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3:15 PM
Lucian senses the gunshots more than he hears them. The suffocating odour of gunpowder disperses in the air. The assassin's black bandana stands out against the maroon, white, and gold flags. Dread creeps up his neck, tensing muscles and stealing his breath.
His memory doesn't record the gunshots. Only the silence.
There is a split second where Anton’s last words hang heavy in the air. Brothers and sisters, we must remain united.
There is a split second when only Lucian understands what is happening. The crowd falls silent; the birds stop singing, ready to take flight. Anton's expression shifts from cheerful determination to confusion.
There is a split second when he is falling, and he catches Lucian’s eye. A shadow passes over his hazel eyes, a hint of the terror to come.
He falls onto the wooden stage with a dull thud.
Then, chaos. Someone screams; one more gunshot rings through the air. Lucian throws himself onto Anton, wrapping around him.
“Monica?” Anton rasps, bunching Lucian’s shirt in his fists. There is an ocean of crimson on his chest. Lucian brings his hands against the wound and presses as hard as he can.
“Safe,” he shouts over the commotion, looking up. A moment before, Petr yanked Monica off stage, disregarding her desperate cries and attempts to reach Anton.
Someone grabs him by his shoulders and pulls back. A crowd forms around Anton, suits and police uniforms, and first aid bags. Someone pulls him up roughly, leading him off the stage.
“This way, sir, quickly,” the security guard says, hurrying him toward the car. Lucian twists around, trying to find Anton in the crowd. All he sees is Anton's palm, slack and lifeless, on a stretcher.
3:35 PM
The hard metal of the hospital chair is pressing painfully into Lucian's back. He shifts, trying to find a position that wouldn’t trap his spine between the bars.
His body feels foreign. Uneasy. His muscles are tense and coiled, ready for action, like he should be using them. Sprinting, leaping, reaching out. He feels hot and sticky everywhere, filthy.
His lungs don’t work like he wants them to, as if a lead weight is crushing his chest. His heartbeat quickens uncomfortably; a familiar, icy feeling builds up in his temples. He leans forward, his elbows digging uncomfortably into his knees. Air from the ceiling fans rushes over the sweat on his neck; he shivers at the sensation.
“It’s safe, it’s safe,” he whispers between ragged breaths, a mantra he’s been using for years. “Slow down, Lucian. It’s safe.”
Darkness creeps up at the edges of his vision; he lets his head fall. His hand closes on his trousers; the wool feels strangely stiff. He latches onto every breath he can force into his lungs, overwhelmed by the ringing in his ears.
He’s dimly aware of his hand moving, searching for something, until it meets the metal of the chair. The cool, hard presence anchors him somewhat; he focuses on it until his next breath comes a little easier to him. Gradually, the darkness fades, and he feels safe enough to sit up straight again.
He looks around anxiously, tugging at his collar. No one is around, courtesy of the police cordoning off the ward.
At least no one saw him like that.
4:08 PM
Lucian was shot before. He knows the pain radiating from the wound, gripping him in its unrelenting grasp. He remembers the way air escaped his lungs and refused to return, and the way the concrete felt under his head when he stumbled backwards.
He thinks back to Anton, down on the stage and gripping Lucian’s shirt. The way his eyes remained wide and darting around, his mouth struggling to catch a breath. He didn’t thrash or scream; his body remained frozen in mute suffering. Just thinking about it brings a phantom pain, a searing heat radiating from Lucian’s jagged shoulder scar.
Minutes pass. Hours, maybe? At some point, Petr walks into the hall and collapses onto the chair next to Lucian.
“Monica and the kids are home with Karl,” he says, breaking the silence between them. Lucian stares ahead. There is a photo on the wall: Paskal shaking the hand of the hospital director at the grand opening. Anton is standing between them, flashing his teeth in a wide smile. The front of his shirt is so white, it sears Lucian’s eyes.
“How is she?” he asks. He’s not very interested, but it feels like something he should know. Anton is wearing a blue tie in the photo. He wore a maroon one today, the colour blending into the blood.
“Pretty shit,” Petr sighs and reaches to the floor, producing a leather travel bag. “I brought you a clean shirt. It’s… It’s Anton’s. I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to go to your office.”
“What do I need his shirt for?” Lucian asks, absentmindedly picking at his suit jacket’s button. He’s been staring at the photo for so long, it's blurring around the edges. Anton blends into Paskal, then into the director, and then into the wall, just one big stain of dirty colour. There’s a poster of a massive red drop next to it, peeling at the edges. Donate blood. Blood, blood, blood.
Petr’s been speaking to him.
“Lucian,” his voice finally pushes through the static in Lucian’s ears. He presses the bag into Lucian’s hands. “Go to the restroom.”
The restroom tiles are cold and white. White, white, white, why is everything white? Anton’s shirt. Anton’s face. White spots dance in front of Lucian’s eyes; he grabs onto the sink. The porcelain is cold under his fingers. Anton’s hands were so cold. Anton. Anton. The tiles feel so hard when Lucian’s knees hit them. Anton tried to speak just before someone pulled Lucian back. Lucian, he whispered in a dazed voice and then nothing else. Lucian, and was it the last word Anton would ever say in his life?
Lucian was the first word Anton ever said to him. Lucian Galade, I’ve heard so much about you. He was sitting on the only good chair in his MP’s office and smiling at Lucian. Mr. Rayne, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Lucian said, shaking his hand. Anton’s hands. First time they touched. Anton’s hands on his shirt.
“Hey. Lucian. Come on, get up,” someone says above him and grabs him under his arms, pulling up with a groan. Lucian finds himself face to face with Petr again. “Take off your shirt.”
Lucian’s fingers start working on the buttons before he can think about it. Automatic reaction to an order, years of discipline. Why is Petr giving him an order? Why is Lucian undressing in front of him? The cool air hits his bare chest, sobering him up momentarily. He looks down at his hands; his entire shirt is covered in blood. His hands are crimson.
“Did the doctors look at you?” Petr asks softly, picking up the forgotten bag and uncovering a clean shirt.
“It’s Anton’s blood,” Lucian mutters, running the tap. His words are barely audible over the hum of the water. It mixes with the blood, swirling around in the sink. Dark red, red, pink, clear. Is that the last he sees of Anton? He splashes some water on his face to keep the nausea at bay.
The fabric of the shirt feels foreign to his skin. Softer, richer. The buttons are all wrong, too. It hangs on his slim body, at least two sizes too large. He thinks of Anton’s broad frame, the way he towered over Lucian. Serge said something about him casting a shadow. What was it? Lucian’s brain feels like it’s made of cotton; he claws uselessly at the edges, trying to gather his thoughts.
“You know,” Petr starts, in a shaking voice. “He’ll be a real dick about it.”
He starts to laugh at his own joke, the laughter growing louder and more hysterical until it suddenly turns into a sob.
“I’m sure he will,” Lucian chokes out. They stand in silence for a minute, neither knowing what to say.
4:57 PM
Petr takes up so much space. He sprawls across the chair, bumping his elbow into Lucian; paces around the hall, planting heavy footsteps that sound like explosions; sighs and groans when he stretches his back.
Lucian keeps himself still in his chair, restricting himself to making his lips progressively tighter at each of Petr’s invasions of his sanity. The collar of Anton’s shirt is uncomfortable around his neck, shifting and loose, where he is used to a steady press of his own shirts.
They both jump up from their seats when a doctor comes from behind a corner. He’s a burly man in his 50s, covered head to toe in green scrubs.
“Mr. Vice President, Mr. Galade,” he greets them respectfully. Much as he tries to project confidence, the edges of his voice are trimmed with tension. “May I provide a brief update on the President’s health?”
“Please,” Lucian urges, already impatient. Petr shifts on his feet beside him.
“The President is in a stable condition, but it’s a difficult situation. He was struck by two bullets. One is not a concern; it was stopped by this,” he pauses, reaching into his pocket and producing a deformed pocket watch. Some of the glass is missing. Petr takes it gingerly, examining it from all sides. “It didn’t do major damage, just two broken ribs and extensive bruising. The second one, however–”
“Is it bad?” Petr interjects, shifting again. The idea of strangling him seems awfully inviting to Lucian.
“We’re working to locate it,” the doctor responds. “It entered at a difficult angle and caused damage we didn’t expect to see. Fortunately, we have large blood reserves, so we can manage the blood supply, but everything else is hard work. I’ll keep you updated.”
Lucian sees through the doctor's reassuring smile; it doesn't reach his eyes.
5:30 PM
They both startle at the noise of the doors opening, but to their disappointment, it’s not medical staff; a young constable makes his way to them.
“Excuse me, Mr. Vice President, sir,” he salutes them. He looks out of place in his stiff uniform, like it’s his first day wearing it. “I’ve been asked to inform you that a live broadcast has been set up outside. Chief Greiser suggested you should do a speech.”
He salutes them again and leaves hastily. Petr runs a hand through his hair, already sticking up wildly.
“God, I’m in a state,” he complains with forced humour, reaching into the leather bag and producing a neatly rolled-up tie. Lucian watches as Petr fumbles with it, so preoccupied with the upcoming speech that his hands can’t cooperate with the tie.
“Let me, it’ll be faster,” he suggests, swatting Petr’s hand away after his third attempt falls through. Petr stands still as Lucian’s hands make quick work of the tie. He normally prefers a Windsor, but a four-in-hand will do.
As Petr leaves, Lucian turns on the small TV hanging below the ceiling. The static quickly gives way to a grainy broadcast; no less than five hundred people are standing by the hospital gates. Some are holding flowers or candles. Lucian turns up the sound almost to maximum until he realises that it’s not the TV causing the issue; the crowd is almost completely silent, at a loss for words in their sombre atmosphere. The camera zooms in on an elderly woman praying in the front row; her face is stricken with tears.
Petr appears at a makeshift podium; someone hands him a megaphone. He must have smoothed down his hair and fixed his clothes on the brief elevator ride; he looks much more composed.
“Brothers and sisters,” his confident, powerful voice washes over the crowd, amplified by the megaphone. The transformation from the restless mess he’s been with Lucian is unbelievable. “Earlier today, President Anton Rayne was shot in a horrific and senseless act of violence. I would like to assure you he is in the care of the greatest medical team in the country. The first lady is safe and unharmed. I and Chief of Staff Lucian Galade will stay in the hospital to liaise with the medical team. I would also like to thank party leaders, community members, and the international community for extending their heartfelt declarations of support,” he takes a beat to observe the crowd. “I assure you that our government continues to run smoothly and remains committed to ensuring the rule of law prevails.”
“Mr. Vectern,” a reporter shouts, breaking through the ranks. Her voice is only just picked up by the megaphone in Petr’s hands. “There are rumours that the Young Sords are behi–”
An angry murmur ripples through the crowd, slowly transforming into shouts of protest. Someone screams, “Justice!”. Cold dread creeps up Lucian’s neck; if this transforms into full-scale civil unrest, the consequences could be more devastating than the protests at the start of the term.
Petr observes the crowd with a furrowed brow and raises his hands; to Lucian’s astonishment, the people fall silent within seconds.
“When the time comes, we will pursue justice. Now is the time to display the strength and compassion that defines us as a nation,” he pauses again, looking over the crowd. The anger seems to have died down. When he continues, his voice is softer. “You know Anton is not only my president; he is my best friend, my brother. I am speaking to you at a tremendously difficult time. But despite the tragic circumstances, our nation has shown an extraordinary display of unity. I ask you now: remain strong! We must not let this tragedy divide us, nor resort to violence. I ask you to heed Anton’s words - hatred begets hatred. Let us endure this dark moment with dignity, courage and hope, the values that Anton has put at the forefront of our administration.”
A shout from the crowd evolves into a chant. A morgna ves core! Vectern sis da! Hundreds of voices continue at such ferocity that it reaches Lucian through the windows of the hall.
“How was I?” Petr asks when he returns, falling onto the seat gracelessly. His voice is hoarse.
“Refreshingly competent,” Lucian remarks dryly. To his amazement, Petr beams at him.
7:00 PM
Petr disappears to take a telephone call and returns a few minutes later, holding two steaming mugs.
“From the nurses,” he smiles, handing one to Lucian. “We have some fine ladies in this profession.”
“Who called you?” Lucian asks, disregarding his comment and sniffing the contents of the mug. Green tea. He inhales deeply and releases some of the tension in his jaw with a slow exhale.
“Evelyn. She’s with Monica.”
Lucian only met Evelyn Vectern once, on the occasion of an end-of-year dinner. She was a small, slender woman; he was surprised at how the boisterous Petr shrank in her presence. There was one particularly impressive withering look she sent Petr at some point; Lucian committed himself to practising his own to match that intensity.
“It’s nice of your wife to have called,” he comments innocently, taking a sip of his tea. There’s a suspicion he’s been harbouring for some time that he’d love to get confirmation on.
“Not my wife anymore,” Petr sighs, playing right into Lucian’s trap.
“Was it Livia?” he asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“Livia, yeah,” Petr shrugs. “And Erin, and Brenda, and some others. Can I give you a piece of advice?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Don’t cheat.”
Before he can stop himself, Lucian snorts. It comes out more amused than intended.
8:20 PM
Serge comes through the door, bearing two large paper bags.
“Mr. Vice President, Mr. Galade,” he gives them a polite bow of his head. “My wife asked that I drop this off for you. She gave birth here, not very impressed with the food.”
The bags hide a feast for at least four people. They lay it out after fashioning the empty chairs into a makeshift table, and the rich, savoury aroma filling the hall makes Lucian’s stomach growl. How long has it been since his light breakfast? It feels like millennia ago.
“Eat with us, Serge?” Petr offers, already reaching for one of the dishes.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, focused on the food. Lucian usually paces himself, but God, he is famished. He makes quick work of his portion and downs a bottle of orange juice. The pressure in his head subsides slightly.
“The assassin killed himself right after,” Serge narrates between bites. He is practically radiating indignation. “Mr. Greiser said they are investigating already.”
“The Bluds, maybe?” Lucian wonders out loud.
“No shortage of people who would want Anton dead,” Petr observes grimly. The last word hangs between them, heavy in the sanitised silence of the hospital.
There is one last muffin left in the bread basket. As much as Petr is trying to look the other way, his eyes keep darting to it; Lucian nudges the basket closer to him, even if his stomach longs for the rich taste.
Eventually, Serge gets up, collecting the empty dishes into the bags.
“Before I forget,” he says, reaching into his pocket and then extending his hand to Lucian. He’s holding a small bracelet adorned with pink glass beads. “My daughter asked me to give that to Mr. President. She said it was blessed in Deyr.”
Then they are alone again.
10:15 PM
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
Despite their best efforts, exhaustion gets the best of them eventually. They experiment with different positions. Petr tries putting his head on Lucian’s shoulder, but then complains about their height difference. They shuffle around, trying out leaning against the wall, but the cold paint feels sticky under Lucian’s skin. Finally, Petr tilts his head toward him, and Lucian presses his temple against his cheek. Petr goes out like a light after that.
Lucian dozes off.
His dreams mix with reality in a confusing blend. Anton is walking toward them. His gait is slow and uneven, like he’s struggling to put one foot after the other. He gives Lucian a sad smile.
“I don’t want to leave you,” he says softly, settling on the floor and resting his head against Lucian’s knees. It feels so heavy, so real, that Lucian’s heart beats erratically at the contact.
“Then don’t,” Lucian whispers. He wants to reach out to Anton, but his hand feels like lead.
Lucian jolts awake with an unpleasant tightness in his chest. He takes a second to remember where he is and why; disappointment washes over him.
“Stop fidgeting,” Petr mumbles in his sleep. His hand finds Lucian’s, squeezing tightly. It makes his chest feel a little lighter.
00:20 AM
“Do you think there’s a point to any of this?” Petr wonders sleepily, slumping in his chair.
“What do you mean?” Lucian asks, trying to get his brain to work. He feels sluggish and stale after hours of waiting. Petr shrugs.
“I don’t know. That this has a purpose somehow.”
“Maybe? I used to think that we become better by suffering.”
Thinking of suffering brings back memories of the civil war. Icy rain weighing down his clothes as he sat perched on a roof. The tip of a knife sliding through the skin of his cheek, blinding pain, crying in solitude. Sleep-deprived and starving, and yet so eager to serve.
“What do you think now?”
Lucian thinks of Anton laughing at his own horrible jokes. His arm flung around Lucian’s shoulders. Conspiratorial winks to Petr when he thought no one was looking. That time when they visited the presidential retreat in Gruni where Anton removed his shoes and socks before wandering in the sprawling fields. I was raised poor, he explained to Lucian’s puzzled gaze, running his hands over the wheat swaying in the wind, feeling the soil is the happiest I can be.
“I don’t know,” he sighs, unwilling to define his thoughts.
Petr nods, staring off into the distance. Lucian wonders if they are thinking about the same thing.
01:00 AM
“Mr. Vice President, Mr. Galade.”
The voice is insistent and impatient. Lucian frowns and shifts; the sleep was so hard to achieve, he feels reluctant to part with it. Beside him, Petr groans and straightens up.
There’s a sour, unpleasant taste in his mouth. When he opens his eyes, the artificial light blinds him temporarily; he can only just make out a silhouette of a man standing before them.
“Sirs,” the voice continues. The surgeon. “The surgery is over. Please, join me in my office.”
Lucian’s brain catches up, and he gets up hastily, feeling his heartbeat speed up.
“Is he-” he clears his throat, trying to get his dry mouth to work. “Is he alive? Can we see him?”
“In my office, please,” the doctor insists, showing the way with his hand.
Petr looks at him as they walk; his eyes are heavy with concern. Lucian makes out their reflection in one of the windows. He looks exactly how he feels, chewed up and spit out, covered in stale sweat. Petr isn’t much better; the dark circles under his eyes are more prominent on his grey, tired face.
“Do you think he’s ok?” Petr whispers as they walk.
Lucian just finds his hand and squeezes it tightly.
The beads of Serge’s bracelet dig into the skin of their joined palms.