The sun felt sickly warm on Yao's skin, and with a squint he was blinded by white sheets and plastic blinds, which had been drawn back to leave him baking in daylight. He was damp all over with sweat, and his throat felt scorched, as if his body had burnt through a fever overnight.
Some distance away, muffled by the walls, it sounded as though two people were having a conversation.
"Hello?" Yao croaked, with painful effort that only gave him the barest whisper. Fuzzily, he realised that this was not Ivan's bed at all. An IV drip was hooked to his right hand. The armchair beside his bed was empty, and there was a dividing curtain on the other side, presumably separating him from another patient. He attempted to sit up, only to regret it instantly when his stomach lurched and his vision became foggy. He felt so weak he thought he was going to pass right out.
"Yao!"
Ivan burst through the dividing curtain, rushing over to the bed. He looked dishevelled, still wearing his pyjama shirt which seemed to be stained with dark splotches.
"You're awake," Ivan sighed, taking hold of Yao's hand and squeezing it hard. "How are you feeling?"
Half-dead, Yao wanted to say. He felt zombified, like his head had been emptied and stuffed with cotton. Every movement was dizzying effort. But he couldn't complain to Ivan, and felt a sudden overwhelming shame as he remembered what he'd done the night before. "I'm okay," he said hoarsely. He tried to clear his throat, which only made the soreness worse. "I'm fine."
Ivan hugged Yao close to his chest, stroking his matted hair and muttering incomprehensible reassurances. Yao could only sit there numbly, feeling like tears were maybe trapped somehow deep in his chest, only nothing would come of it. He couldn't remember a thing from last night, only that he had taken the pills and had the first dreamless sleep in a long time. He hadn't been trying to do anything more than that — sleep peacefully — but feeling Ivan's frantic hold on him, and smelling what must have been Yao's vomit on his shirt… It was enough for Yao to want to shrink away completely.
"Yao…" Ivan said, pulling away to sweep the hair away from Yao's face. "What is happening to you?"
"Nothing is happening," Yao replied quietly, finding it hard to look Ivan in the eyes. He looked so devastated.
"Why did you take those pills? I've told you before how dangerous —"
"I don't want to talk about it," Yao said wobbily, not wanting to look any weaker or more awful than he already did to Ivan. "Please. I don't feel well, and I don't want to talk about it."
Ivan said nothing for a moment. Yao didn't know what expression he was making — he couldn't look at him, and kept his gaze on the window and the traffic flowing by while Ivan continued on idly fixing his hair and hospital gown.
"Is it okay if I stay, though?" Ivan finally asked.
Yao nodded, and there it was again — that familiar, old ache of the chest. "Yes. Please stay."
Ivan said nothing more and made himself comfortable in the armchair, writing away while Yao closed his eyes and tried to sleep again. Instead, all he could do was think about the discomfort in his throat — had they put a tube through it while he was passed out? — and the nauseating churning of his stomach. The hours crawled by sleeplessly, interrupted only by doctors and nurses filtering in and out to ask probing, even vaguely accusatory questions about what had been going through Yao's mind when he took the pills. He told them he couldn't really remember, which wasn't entirely a lie.
In the afternoon, Ivan went home to change, and Yong Soo took his place with suspiciously good timing. He also brought a heavy bag full of snacks and tupperwares of food, babbling endlessly about some jacket he bought the other day and shifting his gaze around nervously.
"… the collar is a bit wide though but most of the extra space is at the back of the neck so maybe keeping my ponytail low and at the back would hide it a little though I guess it wouldn't look too obvious anyway —"
"You realise they feed me here, anyway, right?" Yao said dryly as Yong Soo opened one of the tupperware boxes.
Yong Soo hesitated for a moment, looking a bit lost. "… Did you eat today?"
Yao pursed his lips. "No. But I'm not —"
"Here!" Yong Soo presented the open tupperware to Yao, revealing some sort of rice porridge with chicken. "I'm not that good of a cook, but this always helps when I'm sick."
Yao groaned. He felt like throwing up just at the thought of swallowing something down with his scorched throat. "Thanks, but I really don't want to eat anything. Ever."
"Well. It's here for you." Yong Soo set it down, fidgeting in place for a moment. "Also! I went to feed Bǎobèi —"
"How? You don't have the key."
"Um."
Yao raised a brow. "Did you…?"
"Yeah, I may have broken in. I was in a manic state, okay! I got a call from a crying Ivan Braginsky, which was freaky enough as it was, and I remembered the canary and I also wanted to go buy you like a get well soon card, but I didn't know — a-anyway, so I'll pay for the lock. Point is, your canary is now well-fed, but he was also weirdly quiet? Doesn't it normally sing? Like I don't know if he was just tired or something…"
"I-It's normal," Yao sighed. Like an old record, the canary would often echo pieces played days, months, even years ago, flickering with the original imperfections. Kiku hated it; make a mistake on the piano once and the canary would remember, eventually even convince you that the flaw was part of the perfected version of the piece. But recently, the bird sang nothing at all. His house was often unusually silent. "Sort of. I don't know. It's a bird, Yong Soo."
Yong Soo slumped into the armchair, which Ivan had dragged earlier to sit right up by Yao's side. "And I have to let Jin know I won't be turning up later today either…"
"No, don't do that. Go to work."
"Too late! Already skipped morning practice."
"Ugh."
A moment of silence passed between them. Yao itched at the bandage on his hand, where the IV drip was hooked up, wondering when the doctors would let him leave. He was promised a discharge in two days or so, but from the kinds of questions Yao was getting, he was worried they might just lock him up in some other hospital instead. He just wanted to go home and sleep, for no one to bother him, for nothing to ever make him feel anything again. He felt sick of it all, but it was dangerous to say that to anyone — least of all, Yong Soo.
"Yao," Yong Soo started, making an unnecessary pause that irritated Yao.
"Yes?"
"I don't know if you've been told, and this is probably a bad time to say it, but…"
"Yong Soo, whatever it is, just spit it out."
"They've hired someone to replace you," Yong Soo said in one quick exhale, watching Yao carefully after as if waiting for some sort of dramatic response. The words barely even registered to Yao. "At the orchestra," Yong Soo continued. "We have a new violinist."
Yao blinked mildly. "Oh."
Yong Soo waited for a moment, before shaking his head incredulously. "That's it? Oh?"
"I mean, I was sort of expecting I'd be fired at some point."
"And that doesn't bother you?"
Yao was sure that in some part of his mind, it did. It must have; he'd just lost his job, in a theatre he and Kiku loved. But for the most part it felt like he'd never been worthy of it to begin with, that he'd simply gotten away with pretending to be talented and his time had inevitably run out. And anyway, he was out of practice, clumsy, and unable to even really maintain a normal sleep schedule. Why should he be so surprised that things have ended up this way?
He shrugged at Yong Soo. "Is there any reason it should?"
"Yes! Because it's your job, Yao! Literally your dream job!" Yong Soo sighed exasperatedly. "I mean, when's the last time you even touched your violin?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Yao laughed emptily, awkwardly, though he felt an anger boiling up with the way Yong Soo was talking to him. He couldn't even look at him. "You really just came here to lecture me, huh?"
"I came here because I'm worried about you."
"Yeah. I know."
"And I can't lose another friend like this," Yong Soo said, his voice trembling. "There has to be something I can do."
The following words came out surprisingly even out of Yao's mouth, rolling from his heart-sick mind and straight off the tongue: "There's nothing for you to do, Yong Soo. Just leave me alone."
He braved a glance over at Yong Soo, who looked as though Yao had just struck him across the face. In some other circumstance, it may have made Yao feel guilty. But right now, he just wanted to be by himself.
Yong Soo sniffed, turning away to wipe at his eyes before putting on his jacket. "Call me if you need anything," he muttered, before leaving the room.
.
By the second day, bed-bound and dishevelled, Yao felt desperately eager to go home early to shower and sleep in his own bed. But the doctor's orders were for him to stay for one more day for "further observation" — whatever that meant. The drugs had already been pumped out of his stomach, what more did they need to keep him under scrutiny for? Except, Yao noticed the wary way the nurse looked at him when he picked up a fork to eat his dinner, the vague and unusually optimistic platitudes Ivan gave him about life and how cared for Yao was.
He had to tread carefully if he wanted to go home soon.
Outside, the sun hung low on the horizon, smothered in clouds as the roads became congested with cars and crowds. Yao's stomach growled — his appetite somewhat back to normal now — and he reached for a packet of crackers Yong Soo had left for him. He'd ravished the chicken rice porridge yesterday, not too long after Yong Soo had left, as if to bury any guilt or thought of what he'd said. But no amount of distraction could really do away with the thought that, as usual, Yao had pushed Yong Soo away. That he was callous and awful, and deserved to be lonely.
The dividing curtain opened, Ivan's face peeking through. He looked much better today, his hair combed and his clothes fresh and vomit-free. There was a stack of papers under one arm, and a bouquet of white lilies in the other. Yao's previously settled stomach suddenly stirred, though he wasn't sure why.
"Do you mind if I come in?" Ivan asked. Yao nodded, frantically wiping the cracker crumbs off his gown and bed.
"These are for you, Yaochka," Ivan said as he leaned over to kiss his cheek, giving Yao the bouquet of lilies. Their cloying, sweet scent filled the air around Yao, and the gesture twisted like an unexpected knife to the chest. It took him back to a sunlit day when his entire living room had been full of these flowers, when Ivan hugged him easily and spontaneously. It should have been a happy memory, but instead he felt strangely envious of his past self.
"Thank you," Yao said quietly, clutching at the bouquet and feeling the tickle of the petals on his chest and throat.
"I also have another gift for you," Ivan said, laying the stack of papers onto the tray by the bed. "Can you guess what it is?"
"Um…" Yao furrowed his brows. "I-I don't know. A new composition?"
"It's the symphony," Ivan said, his smile beaming and relieved. "I finished the symphony, Yao. All because of you."
"Well, I wouldn't say all because of me."
"But it was. You were — still are — the reason I compose. You are the only audience that matters to me."
Yao's face felt warm, and he found it difficult to know where to keep his gaze or what to do with his hands besides clutch tighter at the flowers. "I'm glad to hear that."
"I'll play it to you once you're feeling better, hm?"
The first smile in a while graced Yao's lips. "I'd really like that."
Ivan chuckled, the sound so airy and light in such a heavy room. His gaze on Yao was intense, as if looking right through into his soul.
"Can I kiss you?" Ivan asked.
Yao stammered, his face now burning. "I probably look really gross to you right now."
"You can never be gross to me. Please, let me."
Ivan leaned forward to kiss Yao's chapped lips tenderly, fawning over Yao even in his sorry state, making vows and promises to take care of him better, to never let things get this bad again. Yao really wanted to believe these promises, to let Ivan coddle him, but a small part of him felt hesitant, unable to truly consolidate this affection with everything Viktor had done to him thus far. Yao's love for Ivan felt bruised, like it had been bludgeoned to the point of almost feeling nothing at all. How could he trust to put his heart into Ivan's palms again if he knew he would only be crushed by Viktor's words? How could he feel safe next to someone who had so easily and eagerly thrown an ash tray in his direction just barely a day ago?
The sky outside was darkening, deepening into bloody amber. Ivan sat in the armchair close to Yao, holding his hand as he talked softly about the symphony. Maybe it was a shadow, maybe Yao's vision was getting hazy again, but he was sure he could see the crook of Viktor's nose on Ivan's face. Ivan's sweet words were tumbling out of his mouth, but the slight curl of the lip was Viktor's. His smile was angelic, but the words came out strangely sometimes, like Viktor's — accusatory and grandiose. Yao could almost smell the faint scent of cigarette smoke, and the grip on his hand was suddenly all too much.
What if he was being toyed with? What if Viktor was pretending to be Ivan? What if there had never been an Ivan at all? Or, Yao tried to reassure himself, maybe Viktor was just an act, a persona Ivan used to protect himself. Either way, only one could be real, because how could the very same man who loved and cared for him be the same one intent on breaking him?
So which was it? Ivan or Viktor? Which one was the lie?
There was a sudden, metallic taste on Yao's lips. He wiped away at his mouth, his hand smeared with a thin streak of blood.
"What's wrong?"
Yao took a moment to respond, absent-mindedly pressing his hand to his bleeding lip. "Nothing. I must have bitten it."
"You poor thing," Ivan said, standing up and reclaiming Yao's hand, holding it close to his chest and nearly blocking the entirety of the sunset. Ivan leaned forward and nuzzled his face against Yao, but there was a strange hunger in his eyes. "I like red on you, on your lips. It suits you."
Yao gave a shallow nod, feeling cold in Ivan's shadow. "I'm really tired. Is it okay if I sleep?"
Ivan pulled away, looking mildly surprised. He chuckled in that genuine, soft way Yao treasured. "You don't have to ask like that, Yaochka. Of course it's okay. Go to sleep."
.
1937.
The stage was set, the audience held its breath waiting — only the curtain had yet to rise.
Chun Yan's heart was hammering in her chest, her fingertips trembling with every pulse as she stood poised in position backstage. She briefly wondered if she should just leave, if this was all an overreaction. After all, she could conceivably live a perfectly comfortable life in Kurou's lap. She could keep on dancing for him in a theatre she previously could only dream of working in. She could stay here unscathed while the world around her crumbled.
The curtain rose, stage lights blinding her. Without even thinking, she leapt across into the stage, moving in tandem with the swelling of the orchestra. In dizzying turns, she could almost forget the true reason she was here onstage, could almost pretend this wouldn't be her last dance. Most of the other dancers were none the wiser, but her accomplices among them appeared equally untroubled. Surely Chun Yan wasn't the only one second-guessing this?
She looked to the audience, searching it frantically as she danced — for who, she wasn't sure, but something, someone, was different. She could barely stand still enough to take a proper look, seeing only uniforms and sparkling gowns.
In a few moments, those seats would be engulfed in flames. In a few moments, any remaining survivors would rush for the blockaded doors, trampling over each other to make their futile attempts at escape. In a few moments, she would hear them all scream and feel visceral satisfaction from it. She would choke on smoke and tell herself Kurou and the other men who had orchestrated the rape and pillage of Shanghai deserved it. She would wheeze her last breath just as the roof began to crumble, and tell herself it was a worthy sacrifice to make.
With a syrup-slow fall, she collapsed gracefully to the stage floor, marking the end of her last performance. She waited, panting, as she watched the eyes of the audience on her.
And among them, in a heart-stopping gaze, was Viktor.
.
PRESENT DAY.
Something felt deeply wrong.
The window beside Yao was inexplicably open, curtains flailing softly with an icy breeze and casting faint streams of moonlight onto the bed. His chest felt heavy, like a boulder was weighing down on him, and he realised suddenly that he couldn't move — not his head, his arms, not even the tips of his toes.
Yao was fixed in the hospital bed like a corpse.
He struggled in place against this invisible, suffocating force, only to be completely helpless against it. His voice was gone. He could hear a sickening scuttling of what sounded like claws on the floor, scratching around on the floor around him, approaching the bed out of his line of sight. Yao struggled once more, hoping to wake up, but could only watch in rising panic as a shadow rose from the floor, a dark tower at the foot of his bed.
He managed to shut his eyes, hoping when he opened them it'd be morning, somehow. Instead, he opened them to find Kurou's pale face hanging over him; his eyes dark and dead, lips almost blue. Yao screamed, but no sound left his throat. The figure was unmoving, but a flicker of life came into his eyes as he regarded Yao, almost as if with pity.
"Has he been playing with you?" Kurou asked, his voice crackling like his lungs were made of burned wood. Smoke teased out of his lips with each breath.
Yao couldn't answer.
"I can see it on you. He plays rough, like a dog with his favourite chew toy." At this Kurou made a sound vaguely resembling laughter, though it was more of a wheeze. It stank of sulphur and burning flesh. "That's what you are to him. A toy. Did you really think he'd feel sorry for you? That he'd see your wounds and feel remorse? He's bruised you many times before and that's never stopped him."
Kurou's pale hand pinned down Yao's chest, its weight pressing down harder by the second. The smoke escaping from between Kurou's lips was choking Yao, invading his lungs and leaving him dizzy. Yao struggled, attempting to scream once more —
Yao gasped, sitting up with a dizzying headache in the hospital bed, rasping for breath, clinging frantically to the bed frame and struggling to keep his eyes open. The room was now violet with early morning light, the window open and the sound of early traffic anchoring him to reality. Kurou was gone, he assured himself, fighting the heaviness of his eyelids, struggling to keep awake rather than fall asleep and dream it all again. He's gone, he's gone, he's gone —
"You're awake."
Yao flinched, turning towards the voice and finding someone sat in the armchair, blocking out an imposing silhouette against the window's skyline. He expected a cheery greeting from Ivan, only to be met with unsettling silence. Viktor's cold, hard gaze stared back at him, sending Yao's stomach into tense knots.
"Are you okay?" Yao asked meekly, not sure why that was the first thing out of his mouth. He had that awful familiar feeling of having done something wrong, even if he wasn't sure what.
"How are you?" Viktor asked in response. His voice, his stature, it was as brittle as glass, as if the slightest thing could shatter the thin veneer of a normal, pleasant conversation.
"I'm feeling a bit better," Yao said carefully. "I'm supposed to go home by the end of today."
Frigid, painful silence. "You were talking in your sleep a lot. What were you dreaming about?"
Sweat prickled at the nape of Yao's neck, not just at the thought of Kurou, but the vivid dreams before that, too. There were trickles of memory, the faint ringing of century-old words and screams. Flames, and guilt. Chun Yan had done something awful. "I-I don't remember much of it. It was more like a nightmare, anyway…"
Viktor sighed irritably. "Stop playing dumb with me. I've waited long enough."
"Waited long enough for what?"
"You remember what you did," Viktor snarled. "Admit to it."
Yao slowly sat up straighter in the bed, somehow finding a rare strength in a moment he'd normally falter. "Admit to what, Viktor? If you're so impatient, spell it out for me. What exactly did I do that was so monstrous to you? Was I supposed to wait all of eternity for you? I did what I had to do. You weren't exactly there to protect me, either."
Viktor stood up, the chair screeching behind him. His eyes were dark, piercing Yao. "Everything I did was for your benefit."
"Then what about those scars of yours? Were those really from an explosion?"
Viktor laughed, loud enough to make Yao flinch. "So my lilechka does remember."
"I remember that you came back for me. Years later. You didn't have a single scratch on you." At this Viktor said nothing, only glared coldly. Whatever strength Yao had started to give away, his voice weakening. "Why did you have to leave in the first place? You didn't really leave for battle, did you? You just left."
"A classic manoeuvre from you, Liliya. Of course you found a way to make me the villain. You want to talk about deception? You want to talk about disloyalty? You threw my love for you in the trash. As soon as I heard about the invasion, I came back to save you, and what do I find? You, in your new silks and jewels, spreading your legs backstage for the enemy."
Yao swallowed, wiping away at the tears threatening to spill. His heart was hammering in his chest, his gut twisted up and aching. There wasn't anything he could say to fix this. Viktor leaned over him, gripping the rails of the hospital bed and completely caging him in.
"You cut my heart up into a million tiny pieces. And when you perished in the fire, I had to live with the pain of losing you, too. It's what killed me in the end. You've snaked yourself into my mind and eaten away at everything there. That's what you do, Yao, at your very core. You take the things you love and you kill them slowly."
(It's true, a part of Yao whispered, it's true and it's happened before. Not just Ivan. But Kiku, and Yong Soo — they've all been driven away by me.)
Viktor headed for the curtain wordlessly.
"What about your promise?" Yao asked frantically, feeling like he might throw up. "Don't leave. Not again. Please. You promised."
"What promise?"
"The ring, Viktor. You said, you…"
Viktor stared at him blankly for a moment. "Ah," a chuckle left his lips. "The ring. Do you want to have a look?" He took off his ring and threw it at Yao's lap. "Read the inscription."
Yao picked it up, tilting its glittering gold interior to the light. In engraved cursive letters were the words —
"Viktor and Svetlana. 1938," Yao read out hoarsely. He glanced up to Viktor. "Svetlana?"
"I tried to live a normal life after you. I moved halfway across the globe, met a woman, started a family. But nothing really changed. You haunted me mercilessly. I spent many evenings thinking about what you did. That when you died, I should've —" Viktor stopped himself short, hesitating before plucking the ring from Yao's hands. "I suffered my punishment. It was only a matter of time before you suffered yours."
With those final, resounding words, Viktor left. He spared no moment to say goodbye, to even take one last look at Yao. He was gone.
Yao could only stare emptily at dust-ridden air and feel the world collapse in on him.