@booktorn
The building is old. Older than both him and the master, Ivan figures. The product of another era, before either of them were born. A blocky, multistory structure that had been part of a government-sponsored housing effort, an apartment building so bland and practical that one’s eyes nearly glazed over at the sight of it.
But it was in relatively good condition when they found it, and it has a good foundation. Good bones. It was suitable for their purposes, and between Ivan’s efforts at clearing out what useless debris belonged to the previous tenants (long gone, this neighborhood is hardly populated now) and a few additions at Fyodor’s request, the building proved to be a presentable base of operations—if you could look past the ugly facade of the thing.
Nearly as soon as preparations were complete, however, Fyodor was off again, chasing after some new information from one of his many sources. And Ivan stayed behind, as he should, as is his duty, presiding over the building and all within it (which was no one, besides himself).
And some days later, the master returned, bringing with him a silent, androgynous figure; their hair split perfectly in half between silver and something darker (indigo?—lazuli tinged with violet?).
Ivan flits around Fyodor, rambling amicably about largely nothing, as they move from the entrance to what would’ve been one of the first floor apartments. The trail soon stops in the kitchen, one of Ivan’s usual haunts, a space with walls painted a faded, buttery yellow. What it lacks in size (it’s small, as the design requires), it makes up for in warmth.
Fyodor sees himself out, and he retreats back to the entryway, to the stairwell, leaving the other two behind.
“I apologize,” Ivan says, addressing the stranger for the first time, speaking in the crisp, proper English of the intelligentsia. “The master often prefers to be alone. But! He leaves you in my very capable hands.”
At this, he gestures toward the rickety kitchen table (paired with two mismatched chairs, of course). “Please, make yourself comfortable. I am the chamberlain, Goncharov. Although you may call be Ivan, if that pleases you.”
He’s quiet for a moment, head cocked ever-so-slightly, as if listening to something distant.
“Can I get you anything? Tea?”











