Everyone said the math teacher had killed his husband.
It made sense. Ivan Braginski was one scary dude. Feliciano had known this when he bumped into the man on his first day. After apologizing, Feliciano looked up to find a giant man with a joyless smile.
"Sorry," Feliciano mumbled, doing his best to collect his papers so he could run as far away as possible.
Ivan sighed, muttering something to himself. "It is fine. Do you need—"
"No," Feliciano laughed, standing, "Thank you, I really have to be going!"
The next week, after figuring out the school and his student's names, Feliciano was conversing with them as they drew. He had mainly gotten seniors, who were witty and cynical, but still happy to joke with Feliciano.
"Actually, I think I ran into him," Feliciano said, checking over Gilbert's shoulder, "The math teacher—tall, light hair?"
"He killed his husband," Gilbert said, glancing over his shoulder. "Didn't you know? It was all over the news a couple years ago. The Jones own this huge fuc—"
"Language," Feliciano chided, circling around the table to check on the other students' work.
"No, but, anyways, all over the news. Body missing, called in the dogs to sniff around—no trace. Mr. B certainly seemed upset, but he's weird. He never leaves the school. Too guilty to return to the scene of the crime." Gilbert tapped a finger against his head knowingly.
Now that he mentioned it, Ivan didn't leave the school. He was always there. Feliciano couldn't bring himself to get up any earlier, so he started staying late. When Feliciano didn't see Ivan walk by his room often enough, he started to follow the man around the school.
Ivan talked to himself in another language. Not in the exasperated way Gilbert's younger brother did, or Lovino did when he drove, but something new. Sometimes, it was happy, Ivan marching through the halls with his hands behind his back.
Most of the time, it was heartbreaking. It was how Lovino would talk to Grandpa when he was in the hospital. Soft because if you raised your voice too much, you could hear the ragged edges of the words. On the verge of tears.
One time, Feliciano peaked into Ivan's room, and he was speaking in English.
"… English because of how much it meant to you. I wouldn't have sold it, but it was not doing much sitting in the garage. The kid who bought it will probably use it more than the art teacher listening in at my door."
Feliciano laughed, stepping into sight. "Um, uh, the copier machine's broken."
Ivan patted the stack of papers on desk in front of him. "No, it's not."
"Um, who were you talking to?" Feliciano was torn between fleeing and listening. "Was it your husband?"
"Mr. Vargas," Ivan said, standing quickly, "I'm not really interested—"
"My grandfather always used to talk to my mother. She passed away in a car accident. It was always silly things, like when he cut himself he'd look up and say something about how clumsy he was, and how she should be here to help him cook. He talked to her more toward the end."
Feliciano smiled, edging closer into the room. Ivan was still standing at his desk, watching Feliciano warily. Ivan and Lovino were alike—both so touchy, one was just angry, the other distant.
"What happened to him?" Feliciano asked one day, helping Ivan grade papers.
Ivan sighed, shuffling through his various tests to be handed back. "I don't know. One day he was just gone. He was—" His face turned to one of amusement, "An ass. God, spent all our money on fucking chips and cars."
Feliciano double-checked the answer key. "Ivan… The kids—"
Ivan interrupted, waving his hand. "I know what they say, that I killed him."
Feliciano frowned, setting aside his blue pen. "Don't you think you should correct them? You're really actually not scary at all! I'm sure if you just explained that your husband was a drifter—"
"Mr. Vargas," Ivan cut in, twirling the red pen in between his fingers, "What happened between me and Alfred is private. You don't know anything that you are talking about."
That was true. But Feliciano hung around Ivan, watched him teach kids after school, explaining with sincerity—and, depending on the student, mockery—everything they needed to know. Sometimes, he stood over them, watching as they worked. The kids complained about it to Feliciano, but it was sweet, really, trying to make sure they did everything right.
Of course, Gilbert in particular would explain the strange revenge tactics Ivan had. The pop-tests, the homework if enough questions weren't asked. All in their best interest, Feliciano assured.
And then Feliciano would walk with Ivan, talking about the different drawings he would do. Ivan probably wasn't listening, but he didn't look so sad, so lost.
One evening, Feliciano walked in on Ivan drinking. Bottles were scattered around his desk, his feet resting on his desk. Feliciano almost turned away, a knot in his throat at Ivan's state. Lovino jumped to mind—Lovino's voice, glassy eyes, dejected, despondent Lovino.
Ivan's eyes took a moment to focus on Feliciano.
"He called me."
At least grandfathers don't call from the grave.