Chapter 3
Soren smiled at Tolstoy, who was smiling at Nola.
"Of course," he said, that stupid, charming Zarvian accent making the words sound
sophisticated
"You have both been great friends to us.
To Soren.
He wants you to be a part of the day; you will be part of the day."
"Thank you, Bram.
Having you as a confidante probably literally saved my life a few times."
"Stop.
It was nothing.
Just being a friend."
"A good friend," Tolstoy said.
"A
friend," Soren corrected.
"Nola, I got these homemade popsicles for the kids.
Do you want to help me pass them out?"
And then Bram was alone with Tolstoy, who was about to serve himself another monstrous helping of the potato salad Soren had made.
He was going to kill Tolstoy, eviscerate him with his words or something, send him on his merry way.
"Soren's not eating," he said instead, his fear overpowering his rage.
Tolstoy froze for the briefest moment.
A blink of an eye, but it was there.
"You noticed?"
"I'm observant," Bram said, feeling defensive.
"Da.
Yes."
"And you're just... letting him?"
"You're just letting him starve himself!"
"I cannot snap my finger and make him eat, Endicott.
He is not a dog to be trained."
"You can
eat
for
him, maybe?"
"And let him sit there with full plate, being worried about other people seeing?
I will not."
"Well... fix it!"
"I will get right on that, Endicott, thank you," Tolstoy said, his tone dry, bordering on offended.
"Is he trying to fix it?" He asked, a desperate edge to his voice.
"Is not my question to answer," Tolstoy said, cleaning up his place at the table.
"It's your problem to fix!" He was sure of it.
If Soren wasn't with Tolstoy, if he wasn't forced to hide, if he wasn't with someone who would just let him starve-
"Soren is not a
problem
," Tolstoy said, his voice stern and chilling.
"And this is not your business unless Soren wants it to be.
This conversation is over."
And Bram didn't want it to be, but Tolstoy was an impossible man to disagree with.
Even if he weren't, he was already heading to the kitchen with their plates.
"Soren!
Save me a grape popsicle!"
Later that day, Tolstoy, Nola, and the kids were running through a sprinkler while Bram sat with Soren, who was sitting in the shade and reading a book.
"Are you okay?" Bram asked, probably not as smoothly as he'd wanted to.
"Are you okay?" He repeated.
"How so?"
"You're..." Bram cleared his throat.
Well, the only way out was through.
"I just - I've noticed..."
"You can say whatever you're thinking," Soren said, bookmarking his page.
"You aren't eating." He finally blurted out.
"And I'm worried about you."
"Oh," Soren said, sounding taken aback by it.
"Well... yeah.
Okay."
"What's going on?"
"Complicated question."
"Is it because of the wedding?
Because you don't have to do that."
No!
Of course not - I can't wait to be married!
It's not-" Soren looked a little angry.
"It's not because of Vadim, Bram."
"I just saw him, like, eating your food!
He's enabling you!
And I'm worried about you, okay?"
"Enabling-" Soren's cheeks burned a bright, embarrassed pink.
"Fuck's sake, I'm in treatment, okay?"
"I'm getting help.
And I didn't want anyone to know about it!
God, does everyone know about it?"
"No, no, it's just me, Soren, I promise.
Nobody else knows about it.
You're... you're in treatment?
Like... inpatient?"
"I - no, not like
," Soren insisted, looking visibly uncomfortable.
Maybe Bram should've waited to bring this up.
Consulted with Nola on the best way to do it.
"It's - I don't..." He sighed, struggling for the words.
"It's a control thing.
I haven't had a lot of control over my life for a while.
And so I was controlling that, and it... got out of hand."
Bram wondered what that meant.
What an eating disorder looked like when it got out of hand.
He wished he'd noticed, wished he'd helped Soren through it.
He wondered if he was part of why he'd lost control, if that stupid fucking video had contributed to the way Soren's face had thinned out a bit.
Maybe this whole fucking thing had been his fault, and he'd been out here blaming Tolstoy.
Jesus fuck.
Not only had he not helped Soren, but he may have actively harmed him.
"Vadim sat me down and made me realize something was wrong.
He's the only reason I got any fucking help, okay?
He's not the reason I'm struggling.
Some days are harder than others, and I get... it's embarrassing when someone notices it." Soren said, adding to the guilt Bram was already feeling.
"So when it's a hard day, I sneak him some of my food, and he eats it so I don't get embarrassed, like I am right fucking now." He was quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment.
"I wish you'd stop blaming everything on him, Bram.
You're my best friend, but he's going to be my husband.
I would
never
talk about Nola the way you talk about him."
And wasn't that a slap in the face?
For a decade, it had been Bram protecting Soren, keeping him safe from the criticisms and expectations and jealousy and body checks.
It had been Bram who'd seen the quiet, shy, prodigal hockey player standing nervously in the corner of the locker room, looking unsure of his place there, even though everyone there knew he was going to be the best goddamn player of the century.
The entire team had stared at him with the knowledge that it would be Soren's name going down in history, and they would be lucky if theirs ended up tacked onto the storyline.
Soren must've felt it, too, keeping his head down as he prepared for his first practice.
And, well, that just wouldn't do.
So Bram walked up to him, decided they were going to be friends, and Soren had been stuck with him ever since.
He couldn't imagine trusting anyone but himself to stick with Soren that way - especially not Vadim Tolstoy.
But maybe it was time to.