Where Love Lingers

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. -C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

The music played softly in the corner, the old record crackling like firewood. The Dying Swan. I had danced it a hundred times, but I never understood it until then. The way the swan faltered. Not from pain, but from knowing the end had come. That quiet surrender.

I was one with the bed. My back straight. Always straight. Even then, when my joints ached and my heart felt hollowed out. I was tall because I had to. I had to be strong for him.

Sergei was barely breathing. The disease inside his stomach had withered him away to a shell. His chest rose and fell like a tide that had forgotten how to return. I smoothed the blanket over him, like I had a hundred times before.

It was something to do. Something to keep my hands from trembling.

He had been so strong once. My dear Sergei. My man of iron. He built things with his hands. Machines. Furniture. A life. Yet he always held me like I was made of glass. He lifted me from the ground with one arm and told me I danced like fire.

I could barely feel his weight in the bed.

But even in this room, where sorrow clung to the walls and time moved like fog, I could feel it.

The place where love lingers.

My mind wandered.

Kliment… my sweet child.

I expected to hear his voice in the hallway. But he died in a place I couldn’t even picture, for reasons I no longer understood. They said he was heroic.

I would have traded every medal for one more day with him.

And Ivan…

The hallway creaked.

I had been waiting for it.

Footsteps. Hesitant.

Heavy.

I felt his presence, but didn’t turn right away. I let the music fill the space between us and, as I rose, I faced the door.

He stood there and yet was as transparent as a ghost.

Not the boy who had left. Not the man he was meant to become. Thinner and hollow-eyed. His coat hung upon him like a costume, oversized and ill-fitting. His face was young but the softness was gone. He moved like someone who had forgotten how to rest.

He rarely spoke and instead let the silence speak for him.

I stepped aside, gave him room. He walked to the bed as if approaching a grave. Knelt. Reached out.

Stopped.

Sergei stirred. His eyes opened, cloudy and lost, but they found our Ivan.

“Vanya,” he whispered.

“Papa…” Ivan's words trembled.

Sergei closed his eyes again.

Ivan rose, and I whispered. “He does not have much time, Ivashechka.”

He nodded, but I could see he wasn’t ready. He could never be ready. Not for this. Not for any of it.

He had come home from the war not just wounded, but broken. Fractured. He drank. He was gone for days. He rarely spoke. And when he did, it was like listening to someone else. Someone older.

Someone colder.

I had lost one son to war. I feared I was losing the other to silence.

I wanted to tell him it was all right. That he didn’t have to be strong. That he could cry. That I would still love him. That I always had.

“I need a cigarette,” he said coolly and he walked away.

The door clicked behind him and my Sergei died.

—

“What a mess…”

Ivan glared at his reflection, inspecting the empty space where Jasmine Jeong had knocked out his tooth.

The typically cozy dentist's office felt suffocating due to the massive presence of The Russian Bear. Arina watched him from behind, his red suspenders dragging his denim pants up higher along his plaid-covered back.

She knew why he was grouchy. An award ceremony for Fred Dick? It meant rushing to the nearest dentist to fix the damage. A Canadian dentist. It also meant a return to Russia and having to face his paralyzing fears.

She sympathized with him. But there was a cavalcade of conflicting emotions.

She had pleaded with Chandler Tsonda not to hurt Alexei. He placed his faith in her judgement and now, Jasmine Jeong was in a hospital somewhere.

Ivan had unleashed his fury on a young woman who stood no chance against him. Arina was no stranger to violent men.

A scream in her chest longed to release but never emerged, yet from the depths of her turmoil, words surfaced.

“Why did you do it?”

Ivan turned, his gaze meeting hers. She was shivering. They locked eyes, suspended in an awkward, heavy silence.

She wanted to believe in the man who protected and accepted her, not the one who frightened her. But trust, like love, is stubborn.

The door swung open as the dentist, Dr. Sampson, burst into the room. He quickly glanced at his clipboard to gather his thoughts before looking back at the imposing man standing before him.

“Mr… Stanley?”

Ivan shifted his gaze to the dentist and grunted. “Starshy Praporshchik.”

Sampson blinked, not understanding the term, and cleared his throat. “Sure. I see Senator Thompson sent you. This… was unexpected.”

Only then did Dr. Sampson notice Arina, seated in the corner. He smiled politely, “Oh, uh…”

Arina gave a curt nod. "Irene."

Sampson nodded back, glancing at the clipboard. "Don’t worry, we'll take great care of your grandfather, dear. He’ll have a new tooth in no ti–"

Feeling a tightness in her throat, Arina rose and exited the room abruptly, leaving the two men alone. Ivan kept his frown to himself as the dentist regained his composure.

"Alright, uh... we'll get you fixed up right away, though there's just one problem..."

Ivan tilted his head in curiosity, and Dr. Sampson realized it was going to be a long afternoon. "We need to find a seat big enough for you..."

—

Days later and far away, Arina entered the luxurious Moscow hotel room, her footsteps quieted by thick carpet. She brought a rolling suitcase and garment bag with items her superior needed.

The room was spacious and exquisitely decorated, unlike the functional spaces she knew. She followed her routine: adjusting the thermostat, placing water bottles in the fridge and on the nightstand, setting vodka on ice, and arranging old photos on the dresser, all ready for Ivan's arrival.

She then prepared items for Fred Dick: deodorant, cologne, and a razor. She questioned their purpose since his facial tattoos and voice couldn't be hidden. The Russians were in for a surprise. Still, she hung the expensive dark suit, its cost hidden from Ivan, and hoped it might distract from Fred's… Fred-ness.

Her thoughts were interrupted by what sounded like a... splash from the bathroom? Then another splash followed.

She turned and cautiously approached the large door, opening it slowly. But before it ever swung open to reveal whatever monstrosity lurked behind that door, she could hear its voice. It sounded like a yellow-browed warbler.

It… sang?

“Mama tol’ me… when I was young… come sit beside me! … my only son…”

Arina finished opening the door, and her brain struggled to catch up to what her eyes were seeing.

Fred Dick. Full on, balls out naked, taking a hot bath.

He stared at her and blinked.

“Whatchu want, hoe?”

It was, perhaps, the most animated and talkative Arina had ever been. The Russian just poured from her mouth as she gawked at the spectacle before her. “Chto ty zdes' delayesh'?! Tebe polozheno byt' v svoyey komnate naverkhu. A ne zdes' vnizu, v komnate Starshego Praporshchika. Yesli on uvidit tebya zdes', yesli on uvidit menya zdes', yesli on uvidit nas zdes', on budet v yarosti!!!”

“Cheeto delyaroshi me starsick proporshky shingtano une videororshik deposhki,” Fred replied, an eyebrow up as if to say, ‘Am I doing it right?’

She shut the door behind her and pressed her back against it, as if at any moment Fred might come closer. “What you doing here?! You are to be upstairs in YOUR room! This is Starshy Praporshchik’s bathroom!”

“Well, bench, if yew must know,” Fred pulled a donut from the bath water. He dunked it back in for good measure, and took a way-too-big bite. He continued, mouth full. “I aint got a starshit proporski baffroom in MY mothafuggin’ bedroom, and yew KNOW I gotsta look good for my rewaaaard ceremony.”

Fred smiled a toothy, soggy donut-covered smile.

She tightened her lips. “I not believe you. Everyone knows you are liar. Regular-sized bathroom do just fine for you!”

“Oh, why's that? Just on account’a I’m a liar, I don't deserve no access to the fancy-ace baffroom?”

Fred spat. He stood up, and thank God or Ivan, whichever Arina believed in most, he was wearing his Intense Title over his lasagna. “Everybody a damn liar, Arina. Only difference is I'm honest 'bout it."

He stepped out of the bath and shook himself dry like a dog.

“I know I'm a liar. See, that there's one of my super powers. Everybody lies. I lie to myself just to get shid done sometimes, nawmean? But you? You lie to yourself for uh… different reasons altogether, don't ya?”

Fred chuckled as he spread his butt cheeks to air the swamp out. “And what's worser than that is what we have in common. The people you love the most are the biggest liars you know -- but you believe 'em regardless. Just like Ivan. Now ain't that some shid? See, you call me a liar. I call me a human bein’."

She turned from him and faced the door. It was to avoid everything that she was seeing, but also to block out the reality she dared not face. “You have five minutes to get clothes on and come out. We need to get out before…”

“...Sensitivity training?!” Ivan’s voice echoed from beyond the door. She was too late.

No translation needed for Arina’s next words.

“Shit.”

—

Half a minute ago, Alexei Ruslan rushed to keep up with Ivan as they navigated the corridor. The day had been chaotic, packed with meetings, planning sessions, and updates for their many superiors. We've all been in moments where we look at someone important to us and feel the need to speak a difficult truth. Alexei seldom found himself in such scenarios, but this was one of those times. Although he hadn’t had a chance for privacy, the hotel room seemed like a good opportunity.

Ivan burst into the room. Alexei shut the door behind them. Arina had been there, evident by Ivan nearly tearing the cap off a bottle of water and guzzling.

"Sensitivity training?!" Ivan shouted, his anger directed at Alexei. "Lindsay Troy, damn it. She makes just one joke after another!"

With Ivan so wound up, Ruslan simply listened.

"This… Generalissimo? Some idiot who only appears when she wants to see him and his circus act?!" Ivan stomped over to the ice bucket, grabbed the vodka bottle, and drank directly from it. "He sounds like a cheap military gimmick from the eighties! I hate that shit!"

“Ivan…”

"I did my research. He's not even on the roster!" He moved closer to Alexei, his voice dripping anxiety. "That's why she gave me a lifetime contract. Not because of kindness, friendship, or mercy. No. To make a farce of the twilight of my career!”

"Ivan," Alexei said in a calm tone, "you need to see your mother."

Stanislav halted, staring into Alexei's eyes, tightening his grip on the bottle. "No. I need to prepare for this so-called Generalissimo. I won't let Lindsay Troy turn me into a joke. That's her goal, Alexei, that's..."

“She’s dying.”

Alexei watched his friend grapple with the harsh reality, the turmoil etched deep into his features. Ivan shook his head in denial. "The doctor granted her more time. If he's mistaken, have him shot!"

Alexei exhaled a shaky breath. "It's okay to be scared."

The silence enveloped them and Alexei gave him time, and space, but Ivan was frozen.

"Ivan,” Ruslan gathered his resolve and squared his shoulders. “You are a valiant patriot and a proud Russian. But right now, you are failing as a son. You must see her."

The tension was cut through like melted butter, with a creaking door, and a phrase.

“I can't believe what I'm hearin’, Lawd,” a voice said.

And when Ivan and Alexei turned towards that door, they saw him.

Fred Dick. Soaking wet. Nude. Intense Title around his waist, fastened on the very last set of buttons, barely hiding his lasagna from view.

Both Russians were, understandably, stunned.

“Ivan, yo’ buddy Lexi tryna be real wit’ ya. You ain't the only one scared. Try bein’ the man tellin’ a bear his mama is dyin’. I'm surprised he ain't stood in a puddle of his own tee-tee.”

Ivan looked at Alexei who looked down at the floor. The Bear seemed to ignore that Dick was naked and soaking wet in his hotel room with Arina nowhere to be found. “What?”

Fred sighed dramatically, walked over to Ivan and, figuring he was already missing body parts and one more wasn't a huge deal, placed his hand on Ivan's shoulder.

“Yo’ assistant done informed me y'all think of me a liar, and I wanna let you know, yo’ right about that. But look me in my eyes, hear my testimony neow, and tell me I ain't bein’ honest.”

Fred looked Stanislav dead in his eyes, and cleared his throat.

"Ivan, I lost my mama when I was a boy. She weren't no good mama. She weren't no lovin' mama. But she was my mama, and to this day, I feel guilty for how I ran from all them feelin’s I was havin’. Actin’ like a big ol’ pussy ace bench? Sho' I was. So if yew wanna be a big ol pussy ace bench like Fred Dick was, go ahead. BUT KNOW THIS BOY! If my mama had loved me? If my mama was a good mama? The last thang I'd have let myself be was too a'scurred to kiss her on the way to Heaven."

Fred paused, then he shrugged sarcastically.

"But of course, if ol' Ivan wants ta fug around 'n play goddamn... PATTY CAKE with the Geronimo and his army of men who ain't even real men because they dumb ace birds as well, insteada makin' sure the best mama he's ever known sees her baby on the way out tha damn door, then who is we to try 'n stop him, Lexi?"

Ivan glanced at Alexei, who simply lifted an eyebrow.

How was it possible that this trailer park trash American could be so right?

—

Alexei had arrived after the award ceremony, bringing a recording of the event and insisting I watch it. I understood why. I watched my beloved, handsome Ivashechka on the television. So near and yet so heartbreakingly distant.

His presence filled the screen, strong and resolute. Despite my frail body sinking into the mattress where Sergei once found rest, my weary, weakened heart swelled with pride and momentarily eclipsed my melancholy.

As the recording ended, Alexei left me alone with my thoughts. The hum of the television became a distant murmur as I closed my eyes, thinking of Sergei, of Kliment, of Ivan. My family.

The hallway creaked beyond my door.

I knew that sound.

When it opened, there he was, bringing with him a fleeting moment of joy piercing through the shroud of despair.

“Ivashechka,” I breathed and reached for him. His touch was as tender as a feather, and he sank to his knees beside me, the weight of the world in his eyes.

“Mama.”

I longed to waltz with him once more, as we had in Vladivostok, before the shadows of sickness stole my strength. He bowed his head, his apology a quiet lament.

“Shhh…” I rasped.

“I will not leave you, Mother,” he vowed, gripping my hand. “To hell with my match. With PRIME. With everything.”

I saw it in his face. It was the same look I wore when I chose to stay with Sergei until the end.

But my son was a champion. Lindsay Troy had already reinstated his cherished Universal Title, and rightfully so.

“No,” I whispered, my words soft, yet firm, “you must defend your championship.”

His eyes, those beautiful, deep eyes, became clouded and disoriented. They looked… lost. Empty. As if I had said something terribly wrong.

Had I hurt him?

I smiled, trying to soothe whatever wound I had unknowingly opened. “It is okay,” I whispered, brushing my fingers against his cheek. “Do what has made me so proud of you.”

I held him tight, and for a long moment, we said nothing. The silence between us was not empty, but rather full of everything we had never said, everything we had lost, and everything we still held onto.

My Ivashechka, the strongest man I had ever known, brought to his knees not by war, or politics, or pain- but by love. By fear.

By me.

I looked into his face, and saw the boy he used to be. Who sobbed when he skinned his knee and fell asleep in my lap during rehearsals. Who asked me if swans could cry, and who grew into a man who carried the weight of a nation on his shoulders and somehow, still felt he had failed.

I brushed his forehead. “Pray with me, Ivan…”

He stiffened, just slightly. I felt it in the way his fingers curled and how his breath caught. He didn’t believe. He never had. But I didn’t need him to believe.

I just needed him.

He swallowed hard, and nodded.

“For you, Mama,” he said in that low, expansive voice. “I will try.”

And that was enough.

—

“Dear Heavenly Father, watch over my son, my Ivashechka.”

It traveled from her lips, carried by her love and hope and gently moved to Ivan, who knelt beside her. It enveloped him.

“Bless his brother in arms, who stands by his side with unwavering loyalty.”

It swept through the room and found Alexei, his head buried in his hands at the Stanislav’s table. He was weeping.

“Protect those who love and care for him.”

The prayer glided south, over the bustling streets of Moscow and deep into the bowels of the Stanislav Archive, where Arina sought the truth.

“Grant grace to those he has hurt, knowingly or unknowingly.”

It moved through the shadows to find Kai and then soared to a hospital, where Jasmine Jeong lay and Chandler Tsonda assumed Ivan's position at her bedside.

“Guide those he misunderstands.”

The prayer hovered over Lindsay Troy in a theater, watching a movie with her children and Wade Elliott. She was smiling and held Wade’s hand.

“And punish those who threaten him.”

It damned The Generalissimo and his lot to ruin.

“But most of all, dear Heavenly Father, protect my Ivashechka.

Amen.”

And like a swan's final glide across still water, Fanya's prayer came to rest. 

—

I must have drifted off.

When I opened my eyes, the light had shifted. The room was still, wrapped in the hush of early morning. The television was off, the air felt cool, and my son, my wonderful son, was asleep with his head gently resting on my lap.

I stayed still, daring not to move. I simply watched him, my fingers gently running through his hair, memorizing every line of his face. He looked so serene. So much like the little boy I used to cradle when the world was still kind to him.

I wished I could hold onto this moment forever.

But time, as usual, was relentless.

Eventually, he stirred. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his head. He looked at me, thinking I was asleep. I wasn’t. I just didn’t want to break the moment.

He leaned in and kissed my forehead so gently, as if I might shatter.

Then he rose.

He walked to the door, his steps heavy with reluctance. In the doorway, he paused and turned to look at me.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn't need to.

I could see it in his eyes. The promise, the longing, and the love.

He would defeat his adversary and return to me.

The door closed behind him with a gentle click, leaving the room still once again. Outside, the breeze stirred the curtains, and the morning crept across the floor like a memory. Dust floated in the air, catching the sunlight like falling feathers: slow, delicate, inevitable.

And in the silence there was no pain. No fear. Only stillness.

Somewhere, in the quiet corners of my mind, the music played again. A faint and distant lullaby of my dwindling life. The final notes of the Dying Swan, soft and trembling, rose and fell like breath.

Yet, as they faded, they did not vanish into silence.

They settled into the quiet after the breath was gone.

Where love lingers.