Ivan Kosin

July 29

"Stop whinin' that it's hot and drink your lemonade." Malcolm finally told Ivan, exasperated. "It's July and we live in the Commonwealth. Of course it's hot."
Ivan fanned himself slightly with the edge of his natori.
"I'm hotter than you are, I bet. I want to go inside."
"You are not, and no."
Ivan groaned.
"Why not? It's too damn hot."
"Because it's a nice day and we're celebrating, and it was your idea to throw the shower outside anyway. Now watch your language - there's kids around."
"Sorry. I meant to say that it's too fucking hot."
A few yards away in the small square of the patio tent, Keith Vance looked at Malcolm, then looked away.
Malcolm turned in his chair to face Ivan, and his tone took on a more serious bent.
"Ivan, that kind of language isn't appropriate. It's disrespectful to all of us. Now, you planned this event, and you planned it for George and Charlie. They're havin' a great time - just loving what you did. So why don't you just settle down and let everybody enjoy it?"
Ivan chuffed, shook his head, and turned away.
"Fine."

Malcolm watched Ivan for another minute, waiting and debating, but the carrier was silent. Ivan had become extraordinarily good at this game, Malcolm reflected. He pushed just far enough to agitate, but pulled back in time to avoid forcing the issue beyond the tipping point that demanded discipline. This new form of rebellion would have to be addressed - Malcolm knew this - but perhaps it could be ignored for now. From across the patio, he felt Keith Vance's disapproving stare burning into his shoulder, but did not react to it. That, too, could be ignored for now. Relieved that the scene hadn't gone any further, Malcolm shifted in his chair, turning to strike up conversation with Tom Gaspar.

Miller, Tom's mercurial carrier, sat across from his husband at the table, next to Ivan. Seeing that tensions had eased, he leaned forward to engage the other carrier in conversation.
"It's going really well," he said, in a rare kindness towards Ivan. "You did a good job."
Ivan shrugged.
"I guess." he answered, rudely, Miller's past cruelties not forgotten.
Miller rolled his eyes.
"What's the problem this time, Ivie?"
Ivan rankled at the nickname, but didn't rise to the bait.
"Nothing." he said, shortly.
"Right." Miller looked at him, coolly. "Is it about George?"
Stupidly, Ivan flushed at this.
"No. And there's nothing for anything to be about."
Miller stared at him for a second longer.
"So it's not about the fact that he's so busy and beloved now that he's on his third child - and you're not even on your first, of course - that he hasn't had ten minutes to spare for you all week?"
Miller continued to stare at him, and Ivan felt it again - that violent inhumanity that had lain still for some time now. He wanted to hurt Miller - to really, really hurt him. He wanted the carrier to writhe at his hand, to beg, to plead, and for him to have no mercy, only….
As brightly as the flame had burnt, it faded. He heard George's voice in his head, telling Ivan that he didn't have to be that person ever again, and then he felt pain and guilt and embarrassment at his weakness.

Miller shrugged, as if he really only barely cared. "Well, I'm sure things will shape up as he gets further along. It's just the novelty. You're his friend - he loves you, and he'll need you more than ever now." Miller paused. "Things will be fine."
It astounded Ivan sometimes, how this particular man had the shocking ability to strike so harshly and soothe so gently in one blow. He never was quite sure how to respond to Miller - no tactic seemed right, because he could never distinguish the carrier's kindness from his cruelty. Perhaps they were inextricable.
Ivan took a settling breath, then answered.
"I really don't remember telling you that I wanted to talk about it."
Miller narrowed his eyes.
"Fine. Fuck me for being nice to the pariah pain whore of the Manor, then."
Ivan's whole body went rigid, and he turned just enough so that their conversation was sheltered from the rest of the patio. Ivan felt a weird mixture of anger and fear - how the fuck had he known?? How could Miller have found out? Surely George wouldn't have - of course not. There had to be some other explanation, however unlikely. Ivan's heart pounded in his chest. Miller calmly sipped his lemonade.
"Fuck. You. Miller." Ivan bit out, as quietly as he could manage so as not to excite Malcolm's attention.
Miller appeared to consider this for a moment.
"Sure. Why not? I'd be surprised if you could manage with me, though - considering what you can't seem to do for your husband."
Ivan's ears and face burned red, but he maintained himself.
"Don't you talk about my husband."
"Mmm. So maybe your bitchy attitude's not about George." Miller posited in a stage whisper. "Maybe it's about Malcolm."
Ivan glared hard at his tablemate-turned-nemesis, trying his hardest not to think awful awful thoughts that would put him right back where he'd started.
"It's not about Malcolm."
"Oh." Miller said, picking some of the fruit off of their table's centerpiece. "So it's about Malcolm."
Ivan ground his jaw and decided to ignore this.
"Fuck you, Miller. Just - fuck you."
Miller snorted.
"Better keep your voice down before you get in trouble for swearing again." the carrier laughed. "Honestly, Ivan - swearing? It's hilarious that you can't even follow the rules that we impose a child. I can't wait until Malcolm gets sick of you playing pretty pretty princess and teaches you some goddamn manners."
Ivan bristled and felt overheated and upset and silly all at once. He was out of his depth, somehow, although he had handled hundreds of men and carriers far worse than this before. Miller seemed to see right through him - to read him in some sadistic way - and now he was hitting Ivan in all the places where he was most fragile.
"I have more manners than you, you rude bitch."
Miller scoffed.
"You like to wreak havoc on other people's good time and think it's cute. You've ruined every dinner party I've thrown in the past 3 months, you've broken more dishes than anyone else in the house, children included, and yet you somehow are still under the delusion that people like you." he swallowed more lemonade. "Frankly, it's shocking."
"Leave me alone, Miller." Ivan demanded, but his voice shook just a bit. "Enough."

Ivan felt trapped between so many solidities that he had no idea where to turn. If he raged, he risked angering Malcolm or - worse - disappointing George and ruining his party. If he ignored Miller, that meant the silent absorption of an attack on every weakness, every tender spot, every sensitivity; something he was unsure he could accept. If he delved, as he longed to do, into the depths of the darkness in his own mind, then he risked losing himself, frightening himself, and worst of all, failing himself. There was nothing to do but be still and wait to act and tremble in upset and hope Malcolm would notice.

Miller's expression belied no reaction, and he did not look at Ivan, but the tension in his back showed his anger. He lowered his voice even further.
"I cannot wait until Malcolm finally snaps and beats the shit out of your ungrateful ass."
Ivan gripped the arms on his chair and didn't answer. Miller cast one more of those serene, vicious looks at him and added:
"Just like your Daddy used to do."

It all happened so quickly after that that Ivan had no time to think, to rethink, or to even consider stopping himself. Before Miller could even raise the glass, Ivan was on him, lemonade was everywhere, the glass was broken, the table was kicked out of the way, and the centerpiece went crashing to the floor. In the midst of it, Ivan found his way to Miller's throat, took an unexpected blow from the carrier that knocked the breath from him, lost his grip and then his position on top, and swung blindly for his opponent's abdomen. From what felt like miles away, he heard screaming and his name. Miller grappled his way to top spot and landed a solid strike that missed Ivan's jaw but hit the side of his head instead.

Rage flowed through him untamed - he clawed at Miller's shirt, and then soon - too soon! - Miller's weight was gone and the hands he had been expecting were dragging him backwards, across the dusty ground and into the sunlight.
"IVAN!" Malcolm was screaming, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!"

~:~

This time, there were no excuses. There was no reasoning with Malcolm, there was no apologizing for his behavior. There was no staged discipline, there was no stair-step of response. There was only the very real silence that fell over the party that he had very really ruined, and the very, very, absolutely real fact that Malcolm was going to beat him.

He had been subdued in under 15 seconds. Impressive, Ivan thought, until he remembered that Malcolm was an MP and probably had been on combat at some point in his life - although absurdly, it only occurred to Ivan at that moment to ask where and when.

Then Malcolm had him bent over the ruined table and Keith Vance - that spiteful bastard - was there, but Malcolm screamed him off and Ivan felt a little whoop of victory that was chased quickly into silence by the humiliation of having his natori yanked up and 10 seconds (during which Malcolm was pulling off his belt with frustrated hands) to consider fearfully how bad this was going to be. Malcolm, his face flushed and eyes dark in a way that Ivan had never seen before, had folded Ivan's arm against his back, limiting his movement and cutting his leverage. Ivan tried to wriggle and got a growl for an answer:
"15 and if you fucking move I make it 30."

The first strike landed solidly and sideways, at a weird angle that put welts on his thigh and told him in no uncertain terms that Malcolm was not only furious, but also half-blind with his rage. By the third, the blows were coming straight on and evenly spaced and Ivan's ass was on fire from the agony and the embarrassment. By seven, he was numb in some places and screaming pain in others. By ten, he was openly crying. Malcolm stopped then, for just half a minute to shake him.
"Do you see now, Ivan?!" his husband demanded. "Do you see what I will do?!"
Then he had turned Ivan back over and laid the strap into him once again.
Fifteen came to Malcolm, exhausted; to Ivan, agonized. Malcolm released him, roughly, so that he stumbled a little over the broken corner of the table. Hastily, he began to cover himself, pulling down his natori as he scurried backwards from his husband. Malcolm was still in a rage - Ivan could see that, exacerbated as his expression might be by the shadowy light and wild way his hair had gone.
"If you ever," he began, "Ever treat another member of the Manor household like that again, I will beat you until you can't stand up. Is that clear?"
Ivan, unable to reign in his tears or eliminate his whimpering, simply nodded. Behind him, he was terribly aware of the entirety of the party crew watching him - staring. They had seen his punishment, too. And his tears. He thought of Miller and felt embarrassed all over again. Perversely, he glanced around to look for him, but saw that the carrier and his husband were nowhere in sight. Had they not wanted to watch Ivan's personal mortification?

Malcolm said a few more words as he obviously tried to calm himself down - something about what Ivan had done wrong and what would be expected of him for the rest of the day. Ivan heard nothing - he could process only the fast, painful beating of his own heart in his head and the agony of defeated humiliation. Eventually, he understood one command:
"Inside. Now."
…and did as he was told.

~:~