Ivan Kosin

May: Week 3

Chief Malcolm Lawdon stared glumly at the binder sitting open in front of him. Across the table, Keith Vance was sheltered behind an open newspaper, moving it only occasionally as he reached out for bites of his lunch sandwich.

Malcolm looked back down at the notebook in front of him. Distaste for the topic was threatening to overwhelm him. He shook his head and pushed his chair back from the table, exhaling.

"I don't know. I just don't know what to think about all this stuff, Keith."

The newspaper across from him folded halfway down, and Keith Vance peered out across the table at his new friend.

"About all what stuff?"

"All this psychological mumbo-jumbo. All these mind games. It's too...complicated."

Keith shrugged.

"Carriers are complicated."

Malcolm frowned.

"I know, but...inn't it a little weird, too?"

Keith glanced to the side, then sighed and folded his newspaper down.

"Listen, Malcolm. Take it from me - as someone who's been with his carrier for...well, longer than you've been with yours, trust me. You need this. They need this. They need to know that you're in control. They like that."

Malcolm looked uncomfortable, and Keith repositioned himself, leaning forward over the table, placing his feet flat on the floor, and facing Malcolm fully.

"Listen. You want Ivan to respect you, don't you?"

Malcolm hesitated.

"I don't want to hurt him."

Keith stared at Malcolm evenly for a moment, then cocked his head.

"Really? You don't? Ever? You don't ever get angry with him?"

Malcolm stared back.

"I would never hurt him."

Keith leaned closer.

"But did you ever want to?"

Malcolm swallowed.

"No."

Keith raised an eyebrow.

"Really? Never? Not even when he's rude to you? Mean? He can act like a spoiled little brat, Ivan can. I've seen it. The way he disrespects you! And after all you do for him. You provide for him, keep him out of trouble, out of harm's way...and he can't even spare a kind word for you? You give him the clothes on his back and the food on his plate and he can't even fuck you."

Malcolm snapped his head up.

"That's not - "

"Come on, Malcolm. It's obvious."

Malcolm regarded his friend for a moment.

"I was going to say that's not your business."

Keith shrugged.

"All I know is it's enough to drive a man crazy." Keith paused. "And I can see," he continued, "how it might even make him angry; angry enough to do some things he wouldn't ordinarily do."

Malcolm's eyes narrowed.

"I don't want to hurt him." he repeated.

Keith nodded sympathetically.

"I know." he said, agreeably, "But you will." Keith paused. "Because the thing that's really going to hurt Ivan will be you when you let things stay the way they are."

Malcolm frowned and kept his gaze averted, but Keith could tell that he was listening. He went on.

"Becoming a carrier is one of the most intense, most frightening, most emotional experiences any human can live through. Remember that. This is all new for Ivan. Everything is changing. Nothing feels real to him right now - nothing feels legitimate. All the starting lines have moved. He's lost."

Keith tapped the notebook on the table between them.

"But you can find him again."

Malcolm glanced up, then back away. Keith went on.

"You can help him feel real again. You can give him that safety, that security to explore his new world. You can be his unchanging safeguard in a terrifying place of uncertainty. You can help him, Malcolm."

Keith's voice was earnest, and Malcolm looked up at his friend, then down at the book. Keith tapped the book one more time.

"You can give him a life back."

Malcolm hesitated again.

"But what if he doesn't want - "

"He doesn't know what he wants right now." Keith shook his head. "He's a carrier, and just turned. He's not in his right mind. You are. You're his husband. You're supposed to take care of him."

Malcolm exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. Keith settled back, letting his words have an effect. He adopted an indifferent tone.

"But it really is your choice to make, Malcolm. He's your carrier. It's your life. You can be a good guy, and sit back and do nothing, or you can stand up and be a man."

~:~

"Where are we going?"

Malcolm looked up from his book, peering at Ivan over the lens of his reading glasses.

"To dinner. I told you that."

Kosin was standing in front of his husband wearing jeans and a clean white t shirt, per Malcolm's request. His husband folded a piece of scrap paper into the page he'd been reading and closed the book. Ivan fidgeted as Malcolm looked him over appraisingly.

"You look very nice." he looked down at Ivan's feet. "Don't walk around barefoot. You'll get cold."

Ivan self-consciously crossed one foot over the other one. Malcolm was right, but he wasn't about to admit that.

"I'm fine."

Malcolm didn't even look up from re-opening the book.

"Don't walk around barefoot. You'll get cold." he repeated. Ivan ignored him and uncrossed his feet, then crossed them again.

"We're just going to dinner?" he asked.

Malcolm didn't look up.

"Just dinner."

Ivan bit his lip. He didn't like this. Not at all.

~

It was Friday by then, and just that morning, Ivan had woken up in a luxuriously empty bed and praised the peace and quiet. He'd gotten up and peed, then gone back to bed and laid quietly for almost another hour before he got up and put himself into the shower. Not a sound came from anywhere in the house. He had walked, still dripping, out of the bathroom and gotten back into the bed to enjoy some much-desired sleep.

All week, Ivan had been busy. This was because all week, Malcolm had been acting...different. Ivan had yet to puzzle it out, but it was as if his husband suddenly had little to no interest in his carrier wife, but simultaneously was more aware of him than ever before. He'd stopped spoiling Ivan - there had been a drastic decline in offers to run baths, to make his favorite foods, to take him into town. At the same time, there had been a rather sharp increase in the amount of oversight Malcolm apparently felt authorized to exercise over Ivan's behavior in the house. There were, for example, notes everywhere, scrawled in Malcolm's heavy lines and dated:

Stop drinking the vodka.

Extra toothpaste can be found in the bottom drawer. Alcohol is not a substitute.

Clean dishes, please.

Clean dishes, now.

Clean dishes TODAY.

~

On Monday, Ivan had unpacked most of his clothes and all of the books they'd allowed him to keep (two - The Stoics, and an old Russian copy of The Little Prince that had been an ages-ago birthday gift), as well as all the new ones they'd sent home with him. Ivan had glanced only cursorily over the titles; he planned to read them only under threat or duress. Most of his papers and notebooks had been confiscated, but he still had the box of journals that he had kept since he was seven. He had spent the better part of the day deciding where to hide them. Then he had taken a nap in the afternoon, watched two government movies on television, and been asleep for good by the time Malcolm got home.

~

On Tuesday, he had woken late and bathed - his first bath since he'd changed because before, his body had been too sensitive to be touched directly by the hot water. In the bath, he'd made himself comfortable; reclined and slung his legs out over the edge. Too long, he'd thought, staring at his legs. His father had always thought so; said they made him look disproportionate. Said it was unattractive.

Suddenly frustrated with himself for remembering something so silly, Ivan intentionally splashed his legs back under the water and switched his thoughts to something else. He dipped one hand down, rippling the surface of the water to slip across his belly, then pubis, then down around his cock. He grasped it lightly, uncertainly, as though it belonged to a stranger. Every part of his body felt as though it belonged to a stranger. He thoughtfully ran his fingers through the thatch of hair that sheltered his cock and stared up at the ceiling. He should shave, he thought. A hirsute carrier was a crime against humanity. His legs had begun to feel achy and he lifted them out again, troubling the water as each one broke the surface. They could use a shave as well, he had thought, especially if he was going to wear a natori. Was he going to wear a natori? He hadn't yet. Malcolm would like it, he'd bet. All men did.

That thought had spurred something in Ivan suddenly, and rebelliousness and resentment rose up within him and devoured his rationality. If Malcolm wanted him to wear a natori, Malcolm could fucking well make him. And if Malcolm wanted Ivan's legs or his pussy shaved, then he could fucking well make him do that, too. Ivan attacked the water suddenly, splashing little droplets all around and causing small bubbles to fly into his hair his eyes, against the walls. After four minutes of flailing, Ivan had stopped, exhausted, done with rabblerousing himself. He sat up in the tub and tucked his legs back under the water so that he wouldn't have to look at them. He was again in bed before Malcolm ever came home.

~

On Wednesday, he had gone out to the laundry annex that attached to the southwest part of the house, carrying his own clothes in a dirty pillowcase. In the main room of the annex, he had pointedly stepped over the baskets of Malcolm's laundry on his way to the machines. Everything he'd brought from his apartment needed washing, as well as the sheets that had been on their bed the past two weeks, and the set he'd colorfully decorated when he'd bled through his clothes the first night he was there.

He had found washing powder, softener, scraps of fabric (for mending), and bleach in the adjoining supply room. The main room had four pairs of machines, and so Ivan had set all the clothes to wash at once. That done, feeling pleased at his own easy transition into domesticity, he had allowed himself to wander into the large, one-room library that connected the oldest and second-oldest wings of the house. In the evening, he had made himself an oatmeal and vegetable dinner and taken his vitamins (picking out and tossing their pharmaceutical accompaniments). Malcolm had arrived home early that night, given Ivan a cursory greeting, and spent the rest of the evening holed up with some occupation or another in his study.

~

On Thursday, Ivan woke earlier than he intended to and went down to make himself breakfast in the kitchen. He ate toast and oatmeal and milk and eggs and fruit and paged through two of the cheap-looking paperbacks he'd borrowed from the library the day before. In the cold light of day, neither looked appealing. Ivan didn't know why he'd picked them up. He had wandered back to the library to replace them, then taken himself for a long walk through the grounds outside. By the time he'd come back, Malcolm had been to the house and left again. There was a new note on the kitchen's back door.

Don't wander outside alone.

~

So the first four days had been fine - Monday through Thursday, Ivan had kept himself occupied and had little to no thought of exactly what he was going to do about everything. As long as he kept moving, kept waking up and doing, he felt sure he could survive this. In fact, he had welcomed the solitude of an empty house in the forest and an invisible husband as a nice change from the constant bustle of the CEC.

But now it was Friday, and Ivan was still eating every meal alone, and the isolation was beginning to wear on him. Just a little bit. He looked at the clock. It was 10 am. If he were back at Brookham, he'd have had three meetings and tongue-lashed a subordinate by now. There would be cases to revisit in the afternoon. Calls to make. Carriers to see.

Ivan made himself some coffee and watched a pair of rabbits chase each other in the grass.

By noon, the house had begun to feel strange. Ivan had heard creaks, thought they were footsteps, and had tensed himself to fight on more than one occasion. He had also thought about Malcolm - why had his husband suddenly disappeared? It was unsettling.

Ivan had just been feeling as if he were getting a handle on Malcolm - simple guy, clean cut, probably protestant. Liked some responsibility but not too much; not cut from the ambitious, alpha-male set that populated the upper echelons of the military government. Malcolm was much more middle-level. Middling. Steady. He'd been anxious the day they had signed the papers at the station, and done a poor job of hiding it, too. He had been uneasy and he kept touching his ear - a nervous tell.

Had probably never thought he'd be lucky enough to land a carrier, and that explained why, for the first week, he'd seemed dedicated to spending every waking moment with Ivan.

But now?

Nothing.

Ivan worried his lip. Had he done something? He scanned over the past weeks in his mind. He had done a lot of things. Maybe one thing had set Malcolm off. If it had, Ivan thought bitterly, this was a childish way of dealing with it. Better to confront. Better to fight, and have it out and the wound seared silent.

Was Malcolm angry with him?

Ivan felt assured he could handle an angry Malcolm just as well as a calm one, but Ivan had learned from experience that no victory is ever assured.

This worried him. The house's silence worried him, and Malcolm's disappearance worried him, but his own ignorance worried him most of all.

Ivan really didn't like this, but recognizing there wasn't much to be done about it, he decided he'd better occupy his afternoon.

He made himself oatmeal with honey for lunch and wandered through the downstairs of every wing of the house twice. Then he went back and wandered the upstairs of each. Ivan tidied as he went - habits learned from his father and the Academy died hard, and if his husband did have some issue with him, he might be less inclined to anger in a tidy house. Immediately after thinking this, he remembered, in startlingly great clarity, that a tidy house had never deflected his father's anger. Ivan stared at his hands.

Don't let it in, he reminded himself.

Don't let him in.

He felt the urge to cry suddenly, but became so enraged with himself for wanting to do so that his anger stopped the tears. He would be fine. Ivan would always be fine.

Besides, Malcolm probably wasn't nearly so strict. Ivan noticed a vase that was just out of place on its table and moved it to the left.

Still, there was no telling.

~

Later on in the morning, Ivan found a stack of puzzles in a closet and considered doing one of them. He had peered at the box for a half a minute before getting embarrassed and putting it back - he had never done a puzzle before and wasn't sure how difficult it would be. The last thing his psyche needed now was failure at a simple task. Suddenly hungry, he left the older wings and headed back towards his own.

At 12:43, the front door suddenly creaked and keys jangled in the lock just as Ivan was passing by the foyer. This startled him enough to make him jump and knock into a bent tin full of umbrellas that had been placed recklessly close to the door. They fell calamitously, startling Ivan further.

Voices, raised in happy conversation, filtered in from outside the door, and Ivan rushed to pick the mess up; not wanting to be caught squatting over a mess on the floor, he ended up just kicking it all against the wall and hoping it would go unseen. Laughter filtered through the opening door, and Ivan waited tensely to see who was in the group. Malcolm's voice, low and heavy, was easy to pick out.

After a few seconds, the door swung back fully to reveal Malcolm, followed by the older man that Kosin remembered from that night at his jeep, the young deputy who Kosin remembered had brought him into the room where his father was waiting, and another man, not in uniform. Ivan froze in the hall for a moment in a mixture of surprise, irritation and embarrassment - why had he stood here like an eager child by the door? Here he was, wearing pajamas in the afternoon and wandering the halls like a bored housewife, standing over a pile of toppled umbrellas. Whether he knew these men or not, he didn't need to look stupid in front of them.

The men all looked at Ivan. Malcolm glanced sidelong at them, then back at Kosin. Slowly, he greeted him.

"Hello, Ivan."

As if he were somehow implying that he hadn't expected his own carrier to be there. Ivan frowned.

"Hi."

Malcolm blinked at him for just one more second, then, as easily as if Ivan were never there, turned back to carry on his conversation. The other men followed Malcolm's pattern, not even acknowledging Ivan as they trooped past him down the hall and into the kitchen.

Ivan did not like this at all.

~:~

"If it's just dinner, then why is there a uniform?"

Malcolm was frowning down at his book and didn't answer. Kosin waited, then exhaled in annoyance, but refused to ask again.

"What are you wearing?" he finally tried. "How come I have to wear this?"

Malcolm looked at his watch, then folded the scrap paper back into the book and set it aside. He took off his glasses, folded them, and set them on top. Ivan shifted his weight loudly from foot to foot and crossed his arms over his chest. Malcolm's aloofness, or silent treatment, or whatever the fuck it was, was getting extremely irritating. Finally, after checking his watch one more time, Malcolm looked up at Kosin.

"We are going to dinner. You are wearing what you are wearing because I asked you to. I am going to wear whatever I like."

Ivan rolled his eyes and glared at the ceiling.

"Don't talk to me like I'm your - "

"You will not talk back to me for any reason, Ivan."

Kosin's flicked his eyes back to Malcolm, and his heart sped up a little. Malcolm had a strange tone in his voice, a harshness that Kosin hadn't heard before. His face had a stony cast to it; his eyes were unreadable, but Ivan thought he had caught a glint of something, briefly - anger? Kosin kept his eyes on his husband; neutral, waiting. Malcolm blinked and his expression resumed its usual calm. He stretched luxuriously, popping vertebrae in his back, then placed both hands on his knees and made to stand up.

"We'll leave in about ten minutes. We'll need time to get there. The place we're going is closer to town."

~:~

They turned off onto a short, narrow road, crudely sign-marked as Princes Street. A quarter-mile farther down, they slowed to a stop in front of a large iron gate. Malcolm put the window down and pulled up to a keypad located off to the left side, then pulled a small square of paper from his front shirt pocket and began pressing numbers in. Ivan watched him, nervously, and fidgeted.

"What's the code?" he asked suddenly. Malcolm just smiled benevolently at him and folded the paper back into his pocket. Then he leaned out and swiped a blank ID card, also produced from the same pocket. Ivan began to fidget more. If there was one thing Ivan did not like, it was being inside of a cage that he couldn't get out of. Malcolm pulled the car forward; the gates closed behind them. They began the drive up the lane.

They stopped in front of a large, sprawling estate house, and Ivan leaned forward and peered through the car window at the big brick construction. It looked unusual, out of place in the landscape.

"Is this house new?"

Malcolm also looked out at it. Windows were lit up on all three floors.

"Built a few years back, I believe."

Interesting, considering the apparent size and splendor of the place.

Malcolm pulled the car around the entryway loop and nosed it into a spot on a gravel area off to the left of the house. Ivan noticed that a number of other vehicles - two SUVs and three cars - were also parked there.

"Who else is here?"

Malcolm put the car into park, turned off the ignition and looked over at his spouse. The dome light cast shadows over his face.

"Other couples." he waited a beat. "Ivan, everything is OK. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. It's just dinner. You will be fine."

Ivan looked sharply over his shoulder, then turned his focus back to the unfamiliar brick house.

"I haven't made it this far by believing everyone who's ever told me that."

Malcolm shrugged.

"Well. You can believe me. I'm your husband." he pocketed the keys and opened his door. "Besides, I think you'll have fun."

Malcolm got out of the car, and Kosin let himself out of the other side.

As they approached the red painted front door, the sounds of music and conversation became more obvious. Ivan glanced sidelong at Malcolm, who smiled and confidently and strode up to the entrance. Two chaperones who had been standing on either side of the door moved to stand in front of it. Ivan felt his heart pulse at the sight of them. He was no longer in command of these machines - they were a threat to him, strange beasts who could reach out and break and injure and devour him. Malcolm reached between them for the door knocker.

After only a brief wait, voices and footsteps inside indicated that someone was coming. The door opened and presented a smiling and somewhat-drunk Charlie Vance.

"HELLO!" Charlie threw one arm out in welcome. "Hi, Ivan! Hi, Malcolm! Come innnn!"

Ivan exhaled and threw an accusatory glare at Malcolm.

"You could have just told me it was their house."

Malcolm smiled back at Charlie, who was looking at them in happy expectation.

"No," he answered, aside, to Ivan, "I couldn't have. Now be nice."

Malcolm stepped across the threshold into the doorway, leaving Ivan to follow behind him.

Inside, the house was warm and alive with lights and people. Malcolm, noticing Charlie's bare feet and the row of shoes in the hall, toed his own off and indicated for Ivan to do the same. Just as he was straightening up again, a familiar voice boomed down the hall.

"Charlie, who's at the - ah! Malcolm! Ivie! You made it!"

Keith Vance rounded the corner and grinned at them both. He shook Malcolm's hand first, then reached out for Ivan's. Ivan stared at it.

"It's Ivan." he told the hand. "Not Ivie."

Unfazed, Keith grinned and sought out, then took Ivan's hand anyway.

"Ivan. Of course. Good to see you!"

Charlie appeared beside his husband then, slipping one arm around his waist, and Ivan caught a whiff of alcohol come off of him. Keith indulgently patted Charlie's hand and then caught it when it tried to sneak under his shirt.

"Charlie," he said, his voice only slightly warning, "Later."

Charlie pouted suitably, looking so much like a perfect little carrier that Ivan was briefly disgusted, then confused. The man he'd met the other day hadn't seemed as vapid as this. Keith was looking back and forth between Ivan and Malcolm, grinning wide.

"Well, why don't you both come on in and meet everybody? I've told them all about you, and they're all really glad you could make it here!"

Ivan's eyes threw daggers so viciously at Malcolm that, had his husband taken any notice, he would have surely been killed, or at least brought to tears. Instead, Malcolm stepped forward, keeping pace with Keith Vance (who had disengaged himself from Charlie), as he headed down the hall.

That left just Ivan and Charlie, whom Ivan belatedly realized was wearing the same thing as he was - loose jeans and a white tshirt. If he'd been a bit more of a carrier, Ivan thought bitterly, he might have been offended. He decided to take offense on principle of having something to bring up with Malcolm later.

Charlie walked a surprisingly straight line over to Ivan and took his arm.

"Come onnn!" he told him. "All of us are inside."

The hall led into a foyer, from which a larger living room and, further on, a dining room were visible. Ivan never saw that far, however - as soon as he got a full view of the first room, he stopped short. Perched on couches, on chairs, and on the floor in various stages of repose, were a dozen carriers, all of whom looked up eagerly when he walked in. Ivan ground his jaw. He was going to kill Malcolm Lawdon.

~:~

"This way," Keith was saying. "We're all through here."

Malcolm followed him farther down the hallway, past the room full of carriers and into a room with a large banquet table. Men were scattered around in groups - three conversing heatedly in a circle in the far corner; four playing cards at the end of the table, two chatting as they mixed themselves drinks at the bar. Keith introduced him to everyone, but in the whirlwind of names, personalities, drink preferences and companions, Malcolm could remember only two - Tom, the mechanical engineer drinking whiskey neat and Jake, the mechanical engineer drinking rum and cola. Keith indicated the table.

"Grab a seat, Malcolm. It's nearly dinnertime. And until then..." he produced a brandy-colored drink from somewhere and scooted it across the table towards Malcolm.

"Drink. Enjoy."

Malcolm nodded, but his mind was racing circles. As soon as he took his first sip, Keith asked him,

"So, has it been working?"

The four men in the card game looked up in interest.

The one wearing the poker visor spoke around the toothpick in his mouth.

"Working? You've given him an assignment already?" he asked, his eyes flicking to Malcolm. Keith, looking self-satisfied, shook his head.

"Not exactly. But I prescribed a strict diet of attention restriction. Weeklong. Wanted them both to come here hungry."

Malcolm laughed, almost choking on his drink.

"I don't think Ivan's exactly 'hungry' for my attention." he shook the glass a little to redistribute the ice, "Pretty sure he'd prefer if I left alone all the time. Don't think he much cares whether I pay attention to him at all."

Keith patted Malcolm's shoulder and the visor guy grinned.

"Oh, believe me, he cares. They all care."

Visor guy nodded.

"Chesney's the same way. He's just prideful; won't let it show that he wants you around." quickly, his eyes flicked across the table, then through the cards his hand. "We'll teach you how to manage that."

Keith agreed.

"Definitely. Ivan might be a touch rougher than most, and he's got a lot going on in that head of his right now. How much do you know about his background?"

Malcolm felt something - the alcohol, or perhaps the question - hit his stomach in a cold rush.

"I don't, um - "

"It's OK." Keith smiled encouragingly. "Just basic stuff. Where'd he grow up?"

Malcolm answered confidently.

"Here. Well, around here - not far. His father lived out across the way about an hour and a half."

Keith nodded.

"Good, good. You've met his father?"

"Yeah."

"And what was he like?"

Malcolm scoffed, took another long sip of his drink. It tasted sweet, but with a hint of bitterness beneath the surface.

"Useless."

"Ah." Visor laid down a few cards. The game went on. "And what about his school, his job? Was he educated at home? Educated at all? Academy? Military? Private? Science? Law? What did Ivan do before he met you?"

Malcolm blinked in the face of the barrage.

"Uhh...."

Keith and the visor looked expectantly at him. The other players in the card game looked up, too. Malcolm swallowed, suddenly nervous.

"I don't, um - you know, I really don't know."

~:~

"Soo! This..." Charlie began, squeezing his way down into a spot between two carriers on one of the couches, "...is Ivan." Charlie made a grand, vague gesture with his hand. "He was in my class at the Brookhams Shenter." he slurred.

Ivan looked around at the others; half of them had happy, glazed looks on their faces. The floor was littered with discarded sweaters, half-drunk cups, stacks of playing cards, a few video cards, and an in-progress board game.

The other carriers all waved at Ivan. He looked around the circle, assessing. The group seemed to range in age - the oldest looked to be in his mid-forties, and was heavily pregnant. The youngest looked to be a blonde about 19. All of the carriers looked healthy, Ivan noted; no obvious bruising or evidence of abuse. No paleness, discoloration of eyes or fingernails, hair loss, or other evidence of malnutrition. No anxiety, nervous tics, or jumpiness. They looked fine; as carriers went, he might even say they looked happy.

Ivan thought this, then rescinded it; to be honest, he had not spent much time around happy carriers in his life, and was not entirely sure what the symptoms of such a condition would be. However, as best he could estimate, the group looked OK. They were a mixed bunch; some were tall, some short - some slim, some heavier in build. Some looked as if they'd come from lives of leisure - they were all soft hands and pleasant smiles. Others had the uncompromising look of former soldiers. One even had the wild, critical look of survivors from the edge of society. They were of various ethnicities as well; a few blondes here and there, but several of the black hair and olive skin he'd come to associate with Westerners, and more than one had the duskier skin that hinted at some sort of mixed African descent. Some looked to be recently changed - one even still had the short, buzzed hair of a recent soldier. Others looked to have been living in this fashion for some time, and two of them had the long, well-cared for locks that Ivan tended to see only on changes for whom at least 5 years had passed.

All of them, however, looked hale, hearty, and un-abused. Knowing this relaxed Ivan, but only slightly.

A sudden awareness interrupted his thinking, and Ivan snapped out of his thoughtful stupor to realize that they were all staring at him. Unconsciously, he began to rub the sides of his thumbs - being stared at reminded him of the cafeteria at the CEC, and still made him nervous.

Ivan lingered where he stood for moment, uncertain of how to proceed and resenting Charlie for just taking a seat and abandoning him. Then one of the carriers scooted over to make a space on the floor, and Ivan quickly sat down and occupied it. This meant that he ended up sitting on the edge of an ornately patterned oriental rug, against the leg of a sturdy wooden chair, occupied by the heavily pregnant carrier. Ivan glanced around the room. It looked spartan, but expensive - like a wealthy summer home forgotten for most of the year. It was lit brightly.

The olive-skinned brunette carrier to Charlie's left leaned forward from the couch and offered his hand, recapturing Ivan's attention.

"Hi, Ivan. I'm Zeno. Where are you from?"

Ivan almost balked at the hand, but compelled himself to take it.

"Not far from here." he answered, shifting his eyes to the floor. One of the carriers who was sitting on the floor, poring over something inside of a hat, perked up.

"Oh, you're a local?" he asked with interest. "I am, too. Well, sort of. My father was the doctor in Gatlinburg for fifteen years." The carrier frowned. "That was about thirty years ago, though. So I guess it doesn't mean much anymore, as quickly as things have been changing. Anyway, I'm Miller."

Ivan wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just nodded. Another carrier, this one an older blonde who looked to be of some mixed origin, smiled at him and leaned forward from his chair to shake hands.

"Hey. I'm George. I was the new guy until you showed up." he grinned as he said this. "So thanks for that." he raised his glass slightly in a salute, winked at Ivan, and finished it. The other carriers laughed.

Zeno rolled his eyes.

"Oh, come on, Georgie, we weren't that bad."

George gave Ivan an ironic but amused look.

"Not after the first four times you got me punished, no. After that, you were fine."

Charlie laughed from his sideways position against the cushions of the couch.

"Discipline builds character."

Ivan narrowed his eyes.

"So what do you all do, here, exactly?"

Zeno made a half-shrug.

"Well, some of us live here, in the Manor. That's me, and Charlie, and Chesney, too. And George. The rest try to meet up here at least once a month. Less often for those who live far away, more often for closer, but all of us see each other as often as we possibly can. We're a family."

Ivan looked skeptically between each of the faces.

"You all are....a family?" he hazarded.

Charlie snorted and the others laughed.

"More like very, very good friends." someone answered.

The entire group burst into laughter and Ivan felt his face heat, feeling on the outside of the joke and wondering if it was about him.

Suddenly, the carrier to Ivan's right, who was himself seated against the leg of one of the couches, leaned towards him in interest. Ivan leaned back responsively.

"How old are you?" he demanded, the words slurring just slightly. Ivan stared at him.

"Thirty-three." he answered, after a minute. The man frowned for a minute, still leaning close.

"Good." he said, blinking heavy eyes at Ivan. "Goooood."

Ivan carefully inched away from the carrier. Unfortunately, this put him within touching range of another carrier; the bright-eyed, chestnut-haired one who was sitting on the floor to his left.

"I'm Chesney." he said, proudly, squeezing a glass in his hands. Chesney looked a little younger than most, maybe only in his early twenties. "It's really nice to meet you, Ivan. I really think you're going to like it here."

Ivan's blood ran cold. Like it here? So it wasn't just dinner. So Malcolm had lied to him. What was this, then? Fear nipped at him, but Ivan contained himself enough to respond to the carrier. He nodded, shortly.

"Hi."

Chesney's gaze drifted upwards a little, and suddenly, he put down his drink, braced himself with one hand, and leaned even closer to Ivan.

"Your hair's so pretty! It's really dark. It's going to look really good when it grows out." he assured Ivan seriously.

Ivan stared at him in bemusement, which quickly changed to mortification as Chesney reached out and began to play with Ivan's hair, twisting the ends of it in his fingers experimentally. Ivan felt every muscle in his body go rigid. This was not acceptable. Nothing about this was acceptable. Kosin felt the anger of a caged animal rose up inside of him. If he were still who he was, this carrier wouldn't dare... Ivan never finished that thought, because they were all interrupted by the arrival of one of the men.

"Chesney!"

At the sound of the scolding voice, the carrier dropped his hand from Ivan's head into his lap and spun around, eyes wide.

"Yes, Stevie?"

The man who had entered the room, an older gentleman of rather large build, crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head, giving Chesney an admonishing look.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe Ivan doesn't want to be touched? Or maybe that Malcolm doesn't want you to touch him?"

Ivan felt his face color at the off-handed way the man had given authority to his husband. Chesney was busy looking abashed. He dropped his gaze to the floor, then looked up and blinked large, bright eyes up at the man.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to. I was just trying to be nice."

Chesney's voice had changed to affect an exaggerated lilt, and Ivan felt brief disgust run through him. It continued to amaze him - all carriers seemed to be in possession of an utter lack of subtlety. Doe eyes and a child's voice? Honestly.

The man scolding Chesney just shook his head, his arms still crossed over his chest, and smiled.

"It's OK. I know you were just being friendly. Come here, sweetheart."

Chesney jumped up, and, to Ivan's further disgust, practically scampered over to the man, standing up on his tiptoes for a kiss.

They broke apart, and the man smiled down at the rest of them.

"Come on, boys. Dinner."

~:~

Ivan was very careful to stare into his plate at dinner so that no one would talk to him. He thought the head-down frown of consternation on his face would prevent any conversation. This thought was wrong.

"So, Ivan! Tell us about yourself!"

Ivan looked up. Oh, right. It was the jackass in the poker hat. Ivan looked back down and picked at his plate.

"I was born. I grew up."

The jackass grinned at this.

"Sounds poetic. But tell us something we don't know."

Ivan looked up to cut a glare at him, realized that most of the table was watching him, and looked back down. With his fork hand, he rubbed the side of his thumb, then immediately wished he hadn't because it mixed his carrots into his potatoes. Frustrated, he snapped at the man.

"There's nothing you need to know about me that you haven't already figured out by inviting me here under false pretenses."

Chesney looked impressed by the alacrity of Ivan's sharp tongue. He exchanged a glance with Zeno. Next to Ivan, Malcolm was shaking his head.

"Ivan, that's not - "

Tom the mechanical engineer cleared his throat noisily. Malcolm looked up, and Keith met his eyes.

"Correct." he said, simply. Malcolm nodded and put his fork down. He turned to Ivan.

"Ivan. It's not appropriate to speak to our hosts that way."

Ivan rolled his eyes.

"I'm not obligated to be polite to meddlers and kidnappers."

Malcolm kept his voice steady and repeated himself.

"Ivan. It's not appropriate to speak to our hosts that way."

Ivan wanted to scream his frustration.

"Well, I didn't ask them to host me, did I? I didn't ask to come here tonight, Malcolm. I just wanted to stay home! So this is your party, and your ambush, and your friends and your fucking hosts - you make the fucking small talk."

Keith made a short, raised chin motion to Malcolm.

"Manage."

Malcolm took a deep breath, and Ivan tensed for some kind of retaliation. Whatever was coming, he didn't care, so long as it got them home faster. Maybe if he acted an ass at dinner, they could just leave.

"OK." Malcolm said.

That was all the warning Ivan got before he was pulled bodily from his chair, Malcolm's large hand tight around his arm. His first reaction was to fight, and he almost kicked over the chair he'd been sitting in before deciding that maybe destruction was not the best course of action. He tried to wrest his arm free, but Malcolm was surprisingly strong, and had moved them halfway out of the room by that point. Ivan swung out, trying injure, and heard a little sound of shock go up from the table. Great. Now he was a spectacle. Malcolm used his half second of distraction to get a better grip and twist his arm backwards. Ivan yelped a little, and Malcolm glanced back towards the table. Ivan glanced back, too, wanting to see what his husband was seeing, and caught a glimpse of Keith shaking his head. Then Malcolm dragged him out of the room.

In the hall, Ivan panicked.

"Where are you taking me?!"

Malcolm didn't answer, and Ivan twisted his body to look up at his husband's face. Malcolm had the same stony look he'd had earlier. Ivan's nerves got a little jangly. Malcolm was still moving them down the hallway.

"Where are we going?!"

They had reached the front of the house again, and Malcolm took them through the main living area into a sunroom adjacent. The room had a good view through the living room into dining area. The meal was still going on - conversation seemed light and happy. It was as if Ivan hadn't been dragged out kicking just seconds before. In the sunroom, Malcolm released him.

"Sit. We are going to eat out here."

Ivan stared at him.

"Why?"

"Because you're tired. You've dealt with a lot of new people today, and you need a break from company. So we're going to have some quiet time."

Ivan rubbed his arm where he'd been held.

"Why?"

Malcolm ignored this.

"I'm going to go and get our plates. Make yourself comfortable."

There were two short couches, and a low coffee table in between. Ivan picked the farthest seat he could manage and Malcolm went back into the other room.

It was awkward, eating out here like this. Everyone else seemed wrapped up in excitement at the table. Ivan wondered if they were talking about him. Malcolm and he weren't talking - they were just sitting across the table from each other, eating. Ivan prodded at his food with his fork. His meat was almost touching his carrots. He separated them, keeping each clean.

Across from him, Malcolm was eating, slowly, and watching Ivan push his food around. When he had finished, he sat back on his couch and looked evenly at Ivan.

"We won't be leaving until you finish your meal." Malcolm said, simply. Ivan felt anger and embarrassment rise up in him. He picked up his plate and turned it upside down on the table. Malcolm stared at him in shock for a minute, and Ivan felt gleeful that he'd won, however ephemerally. Then, seeming to collect himself, Malcolm calmly got up, left the room, and returned, carrying a fuller plate. He set it down in front of Ivan.

"We won't be leaving until you finish your meal."

Conceding defeat, or at least growing bored with the game, Ivan ate.

~:~