Archive of Our Own

It was another sleepless evening, as it so often had been lately. The world beyond the borders of the house and the crackle of the fireplace were cold and quiet, with nothing that should be capable of disrupting a good night’s rest- but a good night’s rest was exactly what lay out of reach. So Mikhail heated his samovar and readied a mug, waiting for the tea to steep. He’d taken to this habit not long after his sleeping issues first developed, and it was a calm routine by now. At least, it had been- tonight, though, he heard a horse’s whinny over the sound of the wind.

Dmitry hadn’t been by since his last horse died. Mikhail stood from his little wooden table, tossed on his coat and slipped on his boots, lit his lantern, and headed out, hoping that whatever ailed this horse was easier to resolve than the last- for Dmitry’s sake, if nothing else. But when Mikhail stepped out into the cold, Dmitry was nowhere to be seen. Mikhail followed the sound of the horse through the dark to his stable- less a stable, these days, and more a shed- to find the door shut and motion sounding from within. It was a particularly chilly night; perhaps Dmitry was simply choosing to stable the horse before waking Mikhail.

He pushed the door open and found, not his gruff old friend, but an unfamiliar horse and a man far underdressed for the weather. The man more than the horse started at the opening of the door. He turned on his heel in an instant, reaching over his shoulder for something that wasn’t there. He froze and stared at Mikhail with a single eye, the other bandaged over, and looked for all the world like a cat backed into a corner, bristling and wary.

“Woah there,” Mikhail said, using the voice he reserved for the more skittish animals brought to his care. “Nothing to be afraid of here.”

The man didn’t reply, eye darting between Mikhail and the open world beyond him. Despite the weather, Mikhail nudged the door open wider, movements slow, hoping to alleviate the young man’s nerves. And he was young, Mikhail could tell- despite the scruff and the exhaustion aging his features, he could hardly be over twenty. Around the same age as Sergey would have been, maybe a few years younger. “You’re alright, son.”

The tension in the young man’s posture remained unchanged. Mikhail wondered if he could even understand what was being said- he was Japanese, just as clearly as he was in a bad way. So Mikhail leaned further into body language, keeping his arms reassuringly out and the palm of his free hand visible, fixing a smile beneath his beard. He gestured back outside, towards his house. “It’s warmer in there, you know.”

After a moment, the young man shifted, easing slightly, resting a hand on the horse’s flank. “I can’t pay you.”

Mikhail chuckled, pleased that a language barrier wouldn’t be an issue. “I can see that.” He eyed the horse, noting that its appearance was nearly as threadbare as the boy’s. “Go inside and warm up by the fire. There’s tea on the samovar. I’ll take care of your horse and meet you there in a moment.”

Another pause. Finally, the young man nodded and slipped past Mikhail, headed for the house. It was a wonder the temperature hadn’t killed him already, though he hardly seemed in much better state than a cold corpse. Mikhail tended to the horse, digging up feed from when Dmitry’s horse had last been in, pulling some water, and draping it with a turnout blanket. He wondered about the stranger as he worked. Mikhail would never have expected to invite a Japanese man into his home, certainly not in the middle of the night, but he supposed his penchant for taking on strays was just as true for people as it was for animals. He’d always had trouble denying aid to wounded creatures.

When Mikhail returned home, he found the young man sitting and shivering on the floor by the fireplace, pale limbs drawn into himself. Everything on the table appeared untouched, mug included. The young man stared at him again as he entered. Mikhail poured the tea, topped it off with more water, and handed the mug over. His guest reluctantly reached out and accepted the offering, pulling it close, seeming to hold it more for warmth than to drink. Mikhail found a second mug for himself, repeating the process. “My name’s Mikhail. What do I call you?”

The stranger sniffed at the mug and peered up at Mikhail. “Ogata.”

“Ogata,” Mikhail repeated, uncertain of the foreign syllables. He seated himself at his table, content to give the boy his space. “Well, I have some clothes in your size and a spare room. I can take a look at your injury, too, if you’d like.”

Mikhail took a sip of his tea and watched as Ogata cautiously did the same. “You’re a doctor?”

“Oh, no,” Mikhail protested. “A veterinarian. But I’d feel better taking a look at your wound than just leaving it as is.”

“It’s fine.”

“Now, I don’t mean to call you a liar, but I doubt that. None of you looks particularly fine.”

The boy’s expression took on an odd tilt, something between amused and annoyed. “And how many eye injuries have you treated?”

Mikhail smiled. The hint of arrogance in Ogata’s demeanor reminded him of his grandson. “More than you, I’d wager.”

Ogata let out a breath that might have been a laugh. “Sure,” he muttered.

At Ogata’s acquiescence, Mikhail fetched his kit and moved his chair closer to the fireplace. “I’m just going to take a look to start,” he explained. “Need to see what we’re working with.” He reached towards the still-sitting Ogata, but Ogata jerked back and removed his own bandages, lone eye warily watching Mikhail. Beneath the bandage was filthy, crusted with blood and sweat; Mikhail wondered how long it had been on. He fetched water and a cloth which, before he could try to tend to the accumulated filth, Ogata grabbed. He cleaned his face himself. As his work uncovered the extent of the wound, Mikhail wondered at the young man’s resilience. It was a marvel he was lucid enough to move, let alone ride a horse and hold a conversation. “That’s a nasty one,” he acknowledged. It looked to be healing remarkably poorly, on the verge of becoming infected, though it bore traces of some professional care. “I’m impressed you’re still alive.”

Maybe it was a trick of the firelight, but it seemed to Mikhail that Ogata sat up just a hint straighter. He remained eerily motionless once Mikhail took over, blatantly uncomfortable with the closeness but clearly understanding on a certain level that the care was necessary.

As Mikhail worked, Ogata frowned past him. Mikhail glanced behind himself, at the painting hung on the wall. His wife’s work, a family portrait. When he returned his gaze to Ogata, the young man was staring into his mug. Mikhail accepted the quiet. He had questions, of course, but none so pressing as to risk spooking the young man by asking them. Instead, he finished tending to the injury as best he could and wrapped it in clean bandages. “It’ll need more attention than that,” Mikhail said, but even as he spoke the words he doubted the boy would care for it properly. The so-called immortality of youth was something he knew firsthand to be a falsehood- but Ogata probably didn’t. So Mikhail offered food and unobtrusive company, and when the tea was nearly done he showed Ogata to Sergey’s old room. Admittedly, the room was a bit uncared for- Mikhail hadn’t been in much since Sergey left- but it was still far warmer and far more comfortable than the stable.

In the morning, Mikhail decided, he’d pack the boy some food and medical supplies and let him be on his way.

Several days later, Ogata was still there. Mikhail was glad for the company, reticent though it was. Since Sergey left, the house had been a lonely one. His grandson’s old clothes fit Ogata well enough- despite being a bit on the larger side- and though the boy hardly seemed better rested than before, at least Mikhail knew the eye injury was being properly cared for now that he was tending to it himself. Between the missing eye and the scarred jaw, Mikhail had to wonder what had happened to Ogata. He had his guesses, but it clearly wasn’t something Ogata wanted to discuss and Mikhail had no interest in intruding. He’d long since learned to live with ambiguity.

While making dough one morning, Ogata made his way out of the hallway in time for Mikhail’s arthritis to remind him why he so rarely baked his own bread these days. Ogata hovered nearby for a few moments, watching, then took over without so much as a word, silently kneading the dough. Mikhail let the young man work without complaint, warming his hands on his tea instead. The heat soothed the dull pain in his old fingers.

Then, Ogata asked, “Do you have a gun?”

It was an odd question to ask, even more so for the fact that Ogata hardly spoke. “No.” Mikhail waited, hoping for an explanation, but Ogata accepted the response without providing any further detail or reaction. “Why?”

“I heard ducks.”

It took Mikhail a moment to make sense of the answer. He’d already learned that the boy had a tendency to answer as little as possible, to the extent that he barely answered questions properly at all. He didn’t think it was out of mistrust- it felt more as if Ogata was unused to people asking questions to begin with. He likely spent so much time in his own head that it must have been odd to explain its workings to others. “You’re a hunter?”

Ogata shrugged, attention still on the dough.

“Well, Dmitry has an old rifle, though he mostly uses it as decoration. If you’re willing to put up with some terrible jokes, he might let you borrow it. But I’m not sure how good of an idea it is for you to go hunting with your injury still healing.”

They visited Dmitry after breakfast, only to learn that the old rifle no longer worked. Mikhail would have felt bad for the boy, but partway through his and Dmitry’s banter, he realized Ogata was napping on the floor by the fire. The boy always seemed to find sleep quickly, Mikhail had noticed; the weariness of his wound undoubtedly lent itself to easier rest. It was unsurprising, then, that Ogata slept through most of the day, waking with a wary flutter of the eye only when Dmitry provided supper.

“So,” Dmitry said, ignoring Mikhail’s unspoken attempts to stop him, “where are you from, kid?”

Slowly, Ogata looked from Dmitry to Mikhail, then back again. “Vladivostok.”

Dmitry raised a single bushy eyebrow. “Really.”

Expression blank, Ogata repeated, “Really.”

“And the-” Dmitry waved a hand over his own face- “the face? What happened there?”

“Hunting accident.”

Dmitry turned his doubtful expression to Mikhail, who just shook his head at his inquisitive friend. Whether or not Ogata was telling the truth- he probably wasn’t- didn’t particularly matter to him; the boy needed aid, regardless of where he came from or how he came to be here. He distracted Dmitry by talking about Ogata’s horse instead. Dmitry perked up at the change in conversation and Ogata seemed to relax as Mikhail described how the animal was improving under his care.

On the way home, after a good meal and perhaps a few too many good drinks, Ogata paused and stared out across the snow, into the dark of distant trees.

“Ogata?”

Ogata remained motionless, like a cat watching a ghost. Mikhail patted a hand onto his shoulder. “Ogata.” Ogata flinched at the touch and pulled away, staring instead at Mikhail. “Are you alright, son?”

A crease formed between what was visible of Ogata’s brows. He frowned at Mikhail, glanced back at the woods, then resumed walking. Once home again, he silently retreated to the safety and seclusion of Sergey’s room.

The condition of Ogata’s injury seemed to improve, slowly, though he remained afflicted with constant exhaustion. He helped Mikhail here and there with meals and simple tasks, but generally stayed indoors and within reach of Sergey’s old bed or the fireplace. It was on one of these quiet days, before Ogata had even left that bed, when a knock sounded at the door. Mikhail answered it to find a uniformed stranger, face covered and rifle over one shoulder, sketchbook in hand. He presented the sketchbook to Mikhail, on it written the words I was told you have a horse that might be for sale.

The last time Mikhail had seen such a uniform, it had also been the last time he’d seen Sergey. The young man waited patiently as Mikhail recovered from the memory. “Oh?” Mikhail cleared his throat, moving himself fully back into the present. “There is a horse here, but it’s not mine. Who told you that?”

The young man wrote back, A man named Dmitry. He said his wasn’t for sale. May I speak with whoever owns the horse?

Of course it would be Dmitry. Mikhail sighed. “He’s resting at the moment. Come in, though. I’ll make you some tea and you can talk to him once he’s up.”

The stranger seated himself at Mikhail’s table and replied to Mikhail’s own introduction with a written name of his own- Vasily. Mikhail poured him tea and after a long moment of awkward hesitation, Vasily uncovered his face to drink.

Mikhail frowned at the bloody, haphazard bandages wrapped around Vasily’s face and did the same thing as he always did for injured strays- convinced him to let himself be tended to.

He sat close to the boy- and he was a boy, just like Ogata, just like Sergey, despite the violence and the beard- and took a look at the wounds. The bandaging was poorly done and desperately in need of replacement, the stitching holding Vasily’s ruined flesh barely holding together. Mikhail recognized a gunshot wound when he saw one.

“Hunting accident?” he mused.

Vasily shrugged.

“Well,” Mikhail said, “taking care of this properly might take a while. I’ll need to redo the stitches entirely. Is that alright with you?”

After a last moment of consideration, Vasily removed his hat, rifle, and coat. He draped the clothes over a chair, leaned the gun against the table, and gestured for Mikhail to proceed. Mikhail went to work. The young man remained silent as Mikhail cleaned, removed the stitches from, and cleaned again one side of Vasily’s face. The faint, barely formed crust of scabbing peeled and bled easily. Mikhail threaded his needle and sewed Vasily’s cheek back together, pausing here and there to mop up the blood. His stillness under what must have been incredible pain was remarkable, and Mikhail wondered yet again at the resilience of youth. Vasily may have even done the stitches himself, Mikhail thought; though the idea of such a thing was equal parts impressive and unsettling. “That side’s done,” he said, at last, pulling back from the young man. “Do you want to take a moment to rest?”

Vasily shook his head, sweat beading on his tattered skin. Mikhail continued, tending to the right side of Vasily’s face, cleaning it and removing the stitches as he’d done for the left. As blood streamed from Vasily’s wound, Ogata emerged from the hallway. “Ah, Ogata.” Mikhail glanced over, hands still at Vasily’s face, bemused to see an uncharacteristic grin affixed to Ogata’s. “You ha-”

Vasily yanked himself from Mikhail’s hands and his seat, snatched up his rifle, and twisted himself to face Ogata. He leaned into the rifle, blood spilling onto stock. Ogata stood unmoving, all his usual signs of indifference and weariness burned from his bearing, hands open at his side. He laughed as Vasily growled at him, wordless.

“Put that down!” Mikhail snapped. Vasily remained immobile, eyes wide and expression furious. “I invite you into my home, take care of your wounds, and you point a gun at my guest?”

Rifle still aimed at Ogata, finger still on the trigger, Vasily’s eyes flickered for just a moment towards Mikhail, who rose from his own seat to stand before Vasily. “Put the gun down, son.”

A pain greater than what Mikhail had seen thus far crept into Vasily’s features. Half-formed sounds bristled from his throat. “Now.”

Glacially slow, the barrel dipped towards the floor. Mikhail held his hand out. Hackles up, eyes fixed on Ogata, Vasily allowed Mikhail to take the rifle from his grasp. “Alright,” Mikhail said, looking between Vasily, seething, and Ogata, delighted, “you boys are going to have a civilized discussion about this, after I finish stitching Vasily’s face back together. Do you both understand me?”

Vasily less nodded and more jerked his head forward, while Ogata let out a rough chuckle. “Understood.”

So Mikhail set the rifle aside and returned to his work, wary of the tension heavy in the air, entirely aware that Vasily’s stare remained fixed on Ogata even as Mikhail’s needle pierced the skin. Ogata, meanwhile, seated himself at the table directly opposite Vasily, poured himself a cup of tea, and leisurely sipped at it as he watched, his demeanor far more present and animated than Mikhail had seen from him before. Fortunately, stitching up Vasily took time, and in that time Mikhail was able to focus and think about the situation- whatever in the world the situation was, exactly. In the end, he came to the realization that he was too old for this.

Once finished with the stitches, Mikhail cleaned Vasily’s bloodied face, wrapped it in fresh bandages and, satisfied for now that his ministrations were done, sat back and frowned at his two injured guests. “Vasily, clearly you’re the more upset one here. Why don’t you start?”

Vasily turned his glare from Ogata to Mikhail. He jabbed an accusatory finger at Ogata, then at his face.

“Oh.” Mikhail looked to Ogata, busy smirking over the rim of his mug. “Ogata?”

“He shot at me first.”

“Your eye-?” Ogata’s injury wasn’t from a gunshot, though. Mikhail stopped himself.

“No,” Ogata answered anyway. “You followed me- Vasily, was it- all this way? What an honor.” He chuckled, apparently amused by Vasily’s angry gesticulations.

Vasily made an irritated huffing sound, grabbed his book and pencil and hunched over as if about to write- then stopped. He laid the pencil down and stared at Ogata instead. Ogata stared back. Mikhail considered intervening again, but Vasily slowly picked up his pencil and wrote, deliberate and careful, then turned the paper to Ogata. How did you know I’d fall for your decoy?

“You’re careful,” Ogata said. “You wouldn’t fire until you were certain of your target. But you also believe what you see- you saw the old man with my rifle and believed he was the threat.” Ogata set his tea down, idly tapping the side of the mug with a single finger. “Of course you’d believe the tracks I left for you.”

This time appearing more curious than angry- though still with a fair amount of the latter- Vasily wrote again. You make it sound like you know me.

Ogata smiled. “Don’t I?”

Under the condition that Mikhail kept Vasily’s rifle in his own room, and that Ogata and Vasily didn’t harm one another under Mikhail’s roof, both remained in his home to recuperate. There Mikhail was, collecting strays again.

Ogata moved himself to the floor of Sergey’s room, a nest of blankets cushioning the cold wood, while Vasily uncertainly took the bed. In the morning, Mikhail was pleased to see them both emerge alive and unharmed- or at least, without any further harm than they already possessed. Ogata helped with breakfast, as he had taken to doing; Vasily helped with the samovar.

The three developed a simple and unspoken routine and Mikhail found himself grateful for the presence of both young men, odd though their company was. Over the weeks, Vasily seemed less angry, Ogata less exhausted; both seemed more companionable, by necessity if nothing else. Mikhail himself felt younger than he had since word of his grandson’s death returned home. He went through food- and tea- far more quickly than before, but it was a comfort rather than a concern.

One early afternoon, Mikhail opened the door to rapid knocking. Marina stood at the threshold, carrying a bundle of blankets in her arms, distress written into her face. “Mikhail,” she said, breathless, stepping inside. “It’s just a tiny thing. You can help it, can’t you?”

“Boys, clear the table,” Mikhail instructed. Ogata and Vasily did so, moving aside the dishes of their little dinner. “Marina, take a breath and tell me what happened.”

“Gennadiy, he-” Marina stopped, took a breath, continued, voice still heavy with worry, “It was by the chickens and maybe he was right but it’s so small, if it’s out trying to hunt by itself at this age it’s probably all alone-”

Once Ogata and Vasily were done, Mikhail gently scooped the blankets from Marina’s trembling arms.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, I really don’t, but I just couldn’t leave it to die. Call me a fool.”

“I would never.” Mikhail carefully set the blankets on the table and unwrapped them to find a lynx kit, blood matted in its fur. It thrashed as the blankets uncovered it, claws swiping at Mikhail’s hand. The attack was a frail one, but ripped through skin nonetheless. “You’re alright, little one,” Mikhail murmured, ignoring his own damage to take a closer look at his ward’s. “Ogata, Vasily, I’d like your help with this.” He bundled the kit again, gaining a few more bloody scratches across his forearms in the process. “Keep it still while I fetch my things. I don’t want it hurting itself more by moving too much.”

Again they did as they were asked, and proved just as useful as Mikhail worked. At Mikhail’s request, Vasily- despite his lack of a voice, he was still by far the better choice for the job than Ogata- found Marina a cup of tea and a seat, keeping her company to help prevent her from worrying. Ogata, meanwhile, held the kit still to keep it from attacking Mikahil as he worked. Despite the blood, the wound was not as deadly as Mikhail had initially thought; the shot grazed its shoulder, deep enough to be debilitating, enough to kill it if it were left on its own, but not enough for Mikhail to be unable to tend to it. So he cared for the lynx as he had Ogata, as he had Vasily, and by the time Mikhail was done he felt confident that the wound itself would not kill the kit. Whether or not it would be able to walk properly, or hunt, or survive much beyond the borders of the table on which it lay, though, Mikhail was unsure.

As the days went by, Mikhail slept out by the fire and the kit rested in Mikhail’s bedroom. Mikhail periodically sent the boys out for food and other necessities, preferring to stay close to the lynx in case aid was needed and trusting enough that the two of them wouldn’t kill each other. On one trip for firewood, only Vasily returned, far later than he should have, as dark was already beginning to settle. He carried an armful of wood which he set on the floor and quickly filled his hands once more with his sketchbook. I was able to follow his tracks for a while, but they cut off in town. I don’t know where he is.

An unexpected concern rested in the weight of Vasily’s brow. Mikhail wondered at the sight of it. “I’m sure he’s fine, son. Maybe he was just getting a bit of cabin fever.”

Vasily frowned at him, the expression clear despite his cloth mask. He went to write, paused, and looked again at Mikhail, examining him as if searching for a target. Apparently assuaged by what he saw, Vasily wrote, almost hesitantly, You know he sees things?

Mikhail thought of that walk back from Dmitry’s, those many nights ago, and Ogata’s distant stare off into the woods. Mikhail thought of how he saw Sergey in Ogata, how he saw Sergey in Vasily, how sometimes it seemed the dead had returned just enough to keep him company, just enough to remind him of what he’d lost. “Yes,” he said, softly. “I know.”

The answer seemed to comfort Vasily, somehow. I’m going out again. May I borrow the lantern?

Mikhail readied the lantern for him and Vasily left with a sharp nod. He wasn’t sure how Vasily expected to find Ogata in the dark when he’d been unable to do so in the light, but he wasn’t going to interfere.

He’d nearly fallen asleep in his chair by the fire by the time Vasily returned with lantern in hand and Ogata trailing at his back. Ogata looked frozen through, pale as a ghost and seeming just as impermanent; Vasily, unsurprisingly, bore the weather better. Relieved to see both of them return, Mikhail stood from his chair and ushered them in. Ogata did not speak and did not look Mikhail in the eye, instead quickly disappearing down the hallway to Sergey’s room.

Vasily exchanged an uncertain glance with Mikhail and followed.

For a while, Mikhail let them be. He paced himself with a cup of tea. When it was done, he quietly went to check on the boys. Quietly as he could, he opened the door to Sergey’s room. Inside, he saw Vasily and Ogata alike in the bed, the blankets typically kept as Ogata’s bedding on the floor instead piled atop them both. They held each other as they slept- Ogata as if needing something to ground himself on, Vasily as if needing to be sure Ogata wouldn’t vanish in the night.

Mikhail doubted either gesture had been intentional, but it was reassuring to see nonetheless. He closed the door and let them sleep.

The kit had a limp which failed to improve with time. Often it was Vasily who fed and tended to it, drawing it as it slept and vying for its trust as it woke. Ogata kept more of a distance. But he helped Mikhail when asked, and watched from across the room when Vasily finally managed to convince the kit to sniff his hand without swiping at it.

Marina stopped by on several occasions, bringing beautifully cooked meals, and eventually on one of those occasions Mikhail convinced her to join them in eating it. Over freshly made coulibiac and steaming potatoes, the four shared a quiet meal. After providing Marina with the latest update on the kit- it was recuperating well, though its limp had not improved; it had taken to sleeping on Mikhail’s bed and nuzzling Vasily’s ankles for attention; the only person it still sometimes hissed at was Ogata- the conversation inevitably moved on to the subject of Mikhail’s other two guests. “I’m glad, you know,” Marina said, looking at the two boys. “Mikhail won’t admit it, but he’s been awfully lonely since Sergey- well, since his grandson passed. I’m grateful he has you two helping about the house.”

“I managed just fine before they showed up,” Mikhail grumbled, halfhearted, but Marina ignored him with a smile.

“It’s only for as long as this takes to heal,” Ogata said, gesturing at his bandaged face. It, like Vasily’s wound, was by now all but fully recovered.

“Well, no need to rush things. I’m sure whatever injury you have will heal with time.”

Ogata peered at Marina with his typical odd lack of expression, glanced towards Vasily, then returned himself to his plate, murmuring a doubtful, “Sure,” into his meal.

The kit yowled from Mikhail’s room. “See?” Mikhail chuckled. “He’s doing just fine.”

Vasily excused himself from the table with a few simple gestures and a quick handful of salmon which Mikhail decided to not comment on. “Do you think he’ll be able to survive on his own?” Marina asked, watching Vasily go, a faint worry resting again in the lines of her face. Clearly she’d noticed the fish as well.

Mikhail doubted it. With the kit’s limp, it was unlikely it would be able to hunt properly. He looked briefly at Ogata, gaze fixed on the door to Mikhail’s room as if awaiting Vasily’s return. “Few things can.”

Mikhail tidied the house while Ogata and Vasily were out tending to Ogata’s horse. The kit followed him around as he worked, heedless of its injury. It truly was a tiny thing, despite having grown since its arrival- the runt of its litter, undoubtedly. Mikhail was still uncertain as to what would end up happening to the lynx. He would care for it as best he could, but whenever Ogata and Vasily might leave and whenever the lynx might grow, he doubted he could properly care for it alone. Runt though it may be, even a small fully-grown lynx would be too much for him to handle. He wasn’t nearly as strong as he used to be.

Maybe Vasily or Ogata could take care of the lynx, wherever they went next.

When the two finally returned from the stable, they were both flushed through. Ogata was to be expected- he didn’t handle the cold well- but Mikhail was surprised Vasily was too. When Mikhail urged them to warm up by the fire, Vasily just flushed darker, as if embarrassed.

Vasily poured tea for the three of them and he and Mikhail spoke about art. Ogata remained silent for the duration of the conversation, slowly sipping at his drink, petting the purring lynx that had materialized in his lap, watching the movement of Vasily’s hands and the smile on Vasily’s face. Mikhail remembered watching his wife in much the same way, whenever she painted. He could sit for hours in the quiet, simply observing her work, feeling loved by her mere presence. He could remember even now, all these years later, the shape of her smile. Though Ogata’s expression remained just as impassive as it tended to be, Mikhail knew what he saw.

Mikhail understood.

Maybe Vasily and Ogata could take the lynx.

After a long evening at Dmitry’s, Mikhail arrived to find Ogata and Vasily both asleep by the fire, Vasily in one of Mikhail’s favored chairs, Ogata curled up on the floor. On Vasily’s lap slept the kit, just large enough now to occupy almost the entirety of the space. On the arm of the chair lay Vasily’s sketchbook; within reach of Ogata’s sleeping hand lay loose papers. Mikhail picked up the papers on the floor- drawings of birds and the lynx, some beautifully represented by a masterful hand, others crude suggestions of shapes, charming for their efforts.

Careful to disturb neither Vasily nor the kit in his lap, Mikhail lifted the sketchbook from Vasily’s side. Smaller papers spilled out onto the floor, torn half-sheets and folded posters. He picked them up and saw each adorned with a painstakingly rendered portrait of Ogata. It was skillful work, impressive for its accuracy but moreso for its passion, each drawing carrying some small essence of Ogata himself. One in particular, worn and folded, was nearly ruined by dried blood, smeared as if someone had tried to wipe it from Ogata’s immobile face.

The kit opened a single sleepy eye and peered at Mikhail. Mikhail scratched it behind the ear and it shifted, rolling on its side with a brief purr before readjusting itself on its human cushion and closing its eye once more.

Mikhail opened the sketchbook to tuck away the drawings and found the written, one-sided remnants of Vasily’s and Ogata’s last conversation.

Why won’t you tell me what happened?

I don’t Can you still You’re my target.

That’s not what I mean. You know what I mean.

I don’t like the idea of someone else hurting you.

No. You’re too

A half-formed sketch of Ogata sitting by the fire.

What were you looking at, last night?

You sound so sure of yourself, but I can tell when you’re lying. You don’t need to lie to me.

Ghosts are just ghosts. What’s real is what’s important. Maybe he’s here, but I’m here too.

I’m here for you.

You’re the one that left me alive. How am I supposed to thank God for my life when it’s only still mine because of you?

Don’t I know you, too?

Mikhail resisted the temptation to look at the records of their previous conversations, closed the drawings into the book, and placed it carefully on the floor out of reach of the fire and any moving limbs. He left for only as long as it took to retrieve blankets from Sergey’s bed. When he returned to the fireplace, for a moment he simply stood and watched the three sleep, finding peace in their slow breaths. Their wounds- their physical wounds- had by now received all the medical aid Mikhail could offer. They might be leaving, soon. For now, though, Mikhail would continue to care for them as best he could, and so draped the blankets gently over his boys.