утро – morning | saturday
"The sun shone through the blinds, revealing all the truths he did not want to see."
Toris' fingers hover above the typewriter keys for a moment before he withdraws his hands into his lap again. He stares at the sentence until the words no longer make sense and the letters blur into each other. A humid breeze from the open window brushes the back of his neck. The ceiling fan does nothing to cool the room down. It might as well have been for decoration. Toris wipes the sweat off his forehead with the collar of his shirt and puts his fingers to the keys. The deadline was yesterday. He'd managed to get it extended with enough cigarettes, alcohol, and begging. The editor shook his head and told Toris to bring in a finished manuscript no later than ten a.m. next Friday.
He started with 168 hours to finish a 5,000-word story.
It's taken him fifteen hours to write one sentence he liked.
His eyes drift away from the almost blank page. Before he knows what he's doing, he's watching clouds roll across the sky. Two black birds sit on the edge of the balcony railing, picking at each other. A car in the street dies with a cloud of grey smoke and a man steps out to yell at the engine. A woman walks by with a dog on a leash, a long-faced borzoi. Ivan always talks about getting a borzoi.
Toris turns in his chair to watch the man asleep on the couch. Ivan is entangled in a blue striped sheet, his hair hiding most of his face. He came home late last night and muttered about a fight before collapsing on the couch. His knuckles are covered in dried blood and his cheek bears a soft purple bruise. Despite this, he seems at peace and is even smiling a little. When he's asleep, Ivan looks like the person he used to be, the person Toris has only met in photographs.
The floor creaks as Toris gets up from his chair to take a closer look at who Ivan used to be. He stops himself short, grabbing his hand by the wrist.
"I need to focus," he says in a whisper. "I have to get this done."
Toris doesn't return to the chair, though. He stands there, taking in Ivan's rough features. Counting the scars decorating his skin. Watching his chest rise and fall.
Moments like these are when Toris finds himself filled with jealousy. He cannot capture this instant in a photo like Eduard can – Toris' photos always come out blurred or dotted with exposure. He can't put Ivan's crude softness into a painting the way Raivis does. All he can do is write. And there are no words to express how this feels. He could write an entire book about Ivan and it wouldn't say what it should say. There is no way to shove the thousands of thoughts and emotions into words. There isn't a word to contain Ivan Braginsky.
"I have a deadline," Toris announces to the sickeningly hot, silent room. He puts aside his self-pity and confusion and turns himself around. The chair's feet grate on the wood floor as he pulls it out and he flinches, glancing over his shoulder at Ivan. He's hidden his face with his arm.
Toris sits at the desk with his fingers over the keys, suffocating in the heat, for another twenty minutes before any words come to him. He types out the next sentence letter by letter. It feels wrong and clunky when he's finished, but he forces himself to move on. Editing while he's writing does nothing except give him anxiety and slow him down. He does it anyway.
It takes several more painful, terrible sentences for him to find a rhythm. It's slow and awkward. It's a rhythm nonetheless. Toris types the words as they come to him without waiting for them to organize themselves into something better than they can be. Sentences run on for lines and he's describing things in too much detail. He tells himself to stop worrying and keep pushing forward. No one will read this, anyway. No one cares about the story of a man who lost everything. Everyone Toris knows has lost everything.
"You're so serious when you write."
The key clicks stop.
"Good morning, Ivan," Toris says as he rips the paper from the typewriter. "I hope I didn't wake you up."
"You're fine," Ivan says through a yawn. "What were you writing? Can I read it?"
"It's nothing." Toris takes a frantic look through the three paragraphs he's wrote, hoping he didn't write anything embarrassing without realizing it. He catches pieces of things he doesn't recall writing. He sees wrong punctuation and misspellings. He reads a small paragraph he devoted to describing the way the air feels after it rains. "Here, read it if you want," he says, holding the paper over his shoulder. As it leaves his fingertips, he says, "It's not much good."
Ivan does not speak for a few minutes. Toris focuses his attention on a rip in the wallpaper. He's mortified. He is always mortified whenever Ivan reads his work. Everything he writes is a window into who Toris is. He's not sure if he wants Ivan to see inside.
"It's not as bad as you think," Ivan says at last. "It needs some work. What time is it?"
"Almost eight," Toris says.
"Why are you up so early writing?" Ivan crumples the page and throws it past Toris. It bounces off the wall and stops over a pile of pages with one or two sentences typed on them, a small monument to Toris' doubt. Every time he sits down to write, he ends up wasting paper with awful, cliché opening lines. It takes him ten to twenty pages to get the right one.
"I'm always up this early. I have a new deadline." Toris types out the same sentence he started the other page with. It's the only salvageable piece of it. "How are you feeling?"
"Not good. Timo, that Finnish bastard Eduard's friends with, can throw a good punch for someone the size of a kindergartener. Got me right where the other bruise was, too."
"Why did he hit you?"
"I don't remember. We were playing cards, I think. Probably lost," Ivan says. "Can you go get me some ice?"
Toris sighs. He doesn't mean to. It's a reflex now. "Can you get it yourself? I'm working."
"Please?"
Toris finds himself walking down the hallway toward the kitchen without realizing he's done it. When it dawns on him, he stops in the hallway and curses himself for being such a pushover. He goes to the fridge and takes a bag of half-frozen corn from the freezer. When he returns to the bedroom-turned-office, he tosses the bag onto Ivan's stomach. Ivan mumbles a thank-you, pressing the melting corn to the bruise on his face.
"Don't ask me for anything else. I have to get this done this week," Toris says.
"What are you writing about now?" Ivan asks.
"I don't know."
"Oh. How long do you have to finish it?"
"Until next Friday."
"Do you think you can do it?"
"Not with you pestering me," Toris says. "Please, Ivan, shut up. We need this."
"How bad?" Ivan says with what Toris can safely assume is a stupid grin.
"We've got to pay rent next week, Eduard wants more film developed, we're almost out of food, and you keep losing every bet you make. We need this more than I want to admit and I'm the only one who will do anything about it."
"You don't have to get so mad. Sorry I asked."
Ivan stops talking for a while, letting Toris work in quiet. Toris is the source of the most reliable income of their mismatched family, followed by Eduard, when he isn't getting arrested. Ivan comes in third place, assuming he finds an odd job to do between raving about dead writers and wasting money on things he never pursues, like the time he bought an accordion or when he decided he was going to make stained glass windows and tried to convert the living room into a workshop. Raivis just stays in the living room, painting whatever he feels like. Sometimes he sells a painting or two and moves up in rank.
It's incorrect to say that everything rests on Toris' shoulders. Sometimes the others help. Not often. Most of the time Toris is the one doing everything he can to extend payments and scrape together enough for groceries. Several times he's tried to bring it up to them and they laugh it off. It's enough to make Toris want to quit and force everyone to fend for themselves. Every time he tells himself he's going to stop, he can't bring himself to. He's too nice for his own good.
"Toris?" Ivan says.
"Is it important?" Toris says.
"Yes. I was supposed to wake Eduard up at six."
Toris stops writing, holding his head in his hands. Their definitions of important are different. "What for?"
"I don't remember. You don't think it's important –"
He doesn't have a chance to finish. The bedroom door slams open and Eduard runs down the hallway with an armful of folders and photographs. Toris watches a photo flutter to the floor. Something in the kitchen crashes and Eduard curses.
"Eduard?" Toris says. "Are you okay?"
He doesn't hear an answer. Other smaller crashes and clatters follow. Toris shoots Ivan a frigid glare. Ivan shrugs.
"Where did you put my fucking shoes?" Eduard hits the wall. Toris prays it didn't make another hole.
"They should be by the door," Toris says.
"They're not!" Eduard hits the wall again. "I'm wearing yours. Where are they?"
"In the living room, by the radio." Toris gets up and Ivan scrambles to his feet. Toris holds out his hand like he's telling a dog to stay. Ivan looks relieved. Of course. No one wants to deal with Eduard. Somehow, Toris always ends up calming Eduard down.
Toris follows the trail of photographs into the living room, where Eduard is rummaging through a cabinet. He's wearing Toris' shoes and didn't bother to tie them. Papers are being thrown onto the floor – Toris can only watch as a manuscript gets scattered across the paint splattered floor. Eduard slams the door to the cabinet and the frosted glass door shatters.
Eduard winces, says an apology through gritted teeth, and goes over to the corner of the living room claimed by Raivis. He steps over jars of paint and paintings of Leningrad left out to dry to get to a small box on a shelf. After dumping the contents of the box on the bookcase, he sifts through them, runs a hand through his hair, and turns to escape the maze of paint. As he takes a huge step, the tip of his shoe catches an open jar. Prussian blue soaks through the cloth they'd laid down to protect the floor and spills onto the floorboards. Eduard stares at the mess, sits down on the barstool in front of the easel, and buries his face in the folder of photographs.
Toris takes a deep breath. He'll have to write later. "What's wrong?"
"Where's that goddamn Russian?" Eduard says. "He was supposed to wake me up."
"Where do you need to go? I can take you."
"It's too late. The meeting was at eight. They wanted to use my photos in Sovetskoe," Eduard says. His voice cracks as he says this. Being published in Sovetskoe is every amateur photographer's dream. "Raivis took apart the alarm clock. I told him to put it together and he didn't because no one ever listens to anything I say here. And then that goddamn Russian didn't wake me up. I knew it. I knew he would do this."
"We have time, Eduard." The clock on the wall behind him says it's a few minutes before eight and the Sovetskoe office is five blocks away.
"It's over!" Eduard throws the folder across the room and photographs fly out in a million directions.
It's a tragic sort of lovely to see a hundred moments Eduard caught flutter in the sunlight. For a second Toris sees familiar faces and those of strangers. He sees parties and days in the park. A photograph lands near his foot – it's of a day last spring, when Raivis got Ivan and Toris to pose as Pierre and Natasha, respectively. Toris' hair is braided with flowers. Ivan is wearing Eduard's glasses. They're holding hands and trying not to laugh.
"I'm so sorry," Toris says.
Eduard stares at the wreckage of his work. His glasses are crooked and his shirt is misbuttoned. There is no light left in him. "This was going to be it," he says. "We could've had everything."
Sovetskoe does not pay good enough for everything. Toris crosses the room, picking up photos along the way. He peels a few out of the paint on the floor. "I can't make this up to you," he says. "I'm sorry."
"You didn't do this," Eduard says. "Ivan! Get in here!"
Ivan comes into the living room, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "Eduard, I –"
"Don't say anything unless I ask you. Listen to me for once in your life. This was important to me. You knew that, didn't you?"
"If you'd let me explain –" Ivan tries to say.
Eduard grabs the nearest thing – a dog-eared copy of Solzhenitsyn's Cancer Ward. Toris steps out of the way. He throws the book with astonishing force into Ivan's face. Ivan doesn't attempt to catch it and it hits him with a slap that would have been comical, had Eduard's career not been tarnished. "Answer the question you worthless piece of shit. You knew this was important to me."
"Yes. I did."
"And I asked you to wake me up, because I know you are always up before six. I trusted you. What did you do, Ivan Braginsky? What did you do to me?"
"I forgot."
"Did you?" Eduard gets up from the barstool and goes up to Ivan. He doesn't come above Ivan's shoulders. "Or did you go get drunk with your friends?"
"I wasn't drunk. I didn't mean to sleep so long."
Eduard pushes Ivan away. "Leave. Leave right now."
"Is there anything I can do to –"
"Do us all a big favor and kill yourself," Eduard snaps.
"He doesn't mean that," Toris says as Ivan leaves. Ivan nods. He's done this many times before.
"Yes, I do." Eduard's anger fades into something more pitiful. "Why do you let him stay here, Toris?"
"He's in the same place as the rest of us."
"Don't compare him to us. We don't destroy everything. We don't waste all our money. We don't let each other miss a meeting with Sovetskoe." Eduard falls down on the couch covered in papers and photographs. He picks up a photo of a street and rips it into tiny pieces, letting the bits sift through his fingers. "I should've asked you. I didn't want to bother you. You're always so stressed and you didn't need my stupid problems. I'm so worthless."
Toris glances at the clock on the wall. He has 153 hours to finish his story. Calming Eduard down will take at least two hours and a few rubles. "It's not a good replacement, but do you want to go get ice cream?" he asks.
Eduard nods. "Do we have the money for it?"
"No. I'll figure it out. Do you care if Raivis comes?"
"No. Just not Ivan."
"Okay. I'll be ready in a moment," Toris says, leaving Eduard in the disaster of the living room. He goes to the bedroom Eduard and Raivis share, where Raivis is asleep on a bare mattress up against the wall. Toris kneels next to him and gives the boy a gentle shake.
"Yeah?" Raivis rolls over, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
"Get dressed, we're going to get ice cream."
Raivis jolts upright in bed. "For breakfast?" he asks as he grabs the closest shirt from a pile on the floor and pulls it over his head. "What's wrong with you?"
"Eduard needs it," Toris says. "Don't ask questions."
"Can I get whatever I want?" Raivis says, following after Toris as he pulls on a pair of jeans dotted with paint. He pauses at the entryway to the living room and opens his mouth to ask about the chaos before reminding himself that ice cream is on the line.
"Whatever you'd like." Toris takes his wallet from the kitchen table and says a short prayer before opening it. A few rubles greet him. "Within reason. Hey, Eduard, let's go."
Eduard comes into the hallway looking less disheveled. "You don't have shoes," he says.
"It's okay. The store's down the block. No one's up to see me, anyway." Toris grabs a ring of keys from a hook by the door. "Bye, Ivan."
Ivan doesn't say anything in response. He's smarter than Toris thought.
They walk to the store without saying much. Toris can tell Raivis is itching to ask a thousand questions. He manages to ask only three: what ice cream should he get, why is Eduard wearing Toris' shoes, and what did Ivan do? Toris throws a well-placed elbow into Raivis' ribs when he asks the last one and Raivis doubles over. Eduard pretends he didn't hear the question and asks Toris about the new story he's writing.
The queue for the store isn't as long as usual. A few people give Toris a look when they see he's only wearing socks. Toris smiles. He can't do anything else.
They stand in front of the freezer for ten minutes, acting like they're deliberating on which ice cream to get while getting a reprieve from the summer heat. Raivis picks an Eskimo, Eduard takes a Lakomka, and Toris chooses a small cup of strawberry ice cream (the cheapest). He pays for it and as soon as they're outside, Raivis takes off running to the flat, shouting about the ice cream melting. Toris doesn't bother chasing him.
"You're such a good person," Eduard says as they climb the steps to their cramped apartment. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You're good, too, Eduard."
"Not like you. Jesus, you're a saint. If you weren't here, I would've killed Ivan by now. You're like the mom I never had," Eduard says.
Raivis is waiting by the locked door, jumping up and down like a puppy excited to go for a walk. Toris unlocks the door and he runs inside, unwrapping the Eskimo as he kicks off his shoes. By the time Eduard and Toris get to the table, half of Raivis' ice cream is gone and his hand is covered in melted chocolate. Toris and Eduard take their usual seats, Eduard facing the wall and Toris facing the hallway. In the living room, he sees Ivan picking up photos and shuffling glass into a pile. Not cleaning the mess. Organizing it.
"I haven't eaten in two days," Raivis says through a mouthful of ice cream.
"One, don't talk with your mouth full and two, why don't you tell me these things?" Toris says. "I can make you something if you're hungry."
"I don't want to bother you."
"So you'd starve before you'd tell Toris you haven't eaten?" Eduard says as he takes a bowl from the sink and smashes up his ice cream bar in it with a spoon. He tosses a spoon on the table for Toris.
"Sure."
"You're a strange kid." Eduard takes a bite of his ice cream and Toris sees him melt. Not enough to forgive Ivan. Maybe enough to let it go. "Thank you, Toris. You didn't have to do this after I wrecked the place."
"It's okay," Toris says, peeling the lid from his cup of ice cream. The ice cream in the cups always tastes more chemical than he remembers. "We'll clean it up later." We'll means Toris will pick up and Eduard will sit on the couch and complain.
"Hey, I need to get something from the kitchen," Ivan says from the hallway.
"Then starve," Eduard says.
"Fine. Toris, can you bring me the pliers?" Ivan asks. He peeks into the kitchen – thank God Eduard is facing the other way. "I've got a huge piece of glass in my foot."
"I hope it gets infected and you have to amputate it," Eduard says as Toris grabs the pliers from their drawer of miscellany. Toris tells him to stop and hands the pliers over to Ivan.
"I don't actually need these," Ivan whispers. "Will you tell Eduard I'm sorry?"
"Eduard, Ivan says he's sorry," Toris says over his shoulder. Sometimes Eduard and Ivan will go weeks talking through Toris. Sometimes it feels like secondary school here, only with a lot more fuck-yous and fistfights.
"Interesting. I hate you and I refuse to apologize for anything I say."
"I can make it up to you. I'll get you another interview," Ivan says.
"You can't."
"I can. I know one of their editors. He's a little Romanian kid. Real nice. He could get you in," Ivan says.
"Stop lying. It's making it worse."
"I'm not. His name's Vladimir…Something complicated. I'll call him right now." Ivan comes into the kitchen, which is the same, if not worse than stepping onto a battlefield. Eduard clenches his spoon so tight he's shaking as Ivan goes to the phone and dials a number. They wait in stiff silence as the phone rings. On the fourth ring, just when Ivan's starting to panic, someone picks up.
"Hello, Vladimir?...Not bad. How are you?" Ivan gives Eduard a grin. Eduard's face turns red. "So I have a question for you. I have a friend who's a photographer. He was supposed to have an interview today, but…Oh? You…Okay. I understand. Call me when…Thank you. I'll see you soon." He hangs the phone up and disappears into the living room.
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. "What did he have to say, Ivan?" Eduard says.
"He said not this month," Ivan says. "Maybe in August."
"Maybe is good," Toris says before Eduard can speak. "It's better than nothing, Eduard."
Eduard glares at Toris and crosses his arms over his chest. "Maybe means no. Maybe doesn't mean maybe. I guarantee Vladimir doesn't even work at Sovetskoe."
"It was the Sovetskoe thing?" Raivis says. Eduard turns on him and Toris kicks the boy under the table. This doesn't stop Raivis. Not much does. "That was today, wasn't it? What happened?" he asks, oblivious to Toris silently pleading for him to stop.
"You didn't put the alarm clock together." Eduard gets up from the table and dumps his empty bowl and spoon in the sink. "If you would pay attention for once in your life, I could've been published."
Raivis takes a second to think this over. "Okay. Sorry."
"You're terrible at apologies," Eduard says. "If you weren't so damn fragile…"
"Why don't we stop while we're ahead?" Toris says, in vain hopes someone is listening.
This does not stop Raivis. Nothing does. "Why are you pissed at Ivan, then?"
"Let's not talk about it," Toris says, stepping in between Eduard and Raivis. "Why don't you go out today while we clean up?" he says to Eduard. "You should check in on Timo. I can't imagine he looks better than Ivan."
"Timo?" Eduard's face softens a bit. "What happened to…" Realization hits him and Toris at the same time.
Eduard goes straight to the living room despite Toris' attempts to restrain him. Ivan drops the stack of papers he'd been shuffling into a pile and holds up his hands as he backs into the wall.
"What did you do to Timo?" Eduard grabs a fistful of Ivan's shirt, pulling him down to eye level. Ivan has the strength to pull himself free. He doesn't.
"I can't remember," Ivan says. "He's fine. We both walked away from it."
"Why do you want to ruin everything for me?"
"I don't intend to hurt you."
"You never target anyone else in this house! It's always me." Eduard hits his chest for emphasis. "It's always me. Everything and everyone I care about gets hurt by you. Nothing can ever go right for me because of you."
"That's not true," Ivan says, easing Eduard off of him. Eduard's arms hang limp at his sides. He looks at the floor with half-lidded, tear-filled eyes. Ivan apologizes again. Eduard holds a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead.
"You're killing me," he says. "You're ruining my life."
"Don't be dramatic." Ivan steps around Eduard and gathers up the pile of papers. He sets them in a neat pile on top of the coffee table and starts collecting the photographs. Eduard does not move. Toris wants to pull him away from Ivan – he's separated from them by a border of broken glass and he doesn't have shoes on. He's forced to weigh his options: risk getting glass shards in his feet and having to go to the hospital or hope to God that Eduard and Ivan are able to keep themselves at bay.
Neither option ends well.
"Eduard, come help me with dishes," Toris says. It's a weak attempt at pulling Eduard away. He can't think of much else.
"No." Eduard grabs the ashtray from the coffee table and traces the smooth edge with his finger.
Ivan's back is turned to Eduard.
Everything unfolds like a scene in a movie: slow and unreal.
Eduard misses.
The ashtray shatters on the wall no more than a centimeter above Ivan's head. Had he been standing up straight, it would have killed him. There's broken glass in his hair and dripping from his shoulders.
"You think you can solve everything by throwing things at me like a child?" Ivan says. He is too calm for this. He's smiling. For some insane reason, he's smiling.
Eduard grabs an empty wine bottle from the table and holds it above his head. "You hurt me again and again. It's like you want me to be miserable. Like you're trying to pull me to your level of self-hatred so you won't be so alone. I'm sorry I can't be as sad as you! I'm sorry that I have a passion and a purpose in my life and you've got nothing. I'm sorry that you can't get over Siberia. This isn't Perm-36 anymore," he says. His hands are shaking. His voice is shaking. "You need to grow up already."
"You're the one who is about to cry." Ivan approaches Eduard with small, unwavering steps. Eduard lowers the wine bottle to his chest, holding it out like a gun.
"Raivis, go get a knife," Toris says. Raivis sprints to the kitchen and returns with a small paring knife. He holds it like it's a sacred weapon, taking a few test stabs in the air.
"Are you going to stop them?" Raivis says with a slashing motion. Eduard and Ivan are talking over each other, their words blending into one angry white noise. All Toris can think about is that he could be using this time to finish his story.
"Maybe. I'd like to think they'll work this out," Toris says. "Doesn't seem likely."
"You think everything's about you," Ivan says. He grabs the wine bottle and rips it away from Eduard, then sets it down on the floor. "Everyone should do everything for you. Everyone should stop what they're doing to take care of you because you're the center of the world. You have never suffered one day in your life compared to the rest of us. Everything has always been taken care of for you. It's a good thing you didn't have parents. You would be unbearable."
"You act like such a martyr because you got sent to one damn gulag."
"I spent five years –"
"Who cares? It's over, Ivan. They should have shot you and threw you in a ditch somewhere," Eduard says.
"I wish they did. Then I wouldn't have to listen to your incessant bitching about every little thing that happens here."
It's a lovely punch. Toris will give Eduard credit where credit is due.
Eduard's fist connects with Ivan's crooked nose and there's an audible crack. For an instant, Ivan is too stunned to move. Blood rolls down over his lips and onto his white shirt.
"You fucking brat." Ivan wipes the blood off on his wrist, leaving a long smear of red on his skin.
Ivan does not fight with any grace. His hits are unpolished and effective. He isn't one for pleasantries, either. Instead of going for somewhere less painful, he throws his fist into Eduard's chin. Eduard crumples and does not make any effort to get up.
"Oh," Ivan says. As if this is a surprise.
Toris jumps over the broken glass and tries to force himself between Ivan and Eduard before Ivan can do any more damage. Ivan takes Toris by the arm and tosses him into the wall. Toris doesn't have time to catch himself and his head slams against the wall. Raivis comes to Toris' side, holding the knife out toward Ivan.
"He's dead!" Raivis says, pointing to Eduard with the knife.
"No. He's fine."
"He's unconscious," Toris says. "What's wrong with you? You might've seriously hurt him."
Ivan looks at Eduard with the same disdain he regards police officers with. "Someone had to put him in his place. And we've got ourselves a few minutes of peace."
"Get out of here," Toris says, pulling himself to his feet. "Get out of here before I kill you."
Raivis makes a small jab with the knife. Ivan rolls his eyes.
"God. I do one nice thing for you and you threaten to kill me with a kitchen knife." Ivan steps away from Eduard. "Here. Look at him if you're so worried. He's fine."
Toris goes to Eduard's side, kneeling beside him. His eyes are open. He isn't awake. The dull blue irises move at random, never stopping to focus. There's blood leaking from the corners of his mouth.
"Eduard?" Toris says, cradling his head with a hand. "Hey, Eduard, answer me."
"Give him a minute," Ivan says.
"Help me get him up," Toris says to Raivis. Raivis drops the knife on the bookcase and pulls Eduard upright. Toris manages to get his arm under Eduard's and Raivis takes the other side. Eduard's head rests on Toris' shoulder and Toris feels blood seeping through his shirt and rolling down his arm. Ivan stands at a distance with his arms crossed.
"You're just empowering him," he mutters.
"If you haven't noticed, he's bleeding from his mouth and out of it. I'll empower him all I want if it means I don't have to take him to the hospital," Toris says. "You pray to God that you didn't break anything. We don't have the money for that."
They carry Eduard to the bedroom and set him down on his bed; it's the only bed they have that isn't a mattress on the floor or a pile of blankets and pillows in a corner. Raivis brings Toris a wet washrag and a box of gauze. Eduard starts to come to while Toris is washing the blood from his face and neck. He sits upright despite Toris' insistence for him to lay down.
"I never thanked you for the ice cream," Eduard says. His voice is warped and blood pours out of his mouth. Toris' sheets are stained red. He hates washing sheets. There's no good place to hang them.
"Don't talk. You bit your tongue, didn't you?" Toris says. He opens the box of gauze and stuffs a few squares into Eduard's mouth. "There. Don't take them out, don't talk, don't do anything except stay here."
"I'm sorry, Toris," Eduard says anyway.
"I know. Are you okay?"
"My head hurts. Bad."
"I'm sorry," Toris says.
"It's my fault," Eduard says. His words are choked out by gauze and blood. "I should've stopped."
"It's okay. No one seems to be hurt that bad."
"You need to be working."
"I'll stay with you until you stop bleeding."
"Raivis can stay," Eduard says. "Go work."
"I will?" Raivis asks as Toris gets up.
"I guess you are. Make sure Eduard isn't talking and if he hasn't stopped bleeding in an hour, come get me," Toris says. "Eduard, please try to keep your blood in your mouth."
"Wait, why do I have to – "
Toris shuts the door before Raivis can finish. He returns to his desk and puts fresh paper in the typewriter. His fingers leave red prints on the edges. He's too exhausted to care about neatness.
The door to the room creaks open. Ivan steps inside, looming over Toris. "Is he okay?" he says without making eye contact. He doesn't care. He only wants Toris to give him attention. Two years ago, Toris would've fallen for it. Now that he's started to unravel Ivan's personality and made the same mistakes over and over, he knows better.
"I think it would be good for you to leave today," Toris says.
"Toris, please."
"I'm not suggesting it. I'm telling you to leave."
"What did I do to you?" Ivan says, pretending to be defeated.
"I'll discuss it with you when I don't want to rip your heart out."
Ivan leaves without much arguing or pleas. He only gives Toris a few sad looks and asks when he should come home. Toris wishes he was strong enough to say never; he says seven instead. Ivan tells him he's taking money for lunch and disappears. Toris watches the hallway until he hears the front door shut.
Before he starts writing, he checks the clock on the wall. It's 9:10.
Toris has 152 hours.
a/n: here' a new little thing I'm starting.
This will be a short seven part series. It'll be updated whenever I feel like it. This is just an in-between project I started while working on my other story, Let the Dead be Dead. I've always wanted to write about a writer. Who better to project my feelings onto than Toris?
This based on the movie Dovlatov on Netflix, which is about a Russian writer trying to make it through a week. This story follows the same concept. A Grain of Sand in the Indifferent Ocean title comes from a quote of his. I haven't read any of his work, but I really liked the movie. Russian movies aren't like ours. They capture moments better than anything I've seen before. I hope I can do the same with this.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. I've put a lot of love into it.