Ivan Kosin

May 7: Sunday

Ivan Kosin sat up in bed, his eyes snapping open. The man he still had difficulty identifying as his husband sat up, as well.

"What's wrong?"

Malcolm Lawdon asked this with the same kind of thin-worn patience that one usually saw on late-shift waitstaff.

"Nothing. Nothing. I just had a nightmare."

In truth, it had been a waking horror - sleep had been the best of it. Kosin looked out towards the large, plate glass window that occupied most of the wall on Malcolm's side of the bed. Outside, the sun was rising over the mountains. It was morning, then. Early morning, but morning nonetheless. He'd survived the night.

"Well, it's over now."

Malcolm was turning over in the bed to face away from Kosin.

"Try to get some sleep."

Kosin frowned.

"You're not going to work today?"

Malcolm laughed.

"You kidding me? This is my honeymoon."

Kosin shook his head. Supposedly on their honeymoon, and the man wouldn't even fuck him. All he wanted to do was sleep. And talk. Pathetic.

The use of that word, even in his own head, made something inside him whimper. His father had been an adept wielder of it. That, and disappointment. Mistake. Ugly fucking brat.

Kosin squeezed his eyes shut hard and opened them. His father wasn't here. The man had been here, just yesterday, yes, but he was gone now. Gone and couldn't touch him.

Unanticipated rage flowed over Kosin suddenly. Anger at his father, at Malcolm, at the sheriff, at himself, at Henrik Angstrom...Henrik, without whom he might still have a job, have a life, have a heart. Henrik, without whom Ivan Kosin might still be a person, and not just a nutless shell of a fucking man.

A hand snaked around Kosin's waist and he tensed, hackles rising.

"You don't have to touch me all the time."

Malcolm Lawdon shrugged, the movement of his broad shoulders making the blankets rise and fall. Beneath the edge, Kosin could just catch a glimpse of curly black hair.

"I like touching you, Mr. Lawdon."

"It's Ko - oh." Kosin cut him off as he realized. Then he laughed, out loud, the irony coming to him suddenly. After all this work, all the wrong roads and stolen jeeps (had it been returned?), Ivan Kosin had disappeared, and Ivan Lawdon had taken his place.

~:~