CHAPTER 4
Ivan's last mandatory checkup was scheduled for eight in the morning.
It had been mostly for Ivan's own benefit, for he was strictly ordered to fill his stomach with nothing but water when he arrived at the hospital. The less time spent dealing with cramps (of both hunger and the overwhelming urge to pee), the better. It was not a feeling he cared to experience for extended periods, so Ivan was very glad to know he was lying down on this table for the last time.
"The results from your last appointment looked great," announced his doctor after Ivan returned from his mad dash to the bathroom with a near-bursting bladder. "We'll keep in touch about today's scans when they're ready. Keep up with your prescriptions until the end. Any pain you feel will be mostly psychosomatic, and there are PT options if it worsens."
"Does this mean I can exercise again?" Ivan asked.
"Yes, but don't go overboard. No weight-lifting, no pulling tires across the desert. You're supposed to be retired, so cut out the rigorous routines."
"Of course," Ivan promised, perhaps a bit too innocently. His doctor looked up with narrowed eyes.
"Light cardio, Mr. Braginsky," he emphasized. "I doubt your partner will be happy if you rupture something at a crucial moment."
Wondering just how long and viciously he needed to fuck in order for that to happen, Ivan opted for a smile instead of a verbal affirmative. With the unimpressed way his doctor regarded him, he thought perhaps it wasn't the wisest question to ask right now. Not that he had anyone to 'exercise' with anyway. And not that this doctor needed to know it, either.
Nevertheless, Ivan was in high spirits when he was released. Deciding that he could treat himself without reservation for once, he headed straight to Wang's. Despite it being noon on a weekday, a line had already formed outside of the restaurant. He had only waited about two minutes when Ivan accidentally made eye contact with Wang's son through the foggy shop window, who all but dropped his serving trays to approach him with a purposeful step.
"Hello, Leon," Ivan greeted, surreptitiously planting his feet to the ground where he stood. "Finished another semester?"
"Reading period," Leon explained simply. "Come in."
"No, I think I'll wait..." Ivan faltered under Leon's stormy glare. "Really now, every time? It's a little unfair to everyone else."
"My father will kick my ass if he finds out I made you stand out here for that long," Leon deadpanned. "Get inside if you value my life."
Ivan sighed and let himself be dragged by the arm into the establishment, avoiding the resentful scowls of the other customers who arrived before him still waiting to be seated. The embarrassment was short-lived, however, once he was faced with his lunch special order with an extra side of the restaurant's signature potstickers.
"My God, slow down before you choke to death," Wang snapped when he came out to deliver tea to Ivan stuffing his face at his usual corner booth. "No one wants a man who eats like overgrown pig."
"You 're bein' vey 'ude," Ivan commented, his cheeks bulging around shrimp dim sum. "'M a payin' cust'mer."
"Do you know how much salt and oil I use to make that? Stop eating so much here and go to the gym."
"It's okay, I gain muscle very easily," Ivan reassured, swallowing his food and downing his tea despite its scalding temperature. "Besides, in all these months—did you ever see me get fat? My abs just lost some definition but they're still there. Wanna see?"
"Keep your shirt on, you bastard," Wang said exasperatedly. "You need to take care of yourself better. Thirty-four is still young, but not invincible. How embarrassing for US Army captain to die by heart attack and not by heroically saving his country."
"Keep nagging and you might just give me one," Ivan quipped back. "I do take care of myself. Just because I was shot doesn't mean I'm forever crippled by PTSD."
"Then consider yourself lucky," Wang tutted. "Too much carefree attitude will have some big consequences later in your life."
"I don't recall therapy sessions being on your menu. Can I get more spring rolls?"
Shaking his head, Wang marched away to pass on the order (and to no doubt talk shit about Ivan with the rest of his kitchen staff).
Despite the banter, Ivan wasn't really offended by Wang's nosiness. The man cared in his own way, and his elderly concern felt almost parental. It was nice to feel like he could still experience a degree of guardianship with someone at his age.
He'd have laughed if he was told in his youth that he'd find a father-like figure in an old Chinese man all the way out in the western reaches of the world. If he told his story to a life magazine, perhaps there was enough material to spin a proper sob story and make the first couple pages. Only that was not the reality of his circumstances at all. Fighting wars for a foreign country in a foreign land was not as difficult as one might have thought. He'd been telling the truth about the PTSD thing, although it wasn't that he'd been completely unaffected by what happened. Lying awake in the ICU and subsequently in the comforts of his own DC home, he'd found himself becoming a lot more introspective.
He realized he had spent far too long living a vengeful life, coming to America to prove to absolutely nobody that he could defy his own fate. Spite was a powerful force and it had driven him far—much further than it could the average person—but as he bled on his gurney while being airlifted to the nearest hospital, it had seemed like such a stupid thing to be endangering himself for.
Patriotism was a rather interesting concept, because that's all it ever was: a concept. Nothing more and nothing less, and yet thousands laid their lives on the line for it. Somewhere during the ancient developments of human civilization, people began to worship the grounds they stood on just because they happened to live and feed off of it. To pledge their undying loyalty to invisible borders (that only existed because some idiots in power said so) meant honor of the highest regard. Ivan merely had to reach into his sock drawer and pull out his framed medals to confirm this fact.
Thus, it was rather sad to think of the countless people who died on duty in the hopes of one day wearing the same decorative pieces that sat mostly forgotten beneath Ivan's socks. Ivan had no love for this country, nor the one overseas that bore him into existence. He simply did not care about the prosperity of nations so vast that it'd be impossible to chalk up their power struggles into a single ideology. Those who tried were often victims of suits and ties who indoctrinated the gullible into believing blatant lies.
Ivan had always valued his own life more than what others told him to believe. It was easy to hide his disdain with smiles and politeness. Both came just as easy to him as breathing. At some point, his disdain turned to indifference, which in turn had brought true peace of mind. He was free to sail how he liked without being rocked by outside influence, without anyone's tongue-wagging to keep him up at night in either anger or shame.
"So essentially, you don't give a single, flying fuck," Wang had summarized when Ivan shared these thoughts with him a while back. It was a rather crude way to phrase it, but it wasn't untrue. And was it really so wrong to live like that?
Ivan still cared about many things. He cared about the people begging on the street corners, tragically forced out of their homes. He cared about the baristas who made him his coffee. He cared about the stray dogs and cats who trusted him enough to eat the canned treats right out of his hand. He cared about the small, flowering dandelions that grew from the cracks in his driveway, blooming in both rain and shine. The only constant between all of these things was that they had nothing to do with Ivan. His Walmart cashier had no influence upon the course of his life. Neither did the dogs or cats, or the stubborn weeds that persisted in the barren concrete crevices.
It was easy to care for things that he knew wouldn't care for him in return. It was a lonely sentiment, but Ivan had always found the most comfort in his loneliness. This paradoxical mentality had proved its worth over the years, and Ivan was more than content to keep going without feeling like he had to explain himself.
He was so lost in these musings that he almost missed the ping of his phone's notification. Absent-mindedly, Ivan pulled it out of his pocket and nearly knocked his chopsticks off the table when he saw whose message it was.
Two texts from Ludwig were waiting for him. Sure, read the first one, which had been delivered while he was lying deep in the CT scanner this morning. Tomorrow at 10 sounds good. I'll see you then.
And just now, an addition of: Sorry for replying so late.
Oh no. All of Ivan's convoluted thoughts screeched to a halt and he even stopped chewing in his haste to tap out: Oops! My bad, I just saw this. Looks like we're both even on the late replies?
To his relief, the following message came almost immediately. It would seem so.
"Who're you talking to?" Leon had appeared out of nowhere, plonking a plate of steaming spring rolls down rather loudly on the table. Startled out of his concentration, Ivan blinked owlishly up at the kid, who simply shrugged and explained, "Never seen you look so happy and scared at the same time."
"A friend," Ivan replied. "I think," he added as an afterthought. "I would like to get to know him better."
"Is he hot?" Leon asked, with the audacity to look as impassive and unblinking as ever.
Ivan froze in his reach for a fresh spring roll, brow climbing in steady disbelief. "And what, precisely, would you need that piece of information for?" Yes, he wanted to say; he is, in fact, extremely hot. But it's not like he was about to describe the man's sheer sex appeal to a boy who'd barely seen nineteen years on this earth—
"So he is," said Leon, not missing a single beat.
"Excuse me?"
"Congrats," he continued without an ounce of chill.
"I haven't said anything!"
"Don't need to," the little shit said assuredly. "Your bill's up front when you're done." He then whisked himself away, leaving Ivan confused and marginally gobsmacked.
~0~
The next morning, Ivan woke to a chilly bedroom at three-fifteen a.m.
His duvet was kicked off the mattress and his pillow was down by his feet, which were both testaments to how well he'd been sleeping up till this very moment. His hands still instinctively curling around the length of an imaginary rifle, Ivan reminded himself that he was home and forced himself to release the tension in his limbs.
Extended outpost duty meant a true night's rest was nothing more than a myth. Oftentimes, he would be lucky to be horizontal when he rested his eyes. The doctor had said that going to bed earlier would help him return to a normal circadian rhythm. It had taken him six months to break the trained habit of scrambling for cover at the slightest noise or disturbance in the air. Wang mentioned once how it took him over a year to get to this point, so Ivan was proud of his own progress.
A quick scan around his room was enough to show that nothing was amiss. His windows still had each of their three custom locks in place. His thermostat remained at a constant of 65F. The glass of water sat by his digital clock, untouched. Gathering up his fallen duvet and repositioning his pillow, Ivan slowly remade his bed cocoon while wondering what the disturbance could have been.
Next to his water glass, his phone pinged. Judging by the fact that he was awake right now, it was presumably not for the first time.
The texts were from a number he did not recognize, but he didn't have to because the messages told him all he needed.
Capt. Braginsky, this is Pvt. von Bock. You may or may not remember me.
I requested Staff Sgt. Laurinatis for your personal mobile number. I know it's been a while but I just arrived home in New Jersey and wanted to ask how you're faring.
Ivan squinted blearily at the bright screen to make sure he read that right. He remembered von Bock well, for one time they'd been trapped together in a collapsed bunker for thirty six hours before the vicinity was deemed safe enough for search and rescue. What he didn't remember was giving Toris his phone number. For his staff sergeant to know was one thing, and for him to give it away so easily was another. It wasn't that Ivan was particularly secretive about it, but still...
Back inside of a windy helicopter, the memory of Toris' stricken face trickled into his mind. He had helped relay the information necessary to the paramedics who strapped Ivan down. He could remember the feeling of his gut aflame with wet fire, of hands and their frantic pressure as they helped staunch the leaking blood. Of Toris speaking—yelling—rapidly at the medics, teeth a white contrast against the black soot that caked his skin.
"Your staff sergeant filled us in on most things we needed," his doctor had said when he opened his eyes to the white ceiling of the ICU. "We just need you to confirm some things, including your address and phone number."
So Toris had been there when he'd been airlifted away from death's door. He'd also been sitting by his bed when Ivan recited his number, and then decided to pass it along to his squad because they heard that their captain was shot down.
Ivan sighed. It was both too easy and too difficult to be annoyed at his former colleagues. If an entire battalion of get-well messages were to flood his inbox, then so be it.
Good morning Eduard, he typed. I think the early birds are still sleeping in. I'm also not your commanding officer anymore, so no formalities please.
Predictably, the next reply came bursting in grammatically incorrect horror. Ohmy God sir Im so sorry! I just landed amd so tired I totally forgot we were in different timezones pelase forgive me if I woke you up,!
Just Ivan is fine, thank you. I am fully recovered and adjusting well to a quiet life. Hope you can enjoy your well deserved holiday.
I'm so glad you're well. Really sorry again, von Bock sent. I just wanted to tell you that. The tips you taught me that day in the bunker, different ways to keep warm. They saved my life on multiple occasions afterwards.
I always wanted to tell you inperson but we never saw each other after our platoon diverged at the borders.
But I'm just really glad to hear you're better now.
Ivan thought this was a bit of an exaggeration, as the 'tips' Eduard referred to hadn't really been anything special. But then again, if simple remedies equated to grasping at the threads of what could turn out to be a life rope, then Ivan was all for it.
I'm grateful for your concern, he replied, but there are much better things for you to invest your energy into.
Such as making the most out of the time you spend with the family you spoke so dearly of back then. Whether you're out on the field or at home, I hope you take care of yourself.
Eduard didn't seem to have an immediate response to counter these messages, and so Ivan placed his phone back on the dresser and dozed off. When he woke to his alarm a couple hours later, there was just a single text waiting from von Bock, merely delivered forty minutes ago as if he'd been agonizing all this time on what to say.
Thank you sir. For your service and everything else.
~0~
When Ivan arrived at the coffee shop by ten, he half-expected Ludwig to not be there.
It wasn't that he distrusted the man, per se; Ludwig didn't seem to have read receipts turned on, so it was hard to tell what really happened. Ivan personally didn't see much point in disabling such a feature; if he was ignoring someone on purpose, then he'd want the other person to know it. Nevertheless, he still remembered the initial fog of disappointment that had settled over him when his very first message to Ludwig—a very harmless: Hello, it's Ivan from this morning's coffee!—went unanswered.
It wasn't only due to the thought of never getting to know the man who looked like marble statuary breathed into life. The blue book in his hands had appeared frayed and well-read, exactly like the one he saw behind closed eyelids if he lay still at night and revisited colder memories. The thought of never getting to ask about this book had somehow instilled a remarkable kind of sadness inside him.
It was why their encounter in an overcrowded CVS had felt like nothing short of a miracle, even if Ivan didn't believe in such things. He'd been so utterly awestruck at the coincidence that he'd been unable to address the fact that Ludwig looked rather wan that day. Ivan wondered if he had troubles sleeping—the box of melatonin said as much, anyway. Perhaps bumping shoulders with that feisty little stranger had been the final straw.
Upon entering the cafe with five minutes to spare, Ivan immediately spotted Ludwig in his corner and felt no small measure of relief. He was similarly swathed in a bundle of dark layers, and bore the same look of stern concentration as he scanned the pages of a book like he was studying to memorize. It was a different title today: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. His head shot up the instant Ivan stepped foot into the shop, as if he'd been anticipating his arrival with every passing second.
"Good morning, Ludwig," Ivan called cheerfully, opting to approach Ludwig's table directly this time and taking the opposing seat. "Did you wait for long?"
"Good morning," greeted Ludwig, carefully shutting his book and resting it on his lap. "Not really. I went for a jog and came here to rest."
"Jogging in all that?" The black pea coat was incredibly tailored to fit his figure in the best of ways. It definitely couldn't have been comfortable to sweat in.
"Oh no, I went back home to shower and change out of my workout clothes," Ludwig explained. "If I ran in this I'd suffocate."
"As would I," Ivan agreed. "But it looks very nice on you."
Ludwig blinked, then coughed. "Thanks," he muttered, jerking his head to the blackboard menu but not fast enough for Ivan's eyes to miss the subtle glow of embarrassment on his cheeks. "You wanted coffee?"
To call it endearing would be somewhat understating things, but Ivan kept a damper on such observations and replied, "Very much so. A cappuccino, please."
"And the muffin? It'd be unfortunate if you missed out for the second time."
"Unfortunate indeed! The oatmeal cookie would also be lovely, thank you."
Ludwig turned to look at him again, this time with a little strange look that Ivan couldn't place. "That's the cheapest item on the menu," he pointed out.
"Really?" Ivan said, pretending to be surprised. "What a coincidence."
"I'm paying you back from yesterday," Ludwig said emphatically. "You can order whatever you like."
"And I would really like the oatmeal cookie," Ivan reiterated, unable to help the twitch of his lips.
The tick in Ludwig's jaw clearly stated that he had more to say, but he didn't. Standing up, he approached the counter, placed the order and waited at the front until it was ready. Ivan amusedly watched him march back with the tray three minutes later.
"Thank you," he said, bringing the cappuccino up to his mouth to blow gentle foam waves on the drink's surface. He took a bite out of the muffin. It was mediocre at best, but there was no way Ivan was about to admit as much. "Why do you look so angry? Your debt has been repaid."
"I'm not angry," Ludwig muttered, now back in his seat. "And no, it hasn't yet." From his pocket, he produced a wallet that looked like it cost more than Ivan's entire wardrobe at home. Then, Ludwig promptly began laying crisp dollar bills on the coffee table like he was suddenly roleplaying as a seasoned bank teller.
Ivan soon found himself staring down at the evenly stacked denominations before him, amounting to precisely twenty-six dollars and forty-five cents. "What's this?" he asked, smiling nervously.
"The remainder of my CVS purchases," Ludwig explained, as if he were teaching numbers to a particularly dense grade schooler.
"You know I was just joking about the debt thing, right?"
"I subtracted the coffee and food, which came out to eight dollars and twenty-one cents in total. I have the receipt, you can check if you—"
"No!" Ivan exclaimed, his mischievous mood all but extinguished. "I don't want your money."
"Then what do you want?" Ludwig barked. Immediately he cut himself off with a sharp inhale, as if he'd been stabbed by the realization that he'd just shouted loudly enough to shock them both into momentary muteness. "Sorry," he whispered, ducking his chin into the folds of his scarf like he wanted to hide there.
Several moments passed in the aftermath, Ivan rendered both immobile and speechless. He wasn't sure how to approach this next part of the conversation with his companion, whose ghostly face betrayed his exponentially mounting distress with each second that passed in their silence.
"So first of all." Ivan managed to recover his voice from somewhere deep in the recesses of his stupor. "I didn't ask for the coffee because I thought you owed it to me."
Ludwig swallowed visibly, straining the tendons on his neck. "But you paid for my things," he bit out.
"Yes," Ivan said. "But not so I could extract a favor out of you in return."
The extremely dubious look he received was not very promising. "You make a habit out of buying random strangers their medical supplies?"
"You're not a stranger," Ivan said, refusing to be deterred. "We've met before, haven't we? Here, in this exact spot."
"Right," Ludwig retorted dryly. "Once prior. Well, why'd you do it then?"
"Because I wanted to?" Ivan offered. "Because doing nice things for my friends makes me feel happy?"
For some reason, saying that had the opposite effect of what he'd hoped to achieve. Ludwig's eyes fluttered to a distant corner of the shop. His hands began wringing creases into the sleek leather of his expensive wallet. "But you hardly know me," he murmured, voice drained of all its prior bite.
He wasn't wrong. Perhaps it was time for a different method of approach, now that Ivan had a fractionally better grasp of Ludwig's personality.
"Fair enough," he acknowledged out loud. "But on that note, you realize I'm no better off. I foolishly got ahead of myself and called you a friend before I earned the right to do so. Now I owe you too—namely, my familiarity. I think the task of repayment will be made easier with a cup of coffee or three. Which by the way, don't you still owe me some money?"
If he'd lost Ludwig before, now he'd certainly grabbed his attention with renewed fervor. The man had gone from blinking gloomily at the dusty floor to gaping at Ivan with a decidedly nonplussed look on his weary face.
"As you're still short twenty-six dollars, I have a proposal for you. What would you say to buying me a couple more cappuccinos, to help me pay you back along the way?"
"You... help you pay—?"
"A sort of business deal, if you will," Ivan concluded triumphantly. "But mind; I was telling the truth when I said I wished to make friends. And I really do hope we can get to know each other. So what say you? Do you accept the terms of negotiation?"
At first, nothing but stupefied silence. Then Ludwig's mouth curved into its first genuine smile, catching Ivan off-guard with its brilliance. "Yes," he uttered in mock-seriousness. "I accept your terms." In keeping up with the fake authenticity of their game, he extended his hand over the table to formally shake on the deal.
Ivan reached out to accept it, but his movements faltered as he tilted his head in apparent deep thought. "Um. This is how people make friends, right?"
That did it. Ludwig burst into laughter, the sound spilling from deep within his chest. It reminded Ivan of Siberian ice that would melt to reveal the summer rivulets, its crystal falls streaming into the vastness of Baikal's depths.
As he watched the sunlight dance with the lingering mirth in those brilliant blue eyes, Ivan found that he did not want to look away. This time round, Ludwig's hand was warm in his.