Engel

Sasha placed the phone back on the receiver, still reeling from the conversation. Ivan's trembling voice consumed his thoughts. I've got, uh, a mess… Exhaling sharply, Sasha ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it out. He ran to the closet and grabbed his boots—military issued, nearly a century old, but shined to perfection. As his sergeant always told him, "Shine die Stiefel!" Sasha had always been good at obeying orders. Disciplined.

He grabbed his coat, recently ironed, off the hook near the door. Then he checked the stove. Then he turned off all the lights. Then he returned to the closet and straightened out his boots, each of them exactly five centimeters apart. At last, he ran to the door and pushed through it, locking the deadbolt behind him. Hurrying, he hopped down the steps, counting them as he went. There were exactly thirty steps on each floor. Compulsive.

When Sasha arrived at Ivan's door five minutes later, he couldn't quite recall how he'd gotten there. But that didn't matter. What mattered was—

"I made a huge mess, a big nasty bloody mess and I bled all over my bathroom and I'm freaking out and I just—I just—"

A pale fist knocked on the door—twice. Always twice. Two was a nice, even, symmetrical number. It provided some order to the chaos that currently raged in Sasha's head. He waited patiently with his hands at his sides, a tin soldier waiting for battle. A few seconds passed before the door swung open. Ivan's pale, distraught face greeted him. The man was holding a bottle of bleach in his hands, and he was trembling.

He was also covered in his own blood.

Sasha had seen plenty of blood before—both as a mortal and a vampire—so he wasn't startled. He'd never quite gotten used to the smell, though—it still smelled like his mother's home-made bonbon. Still, his gaze was firm and pragmatic. Giving Ivan a small smile, he gestured towards the door.

"Hallo, Vanya," he said evenly, resisting the urge to lick the blood off him. "May I come in?" Ivan nodded numbly and stepped back, allowing Sasha entrance into his apartment. Sasha's lips formed a thin line as he surveyed the state of the apartment. Ivan hadn't been exaggerating—it was quite a mess. The crisp aroma of death wafted heavily in the air. Inhaling, Sasha moved towards the bathroom in measured, even steps. It took him twenty steps to get there. Turning back to Ivan, he tilted his head inquiringly.

"Vanya, cout you bring de bleach ofer here?" Sasha asked casually, as if discussing the weather. He caught sight of Ivan's cut arms and grimaced. Self-inflicted.

"Y-yeah, I could," Ivan managed to reply, quietly. Still trembling a bit, he made his way to the bathroom. Ivan shuddered as he looked at the mess—the mess he made. Sasha knew, by the amount of the blood, that Ivan should have been dead.

It had been a shock for Sasha to discover just how little blood needed to be lost in order to die. The average human body held over eight pints of blood, and one only needed to lose four pints to die. A half-gallon milk carton. A big soda bottle. An insignificant number, certainly. There were far more than three pints of blood decorating the walls of the bathroom. Sasha would know—he'd seen many men bleed out by now. Even considering Ivan's draconic nature, the man should have been dead. But Ivan was alive, and Sasha wasn't going to question it further. As long as Ivan stayed alive, Sasha wouldn't complain about the illogicality of it all.

Taking the bleach from Ivan's shaky hands, Sasha twisted the cap open and placed the bottle on the bathroom counter. He kneeled down under the sink and grabbed two cloths, handing one to Ivan and keeping one for himself. The air was so thick with blood—Sasha could taste the copper. Methodically, he poured the bleach onto the cloth and advanced towards the nearest wall, scrubbing it urgently. Fortunately, the chlorine drowned out the blood's lingering scent.

Sasha hated stains. But even if the walls did stain, Sasha would clean them until they were white and pure again. He had to—and not because of a compulsion. Ivan had asked for Sasha's help, and Sasha would give it. He knew that he couldn't clear Ivan's head of dark thoughts, but he could make the blood disappear, at the very least.

Ivan soon joined him on the adjacent wall. They scrubbed in near-companionable silence for a good ten minutes. Sasha, an accomplished and efficient cleaner, stood back to admire his work. Not a single trace of blood remained on that wall.

"You knov, my boods are almost a hundred years old," Sasha mentioned abruptly, glancing over at Ivan, who was finishing up his respective wall. Ivan gave him a bewildered look and stared down at Sasha's pristine boots.

"You've got to be kidding me," Ivan said blandly. "They look like you just friggin' got them out of the box!" Sasha smiled a bit, wiggling his toes.

"I take gut care of my boods," Sasha explained, beaming. "I vant to gife dem a birdday party ven dey turn one-hundred. You are infited, if you vant?" Big, blue puppy eyes looked at Ivan imploringly, and Ivan's gaze softened a bit.

"Sure thing, Kraut," Ivan choked out, still unsmiling, as he walked to the opposite wall. Sasha moved to the remaining wall, and the two entered a period of silence again. When all the walls were cleared, Sasha climbed onto the counter and wiped the blood off the ceiling. Ivan watched him mutely until he descended.

"Now de flur!" Sasha declared, eyeing the bloody tiles with a burning intensity.

"O-oi, don't scare the tiles away," Ivan admonished, half-playfully. Nodding solemnly, Sasha got down on his knees. Ivan quickly followed suit, and the two blonds scrubbed vigorously against the tiles.

After several minutes of scrubbing, Sasha felt something change. One minute, Ivan was diligently scrubbing at the tiles. The next, he was breaking down in choking sobs. Sasha dropped his cloth, immediately scooting over to Ivan's side. Biting back his aversions to physical contact, Sasha enveloped Ivan in a tight hug and let the confounded man cry on his shoulder. He ghosted small circles on Ivan's back, humming a lullaby his mother used to sing to him. With great strain, he ignored the blood seeping onto his clothes and the tears dampening his shoulder.

"Aren't you going to ask me why…?" Ivan rasped a while later, clinging to Sasha for dear life. Sasha kissed Ivan's forehead comfortingly, still tracing shapes on the man's back.

"No," Sasha said firmly. "I just knov dat you are hurding, so I hafe come to help. I vill always come ven you need me. If you vant to tell me vhy, I vill listen." Sasha wished he could look Ivan in the eyes and tell him this, but he settled for whispering it in Ivan's ear.

Ivan held Sasha tighter.