The year was 1991. Four digits, one-nine-nine-one, so meaningless on paper, so significant for the course of history. National history, international history, personal history.
The precise date indicated the 25th of December. The precise moment at which the following events took place is unknown, but streetlights were already dimly glowing outside the thickly-curtained window of the bleak yet substantially clean four-by-four motel room. In it were a sizeable bed with creaky mattress and black iron bars, a small plastic table with two foldable chairs and an ashtray, two doors, one leading to a tiny bathroom (toilet, sink, shower), the other outside, and one television, opposite of the bed, seemingly square in the middle of the room.
The TV was playing one single program, not even ten minutes long. Each time it reached the end, it was instantly rewinded to be played again, as if some new meaning could be drawn from the images and sounds with each replay.
A single man was sitting at the edge of the bed, hulking figure leaning forward, cigarette dangling from the long fingers of one hand, the other gripping the remote so tightly it was as if he were afraid it would attempt an escape. Thick clouds of smoke slowly drifted up to the ceiling, finding no escape from the room that was their prison. They swirled against the ceiling, tainting already existing marks from previous visitors of the room, each darkened spot telling their own story of chaste meetings, fleeting one-night stands, whispered conversations and bitten remarks. It was as if they were murmuring to each other, wondering what tonight's story would be, oblivious to the atmosphere only humans were affected by.
The man lifted his arm, replayed the recording once again. His face, which seemed ashen in the grey lighting, was entirely expressionless, gaze cold and without sentiment as it flickered to the person on TV, over and over and over, only he himself being able to guess at his inner turmoil. Eyes of steel lilac briefly flitted over to the window, studying the cracks of ice creeping along the surface. It wouldn't be long before it began to snow now. He could feel it in his bones, in the very tips of his fingers. Of course it would snow.
The calm whirl of smoke was disturbed when a door suddenly opened, letting a gush of cold inside, before it was quickly closed again. A man was leaning against it, making a "pfew!" noise, checking whether the door was sufficiently locked before turning around and facing his new companion.
Blue eyes to drown in, hair the colour of golden wheat tussled up by a gentle breeze, sunkissed skin, lightly freckled nose and plump, slightly chapped lips. Ever-excitable, he failed to completely mask his elation at today's news. After all, was that not the intent of today's meeting?
The man named Ivan still kept that same expressionless air as he watched the other pull off his hat, coat, scarf, taking a short drag from the small cylinder placed delicately between index and middle finger. The video continued playing until its end, finally distorting to mere white noise.
Finally undressed, the darker blond stepped closer, crooked smile plastered on his face. He nodded to the TV, though his eyes were constantly trained on the man sitting on the bed, smoking his cigarette. "So you've seen it huh?"
"Seen it" was an understatement, an insult almost. Ivan could have told him as much, but even Alfred (for that was the name he had introduced himself by to Ivan) cringed once the words left his mouth. "Okay, duh, of course you've seen it. Everyone's seen it."
Ivan blinked once, long eyelashes fluttering over his high cheek bones. He had reached the end of his cigarette, flicked the remnants into the ashtray in an elegant bow. His lips were drawn back to reveal teeth, a gesture far too animalistic to be called a grin.
"Whatever would give you that idea, zvezda moya?" he asked thinly, Alfred flinching at the tone of his words. A delicate frown found its way to his brow, signifying both stubborn defiance and a hint of worry neither of them were ready to admit existed—that they were actually capable of caring about one another, outside the extent of what occurred within these four walls.
"Hey, I didn't ask you to meet up so we could fight, okay? I just wanted to talk." He took a step closer. "I mean, this is—this is an extremely important thing that happened, it could change everything! It could even—"
He didn't get to finish. Voice faltering when the other slowly rose, he felt a familiar apprehension at the way Ivan towered above him, muscles clearly showing through the thin sleeves of his dress shirt, becoming aware for the umpteenth time of dark circles beneath his eyes, those hollowed cheeks, as if the man had been far too busy worrying over everything that could be worried about to properly feed himself. Once more he felt that twinge of worry, sting of anguish, but then Ivan stepped closer, and adrenaline took over.
"Oh? You did not want to fight, Alfred?" he whispered darkly, all usual playfulness making place for something predatory, lacking the pretend. Alfred could feel a shiver tremble through his skin, tingling every little hair, tickling at his nerves. Ivan continued in that same voice, "I thought you love fighting? Thought you loved it when I dominated you, when you had to bite and claw and growl before your voice turns to pleading and begging, breaking around moans?"
Alfred's cheeks coloured ruby-red, the shivers multiplying. "Ivan!" he hissed in warning, not trusting that look in those eyes, ready to defend himself if necessary.
Ivan barked a single humourless laugh, something deranged about his smile—or lack thereof. "Da, that is my name! How good of you to finally remember, after all these years!" He lifted his hand, and for a moment Alfred could vividly see it slamming down, feel the burn as it made contact with his cheek, could even perfectly picture fingers digging into his throat—but then he flinched again, sound rippling through the wall beside him instead, only that much removed from Alfred's ear.
"Do you want to laugh at me?" Ivan continued without a moment's pause, eyes seeming to quake in their sockets, yet only focussed on the man before him, trapped against the wall. "Have you come to mock me, mock my country? Do you want to rub it in, how your people have won after all, how we have lost everything, how we—"
"Ivan!" Alfred yelled, gripping his face tightly between hands that were so strong, yet felt so completely useless in the face of this much despair, this broken soul. The expression was stuck to his face, yet his body was quivering, as if he was trying his hardest not to break down crying—not in front of Alfred, not in front of anyone, never.
Alfred gently led him back to the bed, lips pursed tightly, looking equally as concerned as he was annoyed. Once he had made sure that Ivan was seated properly and wouldn't go on another rampage, he growled and kicked the iron bars.
"Dammit, why do you do this to me?! I thought you were happy with Gorbachev and the others, I thought you were finally getting over all those things!" He pulled at his hair, more out of frustration than any real benevolence. "You told me the episodes were over, that you were feeling better than ever! Where the fuck is this coming from?!"
Ivan was smiling up at him, still not crying, yet looking as tired as someone who carried the weight of a nation on his bare shoulders. "I lied," he whispered, feeling a weird lump in his throat when Alfred looked at him coldly, the hurt visible in his broken glare. "I lied, because I knew you would stop seeing me if things were bad."
Alfred pointed at the television screen, shouting, spitting out his bile. "How can things be going bad?! You were fucking optimistic about everything, you were actually happy when things started changing, when—when you fucking told me in my face that you were happy with me! You were doing just great, were you hiding all, all this? From me?!" He felt betrayed, left-out, shattered.
Ivan on the other hand, had seen this coming for years. Had it not happened sooner, it would have happened later. Eventually, they all got tired of it, of him, of this broken husk. Still, he couldn't show Alfred, couldn't put this burden onto him. It was his to bear, and his alone.
He kept on smiling. Through the emptiness in his stomach, through the lump sinking from his throat to his stomach, scalding the outer scars on his porcelain neck. Wordlessly, he replayed the recording.
Alfred sighed, putting a hand to his face, the other protectively around his stomach. Biting his lip. A sob trying to escape. He shook his head, all previous excitement drained from his features. Ivan knew exactly what was coming.
"I can't do this anymore."
Ah.
"I can't keep sneaking around when it's just meaningless sex. I can't keep putting myself at risk like this. When you're not even…"
It hurt so good.
"It's been nice, but you can't keep using me to trick yourself, to pretend that everything's okay. Because it's not, and I can't fix you."
Fragile, like a little bird.
"I can't…" Another sigh, slightly stuttering. "I have to go. Don't call me. Please…"
Ivan could have easily called him back. Told him that this time, he was really going to make an effort to change, talk to someone professional, try to be better. That he knew he had to get over what had happened to him in the wars, in all those years of struggle, what he had seen, the screams still tearing apart his nights. He could tell Alfred that he really did care about him, that he would have gladly run off with him to try and build a life somewhere, that he was the most important person in the world to him.
He didn't.
As the door clicked shut again, he put up another cigarette.
Light blots of snow were twirling down outside the window. It seemed like Alfred would get the white Christmas he'd yearned for after all. That was always one of his favourite stories—of the German and British troops who ceased fire to celebrate the holiday in temporary peace.
Hot salty wetness trickled down his cheek.
He rewinded the recording.