Arthur had watched as the man before him stood in contemplation of his words, that same smile the Frenchman had learned to accustom himself to of course unwavering on Ivan’s face even as he did so.
Despite having seen it so very many times now during their interactions, ashamed though he was to admit it, he still felt a small chill run down his spine at the thought of its omnipresence, even in times like these.
No… No, it wasn’t the smile that made him shiver especially more than his endlessly cold self already did; it was what lay behind it that terrified him more than anything else — or rather, what didn’t.
The pale-haired Russian had reassured him that he had heard and appreciated his concern, but had he really? Was he even capable of understanding his concern beyond a superficial notion of the concept as it applied to others unlike his own ‘enlightened’ self?
Was there even any point in having said it to him in the first place? Looking in his eyes right now —
My God, did he even recognize him? Surely he had to have, right? They…they had tea together before — they’ve spoken before, one on one. Something like that would surely be impossible to forget…
Or would it…? Just how many people had this man seen in his travels with Dostoyevsky — how many named and nameless faces had passed him by? Was it so many that he’d lost track long ago of nearly everyone but the man he so diligently served? Or…was it the operation? Did that man leave him deaf, numb, and blind to all else but him…?
The words echoed in his head for a moment, unforgivingly, unpleasantly, like the edge of a blade gliding against his skin — painful and cold as ice, leaving a burning cut that, although small as can be, ached in a way more persistently unbearable and unsoothable than most deeper wounds.
“Yes, human beings do break…” when the reply finally came — doubtlessly not nearly as overdue as Arthur might have perceived it — it sounded soft and, somehow, almost defeated. “We’re much too fragile — weak, pathetic things; you’re right…”
As he spoke, his right hand found its way to his scarf, subconsciously tugging at it in a manner that anyone else might have read as him struggling to breathe under its constriction.
“Even so…” his hushed voice trailed off into silence the moment he tried to speak again, and he visibly had to force the next words out — louder, clearer: “Even so, what’s wrong with that? The ability to break — to hurt, to fall into a million pieces and feel like the whole world is ending, over something that no one else in it even cares about — it’s what makes us human, and allows us to grow. You don’t have to be happy all of the time! It’s okay to break…!”
“You don’t have to be happy of all the time”… He had said that, but was that really true at all? He wanted to pretend it was; if there was any way at all for him to believe that the man in front of him wasn’t trapped in his own body, and yet still unable to even understand that he was and that what had been done to him was wrong, then he wanted to believe in it.
And yet…there wasn’t, was there?
Unable to hold off the few tears that managed to spill down his cheeks, Arthur could only choke back the rest of his sobs through clenched teeth.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky — that demon — had made it utterly impossible for Ivan to ever feel anything else again. Yes, he was a demon — not a man, and even more certainly not a god! Yet, if Arthur ever dared to say that — well, if he did, then Ivan certainly would never listen to his words seriously ever again, if he even did now.
To the long-haired foreigner, that devilish man from his country could never possibly do wrong; he trusted in him endlessly — even though it would surely end in his death, when that man deemed him no longer of any use and discarded him just as unceremoniously as the countless individuals that came before him.
…It was always like that, wasn’t it?
