Just a Quick Break [Lev]

He didn't feel quite like himself, that day. The Russian man almost never fell ill, but when a freak cold front had blown through, a few days prior, he seemed to have fallen victim to his lack of warm clothing. Or so he assumed. And while it was true that he'd so charitably been given a proper suit, he'd removed it from his personage almost immediately after returning home and hadn't worn it since. He was a little off, but he wasn't a simpleton: he knew that if he used it regularly, it would be ruined in no time. Better to save it. Besides, his old clothes had been washed, so that made it okay to wear them, right?

(He seemed to have completely missed the point.)

Unfortunately, though, his old student coat, worn thin, and his tattered gloves had done little for him in the face of the sudden harsh temperatures. And he'd been too stubbornly devoted to loudly waxing revolutionary at strangers to stay indoors--just as now, he refused to go home, even while stumbling around with a fever. He was throwing fliers around haphazardly (had he originally intended to actually pass them out to people? He couldn't remember--), wandering like a drunk, and with about one-eighth the sense of direction. Shivering, head swimming, arms too tired to lift themselves enough to throw the papers, he dragged himself through the park in a daze. What was he doing? Was he awake? Where was he going?

Home? Never. The workers weren't taking the day off. Imperialism wasn't taking the day off. So neither could he.

But...


...Maybe a quick break wouldn't hurt the cause. Spotting a bench a few yards away, he kept up his work (which had basically amounted to just dropping the fliers on the ground as he went, leaving a wide trail behind him) until he reached it, and immediately collapsed upon it--quite literally. Legs sprawled out uselessly, one arm hanging off the edge with his fingers trailing limply on the ground, he rested his head face-down in the crook of his other elbow, groaning as his skull pounded dully. Wondering if he even had the energy to get up to go home before nightfall, he lied almost completely still, too weak to move, too sick to think.

She didn't like amusement parks. They were loud, she was constantly brushing elbows with people, and vendors were constantly yelling. She didn't want any sausage, why did they keep shouting at her about it?

In fact, people had said that she lacked the capacity to enjoy amusement altogether. Namely her older brother, whom she'd gotten lost from after he tried to drag her on the big wheel and she'd regrettably made a scene and rushed off, embarrassed. Before, she wouldn't have-- she would have sat on that ferris wheel and trembled and shook and cried so much that the other riders could feel it through the steel frame. But something had changed-- she could stand up for herself, at least when it involved being pushed into a corner.

Unlike the person she was going to soon run into, Winter was the best time to her. Everyone shook in the winter. Not only that, but being covered in as many furs could fit on her person felt cozy, like she had some space between herself and the rest of the world. She liked the way it made her breath visible, it was easier to calm down. Less people were on the street in the winter. People said she looked more attractive when the cold got to her cheeks, they said it gave her more color. She could have smiled right then wondering when the first snowflake would fall except she was in a state of worry wondering if she'd ever see her brother again and if her last words to him would be "You'll never get me on that thing".

For the first time that day, instead of hearing food stall vendors yell about fried dough, she heard something familiar. Not bad familiar, but not good familiar, either.

The sound slowly died out, and she was wondering if she was just hearing things until there was the sound of crinkling paper under her heel. She picked it up and noticed there were more, and ended up following them and picking them all up (for some reason picking up all of them, in case the person was upset that she hadn't) before stumbling onto the surprising (or not) source.

"Herr Morozov...?" He didn't look good. She shouldn't say anything. It wasn't the Viennese way. "I think you dropped these." One by one. In a straight line. They were starkly contrasted-- her in fur cuffs and mantle, while he didn't even have fingers on his gloves. He might have needed the papers to insulate his coat.

He'd been drifting in and out of sleep (or was it consciousness?), when a voice called his name. Was it floating to him from far away, or had his head become so filled with slosh that it was simply harder for sound to wade through it? Or was it calling to him from the afterlife...?

"Am I dead?" He mumbled faintly without moving. Normally, if he suspected that he was dead and approaching some sort of afterlife, he would have been wildly curious. As it was, he could barely bring himself to speak at all, let alone with any measure of his normal enthusiasm. Maybe he really was dead. But if he was, then why was he still aching and tired? Why could he still feel the uncomfortably hard bench beneath him? Why did he still tremble violently from the cold?

Forcing himself to turn his head to the side, he took a bleary glance, decided he didn't know her, and turned back. She'd undone his work, picked up all his papers. Probably a spy. Oh well. "Just take me to Siberia, I'm not afraid..."
...Okay, that was a lie. But maybe it was enough to make her go away, to call in reinforcement. Enough time for him to make his escape, hopefully, though he wasn't sure where he could run to, in the condition he was in. Turning again to check if she'd gone, he was startled to see that she hadn't. Foggy mind coming up with no good explanation for it, he looked more carefully, normally wide eyes just barely open.

Ah. Wait. He did know this person. He racked his brain; Comtesse...Therese...um... Not Von Mousy, that (probably) wasn't right. Had he ever actually learned her full name? Oh, to hell with it. "Therese...Comtesse, Fraulein...something. Whatever..." His speech was even more rambling than usual, minus the spirit. It also wavered uncharacteristically with every chill that shot through him--which was unpleasant, but the alternative even more so: allowing his teeth to chatter. "I'm not slacking off, I'm only...recovering my energy..." He felt like that was important to establish; that he'd never slack off on his duty to society.

"I... I-I don't know..." Did he always have to philosophize?

But, when he turned to look at her, she realized that he might have been actually dying. Still, she didn't know what to do. So she just fidgeted with her gloves. "Well... isn't... Siberia colder...? You can have my coat--" on second thought she didn't want to risk not having it. "But I probably shouldn't give it to y-you..."

At least he'd remembered her name. She was a bit disappointed that she seemed that forgettable. "Von S-Steyr... Do you need some help? Is it because you went on the Big Wheel?" Obviously. That was why she didn't want to go on it. It could kill her.

"A-Are you sick?!" She was starting to panic, now. Perhaps he was going to die, right there while she was talking, and it was going to be her fault. She was going to be a murderer. "Where do you live, I'll get you home--!" She grabbed the arm he was resting on and pulled it out from under him in an attempt to drag him to where he lived. Granted, she didn't know where he lived, and had barely moved him one foot. But what else could she do?

"I like my coat..." He mumbled, not quite directly addressing the offer, but declining it nonetheless. If he had the money, he might have gotten his coat relined, at least, since he refused to give it up. But as it stood, he couldn't even afford practical gloves.

"Therese," he corrected, like she didn't know her own name. If his head was usually in the clouds, it was all the way in space, now. Big Wheel? What was that, a metaphor for life? He'd taken a spin on the big wheel and got flung off? Head throbbing from trying to decipher what she meant, he merely groaned again as an answer.

Sick... Yes, he was sick. Go home? Did he need to? Probably, but... "I have work... It's more important..." Even to himself, he didn't sound very convincing, for once. Pausing for a moment, he swept the pile of papers she'd so painstakingly gathered off the bench and let them catch and scatter everywhere in the wind. "There. Done." Defeated. Pushing himself up slowly, so that his already-aching head didn't start spinning, he dragged himself to his feet, teetering slightly. He looked, if possible, even more disheveled than usual.

Where did he live? "I don't know," he replied truthfully. Besides that he was already hopeless with directions, he'd purposely not memorized his address, so that if he was ever captured and hypnotized or tortured, they'd never get the information out of him. A lot of the time, he didn't even know the general way to his apartment; he just wandered around until he found the one that looked like his. (Even then...sometimes he was wrong.)

"Wh-what do you mean, you don't know...!?" She was practically hyperventilating. "You're DYING!!"

She stood up on the bench carefully, trying to catch a glimpse of her brother. Finally, she did. "Erwin..." She was having trouble raising her voice loud enough for him to hear. "Erwin...! ERWIN!"

He shoved through the crowd to get to her, thinking that she was the one that needed help. Instead, when he found her, he helped her off the bench and found a dirty looking man standing there. "What did he do to you??"

"HE NEEDS A DOCTOR, WE HAVE TO BRING HIM HOME."

Wait... what? "What are you talking about, he's a stranger!"


"NO-- HE'S NOT, ANNALIE-- ANNALIE KNOWS HIM-- ERWIN--" She was full-on hyperventilating and that scared him alot more than any fleas the despondent man might have. Not wasting any more time lest he have to carry his fainted sister back as well, he threw the man's arm over his shoulder and dragged him out to the street, with his sister following.

He waved down a coach and loaded the man inside, and helped his sister inside before giving the address to the driver and getting in himself. It was still an alarming situation, not to mention awkward... and smelly. "So... who is this guy...?"

"He's a p-politician." Close enough. She didn't know.

He was drifting in and out of a haze, punctuated only by her cries for assistance, each sending jolts of pain through his head. Which was probably for the best, since it kept him awake and on his feet. Only vaguely registering that some person named Erwin had joined them, he felt himself being hauled away, though his vision made it seem as if he were drifting through a dream.

And then the cold was dulled somewhat, although he still shook almost convulsively, and it registered somewhere in his mind as the carriage bumped along that he was inside something and in motion. On a train to Siberia? That was unfortunate. Of course they'd wait until his guard was down...whoever they were...

And then someone was talking about him; Therese (oh, was she still there?) was saying he was a politician. He laughed mildly, and corrected in a delirious, far-off voice, "No, don't flatter me; I'm just a philosopher..." He then slumped against the carriage door in a dead faint.

What followed his fainting was a screaming and panicking fit that lasted until the coach reached the siblings' home. And it continued, on a quieter scale, until the doctor arrived and went and checked on Lev in one of the guest rooms.

She continued to only allot him information that never amounted to a whole piece.

"How did you meet him?"

"I heard him yelling, and then later I bumped into him and he tried to convince me to jump off the balcony."

"....."

"Oh! I gave him one of your suits, I hope that's okay."

"...."

"Maybe it's too big for him, that's why he doesn't wear it." Her brother only sighed. If it had been cleared with Annelie, the toughest barrier of common sense, then it must be okay. "Do you think he'll be okay?"


"I... really don't care." Shouldn't have said that. "Don't cry--"

After the doctor had looked him over, the now-sleeping man was diagnosed with a case of the grippe, which had struck him acutely, but was lacking in symptoms and therefore would probably clear up in no less than a few days, followed by perhaps a week or so of fatigue. After assuring the young lady of the household that he certainly was not going to die, he left them with dietary instructions for the patient (and a bill), and recommended that they allow him to sleep.


When Lev finally woke up, it could have been minutes, hours, days later, (most likely minutes) and he wouldn't have known. He could barely remember anything from his previous foggy state. At first, he didn't even open his eyes--his head no longer pounded, but he still felt weak and slightly feverish. Though it helped that the bed was so warm... Had his bed become more comfortable?

Groggily, he opened one eye--and his thoughts all froze. Slowly, he sat up in bed. Then he opened the other eye.

Where was he.

With a loud yelp, he tumbled out of the bed and spilled out onto the floor (knocking over a nearby chair or something in the process), tangled in the sheets. Scrambling to his feet, he dashed over to the window, to see if he recognized the street outside. He didn't. Then he caught his reflection in a nearby mirror with another loud cry (he never did know how to keep his voice down): his hat was gone, his jacket was gone...everything except for his shirt and trousers.

Dashing over to a nearby armoire with the intention of tearing through it and the rest of the room for his belongings, his adrenaline rush began to wear off before he could get it opened. Malaise weighed heavily on him, and it was all he could do to slink back over to the bed and curl up in it, teeth clattering. So he was sick; he could remember that much. But how did he get here??

Well, there was only one thing to do, in his incapacitated state. "WHERE AM I?" Maybe the walls would answer back. This was all so bizarre already that it wouldn't have been surprising.

As was often the case when Annelie wasn't around, Therese took it upon herself to practically break every social taboo there was.  The only place she really felt confident was in her home, so she never worried about convention.  

Which was why she was seated in a chair next to the one he had knocked over, quietly reading... And for once, unnoticeable.  Most likely part of that was because he was barely coherent, and she was stunned quiet by all his yelling.  

It had turned into evening by the time he had woken up, and she had been there the whole time, flipping the pages of a Sherlock Holmes.  She would have been in a nightgown as well (possibly the worst social transgression), had Annelie been there to help her out of her dress (come to think of it, where was she?).

"I'm glad you aren't dead," She closed the book after dog-earing the page and talked around biting down the nail on her thumb in some kind of quiet anxiety.  "I want you to stay here for a few days, I don't trust doctors." Hers didn't work.  "My parents are in Styria and it's just my brother here, he's on military leave.  He doesn't mind..." 

If he refused she would almost certainly go into another fit. "Your things are in the washroom-- I t-told them not to mend it, I know you don't like people touching your things."

Would it be more frightening or more disheartening if he decided he wasn't going to stay?  After all, he was the first person to really listen to her, aside from Annelie, who worked for her, and tended to tisk at her rather than really engage it.  

No. Incredible.

The wall replied back. And it was glad that he was alive.

Eyes bugging out as much as was physically possible, he listened and wondered for once if he really was possibly quite mad. But then...no, no that voice was too familiar to belong to a wall. Turning, slowly, he flinched in surprise, but exhaled in relief, when he finally noticed a familiar face, "Oh, Therese, it's you--"

(Breaking social taboo, indeed; he neglected even to call people by their proper title. ...Though even he might have been uncomfortable if she were wearing a nightgown.)

"Or at least, I assume it's you. You could be a hallucination brought on by illness. But I don't mind; a familiar face is much less disconcerting than having the wall converse with me." He was clearly starting to get back to his usual self, despite sounding notably tired. 

Sighing and turning to lie on his back and stare at nothing in particular, he conceded, "I suppose if I suspect that I might be going mad from fever, then I really must be sicker than I thought." Sound reasoning, as always, but it meant he was staying. He didn't think himself capable of getting home, let along caring for himself. He so rarely fell ill that he wasn't sure how to.

"Um...thanks, for this," he added uncomfortably, before going off on another train of thought, "I don't remember, but I must have been outside when I was struck with this fever. I could have died, probably, or at least been severely uncomfortable... Although that might have been a good insight on what it's like to be homeless and ill. Have you ever wondered what that's like? I have. I've fasted a lot, to know what it's like to be starving, but I've never tried homeless. Do you think you could experience that just by living outside for a few days, or would it have to be more long-term, maybe?"

He looked to her very seriously for her opinion, as if she had ever once considered living in the streets for a while solely for the experience, and that this was quite normal. Definitely getting back to his usual self.

Even though she was fairly calmer than usual, she couldn't help her eyes when they grew wide when he said she might have been a hallucination. For a moment there, she nearly believed him, and went right to pinching herself to make sure she was real. "How can I tell..." Then she brought herself back. She had memories of before him, didn't she? Yes. "...Nevermind." Sometimes she felt so stupid around other people-- especially him. He knew alot, or so she thought, because he talked so much. "I don't know why you would hallucinate me, anyways."

And wasn't there something missing between 'dying' and 'severely uncomfortable'? "I think you need to go back to sleep. I won't stay-- I just wanted to make sure you'll be okay." She guessed he wasn't really hungry, as sick as he was. Someone would definitely bring him something in the morning. Or she would throw a fit. Sometimes it was beneficial. "I don't really like to think about it," She murmured, feeling a little nervous under his stare. "I guess I don't know what it's really like, but when I go out and I see people who are sick or homeless or... any terrible thing," the edge of the book binding was already being folded over compulsively to get rid of the anxiety of talking about such things. "I feel it... in the center of my heart... I don't know, does that make sense?" She laughed a little, and then grew quiet. "And it hurts very much. So I don't like to go out... because I always find someone who's suffering." She found him, didn't she? But then again, he probably wouldn't admit so, even though he couldn't find his own home. "So I don't want to talk about what being homeless would feel like."

If she'd related to him that he was making her feel stupid, he might have been somewhat distraught. To him, talking and debating was a way of stimulating intellect, not belittling it. As it was, he thought for a moment, and explained, "Perhaps since my body's so strained from illness, I need to hallucinate a friend for comfort. And if I hallucinated someone from all the way back home, it would be too much of a stretch for me to believe, so my brain rejected it on the grounds of not being convincing enough." He laughed, "Although I wonder if anything's too much of a stretch for me to believe."

He indeed, wasn't hungry, but neither was he inclined to sleep again. And hallucination or not, he didn't particularly want to be left alone either. "You should stay; I don't sleep much, normally." His head was too full of thoughts to allow for sleep. "I get so restless, I might have to talk to myself. It would be much better if someone were there to talk back."

Although, he fell pretty silent when she did talk back. Turning back to stare at the ceiling, he agreed, "It makes perfect sense..." But it seemed that for once, he had nothing else to say. He appeared to be lost in thought. Certainly, he could have said, 'I used to feel like that all the time,' but that would possibly lead to questions he just wasn't inclined to answer. 

Instead, he glanced back to her for a split second, then pantomimed holding a pipe to his mouth, imitating a deep, gentlemanly voice, "'Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent,' is it not, my dear Watson?" He grinned at her book, speaking normally again, "I've only read A Case of Identity, I'm afraid. But sometimes I fancy myself a detective of existential matters--not that there's any crime involved in that. ...Or is there?" He raised an eyebrow inquiringly, pretending to take a drag on the invisible pipe again.

"...Friend?" She told herself not to read much into it. The edge of the book was twisted even further. "I... I d-don't know, if you hallucinate, doesn't your mind throw out reason altogether...?"

That's why he was sick, he didn't sleep at all. Which made her think he really should be sleeping, when he had the chance. She wondered what would happen to him when winter finally came in full force and he couldn't find his house, or have things to warm his bed. Another thing she wanted to not think about. She thought that if she got him to realize his way of life was no good, and that he should do something to better support himself, he would go on his way and she wouldn't have to think about it again. But he had said friend, hadn't he? Talk about reading too much into it.

"I'm Watson?" Her mood did lighten at the impression, and a small smile turned into light laughter, which she covered with the open book, to show him. "I've read A Study In Scarlet about five times... I have some others, I read the endings first." There was no way to rationalize her trepidation. "I wanted to make sure they didn't end differently." She loved to read, because it was an escape that always had an ending. Maybe the endings weren't always good, but in the end, everything was okay-- no uncertainties. "As long as you don't make yourself sick, I don't think it's criminal." Based on the way he was pantomiming, he was still a bit loopy. "You look ridiculous..." She chided with another laugh.

Perking up, she continued, "I-I read other mystery novels too-- whole shelves full of them. I'll have someone bring you some, so you can read." She seemed delighted at the prospect. "Maybe you can tell me the endings of stories I haven't picked up yet-- So I know they're okay?" Okay. Just like her life. She first thought that if everything turned out 'okay'-- she didn't have to be happy-- then she wouldn't fear. But from the whirlwind of times she'd talked to him, Therese was starting to see that she should expect more out of life than being just 'okay'.

"Does it, really?" As if she were the expert on the matter. In all fairness, though, his mind's hold on what was generally recognized as solid reasoning was so lax that it might not have made much difference, anyway.

What she didn't know was that he rarely ever fell ill, but he did indeed suffer the pains of winter when it rolled around. Not that he wasn't accustomed to it, given where he was from, but in Piter, he'd at least had proper clothing. But lacking such luxuries was one of the reasons he'd embraced this new life. Rather than avert his gaze from the suffering, to walk past and feel powerless to help or ashamed for being more fortunate, he'd become a part of it. And as it turned out, it suited him much better. In his opinion, anyways.

...That said, even he had a difficult time ignoring the cold in the name of existential fulfillment.

"That seems reasonable," he commented, "I imagine it might be utterly alarming to get to the end of a Sherlock Holmes book, only to discover that he'd somehow failed. It would be like getting to the end of a dictionary, only to find that all of the definitions for the last letter are wrong. You'd have to question what you've been thinking all your life." He would, anyways. He was always a bit loopy, and probably always looked a bit ridiculous, but he grinned as if he knew so. Maybe he did. 

"Certainly," he agreed, sounding cheered by the prospect of having something to do (other than talk), "I haven't read a good novel since I left home. They threw me out of the library here--can't imagine why." Whether it was due to his appearance or tendency to be several decibels louder than typical library standards was anyone's guess.

"I'd think so...?" She wasn't sure what to say. For a smart person, he was surely asking questions to someone who knew so little.

She was too fragile, people told her so-- and really, she knew she was, too-- to live like he did, or even dream of doing it. Besides that fact, she grew up learning that everyone stayed where they were, and when things were like that, people were okay. Not happy, but okay, which was good enough.

"I seem to think that way alot now, so at least with books I can know the ending." She didn't give herself any time to ruminate on that before she sprung up like she had just remembered something and left the room, after mumbling a quick "Hold on--" The stack of books was visible before her when she came back in, and she unceremoniously dumped them by his feet before frantically organizing them. Because. "I have these--" She gestured to them as if they weren't blatantly noticeable. "You can tell the ones I haven't read..." They weren't bent and folded into oblivion. "So if you read one of those, you can tell me." She smiled, but then seemed to remember something else... pointless, "You don't have to read them all, of course... I just don't know how long you'll stay here."

Raising an eyebrow, he watched her go, wondering if he'd struck a nerve or if she really was a figment of his imagination (he wouldn't let go of the possibility), and was simply disappearing. He hoped not, because he didn't want to be left alone indefinitely in some strange place. Right when he was wondering if he could force himself to hallucinate someone coming back in, something appeared at the door.

It was a floating stack of books.

Well. Not exactly what he had in mind, but-- Leaning forward slightly (from his previous angle, he couldn't see the floor), he realized that the stack of books had legs. Rather, it had skirts. Watching with a great deal of curiosity as they collapsed dangerously close to his toes and were quickly straightened out again, he sat up and selected one of the 'used' ones at random. As he listened to her, he flipped through the pages, inspecting not the words, but rather, the nervous damage done to the book. "I'll try and read as many of them as possible," he assured her, "If I go without sleeping, perhaps I can finish a good amount of them!" ...He meant well.
Closing the book, he glanced up in surprise when she mentioned how long he was staying, "As soon as I can make it home, I'll leave--of course, since I'm not sure where home is, I'll have to guess how much energy it'll require to get there... But I can't imagine staying more than one night." (Naturally, he hadn't heard the doctor saying that he'd be ill for at least several days, but even if he had, he might have disregarded it.) "It was altruistic of you to help me, but I don't like to leech off generosity." Not to mention he had things to do, essays to write, people to shout at...

She had picked up an unread book, thinking he'd picked the bent and beaten up one on accident, when he said he wasn't going to sleep. "That's not what I..." He was sick, so it probably wouldn't go as he planned, anyways. So she kept calm.

"...One night...?"

Until he said he was only staying one night. It wasn't like she thought she would never see him again-- she somehow always ran into him, and she wasn't sure he was so important to her, yet-- it was that he had the choice to get better and then go back to being nearly homeless, and he didn't even want to do that. Mouth pressed into a thin line, she raised the unused book and did her best to smack him in the head with it. She wasn't sure if she wanted it to hurt or not, she was just upset. Not anxious, not afraid, but angry. It hardly ever happened, and she didn't know what to do about it.

With one final glare, tears in her eyes, she spun around and left, not even slamming the door (what if he had a headache?)... but she was still very mad.

What? Was she upset about--

"AKH--" Bursts of light flared up across his vision as the book cracked across his forehead, which he immediately cradled in pain, doubled over. It probably wouldn't have hurt quite so much if not for the fact that he was already dealing with a headache and general fatigue. As it was, it felt like she'd taken a stake to his head. As the immediate shock of pain subsided, he tried to come up with some sort of explanation or theory to explain what had just happened. But his head hurt too much, he couldn't think at all. So there was only one thing to do: ask her.

When he managed to look up, though, she had already gone and he was completely alone. If he'd been able to, he'd have questioned if this was all really happening, or if it was just a bizarre dream.

Forcing himself out of bed, still grasping his head with one hand, he stumbled sluggishly to the door, finding himself in that familiar hallway full of portraits he'd liked to throw tomatoes at. Spotting a servant or a butler or someone down the hall, he called for his attention as he approached him, "Hey! Where did Therese go?"

The man turned to face him, looked affronted, "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"Therese. Where is she?"

"That's Comtesse to you--"

"Oh, get out of my way," the Russian huffed, pushing past him. He remembered now, anyways, where her room was--the one with the balcony. Funny how he could remember that, and not where his own apartment was. He could do a lot of things, though, when he wasn't preoccupied with philosophizing reality. Making his way under the Venetian lights, up the staircases, wondering with each step when his legs were going to give out, he made it to what he was certain was her door. Sagging heavily against the frame as he knocked on it (even he wasn't rude enough to just barge in on a woman), he asked loud enough for her to hear, if she was in there, "Therese, why did you hit me in the head? I need to know...before I pass out." Which might have been a real possibility, if he wasn't able to sit down soon.

She thought about going other places, because certainly she had cried in other rooms before.  Just, not when she was angry-- she needed a special kind of solitude for that.  Solitude of solitude, in her room, in the washroom, in the empty bathtub, with a blanket over her.  

His inquiry was just barely heard.  "I don't want to talk to you...!" She talked back at him, voice cracking.  "If you are going to leave tomorrow, why not just leave right now!! Or better yet, why did you let us bring you back at all, it you want to simply run out and die again...!!" Things were black and white, to her; she couldn't imagine that he could possibly survive, if he wasn't safe and healthy, he was dead.  She thought the same of herself, causing all sorts of unnecessary fear.  

"I'll just forget I ever met you, that way I won't have to go to your funeral! Of course, you'd insist on leaving the grave after one day, so what would it even matter!?" 

She calmed down, and rested her head between her knees, only heard by the echo from the washroom.  "If you're going to go, just go..." 

Even with his penchant for coming up with insane, highly unlikely explanations for things, he found himself at a total loss with this. He had absolutely no idea what was going on or why, or how he'd so blindly provoked it all. Whether he realized it or not, perhaps he was finally getting a taste of his own medicine: experiencing the bewilderment and confusion people often felt when dealing with his own seemingly random outbursts.

Sinking to the floor, unable to stay standing, he wrapped his arms around his middle and shivered as he tried to get a hold on the situation. "I'm quite hardy, you know," he assured her, "I hadn't been ill in years until now... And if it's any consolation, if you're going to forget me anyways, then it shouldn't bother you if I die prematurely. Also, I'm not having a funeral. So if that's what worries you, then there's nothing to be upset about!" He tried to be as encouraging as he normally was, when preaching the manifesto to people. It was hard when all he wanted to do was lie down.

Leaning his head back against the wall tiredly, he said, perhaps the most seriously since she'd met him, "I came here from Saint Petersburg to escape death. I'm not afraid to die, but I don't plan to, either." For a moment, he was silent, then he inquired, finally, hesitantly, "Are you sad or angry?"

Did he ever think that there was a reason he was ill? That it was a sign that he wasn't supposed to risk it anymore? Then again, he really didn't believe in anything... so it was unlikely.

His attempt to figure out what was wrong with her wasn't helping-- not even she was sure. She just knew she was upset. "I don't... w-want to forget you..." She sank further into the empty tub, further obscuring her voice. "But if I have to, I would..." It certainly didn't help that he was already dispelling her fears of a funeral incorrectly. She did agree with many of the things he said, they were all good-hearted and well-meaning. He himself just didn't make any sense. She'd never heard that he had already escaped death once... why didn't he tell her that before? It would have saved her so much grief to just nip the friendship or whatever it was in the bud, rather than add so much more like a lead weight, right at that moment. So now, was she sad or angry? "Why can't I be both..." She sat quietly for a few moments, before speaking up again, hesitantly.

"...How long do you expect you'll be like this...?" It was too much to bear, she was in over her head. If this was what getting to know people was like, she didn't want to do it anymore.

He wasn't sure, but he felt like this didn't exactly have anything to do with his potentially dying--at least, that wasn't the root of the problem. He didn't think that his life alone merited such a response, anyways. Perhaps this was a conclusion that he could and should have come to much earlier, but as it was...he was just trying to keep his head from pounding again.

"I suspect I'll be this way forever," he said with good-natured introspection, "...Unless you mean how long will I be ill--in that case, I have no clue."

Getting up unsteadily, he let himself into her room (his capacity for politeness had a limit--in the end, he just didn't see any point in it), and looked around, surprised to see that she wasn't there. Maybe he really was hallucinating? He was about to amble over to the balcony, with the vague idea that perhaps she'd jumped...when he noticed the bathroom door slightly ajar. He didn't even think twice about inviting himself into there, too. If someone caught him, he would certainly be thrown out, if not worse, but he simply didn't worry about consequences like that.

Completely unperturbed to find her hiding in the bathtub, he sat down on the floor near it, wishing he'd brought a blanket with him. In his usual tone, though masked with a sort of distance, as if he were telling a story that hadn't actually happened to him, he related to her, "The reason I only own this set of clothes is because I spent my last few weeks in Piter in hiding--and it was in the summer, so I didn't think to wear a warm coat or gloves. I had gotten a tip-off from a friend at the last minute: the secret police are coming. There was only time to gather any incriminating evidence--all my essays, the ones I keep in my coat," he waved a hand as if to indicate the room he'd been in, where he'd (perhaps unwisely) left it. "Of course, it was too late for me, but I didn't want them using it as an excuse to arrest my family, you see. Anyways, so I went underground for a few weeks: grew a beard, cut off my hair--it's grown back longer now, though--so that I'd be less recognizable. While I arranged to leave the country, I kept a close eye on the trials of other revolutionaries that had been rounded up. Even though I didn't know any of them personally, I went to go see some of the hangings," he shrugged, "out of respect, I guess. I wanted to see what happened to my friends, too, but all I know is that they were deported to Siberia."

For a moment, he was silent. Staring into space, he confessed, "I don't know if I would have been executed for my involvement--perhaps now I would be, for running, I don't know. Definitely, I would be sentenced for life. Like I said, I'm not afraid to die...but I'm terrified of prison." It didn't suit his personality--he was so inherently free-spirited that he didn't know what kind of existence he could possibly lead if he were locked up, forced to do hard labor. Death might even be preferable. 

"If I weren't intend on going back to Russia, for the revolution," which he was certain would happen soon, "I think I'd travel to Africa. Somewhere so far away and exotic that no one would think to look for me there." He glanced at her once, in the eye, "Somewhere where I wouldn't have this constant fear. Because it wears on you, you know?" He understood what paranoia felt like, maybe better than anyone.

Twiddling his thumbs, he concluded cheerfully, "Well, anyways, that's a story you'll never hear again!" It wasn't one he liked to tell. Or ever had, for that matter.

For most things, she craved stability, and the assurance that nothing was going to change. For him, it had the opposite effect. "Well you're going to end up killing yourself like that..."

Which is what she realized she should not have said, when he started telling his story. His friends were all gone, never to be seen again? He had seen people who had done his work, hanged? How was he not completely destroyed? It was hard to believe he only feared prison the most. She shrugged off the blanket, and for a moment raised herself up to drape it over his shoulders before sinking back into the tub again. "Why is prison the worst that could happen...?" She felt like she already knew the answer, she only wanted to see if she was right.

And if anyone understood constant fear, it was her. "No one would find you, but you would be trampled by some kind of giant animal." She mumbled as if it was a terrible idea. "Africa is full of things to fear." She was quiet for a minute, and added, "There isn't any way to get away from it..." She found the answer, she could see why he would much rather die than fear.

"I'm sorry that happened to you..."

Thanking her, he gratefully wrapped himself in the blanket, teeth having just begun to clatter lightly. When she asked about prison, he shuddered--though not from being cold. "If I'm in prison, I can't ever be free," he explained, eyes wide, "Out here, the only thing that can shackle people are concepts--tradition, gender, social position...things you can throw off, if you're able and inclined to. In prison, you can't think the bars away. They're real, physical things." It was a horrifying prospect, to be trapped and powerless for any amount of time, let alone a lifetime. He didn't even want to live a life, if it was going to be like that.

At her dismissal of Africa, though, he couldn't help but laugh, "Well, I've avoided being trampled by horses so far, despite having wandered into the street so many times. So I'm not too worried about that." In a more serious manner, he asked her gently, "How do you know there's no escaping it, if you never try to run?"

Sitting back, he waved a hand, "It's alright, it wasn't all bad. Of course, I'm sad about my friends, and I don't like the principle of living in exile. But, it was something like an adventure--an experience. I realized that life is fleeting, and there's no guarantee that anything comes after it or that you'll have a second go around." He smiled, "So you'd better live it while you've got the chance, and be happy. Or else what was the point?" Resting his head against the wall and closing his eyes tiredly, he added with a grin, "That's my philosophy, anyways. I thought about writing an article on it, but it's not very revolutionary, or academic."