❝If you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets.❞
—Haruki Murakami
Alexander titled this poem Bozh'ia Korovka. I read it to myself. I love it.
Ladybirds, ever divine,
need only flowers to exist.
And longing hearts
need only ladybirds.
If the world were to fall,
ladybirds have flowers.
If the world were to fall,
longing hearts have ladybirds.
Where are the flowers?
Where are the ladybirds?
Where are you?
Come back.
"What are they sayin'?"
John turns up the radio, waking me up from my minor daze of awe the wide, snowy flatlands left me in. I lean away from the window, my forehead cold from pressing against the frozen glass, and listen to the report being made.
I frown, and when the report finishes, I summarize for John.
"China is still bombing Japan, and not a single Japanese plane can even get near China. After the Japanese submarine sank one of the Filipino vessels yesterday, the Filipino president has been talking to Nikolai Ivanovich to formally join on the side of the Voynas."
John grimaces. "With China to the West, the Philippines to the South, and Vietnam close by, Japan is absolutely fucked."
"Maybe," I pout. "Japan's Navy is one of the strongest-"
"What else was said?"
I bite my lip. "Well, the AC has been driven all the way out of Ukraine and back to the Poland border. They tried to initiate a rear attack on the soldiers there fighting the Germans. It didn't work. They went around to rejoin the Germans."
"Ukraine is lost," John says. "There's no hope in gettin' it back."
"Ukraine is the reason why-"
"Was that it?"
I piece back the Ukrainian words in my memory, form them into Russian sentences, then speak them in English dialect.
"With Ukraine secure, Nikolai Ivanovich is building up his forces for a full invasion of Belarus. With the insufficient military of Belarus, it's likely to go down very easily unless any of the Allied countries send in more troops."
"That's unlikely... Huh, Belarus was the only ally we had from all the former Soviet countries, and now it's goin' to get fucked."
"Russian troops are deployed in many locations. That might weaken..." I trail off, realizing my forced optimism isn't helping John. I clear my throat and continue my reporting. "Ukraine is secured. Belarus is in danger. The way is being paved for the USSR to reunite... But no nukes have been dropped yet. Those are the relevant points, John."
Why try to act like it's okay? It won't change the fact that my actions directly caused all of this.
June 23, 2063.
It's been five days since the lock on the gates to hell has been removed. The world is waiting for the Devil to kick the door open and set the Earth on fire.
That's five days with John. Five days of his obvious resentment. Five days of biding my time. Five days of deliberating whether this is euphoria or torture.
Considering the current state of the war, I suppose it's a good thing that John and I will officially be out of Ukraine by tomorrow. Out of Ukraine and in Belarus... This is the detour we had to take, and while it's a risky move, we have a plan to slip into the country without being caught.
Hopefully, we'll be out of Belarus before the Russian troops start pulling in.
As for now...
"The reports have been scattered, short, and infrequent," John comments softly, perhaps to himself, but hoping I'd catch on and continue the conversation anyway.
"Yes, they have," I agree plainly.
John carefully swerves to dodge a dead animal on the road. "Ah... Have any idea why that may be?"
I perk my head up. It's obvious to anyone knowledgeable of the Russian pattern of totalitarianism, but John isn't, is he?
"The Russian government has a chokehold on Ukrainian media and news. They will restrict what is said if they can. A simple exercise of control over the people... However many people are left in Ukraine."
John takes a moment to comprehend this, then he shakes his head. "I don't... I don't get how a country could get so shitty... how a government could get so corrupt, in just twenty-five years."
I hum at this remark. "You know, people often say that these things take time. For Russia, it happened overnight."
The Ocelot slows down as John focuses his attention more on my words than the road. "How did... How did it get that way?"
I scoff, not at him, but at the sadistic thoughts that cross my mind. "Well, how far back do you want me to go?"
John furrows his brows, produces a cigar, and lights it carefully. "However far back you need to."
I brush back a loose strand of hair; my wrists have long since stopped hurting and I've assimilated to the tight tension of my restraints. Light snow has begun to fall, but the clouds that loom in the distance suggest that light snow is all we'll get for a while. Moving further North only brings drier air and colder temperatures, but we deal with it the best we can.
"Hmm... You don't know of the New Russian Revolution, do you?"
John glances at me from the mirror. "Not much. I know it's what started the first wave of Russian refugees in America, but that's the extent of my knowledge."
"I see," I blink slowly, my thoughts lagging while my memories race. "Well, before the Russian government was as it is today, there was a different government. One that prioritized making alliances in the West, specifically, America. One that prioritized denuclearization and disarmament of its own military. One that didn't listen to the cries of disagreement from the people over their ass-kissing..."
John draws from his cigar. "So... the people took things into their own hands?"
"It took a while to build up the support, but yes, eventually, an unnamed rebel force with a crippling size and support overthrew that government. Now, these Rebels had different plans for Russia, the main vision being the reunification of the Soviet Union. Soviet-style policy was enacted. One-party state. Government surveillance. Bulking the military. Nuclear experimentation. One of the main leaders of the Rebels, Anatoly Ivanovich, took on the role of President after the previous one was publically executed."
"Replacin' one king with another," John murmurs.
"It all happened so quick, really... To protect what was created, this new government knew it had to control its people. Control is the most important thing. Communication and information consumption and education and... No one had a choice in where they landed after the Revolution. That was decided for them by the very people who promised them freedom."
"You were alive when all of this was happenin'," John whispers.
"Yes, well," I chuckled sadly, "I was still a newborn."
"But..." John trails off as if hesitating to say what's on his mind. He takes in a soft breath, then he continues. "Where did it land you?"
Cold hands crush my heart. The steel knife in my side twists. John asked, as cloaked as it was, for my story. My story.
The thought of telling John something that I've spent years hiding from him... It's daunting. I often laid awake wondering how he'd react to my history, the worst possible scenarios coming to mind. But now...
John knows I'm not who I said I was. But he still doesn't know who I am.
I'm willing to tell him. He deserves to know.
"I never-"
"Don't."
I bite my tongue when John cuts me off, his eyes suddenly sternly focused back on the road, no longer flickering to meet my gaze. His expression changed from one of innocent curiosity to one of indifference.
"John-"
"Forget what I asked," John says curtly. "I don't want to hear any more bullshit from you. I've heard enough. You're not worth listenin' to."
My desert of a throat tightens. I should have seen that coming, but still... "But John-"
"Don't argue it, (Y/N)." John's tone is as disdainful as his fixed stare on the dirt path we roll along. "My doubt has a strong basis."
He's right. The last time I told him my "story", it was fake, and I swore to him it was real. To him, lying is in my blood. It's effortless and efficient.
So I make no argument against him. Whether or not he chooses to hear me out or not won't change my situation.
Still, a few more words slip my lips before I have the sense to shut up.
"So you don't mind, do you...? I know so much about you, John. You don't feel amiss knowing that you don't know me?"
John's spine stiffens as if chilled by my innocent inquiry. His grip on the wheel tightens, but he grants me no such luxury of meeting his lovely eyes with mine.
"I know you're a liar, and that's enough to deter me from wantin' to know anythin' else." Under his breath, he adds this: "And I know you were damn close to Nikolai Ivanovich."
He didn't mean for me to hear, but I did anyway. And I can't let him get away with whatever assumptions he may have about Nikolai and me. If John is going to mention someone as vile in my memory as Nikolai, he might as well get a glimpse of what Nikolai is like beyond his model smile and handsome face.
"Do you think I enjoyed being with Nikolai?"
John, now more bitter, rolls his eyes. "Sure sounds like it, callin' him by his name any everythin'."
"No one chooses to stay in hell," I murmur. "No one enjoys the company of the Devil. He traps you. He taunts you. He tortures you."
John's eyes flicker with trouble; he's never considered that I could hate Nikolai...
"Do you know what hematolagnia is?" I coo.
John shakes his head half-heartedly.
"I had to learn the hard way," I say, "that the Devil wanted to scar me so I never forget his heat. I had to learn the hard way that the Devil enjoys hurting me. I had to learn the hard way that the Devil doesn't know mercy or love. No matter what the Devil says."
♙♟♙♟♙
Replacing a tire without the proper tools is a daunting challenge, but John insisted he could do it. It's been thirty minutes. No progress has been made. John has been cursing up a storm. But the warmth in my heart, despite the bite of the cold, brings me a sense of tranquility.
June 24, 2063.
With the Belarus border just a few dozen miles ahead, we were elated at the prospect of escaping Ukraine. We have been on the lookout for an abandoned car; it'll be impossible to sneak through Belarus in a military vehicle, even if it is of American manufacturing. We were lucky enough to find an abandoned sedan on the side of an opposite road with its key on the driver seat (John rushed through a snowy and rocky patch of land to get to it faster).
We were unlucky because the sedan had two busted tires, but we were lucky because it had two spare tires (one in the trunk and the other on a hitch).
"I'll fix this up," John said, sounding quite like the self-sufficient southern man.
"Should I help?"
"I don't need anyone holdin' a flashlight, and frankly, that's all I trust you with, so no," John scoffed. "Go sit somewhere and wait."
I wanted to argue, but I set my pride aside, grabbed Alexander's journal, and found a place off the road to lay and stare at the sky as it smoothly transitioned through a palette of colors, as if there were some grand artisan of the heavens using the sky as their canvas.
After reading another poem, I place the journal on my chest, sighing out a cloudy breath. I've been out for so long that the cold doesn't nip my skin or burn my cheeks anymore. In fact, it's quite serene. Well, almost...
"Fuckin' hell, this goddamn lug nut bullshit."
I peer over to the car across the road, shrugging when I see John struggling; he put this on himself, so my sympathy is limited.
But as John's swearing gets out of hand, I shoot a glare in his direction.
"You're bothering the wild animals, John."
He looks over his shoulder to return the glare. "Does it look like I give a shit?"
My brows furrow. "Well, you're bothering me."
John turns to face me fully, his cheeks reddened by the weather and the labor. "Botherin' you? While you laze 'round?"
"Hey, you said you didn't want my help."
He scoffs and straightens up on his feet, rolling out his shoulders and stretching his arm. "This ain't goin' to fuckin' work."
I pout. "Maybe take a break and you'll figure something out."
My male counterpart scoffs again as if amused by my suggestion, but a moment later, he steps away from the car and returns to the Ocelot, leaning against the side with his arms crossed.
I observe him for a moment before resting my head in the snow again. This silence is nice, albeit slightly awkward. I enjoy it while it endures, and venture when it's broken.
"What're you lookin' at?"
I bat my lashes and glance at John. "Hmm?"
He tilts his head up to the sky. "What's up there?"
"Oh, nothing," I shake my head, feeling silly all of a sudden. "It's just that... Alexander loved the winter sky, but he loved the summer sky as well."
An agitated grimace crosses John's face at the mention of Alexander.
"I'm sorry, John. I was reminded of him now, as I stare up there." I raise my tied hands to the heavens, my fingers twisting the spider thread that connects me to it. "It's magnificent, don't you think?"
John fixates his attention on the sky once more, his lip tugging up in confusion. "How?"
As it is now, with its pale pink streaks shrouded behind scattered clouds, the orange sun veiled by those thick puffs, it isn't particularly stimulating. But it is this exact appearance that Alexander was mystified by.
"Such a minor beauty is rare here and in Russia," I softly speak. "Such harsh weather conditions make that so. But in the rare occasions that such a sky revealed itself, it was a sacred moment to him... I think it reminded Alexander much of himself."
A lie, although a minor one. The sky reminded him of me. He's told me quite often.
John considers this for a moment, then he sighs. "Alrigh', sure."
To my interest, John swings his rifle off his shoulder, tossing it onto the driver's seat from the opened door. He goes through his bag for a moment, then he steps away. I pretend not to notice John making his way to me, but I can't stop my eyes from wandering to him as he sits beside me.
"Can't believe you're layin' in the snow so casually," he says with a shudder.
"It's not too cold," I whisper, fighting to not stare at him. This proximity, with the lack of a threatening air, is familiar.
"I didn't expect it to snow all day yesterday. S'ppose it's good that it was a light snow."
In my battle to restrict my hopeful thoughts (incited by John's nonchalant tone), my mind searches for something — anything to say. It comes up with something, alright.
"Porosha."
I can sense John's settle on my sprawled form before echoing me. "Porosha?"
"It... it's a Russian word. It's what we call a fresh, untouched layer of smooth snow. There's so much of it, the word just came to mind."
"Huh," John clicks his tongue. "Porosha... Y'know, spendin' so much time in Ukraine made me miss summers that actually felt like summer and not like winter's sequel."
The mere composure of his voice nearly sends me off the edge; to hear him lack the animosity it had before is a privilege my heart yearns for, no matter how temporary it is.
"There used to be warm summers in Ukraine and Russia," I say. "I don't know what happened..."
"I can't imagine this place without snow."
"Do you miss Charleston?"
"Yeah... Even the heatwaves are better than this cold."
I pout. "Well, it'll only get colder the further North we go, John."
John peers at me, and upon noticing the journal on my chest, he raised a puzzled brow. "I always see you readin' that thing. What is it?"
The question encourages me to sit up, a topic of interest to me finally reached. "This? This is Alexander's journal."
"Journal?" John parrots.
"Not a recollection of his every day," I clarify. "But it's filled with other writings... He left it for me. I've read through it countless times."
A silence follows my speech, John turning away with a troubled expression.
I frown. "I... I take it you don't like thinking about Alexander. I take it you'd prefer if I didn't mention him."
John nods in response, his gaze still fixed elsewhere.
I set Alexander's journal beside me as I decide on a new topic of discussion, refusing to let our most civil conversation end so quickly.
"Can I... Can I tell you a story?"
To my excitement, John's interest is piqued and he looks at me. "A story?"
"A story of something that happened to me about two weeks after arriving in Russia. I had awakened one morning, and upon opening the door to leave my room, I saw a single potted flower had been left at the foot of it. There was no note or card. Just a black pot with the most magnificent pink flower I've ever seen. The color was so pleasing to the eye. The petals overlapped in such a mesmerizing pattern. The perfume was exquisite."
"It sounds beautiful."
A sad chuckle leaves my mouth. "I initially despised the flower."
John tilts his head. "I... I remember you lovin' flowers."
"I was so low in my sorrow that all I felt was resentment to the beautiful life. I brought the pot inside my room, placed it by a window where I could see it every day, and deprived it of all water."
"Why?"
I drop my head as I remember my motives, shuddering at my memory.
"I wanted to watch it die, John. I wanted to watch the soil dry, the stems thin, and the pale pink petals shrivel and drop... I wanted to watch it die because it was better than watching myself die; I could forget that I was."
A troubled expression crosses John's face; perhaps he's realizing that I'm admitting something to him that has reached the ears of hardly another soul.
"I got so frustrated because, even as day after day passed, the flower never showed any sign of wilting. It thrived, somehow. I don't know why. I don't think anyone else in the Palace could be watering them. It just... lived."
"What did you do?"
A sad smile tugs at my lip. "I found a pair of scissors and brought it to where the bud met the stem. I figured that, if it didn't die, then I would kill it... I was sure that would somehow make everything okay."
John's gaze doesn't leave me for a moment. I didn't expect him to care so much for such a minor anecdote of mine, but the fact that he does... it does something extraordinary to my heart.
"The blades were so dangerously close to meeting again," I recall. "I could have done it. I nearly did... But then I recognized the type of flower."
"Recognized...?"
"Lyuivy. They only grow in Russia and are very rare. I've only seen them in old, faded books, but there was no doubt in my mind that it was a Lyuivy."
"So what then?"
I trace a pattern in the snow. "There's a meaning behind lyuivy. During the New Russian Revolution, rebels would search for a single lyuivy in the wilderness to send to their loved ones back home to let them know they are still alive. That they are alive and will come home no matter what."
My breaths are so pleasantly slow, my deep heart filling the cavern of my chest with swooning sound, making up for the silence of my counterpart. The frigid snow against my hands does nothing to me. What wonderful thoughts cross my mind any time I recall those flowers.
"(Y/N)?"
The smile on my face is no longer one of self-pity, but sincere bliss.
"It meant everything to me, somehow. Because I was sure — am sure — I know why I was given those flowers."
John blinks; I could almost swear he's closer to me than he was before this conversation started, even if just a little.
"I took those flowers to the Winter Palace's greenhouse where it was warm and placed it among the other flowers, trusting the florist to care for it. I would check every few days. Read through Alexander's journal beside it. Admire it as it only grew more and more beautiful. And one day," I scoot closer to John, not completely aware that I did, "I found a ladybird on the leaf of the lyuivy."
"A ladybird?" John tilts his head. "You mean... a ladybug?"
I nod, recalling the minor name difference in our tongues. "I've never seen a ladybird in Russia before, not even in the greenhouse. But there was one before my very eyes, bright red with seven black spots. It all felt so... perfect. Somehow. Watching something die was unnecessary. I just needed to see something live. That was enough."
Those hazel eyes of his are ever wide, ever intrigued, and ever magnificent. I could almost delude myself into believing that there is a shimmer of the affection that has since died. It's delightful, even if it's not real. Just as most things are.
"That's... that's a nice story, (Y/N)," John breathes.
"It's not a particularly spectacular story for the masses," I admitted shyly, "so I thank you for listening."
A ghost of a grin (perhaps even slighter) appears on John's face.
"I wish I had a story to tell you, but all that I've experienced for the past few months are shitty war stuff." John sighs. "Still, it's nice to hear somethin' that ain't about the war."
There is a gap of a moment, the sudden gravity so damn reminiscent of that which would pull us into a kiss. But we won't because there is no viable love.
"Maybe you could tell me about Lafayette."
The name rolls of my tongue with venom; I haven't spoken it in years, purposefully.
"Lafayette? That bitch?" John scoffs.
"I know enough of everything he's been doing in America," I say, recalling his famous ascent in status after my bombing (he's the most trusted advisor to Washington). "Is there anything beyond that?"
"The fucker flashes his battle scars like their bullet points of why he's superior," John growls. "He's just as ineffective as ever."
"That's good," I say.
"He's gained a lot of his status just by talkin' shit 'bout you," John adds somewhat shyly.
"Hmm. He would take advantage of that, wouldn't he?" I giggle sadly. "You could have too... So have you?"
John seems taken back by the question, but he's ready with a clear answer anyway.
"No... It doesn't feel right to do."
I nod to show my understanding, although my understanding is very limited. What doesn't feel right? Slandering someone who can't defend themselves? Defaming the name of his former lover?
"You're far nobler than Lafayette then. I always thought so." A shy blush tints my cheeks. "It's far more than I can say for myself... I envy you in that regard, John."
John's gaze grows.
"R-Really?"
He's more surprised than I thought.
"Really," I nod. "I've told you a lot of how wonderful I think you are, John. Although, I understand why you might doubt everything I said. But, for what it's worth, I still see you as an extraordinary man."
There is a flash of unknowing in his eyes, seemingly unaware of how to respond to my kind words or small confession. He sits up taller as he thinks, then turns to me again with his answer.
"Thank you."
Those two words are harmonious notes in my mind, and my heart begs for him to continue — to turn that harmony into a divine symphony that only he and I know and only he and I share.
But no music follows. Only silence.
Not even the wind blows now. We are in a vacuum of what was once love, all long since dissolved. And while I doubt he wishes to revive it, there's nothing I want more at this moment than his hand laced with mine.
"I... I should get back to the car," John says. "The sun is settin' and it'll be a bitch tryin' to make any repairs in the dark."
"Oh... You don't need my help?"
"Nah," John stands to his feet and waved a dismissive hand before brushing snow off his pants. "You stay here and take it easy."
"Alright."
Before he leaves, John pulls something out of his pocket and drops it awkwardly in my lap.
"Ah, that's for you... I planned to give it to you later, but I figured I might as well now."
With that, John turns away, and I observe him as he strides back towards the car. It's all I can do to resist the urge to call out for him and beg for him to hold me close. What I wouldn't give for such a privilege...
I subdue this urge by taking what John gave me in both my hands, a sudden and sharp jolt impairing my heart when I see a Ukrainian chocolate bar.
Chocolate? I had been murmuring my chocolate cravings to myself during our long drives. Is this coincidental, or had John been listening to my whispered words?
I smile, my cheeks red with delight. This is wonderful.
Nibbling on the rich chocolate and enjoying the way it melts on my tongue, I grab Alexander's journal again and read its content, but for the first time in an eternity, the inked words can't stop my thoughts from drifting.
This buzzing of my heart is so hopeful that my brain thinks it's foolish.
Much time passes before John finally succeeds with the tires. By then, the sun is nearly gone and I had been reading Alexander's journal by memory.
I knew he finished, though, because of his glee.
"Fuck yes!"
I sat up, gazing over where he stood with his fist in the air.
"Did it work?"
John turned to me, his adrenaline making him unaware of the smile he gave me. "Yeah! I knew it would!"
That joyous tone of his has my heart swooning. The fact that it's unintentional makes it all the more euphoric.
"We can finally get going then?"
"Yes, finally!" John is far too in his head to know what he's doing.
John starts transferring all our stuff from the Ocelot into the car. Then he approaches to (shockingly) help me get on my feet.
The contact of his hand on my arm, while lacking all romantic intention, has my heart doing backflips.
And when I do get pulled to my feet, there is a momentary pause between us — a second we freeze in position. At that moment, our proximity to one another was intoxicating. Our chests so close, John's eyes locked with mine, his grin having yet to fade.
I stole that moment to believe that things were as lovely as they once were, and that second of belief was enough to soften the blow when John pulled away.
"Let's get goin' then," John says, already making his way to the car. "The sooner we are out of Ukraine the better."
With Alexander's journal under my arm, I trail behind.
As I am about to get into the backseat, however, John stops me.
"Hey, take the passenger seat."
I tilt my head; did I hear that right?
"W-Why?"
John pops open the driver's seat for himself before responding.
"Our stuff is in the backseat."
He vanishes into the car, and while I weigh his words, I look through the window and into the backseat. He's right, our stuff is in the back. But despite that, there is plenty of space for me to sit.
It couldn't be that John wants me to take the passenger seat, could it?
Whatever the reason may be, I won't waste the opportunity to sit in the front. So with my eyes shyly downcast, I enter into the passenger seat, closing the door after.
John sticks the keys into the ignition, and with a twist, the car purrs awake.
"Things will be smoother now," John says in a rare instance of optimism. "Belarus will be far easier to go through."
"Yes," I agree, not completely aware of what he means or what leads him to whatever conclusion he made. "I think it will be, as long as we stay under the radar."
As the car starts its movement, I set Alexander's journal open on my lap and continue reading.
I didn't expect today to go as it did, but John's change in mood is contagious.
I want to believe that something changed, even if it didn't.
Well, I know at least one thing is different: John's rifle is in the backseat with his bag and not over his shoulder as it usually is.
He's letting his guard down, even if just a little. Is he finally trusting that I'm not a threat? This comes after him trusting that I won't run away, which he put to the test when he left me on my own while he fixed up the car.
It's magnificent, and soon enough, Ukraine and the worst of the war will be behind us.
♙♟♙♟♙
Once we safely slipped into Belarus and got on the most vacant road that leads East, I allowed myself a moment of peace, which unintentionally turned into a slumber.
In my dream, I'm met yet again with that long road of snow and terrible crushing of my chest, squeezing every last particle of air from my freezing lungs.
I've thought time and time again, that if I knew that beach would turn to this frozen landscape, I'd take the sand any day.
My fingers are so terribly numb, the thick snow a far more precarious tread than the sand ever was. I'm hurt. Oh so hurt.
That voice demands I turn around, and as I always do, I obey when the pain becomes unbearable. And as the case always has been, I wake up at this moment.
The warmth that I'm greeted within my subconscious state is pleasant, and so dearly missed.
Through the grey darkness of late-night, I straighten up in my seat and focus my vision.
Ah, yes... I'm in the passenger seat of a car, John not that far beside me no doubt. A look out the window confirms that the car is parked on the side of a vacant road in a rural area, with small houses in the far distance. The strains of light just peeking its tail over the horizon suggests that sunrise is maybe an hour or so away.
I'm vaguely aware of the radio playing a quiet news report, but I pay it no immediate mind.
How long have I been asleep?
As I try to rub my eyes, I am promptly reminded of my tied wrists. Ah...
I rub my eyes before gazing over where I know John will be, and when my eyes do find him, I'm met with quite the extraordinary sight.
John, ever so casual and relaxed in his seat, is holding a small sketchbook against the side of the steering wheel, his other hand making detailed and calculated strokes with a pen against its page.
John's brows are furrowed, his eyes stern with spectacular concentration, and his tongue set carefully between his gnawing teeth.
I squint my eyes through the dark, barely making out a realistic sketch of an old tree further down the road. By the ink smudges on his tempting hands, I can assume he's been drawing for a while now. Of what, I wonder.
Oh, how I wish he would grant me his skilled gaze.
John has yet to notice that I am awake, so I do him a favor by making myself known.
"You're as talented as I remember, John."
My voice must have been unintentionally sharp compared to the steady hum of the radio, causing a small jump on John's part. He grips his pen tightly as he looks at me, his shoulders relaxing when his eyes meet mine.
"Ah... You're awake." He sets his sketchbook in his lap, the pen keeping his page and allowing him to rub his neck. "Er, how long have you been up?"
Sensing he's somewhat embarrassed (although I can't imagine why) I try to reassure him.
"Just a minute... How long have I been asleep?"
"Couple hours," John says.
"Sorry," I pout. "I didn't mean to drift off."
"I-It's fine," John says, taken back by my apology. "You ought to sleep. We're in Belarus now and it's much safer."
"I suppose so, but I could have helped you navigate or report the news or-"
"I'm not too worried about that righ' now. It's alrigh', really. You probably needed it."
I blink, then take notice of the warmth of the car. That's new.
"You're running the heat?" I ask shyly.
"Yeah."
"Why? Shouldn't we be preserving gas?"
"You're righ', but while you were asleep, you were shiverin'," John says. I swear I detect the slightest reddening of his cheeks. "I ran the heat to keep you warm."
Not only is the car warm, but my cheeks are as well.
In a desperate attempt to distract myself, I bring the conversation back to him.
"Do you still draw a lot?"
If he's surprised by my genuine interest, he doesn't show it.
"Not as much as I used to..."
That sounds more like a confession than an assertion. My brows knit together as my lips pull into a pout.
"I see... I thought you loved drawing."
John avoids eye contact, digging into his pocket for his cigar case and producing one of the sticks. "I do... I think I do. It's just not as easy as it used to be."
"I think you're still good," I say, motioning to his sketch with both hands.
"It's not hard skill-wise," John clarifies with a hint of hesitation. "It's the memories that come back with it that make it tough."
Oh... Memories.
God, there's no reason for him to elaborate; I understand what he means perfectly well, but there's a part of me that yearns to hear for him to acknowledge these memories.
To validate that they happened. They weren't just a blissful imagination.
"Memories of us, John?"
There is a silence from him, filled by the murmurs of the radio. He fixes his gaze on the tree he was drawing, his eyes filled with conflict as he deliberates his next words.
"Y'know, (Y/N)... you were my favorite thing to draw."
The throb of my heart is as frightened as it is hopeful. For John to say that means far more between us than between any other; a part of an unspoken language we've developed.
"Truly?"
"Truly," he repeats and nods. He lights his cigar. I wonder how much fluid his lighter has left. He draws a breath from the cigar and exhales a smokey puff. "Pretty sad, huh? I've drawn so much in my life, and nothin' compares to drawin' you. I don't get it..."
John leans back, his head tilting back to the headrest as a soft breath escapes his lips. With his eyes still set in the distance, he seems to forget that I'm here, speaking softly, as if what he said was to himself.
"No matter how simple or complicated the piece. It was all so amazin', you know? The mere privilege of bein' able to sketch someone so beautiful got my heart goin'. To feel a certain way for you, and thinkin' you felt the same..."
"John..."
"It was the closest damn thing to heaven I've ever experienced. Probably the closest I'll ever experience."
I bow my head. "I see..."
"So when you — the you I knew — was taken away, holdin' a pen became somethin' else. I couldn't draw anythin' without thinkin' 'bout how dull it was in comparison to you. I tried to stop drawin' 'cause it just reminded me of how close I was to perfect heaven, and how far I fell from it."
The beating of my heart spells out shame. "I'm... I'm so sorry."
"I almost burned all the pictures I've ever made of you."
My eyes widen and I lean closer to him. "W-What?"
"I had so many all over. They were so damn important to me. But then when I found out I've been drawin' someone who doesn't really exist... I couldn't bear lookin' at those drawin's. They were just momentums of my fuckin' foolishness. My goddamn blindness. My loneliness."
My lips part, but no words reach my tongue. Loneliness? I've considered what John felt toward me countless times during my time in Russia. Distress. Betrayal. Animosity. But never loneliness.
John stirs to life again, sighing and shaking his head.
"I wanted to burn the drawin's of you to forget the heaven I knew — the happiness I inked into paper. That way, once all the drawin's were gone, I couldn't desire it anymore. I couldn't want you."
"Did-" I swallow the lump in my throat, "Did you?"
I hold my breath while waiting for a response. John considers it for a moment as if forgetting what he did, but his response comes soon enough.
"No... No, I didn't, (Y/N). I didn't because I wanted to keep those memories of happiness, even if they made me sad lookin' back at it. I figured that believin' there was a heaven is better than forgettin' what it felt like. And..."
My heart skips a thousand beats at once when John suddenly locks his hazel eyes with mine, those magnificent golden flecks making my lungs momentarily fail.
"God forbid I forget you, (Y/N)."
I clutch the end of my coat. I understand that sentiment all too well, and to hear those words leave John's mouth, with my name stitched to the end, leaves my head spinning.
I resist the urge to reach out to one of his hands with both of mine.
"John, I'm-"
"Sorry," he murmurs, a troubled curve of his lip. He takes another puff of his cigar. "I didn't mean to say as much as I did. I know you don't care."
That's a kick to the stomach.
"I- I do care."
John tilts his head, his grin ever sadder. "It's okay, you don't have to pretend to. I don't expect you to."
He's wrong! It means everything to me that he can speak to me like he did years before.
How I wish I were as good with words as Alexander. Now, when it matters so much, my entire vocabulary in both languages fails. His eyes render me utterly paralyzed. I'm at his mercy, yes. But it's far more emotional than physical.
John, realizing my silence is an indication of defeat, he closes his sketchbook and sets it on top of the dashboard.
"When the sun gets a bit higher in the sky, I'll keep drivin'... Try to get some more sleep, alrigh'?"
My lashes flutter as if trying to translate my confusion by its beats. I swallow, and at last find my words, although they are nothing special.
"You should sleep too, John."
He nods his understanding, although the flicker of conflict in his eyes suggests he doesn't know why I would express concern for him. Another dragon-like smoke escapes his lips.
"I'm fine for now."
That same gravity between us returns. So damn strong and persistent. John feels it as well. It's reflected in the clenching of his jaw and the dilation of his pupils.
It's nice, isn't it?
John leans towards me, and for a fleeting moment, I thought he would let go of all my unforgivable sins and grant me the exquisite pleasure of his lips. Instead, his hands reach to my wrists.
His fingers fumbled with the restraint.
"J-John?"
And in a moment, the taut fabric that held my hands sorely close is removed, leaving nothing but temporary marks on my skin.
"There," John breathes.
I rub my wrists. "I... I don't understand. Why did you do that?"
John tosses the fabric with his sketchbook, turning his head away from me as if hoping to hide his existence.
"I can't bear to see you like that, (Y/N)."
He can't bear to...
Does his heart feel as warm as mine? Is that why he untied me?
There is a confession on the tip of my tongue, but the conversation seems to have closed, and I don't have the courage to start again.
I relax into my seat, my hands feeling somehow lost now that I can move them wherever. I settle by hugging myself, leaning my temple against the window and slowing my breath.
This heaven John spoke of... He says he only found it with me. He's willing to tell me that, even after everything that has happened. I was that great of an impact. He's called me an angel before.
I don't have to think that hard to know I resonate with his sentiment. He was my heaven. Then my sins were discovered. Our love was devastated. It's long gone. But I hold onto the love we had. I cherished it while I had it. I cherished him.
God forbid I forget him.