The Price of Persistence

Toronto General Hospital is still.

The machines tracking your breath know to stay quiet. Outside, the world carries on without you: taxis honking, rain tapping on the window, someone yelling in French from afar. The overhead light is off, but the city glows faintly through the blinds. It all feels distant.

Because here… there is only you.

You lie motionless, this impossible man. A giant subdued. The white hospital sheets try to swallow your frame.Your leg is suspended in gauze. Stitches zigzag your forehead. Bruises bloom like wildflowers across a battlefield. You don’t look like a war hero, or a Russian Bear, or the last great Soviet monster.

You look like someone’s son.

You could be someone’s father.

I pull my knees up into the chair. It’s not professional, but no one’s watching. Just you and me. My olive jacket hangs neatly on said chair while my phone rests in my lap, pulsing softly with light.

Lovely Yuki. I care for her, but not now. Not tonight.

Another buzz. A Red Army alert. Internal. Encrypted. Alexei.

ALMASY TOURNAMENT RELEASE IMMINENT: STANISLAV VS. CLAYMORE CONFIRMED

My stomach twists.

I turn the phone over. I don’t want to see it again. I only look at you.

You’ve always seemed immovable. Even when bloodied. Betrayed. When every joint screamed and your chest heaved. You would rise again. Growling. Swinging. Enduring. That was your rhythm.

But not tonight.

Tonight… you rest. Despite the twitch of your brow or the uneven pull of your breath, there is peace here. A rare stillness that you never allow. Not while the world is watching. Not while duty calls.

I reach for your hand.

It’s like holding a slab of iron. Coarse. Scarred. Broken and rebuilt. Your fingers twitch, then curl around mine. I don’t know if you feel it. But I do. And I hold tight.

I remember London.

The blood in my mouth, warm and bitter. The jagged pain. My cheek split. The rain blurring everything. And then… you. Your red coat. The roar in your voice. Your impossible size blotting out the sky.

You held me then. Like the hull of a ship in a storm. You were afraid and you never said it, but I could feel it.

You kept vigil while I healed.

Now it’s my turn.

“You can rest now, Starshy Praporshchik,” I whisper. “You did it. You won.”

I brush the bandage on your temple. Your breathing stirs.

That’s the price of persistence, isn’t it?

You gave everything. Your body. Your rage. Your blood. You gave your mother, too.

I look at my hand. Mine so dwarfed by yours. It’s like trying to hold up a crumbling monument with a plank of wood.

But I hold on.

“They say there are no winners in war,” I murmur. “And you just keep fighting anyway.”

I smile, barely.

“Now look at you. Sleeping like a Kamchatka brown bear beneath the pines. Dozing through the hush of a Russian summer afternoon.”

A pause.

“Dream of peaceful things, Ivan. Of rivers. Of birch trees. Of Fanya combing your hair.”

Your chest rises. Falls.

Still here. Still fighting.

Still Ivan Stanislav.

And I will stay.

I will keep watch.

—

A groan split the quiet like an axe to a tree.

It came from the hospital bed.

Arina’s eyes snapped open. She hadn’t intended to doze off. Her phone slipped from her lap, landing gently on the tiles. She sat up, blinking away sleep as Ivan stirred.

He shifted, barely. A twitch of his shoulder. A wince. His hand, still loosely cradled in hers, gripped tighter,

Another groan. This one deeper. Throatier. Familiar.

Her fingers trembled as his grip clenched, and she slowly withdrew her hand, careful not to wake the storm that slumbered beneath his skin. Her movements were delicate, instinctive. Like a field mouse sensing the breath of a sleeping wolf.

Then came his voice, hoarse and confused.

“Did we win?”

Arina opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat. A voice drifted from the dimly lit corner of the room.

"Did we win?" chuckled Alexei, his tone rich with a relief so palpable it nearly broke into laughter.

Startled, Arina noticed him seated quietly in a visitor's chair, a broad, triumphant smile on his face. Alexei's icy blue eyes shone with unmistakable pride as he focused on Ivan. With long strides, he crossed the room, leaned in close, and whispered tenderly to his friend.

“Do you remember? When I first met you? Young men then. You looked just like this. Half-dead and stitched together. Even then, your spirit refused to yield.”

He chuckled. “Some things never change, eh, Vanya?” He glanced at Arina. “Well… perhaps one thing.”

Ivan's puffy lids rose partially, exposing his bloodshot eyes. He was unfocused, shifting back and forth between the two of them.

“Did we win?”

Arina nodded slowly. “Yes. We won, Starshy Praporshchik.”

Ivan blinked slowly, his voice dry as dust. “Good. Let’s not do that again. Next time, just shoot me and say we wrestled.”

Alexei sniffed, feigning offense. “You think you look bad? You should see what’s left of Tsonda! I don’t know how they scraped him off the mat. They might have sent him home in parts!”

Ivan closed his eyes. Alexei was talking. A lot.

“Regardless of what idiot holds the Universal Title, you, Ivan Stanislav, are the one who made UltraViolence the event that it is. No other match could hope to come close.”

Ivan grumbled and kept his eyes closed. “Some credit has to go to Tsonda…”

Ruslan shrugged. “Fuck him.”

Ivan said nothing. The room held its breath with him. He tried to sit up, only for his ribs to protest with a vengeance. With a hiss, he sank back into the mattress.

He opened one eye, then the other.

“What time is it?”

“Just after ten,“ Arina said, glancing at the clock over Ivan’s head.

Ivan nodded. “We have comrades competing tonight. I need my uniform pressed…”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Arina looked to Alexei, who grimaced.

Ruslan spoke gently. “It’s Monday, Vanya.”

Ivan blinked. Once. Twice.

“Monday?” Ivan repeated.

“You… missed it.” Arina replied, softly.

Another silence. Ivan looked past them both, eyes bleary. Then came the inevitable. Forward motion.

“Then the card has been posted. Is Claymore next?”

Arina picked up her phone from the floor and thought about the notification. The impossible booking after such a brutal match. But the tactician, Ruslan, spoke first.

“No bookings announced, yet.”

Arina quickly glanced at Alexei, while Ivan kept his gaze forward.

“Not yet? It’s not like Lindsay Troy to be so sluggish,” he remarked. "She's never this tardy."

Alexei shrugged. “She’s a capitalist. After such a big event, she’s probably counting all her ill-gotten money.”

Ruslan stared pointedly at Arina, while Ivan tried to blink away the fog. “Where is my phone?” He rolled his dazed eyes toward Arina.

Arina shook her head gently. “The doctor said no devices. You need rest more than anything, Starshy Praporshchik.” She reached for the edge of the blanket and straightened it with care, her movements precise, maternal. “Let us worry about the outside world for once. Just… let yourself heal.”

Ivan grumbled, voice still raw. “This is what victory feels like now, eh?” His head rolled back against the pillow. After a moment, his eyes slipped shut again.

Arina exhaled quietly, noticing Alexei's stoic facade crack just enough to reveal deep relief. His devotion to Ivan was clear, a love wrapped in command and pride. She understood and silently shared the moment before turning her gaze back to Ivan.

He had stirred. Not well. Not whole.

But even in that fleeting moment, he was still Ivan Stanislav.

—

The room was small, windowless, and stale. The kind of place where secrets could be muttered and left to rot. Tucked deep in the bowels of the hospital’s administrative wing, the lights hummed with old air and fluorescent fatigue. The pitcher of water resting on the table wasn’t the only thing sweating.

Arina sat nervously, hands folded in her lap, watching Alexei stand on a chair and peer into a light fixture.

“I don’t think the room is bugged, Alexei,” she muttered.

“This is a state institution. Federal.” He tapped the fixture with suspicion. “Langley might be listening.”

“Langley?” she asked.

“CIA,” he said with a grunt. “Don’t be fooled by maple syrup and soft accents. Canadians smile while handing the Americans the knife.”

She frowned. “Have you slept?”

“Of course not,” Russian huffed, dropping from the chair with the grace of a fox. “We’re behind enemy lines.”

He produced an ancient, small device from his overcoat. “You’d be surprised where I’ve found bugs.”

He pressed it to the wall. Nothing.

“What would they even be listening for?” Arina asked, half-curious, half-tired.

“Our plans. Our movements. Possibly your blood pressure. They are very thorough.”

She sighed and stared at the far wall, avoiding Alexei’s antics and thought of the more immediate danger lying battered two floors above.

“What about Ivan?” she asked quietly. “About the card. The fact it’s been released for days and he doesn’t know? That you lied to him?”

That stopped Alexei. He turned from a vent, tucked the device away, and fixed his tie with precision. “He'll think we doubt him and see him as weak."

“He’s not weak, just wounded. He’s grieving. He deserves the rest.” Arina said, more to herself than to Alexei.

“He’ll see it as a betrayal.” Alexei shook his head as he marched about like a caged weasel. “His body is barely working, and now he has to go up against that glitter-soaked, B-movie, open-mouthed buffoon!”

“Blaze Claymore,” Arina offered gently.

“I know who he is,” Alexei snapped. “Of course Lindsay’d throw him back in so soon. She’s probably popping champagne, hoping this finishes him off before he can reach the Universal Title. Send some moron who pretends to be a wrestler to mock Ivan’s legacy!”

Arina shifted uneasily in her seat. “The doctors said he needs six to eight weeks before he even thinks about wrestling. At his age…” She trailed off, catching Alexei’s glare. “Healing takes time.”

Alexei’s mustache twitched as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his brown overcoat.

“He won’t stop, Arina Rakhila, even if it’s for the best.” Arina detected concern in Alexei’s voice.

“He’ll be furious…” Arina lamented.

“He’ll be lethal,” Alexei corrected. “Mark my words, Arina. This is no coincidence. Lindsay Troy saw what Ivan did to Chandler Tsonda. Her best boy Farthington’s match looked like an opener in comparison. She wants to bleed Ivan out before the Almasy Tournament can crown him.”

Arina looked at her folded hands. “Maybe… it isn’t personal. Maybe Lindsay just wants to keep the tournament on schedule. She did come to Fanya’s funeral.”

Alexei ran a hand through his hair, pondering a moment. “He needs to rest now, but we have to tell him at some point. We have to finish what we started.”

“We started?” Arina blinked. “You’re the one who told him the lie.”

Alexei waved a hand. “We’re Communists, Arina. It’s our lie.”

She sighed. To a communist, that made perfect sense. “He needs to learn the deception gently. Come clean. Ease him into it. Let him know we just wanted to let him rest another day.” She shook her head. “He never rests.”

Alexei nodded. Scheming was always a step in the right direction. “Yes. So we prepare.” He snapped his fingers. “A rehearsal! We see how it goes first. That is a great idea, Arina! I shall be myself, and you shall be Ivan.”

Arina’s expression flattened. “Me? Be Ivan?”

“Yes.” He ruffled his mustache, “The scene. You’re in bed. Wounded. Irritable. Suspicious of everyone but me. You know, business as usual.”

Arina shifted nervously. She pulled at her sleeve, started to speak, but then stopped. After clearing her throat, she summoned her inner Russian Bear.

“Alyosha!” she squeaked. “I am booked against Blaze Claymore?! You did not tell me! Well, that is okay! I will… punch him many times in the face!”

Alexei blinked. “No, no. That’s not Ivan. That’s… something an actor of Claymore’s caliber would say.”

“I am not an actor, Alexei,” Arina said flatly. “Not even a bad one.”

“Clearly.”

She folded her arms incredulously. “Then you be Ivan.”

“I am not an actor either!”

“You’re a spy!” she shot back.

Alexei barked. “I’m retired!”

Arina stared at him, hard, and refused to let him off the hook. Finally, he relented.

“Alyosha! I just want to say how lucky I am to have you as my closest and dearest comrade. It was a good idea that you decided not to tell me about the booking until later. Your prudent decision-making has saved the day! DYAAHAAHAA!!”

Arina pinched the bridge of her nose. “That is not remotely what is going to happen.”

Nonetheless, Alexei looked pleased. “It was still better than what you presented.”

The two sat in silence. Arina looked pale.

“He’s going to kill us when he finds out.”

Alexei nodded solemnly. “Well, he might kill you.”

It was unclear if he was joking.

—

The hallway outside the hospital room is quiet. Just the soft whine of wheels in the distance. A nurse muttering into a chart.

I sit near the window with a book, but I’m not reading.

The sky is dim now. That kind of in-between light that makes the world look softer. I like it. It reminds me of one morning in Arkhangelsk, when I was helping care for your mother after her hip replacement. I stood by the window with a mug of tea, watching steam rise and vanish. Down below, in the courtyard, you stood alone, staring toward the forest.

Still as stone.

What were you looking for, Ivan? Ghosts? Memories? Young Ivashechka playing amongst the trees?

You always know how to be present. Even when healing in a hospital bed. Even when you’re hurt.

Your hand clenches, then softens.

This is the price of persistence, isn’t it?

Not the roaring speeches. Not the ring.

This.

Broken bones. Silence. The long nights where nothing moves but time.

And still you fight.

Please, Ivan, have a happy dream. Be dancing.

I’ll be here until you wake up and grumble that I’ve been staring too long.

You’re safe.

Trust me.

—

It was just past noon, and the hospital room had settled into a strained and stilted silence. The truth loomed like an angry cloud over Arina and Alexei.

Ivan grumbled beneath his breath, irritated and impatient.

“Ridiculous. How can the card not be out by now?! It’s Tuesday! Someone call that American tyrant and see what she’s hiding.”

Alexei, stiff in his chair beside the bed, cast a nervous glance toward Arina. She sat by the window, absently checking the time on her phone.

Ivan growled again. “Hello?! Arina. Get Troy on the phone!”

Alexei cleared his throat. “Uh… yes, well… about that…”

Arina’s eyes darted toward him, sharp and wide. She tried to convey her thoughts, but Alexei stared at the linoleum floor, woefully oblivious.

But just before all hell broke loose? All hell broke loose.

“SURPRISE!”

The voice was unmistakable.

Speedy Riggs stood in the doorway like a Cuban sunrise, grinning in his Hawaiian shirt. He held a balloon bouquet and a white bakery box.

Alexei leapt up, switching to English for the first time in days. “Lenin’s balls, Speedy! Do you want to kill him?!”

Speedy just laughed, unfazed. “Our Starshy Praporshchik is a tank and always will be! A few balloons won’t do him in.”

He strolled in, clumsy and graceful in his easy way, and set the cake down on the side table. The human lump that was Ivan Stanislav grunted.

This wasn’t Speedy’s first time seeing Ivan in a hospital bed. He knew the gruffness well, and how little it ever changed. Still, he winked with the affection of an old comrade.

He reached into the pocket of his tropical shirt and pulled out a folded “Get Well” card. The kind with glitter and a cartoon sun wearing sunglasses. He placed it next to the cake.

“Rosita and the kids send their love,” he said softly.

Then, Speedy leaned in and gave Ivan a hug, arms barely reaching around the bulk of the Bear. Ivan didn’t move, didn’t return it, but didn’t stop him either. And that, for Speedy, was enough.

“I wanted to check on you and say congrats on your upcoming match.”

The room froze.

“Match?” Ivan rumbled.

Alexei went pale. Speedy didn’t miss a beat.

“Yeah, they announced it a few minutes ago. Troy was super late! Blaze Claymore. Time to get your Universal Title!”

Silence.

Alexei cleared his throat, voice thin. “I knew that damned Lindsay Troy was being lazy!”

Arina smiled to herself.

“It was announced a few minutes ago?” Ivan was shocked, but accepting. “Troy is losing it…” He snorted with acceptance, which shifted to resignation. “Screw Universal Title… I do not want it...”

The silence grew awkward as no one in the room believed The Russian Bear. Not even himself. Ruslan glanced in his direction, while Arina held her breath.

Speedy to the rescue again. “You can leave the title if you want, Ivan, but hey, Hanlon is in your bracket. Always a good time showing him what The Russian Bear is made of, right?” He shrugged playfully.

Ivan, silent, looked at Alexei.

Ruslan met his gaze, seeing not just a war-torn man but a friend on the brink of something deeper. Chandler Tsonda had wrecked his body, but the grief from Fanya's death hurt more.

Alexei rested a hand on the iron railing. Arina mirrored him on the other side, fingers curling lightly over the metal. Speedy stood at the foot of the bed, beaming quietly.

For weeks, Ivan Stanislav had been a monolith. Alone in pain, in grief, in purpose. But now, surrounded by cake boxes and balloons, calloused hands and quiet loyalty, he realized he wasn’t alone anymore.

He was surrounded by those who knew him best.

The Almasy beckoned, wounds be damned.

And even better, if you asked Arina and Alexei?

He wasn’t furious.

—

I called Speedy.

He was on his way, and happy to help.

Alexei didn't know. I was scared that if we said the words, if we told you the truth, that you wouldn’t understand. You’d have to prove to us you’re unbreakable.

Or worse… that you’d think we believed you weren’t.

Rest doesn’t come easy. It never has. Peace feels like a luxury you don’t think you’ve earned. But we bought you a day. Maybe two. A breath. A pause. It was worth it.

You’re sleeping again. Your face is softer now. Not from weakness, but relief. The kind of stillness you never allow yourself when the world is watching.

Your hand is heavy in mine.

Your eyes told me your thoughts when you realized how soon you must face Claymore. You think he’s beneath you. Just a distraction to stumble over.

But it’s worse than that. It’s what he represents. And you know it.

He makes a game of what you’ve bled for. A joke of the cost.

You’ve paid for this ring with your bones, with years of grief, war, duty, and wounds no one sees. You sacrificed precious time with your mother for those four corners. And now they throw a man who plays wrestler like a child in front of a mirror. Whose existence mocks the craft you bled for.

I know that’s what burns you. That’s what makes your jaw tighten in your sleep. Not because he’s dangerous.

But because pretending should never be enough.

You carved your legacy with your body, and he wants to wear it like a costume.

You’ll beat him. I know you will.

But you’ll pay for it. You always do.

That’s the price of persistence.

Not the match. Not the win. The toll.

The way every step forward costs something.

And still… you move.

Indefatigable.

I think about Fanya often. Her smile. The way she made her tea. The softness in her voice when she spoke to you, no matter how large or loud you became.

I miss her, every day, Ivan.

But I think you know that already.

And if you don’t, well… you’re not the only one who lies to protect someone they…

…someone they love.

I don’t know what family means for someone like me.

My father is gone. My mother? She tries.

But I’m starting to learn.

Alexei is here. Speedy too.

And me.

You’re in good hands.

The world can wait a few more hours for the Bear.

And when you wake?

When you rise and carry it again?

I’ll be here.

Quiet. Steady.

Even if it hurts.

I know you’ll never rest long.

But you don’t have to do it alone.

I’ll help carry it.

That’s the price of persistence.