Nicky & OPEN
Nikolai hadn't been joking when he'd said he wasn't used to parties. The Berkut wasn't big on individual celebration unless it involved miltary tactics or a body count and his mother could barely remember what his birthday was or what month it was, nevermind birthday parties and Christmas trees. He didn't feel like he missed out on anything though; if anything, the lack of celebrations made the times when the Boevik who was training him gifted him with a new knife or silencer or gun oil on his birthday and the times he'd sat around drinking too much vodka than was good for him with guys that were scarred from head to toe but still able to be more festive than his own family.
When the zombie plague had hit he hadn't expected there to be anymore parties, but life always seemed to find a way - unless he was behind the trigger, even if the dead didn't sometimes stay dead anymore. He had been relieved that Sarge had made it out of quarantine, although he'd kept his distance from the man. Not only did he not consider it his place to flutter around, even though he had been in the gang for some time, but he wasn't used to being so personally involved when someone might be dying and he wasn't sure how to cope with what that made him feel.
He'd escaped having to face it this time round though, and even though he kept on the sidelines and was more content to watch the merrymaking than throw himself into the crowds, he still partook of the paint-stripper that was their very own moonshine and if a smile found it's way onto his face he wasn't going to deny it. Volk lay on his feet like a bear rug, watching the going's on but head down between his paws and relaxed as he was going to be; Nicky didn't have the heart to push the big lug off his shoes even if his toes had lost all feeling in them.
He leaned back against the trailer wall he was leaning against, festooned in a chaos of celebration, and looked out for the next time the moonshine Mason jar would swing by his way.