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Two months, on the day.
It felt more like a year.
Murray walked out of the 7-11, cherry Slurpee in hand. Somewhere inside, he was cringing at the sappiness of it all, but that didn’t really matter. Only one other person could have possibly guessed why he had left the seclusion of his bunker to buy that drink, but she was nowhere around these days.
That uniqueness was as intoxicating as it was isolating. Murray had been the one blessed with complaints about how cherry was clearly distinct from strawberry, even if it was all just sugar on ice. Murray, blessed with the smile lighting up his face when he got his hands on his prize, or when he had an opponent to argue against. Murray, no one else. Even if he tried to explain it to someone—never mind if he could without ending up in a cell—the details would all fall flat when butchered by his memory.
After all, they were small things—trivial, and meaningless once divorced from their source. It was oddly delightful to think that such a brilliant man, capable of creating a machine that could break through dimensions, would care so much about those trivialities. Perhaps that meant Murray had to harbor those thoughts, to keep them alive when no one else would. Rather, no one else ever could. Scrubbing a hand across his face, Murray sighed. Who am I kidding? It’s mostly just isolating.
Flopping into the car with a huff, the Slurpee hovered over the passenger-side cupholder before he gently moved it to the driver’s side. Another feather-light touch squeezed his heart, and as if in imitation, he white-knuckled the steering wheel. This was stupid. This was so stupid. Just drive, Murray. Get your mourning routine over with already.
The destination was equally maudlin in Murray’s eyes: a clearing that functioned as a parking lot when town events were being held. Here, at this exact time two months ago, he was truly happy. Now, the sun was beginning to set, painting the dusty space in oranges and pinks that didn’t quite manage to offset the litter and general shabbiness. Moving to sit on a nearby bench, Murray drummed his fingers against the side of the cup with no particular rhythm. After a moment’s pause, he took a sip—someone might as well enjoy it.
Murray groaned. This was not helping. It didn’t help at all to think about how Alexei had been shot some yards away. About how maybe, if he dug hard enough, he might find some of Alexei’s blood still staining the dust. About how that damn hitman probably covered his tracks well enough to ensure that would never happen. Every piece of him, gone, poof, just like that. As easy as cleaning up a cherry juice stain.
Cherries, cartoons and carnivals were all he had to remember him by. Scraps of a person, just the tip of an iceberg. These simple things had brought a sheer childlike joy to his face, his smile gracing the world with its presence. As far as Murray knew, that was it. He could have learned so much more about Alexei, if he’d only tried. In my defense, Murray thought bitterly, how was I supposed to know two days was all the time I had? Maybe it was best to only learn the little things. More to cherish, less to miss.
The words rang hollow as he thought them.
That first day had been a bit of a whirlwind. Murray hadn’t exactly been… receptive to Alexei’s arrival. Something about calling Alexei Soviet scum, and an enemy of the state? Despite himself, Murray huffed a laugh around the straw in his teeth. If he were here, he would no doubt be teasing him in retaliation for all that by now. At least, he probably would be.
On the second day, he had paid more attention. The sound of his laughter, the glint in his eyes, the exact curve of his lips. There was no chance to memorize those features before they were gone, never to be seen again. Any photos of Alexei were half a world away, and Murray hadn’t had the good sense to save the security camera footage from that first day. Murray’s memories hadn’t faded yet, but he knew it was a matter of time. God, did he hate that fact. The mere thought of it made the cherry turn sour on his tongue, overwhelming sugar be damned.
Isolation. It was insolent to even call it that. How many others knew those same quirks? Knew more? How many others mourned Alexei now, mourned the real, true Alexei, the one they’d known for more than two days? It almost felt invasive to know those habits and nothing else. To know nothing about his family, his friends, his flaws and his dreams. Nothing of what actually mattered to Alexei, of what made up a person’s identity. Murray should have asked more, indulged his usually-insatiable curiosity. Why hadn’t he? It was too late now, and no matter how cruel or shocking it was, that fact wasn’t changing.
Murray chewed on the straw, drawn into a now-familiar pattern of argument in his own brain. There was no reason he should have asked to know more. Murray just had the good luck to know Russian—that didn’t mean he had a right to know anything about Alexei. He should have been down in that secret Hawkins base, or better yet, half a world away with whoever he called family. He should never have had to learn who Murray was, or get treated like a prisoner, or get kidnapped by Joyce and Hopper. They ought to have not known each other existed, yet here Murray was, reminiscing two months later over a liquid sugar bomb—cherry-flavored, mind you—because he was too sentimental to forget such domestic minutiae.
Domestic. Murray scoffed at himself. He could give the slushie a pass, but that was confirmation that he was being even sappier about this than he could’ve ever expected. Domestic! That word meant a lot, didn’t it? Implied a lot, rather. Like a future spent in the bunker with him, casual company made into the norm, quirks and habits all just the cost of living. A future where food preferences didn’t have to be so damn precious. Murray traced a finger along the rim of his cup, then pulled back sharply.
With a growing sense of dismay, Murray noticed too late that he had begun following those nonexistent paths once again, and he stamped out the thoughts before they could take root. More than anything, he wanted to be disgusted by it. He wanted to blanch at his own brain, to take himself by his shoulders and scream Alexei’s gone! That world doesn’t exist! Don’t you get it!? until he didn’t think about it any more. Murray tried not to sigh.
There must have been something truly special about Alexei to drag this out of him with so little time. Two whole months later, and he couldn’t get over someone who was essentially a perfect stranger. Emphasis on the perfect, he thought, then kicked himself for the joke. Murray was acutely aware of how stupid it was, but screw it, he came here to mope, so he might as well go all in.
Murray was an honest man. Brutally honest, according to most. He liked to believe that in another life he had been a relationship therapist, or perhaps a sham psychic. This was why he struggled to deny a truth that he had realized over the past couple of months: Murray had fallen for him.
His joyous laugh had been playing on repeat in Murray’s head for quite a while now. Same with his smile and his smug attitude, all under the guise of remembrance. Murray wasn’t stupid, though. It was obvious what this actually was, and it wasn't just "remembrance."
Though, never mind, maybe he was stupid for catching feelings for a man who was already dead. In a bout of naïveté a little over a month ago, Murray had assumed that any burgeoning feelings would end alongside Alexei, but life had not been so kind. At best, it only slowed them down.
By and large, the worst symptom of this was his own imagination. As much as he wanted to stop picturing some perfect future, another baser and more stubborn part of himself craved it like a drug, loved the thrill those scenes always brought. Murray would fantasize about the life he could have had with him, struggling to keep him alive inside his mind. It had occurred to him that this was not the healthiest way to cope, but hey, he had never been accused of being some health nut. It felt good, was the point. Decadent and heart-wrenching all at the same time. When he truly let his inhibitions slip, he could escape into a better, more comfortable version of reality for just a few hours. The drinks helped with that.
A growing shame followed close behind, nipping at the heels of his crush like an overzealous guard dog. Worse still, it told the real truth, his actual crime behind the denial: he didn’t know nearly enough about Alexei for any of this to be accurate. The version of him in his head and the real, once-living Alexei he had known were two different people. The gap only widened with time. Not only was he failing to keep Alexei’s memory alive, he was warping it, filling in the gaps of two day’s worth of interactions with assumptions and self-interested guesses. Maybe it was spot on, or maybe Alexei would have balked at the sight of it. There was no way for Murray to tell now.
Hell, it wasn’t like the Soviet Union was the most accepting place on Earth. Perhaps he would be more disgusted by that than anything else, or afraid, or relieved he could be safe, or any number of options that weren’t worth the time to think about. There was no point, after all. Murray would never learn, and meanwhile Alexei might have a wife back in Russia mourning the real deal. These fantasies, guided by Murray’s own hopes, served as an active and ongoing “screw you” to Alexei’s memory. An insult, to remember Alexei as the man Murray wanted him to be and not the man Alexei was, whoever that had been.
Yet, at the same time, he could never listen to these very sound points for one crucial reason: he couldn’t disprove them either. This version of him might not even be idealized at all, a thought that silenced the back-and-forth argument in his head but twisted up his heart. All he needed was some evidence, same as any conspiracy.
Again, Murray prided himself on reading people and their emotions. If his instincts were correct, there really had been a spark between them. After all, Alexei needed a translator, and only Murray could provide. Meanwhile, Murray needed information that only Alexei knew. They both relied on each other. Mix that up with a highly stressful situation, and that was a recipe for a tight-knit bond.
Then, he couldn’t help but think about the night following Alexei’s sudden arrival. Murray obstinately wouldn’t let Alexei sleep unsupervised even while handcuffed, too afraid of some unarticulated threat the Russian posed. With Hopper and Joyce still somehow in separate beds, and neither of them able to keep watch over Alexei for a myriad of reasons (exhaustion, not knowing Russian, not really caring about Murray’s bunker being safe while an enemy of the state slept inside, etc.), Murray took the job and the couch. Understandably, Alexei put up some fuss over this, even mockingly suggesting they might as well sleep in the same bed rather than them both being uncomfortable in the living room.
Murray had given the thought a harsh laugh then, but wow, times could really change.
The point was, sleep didn’t come easily to either of them. After a full day of being dragged around America with no one to understand him, apparently Alexei was apt to talk to the one person who could. It started awkward, mainly complaints about the couch, but soon they began talking more freely. There was a kind of ease in talking to Alexei. The conversation never got very deep, but it was fun, and invigorating, and exciting in a way Murray hadn’t felt with someone in many years. It had been mainly to do with cultural differences, all the new sights and sounds of America that Murray had never thought twice about.
There had been potential there, Murray was sure of it. If it had been any other two people, he’d have given them a couple weeks, tops. Maybe he was biased, and maybe he was too clinical about his own relationships, but he was always correct.
Apparently, he thought bitterly, not this time. Not with Hopper and Joyce either, one gone before they could make that date. Murray tried not to let his grip tighten on the Slurpee. At least they had made a date. At least they had gotten more than two damn days in each other’s lives.
Murray took a breath and eased off—Joyce didn’t deserve that. It had been good to have her company after the fact, both immediately and in the days that followed. They were both victims to a grief that very few people knew the true story of, and that common ground had to be respected. Murray briefly raised his drink in a silent, solemn toast to Hopper.
Still, it was the lack of knowing that was driving him up the wall now. Anytime Murray thought about what they could’ve done for a first date, there was that nagging voice in his head saying that Alexei might not have wanted this. Even if he agreed to date Murray, which was a pretty significant if, a lot could change in a couple months. Maybe by now they would have broken up, and Murray would be moving on from the whole thing. As it was, he was stuck here being not quite rejected and not quite accepted, pining away with no relief.
For the millionth time, Murray wished it could have been different. If he had only stayed in the car with Alexei, they could’ve gone to a million other fairs and carnivals. If he had managed to look into those puppy-dog eyes and deny him just the once, he’d be sharing this Slurpee with him now.
That night, if he could have seen the future, he would have clasped one of Alexei’s hands between his own, looked into his eyes, and promised that as long as they stayed out here where it was safe, he would bring him anywhere he wanted, would do anything he wanted with him. The world was his oyster and Murray his forever willing companion, translator, and financier, as long as he stayed in the car this one time.
And Alexei, dear Alexei, would just keep giving him that same look, forever frozen in time.
The cherry Slurpee had run empty a while ago, and the sun had fully set. A few late dragonflies buzzed around as the first moths began to awaken and fly in flickering, lazy paths. A month or two earlier, he would have seen fireflies around here, but it was far too late for them now. Murray got to his feet, and cast one last glance to the clearing.
“I’m sorry, Lyosha,” he whispered in Russian. “I hope you have found happiness.”