There's a hole inside him.

Sometimes he tries to fill it with vodka, sometimes with blood, but whatever he does, the liquid just drains out and he feels empty again. Empty and blank and utterly alone.

He's next to Toris, back to back, this night as all other nights. But he feels far away, solitary, with no one, without even walls around him – he's alone, bare in the snow. The blood shed earlier, hot and sticky, oozing from Toris's flayed flesh and onto Ivan's hands, warmed him for a while. But its effects faded before he could get to sleep, and here he is now, still awake, wondering about his people and why they still suffer, no matter what he does or how hard he tries, about his future and whether he'll always be in this much pain, about why the world seems to hate him so much when it's just because he can't control himself, he doesn't understand things, he has bad luck and is too big for his own sake.

When he was young, he thought being a big country meant being more powerful. Now he feels stretched, weaker every day.

He wants to run to someone. He wants a mother. He wants to bury his face in folds of someone's skirts and cry, like a child would after he'd been teased on the playground, or tripped on the front step, or dropped his ice cream cone, or lost his favorite toy. He wants to cry and have someone hold him and stroke his hair and chuckle and tell him that it's not a big deal and soon it will be alright. He's always wanted it to be alright. And it never has been, for as long as he can remember.

He thinks Toris is probably asleep, but he rolls over anyway, puts his hand gingerly on the smaller man's shoulder, and says his name to get his attention.

"Toris."

"Yes?" comes the soft reply. The other was awake too, after all.

"Hold me."

"What?" Toris rolls over to look groggily at his bedmate, hearing but not comprehending.

Eyes stinging, Ivan repeats: "Please, hold me!" He sinks down to press his head against Toris's chest , closing his eyes so the tears won't show. He won't let them show if Toris won't accept them. He wants to grab on to something, a mother's apron, the sheets, something that will make him feel anchored to the earth to make sure the hole inside him won't grow too big and let him float away, but all that's under his hands right now is Toris's skin, not so easy to hold on to. His grip tightens anyway, and he feels Toris wince. He expects to be pushed away, expects Toris to roll over or get up and leave; only a fool would fulfill his request, after all he's done.

But to his surprise, soft arms encircle him, fingers that are rough from cooking, dusting, doing laundry, washing dishes, and other servile pursuits curve around his back. Toris pulls him a little closer, so close that Ivan feels his sigh breezing through his ash-blonde hair.

"Don't worry," Toris whispers as Ivan begins to sob. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll feel better in the morning."

Toris doesn't really understand. But Ivan begins to feel a little warmer, even as his body's shaking; he can feel little puffs of Toris's breath on his ear, and the length of that wiry body pressed against his, and those arms still tight around him, ever so comforting and encouraging. He still hurts, but he's not alone anymore. There's someone else here with him, sharing the pain of being naked in the snow with no future and no happy end in sight. For once in his life, he's being held.

When he finally stops crying, he's almost asleep, with Toris still holding him with one arm and bringing the other up and down, fingers running through his hair. The hole's still there, but at least for now it's patched.