#and i never regained interest beyond reading chapter leaks

[eunhos]

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[aconitemare]

Asylum: The Fixations of Ivan Braginski

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Summary: “You were close to Alfred prior to the incident, weren’t you, Ivan?” his doctor asks. Ivan’s eyes slide lazily over to her if only to avoid rudeness. He tries to avoid rudeness with Héderváry. Out of everyone here, she probably wields the most power over him.

He suspects she is catching onto him, although that’s hardly relevant when he’s already sealed the deal: he is insane. This is where he belongs.

Ivan doesn’t like these circumstances, but Ivan hasn’t liked many of his circumstances in life. He’s learned to live nonetheless, if not thrive during some high points.

A/N: Cowritten with @writingandchocolatemilk

The sun is spilling over into the white-walled, white-floored, white-ceiling common room. Dr. Elizabeta Héderváry has pulled up two chairs for them in a secluded spot right by the glass wall overlooking the hospital gardens. His gaze is downcast; the light, while refreshing, is causing his eyes to ache.            He remembers his father telling him that the sunlight was always worse for those with fair eyes. He remembers asking his mom why that was and her answering, “Because they’re so pretty, the sun wants them for itself.”            Funny, Ivan reflects, how little things from childhood carry over like that. He wonders if it would make sense to his mother, this thing with Alfred. If her explanation would contain the same logic.            “You were close to Alfred prior to the incident, weren’t you, Ivan?” his doctor asks. Ivan’s eyes slide lazily over to her if only to avoid rudeness. He tries to avoid rudeness with Héderváry. Out of everyone here, she probably wields the most power over him.

Ivan cannot circumvent her power like he usually tries to with people, particularly the people in the ward. He finds most people easy to pin like butterflies. Upon their initial meeting, Ivan didn’t think of her as a potential exception. She’s an honest woman, or at least seems to be, and there’s an accidental bluntness to the way she speaks sometimes like she forgets she’s a therapist and not a peer. Yet every time Ivan thinks he might get somewhere with her, the professional boundary slams down between them like a firewall.

He suspects she is catching onto him, although that’s hardly relevant when he’s already sealed the deal: he is insane. This is where he belongs.            Ivan doesn’t like these circumstances, but Ivan hasn’t liked many of his circumstances in life. He’s learned to live nonetheless, if not thrive during some high points.

Ivan’s eyes catch on Ludwig, the guard in his pocket. One of many employees in his pocket. He is talking to Feliciano, the schizophrenic who’s always on the verge of tears, while Feliciano plays a one-man game of jenga on a plastic table in a fold-out chair. Ivan wants to tut at Ludwig for being so transparent, but he knows why he’s being bold as of late. Alfred has thrown the ward into a tizzy over his stunt and it may be awhile before anyone regains the energy to scrutinize interactions that don’t outright involve boxcutters.

“Ivan?” Dr. Héderváry prods. “Are you with me still?” It’s the subtle, unprofessional impatience that leaks into her tone that goads Ivan into cracking a smile.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” he assures, returning to their conversation. He considers outing Ludwig right now, but he tamps the anger down instead. Ludwig is not wholly useless yet. However much it feels that way with an empty, quiet bedroom.

Ivan tilts his head and feigns having to think about Dr. Héderváry’s question. “Yes, you could say we were close. I was closer to him than I was to, say, Lukas. Or yourself,” Ivan throws in for the sake of distancing himself from her in a conversation with such a slippery edge. Revealing his cards now may remove all possibility in the future of reuniting with Alfred. “But whether I was closer to Alfred than Feliciano was, well, that I cannot vouch for. Sharing a room with someone for six months doesn’t make for acquaintances, but neither does it make for best friends.” Here, Ivan smiles politely with the faintest hint of amusement, like the whole situation is silly to make sense of.

He watches Dr. Héderváry’s face. She does not have a poker face so he takes advantage of this by always tracking her expressions when he plays along. She’s visibly mulling over Ivan’s half-confession. Her lips quirk to the side; shrugging with her mouth. “I guess you’re right,” she decides.

Ivan feels some relief at successfully navigating his first session post-incident. Mostly, though, he wants to play jenga with Alfred.

Alfred talks an excruciating amount. Ivan does not welcome it at first. Natalya had sent him a box of his books from home, and although he’s read them all before, anything worth finishing the first time is worth starting again. Ivan is used to time with his thoughts and his books; he hasn’t had a roommate since his first partner requested to be away from him; a request that certainly would not have been granted had Feliciano not mentioned being uncomfortable in the dark alone.

Ivan learned quickly how things worked around here. He didn’t confront Ludwig right away because Ivan didn’t know what he wanted yet that wasn’t already provided, either through his eldest sister Katyusha who worked in security or his youngest Natalya who, since childhood, had a way of getting what she wanted that Ivan genuinely envied. Doors didn’t part for Ivan the way they did naturally to pretty, soft-spoken girls like his sisters. This is fine with him; he trusts them both to always work in his interest.

Nonetheless, there isn’t much else available in a psych ward beyond extra perks in the commissary and a camera that never notices when Ivan takes out items he probably shouldn’t have.

Until Alfred, that is, who is a migraine and a half to share space with. He bounces his knees and taps his feet constantly. He manages to pace the tiny floor of their room every day, which would be impressive if it wasn’t aggravating. It was like living with a puppy that didn’t want to be housebroken. This early on, Ivan has not yet learned how to handle Alfred.

It gets easier when he stops tuning him out. Alfred is not always coherent, but he is entertaining and his company becomes a reprieve from his one-sided relationship with books. Alfred regales him with daring accounts of his firefighting adventures, which soon become touching recounts of the lives he’s healed as a doctor, and occasionally James Bond-esque missions will decorate his memories from spyhood, which are top secret and only revealed to Ivan because the same agency must have deployed them here. Ivan appreciates the spy fantasies the most for their applicability to daily life in the hospital. The General would be Ivan’s favorite character, whose schemes compose much of Alfred’s struggles and quests.

It’s during his doctor phase that Ivan asks for a diagnosis from “Dr. Jones.”

Alfred sits in a chair in the common room, wholly transfixed on the text before him referencing medications and the DSM-5 in every sentence. It’s one of the books Ivan studied for his graduate degree. It’s not a light read by any means, nor an enjoyable one. “If you would allow me to pick your brain,” Ivan asks cordially, standing beside him.

Alfred does not look up from Ivan’s textbook. “Well, you’re a clearly a neurotic,” he says to Ivan’s surprise. “What with your lack of trust and your conspiracy theories.” Ivan has never seen such a direct example of projection. He feels a little pang of excitement, not like how one might feel on a rollercoaster, but — similar, he supposes, to when starting a long trip to a place he’s never been before. “Not to mention your general shiftiness,” adds Alfred.

Ivan quirks an eyebrow. “I’m shifty?”

Alfred looks up at him from the open book. His eyes are round with honesty and a bright blue more genuine than the sky. “Yeah, you didn’t want a roommate, right?” he points out. Ivan wouldn’t call that the case, but he knows by now Alfred is set to believe Ivan was the one with the problem their first night at 3am. “Distrustful of someone new,” Alfred explains, reasoning packed up nice and neat.

Ivan can’t fault him on that last part. Ivan has trusted people’s known longer less. But he thinks he enjoys Alfred nonetheless and, despite himself, finds him to be objectively trustworthy. Alfred can hardly remember anything that doesn’t have his name in it, let alone something he could use against Ivan. “Actually, I’m very pleased with the turn of events that led to my new roommate,” he confesses. Alfred is a novel experience and a reason to look forward to the otherwise redundancy of the hospital. “Thank you, Alfred, this has been enlightening.”

Alfred may have also added something that wasn’t present even in Ivan’s life before the court order. What it is, Ivan isn’t sure, but he thinks he’s getting warmer when he squeezes Alfred’s elbow on his way past.

Alfred is tucked into the arm of the floor’s only loveseat. He’s only reading a comic book, but Ivan has noticed him linger on pages longer than necessary and even flip back a few times. His focus is somewhere else, which is strange, because even before the medications kicked in Alfred was easily engrossed by his reading.

Ivan walks over to him. “May I sit?” he asks.

Alfred’s eyes flicker up briefly before returning to the page. “Free country.”

“For some,” Ivan agrees and takes a seat. The cushions are just a bit small for him, and the way Alfred is sitting with his feet up on the couch makes some touching inevitable. Ivan ignores how Alfred wiggles his toes inside his socks and how the tiny movements brush against Ivan’s thighs. He tries to ignore them anyways. He is not doing too well. “Your brother visits you often,” he comments. It’s not an accurate statement; Ivan actually receives far more visits than Alfred and Feliciano has a visitor every day. Mattie’s visits are irregular and spaced out over the course of weeks. Ivan is looking for a place to start, that’s all.

Alfred scoffs and turns a page too roughly. The thin paper tears in the middle. “If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stop,” he says stormily. Ivan is mildly surprised; he’s fairly sure Mattie is his only visitor.

“You would be alone without him,” informs Ivan. “Only Mattie ever comes, yes?”

Alfred bristles. “What of it?”

“Family is important, Alfred, you don’t want to risk isolating yourself. Mattie is your only connection to your family.”

“How do you know that?” Alfred eyes him suspiciously. Ivan is just pleased he is gaining Alfred’s full attention.

“Well,” says Ivan, spreading out his palms, “they’re not here, are they?”

Alfred glares at him before looking sulkily at the pages. “Shut up,” he says.

Ivan purses his lips so he doesn’t smile. It is hard not to smile around Alfred. “Where is your father, Alfred?” he pushes.

“Fathers,” Alfred says.

“Hm?”

“I have two. Dad and Pop,” Alfred elaborates. Ivan realizes he was being corrected. Before he can prod, Alfred continues, “Neither of them are my biggest fans.” The admission is an unhappy one that easily betrays the nonchalance he is trying to affect.

“I find that hard to believe,” Ivan lies.

Alfred snorts. “Believe it. Papa never trusted me and Dad is convinced I’m full of it and only here for, I don’t know, shits and giggles probably.”

Ivan leans his head back and considers Alfred. It looks like he’s trying to build a wall around himself. His shoulders are hunching and, to Ivan’s dismay, his feet have pulled in enough to allow space between their bodies. Ivan plucks a brick from the wall. “Do you want them to visit you?”

Alfred lets his issue fall to his lap. He rests his elbow on the arm of the couch and props his head up. He’s facing Ivan, but his eyes are closed. “Don’t know,” he finally says. “It’s been a long time since Dad’s been happy to see me. Seeing me here would make that worse.”

It’s the most sober Ivan has ever seen him. He wishes Alfred would open his eyes for it.

“And Papa?” Ivan says, ever so softly so as not to scare him off.

Alfred does his open his eyes for this. “We gave up on each other a while ago.” Alfred smiles, his feet pushing out.

Ivan lets Alfred return to pretending to read his comic and enjoys the nervous toes pressing into his thigh.

 Alfred is like one of Ivan’s old students. He’s young and mercurial, prone to passion that carries him halfway and then drops off before the finish line. There are glimpses of intelligence that are sparked by special interests, but anything short of exciting is not merely dismissed but rejected with a degree of indignation. Ivan finds himself slipping into lectures around him. At least, he suspects they are lectures because he tends to drone on with little response from his audience. Nonetheless, it is a habit Ivan is not particularly motivated to kick as it fills the silence and lends him an opportunity to explore his thoughts aloud.

           Ivan offers reading suggestions but Alfred shakes his head and says they’re too wordy. “Does every book you own try to use the biggest words possible?” he gripes.

Ivan knows it’s just an excuse of many, but he takes the bait anyway. “Precision in language is an advantage you shouldn’t take lightly. There are languages with far fewer means of expression as well languages with far more. One says ‘extraordinary’ rather than simply ‘great’ because ‘extraordinary’ better captures the breadth of its significance. How else would you say that something is so great that is beyond the ordinary?” Ivan poses.

           Alfred tosses Ivan’s copy of A Man Called Ove back in the box and shoves it under Ivan’s bed. “Just like that, I guess,” he mutters. “Nothing wrong with using full sentences.”

           “Ah, but even those sentences are restricted when we try to eschew words uncommon in colloquial speech. After all, how frequently do humans actually say what they feel in explicit detail?” asks Ivan. “We contain depths that are unknown to even ourselves until we put words to them. Did you know it is philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein who said, ‘The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.’ We conceptualize reality around the vocabulary available to us, and the vocabulary available to us is shaped by the perceptions shared by our unique society.”

           Ivan nearly jumps when Alfred settles his head onto his knee. Ivan pushes himself to continue talking without fully understanding what he’s saying. He doubts Alfred is listening anyway, which is a small comfort. Ivan doesn’t understand how they got into this position; Ivan sitting on his bed with Alfred nearly between his legs, cheek on his knee. Nothing leading up to this point had stood out to him. It was just Ivan and Alfred as they always are, talking at each other more than to each other, each seeking an escape in books that never changed and always let go eventually.

           Ivan looks at Alfred, this ever-changing man who varies by the hour and excites as much as allays him, and thinks he does not want to let go. Carefully, Ivan removes the crooked glasses from Alfred’s nose so they won’t get bent. Still talking, he folds the glasses and sets them to the side. As he waxes on about the expressive nature of language, about its ability to give life to latent thoughts, Ivan thinks that he may not have to let go.

           It was only a matter of time before Ludwig became useful. Ivan definitely did not expect this to be the favor he calls in, but it’s a worthy one all the same. The lights have been out for an hour and Ludwig still has two hours left to his shift. Ivan can be satisfied with three hours total. It is more than he would have with any other guard.

           On the bed opposite him, Alfred is for once blissfully asleep. It is the ideal night to do this. Ivan waits until he hears familiar footsteps nearing his room, then slips out the cover and pads softly into the hall. The lights are dimmed but still on and Ivan meets Ludwig halfway so he doesn’t wake Alfred. “Get in your room, Braginski,” Ludwig immediately orders. Ivan holds his ground and smiles.

          “Security is sparse at night, isn’t it?” he remarks, keeping his hands in front of him so as not to spook the man. It’s not just sparse on the floor, either; Ivan has a sister who works the cameras three in the morning. Most days, she’ll be the only one checking aside from Ludwig.

           Ludwig visibly appraises Ivan, narrowed eyes roaming from his feet to his scalp. He doesn’t reach for his taser, which is a good sign, although his pace has slowed significantly. Ivan hardly had a calming presence as a tenure-track professor with a fiancé and a good home, but it is entertaining to see how much people recoil from him now.

           “Get in your room,” Ludwig repeats.

“Just you in this hall,” Ivan continues.

Ludwig’s hand moves to his utility belt. The warning is not lost on Ivan. “I’m enough,” Ludwig assure. “Now get in your room and lie down.”            Ludwig is losing patience as Ivan’s aberrant behavior gets to him. Best to move things along. “You are enough for Vargas for sure. But sir, who is to watch the rest of us when you are watching our little Feliciano?”

Ivan fancies that Ludwig’s blanched face pair nicely with the bleach-white of the walls. “Excuse me?” Ludwig says, quiet and rough. Danger lies on his tongue like a serrated edge, but the growl is a tell in itself.

Ivan doubts he has to spell it out for him. There’s no confusion in Ludwig’s eyes. It is refreshing, being on the same page so quickly with someone. Ivan thinks he might have liked Ludwig outside the hospital as just two men hiding poor life decisions. “How about tonight — or tomorrow even, if you would prefer a day to think about your situation — you keep an eye on our friend Feliciano and I keep an eye on my roommate?” Ivan propositions. “Think of it as a buddy system.”

           Ludwig glances quickly between Ivan and his room where Alfred is fast asleep. “You think I’m like you,” he says.

           “I know you are,” Ivan replies.

           “I should’ve transferred you out of here the second I saw the signs,” Ludwig says angrily, stalking towards Ivan. “Relationships between patients are strictly prohibited — ”

           “Oh, indeed!” Ivan concurs. “Unfortunately, so are relationships between patients and staff. In fact, any case you could launch against me would soon be pushed to the side when I revealed just why you were so motivated to transfer one of us.”

           Ludwig freezes. He looks uneasily at Ivan’s room. “He knows too?”

           Ivan nods with a sympathetic smile. It’s a lie, of course; Alfred would play Ivan’s cards the second he opened his mouth. But Ludwig needs to fear both of them for this to work.

          Ludwig’s jaw clenches and he shakes his head, slow and pained. “We’re not like you two, just remember that. Feli isn’t like you. He’s fallen on a rough patch but he’s got family and a good head on his shoulders.”

           Ivan lets his amusement play on the cold upturn of his lips. “Oh, he’s special, is he?” he mocks.

           “He is,” Ludwig answers without hesitation. “He’s getting better and one day, he’s going to get out of here and we’re going to be together. The correct way. Whatever sick thing you’ve got going on with that headcase in there, it’s doomed. You can’t afford a lawyer good enough to reopen your case and Jones? He’s only going to get worse in here.”

           Ivan is grinning now with all his teeth. He locks his fists behind his back so Ludwig can’t see him clenching them. “Maybe one day,” he admits, thinking of Feliciano with a clean bill of health in the arms of a man no better than Ivan. “But that day does depend on how well we get along tonight, doesn’t it?”

“Why are you here, Ivan?”

He’s not prepared for the question. He thinks of how to answer without answering. He thinks of the evidence laid out before him, how pleading not guilty just wasn’t an option. He thinks of Katyusha and how relief overtook her in shaking shoulders and muffled sobs. He replays the faces of Tommy’s parents, how they contorted in disgust and grief when they knew Ivan would be okay. He remembers Tommy.

“Because I was ordered to be here,” says Ivan. Before Alfred can inquire further, he asks, “And why are you here, Alfred?”

Alfred is silent long enough that Ivan believes he’s dropped the conversation. Then a voice arrives from the silence, not small but still scared. “I’m not like Feli,” Alfred insists.

Ivan smiles fondly at Alfred even though he can’t even see it through the thick darkness. Ivan finds himself smiling for just himself more than he ever has before. “No,” he agrees. No, you are most certainly not like Feliciano. Which begs the question, doesn’t it?”

“I think Matthew put me here,” he speculates, but it’s no more an answer than Ivan’s. Alfred must not be in the mood to answer the million dollar question either. Instead he asks Ivan, “Do you think that medication works?”

Ivan searches his memory for what Alfred called it. He does his best to stay in Alfred’s world with him. “Flutix?” he recalls.

“No, the shit they give me,” Alfred snaps. “The same bullshit they give Feli. Do you think it works? Do you think it’s working? Do you — ”

Ivan interrupts before Alfred can work himself into a panic. “I certainly think it does something.” He doesn’t know if this is what Alfred wants to hear or doesn’t, but it is the truth. He’s more focused of late, sometimes for the better and sometimes, like now, for the worst. Alfred is in danger of thinking himself into a rabbit hole. No wonder his mind runs rampant with delusions, Ivan muses. All those thoughts had to go somewhere.

Alfred falls back onto his bed, head hitting the pillow with a heavy thump. He’s pressing his hands into his eyes, rubbing violently, and Ivan is up before he can think his next action through. Ivan gently, gently holds Alfred’s wrist and sets it on the pillow. Alfred jerks his eyes open when he does, but they slip shut in within seconds. Ivan squeezes Alfred’s wrist again, feels the pulse beating beneath his skin before quitting his side. He settles back onto his bed and counts Alfred’s breaths until Ivan falls asleep.

           “My kid knew you.”

           Ivan looks up from his tray to the cafeteria worker. Her auburn hair is tied into a neat bun but otherwise there’s no net. She has more crow’s feet than lines on her forehead, so she’s probably lived a relatively happy life. Ivan says nothing; waits for her to give him back his tray with his order. She doesn’t do that, just keeps looking at him with the order slip in her hand.

           “He says you were a good professor,” she adds. Ivan doesn’t know where she’s taking this but he finds himself slightly grateful that, if he had to find the one person in the hospital directly related to his past, it probably wasn’t the parent of one the students he failed. “I don’t watch the news too much,” she continues, “it’s chock full of sad things and I don’t have the energy for that. I asked Steve not to tell me or it will keep me up at night. Would it?”

           Ivan almost tells her yes. Instead, he says, “I don’t know how appropriate this conversation is.” He glances behind his shoulder at where Alfred is sitting. He always sits with Feliciano. Ivan still hasn’t received a proper invite to sit at his lunch table so he just sits at the table in front of his where he can watch his expressions and movements from a distance.

           The cafeteria worker shrugs and begins assembling his tray. “Not much appropriate left in the world, I’m afraid,” she observes. She fixes the Jell-O cup atop the tray as the finishing touch. “And what little there is, isn’t here.”

           Ivan takes the order when she hands it to him. Ivan hums in agreement, taking stock of the food today: chicken parmesan with a white bread slice, an apple, microwaved green beans, and of course, dessert in the form of Jell-O. Ivan can’t remember a time a balanced meal offered less real nutrition. He’s about to take his usual spot when he overhears Alfred’s voice raising. He stands in the middle of the cafeteria, his curiosity stilling him as Alfred waves something in front of Feliciano’s face. He’s standing on his knees at the table like a toddler, looming over the small schizo and his weepy brown eyes.

           “There’s other shit, too, you get more bathroom breaks at night, and I bet you there’s other shit I didn’t notice, either,” Alfred is ranting. Ivan is actually bordering on appreciative how Alfred’s body, still broad despite the lack of exercise softening his muscles, imposes itself over the frailer creature.

           Feliciano has to look up at Alfred as he tries to defend himself in a shaking voice on the verge of tears. Oh, Feliciano, Ivan thinks piteously, life is ever so trying for you. He has to wonder why no one on the clock has to jumped in with soothing words yet. He glances around but only one of the three nurses usually on the floor is in the room currently, and she’s reading a book at Ivan’s otherwise empty table. “I’m sure if I just tell — ”

           And Ivan steps in before Feliciano can follow that thought to a process and actually raise suspicion on himself. “Alfred,” Ivan beckons. He notices his fingers are clamped around his tray and consciously instructs his body to relax. Between two nervous wrecks and a guard afraid of his own desires, someone has to maintain a degree of poise. “Can I talk to you for a moment?” he says this as neutrally as possible, trusting that if one elevated voice was to carry to the nurse it would be Ivan’s, although makes sure it still comes off as an order and not a request.

           Alfred roughly breaks away from the table and leaves his tray there. Ivan presses a light hand to the small of Alfred’s back, guiding him forward. As he does, he smiles courteously at Feliciano, the poor bastard’s eyes actually welling with tears, and sets his own tray beside Alfred’s abandoned order. The two of them head over to a comparably private corner of the cafeteria, Alfred fuming beside him.

           Before Ivan can open his mouth, Alfred is off like a pop. “Listen, I’m telling you, Feli,” Alfred jabs his thumb angrily in Feliciano’s direction, “is shifty as fuck. I’ve been noticing all kinds of shit but not saying nothing, but that brownie is the final straw. Something is off, okay, I don’t know what but Feli definitely has connections — a key to this place or something; maybe he’s feeding notes through the heating vents to the kitchen — ”

           “Alfred,” Ivan interrupts in a heavy sigh. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose as if he could will his mounting frustration away. He’s finally rearranging the hospital into some resemblance of a life and Alfred is going to topple that with his fat mouth. He counts to three in his head before fixing Alfred with a cool stare. “Do you really think Feliciano could pull all that off?”

           Alfred doesn’t respond, just watches as Feliciano opposite the room tries to control his breathing. Ivan is certain Ludwig will hear about this and Ivan is not thrilled for tonight. Ludwig doesn’t have much on him, but deals like theirs are best maintained with little communication and excess tension. And if either Alfred or Feliciano take this brownie garbage up with staff, Ludwig will be out and there go Ivan’s nights.

           Feliciano may still bring up the matter of his party favor with someone trusted, like a nurse or his doctor, but Ivan is confident Ludwig will nip that in the bud. All Ivan has to worry about his own pet psycho looking like he’s ready to snap off Feliciano’s trembling hands. “Right, see,” Ivan murmurs, hoping to bring Alfred back to him with composure, “it doesn’t make sense for Feliciano to be the one orchestrating any grand brownie heist, does it?”

           Alfred’s brows fold and Ivan can tell he’s hard at work, disentangling his suspicions and trying to make sense of his constructed world again. It was amazing how Alfred just built cities of incredibly history and infrastructure within seconds. Ivan wonders if he’ll ever be able to tear them as down quickly; or if he’d rather live inside them with Alfred.

           “No,” Alfred slowly concedes. “He’s still caught up in something, though,” he insists, and there it is, the cogs turning in his blue-sky eyes; another city being built. “Something he has no idea about that’s right over his head, a mile high.” Alfred’s finger taps his bottom lip thoughtfully and Ivan has to resist the urge to pull it down, replace Alfred’s fingers with his own.

“It’s just a matter of who,” mutters Alfred. “Of course, the obvious answer is whoever’s keeping Feli here and, by extension, the people keeping me here — but why?” Alfred’s eyes snap up to Ivan’s, earnest if not one-sided. He’s not so much asking Ivan as asking Alfred’s reflection. “And what does the brownie have to do with it?”

Ivan rests his head against the wall and decides to wait this out. “Well, it’s obviously a reward,” Alfred says so quickly the sentence may as well be one long word. “Even if poor-stupid-Feli has no idea it is,” he says, emphasizing every syllable of his insult. He’s too close to home now and Ivan is itching to seize Alfred’s shoulders and shake him until all those thoughts fall out of his loose head, but he keeps going. “If there’s one thing Feli is, it’s talkative. He never shuts up, you know? He talks about tile colors and — flowers, dumb shit, so he is a spy, he has to be,” and as he talks, his volume is increasing and the people in the cafeteria are beginning to look at them warily.

“Come on, Alfred, you can do better than that,” Ivan coaxes. He smiles reassuringly over Alfred’s shoulder at Feliciano who is looking at them panicked. “I do wonder the coincidence, though,” he mentions and hopes Alfred’s mind sticks on the key word. “Don’t you?” he prods.

Alfred pauses and actually bites his lip, and that’s a new quirk, isn’t it? Ivan almost bites his own lip in a mirror image. Alfred is so beautiful. Ivan can tell he’s getting closer to another revelation when he starts rocking on the balls of his feet. “Okay, okay. It has to do with me, I bet you. I’m the only guy in this place who’s going to notice something like that, the only one who can put this together. It was a message from…” here, Alfred trails off, clearly frustrated as he hits a wall.

All that matters is that Alfred’s train of thought is on a safer path. “Feliciano as a means of communication,” Ivan repeats in order to cement the belief. “Yes, Alfred, I like that,” he approves. And because he can’t help it, not when Alfred’s eyes are so earnest and his face is so excited, he reaches out to pet his soft hair, smoothing back the cowlick that pops right back up from under his thumb. “Good boy,” he compliments.

The hours following the brownie incident are a practice of patience. The afternoon passes pleasantly for Ivan but Alfred is a wreck of chaotic energy, head swiveling to track the source of every sound, feet tapping, skin-picking. He’s like a dog with a bone and it’s Ivan can do to avoid being bitten when he tries to put it away — “Just for tonight,” he assures. “You don’t want to alert the others that you’re onto the game.”

Alfred nods, albeit with the slightest petulance to the pout of his lip. He sees the value of waiting till there’s fewer eyes even if he doesn’t want to. And so Ivan enjoys his book during reading time, occasionally placing a hand for brief moments on Alfred’s knee whenever it begins to shake too hard, and he even encourages him to play Monopoly with a few others during game time while he meets with Dr. Héderváry. She asks him leading questions while he insists on playing Solitaire. All is well.

The calm even lasts well into Ludwig’s shift starting at 4pm. Predictably, Ludwig hovers over Feliciano more than strictly necessary and only pries himself away when the nurses seem to be paying attention. Ivan is tempted to roll his eyes but doesn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to Ludwig and Feliciano than Alfred already has.

Look at Ivan worrying about eyes on him. Clearly Alfred is rubbing off on him.

Equally predictably, it’s the second Ivan is alone that Ludwig pounces. He sees Ludwig waiting by the door on his way out the bathroom and this time Ivan does roll his eyes. He stops short so there is an appropriate amount of distance between them, folds his hands in front of him, and says, “I take it little Feliciano told you of his day?”

This, apparently, is all Ludwig needs to jump in. “You keep Jones away from him, do you hear me? Your boy is bad news for him and I will not have him risk Feliciano’s progress.” His voice is hushed but not soft. Ivan appraises his body language, how Ludwig is practically leaning forward while glued in place. He’s impressed; he thinks Ludwig may have actually had the nerve to accost him had they been but two men on the street.

           Ivan sighs lightly for show. “I’m afraid you are not in a position to be giving the demands, Ludwig,” he mourns. “But if you have problems with my boy,” Ivan quotes, and though he means it ironically, he ends up liking the taste of it on his tongue, “by all means, take it up with him.”

           Figuring the conversation finished, Ivan walks forward. He thinks he’ll join the knitting circle today for its last half hour, but he is stopped by Ludwig’s hand on his shoulder. He glanced down at the limb like a flea. “Is that such a good idea?” Ivan murmurs, his eyes tracing the tendon in Ludwig’s fist to his arm up to his enraged face.

           Ludwig doesn’t even bother checking behind his shoulder for onlookers. He gets right into Ivan’s space. Ivan immediately dislikes the invasion, is reviled by it, but stands his ground nonetheless. He gazes to one of the cameras meaningfully and hopes that sends Ludwig a message. The attempt is a failed one; Ludwig’s glare is so focused Ivan realizes quickly there’s no use in avoiding his next words:

           “I mean it, Braginski. If so much as a hair on his head is touched, if Alfred does absolutely anything to compromise Feliciano’s progress — I don’t give a damn what happens to me when they find out. I will come for you, and maybe you’ll be safe but you’ll have no one to cover for your sick ass when I’m gone.”

          Ivan stays stock still and simply stares Ludwig down for a while. To his surprise, there is not a hint of a bluff. And if Ivan is being honest with himself, Ludwig doesn’t seem the sort to lie about his pet. Eventually Ivan lets out a puff of air in a breathy chuckle. “Oh my,” he exclaims, “I do believe you’re serious, aren’t you? How touching,” he compliments, removing Ludwig’s hand from his shoulder with only a faint expression of disgust. Ludwig lets his hand drop to his side, still balled in an angry fist. “Alright, then, comrade,” Ivan agrees and winks.

He leans down close so his eyes are level with Ludwig’s. His voice is barely a whisper: “I’ll see what I can do about our boys, hm?”

           This time, Ludwig lets him leave. Ivan’s a tad irritated, he’ll admit, but he’s confident Alfred will do just fine with less one friend.

           Alfred paces their bedroom like a caged tiger. Back and forth, back and forth he goes in the sliver of space separating their beds. Natalya has sent Ivan a new book that was on his reading list, so he keeps his gaze on the pages and tries not to let Alfred’s nervous energy distract him. He is having little success.

           “I just can’t think,” Alfred says and digs his fingers into his scalp. “But I need to think, they want me to think, that’s why they’ve been doing all this, I just need to focus —because there is something up with that brownie —”            Ivan slams his book down on his lap. “For the love of God, Alfred, stop with the brownie,” he begs. He thought Alfred had moved past that, but apparently not. It’s getting difficult to decipher what goes on in Alfred’s head these days. The meds don’t stop his wheels from spinning; they just make the engine quieter. That much became clear during yesterday’s lunch with Feliciano.

           “I have a plan,” says Alfred, halting mid-step and looking Ivan dead in the eye.

           “A plan,” Ivan repeats, unimpressed. If it involves Feliciano whatsoever, Ivan doesn’t know how he’ll get Alfred to back off. He once again can’t help but envision Alfred a dog, this time chewing on a Feliciano-shaped squeaky toy.

           Alfred darts forward and leans over Ivan’s bed, tail practically wagging. “I have big tonsils,” he says like this right here is the key to the world.

           Ivan lifts his eyebrows and waits for Alfred’s usual elaboration. None is provided, but he doubts Alfred’s oral anatomy is going to directly involve his chew toy, so Ivan isn’t alarmed. He picks up his book and sifts through the paragraphs to find the sentence he left off on.

           Alfred squeezes the mattress impatiently. “Seriously, they’re big, Ivan. I used to look at them in the mirror when I was a kid and one time I made Matthew open his mouth and his were way, way smaller.”

Ivan has a brief moment wherein he tries to imagine what Alfred must have looked like as a young boy and not this broad-shoulder, muscular man before him whose world so easily bends to its knees. He can’t, which is a pity. “I hardly see what this has to do with the brownie,” Ivan says, “or more importantly, what this has to do with your special message.”

He wonders if Alfred has any pictures of himself as a kid online that Natalya or Katyusha could find him.

 The next morning comes and the nurses make their med rounds. Ivan takes his first, shifting his tongue this way and that and saying ‘ahh’ until the nurse is satisfied. They’re mood stabilizers and while they may have an effect on them, Ivan hasn’t noticed anything beyond general drowsiness — and even that could just be a symptom of the hospital itself and not the stabilizers. Alfred is summoned into the hall after him. ‘Miss Michelle,’ as she insists the patients call her, inquires into Alfred’s sleep last night as she hands him the pills in a cup. Alfred says he slept fine, thank you for asking, then he goes ‘ahh’ and is permitted to return to his bed.

Miss Michelle is already at the next room when Alfred walks back in and begins hacking into his hand. He holds out his palm and there, sticky and crumbling, are two little pills. Alfred is grinning proudly. “Tonsils,” he explains.

Ivan makes a mental note to guide Alfred towards a hand sanitizer dispenser later. “That was disgusting. But clever,” he acknowledges. He’s impressed by Alfred’s strange ingenuity. Alfred is at constant war with reality. For Ivan, a war like that would feel unwinnable. Around Alfred, though, the walls that build their world seem flimsy. They collapse, fall to the wayside, because what are walls to a man who can climb them?

Alfred puts Ivan’s efforts to shame.

Alfred brags about his cleverness while flicking the chalky remains into the heating vent. He strides over to Ivan, folding his arms over his chest and looking like a fallen king soon to reclaim his title. “Now I can think again,” he says, lifting his chin.

Ivan looks back at Alfred and admires the confidence in his brow, the strong jawline, the sheer way he holds himself as if he knows better and it’s the rest of the world that’s trapped. “And what a delight that will be,” murmurs Ivan.

“Wanna’ see ‘em?” Alfred asks. Ivan hums inquisitively. “My tonsils,” Alfred clarifies and opens his mouth wide.

Ivan places a finger under Alfred’s chin and gently elevates it. “They’re pretty big,” he agrees. He waits until Alfred is done demonstrating and then Ivan drags Alfred’s lips to his. Ivan means to keep it brief, but when he pulls away, Alfred follows in the same fluid motion. Ivan sucks on his bottom lip, reveling in how easy it is to take. He thinks of Alfred biting his lip that day in the cafeteria and nips at him, drags his bottom lip with his teeth. He’s about to go in for another kiss when he hears footsteps. Ivan’s hands come down on Alfred’s shoulders like cinder blocks and he thrusts Alfred off of him.

Nurse Erika, a petite blonde who wears ribbons in her hair like Natalya, pops her head in. “Are you two ready for breakfast?” she asks.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” answers Alfred. Ivan lets him lead the conversation as they follow Nurse Erika down the hall. Alfred’s abrasive voice strips away the moment they shared, giving none of them, least of all sweet Erika with ribbons in her hair, time to speculate where they were going and where they could’ve gone.

           It’s quiet time. Everyone is allowed to do whatever quiet activity they please except nap. That, Nurse Michell explains when she catches Ivan dozing off, would mess with their circadian rhythm. Although the hour has far more freedom than most of the day, the hospital has infected its patients with routine. Feliciano and Lukas rarely talk to each other, but every day during quiet time they sit side-by-side in the common room, Feliciano finger-painting and Lukas drawing with the bluntest pencil the nurses can find. Ivan used to read in the common room, listening to Alfred try to talk to others and getting shushed by nurses every five minutes. Now Ivan reads in their room and Alfred accompanies him.

Unlike the others, Alfred rarely spends quiet time in the same manner as yesterday. He’s tried reading, he’s tried writing, he’s tried drawing and finger-painting and crosswords puzzles and sudoku and every other imaginable way to shut Alfred up. Today, he sits on his bed and stares eerily at the ceiling, occasionally jotting something down in a notepad with frantic speed. It’s probably not the most comforting sight to whoever is watching the cameras today, but it is safe and quiet.

           Ivan hasn’t been a light sleeper since he came to the hospital. The strict routine and the drowsy meds have brought the one shining benefit of uninterrupted sleep. That’s why Ivan feels the need to investigate when he awakes for no apparent reason. Ludwig is on tonight, giving Ivan relatively free range of at least this hall. Alfred is fast asleep in his own bed, limbs awkwardly splayed and tangled in the sheets. Both his feet are out and one is missing a sock. Ivan has to hand it to Alfred — for all his chaotic energy during the day, he is a sound, albeit rough, sleeper.

           Ivan leans down to plant a kiss on his nose. Alfred’s face scrunches and he rubs his nose with a clumsy, flailing arm before rolling to his side.

           The hallway is deserted. Ivan looks at the ceiling for a flickering light or a leak — nothing. He quietly pads over to the rooms around him and peers into each one, expecting someone awake or at least a snore. Everyone is still. And where, oh where, could Ludwig be?

           What is Feliciano’s room number again? Ivan racks his brain. It’s some doors down, he knows that, because he and Feliciano rarely run into each other in the morning or the night. He also remembers hearing his old roommate say the number to a friend when he was transferred to Feliciano’s cell. Ivan keeps walking, knowing this isn’t a game to play and yet unable to deny his curiosity. Would he find them in the throes of passion right there? Would Feliciano’s roommate be asleep beside them as they made love like a silent movie, movements rushed, jerky, mouths open with no sound?

           Doubtful. There are cameras in every room even if night security is lax. Ivan doesn’t worry too much about his room’s camera, not with Katyusha working 7pm-3am, but he’s not sure Ludwig has the same connections.

           He might. But even then, Ivan can’t picture Ludwig being so bold. He imagines Ludwig sealing his hand over Feliciano’s mouth and driving into him, fast before they run out of time, before their luck runs out and Feliks wakes, and – Ivan almost laughs at the thought. No, as dirty as Ludwig is, it takes a different kind of man to commit a crime of that intimacy; to do it where his lover sleeps. Although Ludwig’s lover may be malleable enough for him to get away with it, Ivan muses.

           He does find Feliks in bed, jaw slack and a trail of drool dribbling down his chin. A long strand of hair sticks to the saliva there. Ivan is not surprised, however, to find Feliciano’s bed empty. Ivan is about to head to the bathrooms when he hears voices from the behind the double doors leading to the staircase. Ah, so this is what woke him.

           The doors open revealing Ludwig with a hand on Feliciano’s back. Feliciano is whispering something to him and Ludwig looks at him fondly. Oh, to be young and in love. Ludwig’s gaze is on Ivan in the next instant and all tenderness abandons his expression as his brows come crashing together and his teeth bared. Ludwig hurries Feliciano towards his room, inserting himself between Feliciano and Ivan who still stands by the doorway.

           Feliciano’s hair is well-mussed, lips swollen, and nightshirt crooked over his shoulders. Ivan nods politely to him and Feliciano is clearly about to speak when Ludwig orders him to get in bed with a fierce whisper. Feliciano obeys without a word, which has Ivan raising his eyebrows. “You’ve got him well-trained,” he compliments, already moving away from the door. Ludwig follows him. “I’m impressed, truly. If I tried that on Jones, he’d ignore me or sock me.”

           “Hey,” Ludwig practically spits. “We are not like you, okay? I’m not like you, so don’t start making comparisons as if we’re friends swapping tips.”

           “My mistake,” Ivan quips, “I thought we were both carrying illicit relationships inside a mental hospital with men who cannot separate life from delusion. But no, you are right, we have different concerns. Yours thinks the sky is falling and mine thinks he caused it.”

           “Shut your damn mouth,” growls Ludwig. “You can laugh all you want at Jones but I actually care about Feliciano. That’s what separates us. I love him. We have dreams together. He’s not going to rot in here like you two. He can tell what’s real and what’s not because he’s not content thinking everyone else is out to get him.

           “You can have all the fun you want with your partner – ” Ludwig’s tone catches mockingly on that word, “— but Feliciano and I want better. We’re going to get out of here and do this right.”

           Ivan stops walking a few feet short of his room. He locks his fists behind his back, hides the anger turning his knuckles white, and just stares at Ludwig for some time. He tilts his head at him. He’s learned something new about Ludwig, he thinks: Ludwig is quite good at compartmentalization to humanize Feliciano alone.

It’s frustrating and almost laughable how Ludwig sees Feliciano as special in a hospital full of people just like him; people labeled crazy and then neatly boxed up until they’re presentable enough to be unwrapped for society. As if Feliciano is the exception and not the rule.

“I have a question for you,” Ivan finally says. “You do not have to answer it, but I know you will think about it and I only hope you can be honest with yourself if not with me: what makes your actions so drastically different from mine?” he questions.

“Intent,” Ludwig answers automatically, but Ivan’s next words begin just as Ludwig’s end.

“You think I do not want the same?” Ivan asks. Whatever Ludwig wanted to say, it’s been stopped with a foot to the brakes at Ivan’s question. “You think Alfred and I are content to live in instability without privacy, without intimacy, until one or both of us are eaten alive by these walls?”

Ivan takes a step closer. “Do you think I don’t miss my family, or do you think I don’t have family? Or do you just not think of us at all?” He leans in so he can whisper almost into Ludwig’s ear. “Do not think yourself special for craving your own happiness,” Ivan advises.

Finished with this interaction, he goes into his room and waits for the sound of Ludwig’s departure. Sleep comes slow and bittersweet. He dreams of the house he once shared with his sisters, and of going to work and meeting a blue-eyed boy with a cowlick and wide tonsils.

          Ivan is sitting at his usual spot with Dr. Héderváry. Right now, she’s telling him how disinterested he has come off lately in their sessions. She worries he may be regressing in his treatment and wishes he would engage again. Ivan is vaguely aware of apologizing to her. He’s more focused on Alfred who, as of ten minutes ago, took a seat beside Feliciano. They are just far enough away so that Ivan cannot overhear them. He can only watch as Alfred grows increasingly animated, hands gesturing wildly and his voice becoming violently loud at some points before abruptly dropping to a whisper.

           Ivan is halfway to convincing himself it’s fine, that Feliciano may not even tell Ludwig about Alfred’s conspiracies today, when Alfred throws another emphatic hand into the air and accidentally nails Feliciano in the face. Ivan instinctively stands, but then so does Dr. Héderváry. Feliciano looks okay; the smack must have been light.

           He glances at his doctor and smiles playfully. “Going somewhere?” he asks lightly.

           Dr. Hédérvary’s expression if one of pure bafflement. “I should ask you, Ivan,” she counters.

           Ivan lowers himself back into his chair. “You are lucky I am not the skittish sort,” he teases. “I have seen patients here accuse their doctors of violent intent for less.” It’s an innocent comment, but Dr. Héderváry does not take it that way.

           “Do you believe I have violent intent, Ivan?” she asks, sitting back down as well. Again, with the leading questions, he thinks wearily.

“No,” he answers easily, “I am just pointing out how unconventional you are sometimes.”

Dr. Héderváry does not like how the conversation is unfolding if her checking her watch for the first time is any indication. He’s been keeping track of the time with the analog clock on the wall behind Alfred’s head. They have some time to go.

“Unconventional how?” Dr. Héderváry inquires.

Ivan considers his phrasing. He shrugs. “You are just very genuine, that’s all. Most psychologists prioritize composure above all else, always scrutinizing their patients for any sign of upset.” Ivan stretches his legs forward so they rest against Dr. Héderváry’s chair. “What would you have done had I,” Ivan flicks his fingers, “run off? Would you have chased me down?”

He hears Alfred groan in exasperation. Ivan can hear him exclaim, “No, he’s not… ” before Alfred’s voice drops to a whisper again.

“Would you like to end our session early, Ivan?” asks Dr. Héderváry.

Ivan tears his eyes away from Alfred’s table long enough to take advantage of the out. “You are always a delight, doctor,” he praises, “and we may have just found something in common; yes, I think an early end may be the best for today. Always next week,” he assures, already standing up.

“This isn’t about what I want,” Dr. Héderváry tries to clarify, but Ivan has a deal to make good on. He strides over to the table where Alfred and Feliciano are seated.

“Feliciano,” he greets, resting a hand on Alfred’s shoulder and smiling apologetically. “Would you mind giving Alfred and I some privacy?”

Feliciano’s eyes are wide. Ivan checks his face for the slightest injury, but Alfred’s clumsy enthusiasm has left no mark. Regardless, Feliciano plays the part of kicked puppy perfectly. Ivan wonders how his family manages to leave him here every day after visits with those shaking shoulders and tucked tail.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Feliciano says and attempts a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Ivan briefly worries that his smiles aren’t all the way there either. Ivan dismisses the thought for later as Feliciano scampers off.

Ivan takes his place with no complaint from Alfred. He doesn’t even bother starting over, just soldiers on in his theory that “the doctor” was keeping everyone here against their will. “Really?” Ivan asks if just to see where Alfred takes this. “Why would he want to keep people here?”

Alfred rolls his eyes. “Well, that’s simple, isn’t it? Doctors have egos, everyone knows that, and this is how they can flex. So when doctors like,” Alfred trails off, visibly floundering.

“Dr. Väinämöinen,” Ivan guesses. He knows him to be Alfred’s doctor. It’s doubtful Alfred would have had enough interaction with anyone else’s doctors here to appropriate them into his web.

“Right, yes!” Alfred pounces. “When Dr. V got some people who were misunderstood, it made him feel like he had a big dick to keep me here.” Alfred rests his arms on the table and crosses them angrily. “The fucker,” he spits, looking down to the side. “He’s not completely evil,” he mutters. Ivan watches, enraptured, as Alfred recreates this man he barely knows. “He just wants to see if you’re smarter than him,” he explains, opening his palms and staring at them hard. Ivan wonders what he sees.

“If you’re smarter than him and you can solve his puzzles, catch his clues,” Alfred reasons, “he’ll let you go.”

“You see a way out,” Ivan states. He brushes his fingertips over Alfred’s open, empty palms.

“Yeah,” Alfred says, either to Ivan or himself, and nods. “Shit like that. Shit like the brownie.”

Ivan leans back in his chair with a tired sigh. “You are obsessed with this brownie.”

Alfred slides his hands to the end of the table and grips the wood. For the first time in their conversation, Alfred is looking Ivan in the eyes. “It’s all a part of the puzzle, Ivan,” he says with utmost sobriety. Something tender makes itself known in Ivan’s chest as he stares at this beautiful young man who never learned self-doubt. And then he thinks of Ludwig’s prediction, of Alfred only getting worse as everyone who tries to help him is suspect, and something sad envelopes that something tender.

           Alfred has an appointment with his doctor today. It is schedule during small group activity time. Ivan has joined the modest crocheting circle which consists of Nurse Erika and one other patient besides Ivan. He’s working on a headband which he plans to give to Alfred as a sleep mask because he often complains about the bright lights of the hallway keeping him up at night. The colors are red, white, and blue.

Nurse Erika brightly asks, “Oh, like the Russian flag?”

Ivan frowns. Did he get the color order wrong? He tries to count the pattern but it’s a circle and maybe Erika just looked at the wrong color first —

His thoughts are interrupted by three guards barreling down the hall with one nurse in tow. Immediately the common room erupts in chatter as patients ask what’s happening and nurses tell them all is well, please remain seated and continue group activities.

Ivan watches the spot where the guards just were. Then he looks around, tries to remember all the patients and perform a head count. They’re all here. All of them except for Alfred.

“Don’t you want to finish your headband? It’s looking so good,” Nurse Erika patronizes. Ivan glances down at the sleep mask in his lap, tries to picture Alfred wearing it to bed. Feeling cold, Ivan picks up his hook and winds the red yarn around, around, around.

           Ivan waits two weeks for a word of Alfred. Not a word from — he doesn’t expect Alfred to reach out. Even sharing a room, Alfred struggled with the concept of the other. He spoke to whoever would listen and Ivan simply did his best to be the one listening. Now that Ivan isn’t physically around, he’ll likely fade as a character in Alfred’s universe. Object permanence doesn’t seem his strong suit and as upset as Ivan is, he can’t fault Alfred for being himself.

           Ivan does make inquiries. He hasn’t much to risk now that he’s lost. Unfortunately, hospital staff are tight-lipped. He asks Dr. Héderváry to find out, pleads with her even, and it’s his vulnerability that likely made her give in. By their next meeting on the second week, Dr. Héderváry can confirm he has been transferred to another hospital. He asks her where, but she claims confidentiality about the exact location. When that argument doesn’t work, she tells him the truth: it’s best that he move on.

           So, he asks Katyusha to keep her ear to the ground. She says the people she works with aren’t really the people who would know, but — “well, like I said, I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

           He asks Natalya who has his answer by Friday afternoon. Alfred is in the same state, just an hour north at St. Peter’s Hospital. Natalya sourced her information from a nurse whom the incident details had trickled down to. “His name is Toris. We had lunch earlier,” she tells Ivan, glancing sheepishly up at him from under silvery bangs. “He’s very manly,” she adds.

           Ivan spends the rest of that day thinking over Natalya’s information. Somehow, Alfred had obtained a weapon — a boxcutter with a half-inch blade — which he used against his psychiatrist, Tino Väinämöinen. The hallway outside Tino Väinämöinen’s adjunct office had been empty save for Ludwig Beilschmidt, a guard who had come in earlier than his shift to drop some papers off. He heard shouting while passing by and ran in to find the doctor backed into the wall with bloodied hands. The guard immediately tackled the patient to the ground, where his weapon was removed and he was chemically and physically restrained by three other guards.

           Ivan’s mind catches on Ludwig’s involvement, naturally. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. His presence, Natalya informs him, is regarded as a somewhat of a miracle by hospital staff. Ivan and Ludwig have not interacted since the night outside the room he once shared with Alfred. Any conversation would be pointless beyond giving Ludwig the chance to openly gloat, and he’s too busy basking in his victory to taint it with Ivan’s two cents.

           Ivan sits back in that one loveseat in the hospital. He sits back and watches Ludwig lingering near Feliciano. He watches Ludwig far more closely than he ever bothered before. He wonders if his face has always been this open around Feliciano, or if this has newly developed from his sense of hard-won freedom. Ideas unfurl across Ivan’s mind like invisible yet hard-to-shake spiderwebs. Once the thought flies into his brain it can’t break free. It spins itself tighter and deeper until Ivan is all but consumed by it.

           Ivan’s bed is perfectly made. The pillow case is smooth, the sheets turned down in a straight edge, blanket tucked in at the corners. It has not been touched since the morning following Alfred’s final appointment with Dr. Väinämöinen. Ivan has taken to sleeping in Alfred’s bed. He pretends to rest when the nurses come by and turn off the lights. He waits there, on Alfred’s mattress, although his warmth and his scent has long since left it, until he hears the familiar footfalls of Ludwig. Then Ivan pushes the blankets to the bottom of the bed, turns his legs over, and walks over to the doorframe.

           Ludwig pauses in his pacing at the sight of Ivan, but his paralysis is short-lived before he quickens his pace towards him. Ivan almost expects Ludwig to grind out an order of, “Go to bed, Braginski,” but Ludwig says nothing as he closes the distance.

           “I do wonder how he got the boxcutter,” Ivan remarks. Ludwig’s jaw flexes beneath his skin. “It’s a small room with not much ground to explore. I would have noticed something like that if it had been there even two days before Dr. Väinämöinen’s little surprise,” he assures Ludwig. “And I know Alfred’s family hasn’t visited him in, gosh, months. Who could have possibly given him a knife?” Ivan raises his eyebrows and stares at Ludwig almost imploringly. “Who could’ve benefited from such reckless endangerment?” he asks softly.

           Ludwig swallows something hard in his throat. “Go to bed, Braginski,” he commands.

           Ivan nods, not surprised. “Good night, Ludwig. I hope you have been enjoying you dreams lately. I know I will enjoy mine tonight.”

           Ivan returns to the room, getting to his knees to remove the box of books from beneath his old bed. He opens the box and retrieves his notebook along with a mechanical pencil courtesy of Ludwig some time ago. Curling beneath Alfred’s sheets, Ivan spends the night writing instead of sleeping. The hours shift from late to early, but Ivan pays no attention to the ache in his tired eyes and bones, only the unfurling of a web onto paper.

[agirlinjapan]

Red Data Girl: My Longest Day of School (Week 13)

Red Data Girl: My Longest Day of School By Noriko Ogiwara A Translation

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Lucky number 13!

I hope everyone who celebrated Thanksgiving this week had a good time! This was my first official break as a teacher and it definitely went faster than I would have liked. I hung out with my college roommate, had an awesome Thanksgiving dinner with my family, went shopping on Saturday (black Friday isn’t for me), drove an hour to the nearest Asian food market to stock up on Japanese cooking staples, and absolutely devoured A Court of Thorns and Roses and A Court of Mist and Fury by Sarah J. Maas. It’s been AGES since I read such good books. I’ll be starting the third book in the series, A Court of Wings and Ruin tonight. If you’re into fantasy, fae, and romance, you should check them out.

Enjoy this week’s RDG!

Red Data Girl: My Longest Day of School By Noriko Ogiwara Chapter 2: Manipulation Part 2 (2 of 2)

When they walked outside, they found that the night was different from the bustle of yesterday’s evening. The campus was much quieter and most of the lights in the classroom building were out as well. Only a few students were walking around outside.

Of course, that didn’t mean that the other students were sleeping or generally being quiet. Mayura and Izumiko had seen that when they had passed through the dorm’s lobby. Their dorm mates were just getting ready for the next day’s event in smaller groups than they had the night before.

After the festivities of the day had ended, a precious evening wind had brought cooler temperatures and the smell of fall. On the nearby hill, the wind had begun the process of scattering the leaves on the trees there.

“How was the defense team’s first meeting? Did you sense anything?” Izumiko asked as they walked.

“I guess you could say… it wasn’t good or bad,” Mayura said lightly. “The meeting ended without anything bad happening. Takatou took the lead for me. The third year volunteers and the third year middle schoolers got along just fine. With such an age gap between them, I guess they can get along without fighting for this one little thing.”

“But you’re the princess general. Shouldn’t you be making the decisions?”

“Outwardly, all I have to worry about is my clothing,” Mayura said, laughing. “Seeing as there was never such thing as a princess general in actual history, it’s just a costume they’re putting together. They showed me a huge amount of designs but… just like in a videogame, they all had my legs and stomach showing. Stuff like that. I don’t know if it’s okay for me to wear something so fan-servicey. I’m fine with it, but Manatsu would probably be beyond furious. That’s the problem.”

Izumiko was surprised. This had gone in a direction she hadn’t been expecting.

“You should be considerate of Manatsu’s feelings. He’s always so supportive of what you do.”

“Do you think?”

“Don’t do it. Don’t do anything you’ll regret. You know they’ll sell your pictures. Sometimes it seems like you don’t take care of yourself, Mayura.”

After Izumiko said this, Mayura was quiet for a bit as they walked. Then she said seriously, “I see… So that’s how girls think. I’m like a boy inside, so I don’t know how to take care of myself in the same way that you do.”

Izumiko thought she had misheard what Mayura had said.

“I’m beautiful, but I don’t treat myself well,” Mayura continued. She thought for a moment. “When it comes down to it, Manatsu and I were really left all alone.”

“Alone?”

“Something went wrong when we were separated from Masumi,” Mayura said calmly. She looked up at the night sky. It was fringed with clouds but part of the moon was clearly visible among the stars.  

“Masumi being here now is proof of that. If Manatsu and I were any other ordinary people, we wouldn’t have been able to call an ancient god from Togakushi so easily, one that who knows how many other people hadn’t been able to call for centuries. Being triplets was the special factor in that equation. That’s the only thing I can think of.”

As Mayura spoke, the horse ring by the hill came into view.

There was a silhouette of a person leaned against the bars of the fence surrounding the ring. The figure, dressed in a kuroko outfit and under the cover of darkness, was difficult to make out until they grew closer. Once they got close enough though, they saw that it was Miyuki.

“Oh, you’re alone, Sagara? Where’s Manatsu?”

Miyuki straightened up from his slouch as Mayura called out to him.  

“He’s in the barn. Wait a second. I’ll call him.”

Embarrassed, Izumiko looked away from Miyuki. Miyuki turned and walked towards the barn without once looking towards her. Mayura watched both of them carefully.

“It’s about time you told me what happened between you and Sagara in the haunted house. Is that why you’re on the outs with each other? At this point, you can’t say nothing happened.”

“Well, you see…” Izumiko said uncomfortably.

She and Miyuki had gotten through their time with Yukimasa in the nurse’s office. Truthfully, they had been able to talk normally with each other after it.

She had even told Miyuki in detail about Hayakawa being a ninja from Togakushi. But then after dinner, he had heard about how Izumiko had gone into the haunted house to escape from two second year boys in the lobby and his mood had immediately soured. They had then gotten into a fight.

“…He said things like I wasn’t leading them on so I should have told them to stop and I was careless so it was probably all my fault. He’s so mad at me. I guess you wouldn’t have known about all that before.”

Explaining the situation brought back the pain she had felt and her voice filled with anger. Mayura listened and then burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“You two are hilarious. Especially Sagara. Is he the reason why you ran back to the dorm to put your hair in braids again?”

“Yeah. I absolutely won’t put my hair up with the color hair ties tomorrow.”    

Mayura continued to laugh without trying to stop herself.

“So Sagara’s bad side is finally coming out. I kind of want to mess with him so that more of it comes out.”

“Don’t say that! Everything I just told you is a secret so you have to pretend you don’t know.”

The two boys returned as Izumiko was swearing Mayura to secrecy. Manatsu raised both his hands.

“Everything’s fine. The horses are totally calm. There’s nothing strange around here.”

Mayura smiled and nodded.

“So, it looks like this is the best place to make sure our secrets don’t leak out after all. Before we start the discussion, want to call Masumi first?”

“Sure. That’s what I was planning to do, too.”

Manatsu casually extended his hand. However, his sister paused, staring at his palm.

“Manatsu, did you wash your hands?”

“No, I didn’t wash them.”

“Go wash them. You always get horse droppings and stuff on your hands when you’re at the barn.”

“That doesn’t matter!”

Mayura was forced to give up as Manatsu pushed his hand into hers. Izumiko and Miyuki watched on as the two of them moved their hands together in one motion. Then the siblings’ voices combined as they began to chant series of sutras.

Suddenly, a white figure formed in front of the pair near the fence. It was so white it seemed to cut through the darkness of the night as it glowed. Izumiko blinked twice then three times, but the brilliance remained. Considering the fact that the figure was standing near a dimly lit horse ring, the colors of his outfit were rather flashy.

“…I didn’t think it was possible,” Manatsu muttered under his breath.

“What? Seriously? You really thought that?” Masumi asked cheerfully. His long hair was loose and he was wearing a light purple over kimono embroidered with flowers and birds. In other words, it was the Warring States era princess outfit Mayura had modeled. Besides Manatsu, the other three were left speechless, incapable of doing anything but stare.

Masumi gazed at his siblings’ expressions.

“Can you not look at me with such disapproving faces?” he said as if in complaint. “Manatsu, you didn’t see this outfit the day Mayura wore it, did you? I thought I’d show it to you instead.”

“Just say it. This isn’t for me. You wanted to wear it.”

Regaining her composure as well, Mayura asked, “I’m not surprised to see you like this but is there a reason you’re dressed up here and now?”

“To set the mood?” Masumi responded cheerfully. “I feel so good wearing this. I’m higher ranking than the other guys around here so I thought I’d make that clear.”

“When you say other guys, do you mean the ghosts here on campus?” Miyuki broke in quickly. “So you can see them all, Masumi?”

“It would be stranger to think that I couldn’t see them.”

“It wouldn’t be strange to think that,” Miyuki responded without faltering. “Humans have to ask question after question or else they create understandings based on assumptions that could turn out to be wrong.”    

“Then ask away.”

Miyuki was quiet for a moment.

“What do I look like to you, Masumi?” he asked, his tone one of resolve. “I’ve wanted to ask you that for a while now.”

Izumiko was shocked as she stood at Mayura’s side. She wondered what Miyuki’s intent was but then she suddenly understood. He had probably planned this before he had come here.

…He’s planning to ask Masumi about Wamiya. What do spirits look like to other spirits? How are Miyuki and Wamiya connected?

Masumi narrowed his eyes.

“Miyuki? It’s Miyuki, right? Don’t worry. I still remember your name.”

“Just that?”

“What? You should be happy. I didn’t forget. This is a big deal!”

Miyuki waited a moment and then said in a deeply serious tone, “Another high ranking spirit calls me by another name.”

“Miyuki’s fine. It’s annoying to remember more than one name.” Already appearing to have lost interest, Masumi frowned.

Miyuki sighed. Things weren’t going the way he had planned.

“For some reason, this conversation isn’t progressing towards divine spirits like I had thought it would.”

“He’s not interested in anything that doesn’t revolve around him,” Manatsu said to Miyuki as if to intervene. “He’ll only tell you about what he feels like telling you about. Basically, he’s not thinking about what you want him to.”

“Wait a minute. You guys took the trouble of calling me here so let’s talk about what you want to.” Masumi said.

Mayura shrugged. “Alright. We’re just asking but do you have any interest in participating in the school festival tomorrow? I’d like you to be in the all school battle game.”

“Of course I’m interested!” Masumi replied giving a little jump for joy. The gold brocade kimono had been too heavy for Izumiko and the others but the spirit’s outfit seemed weightless. His sleeves swung back and forth effortlessly.

“If you had called me today, I would have been happy to ride in the palanquin, too. Right now with the academy the way it is, no one would figure out who I was, even if I walked around as a student. I could do whatever I want, just like when I’m in Togakushi.”

“I bet you could. This area is hospitable to spirits thanks to a barrier the diviners made.”

As Mayura said this, Masumi nodded. It seemed like he had thought this over after speaking with Izumiko.

“That’s right. It doesn’t really affect me personally but it’s affecting the students, isn’t it? It’s making them edgy.”

“Can you find the place where they buried the magical object?” Manatsu asked. “Do you think you could break the barrier if you put your mind to it?”

Masumi narrowed his eyes again.

“Yeah. I could break it. But even after it’s broken, things won’t automatically go back to the way they were. The effects would slowly fall into place here and there.”

“I wish I had broken the barrier when we had found it,” Manatsu said regretfully.

His sister shook her head.

“We would be a few days ahead of where we are, yes. But the situation would be the same. I think the diviners cast their spell weeks ago. It was probably before summer vacation.”

Miyuki looked at Mayura as he asked, “What do you have planned for tomorrow’s game, Mayura? Do you think you can figure out who’s a diviner among the third year volunteers in the defense team?”

“It would be impossible to figure that out,” Mayura replied calmly. “Everyone seems like good people. We’ll just have to wait until another spell’s cast in the area.”

Miyuki frowned slightly.

“If it turns out to be the team captain, you won’t have anywhere to run or hide. Will you be alright?”

“That’s why I was thinking about having Masumi take over the dangerous role of princess general in my place.”

Miyuki, Manatsu, and Izumiko’s eyes went wide. Izumiko was the one to speak up.

“What?! Masumi’s going to do it?”

“Masumi likes these sorts of things.”

Masumi nodded enthusiastically.

“I’ll get in the middle of everything.”

Manatsu winced.

“Is being the princess general really okay with you, Masumi?”

“I can do it.”

“Masumi could even be Tabi, our horse,” Mayura seconded. “If he goes in my place, it wouldn’t be too much to ask though.”

“I guess you’re right…”

“Don’t say no, Manatsu. I’m not refusing to do it,” Masumi said.

Manatsu was silent for a bit after Masumi spoke but then he said, “But is it really okay with you?”

Masumi grinned.

“I’m with you and Mayura.”

“Are you not alright with this, Manatsu?” Mayura asked quickly.

“I never said I wasn’t,” Manatsu said. There was a complicated expression on his face.

“It’s pretty clear that Manatsu isn’t very happy about this. Do you know what he’s worried about?” Izumiko asked Mayura once they had separated from the boys and were on the path back to the girls’ dorm.

“I know, but we can let it go,” Mayura replied. “Masumi is always so connected with Manatsu. He has to let him be a little more connected to me.”

Izumiko gave a nod of understanding. However, her feeling of unease wouldn’t go away.  

…Masumi said there’s a gap between them.

She couldn’t help but wonder if there was some sort of discordance beginning to form between the triplets.

Keep reading!