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, America / Alfred

- Lamentia -

- XI -

"Tell me why you're angry…" Ivan pleaded again. "Please," he added.

Liet hung his coat after shaking off the small droplets of water. "But I'm not angry, Ivan. Come on, let's have something warm to drink."

Ivan followed him into the kitchen, unconvinced. "You're angry about something," he said quietly, "and you won't tell me why. I know I need to know."

Liet sighed, taking out a small pot to boil water as he got the herbal bags ready. "I told you I'm not angry, Ivan… but, I'm upset… and it worries me." The stove sparked as he turned the knob back and forth, trying to start a fire.

Concerned, Ivan stepped up to him, growing close. "Tell me what it is. I'll stop, Liet."

"Can you really?" The Lithuanian chewed his lip, shaking his head from side to side. He looked up at him, worried eyes resting on his face. "Your skin is turning pale and gray. You get sick every night, Ivan… I've noticed it, and you've been trying to hide it from me." He rested a thumb on his bottom lip. Slowly, Ivan poked his tongue out and gave it a taste. "Your lips are stiff and cold now—it's like you're dead. You can't go on taking the medicine they're giving you."

He frowned, and Liet's thumb fell from his mouth. "Why not? It's helping me, it really is," he protested, carefully taking the brunette by the shoulders. "I'm getting better, Liet… Don't you want that?"

"I do—I really do." He looked extremely conflicted and Ivan pulled him close to his chest. "But…" He spoke against the front of his shirt. "It's not making you better. I don't know what those people have told you, and I won't ask, but its making you sicker by the day. I can see it, Ivan. Please stop it. We can find another way."

Ivan held him tighter, his heart aching and beating loudly at the single request. Until this very moment, Liet never asked anything like this of him—not once in three years. However, he couldn't understand. Why couldn't Liet see he was doing this for him, and only him? He never cared before everything happened. There was nothing to care about for anyone—his only family was cut out of his life, and he was alone.

He didn't want to be sick anymore.

"I want to be right again for you, Liet," he admitted softly. "I don't care what it does to me, just as long—"

"Don't." The other's fingers clenched onto his clothes in warning. "Don't say that to me ever again." He pulled away and held his face between two of his still-warm hands. Ivan looked away from him, instantly regretting his words, but he felt he needed to make Liet understand.

"But it's true." A look of hurt crossed his face but it soon vanished after appearing. "Please don't deny me like that."

You'll get sick of me soon enough.

I can't have it. I can't allow it.

"I can never… You know that." He reached passed him, switching off the stove before the water could even simmer. He lead Ivan into the living room, pulling him down with him as he took the nearest seat. Sitting back tiredly, he grasped his pale hand between both of his. "I don't trust what any of those men say. Don't you remember? They were the ones who backed you into a corner before they cut you off from your only family."

"And they let me leave the country," Ivan argued, frowning. "With you."

Liet shook his head, scooting away so he could face him properly. "That was your choice alone. The organization couldn't imprison you within your mother country. Whether they supported your decision or not didn't matter—you're your own person."

"Then they are not forcing me to do anything, da? I don't understand you, Liet."

He shook his head again, still looking conflicted with his inner opinions. "They told you that you were a danger to your family in your current state, didn't they? They knew you couldn't have gone against their recommendation to return to Yekaterina and Natalya." He lowered his gaze, squeezing and weaving their fingers together. "Of course it would have been alright to leave with me."

Ivan tilted his head, observing their twisting fingers with a thoughtful frown. "What are you saying?"

"I think you already know, don't you? The… consequences would be milder if… If things went wrong and something happened to me instead of with your family…"

At first, Ivan didn't understand, but when the meaning of his words finally reached him, he wretched his hands away and grabbed Liet by the elbows.

"Then… all this time…" He said dangerously quiet, his eyes wide with a rising mixture of hurt and anger. "You thought the only reason I came here was to protect my family, and only them alone? You thought I would rather much hurt you, than them?" His voice shook and Ivan struggled to lock their gazes together.

What do you think I am?

Surprised with his reaction, Liet quickly tried to amend himself, but Ivan pushed him away, backing up to the opposite end of the sofa. Before the other would reach out to him, he buried his face into his hands, curling forward.

"I know I'm sick." His sentence broke near its end. "I'm sick, Liet—but… but I thought y-you…"

"No, that isn't it." Liet carefully took his wrists, prying his hands away from his face. "You're not ill—not to me."

Ivan ground his teeth together until his tongue caught between the bone and bled out. "I know you hate me, yes? I've done nothing for you, Liet—I've given you nothing. Yes, that's it, of course you hate me…" He could almost laugh as he talked to himself. He was always a fool—

"I said that isn't it," Liet repeated, releasing his hands to wrap his arms over his shoulders, holding him tightly as Ivan struggled against him half-heartedly. "I never lied to you. I never saw you as anyone lower or different from myself."

"Just leave…" Ivan said hoarsely even though he couldn't even bear the thought of being alone once again. "Leave and you can be happy. You're right, Liet. No medicine can cause these scars to fade away—it's impossible. You do not have to put up with me."

Liet tangled his fingers into his hair, keeping his grip on him strong. "No one is leaving, and no one will leave. There's nothing about you that I have to put up with, Ivan. I love you, you know that very well."

"When will…" Ivan clenched his eyes, his arms moving against his will to cling onto Liet's front. "When will the time come when I can no longer tell the difference between the past and present? I said leave me be."

"What am I allowed to have, then?" Liet asked patiently, gently rubbing his back with his free hand. "If I can't handle who you are—your past? I love you, Ivan—I'll say it again. I promised you I would never leave you alone."

Ivan stopped fighting against him, allowing himself to slump forward in defeat. "I wouldn't be mad if you did…" He lied.

He leaned back, allowing Ivan to lie against him. "Hush, that's enough from you," he told him gently. "Things will turn out all right. We don't have to hurt ourselves to achieve that."

-x-X-x-

Toris set the paper down, thinking it must have been a forgery—a trick.

"Ivan never died," he said needlessly, looking over the altered copy again.

Alfred nodded to the paper he was reading over. "I got that copy from his family who lent me the records the Russian government had sent to them. The copy that you've had before was from Visailis. That's right, Ivan is dead in Russia, but not in Lithuania."

"Then all this time, no one even bothered to confirm his death?"

Alfred shook his head, taking the two papers to file them away. "No, his family was never allowed to visit him even while he was still 'alive'—they couldn't have afforded to anyway. I'm almost sure the Ivan you know is the same Ivan Braginsky recorded here in these files. There are no grave markers reserved for him in any of the gravesites of Lithuania's major cities. After flying to Moscow, I didn't find his burial site there either. His sister told me he was buried in Lithuania, but after checking again, I found nothing.

"Did you tell them he was still alive?"

Alfred looked down, his brow wrinkling. "I told them the information they were given was questionable, but no, I didn't. I told them if they answered my questions truthfully, I could investigate his death."

Toris bit his lip, leaning forward against the edge of the table. "And why didn't you?"

"I… I wanted to, honestly I did, but it would've been dangerous for both me and them. If they believed that their supposedly-dead brother was actually still alive, they would've left the country no matter what to see him. The facility would deny them, of course, and get rid of them if they needed to before they caught the attention of the law. None of us will be able to do a thing for Ivan if any outside parties got involved with Visailis."

Toris twisted his hands together, looking out the window at the pitch black sky. It was late, very late, but he couldn't go home just yet. "So even now, they still believe he's dead? How does anyone benefit from this? I mean, why would they record him as dead when he's alive?"

Alfred shrugged, sitting back and stretching. "Think how easy things would be for them if no one bothered to look for Braginsky. What's the worst thing that can happen to a man who's already dead?"

Toris took a painfully deep breath as he tried to clear his mind. "Is he the only one, or…?"

"I don't know," Alfred answered his unfinished question. "Whatever happens to the rest of the inmates isn't any of my business, but… during my grave searching, I did find one interesting thing. I know one man who's certainly dead." He nodded to the fat folder that still lay in front of Toris. "If you seriously think you can handle it, go on and take a look."

Toris's eyes darted back and forth between the motionless folder and Alfred's intent gaze. Feeling the other's eyes on him, he slowly reached forward, took it, and opened it. The contents, a stack of photos, slid into the palm of his hand. The first photo was laid upside down on the stack. Already having second thoughts, he timidly took the leaf and flipped it over. The second photo poked out from underneath the first.

His hands jerked violently and he dropped the photos on top of the table as if he'd just been burned. He stood up so suddenly with such force that his chair toppled to the ground with a loud clammer. He covered his mouth, his stomach churning threateningly. Like a gruesome street accident, the sight made him sick but he couldn't bring himself to look away from it.

Alfred was speaking to him now, but his voice was nothing more than a low buzz. His eyes took in every detail—every detail of a covered and uncovered body. Limbs were outstretched, sporting countless incisions and bruises—though it was difficult to tell the difference between a vicious bruise and an open gash. There wasn't as much escaped blood as there should have been, but there were prominent streaks of red on the surrounding furniture and walls.

Several photos had the face covered, but two had it unveiled. Those two seemed to have a deeper effect on him as he retched into his hand. The face was mutilated beyond recognition. Shredded muscle and skin meshed together as fragment of bone poked out from under the mess. Underneath all that blood and gore, he could see a thick red line that circled the body's neck like a collar.

Blood pounded and rushed to his head as he swayed on the spot, almost ready to pass out.

No.

Ivan, Ivan… What did you do?

"He died from asphyxiation." His words seemed to snap him out of it and he shook his head, finally tearing his eyes away from the horrible images.

"But all these wounds—"

"Were inflicted after he died." Alfred quickly stacked up the photos, hiding them away from Toris's view. "I didn't think they would affect you this much…"

Toris shook his head. "I'm fine.. I didn't expect it to be so bad either." He swallowed, but it didn't seem to calm his gut. "So this… this is what he did." He swayed again and collapsed back into his seat. Groaning to himself, he buried his face into his hands.

"Toris… What happened, happened. You can't run away from it, but don't let it get to you either."

He swallowed thickly, nodding. "I know." He lifted his head but shook his it again, trying to focus. "I knew why he was imprisoned all along, but I didn't think… I'm an idiot, aren't I?"

"We can stop here…" Alfred suggested uncertainly. "I said I wouldn't keep you for long, and you don't look so good."

"I guess we should…" Toris sighed, rubbing his temples. "I'm sorry Alfred, this isn't anyone's fault. We can continue another night if that's okay."

"Yeah, that seems smart, but, I have to give you one more chance to back out of this. I mean—"

Toris laid a hand on top of his, stopping him in mid-sentence.

"Al, this… this doesn't change anything—I'll try my best to do what I can."

-x-X-x-

Several weeks passed and Toris swore his stress levels were building up by the day as his tolerance grew shorter.

The few inmates the facility happened to have were moved out of the building to be relocated for "renovation". Several staff members were relieved of their positions as the attendance grew shorter. Ivan remained in his room as the facility slowly emptied out, and Toris was allowed to continue his job due to the contract that had been signed before.

Alfred maintained his day-to-day job, but he had no more information for Toris. After their several nights of briefing two weeks earlier, the American avoided making any contact with him except to warn him not to speak of anything he knew or found out.

Every night since then, the face of the green-eyed man seemed to haunt his thoughts—or his dreams if he were lucky enough to catch an ounce of sleep. The thought of blood and death seemed to disturb him any further. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he would wake up, thinking there was a knife buried deep within his chest. He had yet to find himself screaming aloud.

"You look tired, Toris," Ivan observed quietly, shifting in his lap to get a better look at his face.

Toris smiled down at him, flipping through a book he brought in to read. "I can say the same for you. Did you listen to me and get at least eight hours of sleep?"

Ivan wrinkled his nose in good humor. "I am not a child."

"You're not, but it would do wonders for your health."

Ivan scoffed but made no more comment. He turned his head to the side, reading along with Toris as he flipped through the pages. "It seems… I have almost forgotten to read this language, da?" he said, his tone quickly turning disconsolate. "It was not easy learning this writing, Toris."

"But you can still read a little bit, can't you?"

"Yes, I can, but the words stumble and break, even in my head. I know I'm losing my touch."

"Let's practice then. Dinner is four hours away, we might as well, right?" Toris suggested, flipping back to the start of the chapter.

Ivan mumbled something before speaking aloud, "What is this about?"

Toris blinked. "Well, the whole thing is about a lot of things. This chapter, or the book?"

"Ah, just tell me what it is."

"It's a collection of old stories—myths and folktales of eastern Europe. I like it because it seems that only the stories from the West seemed to have survived. This is about the only book that I have that contains old Lithuanian tales from pagan times. When most books don't even mention this area, this particular one contains pretty much anything I can dream of."

"It has Russian, yes?"

"Yes, especially Russian."

Ivan seemed to be content with that and he wiggled, making himself comfortable in Toris's lap.

"Toris, do you find comfort in reading children's tales?"

Toris flipped to the front of the book to pick out his favorite chapters. "Mmh… What do you mean?"

Ivan prodded the book, a finger skimming over the separate titles listed on the first page. "What do these things mean to you?"

"Ah… Well, it's hard to put in words. I think they have their own sentimental value to them."

"Do you think they have a certain truth to them as well?"

"With the ones I've read, yes."

"I see…" Ivan lowered his gaze and turned his face away from the book, rolling over to wrap his arms around Toris's middle instead. "If that's what you say."

Toris cleared his throat softly, hesitantly laying a hand on top of Ivan's head. "But I suppose you can't put all your faith in stories alone."

"Mmf…" He buried his large nose into Toris's stomach, laying there for another moment. "I know a story, Toris."

"Oh, well…" Toris shut the book, setting it aside. "Go on."

Ivan breathed deeply, his back sloping in graceful movements. "The story is… still very obscure to me. I've not thought about it in a long time, but… In the cold land, there was a young child of Winter. He was mothered by the sweet Spring, but he had a heart of ice. Unable to love, he was sent to live among mortals. It wasn't long before his ears were snared by the music of a young flute player. Day after day, the child would listen to the kind flute player. Falling deeper and deeper into the trap, the child couldn't bear it anymore and he begged Winter to permit him to love. Winter refused and the child ran to Spring instead. Spring warned him of punishment and danger, but the child was young and foolish—he did not care.

"Spring granted his wish and the child was given a heart. He returned to his flute player and the two were happy together." Ivan sighed and craned his head back, gazing up at him. His hand rose from among the bed sheets, reaching up to touch the side of Toris's face. "They spent one evening together underneath an ash tree. When the flute player finished the last song of the evening, the child said 'I love you'. And then…" Ivan's hand shook as it curved to cup his cheek. "He…"

Toris grasped his hand, holding it steady. "He—?"

There was a heavy knock on the door that startled both of them, almost causing Toris to fall off the bed.

"Who in the world…" Toris scowled as he slowly got up, moving to answer the door. However, before he could take another step, Ivan grabbed the hem of his uniform.

"Don't get it," he whispered, his violet eyes wide with fear. "Don't, Toris. They're here for me."

Toris's expression softened, and he gently combed his fingers through Ivan's hair. "Don't worry… We'll be fine." He flinched when another set of knocks sounded much louder this time. Slowly, he coaxed himself out of Ivan's grip before he walked over to the door, sliding his cardkey through the slot. The door clicked open and Toris was almost thrown backward.

He should've expected Marcel and two other men to step into the room, backing Toris up against the wall.

Toris tried his best to not let the raw intimidation get to him. "I said you weren't welcome here."

Marcel sneered in response. "What does your word mean in any of this? You have no authority over this patient."

Toris had to keep himself from snapping back as he stepped backwards, stationing himself in front of Ivan protectively. "I'm his caretaker. No one takes him out of this room without approval."

Marcel stepped up to him and spat in his face. Toris could feel two very large hands cling onto his sides. "And I do have approval, Intern. Do I have to make it sound official? This patient is to be expelled from this room due to several misdemeanors and serious offense. He'll be relocated somewhere else in the facility."

Toris placed a hand over one of Ivan's clenched fists, keeping it there. "This patient isn't going anywhere."

Marcel jabbed him in the chest roughly, his eyes flaring up with impatience. "You're lucky you still have you're job after more competent men were relieved. Get out of the way, Intern."

Toris gripped the hand tighter. "I said he's not going—!" He wasn't given a chance to finish when Marcel seized him up by the collar, tossing him to the side. Toris grunted when his back hit the drywall. He heard a low growl and from between the slits of his eyes, he saw Ivan rise up, grabbing for Marcel's throat.

"No, Ivan, stop—!"

The two men who've been watching until now made short time grabbing Ivan by the elbows, roughly pulling him away.

Toris rushed forward to try and wretch their painful-looking grips from Ivan's arms. However, he had quickly forgotten about Marcel who roughly grabbed him by his own arm, hissing in his ear. "I'm absolutely sick of you."

Toris forgot his sense of reasoning and elbowed the man in the stomach. He snarled and let go, but the back of the his hand collided with Toris's face. Clutching his nose and mouth, he stumbled back. He could taste the blood between the cracks of his teeth as the warm liquid trickled from his nose. He pulled his hands away, barely registering what just happened.

From between his bloody fingers, he saw how Ivan noticed the damage as well. The bright scarlet amongst the white room seemed to glow in his eyes as he struggled even harder against his captors who seemed to be having an increasingly hard time keeping him in place. Marcel grabbed a fistful of his hair, and with the help of the two other men, dragged Ivan out of the room as he wailed and screamed in anger.

"Toris, Toris—!"

Toris stumbled after them, his movements clumsy as stars pervaded his vision. They slammed the door in his face and Toris's blood-soaked hands slipped messily over the knob as he tried to reopen the locked door.

Glancing at the card slot, he realized that Marcel took his only key with him. Slamming his fists into the door, he fell to his knees, leaving red streaks on the cold steel.

-x-X-x-

"So this is where you've be—holy shit, Toris. You're a mess."

"It's nothing," Toris mumbled, scraping the last of the dried blood off his palms. "It stopped bleeding an hour ago."

Alfred reached out his hand to him and Toris took it, allowing himself to be helped up.

"I was wondering where you were," Alfred said, brushing Toris off.

"They took Ivan." His words were hollow.

"I know, that's when I figured you must've been stuck back here."

"They took Ivan, right under my nose."

"And they beat you up pretty badly."

"And I'm fine," Toris snapped, surprising himself with his own tone. "It's just… this isn't about me, it's about Ivan, and he's gone…"

Alfred didn't seem to be affected by his harsh tone as he carefully led Toris out of the vacant room. "Don't worry—it isn't too late. While the other inmates are being shipped out to bigger asylums, they're planning to keep Braginsky here. How are you feeling?"

Toris sighed heavily, keeping his eyes low. "Much better than before." He rubbed his face again for the countless time, his sleeves having prominent splotches of dried blood on them. Shaking his head, he groaned hopelessly. "Why did they take him, Alfred? They claimed that he did something wrong, but… except during the night, Ivan was always under my supervision—I know he didn't do anything wrong."

"Maybe you're right, but I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. Ivan isn't a human being to them anymore, and they've given themselves several excuses to hate him. I just didn't think Marcel would have the nerve to lock you in there." He nodded to the room behind them. "Especially with the reduced staff and all, who knows what could've happened."

Toris rubbed his arms together, feeling a chill run throughout his body. "I wasn't thinking about what would happen to me. I just wanted to get out and tell Ivan that… That I would come back for him." He coughed and almost fell forward when Alfred gave him a hearty pat on the back.

"Don't worry about him. There's probably only one place they could be holding him, but hey—" He grabbed Toris before he could do something reckless. "You can't see him. I mean—you can't see him right now. They're probably expecting you and this won't—let me finish—end well."

Toris stopped fighting against him, looking around desperately as if searching his surroundings would give him some sort of hint. "Did Lanka allow this?"

"Probably. I guess that's why Marcel wasn't afraid of hurting you since he knew his own position was more secure than yours. You're not going to talk about this to her, are you?"

"What would I get out of that? No, like you said, I don't want to draw anymore attention. I'm fine now, but I don't know what to say about Ivan… Can you take me to him tomorrow?" He asked, looking up at Alfred hopefully.

"Give me…" He held up three fingers. "Give me three days and I'll help you, Toris. Promise."

"Why three—?"

"I need time to plan things out so you won't get in trouble."

Toris didn't seem to be convinced, but Alfred patted him again.

"Trust me. Just give me three days—it'll be all we need."

- - x - X - x - -

Yess, I made it. Hurray for mildly (or not so much) obscure metaphors and references. Sometimes I wonder how could I've survived one chapter a week with all this stuff going on. x_x Write, draw, write, draw, my life right there /sob.

I believe there are five chapters left, but the number can easily change.

We've been making steady progress, guys :) Thank you for sticking with me and reading/reviewing!