Wrong Impressions [Book II]

Chapter 2

He closed the door when his visitor left. He sighed in surrender and dropped to the couch. It was bad, so bad that he was really surprised to be alive. The last month had been the worst, a hell of a lot of pain, suffering and guilt that ate him up slowly, with no way out. Even at some point in his agony the word suicide crossed his mind. But he was a coward, so it was only a vague memory that evaporated instantly.

His visit was Ivan. It was the sixth time he came to see him in the eternal month he had been locked up in the apartment. He remembered that his first appearance on the threshold had been almost a hallucination. But the man made it clear to come for his belongings, and left after a few minutes.

The second time he came - three days later - he again made it clear that he lacked some things he would need, and his stay lasted for more than half an hour. Allan could not believe it at first, but he soon realized that without a doubt Ivan was standing in front of him, pretending to be looking for his favorite cup on the kitchen shelf.

He didn't dare move, he didn't know what to do, what to say. If he did, he would ruin that little miracle, and he didn't want to be left alone again. He wanted to apologize to him, to beg for his forgiveness even if it was necessary. He was his best friend, the only one who knew all his life and understood him perfectly. He missed him very much, but he didn't know if saying it would make things better.

Ivan kept in a backpack an orange cup, which according to Allan, was not his. A little shiver of hope made him hold his breath. Ivan missed him too, he could tell. And although his whole body begged him not to say anything, he couldn't resist.

"I'm sorry," he said aloud, "I'm so sorry for causing all this, you have no idea how sorry I am."

Ivan stopped at once, turning his back, but Allan could notice the tension taking hold of his posture, and feared retaliation. A minute passed and Ivan continued to move around the kitchen without saying a word, just the sound of moving junk. He inspected each piece of cutlery carefully before leaving it or putting it in his backpack.

Allan swallowed the knot in his throat and took a step forward.

"Ivan," he called, full of ghostly courage, was terrified. "I'm so sorry, the last thing I want is for you to hate me, I deserve to be left alone, but please."

He waited. Ivan ignored him for at least a couple of minutes, then watched him walk to the bathroom. Allan followed him slowly, his legs being moved by a courage that he did not know where it came from. It was, perhaps, the simple fact that he did not want to be left alone. He hated it, at night he had nightmares, he had even started hearing things, the phone ringing when it wasn't, knocking on the door that made him run to open it immediately. But no one went to see him, no one called him to check on him. He had been left all alone, and it was driving him crazy.

He walked to the bathroom but stopped short when he saw Ivan leave, the blond looked into his eyes for a second before going out into the room. Allan felt the cold in his eyes and forced himself to say no more. Ivan left the apartment before anything else happened, and Allan was left alone again.