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When I wake up, it is because the world has shifted.
I am facing the wall, barely processing it. It is barely a noise, as much as it is a weight. A subtle, yet undeniably wrong rearrangement of the room behind me that my mind recognizes before the sleep in my bones does.
For a second, I lie there, curled up atop thin foam and half-buried in a blanket that never quite reaches to cover my knees. And with a breath, I try to fool myself that it is nothing– that it is the result of a bad dream I cannot remember, or the thin walls failing to suppress the commotion of distant apartment rooms, or whatever small, normal thing a building creates when all else within dies past midnight.
And then I turn my head.
And my body uncomfortably twists to accommodate the motion. And my eyes stare half-lidded as the light from the distant hallway slices a rectangle through the space. And my chest seizes as if it has forgotten how to push air.
Because Ivan is on the couch a few feet away. The couch where he sits and pretends not to hear me after waking me up at two in the morning. The couch where he sits and forgets I was invited to stay. The couch where he sits and I do not because I am not allowed and I must obey.
He sits too still. And even through the dim light I can see the outline of his shoulders and how they slope the way they always do when he has gone small and private. And I can see the way one eye glows through his shadowed expression and stares down into his lap. And I can see that between his knees and cupped in his hands like a trophy–
Is a fire axe.
Is a fire axe.
Is a fire axe.
The one that always mounts his bedroom wall at an angle as if it were art and not a weapon. A rusted memory of his father that he keeps and speaks to as if someway, somehow, the soul is trapped within. And now it is a thing of heavy silence, the blade eating the dim light and Ivan’s fingers wrapped around the handle with purpose.
I do not move. I do not speak. I do not even blink. My mouth tastes like cotton, and my pulse rings endlessly in my ears. I feel the apartment breathe between us; The hum of the fridge, the radiator’s dry sigh, the dull buzz of the distant hallway light that flickers on occasion.
My friend has not looked up. His head hangs low and his face is a map that I have been trying to learn for years– and yet a map that is unreadable to me when I need it the most. He examines the axe with nothing but fascination, the same way he likes to stare at my computer screen when we talk about code. His jaw ticks once, and for a moment I think that maybe it is concentration, like a man solving a problem the only way he knows how.
“Ivan?”
I say his name because I cannot not. And the word comes out shallow and shocked; It is small, a stepping stone carefully cast into the darkness. A test. A prayer with the edges cut off.
He makes a sound that is barely anything. Not a laugh and not a snarl, but something of half-swallowed confusion and the weak suction of someone pulling something back into themselves.
For a second I let myself wait. And for a second I let myself hope– that he will drop the axe on the floor and the ridiculousness of it all will spill out. Then we will both laugh awkwardly with eachother and the axe will keep its scuffed intentions and everything will be a little less awful than it is right now.
And yet he still sits there.
And his gaze still lingers over a wooden handle he grips so tight his knuckles turn white.
So I count my breaths in the dark, as if counting might be the very difference between waking and falling. My fingers curl into the fabric of my blanket and they do not know what to do. I stare ahead at his cold expression, a face so unmoving I am unsure if he even heard me or not.
I do not know if I am awake anymore. I think that perhaps this is all a sick dream my mind crafted through the stress of long, painful weeks. Long, painful weeks that stretch and tie around me like nooses.
I want to speak again. I want to force him to meet my eyes and see the stupid, honest terror in them so he can finally stop pretending it is just a thing to ignore. I want to be the kind of person who stands and asks, “What are you doing?” and means it.
But I sit and do nothing.
And then Ivan turns his head– barely.
His eyes tear away from what is in his hands to look at me, but now the darkness has shifted to leave his face unseen. He says my name back, but his voice is one that I feel I have not heard before; It is flat and empty, as if he is speaking into water. My stomach flips.
“Andrew,” he murmurs. “You’re awake.”
It is not an answer. It is an observation.
There is no warmth in his words. They show no worry to the fear on my face and no malice to the axe in his grip. There is something mechanical in those syllables that replaces what we once had. And the words take a shape so foreign I begin to doubt he had even said it.
My head begins to spin.
“... Why do you have that?”
I need not specify what I am referring to. He knows and I know as well.
When he shifts the axe in his grip at last, it is not a show of menace, but care; He runs a thumb along wood, checking the balance before dipping the blade between his knees, as if unsure where it belongs. Even after he rests the head onto the floor, I cannot help but imagine it raised. Or the arc. Or the eternal silence that awaits after it.
Then his head turns away, and my tongue goes thick. I watch how his only visible eye flicks up and down the axe, as if searching for something. As if plotting the next move.
And for a long, agonizing second, I fear the answer he may give.
And I realize, with a sickening sense of clarity, that an offer does not protect you. A floor does not protect you. A wall does not protect you. A weak, rented door does not protect you.
And I think of everything I have done to hold him; my apologies, my bargains, my jokes, my polluted kindness– and yet, clearly, none of it is strong enough. None of it weighs more than hands over wood.
Then Ivan looks up again, and my thoughts evaporate like breath on glass. The darkness drags along his face once more, and I only want to shut my eyes. But he stares, and I cannot imagine any look on his shadowed face besides madness. Cracked and unfiltered, madness.
“Do you,” he begins, but the pause is deliberate, measured alongside the distance between us. I see his fingers tighten over the handle. “Trust me, Andrew?”
I freeze. As if I have not been frozen since I first spotted him there on the couch.
My heartbeat is a drum I do not recognize in the slightest. I cannot tell whether he is trying to intimidate or comfort me, even with how unlikely the latter sounds when I think about it again. My eyes begin to sting in that ugly, treacherous way when tears are threatening to fall– something I cannot let happen now.
“I–” I start, but what is there to say?
I could ask questions. I could apologize for the hundredth time. I could tell him I loved him in that ridiculous, impossible way we both pretend is not there. Hell, I could beg. But none of those words are a weapon for me to use or a shield for me to hold up.
My lungs forget what to do for a moment. I realize that it is not a question– not really. It cannot be. Or at least, it is not the kind that wants an answer. More-so a knife disguised as curiosity. The sort of thing someone says when they already know the truth and decisions made, but only want to watch you squirm and writhe.
I cannot tell if I nod. I think I do. Or maybe I just blink and Ivan takes it as an answer, because he shifts;
The couch creaks faintly as he stands, the sound breaking the air in two. The motion is slow and deliberate, I swear I can imagine every tendon working beneath his skin. When he is up, there are no words, no more movements. Only intent. The fire axe in his hand gleams like something imagined, having no business catching the light the way it does in that moment.
My throat tightens.
“... Ivan?”
I do not even think the word leaves my mouth. Or if it did, he simply does not react. Instead, he stares ahead. Not at me. Not at anything, really. He just stares. Although it is not angry, it is also not in a way that can be called human– an irregular stillness that makes my skin prickle and my mind bend and the dread continue to balloon in my stomach.
And then,
He smiles.
The corners of his mouth twitch upwards, so delicate and so warm.
A performance, almost as if he had rehearsed it in the mirror dozens of times before it was ready for me to see.
Until,
“Got you.”
And that is it.
Two words. Harmless. Familiar. Something they had been through hundreds of times before– Ivan saying something sharp, something off, something that always makes my stomach twist unbearably until the phrase comes to wash the feeling away; Got you.
A joke. Always a joke. Because it has to be a joke.
Except I do not laugh this time. I do not even try.
Because I see the way his skin goes pale over the handle. I see the way his hand tremors to give away the storm underneath. And I find it hard to believe that this is a tease or play.
This is real. It has to be.
Silence swallows the room again, thick as ever. It rings in my ears until I cannot even hear my own breathing or the pounding in my chest. My mouth remains ajar, and all I can do is watch Ivan’s mouth linger in that awful smile before it finally slips away like a mask being removed.
And then he turns. Slowly.
The axe still casually hangs loose at his side as if it weighs nothing at all in his hand. He does not speak another word or breathe another breath or smile another smile as he walks towards the hallway now, the faint sound of his feet dragging against the warped floorboards fading into nothingness whilst he returns to his bedroom.
And I stay where I am, my heart slamming against my ribs, still staring at the dim hall light ahead long after he has disappeared. My pulse roars, and the echo of that phrase, twisting and curdling, refuses to leave me at peace– as if I will even feel such a thing again after tonight.
Got you.
I do not realize I have been holding my breath until my lungs begin threatening to pop. And I let out a breath, harsh and uneven. Shaky.
I imagine Ivan sitting in his room now, the axe hanging back on its mount. Maybe he is still smiling to himself, like the quiet and private grins he likes to reward himself with after he thinks he has done something right. Or maybe he is not. Because I realize I never heard the door shut.
And the thought makes bile rise in my throat.
I rub at my face and try to laugh, but the sound comes out brittle and wrong. The air feels too fragile for noise now.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees now as I look ahead into the dim room. For a moment, I find myself staring at the front door, temptation budding in my mind. Or maybe it is yearning. Because that door is not an entrance and exit anymore, but an escape.
And I know I am not safe here.
I know I will not be able to sleep.
I know I should leave.
And yet I remain there.
Because somewhere down the hall, the floorboards groan again. Slow and careful.
Someone is still awake too.