By day 7, things were beginning to become routine for Raikov. He had started staying in a nearby hotel and coming to visit Volgin every day as soon as he woke up (which he had started doing much earlier than he used to) and had something to eat. He would walk into the hospital with a bag containing a book he was working on reading to Volgin, some snacks to last him throughout the day (though he was eating less and less as time went by), and usually some small flower or nice-looking rock Raikov had found on the way there. The latter he would place on the small table by Volgin's bed. He had begun stopping to chat with the receptionist before going to visit his lover, and had learned that she was a very nice woman named Josephine. She had two children, and Raikov was beginning to form something close to a friendship with her. She didn't know that he wasn't really Volgin's son, of course. God only knew how she would react if she found out. No, Raikov was leading her on to believe that he was Volgin's son, and that his last name was different because his mother had divorced and remarried. This wasn't the truth, of course. His parents had disappeared when he was 15, leaving his older brothers Alyosha (then 20) and Stas (then 18) to take care of him. They hadn't found out that their parents were dead until a year later, and that year had been the year Volgin had taken Raikov under his wing. From there, it was a series of very interesting and unorthodox (yet somehow still romantic) events that led Raikov to where he was today.
When Raikov stepped into Volgin's room that morning, he opened the curtains to let in some sunshine and set his bag down next to Volgin's bed.
"Good morning, Darling!" he sighed, pressing a kiss against Volgin's cheek and sitting down in his usual chair, plopping the dog-eared old book on his lap. The book is question was Vladimir Nabokov's Lolita, a favorite of Raikov's. He was about to begin reading it when he looked over at his comatose lover. He looked at his calm face, somewhat ashen and eyes closed. He looked peaceful, and Raikov felt the words die in his throat. He set the book down and reached out to gently place a hand on his darling's scarred cheek. It looked almost like he was asleep, like he did on the rare but freezing cold winter mornings when Raikov woke up before Volgin and admired how handsome he was. He would trace every feature of his face with his eyes, etching them into his memory. He would trace over his scars gently, and along his jawline. He would trace along the cupid's bow of Volgin's lips, over his nose, and admire his eyelashes. When he was awake, Volgin would hardly ever let Raikov look at him this closely, thinking himself a monster. Raikov wished Volgin's eyes would just… open. So Raikov could see the mesmerizing green-grey eyes and kiss his lips until they were both sore. He wanted to feel Volgin's strong arms around him and find the familiar rush of exhilaration when the taller man would pick him up and spin him around, making Raikov giggle until he got dizzy. He missed how it felt when Volgin would pin him down on the bed or the floor and kiss him on his neck after that, pulling more giggles from the boy and holding him close and tight, yet gently, like one would hold a fine china doll.
Raikov missed that. He wanted nothing more than to get his hands on that filthy American and… Well, he didn't know what he'd do, but it certainly wouldn't be nice! He crawled up on the bed, plopping himself down on Volgin's lap like he usually did when they were alone together. He reached down and clasped Volgin's large hands in his much smaller ones, pulling them up to his chest and pressing them against his heart.
"Are you in there, Yevgeny?" Raikov whispered. He hardly ever called Volgin by his first name, and when he did it was usually accompanied by a stern look at the least or a slap across the face (not that Raikov minded) at the most. "I've been thinking of going back to ballet school in France… I know you always loved to see me dance. Can I tell you a secret? I always missed it. The dancing, I mean. I never really felt like war was my kind of place. I always missed being the swan you fell in love with…" He sighed, his eyes closing and tears making quiet plopping noises as they fell onto his pants. "Can you feel my heart beating, Yevgeny?" he asked, his voice barely audible, "It keeps going for you. Every beat of my heart is because I know you're still in there, fighting to see me again. I hope you wake up… Please, for me. If for nobody else, me." Raikov leaned forward and pressed his ear against Volgin's chest so he could hear his faint heartbeat.
"I love you…" he sniffled.
This had been going on for a month now, and Raikov was dealing poorly, to say the least. Every day he would come to visit, but he wasn't eating nearly as much as he used to. Sleep, as well, had almost become a thing of the past. Raikov was only sleeping when he absolutely couldn't keep his eyes open anymore; the rest of the time was devoted to researching and trying everything he could to get Volgin to wake up. One cold morning, he was curled up on the end of the hospital bed with books surrounding him when a word caught his eye.
Morphine.
Oh yes, that was a word Raikov knew well. It was a word that brought with it a phantom sting of needles in his arm, of hazy summer nights and Volgin drawing a small amount of blood into the syringe to make sure it was in the vein, and then taking his sweet time before easing down the plunger. Raikov briefly wondered how easy it would be to sneak some of the stuff and-
Oh no, he thought, I gave that up. I don't do that kind of thing anymore. Well, it was usually true. Morphine had been something he decided to quit, though he did still indulge from time to time. He closed the book and shook his head. No, morphine was not a slippery slope he would let himself fall down again. He picked up another book and opened it to a random page. He flipped through it leisurely, and before he knew it, his eyes were getting heavy. Raikov set it down and yawned, moving to curl up next to Volgin.
"I really do hope you're still fighting for me in there," he muttered, nuzzling his nose against Volgin's neck and sighing heavily. His eyes slipped closed, and he let the warm arms of sleep enfold him.
