Author: Kaisre
Rating: T
Summary: Toris abandons an easy life in Kaunas to work at an asylum plagued by desertion and rumors. He should've known his decisions would eventually lead him to a rather secretive history following a certain Russian.
Characters: Lithuania // Toris, Russia // Ivan
- Lamentia -
- IV -
"Moskovskaya. Full bottle."
The bartender didn't seem to hear him properly when he turned to face Ivan, a bushy brow arched. "A full bottle?"
Ivan slapped the bills on to the bar top and the man just shrugged, leaning down to take the money. He fished around for something behind the counter, pulling out a fresh bottle of vodka. He cracked the lid off and handed it to him.
"You have a designated driver?"
"I'll not be driving home." The bartender walked away to serve more drinks and Ivan took a long drag from the bottle. The liquid burned his throat but it numbed the pain within his chest. He could feel his cheeks flush with the newfound warmth—at least it was something.
Evening dimmed to night and the saloon grew packed. Men were shoving each other for the best seats and tables. Ivan had no intention of budging from his stool, but no one bothered him about it either. Glazed eyes stared out the window as his glass bottle was lifted to and away from his lips in a mechanical fashion.
The life of the bar was nothing but a buzz to his ears. His vodka was a third gone and Ivan settled with leaning his weight against the bottle.
I want to disappear.
The polished wooden top of the bar looked welcoming in his eyes, inviting him to fall asleep with a bottle in hand. Even though his heart and body were weary, Ivan had no intention to make himself look like a pitiful heap.
After filling two jugs of beer, the bartender came back to him, wiping his dirty hands on an equally soiled towel. While just standing there, the middle-aged man surveyed the young Russian up and down without scrutiny.
"You look like you gonna cry."
Ivan snorted. "Whatever… I haven't even drunken that much." He took another drag. As he lowered the bottle, he couldn't help but notice how stunned the bartender looked when he saw that a third of its contents were gone.
"You a soldier?"
He grimaced, sloshing around what was left of the vodka. "Used to be. How did you know?"
The man wrung the rag one last time before tossing it aside. "We have the boys slowly coming back to us now… Some are still sent away. They've all come to age so they choose to go here, this place right here, to drink their away their sadness. I've seen that look too many times. 'Know it well—and I know they've lost more than their innocence down south."
Ivan didn't say anything to that. He only continued to swooshed his drink around, intently watching the tiny bubbles form on the rim.
The bartender continued talking to him, "The ones left alone are the worst. Their girlfriends find another man, and the boys sob their hearts out while they drown in vodka. They don't care about pride or dignity or anything. The war takes that too, and the government don't care that its kids that are fighting a western war. What position are you?"
Ivan blinked slowly—his sight assuming a tint of red. Strange, he wasn't even close to his limit yet. "Peace-corps. They said I was a peacekeeper."
"Peace? They call a man with a gun a peacekeeper nowadays?"
He shrugged. The notion did seem ridiculous to him as well, but he didn't care what this man had to say about the system. Especially when his stomach was churning like the liquid inside the bottle. The painful throbbing in the back of his head didn't seem to help his mood either. He took another sip and the lights of the saloon brightened, burning into his eyes. Figuring it wasn't worth it to keep the rest, he slid the bottle across the counter top. Standing up, he swayed on the spot, keeping a hand on the bar to keep himself steady.
The bartender lifted a brow. "Capping it?"
"Obviously," Ivan replied brusquely. Finding various supports, he eventually made the short distance to the door.
"Don't stumble into the streets! You be damned if you survive deployment to get run over."
He couldn't help but grin to himself bitterly, leaving the saloon.
The chill of the night embraced his neck like a collar as he stumbled down the sidewalks, pressing a hand to the brick walls to keep steady. The few people still out in the streets either spared him a look of distaste or just kept to themselves, passing by and bumping shoulders.
The noise of the bar faded into silence when Ivan staggered under the quiet veranda of a classic café. As far as he could tell, the building was empty, save for a young man who was typing away on a laptop under a golden-lit lamp. He didn't seem to notice Ivan right away, apparently too focused on whatever he was working on.
Ivan cursed his lack of solitude and reached for a chair to rest on, only to have his entire world swerve to the side in a blur. Apparently, he missed the chair when the paved ground collided with his face. He heard a dull crunch but felt no pain as he lay there, finding no point in getting back up. Perhaps he really did have too much to drink this time.
He heard iron legs scrape against stone and he prayed in his head that the man would just ignore him, or better yet, just not notice his blunder at all. However, it proved useless when a pair of hands grasped his shoulders, helping him into a sitting position.
"Alio? Are you okay?"
The unfamiliar word made it surprising that this person spoke perfect Russian. Ivan tried to pull away from him, only to have his back come up against a stone-cold barrier. He must look pathetic—stumbling and falling down like a fool who couldn't hold his alcohol. He shied away from the unwanted attention he brought to himself.
"'Mm fine…" He groaned softly. Something warm trickled onto his lips and a tongue automatically poked out to lap up some of the drops. He shivered at the metallic taste.
"Ah, you've been drinking and now you're bleeding." Something dabbed away at his nose and Ivan didn't bother protesting, though it did make him the slightest bit uncomfortable. "That's dangerous you know? It's also dangerous walking out alone when you're drunk."
"'Not drunk…"
The stranger didn't argue with him when he heaved Ivan's weight onto the nearby chair properly—the one he missed in the first place. "You're still bleeding." More dabbing. Two fingers pinched the bridged oh his nose, and whoever is was tilted his head back. Ivan swallowed the blood pooling in his throat.
The stranger left him only to come back, placing a small stack of napkins on the glass top. "Can you see me?"
Ivan wasn't one for talking while he was under the influence, but he still appreciated the softness of the other's voice. He tried to reach for a napkin, missing his target again, but the young man took and fit one into his hands.
He couldn't say he couldn't see his face, but he couldn't focus on it either. His vision wavered and tilted, as if his head was rolling back and forth. The men from the labs and hospital warned him about this.
'You're a danger to yourself and others.'
His heart raced and Ivan clutched his chest, as if he were afraid this man would hear its frantic beating.
'You wouldn't want anything to happen to your sisters, would you?'
The air seemed to escape him when his lungs tightened considerably. He moaned and doubled over, clutching his middle and hiding his sweating face. This was what they were talking about—it was definitely no exaggeration.
It was clear to him now—these effects weren't from the alcohol. Maybe the war will actually come back to him this time. The scenes of carnage and burning flesh were fresh in his mind—an inch short of reality.
'Stay here.'
'You cannot afford any more accidents.'
'What do you remember?'
Ivan curled his body tighter, his hands flying to pull at his hair, as if he could distract himself from the voices. "I-I don't…"
An arm draped over his shoulders, keeping him from falling out of his chair. "Are you all right?" It was that person again. Why hasn't he left yet? "Stay here, I'll call—" Ivan didn't give him a chance to finish when he shoved him away, standing up and sending the chair toppling to the ground in a deafening crash.
"No!" He shouted, covering his face and trying to get away from the café as fast as he could. His knee collided with something hard, and he fell the ground again. On all fours, he tried his best to scramble away. The yellow light from the café faded away from behind him, replaced by a blood-red sunset. His fingers were sifting through sand now as he desperately groped around for his gun.
He was alone, and he didn't even have his gun with him. After coming all this way, his life was going to end here. Turning his chin up to the shadow looming over him, he snarled.
The blurry shape reached out to him and Ivan finally found a pistol half-buried beneath the sand. He whipped it out and thread his finger through the loop of the trigger, pointing it up at the dark mass. He prepared to pull the fatal shot when his sister appeared beside him, her strong arms restraining his own and keeping him from aiming properly.
"Y-Yekaterina… this is no place for you!"
Her hold did not give way. 'Ivan, it's morning. Wake up…'
The stifling heat of the desert vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold and heavy air of Moscow. His body shuddered violently, and he realized that his hands were empty now when they pressed against the pavement. A wave of ice surged upwards inside of him, forcing its way out his throat.
He retched, his head bobbing up and down as he emptied his stomach's contents on the curb of the sidewalk. The horrible stench of acid and alcohol mixed together overwhelmed his senses and he keeled over. He prepared to hit the earth a third time when someone caught him, wasting no time in pulling him to his feet.
The shock he just experienced made it impossible to comprehend what was going on around him. He felt varying levels of gravity, until finally, he felt nothing but weightlessness and the warmth of another body.
In almost no time at all, he was carefully pulled from a car, the audible shut of the door sharp in his ears.
A stranger was leading him up a stone path. In his stupor, Ivan risked opening his eyes just a little bit. The other leaned his computer against stucco walls before fishing around in his pocket for his keys. He unlocked the door and pushed it open with his shoulder, entering and taking Ivan with him. His strength to support him this long surprised him.
The Russian was greeted by a subtle, but sweet smell. He had no strength to turn his neck and observe his new surroundings but the other took him to the closest sofa, setting him down carefully. He went back to turn the lights on, but thought better of it, returning to Ivan's side.
"Where… where am I?"
"It's my apartment," the stranger replied slowly and gently, minding the headache Ivan must be feeling.
"This is not…" Ivan tried to sit up, only to have the other press him back down again. "This is not necessary. I-I am not drunk."
"Maybe not." A soft hand slid over his forehead, under his damp bangs. Ivan found himself relaxing at the touch—his cramped muscles loosened and he realized this was the first gesture of comfort he was given in a long time. "But I can't let you out in this shape. How can I? You're a mess—leaking blood and vodka."
He was confused to find a whine was trapped within his throat when his source of comfort was pulled away. A heavy throw was draped over him to replace the missing warmth. Ivan found himself cuddling into its softness, despite the unfamiliar smell. "Thank you…" he whispered hesitantly, unsure if he should continue accepting his help.
Even in his dizziness, Ivan swore he could see the faintest of smiles in the darkness, accompanied by the brightest glint of green. "Please don't think of it… Where is your home? I can take you back tomorrow, if you're ready."
Ivan would've laughed at that if he could. Like this person would let him stay under his roof if he wished it. "No where, but I won't burden you any more. Let me leave—you shouldn't be bothered." He made another move to get up- if a bit more reluctant this time- but the other gently pushed him down again.
"It's too late. You won't have as bad of a hangover if you go to sleep now. I live here alone—it's fine, so stay." He pulled the throw up to cover Ivan's neck, shielding the skin from the cool air of the apartment.
He remained where he was, his body adjusting to the comfort despite his inner protest. "But…"
The hand resumed it's place on Ivan's forehead and he sighed. "You're warm… Some of the alcohol is still in your system. Please rest, alright?"
He realized the other wasn't going to incline to him, no matter how much he demurred with his actions. "…Ivan," he croaked abruptly, feeling like he was giving in, "My name is Ivan Braginsky."
That smile seemed clear to him now, the young man's eyes brightening even in the dark. "Ivan… It's a nice name." He stood up gradually and Ivan forced his face upwards to follow those gentle orbs. "Sleep now, I'll have coffee for you in the morning." He turned to leave.
Ivan ignored the stake of pain in his skull when he lurched forward, grabbing the stranger by his sleeve. "Wait—! I mean…" he quickly let go, realizing what he was doing. "W-who are you? What's your name?"
The curve of the lips was defined in the darkness, imprinting itself into his wavering sight. "Can I really tell you at the moment? You may not remember in the morning, and I may feel strange reminding you…"
His arm retreated back under the blankets. "I won't forget. Please." He planned to leave first thing in the morning, but he didn't want to escape without this man's name. He was already in his debt, even though he felt uneasy recognizing that.
"Well, Ivan, I guess it's only fair…"
He didn't realize he had been holding his breath until he sighed in relief.
"…Try not to forget, all right?" He nodded, even though the other probably couldn't notice.
"My name…" He took a breath, pausing as if he were rethinking his decision. "My name is Liet."
-x-X-x-
What is your name again…?
"Ivan? Can you hear me? It's almost noon…"
The moment he cracked his eyes open, something wet and warm flooded his vision. Letting out a startled groan, he turned his face away and buried it into the blankets, surprised to find that he was gripping onto a fluffy, multi-colored quilt. Someone must've laid it over him while he had been sleeping. Who could have—oh… right.
He said it was almost noon, so how long had he overslept? He hoped Toris wasn't here for too long. He didn't want to feel like his privacy had been intruded on, but what privacy did he have in this place anyway? He was not in Moscow—quite far from it actually.
"I came here in the morning with your breakfast," Toris said, answering his unspoken question, "I waited for you to wake up, but you didn't.. So I left. I came back again just a little bit ago."
"Nnh…"
A hand brushed against his hair when the mattress bobbed. Ivan didn't push it away.
"Go back to sleep, okay? You probably do need it. I'll be back in a little bit for brunch, unless you're hungry right now, of course."
"Nyet." Ivan turned his head, thankful that his eyes were dry now. He took a hold of that hand, preventing Toris from going anywhere. He couldn't help but remember a similar scene like this in the distant corners of his mind. "Don't go.. You have already left, yes?"
Toris blinked, and Ivan was afraid for a moment that he would pull himself away. Instead, the Lithuanian sat himself back down slowly. His hand remained in Ivan's grasp but he didn't seem uncomfortable with the physical contact.
"I saw you had a small fit in your sleep…" Toris admitted quietly. "But you were only talking in Russian. Yekaterina… She's your sister, isn't she?"
Ivan rolled over to face him properly. He didn't want Toris to see anything, but strangely enough, knowing he did didn't even bother him. "Da… she is…"
Toris's fingers were soft—almost delicate—in his hold. He curiously lifted his hand and pressed the other's palm against his own forehead.
Toris didn't say anything, but Ivan could tell he was certainly confused.
"…" He shifted wordlessly.
"Uhm, are you feeling unwell?"
"No, not unwell." He lowered the hand while still holding onto it, letting his own lay on top of it. Digits wiggled and found their way between each other, intertwining.
Toris inched closer to him and Ivan automatically sat himself up a little.
His hand squeezed back slightly. "There was something bad in your dream, wasn't it? Your whole dream wasn't a nightmare, only a tiny part of it, right?"
He nodded, silently surprised that he got that part right. "How do you know?"
He smiled, lifting his free hand to the front of Ivan's face. "Don't worry, it happens to me too." Every finger folded into the palm except for the pointer. "Ivan, can you look at me? Focus on my eyes, all right?"
Ivan nodded again, the other's vivid irises having no problem capturing his attention. The single finger began to move back and forth slowly, but he couldn't be distracted. This went on for several seconds and Ivan could feel the drowsiness of sleep return to him. His body grew heavy, but it didn't sink back beneath the quilt—Toris's gaze prevented him from doing so.
"Imagine the place where you came from." Ivan almost missed that subtle change in his voice. "You don't have to tell me what it is, but just picture it."
He saw the pictures in his mind's eye reflect back at him from Toris's viridian depths. There was a humble house with a yard filled with tall, yellow flowers. Two young women stood at the front of the path, waving slowly at him. There was another figure too, standing to the side. It wasn't waving, but its shadowy arms were outstretched in an empty embrace.
"Does that place make you happy?"
Ivan murmured a small "Da".
"Does it make you feel safe?"
Ivan gave the same answer and the finger came to a stop. A warm thumb began to rub circles into the back of his hand.
"What is keeping you from that place? Picture it in front of your imagination."
The iron gate weaved itself into view like black thorns, marring his image of happiness, just like the bars running up and down outside his window.
Toris's other hand grew even closer to his face. "Ivan, focus on my hand now."
He did as he was told without much thought to it, and the finger began moving back and forth again, going in an occasional loop.
"I want you to think about the object keeping you away from happiness."
Ivan did that too. The gate opened and the shadow stepped out from behind it. Toris's movements turned erratic and Ivan had to work his eyes in order to keep up.
His chest constricted and the finger stopped. "Where does it hurt?"
Hesitantly, Ivan lifted a hand to lay on top of his heart.
"Close your eyes and breath deeply." Ivan did so and warmth wrapped itself around the hand, embracing it securely. With every breath he took, his chest loosened, and he felt lighter than he's ever felt.
Both of his hands were pulled together, both held by Toris now. "Does it still hurt anywhere else?"
Ivan shook his head and opened his eyes slowly, the trace-like impression fading. Toris gave him a smile and Ivan gradually returned it.
"What… what did you do?" He asked, still experiencing that liberating sensation within his core.
"I had you face your dreams properly. You saw the parallels between your imagination and your dreams, right?"
"How did you…?" He didn't need to finish when Toris chuckled light-heartedly at his look of incredulity.
"I only guessed, Ivan. The details don't matter. You feel better, don't you?"
He nodded, looking down at their conjoined hands. "Da…" he admitted sheepishly. Toris made it sound and look so easy, so simple. Maybe it was easy to understand for him, but even Ivan's own feeling of weightlessness surprised him. "Thank you…" he said shyly, "No one has done something like this to me before…"
His hands were rubbed and stroked between Toris's, prolonging his sense of ease. "Maybe others have their own methods."
"Ah, like poisoning me?"
Ivan regretted saying that when that smile faltered, straightening into a frown. Toris continued to handle his hands gently. "You never told me why the medicine bothers you."
Ivan didn't answer him right away, but he wasn't rushed or pushed into replying either—he had to give Toris that. "…They do not make me feel human." His gaze rested on the other's chest, avoiding eye-contact with him. "They make me sick sometimes. They are not like you, Toris—they do not make me feel better." He paused to find the right words, "I feel alone and… isolated? I feel even more isolated than I already am. You do not expect me to enjoy that, do you?"
Toris shook his head. "I guess I can't." He stood up, his hands finally sliding away. "I'll be back, okay? I'll be back with your medicine and lunch."
His stomach lurched as he clenched the sheets between his fingers. "No medicine. You are enough, da?" He frowned, "I do not need it. I am not—" He stopped, biting his tongue to prevent himself from going on. Crazy…
He was. Toris had told him otherwise, but he wasn't blind.
A look of sympathy flashed across his face, but Toris hid it well. "I'll tell them not to give you as much, I promise. Don't think about it too much… I cooked for you again today, this morning actually." He smiled at him again but Ivan didn't return it this time.
"Da… I'll wait for you, Toris…" his voice grew oddly quiet at the end. He tugged at the heavy blanket that was still wrapped around his lower body. "This is yours, yes?"
The younger man nodded. "It's for the therapy sessions. Please keep it—it'll do much better than what you had before."
"Spasiba…" He shrugged the cover over his shoulders, wrapping it around himself tightly. "'Is warm…" he murmured.
That seemed to please Toris enough. "You're welcome.. Now I'll be right back, wait for me, okay?" He cast one look over his shoulder before leaving the second time that day.
Ivan stared after him, painfully wishing he could follow. That day would never come to him however and even he knew that.
His chest began to constrict again after Toris left. His deep heartbeat was like a drum in his ears, and he fell back against his pillow, curling up.
A shudder ran throughout him and he lifted a few fingers to his lips, his lips that were moving without his permission.
"That man will die soon." There was a slightly euphoric note to his own voice, and Ivan hated it. He clenched his eyes shut, burying under the new blanket Toris gave him. "And I'll be blamed for it again—it's always the same."
"…Shut up.."
"If only he could see me now. What would he say? I sincerely wonder~" A giggle ruptured from his throat and Ivan almost choked on it. He covered his mouth and bit his tongue. His voice came to a stop, but he could still hear his own words within his head.
Shoving his knee into his mouth, Ivan waited in excruciating silence.
-x-X-x-
The afternoon passed slowly. Ivan had taken the medicine without protest when Toris offered it to him. He planned to ask him about last night but thought better of it when Ivan barely answered his attempts at a conversation. Afterwards, he made no progress and Toris found it useless to stay around longer than what was necessary. He soon left to do a number of errands assigned to him.
His workload for the day was expectantly higher since Alfred wasn't around to share the work. The building seemed all the more foreboding without the American's charisma to brighten it. During his several trips between offices to deliver papers and memos, Toris noticed that there was slightly more life downstairs. However, seeing people amble about the almost-empty building didn't do much to console him. Everyone was faceless to him—the place was just, plainly speaking, lifelessly dull.
After finishing his assigned list of phone calls to make, his superior sent him to the furthest end of the building to deliver a stack of envelopes to a secluded file room, promising more work when he was done with sorting out the envelopes.
Alfred wasn't exaggerating—the other workers definitely weren't afraid to throw their errands onto his back. He was the intern after all.
Balancing the heavy stack of paper on his shoulders, Toris struggled to unlock the door to the filing room. He almost dropped everything he was holding when a voice suddenly snapped at him.
"Hey, you there! What are you doing?"
He instinctively pressed the envelopes to his chest defensively. "I'm going in to organize these… Is there a problem?"
He was faced by a middle-aged man who stood at around the same height of him, if not a little taller. His rough-looking hair was combed to the side and dark stubble littered his chin. He had a stretched, drawn look to his face.
Mud-brown eyes narrowed suspiciously. "There is no problem. I thought you were that annoying American transfer for a moment—as if catching him around here twice wasn't enough to make him stay away."
Toris instinctively read the other's name badge that hung around his neck. "You're… Marcel, aren't you?"
He chewed his lip, parched and tanned skin stretching. "Obviously. What's it to you?"
It didn't take long for Toris to wish that this guy would leave him alone and let him do his job. "Nothing. Alfred told me about you," he lied awkwardly.
"Oh really now? What'd he say? How much of a prick I am? Well maybe if he didn't poke his nose into other's business…" The suspicion in his voice deepened. "Are you friendly with him or something?"
"A-ah no…? We talked around, sometimes."
Marcel folded his arms over his broad chest, disbelieving. "Good," he said, even though it didn't look 'good'. "You're new here, aren't you? You shouldn't even have anything to do with that American. The whole facility distrusts him, and you should too. Don't listen to anything he has to say—it'll only get you into trouble. That's my advice to you, okay?"
Toris blinked, the files still held between his arms. He really needed to get back to work, but now this person has just told him something strange. "Does it matter? Alfred doesn't work here anymore. Yesterday was his last day."
Marcel looked at him as if he were just about as sane as the inhabitants of the facility. "He told you that? Well that proves my point. I have no idea what you're talking about, but we're not that lucky to lose him. Anyway, get back to work. You're an intern, so you'll still want to make a good impression on us." He brushed past him without another word.
Toris stood in the same spot, even when the other man was out of sight.
I don't… I don't get this. I haven't seen him around—of course he's gone! What was that guy even talking about?
Deeply distracted, Toris set to organizing the files like he was supposed to. His mind elsewhere, he continued to read and file countless papers until it was time to see Ivan again.
- - x – X – x - -
First note, Ivan's flashback continues from his last flashback/dream.
For sure, I thought this chapter was going to be late. I felt like I couldn't get that much done, but turns out, I did :D Anyways, I have finals coming up so chapter five will probably be late. (I have three finals and one midterm in a school year. It kind of sucks) Well, I hope you guys can bear with me until then. I'm not happy with my writing at the moment, I feel a bit braindead.
Thank you for reading and reviewing!