Sibeasterus's blog

Short wrestling tale in 8 chapters. The place is Moscow, 1997

It's the last chapter of the tale. I began there: first, second, third, fourth, fifth , sixth , seventh

8. Finale grande

Aslan's plane landed in Moscow. He had come to resume his wrestling career, but also, more importantly, to be with Ivan. The same Ivan who had been waiting for him at the airport—a medical student, a future surgeon, the man who had somehow managed to turn Aslan’s world upside down.

And now they were together again. As soon as they opened the door to Ivan's apartment and dropped their bags, they, as if by unspoken agreement, grabbed each other and began to wrestle. It wasn't a mortal combat anymore, but their own unique way of communicating. A wrestling. Who would win? Who would now, in this peaceful homely place, be able to pin the other? For a moment? Or perhaps forever?

Ivan, despite his apparent intelligence, was strong. A year of study hadn't robbed him of either agility or tenacity. Aslan, a professional wrestler, sensed in him a worthy opponent. And it wasn't just physical strength. Ivan possessed some inner power that drew Aslan in, compelling him to seek this match, this contact, again and again.

They rolled on the carpet, laughing, panting. Their bodies were entwined, their breath ragged. At one moment, Ivan, taking advantage of Aslan's momentary mistake, deftly pinned him to the floor.

"Giving up?" Ivan whispered, his breath hot in Aslan's ear.

Aslan laughed.

"Never."

He escaped, and their wrestling continued. It wasn't about victory or defeat, but about their connection, about their unique world, which they created together.

When they finally ran out of strength, they lay on the carpet, breathing heavily, but with smiles on their faces. Aslan hugged Ivan, holding him close.

"You know," he said, "I've missed this. I’ve missed you."

 Ivan kissed his temple. "I’ve missed it too."

And in that moment, Aslan realized that this wrestling wasn't the end of the story, but only its beginning. The beginning of a new chapter, full of love, and, of course, their unique, unrepeatable wrestling that would last their entire lives. A wrestling in which there would be no losers, only two who had found each other and were ready to wrestle for their happiness to the end.

Their wrestling, this strange game, became a metaphor for their relationship. It was filled with challenges and concessions, moments of dominance and submission, but always with deep respect and understanding. There was no room for malice or resentment, only a desire to feel the other, to understand their strength, their weaknesses, their souls. Each time one of them pinned the other, it wasn't a defeat, but rather a moment of intimacy, when one could feel the warmth of the other's body, hear their heartbeat, inhale their scent. After this long-awaited wrestling match, they laid, clutching each other on the soft carpet, and the silence in Ivan's apartment was filled with unspoken words. Aslan felt his heart, which had recently been pounding wildly with tension, now calm, filling with warmth and peace. He ran his hand through Ivan's hair, feeling its softness, and pressed himself even closer to him.

"Aslan," Ivan whispered, his voice slightly hoarse from the struggle, "I've waited so long for you."

Aslan kissed him back. "I’ve waited too, Vanya. I—" a pause, a lump in his throat preventing him from speaking—"love you."

And in that moment, all the doubts, all the fears that might have arisen in his soul dissolved. He was where he had to be, with the one he had to be with. Moscow, a noisy and vast city, now seemed a cozy and safe haven because Ivan was nearby.

Their days in Moscow took on new meaning. Aslan returned to training, feeling a surge of strength and motivation. Every time he stepped onto the mat, he recalled his home wrestling matches with Ivan, and this gave him a special energy. He fought not only for himself, but for both of them, for their future. Ivan, immersed in his Latin and anatomy, always found time for Aslan, supporting him, listening to his stories about training, and sharing his own discoveries. Their evenings were filled with conversation, laughter, quiet hugs, and, of course, their unique wrestling, which had become an integral part of their lives.

When Aslan returned home after a hard workout, he would find Ivan hunched over books or the computer. Then he would approach him, hug him from behind, and Ivan, putting aside his work, would turn to him, and their eyes would meet. Those glances contained everything: strength, tenderness, and deep understanding.

And then they embraced each other and began to wrestle.

And Aslan felt he had found his home, his refuge, his man.

Instead of a prologue.

Everyone is convinced that the author is the master of the destinies of his heroes. Sometimes these "everyone" mistake.

From the very beginning of his work on this story, the author led his heroes to their deaths—the reader can see this by re-reading the previous chapters. The guys could mortally wound each other; one could kill the other and then died of remorse; they could fall off a cliff during a match—in any case, they were doomed to die. Two young athletes, who had known only the wrestling mat in their short lives; youths without life experience, unprepared, thrown into the storm of war—they had no chance of escaping alive from it. All that remained for author was to choose a more beautiful or more tragic death for them.

Nevertheless, with each new chapter, the author felt physically unable to kill his heroes. These two were already living their lives and, with unprecedented tenacity, wanted to emerge victorious in the Battle of Life that had befallen them.

It was an October Sunday, the author was climbing a steep pass from the Raiano station to the Goriano Sicoli station in the Abruzzo mountains, when suddenly his heroes appeared out of nowhere and walked beside him. With their silence, their gaze, they protested the author's cruel intent to kill them. There were two of them, the author was alone, and in a clear minority...