The sick man was asleep when Dmitri made his appearance, a book within his arms, and an odd look about his eyes. His father was out cold, a cotton ball taped upon his arm with that sleeve rolled up to his shoulder and those lips sagging in an unconscious stupidity.

Ivan looked peaceful, nearly harmless. Despite that kindly nature, there was something offsetting about him. A soul that could not be given clean trust until years after a first meeting. Perhaps it was because his structure was entirely too large. Even hunched over with a cane, he towered over everyone, a fortress threatening to collapse.

And Dmitri knew. He was built with the same iron.

So, the offspring sat with his novel, plopping into the chair that had been left day after day. It was pointless to move that seat. Everyone morning, Dmitri came and ate breakfast with his senior, growing nearer and nearer with every word shared.

He liked his father. Dmitri did not love Ivan. But he certainly liked him. There was much they had in common, all stemming from their nature and features and bare interests. They loved books and stories and speaking and listening. They loved sweets and vodka.

Ivan always seemed better when the younger made his cameo.

Finally, the man woke up, hazy, as though he had been shot with a tranquilizer.

"Is that you, Dmitri?" He blinked as though sight had evaporated.

"Yes. I came to have breakfast with you."

"Oh…Were you waiting a long time?"

"No. I just got here, actually. Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine." The sick one sat up and pulled the cotton from his vein, allowing that sleeve down. Dmitri saw that flesh only a moment, that blackened area bruised and haggard. Ivan Braginski had been pricked so many times, that skin was no longer healthy. It became wrinkled, wrinkled and scarred and black.

Gazes spoke.

"They're going for my legs next…You don't have to look so horrified. It doesn't hurt anymore. But I still can't watch."

Dmitri could not even produce coherent thought.

Lips coiled.

"You're nice boy, Dmitri. What are you doing with 'Les Misérables'?"

"Oh. I noticed you had it French. Can you understand all of this?"

"Let me see it a moment."

The novel was handed over.

They were silent a few moments as the ancient binding was broken.

"Ah…I'm rusty."

"Can you speak French?"

"Un peu. But I haven't practiced in quite a while. I'm surprised I can still read all of this nonsense."

"Was it hard? Learning a different alphabet?"

"Well, yes. But it doesn't take all too long to get the hang of. However, French is a difficult language." A smile. "I forgot most all of this. All accept the basics. That's alright. I hate the French anyway." The book was allotted to its rest.

"Do you know any other languages?" Ivan inquired with kind eyes.

"No. I never had the chance the chance to learn any."

"Well, do you want to? I can hire a tutor."

Dmitri bled mirth. "What use would I have for that?"

"I don't know. I thought you might enjoy it."

"I'm sorry. But I've never even been to school. You don't have to waste your money."

"I don't believe that. You're too sharp."

"Well…I learned a lot from my mother, who went through rigorous schooling. I'd probably be a lot stupider had it not been for her." That solemn expression washed about his visage, always returning when Natasha reared her head. She was a wave, leaving, coming back, leaving, coming back, washing away the pock marks left those indignant shoes. The woman would never go away.

"I'm too old now…"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I am."

Tranquility.

"You're allowed to change your mind, Dmitri. Just tell me if you do."

Nothing.

"The world is a terrible place, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. But no matter what happens, everything turns out alright."

Then there was harsh joy. "You haven't spent much time in the streets, have you? I've seen people die because they can't even get water. Does that sound alright to you? Does it sound alright that I worked my ass off to save my mother and no matter what we did she died in the end anyway? Does it sound alright that the doctor turned us away because we didn't have enough money?" Tears. "I guess everything turns out alright when you can buy a happy ending, doesn't it?"

Ivan's throat desiccated.

"I'm sorry..." Dmitri wiped his eyes. "I didn't mean to be harsh. I just can't tell you how untrue that is."

"No. That's not right…May I ask you something?"

"Yes, you can."

"Why are you still working if you don't have to? You can rest now. No one will look down on you."

"Everyone will look down on me. But I work because I need to buy a decent grave for my mother. We dug a hole and used an old cutting board for a headstone. Maybe they won't even re-do it for us. I don't know…But it's good to work."

"I'll take care of that."

"No. It's something my brother and I need to do. And don't go and ask Andrei. He'll just yell at you." Palms devoured that sorrow. "Are you ashamed of us? Because we work?"

"No…I'm not ashamed of either of you. I'm proud to say that I have sons. And I'm proud to say that my sons are responsible young men. I was more ashamed of my lonesomeness, that there was no one left to come and visit. It's been so long…For the last several years; my closest friends have been my doctors. And it was unbearable to speak to them as my family when all I could see was the hopelessness in their eyes. 'That poor old man. He'll be lucky if he made it to tomorrow. And look. There's no one here to watch him die. No one to bury him and put a few flowers on his grave. And after either of you had come-after the news had sunk in- I was ecstatic. My heart swelled with happiness when I thought of having a family- even a fragment of a family. Even if they hated me. Even if they couldn't forgive me. Even if they didn't want to be around me. I was still happy. Because I had someone. And I would do anything in the world to make it up to you and your brother. Anything…Because you are priceless to me. I know it's only been a few weeks, but it's true. I would have sacrificed all I had for relatives. And for sons-" The man shook his head. "I would have bled for sons. I can't even count the hours I spent praying, praying that someone would arrive even though logic told me it was stupid to request such things. Not even God can make a family from dust. No one could come. No one would be there for me…But then you did and I didn't find just one son, but two…My face was in my hands that night; I couldn't stop saying 'thank you.'"

A pause and sentiment moved from those sapphire fraught widows.

"Money can't buy you a happy ending. I haven't been happy for the last decade. But I'm happy now. It doesn't matter that I'm sick in bed- that I haven't been outside since last Christmas. Finally, one of prayers was answered. I feel like the most fortunate man on earth."

Dmitri's face burrowed into his palms, those lashes squeezing together. There was not sound. Only fervent upset.

"I'm sorry about the harsh things I said…" The message was forced. "I had no idea-"

"No it's alright, Dmitri. You've got every right to be angry."

"No; I don't. You didn't deserve that. You were trying to help. I-" Choke. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

The elder man did not speak. Not at first.

"…Do me a favor, Dmitri." A droplet removed by that heavy thumb. "Bring me a few bars of soap. I want to see your work."

"I will…"

And for the first time, perhaps within those twenty-two years, Dmitri felt as though he had been blessed. One needed a son and the other, a father. And they had one another. Golden eggs had been lowered into destitute palms.

A few of those wounds sealed.

An inkling of bliss was crafted.

Dmitri went to work with his heart inside his chest, where it belonged.