Chapter Text
"I wanted you to know I've learned to live without it, and even though it's colder now, I no longer feel surrounded. And you never listened to me, that's the thing I tell the others, I was your harlequin bride, you were my undercover lover- but no."
"No! Read it again. From the mistake." A large hand came down swiftly, whacking at the nape of his neck.
He flinched, biting into his tongue. Little good came from mouthing back. "A scoundrel plots evil, and on their lips it is like a scorching fire. A p-perverse person stirs up conflict, and a gossip separates close friends. A violent person entices their neigh-neighbor, and leads them down a path that is not good. Whoever winks with their eye is plotting perv-perversity, whoever purses their lips is bent on evil. Gray hair is a... a..." He felt panic rise in his chest.
Another slap, this time to his cheek. "I will make you start this book over, so help me God. Go read it again, get out of my sight. Tomorrow, you'll do better." Sharp eyes burned into his skin.
Without another noise, he ran to his room, taking the opportunity to bury himself under his blankets. His stomach growled, but that was nothing compared to what he knew would come if he had the audacity to ask for a meal after disappointing his father like that. Aleksandr's fingers traced over the spine of his bible, and he felt his chest grow heavy. The thin pages turned like molasses in his hands, the words clinging to his skin like tape, unpleasant and impossible to get off. His little body curled up in bed, reading the same page over and over, the same passages, trying to commit them all to memory. He was starting to hate this book. Hushed whispers of his mother and father could be heard from the kitchen. Moreso his mother trying to keep her voice down.
"He's doing his best, he's just a child." She chided, sounding somewhat withdrawn.
The sound of a glass being poured just audible behind his door. It wasn't the first drink his father had in the few hours he'd been home. "Just a child? He's twelve- he can read a damn book."
"I know, but-"
"He's twelve," his father said again, emphasizing it like some grand age of revelation, "he can read the good book, he can learn how to fix the house, and maybe when he grows up he can finally contribute something useful to this damn family."
"Aleksandr is useful now, he's smart as a tack and he's kind-"
"He's soft. He's small and he's soft and he's weak. You look him in those cow eyes and tell me he's gonna be a proper man when he grows up." His father scoffed, a glass could be heard getting smacked down onto the counter. "He's a queer little thing and if he can't get a normal job like everyone else, then God help him, because I've tried. Hell, enlistment might kill the damn boy."
His mother tutted, the rustling of paper bags could be heard as she worried herself around the kitchen. "Don't say that, he's... he's just sickly, he'll grow out of it and he'll be a good man, he just... Sasha will get his head on straight, it just takes time."
"He's been sickly since he was born, and we've prayed, and he's prayed, and we've tried medicine, and he got better. That isn't sickly, that's faggot behavior-"
"That's enough!" His mother's shrill tone echoed. "Stop calling-"
"Calling him gay?" His father cut her off, louder. Aleksandr pulled his knobby little knees to his chest, sighing. Then, "You tell me what he is then, hm? He only plays with the girls at school, he won't play sports, his arms are practically twigs. He's timid and pidgeon toed and he cries all the god damned time! He's a fucking sissy, and I'm not having that in this fucking house! If he can't grow up and be a real man, he'll certainly grow up to know the bible. If he won't marry a fucking woman, he'll marry the fucking church. Anything else will be over his dead body, not mine." His father growled loudly, slamming open the back door into the yard. He always wanted to drink out by the shed when Aleksandr disappointed him.
Hot tears welled up in his eyes, and he scrubbed them away furiously, the gnawing of hunger and shame burning through his stomach. The young boy hated feeling like a failure, hated the way it caused his chest to twist and tug at some nameless void. And he hated his father, that large, loud, angry beast of a man who only had hands cruel enough for him. Aleksandr didn't actually know what his father sounded like, really. The man only ever yelled at him, or taunted him; his jeers and rage contorting his voice into almost cartoonish impressions of himself. And he hated his mother. For allowing this treatment, for letting her husband walk all over and bully their child. She would always turn her gaze when punishment was inflicted, when his voice shook the window panes, and after every incident she would just take his little hands and brush his hair out of his face and wipe the snot from his nose and push him outside to go play, or to his room to rest. It didn't matter if the welts made his hands too tender to grasp at the swing set, or the bruises made it impossible for him to lay down.
Most of all, Aleksandr hated God. The thing that never answered him, only sat and listened in silence. Some sort of ethereal being that was supposedly all knowing, and all loving. But what did God know, if that large skyward eye turned itself blind at his cuts, at his tears? What did God love, if He knew of these cuts, these tears, and did nothing anyways? He remembered the first time he prayed, consciously. He was five, and he prayed his dad would get a raise at work. A classmate got a new stationary set that she carried with her everywhere, soft and smelling of clean, new sheets of blue and green paper to draw on. When his father got a promotion, Aleksandr asked for the same stationary set. That evening, he had to sleep uncomfortably on his stomach because his thighs and back were torn up by his father's belt. For being greedy. For being perverted, asking for "girl's things". His mother just shook her head and sighed at his crying, shushing him disengenuously.
The sound came rushing back in all at once. Clinking of glass on metal, the rusty cacophony of wheels on carts, the buzzing of the florescent lights above them. Vera was looking at him with those strange eyes again, like she was looking clean through him and seeing him for the first time all at once. Her head was tilted, blonde curls bound up in a playfully frizzy little bun. Her hands seemed frozen awkwardly, one held a pack of pens, the other a small list of items they needed for the house. His house. Their house. Their new, old, gifted, abandoned house. Aleksandr felt himself swallow once, then again, his spit thick and grainy like he had a mouthful of dirt. An ache in his hands had built up, and he looked down to where they gripped at the handle of the shopping cart- knuckles white, fingers turning red, a tingling feeling in his wrists. He dragged bleary blue eyes back to the shelf he was gazing at before, and found himself looking at a little pack of stationary.
"Uh." His voice sounded far away as he reached a hand up to rub at his chin, stubble scratching back, grounding him a fraction of an inch. He could feel his hair sticking to his forehead. He was sweating. "What?"
She sighed, her face softening with patience. It irked him. "I asked what brand to get? I know you liked the last ones we got, but they got all gunky and dried out too quick."
"Then get the ones you're holding." He pointed vaguely at the box in her hands. "They're just pens, I'm not attached."
"You said that before too, but you complained the others didn't have a grip on them." An eyebrow arched up. "So I don't believe you, and I want an actual opinion."
Aleksandr sighed heavily before childishly snatching the pack of pens from her hand and inspecting them for a millisecond before he tossed them into the cart unceremoniously. "It's just pens, Vera. Jesus."
She seemed taken aback for a moment, placing her hands on her hips, unmoving. "Are you going to be an asshole this entire trip? I could shop without you."
"Then why didn't you?" He snapped back instantly. Immediate seething regret boiled in his chest at the way her face crumpled. "Fuck, I-" Both hands rubbed at his worn face. "I'm sorry, Verunya. I'm..."
She inhaled deeply, leveling her breathing before walking to him slowly. "It's another one of those things? Where I ask what's wrong, and you say 'nothing', and I say 'okay', and we don't talk about it? But then it is something, and you cry about it later, and pretend it didn't happen, so I have to pretend it didn't happen?"
He stared at her blankly. "Yeah. Yeah, another one of those things."
Vera glanced forlornly at the pack of floral papers, her expression equal parts confusion and sadness, before she simply squeezed his shoulder and walked away, presumably to the next item on their list. His hands pulsed in time with his heart as he followed behind her, eyes not seeing anything around him in the store. He'd been back from serving for a little over eight months now, and in that time he and Vera married and were trying to settle into new routines as a couple. Aleksandr's father had died not too long before that, the house and land it sat on left in the will to him. He'd had no other family to claim it, and Vera insisted they make something of it. Her almost blinding optimism wore away at his already weak will, and he forced himself to believe in her theory that enough light, enough renovations, enough laughter, could erase the hell he had as a child in that same house. It wasn't exactly like she was that dense. She was just stubborn, and Aleksandr also hadn't told her the gravity of what he endured. She didn't know the half of it.
Their shopping trip ended uneventfully, him trailing along behind her, simply letting her grab things and put them in the cart. When she asked for his opinion, he gave random answers, and he could see on her face she knew they weren't actual preferences; she seemed to have given up on trying to get him to remain present on their outing. They rang up their groceries, returned to her father's old car, and headed home in silence- a little comfortable, a lot not. Aleksandr stared out the window unseeing, letting the faded colors of old houses fly past as she focused on the road and fiddling with the radio. It crackled to life, playing old rock songs he'd heard more than enough of while in service, but he didn't complain. While it wasn't his taste in music, he knew how much Vera loved the music people like her dad had loved. They hadn't spoken much since the wedding, and he knew she missed him. Guilt ate away at his chest as they pulled into the driveway, knowing their lack of contact wasn't helped by their marriage.
Her family didn't really care for the small, meek man they'd met. When she said she was going to marry the skittish country boy she met in college, they didn't seem to buy it. It wasn't until he came home- back a little straighter, eyes a little more hollow, body only a fraction of an inch thicker with muscle- and Vera started planning the actual wedding that they actually listened. And at best they offered withered smiles and tense shoulders. His... wife's father was particularly loose with his criticisms, though Aleksandr paid them no mind; he'd heard a lot worse from his own father his entire life. He'd asked if she was sure, if she knew what she was doing, if she actually loved him. They didn't seem to buy any of her answers, how could they? He wasn't any taller than her, in fact when he was hunched in on himself he was shorter. He was wiry and thin, his hidden strength didn't matter much to them at all- he looked weak, and that was troublesome.
Being unable to maintain eye contact for very long was another red flag- they pinned him as scrawny, mousy, dishonest. Why else wouldn't he talk about his family much? Weren't they proud of him? After all, he did have a somewhat impressive job in the military, even if he quit. In their minds, Aleksandr was no better than a criminal, or a mooch, or some kind of scum. When Vera tried to defend him, she could only say so much- she was very heavily aware of how little he wanted people to know, she didn't even know the full story, and she was going to have to be okay with that. So she tried to reason with them, and said his parents were passed, and while they were alive they weren't very kind people. All that earned for response was her parents wondering what Aleksandr had done to make them unhappy. Surely he must have caused a rift, surely he must be the rotten apple in that barrel. And through it all, Aleksandr merely stayed silent, only offering an occasional apology, or shrug, or wince.
Vera told them it was rough for him, coming back home, having to readjust to civilian life. Aleksandr was jumpy and sweaty and hated loud noises and large crowds- at least that they could understand for a while. So their wedding had been small, quiet, intimate. Her family showed up, those she lived with directly and a handful of extended. Some of her friends who had been kind and patient with the strange, malnourished man were there. His side was empty- no family to speak of, and certainly no friends. It was a lopsided, sad affair looking out from the pulpit, and the way Aleksandr couldn't look the officiant in the eye had set her father's hackles arise. But nonetheless, the wedding happened, and they kissed, short and chaste and sufficient. She smiled wide, tears in her eyes, and despite it all, he smiled back, soft and small and just for her. He was shaky and pale like always, but that day he didn't seem so keyed up, he just seemed present.
Looking back, that was their happiest day to date- their wedding was short and simple but sweet and warm. Though most of her family left shortly after the ceremony, a few cousins and friends remained around, and they drank and ate late into the night, and it was the first time she'd seen him so at ease amongst a crowd of faces, familiar and otherwise. It was also the first time she'd seen him smile at someone other than her, the way he glanced at a male friend of hers, he seemed flustered. That was the first time a crack had formed in her little illusion- the day they got married is the day she was sure he was gay. Her heart had hurt a little then, but the wine was flowing, and the cake was fluffy, and he always looked back at her for guidance. Their entire relationship he used her like a compass, or a lighthouse, always searching for her approval, her advice. Always letting her make decisions for him. And Vera ate it up. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn't stop indulging herself, not until it broke them both.
--
"Hey," she said softly, hoping it would keep him from startling. It didn't. "-sorry. Didn't mean to scare you. Coffee?"
Bloodshot eyes looked up at her from his father's old desk. He supposed it was his now. "Uh, yeah. Thank you."
"Of course, darling." She saw him flinch at the word. "How's it going? The article?"
Aleksandr sighed, running a hand through his hair. It had been some time since he last cut it, and it was starting to curl around his ears and at the nape of his neck. His face was somewhat scruffy, too. "It's going good, just wish this place would care about more than farming and grocery costs sometimes. Stories haven't changed much since I was a kid."
"Ah, the city spoiled you, I get it." She giggled, reaching out and ruffling his hair as well. She loved seeing him look so soft. She tried to pretend it didn't sting when he twitched away from her. "Sorry, I won't keep you."
"No, no- it's okay." His cheeks blushed, eyes looking guilty. "Just... Still not used to it."
"Me touching you? I don't know if I believe that." She sat on the arm of the couch near him. "I've only hugged and kissed on you for, what, almost a year now? And what about when we were dating?" Vera didn't know if she'd count the dating- he could barely hold her hand. But she kept that thought to herself.
"I... I guess, shit." He snorted humorlessly, eyes somewhere not with her. "Sorry, I'll try harder not to be so, uh... squirrelly? Is that what your dad always calls me?"
She grimaced, lightly smacking his arm in reflex. He flinched harder. "I- sorry! I'm sorry, I know you hate that."
His wide, wild eyes answered her words before he could. "N-no, it's ok-ok-okay. It's fine. I deserved it."
"Jesus, Sasha, you didn't deserve that. I didn't mean to scare you." She crouched down slowly, carefully hugging his head to her stomach. His body was practically vibrating against hers.
"It-it-it... I-I'm fine. I-I-" he huffed raggedly in frustration, his tongue getting tied up with basic words. "I'm so-sorry. I don't m-m-mmmean to-"
"Hey-" she cut him off. "You're fine. It's all fine, Aleksandr. You're okay." She started stroking his hair gently, and he could feel her shirt get wet before he quickly pulled away, clearing his throat. The lack of contact made her feel cold.
"Yeah, yeah. Sure. Th-thank you. I... I should really get b-back to work." He kept his head bowed down, brown hair glowing warmly in the lamp light.
Vera felt her heart stutter, partly in sadness, partly in frustration. "Yeah, I got you. Just... Let me know if you need anything. I'll be in the living room." It didn't matter where she went, he never called for her anyways.
He didn't respond, instead hunching over his computer, face stony and unexpressive as his mind drifted elsewhere. Aleksandr was incredibly good at pretending he was alone in any given room, almost maddeningly so. Sometimes it took her four or five tries to get his attention, even if he was simply staring at nothing. It was like he was always somewhere else far away, and sometimes she wondered if he was just trying to escape her. In the months of their marriage, he'd seldom instigated contact. A rare squeeze to her shoulder, or hand to her back as he walked past her was as close as he seemed to let himself get during the day. On exceedingly good days, or days where he'd had a drink or two, he was willing to sling his arm over the back of her seat, or let their thighs touch under restaurant tables with friends. Maybe he'd even kiss her cheek- maybe. But standard days, it was all up to her. The hand holding, the kissing, the cuddling. The few handful of times they'd had sex in all these months.
She loved him and she knew he wasn't repulsed by her, but it was starting to wear at her self esteem. Having to feel the need to constantly try to put on a show, to be soft, gentle, appealing. Hell, they were almost at their one year anniversary and she still wasn't entirely sure what he was into. Any time she had tried to ask, he'd get all fluttery and shaky and try to change the subject, having to be cornered into a response that always boiled down to a very tepid "You, I guess. You're my type, my thing?" Always so timid, so shy. So dismissive of anything more. Vera was losing the ability to pretend he was just naive, or sheltered, even though he was. They were in their twenties now, and had seen plenty of movies and had plenty of talks that featured the way adults loved each other physically. She was losing the ability to block out the way he would stare at the wall behind the TV, or look away entirely. She knew he could get hard, she'd felt it a handful of times. And she knew he could keep up with her, if he wanted to. She could tell from the noises she could hear from the shower when he thought she was asleep. But it never seemed to work out right when they actually tried.
At first she'd found it endearing, his fumbling away through her clothes, the way his hands would jerk back a little from her body, his sheepish grin and eyes flitting away from hers every time she made contact. Vera thought it was cute, knowing he'd never been with anyone else before- and though she'd had little experience herself, it made her feel special, important even, getting to guide and teach him how to do things properly, slowly, carefully. But as time wore on and he showed little to no interest in repeating their wedding night, she'd grown impatient. Vera would try and get his attention with little things- running her fingers through his hair, kissing at his neck, playing with the hem of his shirt- all to no avail. She started to be obvious with it eventually, not caring about the lack of pride in wanting to spend intimate time with her husband, and now she had a habit of laying on top of him whenever she was feeling bored, or needy, or loving. It all ended up the same way. First, he'd let out these little giggles, her hair tickling him or surprising him, then he'd turn red when he saw the look in her eyes, and shy away. Eventually, she'd pepper his cheeks in kisses, and he'd relent and kiss her back, softly, delicately.
Eventually she'd let her hands wander, and she'd feel his body tense, and she'd feel guilty for making him nervous, and then he'd be hard, rolling his hips up to meet hers. For a while, Vera would feel like she'd won, but it didn't take long for her to notice that with every noise she made, and with every caress of his hands, his body would lose its... "interest". More often than not, they'd call it quits after making out, and he'd apologize for being nervous, or stressed, or sick- though she knew it was always an excuse. On the infrequent times she'd try to call him out, he'd get defensive and lock himself away in his office, saying they needed to take space to cool off, saying they needed to stop talking. The only times it ever ended well and they did sleep together, he always had the faint smell of alcohol on him, and it was quick and efficient and enough. And then he'd roll over in bed, all the lights off, and she could tell he was trying not to panic. Over what, she could only guess. So within the first few months of marriage, Vera stopped trying to get intimacy from him unless she was drunk too. She knew it wasn't healthy.
The jealousy pitting in her stomach wasn't healthy either, and yet it persisted. The way he'd cast quick, shy glances at other men; how he practically leapt back at accidental hand brushings or stutter his way through declining compliments. Aleksandr was never good at lying, he was just good at keeping people at arm's length away. So when he'd let Vera truly enter into his own little world, she could see it all. The way his knuckles turned white when they drove past his old church, how he'd shrink away from his former barber's hands, or the way he'd turn from his own reflection too quickly, so much so that he could never even brush his hair for very long. That's when he'd started shaving it all off, and Vera hated it. She missed his little curls and tufts of hair, how it could never settle right- how when the sun hit it, it became a warm brown halo framing his angular face. It made him look softer, gentler. The only gentle in him anymore was how he treated her, his hands fleeting and hesitant, as if he didn't know what to do with them. Or the soft yearning in his gaze, never directed at her, but at other couples. At other men. And still she clung to him.
Vera sighed, making her way back to the living room. Plucking a book from the coffee table, she sat heavily on the worn couch, mind anywhere but the pages in front of her. She thought back to the store, the way Aleksandr had all but lost himself, and felt her heart break. For him, the little boy he once was, and for her. For selfish, desperate her. He was so kind and strong and perfect, and she loved him with everything she could. But it wasn't enough. It had never been enough, and yet she couldn't stop herself from trying. Every time she heard him laugh, saw a peek of his more expressive side, his creative side. Aleksandr had so much life and passion trapped so tightly under his skin he could burst. He was hauntingly beautiful. Delicate shoulders shook and the small, lonely sound of tears dropping on paper seemed oh, so loud in the quiet of their house. Yet as she stifled her cries, she couldn't find it within herself to stop the torture of either of them.