WARNING: This story not only contains explicit sexual content, but is rife with graphic depictions of domestic violence, emotional manipulation and abuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms and not-so-subtle references to dub+non-con. Where there is hurt, there will be comfort, even if it doesn't show immediately. It will have a happy ending, but the process will not be easy, and will leave out no details to censor the traumatic experience of being trapped in an abusive relationship. If any of this upsets you, please do not proceed.
The abusive relationship is NOT RusGer. The abuser is 100% made up for the purposes of the story.
There is no intentional character bashing. I've done my best to humanize the characters we know, and show that there are times when a person's flaws may overshadow their strengths, even if their intentions are never malicious.
CHAPTER 1
January brought sleet and wind to a grey morning.
The forecast had warned of ice on the roads, and possible breaks of sunshine mid-afternoon.
In one home, the central heating remained cold and untouched, and the only source of warmth came from the bed and its inhabitant, who cradled a mug of coffee in his hands as he tuned into the radio.
" … major congestion on the I-66, reduced to single-lane traffic, folks—police are onsite, and most of the debris has been cleared…"
Fifteen years ago, on this very day, Ivan Braginsky stepped onto American soil for the very first time.
"… it's very wet, very slippery, so watch that speed …"
There had been no grand plan behind it then, not even the most overused excuse to "begin anew", or to "start a new life". The American Dream was nothing more than a pipe dream, a delusion created by those who held the high reins on western capitalism by driving its working class down to the bowels of poverty. Back home, Ivan had watched them on the news every day on a square TV box, which he ended up putting a foot through because damn if that thing hadn't been annoying to maintain.
" … still half a day left for any chance of that sunshine, so wrap yourselves up and grab an umbrella. It's gonna be freezing wet all throughout the weekend …"
Sure, the American Dream was nothing but a dream. But when one spent enough winters at the mercy of Siberia's maw, where at times the warmest nook of the house was probably inside the fridge, Ivan had found his disdain for western culture growing more and more numb till he could no longer feel it, just like his hands and feet when there was no more coal to burn. There was nothing left for him here, only the soul-crushing void of ice and snow.
"… perfect weather to order in a pizza? Just download the Uber Eats app, and you'll get five free deliveries on orders of fifteen dollars or more …"
Food was overabundant in the United States, and it was the first thing Ivan had noticed along with the warmth, how the air he breathed didn't feel like shards of ice in his lungs. Malnutrition and hypothermia were already enemies of a bygone age, and Ivan had been quick to achieve full vigor within the first year of setting foot on this foreign land. He had come to survive, and survive he did.
The first thing he did upon getting his green card was to enlist. His fellow bunk mates in training had seemed to think his unrefined articulation of the English language somehow negated the authenticity of his immigration papers. They were very quick to shut up when he brutally climbed the ranks to stand before them as their Captain, some odd years later.
Those damned Russians, they would mutter. They're just built different.
If he was, then it came as no surprise. Many American soldiers were spoiled infants, barely learnt how to wipe the baby spittle off their chins. They trained in heated facilities, received medical care, and ate three meals a day. And when everything was over, they could return home where families awaited them with warm hugs and smiles in a yard of green grass and vibrant flora filled with love and nurture.
So yes, it may have been apt to say, Ivan was indeed built differently.
~0~
Over a decade later, now that he had something more to his name besides the skin on his back, he could probably return to Russia and have no problem. No problem meant better housing, better heating, better everything now that he had money and power. Two things his nameless parents had failed to leave for their child before they succumbed to Mother Nature's wintry gallows.
"I want to go back," Ivan would often muse out loud on his visits to the local Chinese diner, a bustling place that had quickly become one of his favorites.
"Why you want to go back to that freezing place." A fellow war veteran, Yao Wang was a busy man with a popular restaurant to run, but he often came out to serve Ivan himself. "You say already a hundred times, you almost died."
"I did," Ivan said, dreamily. "But here, I'll forever be a foreigner you know? Home is home, and I can build myself to be even greater. General, maybe. Doesn't 'General Braginsky' sound nice?"
"'Sound nice'. Aiya," Wang lamented, rolling his eyes. He set down his newly refilled teapot with more force than necessary, its steaming contents sloshing over a little. "You become General, and then what? Shot to the head, or worse, the stomach. How many it will take? You already eat one bullet, still hungry for more?"
Ivan poured himself some spilled tea, smiling. "Да."
"You are just bored," Wang declared sternly, brandishing a finger. "Get a hobby. Start a family."
"Children don't interest me," said Ivan, wrinkling his nose.
"Then just find a girlfriend. Or boyfriend, someone to spend your money on. Stop coming here and wasting your time."
"But I am spending my money," Ivan insisted, clutching his chest in pretend-heartbreak. "I'm spending it on you."
"I don't want your stupid money," Wang shot back, weaponizing his finger again. "I have too many customer already. I am serious, young man. I'm sure there's at least... five American out there who think you not ugly."
"Hey," Ivan grumbled, pouting at Wang's smirk. "But I'm not."
"And they will agree with you. Listen here, now: you came to Washington, so stay in Washington," Wang said, with solemn intensity. "Captain is good enough. Health, happiness, a long life—is all much more important than what others call you."
Was it though? Happiness was synonymous with titles, achievements, power... with nothing left to achieve, it was like his life had grown stagnant as the world marched on to fight wars without him. He was left behind in a purgatory sapped of all color, just like the walls of his house he'd left behind in Siberia. To go back there and own it as a new man, to bend the laws of nature to his will, was the only fitting way to avenge his miserable, wasted youth. The American Army was an internationally powerful group, comprised of internationally powerful people, most of whom he knew very well. Making himself General would be no problem.
Wang's words from that day had stayed with him ever since, and he found himself pondering them every night as he burrowed himself under his covers. Would there really be someone out there for him? He had spent most of his life thinking about how to live another day, and that never changed even during his Army days. He had long since known that he swung both ways, but the brief encounters during the dead of night in the bunks were nothing more than that of sexually frustrated men offering each other a few minutes of relief.
Ivan could not deny that the prospect of dating was delightful. He wanted to love someone, no matter how much he denied it to Wang. It didn't change the fact that there seemed to be so few out there who could adequately complement a man like himself, and whom he could adequately complement in return. So many factors to consider, and no average person could check all of Ivan's boxes. Ivan was no average man, so it was natural that he wouldn't be satisfied with mediocrity.
Well, Ivan thought sleepily, he was in no rush. It had barely been six months since his honorable discharge. If things didn't turn out the way he wanted (the way Wang wanted, Ivan corrected himself), then he would simply book a flight to Moscow in the summer and try a different variation of happiness, one he'd been outlining for himself for a long time now.
A well-worn cassette player sat atop his dresser, and he drifted off to the crooning lyrics of a soft Russian melody that trickled its way into his dreams.
~0~
On the tail-end of January, the black rain clouds had finally ceased to be a permanent fixture to the sky.
This morning brought fresh dew and pale sunlight, and so Ivan decided on a walk near the National Mall. Waking up at unusual hours was a difficult habit to break so soon out of his service, but it didn't bother him. Fewer crowds meant more room to expand on his thoughts, and so he set out amicably just as his digital clock struck five o'clock.
The trails were nice to walk along, and the flowers were nice to look at. Ivan liked flowers a lot, and he remembered how in the beginning he would spend many minutes stalling in front of florist vendors, admiring the colors and smells that seemed to light up the world in each of its own vibrant colors. It had been a brief but welcome reprieve for a young man who saw only barren, frozen trees for most of his twenty-two years, struggling to find stable footing in an unfamiliar country, surrounded by unfamiliar cultures.
Ivan thought a coffee would be good to accompany him on this early venture, and so he tapped through his phone to search what shops would be open to serve him at this hour. There was only one on a weekend such as today, and so there he directed his ambling pace.
Upon opening the door, he was greeted by the homely smells of coffee beans and pastries. Ivan ordered a blueberry scone to go with his cappuccino.
As he waited for his order, he took a seat and studied the world map sketched into the chalkboard wall by a skillful hand. There was his home, existing as nothing but a white, dusty scribble in a tiny American coffee shop where all things felt unimportant except for what was contained within this very room. He looked around and saw the barista humming quietly to the radio as she steamed his order. He looked farther to where the rest of the tables sat empty, but they weren't so empty as Ivan had originally thought.
Caught off guard, Ivan craned his neck to see who was sitting in the smallest corner of an already compact shop. Crammed against two walls and a window sat a man who clearly hadn't moved a muscle since Ivan set foot into the café. His black coat and scarf blended into the black chalkboard walls perfectly, to the point where he would have been nearly invisible at first glance. Only he wasn't, not anymore.
Escaping through the blinds shone a single ray of sunlight that fell directly upon the man's hair, illuminating the pale blond like diamonds in the shadow. His attention was fully absorbed by a novel in his lap, enraptured by whatever tale he picked up from its pages. Even with his nose buried in a book—a rather sculpted, straight-bridged nose, Ivan noted with some degree of envy—his immaculate posture emanated grace and sophistication.
As Ivan's attention wandered down the line of sight, he happened upon the cover of the book. The Old Man and the Sea. Out of nowhere, Ivan suddenly remembered crumbling concrete walls, the hum of an ancient radiator that emitted more smoke than heat, and the feeling of soft, feeble fingers carding through his hair, warm with fever. The voice of a woman, warbled and distant in neglected memory as she recited the words from a book to the small child in her arms.
Like a moth drawn to a single golden flame, Ivan stood up.
As if sensing Ivan's intentions before he put them to action, the man instantly stiffened in his seat. It was a near imperceptible thing, unnoticeable to the untrained eye. However, Ivan had spent a good ten years watching the horizons for any blip of movement with his finger on the trigger of a fully loaded semi-automatic. Nothing escaped him, not even this man's expert attempts at pretending like he hadn't just been startled by a random person approaching his table.
"Good morning!" Ivan greeted cheerily, grabbing the chair opposite the stranger and dragging it out for easier access. "May I sit here?"
Ivan was no expert on social customs, but he was fairly certain that the extensive pause that ensued wasn't considered polite in any culture around the globe. "Sure," came the quiet answer, just as Ivan began to wonder if he had been heard at all. "Can I help you?"
Encouraged by the lack of outright refusal, Ivan smiled wider, although the man completely missed it with the way he continued to glare at his book.
"That remains to be seen!" Ivan replied, settling into the seat. "I am just surprised to see someone else out as early as this. It's my first time here, you know?"
"Well, you are a new face," muttered the stranger, still avoiding eye contact. His deep voice was a bold strike to Ivan's ears, rich and calming to listen to despite the tightly guarded tone.
"How can you be sure?" Ivan asked playfully. "You haven't even looked at it yet."
Even through the muted filter of the café lighting, it was easy to see the flush that spread across his ears. And finally, the man lifted his head to face Ivan. Breathtaking was the single word that Ivan could process with his brain that had short-circuited upon looking into a pair of hard eyes. They were pale blue and glazed with frost, like the waters of Lake Baikal reflecting the glacial summer sky. His fair skin and noble high cheeks. Mouth pressed to a stern line. His defined jaw set stonily in apparent annoyance at having been interrupted from his book.
Ivan was fairly certain his own jaw was as loose as the hinges of his childhood home's front door, but this man made no move to laugh at his surely moronic expression. He simply raked his gaze over Ivan in a tactical, business-like manner. "I am sure," he concluded, as if he was assessing a piece of working machinery. "I have never seen you before."
In his words was definitely an edge that hadn't been there before, like a warning: tread carefully. Ivan felt a thrill rush down his spine.
"Then what a great opportunity this is!" he exclaimed. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Ivan." He held out his hand in greeting.
The man stared like he had just been offered a live grenade across the table, although it made no sense why. This was the proper American formality, and Ivan was sure that the old European custom was even more out of the question. He was just beginning to imagine the sort of reaction he'd get if he leaned across the table to kiss one of those pale cheeks, when his hand was finally taken with great reluctance. "Ludwig," was the gruff reply.
Ludwig's hand was freezing in Ivan's grasp. It was curious, considering the way he was bundled up in his black coat and scarf, and how warm it was in the shop. But to a man hardened by the merciless trials of the Northern elements, everything felt tropical and hot. Ivan decided to dismiss it as a trait of someone born to the mild climate of the Americas.
"Ludwig is a German name, isn't it?" he asked, eager to keep the conversation going where Ludwig clearly wished for it to be over. "I'm afraid I don't have many German friends, and the language is very difficult for me. I'm Russian, if you couldn't tell by the accent." Jokes at his own expense were almost never on his list of social tactics, for Ivan was a very prideful man. But at this current moment, Ludwig looked so tense that he seemed like he was a hair's breadth away from bolting out of the cafe, so Ivan allowed it. Just this once.
It worked in that Ludwig didn't make a dive for the door, but he didn't laugh either.
"Your accent isn't bad," was his mumbled response, and Ivan found himself chuckling instead.
It was true—he had improved significantly on his English pronunciation over the years, but the faint slavic inflections were difficult to banish entirely.
"That's very kind of you," Ivan said. It was then that the barista brought over his order, and he took a slow sip of it while Ludwig continued to eye him suspiciously. "What is this book you are reading?"
"Nothing important." Ludwig quickly snapped it shut and stood up, face tight with an emotion Ivan could not easily decipher. "It was nice to meet you, Ivan. Have a good day."
"Wait!" Ivan leaped from his seat to grab Ludwig's arm, but surprise rendered all his thoughts mute when Ludwig wrenched himself back like he had been electrocuted.
"Please respect my personal space," Ludwig said through gritted teeth. "I don't know who you are."
"I'm sorry." Ivan managed to pull himself out of his reeling vertigo enough to speak. "I didn't mean anything by it." He even managed a crooked smile and asked, "Is there perhaps any room for a second chance?"
"Why?" Ludwig snapped, crossing his arms defensively over his broad chest. "I've done nothing but antagonize you."
It suddenly occurred to Ivan that Ludwig maybe thought he was trying to coax him into something—such frauds were rampant in neighborhoods like these, where everyone looked to steal each other's fortunes through fake business deals and investment opportunities.
"Forgive me," Ivan said, softly. "I simply wish to make a friend. I have lived most of my life without learning how, so I do not have very many of them. I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable, because it's the last thing I would have wanted."
He found that he did not have to lie. Ivan wasn't sure what compelled him to take on the submissive role against a stranger he barely knew the name of. Only that wasn't quite true: Ivan had learned of it mere minutes ago, but already the sound and shape of Ludwig's name felt comforting and familiar on his tongue, like he had been speaking it all his life.
Something in Ludwig's stern face thawed then, and his eyes were less ready to carve out Ivan's flesh. He blinked rapidly and coughed out, "Um, don't worry about it. I'm sorry too. I was being rude while you were nothing but civil."
"All is good and forgiven," Ivan replied, beaming. "I won't waste your time anymore. Goodbye."
A muscle was jumping in Ludwig's jaw as he seemed to consider something with deep agony, and then he finally pulled out a pen from his breast pocket along with a receipt from the café they were in. He scribbled something on it and all but practically slammed it into Ivan's chest. His face was flushing brilliantly, and Ivan wished he would lift his chin so that he could see it for all it was worth.
"I understand life gets boring sometimes," Ludwig mumbled, "so if you ever need a coffee buddy."
Without waiting for a reply, Ludwig finally made his long-awaited dash for the exit and disappeared from sight.
Ivan found that he hardly minded. He was too busy swelling with excitement as he looked down at the phone number gracing his eyes in bold blue ink.
In truth, Ivan was unsure how to progress from here forth. How would he contact this number in a way that showed Ludwig he was not someone to be suspicious of? Friendship was indeed a milestone that he wished to achieve with the man. Ivan was determined to prove that he was capable of earning Ludwig's trust with no outside help. Just himself, his words, and his charm, Wang would often say during his many ravings of how he thought Ivan should pursue the hypothetical love of his life.
It was a mission. A perceivable goal with new challenges. Ivan was thrilled, to say the least.