booktorn:
“ ivan goncharov. ” they repeat the name near-tonelessly, committing it to memory; it’s one of only a handful of names that has been given to them freely and with genuine kindness. there had been the police officers who had found them once, three years ago, with no memory — and then there had been fyodor dostoevsky, only two days ago. and now there’s ivan goncharov.
( there had been names given to them, sure, but never with kindness. )
they take a seat at the table, one of their hands trailing across the surface. it’s old and worn — obviously reclaimed, but immaculately cared-for in its new home. so this is ivan’s space, they think. they don’t give him a name. they weren’t asked, and they never have been. they don’t even have one to give.
their eyes are as split as their hair, but it’s a slightly more subtle difference, and inverted. the mismatched depths are walled-off, but their tone is polite as they answer him. “ tea would be nice. thank you. ” it’s the tone of someone used to presenting such niceties, no matter what may be boiling behind their breastbone, and their expression betrays nothing else. the fact that they’re guarded is obvious, and maybe they’re making it more so. maybe they want it to be known that they’re uncertain in the extent of their trust here. they want it known where they stand.
their hands clasp in their lap, but their gaze doesn’t fall. ( but they have to fight it, and the crescents of their chipped nails press lines into their palms instead. )
Their visitor doesn’t volunteer a name, and Ivan doesn’t press for one—the people Fyodor recruits tend to be the recalcitrant sort (though this one doesn’t seem as rough as they usually are!).
“In that case, you’re lucky. I was brewing some anyways.” Which is actually the truth, the kettle is sitting over on the stove. And with that, he leaves them be, moving around the kitchen and collecting a set of items to place on the table: a small jar on jam, another of honey, and a particularly aged-looking sugar bowl.
After a moment of inspection, Ivan seems to decide the tea has been steeped enough to be up to his standards, and he pours two cups: one (from a cobalt-patterned replica of a pricier tea set) for his guest, and another (faded, the rim chipped in one spot) for himself. Ivan sets theirs down in front of their seat, accompanied by three small spoons (the purpose of which should be clear, he hopes), before going back to the counter to retrieve his own cup and utensils.
But, right before he’s about to sit down across from them—”Ah, I almost forgot!”
Even as he sweeps across the tiny kitchen once again, there’s still a poise to his movements, like he’s an actor miming urgency with no particular worry behind it. Ivan opens a cabinet door to happily find what he’d been looking for, and returns, setting a circular tin in the middle of the table. He pulls off the lid with a semi-dramatic flourish, as if he expects the contents to be impressive in some way, which they really aren’t.
“Sushki are crucial,” he says sagely, as if relaying something of great import.
Ivan seats himself, and proceeds to spoon sugar into his cup. “I am sure you could do with a proper meal as well; but first we will have tea.” It makes sense to him, anyways.
