes, obviously," Khabib stammered.
"Great! I'm ready to play officer, provided we cancel the birthday camping trip right now."
"Hmm, I don't know, Isu... it's Usman's birthday, you know how he gets," Khabib hesitated, reluctant to pull the plug on the trip his cousin had been nagging them about for months.
"We'll buy him a mountain of squishy toys, I swear. Just think about it—me putting you in cuffs and riding you like the good little cop I am," Islam coaxed, deliberately letting his hand slide slowly down from Khabib's shoulder to flex over his bicep.
"Fine. Deal," Khabib caved instantly, pulling away to turn the key in the ignition and head back for the kids.