Amier [Med/Open]

[Matthew Williams]

Here I am, a rabbit-hearted boy
Frozen in the headlights
I must become a lion-hearted boy
Ready for the fight

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It seemed as if his gamble had paid off, and Matthew cheered inwardly, secretly proud of himself for managing to outmaneuver the older man. There was nothing like the thrill of knowing that one was going to win something, and the twinge of overconfidence began to return. He would score, he knew he would, and though in the grand scheme of things it wouldn’t amount to much, it would be his first actual accomplishment in a long while. Or rather it would be his first accomplishment that someone would perhaps notice. That alone was enough to ramp his determination up in itself, and the fact that it was a hockey game? Even more incentive. The sport was perhaps the one thing that Matthew was able to call his own, and so a victory, however small it was, meant quite a bit to him. He could hear Ivan recovering, but his attention was focused elsewhere. The check had given him ample time to distance himself from his competitor, and it was all but certain that he would have a clean shot on the goal without the other interrupting him again. Perhaps he should have been more attentive, but the thought never crossed his mind, and ultimately it was what led to his downfall.

There was a sickening crack and then a blinding rush of pain before he was falling face first into the cold ice, shouting in a mixture of surprise and suffering. Hot tendrils of agony throbbed within his legs, and through the haze Matthew wondered if he had made a horrible, horrible mistake. What had started as a semi-friendly competition had turned into something much more violent and dangerous apparently, and for a moment there was a blinding strike of clarity as to why perhaps he had always been warned to stay away from the Russian. The impact as he collided with the frigid floor sent tremors through his body, despite the padding that he wore, and his glasses skidded away. He fleetingly hoped that they hadn’t broken, but it turned out to be the least of his worries as strong hands wrenched him aside, throwing him onto his back as he flailed weakly, still dazed.

There was an iron grip upon his wrists, and for the first time in a long while, Matthew felt fear. As much as he was loathe to admit it, he had always been the weakest of his family, unable to deal with the sheer physical violence that his brother usually got himself into, nor with the scathing mental berating that went on between his fathers. While it wasn’t to say that he himself was frail, no far from it, it was merely that he was inexperienced in dealing with such situations. He was not Alfred, who would have been all fire and fight, and neither was he Arthur, who was able to repel most with scathing verbal jibes. He was Matthew, quiet, invisible Matthew who preferred to work out his problems with careful words and venomous manipulation of conversation. Whether or not it would serve him well against a seemingly homicidal relative was another question.

His mind was racing, trying to figure out way to escape, or at least worm his way out so that he could deduce if his legs were actually broken or not. Currently, with the way that Ivan was situated, it was entirely impossible to feel his lower extremities, so if there was something wrong, at least it was being slightly mitigated by the fact that even if he was actually hurt, he wasn’t bothered too badly by it. Not to say that everything wasn’t excruciating, no, it had been almost too much for him to bear, but now with all the adrenaline flooding his system and the lack of blood flow…it was almost bearable.

That still didn’t solve the urgent situation that he was in though, and for once the Canadian wasn’t entirely sure how to approach things. He was so much more used to being ignored, to being left alone, that the fact that someone (besides Cusa, who always apologized for his mistakes afterwards) was physically assaulting him was almost incomprehensible. What he knew, he had learned from said times with his Cuban friend and a bit from having to deal with his brother, and neither seemed very applicable with the fact that there was currently a very deranged Russian sitting upon him, saying something in that oh-so foreign and incomprehensible language of his.

The longer he thought about it though, it seemed to be more of something that Alfred used to do to him, back when they had both been young. The American had always had a penchant for playing rough, and on more than one occasion had been overzealous, forcing his smaller sibling into rather painful, almost impossible to escape situations. It had been distressing, but even after he had run to Arthur, the Britton had had little to say about his children’s escapades, dismissing his youngest with only a few flippant waves of his hand and a scant few words.

”Matthew, you have to learn how to stand up for yourself, lad.”

Because oh yes, it was ever so easy to tell someone who was currently eating dirt to try harder, oh yes. Not to mention Alfred’s freakish strength as well. It was no wonder that he still had lingering anger issues towards his brother, and Arthur’s favoritism hadn’t helped that at all. His advice, however, had been sound, and for once in his life, Matthew found himself drawing on strength he had gleaned from his sibling, his violet eyes filled with a mixture of veiled fear and obvious determination.

“Arrêter! Foutez le camp hors de moi!” It was oblivious that there was no way that he was going to be able to overthrow the Russian, and so he chose his battle carefully. Though he couldn’t stop the reflexive flinch after his outburst, he tried to remain steadfast, at least outwardly. Ivan had already demonstrated that he was entirely capable of brutal acts out of nowhere, so it was his only hope that the outburst wouldn’t be perceived as a threat. It was desperation that drove him to his actions, because with no one else in the ice rink, he had no idea what would happen if he couldn’t manage to deter the Russian.

Nothing good…that’s for sure.

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Word Count:

1064
Muse: Medium
Tags: Ivan
Music: A lot of Eben Brooks
Comments: Arrêter! Foutez le camp hors de moi!”: "Stop! Get the hell off of me!"

Don't worry about thing hon, we all get busy~[/blockquote][/size]

[Ivan Braginski]

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[/font][/color] we are just
M I S G U I D E D G H O S T S
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There it was—the fear Ivan had longed for. The Canadian attempted to hide it behind a demanding tone, but Ivan could see it. He had learned to read it long ago, to see beyond the careful masks that people implemented to hide. Ivan feasted on such moments—a rich, hearty meal for the senses. He could almost feel the palpitations of the boy’s heard, see the sweat beating on his forehead. If only he could read minds…what a delight that would be! He could feel Matthew struggling beneath him, half-heartedly attempting to squirm out of his hold. The possibility of such had become impossible the moment Ivan had taken hold of his wrists.

If there was one person who didn’t know when he had taken something too far, it was Ivan. In fact, Ivan’s system of censors and blocks had existed not by personal choice—he had no innate desire to be as other people did, to abide by their rules and flimsy ethics. There was no part of him that distinguished right from wrong; as far as Ivan was concerned, if he had the desire to do something, it was ‘right’ for him. That was the only logic necessary. No, his method of ‘checking’ himself was an external affair, forced onto him by surrounding society. It was morality that fat men in business suits decided everyone must follow.

The ‘Ivan’ in public was not his true self. That was an Ivan who carefully thought over everything he said and did, making certain to watch for verbal and visual clues from those he spoke to. He worried over the impressions he knew he had to make—for if he did not, he would become lost in the system. It was a plain, despicable logic, but one he knew he had to follow nonetheless. He occasionally wondered what his past self would think of what he had become. He would abhor himself, he knew. He had been wild and free back then; brutal, but true to his own nature. Bestial and morally depraved, some might say, but so alive. The true Ivan was not the one who exchanged pleasantries and asked how your day was. He wasn’t the sociology teacher who sat behind a desk and filled thick skulls with information they neither appreciated nor would remember. He wasn’t the distant relative, sitting at the meetings with a complacent smile and politely responding to the incessant questions asked toward him.

No, this was the true Ivan—the Ivan who saw predator and prey, not equal humanity deserving fair consideration. This was simple domination—Ivan practically drinking in the sweet sounds and sights of Matthew’s fear. Matthew had brought out the worst in him, unwittingly saying to the Russian that violence was alright. By hurting him, he had made clear to Ivan that they now existed outside the realm of arbitrary standards set on them by the outside world. The game had been but a guise, then. Ivan had never been one for competitions that didn’t lead to something, anyways. This game, however…this one had a far more tantalizing. He could not see it, yet knew the end result would be desirable.

Matthew had been the first in such a long time to show him freedom—a freedom to let loose and surrender to his carnal instincts. For so long he had been subject to rules; choking, stifling rules. In Russia, such rules had not existed until they had been forced on him. As a child and teenager, he had existed in a ‘dog eat dog’ world. There was no law to protect the weak, no right to save someone from having their possessions by those stronger. This was the world Ivan knew and loved. Archaic, barbaric, and raw. Yes—raw. Pure and honest, with no veil to hide its warts. Somehow, without any conscious recognition on his part, Matthew had unlocked that side. Had said, without any words needed, that it was alright—that they could be violent.

Of course, had he known French, he might have known that ‘alright’ wasn’t quite the right word. In fact, had Ivan the thought process of a non-sociopath, he wouldn’t recoiled from the fear in those eyes and laughed, assuring Matthew that he was just kidding and had gotten too carried away.

Such was not the case. He could feel the cold of the ice on his fingertips, the knuckles grasping the boy’s hand digging painfully into the frozen surface. In some masochistic way, they heightened the sensation—gave it a deeper sense of reality. This frigid, icy surface, paired with the violence he had, and still was, inflicting on the boy, was the closest he had felt to the sensations he had loved back home.

And he wanted more. Showing no reaction or recognition toward the boy’s peril, Ivan laughed. “I’m assuming you have asked me to get off of you, da?” He smirked at the statement, his voice low and menacing like the quiet rush of a freezing river. His free hand lifted, running the back of his gloved hand against the side of the boy’s face. The movement was not smooth—not the tender caress of affection. It was shaken by the tremor within his hands, the quiet rush of excitement that fueled his body. It lifted an inch to take careful grasp of that spiraled bit of hair of his—what a strange oddity it was! He looked over the boy, carefully observing him. “Tsk, come now. This is more fun…exciting, is it not? I think so, at least ~” Another laugh, another twirl of his fingers around that strand of hair.

“Let us speak more openly, hmm?” Putting on a smile—of the pleasant sort he saved for only special brands of manipulation and fun—his eyes bored into the Canadian’s. For a moment, he simply stared. Shades of purple were terribly rare in eyes…yet the pair that gazed back into his own were such a vibrant lilac. Was it possible that they were in some way related by blood? It was a far-fetched idea by even his own standards, and one that he quickly dropped. It was irrelevant to his concerns. “Why is it that you stay so quiet that you…what is the word…allow people to walk all over you? Your own family, even?” He paused only momentarily before continuing, allowing Matthew no time for an interjection. “A large man is sitting on your chest…shouldn’t you be screaming for help?” His head quirked to the side, eyes squinting as his smile creased his features.

He was having fun with Matthew, poking and prodding at him to test his waters. The smartest hunter did not merely tear into his prey, after all. They watched and learned, carefully examining until they knew the best time to strike.

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❧ Word Count; One thousand somethin' somethin'
❧ Notes; Gurf. I know this is probably littered with grammar and spelling fails, but I am so crazy tired right now, ahaha. Hopefully if I can drag myself out of bed early enough tomorrow and edit it. If not...well, here's my apology~
Man. I almost feel bad for being so crazy. Or rather, for letting Ivan be so crazy. At least he's not like...beating him up? Hurr.
❧ Muse; Great earlier today, like an old pack-mule right now though.

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[Matthew Williams]

Here I am, a rabbit-hearted boy
Frozen in the headlights
I must become a lion-hearted boy
Ready for the fight

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The frigid cold of the skating rink bit wickedly into the back of his exposed head and neck, and Matthew glared the best he could up at Ivan. As he opened his mouth to respond, that yes of course he wanted the larger man straddling him to get the hell off, his words died in his throat, his entire body freezing and ceasing its escape attempts at the sensation of worn material tracing the line of his face none to gently. He was entirely ready to protest, but just as quickly he bit down on his lower lip, trying to stifle a particularly pathetic squeak at the Russian’s hand brushed that ever prevalent strand of hair that curled around his face. If it was possible for someone to melt into the ground and disappear, Matthew was trying his hardest to accomplish said feat.

“Stopstopstopstopstop-” The words ran off of his tongue like water, frantic and strained as he bucked and thrashed, trying his hardest to play everything cool and failing rather spectacularly. For as long as he had been able to understand, Matthew had known that there was something special about that one, errant hair of his. As a child it had merely made him uncomfortable, as an adolescent he had learned the true nature of the pleasant tingly feelings that it elicted, and now, as an adult, he was mortified that there was someone touching it, practically molesting it while he was helpless to mount a defense. It was nothing less than humiliating, and he tried his best to keep an embarrassed flush from coloring his face.

Exciting? Of course not! How could anything like that even be considered…hell, proper?! Why, oh why hadn’t he heeded his fathers’ warnings, because certainly he hadn’t thought that anyone could be so, utterly touched in the head. What had happened to the game? As far as he knew, nothing had been out of the ordinary. Ivan had said that he understood at least the basics of the game, so how had things warped into a strange, pseudo-erotic horror scene? It was terrifying, and though he had previously felt fear, he now felt the first twinges of actual panic and hysteria gnaw at his brain. The longer things dragged on, the less confident he felt about his own safety. Not that he had felt entirely secure after the first punishing blow that the Russian had dealt him, but at least that had all been in sport. Now he wasn’t entirely sure how to escape, or at least how to make it out alive, for that matter. His injured legs were beginning to throb again, the sheer shock that had been staving off the pain finally dissipating, and the uncomfortable warmth that was spreading down his spine wasn’t serving to help anything.

“O-one usu-” he broke off for a moment to worry on his lower lip again, eyes screwing shut for moment before opening once again, trying his best to give an authoritative glare at the larger man but failing spectacularly. “U-usually can sp-speak bett-ah!-er if they’re n-not being sat upon!”

It was a gamble, because it seemed that the older man had few qualms about making him as uncomfortable as possible. He wasn’t sure what the questions were for, what the purpose of all of it was, but there was something that told him it would be much, much safer so long as he wasn’t under Ivan anymore. Not to mention it would mean that he would be free of the torment of the Russian playing around with that one, certain strand of hair. It was hard to form any answer to the man’s questions, relevant or not,, with such distraction, and he felt as though he would die of shame. It was too much to hope that he hadn’t been obvious with his discomfort,

Screaming for help would have indeed been the proper response, and it was a wonder to the Canadian himself why he hadn’t resorted to such yet. Perhaps it was the years of being ignored that stilled his tongue, the innate knowledge that no one would hear, or perhaps care, that he was distressed. It was depressing to think about, and even more disconcerting to know that he was fundamentally stuck with his crazed (insane? Deranged? Dangerous?) relative without any assistance. He tried to test the strength of Ivan’s grip again and found it as strong as ever, much to his displeasure. Brute force wouldn’t work, talk probably wouldn’t work…that really left him with no options.

Swallowing dryly, he tried to compose himself, to banish the red that tinged his cheeks and make himself appear at least slightly in control of the situation. It was difficult, excruciatingly so, and part of him wished to merely give up, to submit and beg, cry as he had as a small child, but no…something in his pride would not allow him to. “J-just let me up….please?”

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Word Count:

824
Muse: Blech
Tags: Ivan
Music: Things
Comments: Blech...not happy with this at all, I apologize[/blockquote][/size]

[Ivan Braginski]

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[/font][/color] we are just
M I S G U I D E D G H O S T S
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Certainly it must have been wrong to garner such grand satisfaction from the helpless flailing of a young boy—by such standards, certainly it was worse to be the one causing his distress. Yes, Ivan knew that what he was doing should have been completely abhorrent… even to a person with a warped perception of reality such as his own. There was a part of him that did know such—he knew it was not normal for most to experience such things. Most normal people didn’t go around knocking people they only vaguely knew to the ground. Most people went their entire lives without sitting on a relative and threatening them, at that. Everything about the situation was abnormal—excluding Matthew’s reactions, perhaps.

Then again, Ivan absolutely despised the ideal of normalcy, attributing it to a complacency of the soul. It may have been self-righteous, but in that moment he felt himself true. He felt his actions justified upon introspection—felt that this was the closest he had been to ‘real’ in months, if not years. Ivan derived pleasure through the examination of others; the examination, and knowledge gained from such endeavors. So, a few people had to submit to his hedonistic ways to satiate his curiosity—it was a small price to pay, as he was concerned. To Ivan, humanity was both something loved and despised; people in general, a group of malleable, sentient entities—yet as similar as such grouping might entail, vastly unique in their differences.

It was these differences that piqued Ivan’s interest; what was it that caused one person to remain in stifling silence during high pressure situations, and another to call out for help? By this extension, Matthew had piqued his interest. He wanted to speak to him, to ask him the sort of questions that, in a normal setting, might make anyone’s skin crawl. He wanted to see the boy’s reaction to pleasure and pain—to truly know the boy. No superficialities, no pleasant conversations under slouched weeping willows, nor calm handshakes to be considered proper. Ivan was done with the complicated dance of civil discussion. Matthew had intrigued him far too much for such a slow, tedious process. He wanted to know the child—and he wasn’t keen to wait. And, if in the process Ivan was allowed to be a bit cruel…well, that was only one more thing in favor for him, was it not? “Tell me…do you not feel it?” He laughed softly, hand continuing it’s gentle stroking of that strand of hair. “That raw surge of feeling! I have been on your end…I know how it feels. Utterly terrified, on the brink of a precipice. On one side, the possibility of what you so gravely fear; on the other, complete relief. Feeling, feeling! You must be frightened, panicking, terrified—but you cannot tell me that it is not exhilarating, da? Makes you feel…alive?”

He watched the boy closely, eyes never drifting from their mark. He noticed as the boy cringed—bucking like wild in an attempt to overthrow the Russian. As amusing as it was to Ivan, it also confused him. He hadn’t done that initially…was it newfound panic? Was it the adrenaline of the sudden attack wearing off? Or was it…

…Ivan grinned, recalling where his fingers were. He had thought nothing of the hair—had no ulterior motives behind the molestation of it. It had merely been something to draw his fancy; it was an obscurity amongst the boys’ feature. The odd curl that he held lightly between his fingers…was it an erogenous zone? He couldn’t help himself as the smile grew.

“You are fun Matthew. Very…interesting. More than I had thought.~ He paused, taking the moment to stare down at the boy. When had his hunger shifted? He couldn’t quite place the moment. Perhaps as the boy had begged, his lust for blood had simmered. It was far less fun drawing shrieks and blood from someone willing to compromise. No, that desire had waned as he stared, replaced by another. “Beautiful.” He concluded, removing his hand from that strand of hair. Leaning down slowly, hoping to make the boy feel a bit anxious, he placed a soft kiss on his forehead.

There was a special part of Ivan that took delight in the harm of things he deemed as ‘beautiful’ or ‘cute’. A young Lithuanian boy had once been the subject of this fancy, a blank canvas for which Ivan had heavily imprinted on over the years. Yet Ivan knew, despite the sudden spark of feeling and emotion that Matthew had brought forth in him, this was not something he could truly do. To harm the boy—impossible. Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland were powerful men in status; it would not do to have their child running to them, speaking of the horrible things done. If anything, Ivan valued self-preservation above all. But teasing, playing, and experimenting…well, those were hardly things to cry home about, were they?

He slowly released the boy’s hands, as if afraid that the simple freedom would send the boy into a rage and toss him off. He moved himself to the side, taking a seat on the ice beside the boy—sitting cross-legged, one walking upon the scene might have thought that they were just having a pleasant conversation. He offered a calm smile, ”Can you stand on your own?

Perhaps the boy was as he expected—perhaps he even knew, to an extent, what the Russian felt. He was not certain in his assumptions, but there lingered the thought. The boy hardly lived, or so it seemed to Ivan. He sat in the shadows, carefully observing situations. Did he not feel the same urges? Did he truly not feel as dead in his daily life as Ivan? Certainly the boy had to thirst—perhaps in different outlets than he, but for a release from the situation he had been forced into?

Interesting indeed, how oddly connected he felt to the boy…despite having quite possibly done serious damage to both his legs and psyche.

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❧ Word Count; 1063 or somethin'
❧ Notes; Feeling as crazy as always, I 'spose. Heh. Channeling equal parts violent and angsty Ivan.
❧ Muse; Mediocre
❧ Music; Would you believe me if I said the Robot Unicorn song?

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[Matthew Williams]

Here I am, a rabbit-hearted boy
Frozen in the headlights
I must become a lion-hearted boy
Ready for the fight

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“A-ahn…” Immediately Matthew bit down on his lower lip, splitting the skin as bright red blood oozed from the self-inflicted wound. The Russian’s ranting and raving didn’t help his situation at all, the cold, somehow collected words ringing too loudly in his ears. It didn’t help, of course. that his body was debating to either freeze or shake to pieces, and he settled for merely screwing his eyes shut, wishing, praying that everything was all just some sort of odd, homoerotic dream. Of course, that begged the question as to why he was superimposing his uncle (cousin?) into said dream instead of some other, more relevant person. Then again, there really wasn’t anything ‘relevant’ when it came to…this, whatever it was. All he knew is that he wanted it to stop right then and there, because the feelings that were being forced into him were certainly not anything that he wanted, or at least he was pretty sure that was all of it.

But there was another part of him that was…dare he say, excited, for the attention, even if it wasn’t entirely normal. As much as Matthew would have liked to deny anything that Ivan had said was true, there was, much to his chagrin, an electric buzz of energy throughout his body. His senses were sharp, the world was so much more alive than it had ever been, and though he wanted to deny it, it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling. To even think that such things were possible was disconcerting, and the younger fervently found himself trying to wish that the thoughts and feelings hadn’t even crossed his mind, but now that the Russian had said such things, it was undeniably hard to disagree. Life was so monotonous, a dreary cycle of endless quiet and disappointment…perhaps there was some truth to Ivan’s observations. As much as he wished to deny things, it was indeed a livewire feeling of alive, being pinned, helpless, under the other man.

Fun? Interesting? Those were the last things he wanted to be, and yet they were also the most important. If he was interesting, he was noticed, but if he was noticed, things like this happened. If he was fun he was memorable, but if he was memorable he was criticized. It was all a double edged sword, and he didn’t know if he was fond of the responsibility or the attention as much as he had originally thought. All his life he had been invisible, watching the rest of the world from behind quiet eyes, observing and noting all the small habits and mannerisms of his brethren. A seemingly useless skill, but he plied the information with a stunning wit, which was probably the only reason that he was able to even obtain any sort of recognition at all. After all, people were generally impressed, or put off, if someone would tell them things about themselves that they had thought secret. Matthew was not above exploiting that.

”Beautiful”

A shiver ran down his spine at the word.

It was a relief that he wasn’t being unintentionally molested anymore, however, and for a moment he let his guard down, only to be unpleasantly surprised as the other’s face was suddenly much too close. A flash of anxiety knotted his stomach, and he flinched away, fully expecting some new sort of torture, yet it never came. Instead, merely the brush of lips upon his skin, cool and much softer than he would have expected for the Russian. Confusion caused his brows to knit together, a bright red streak of heat colouring his cheeks as he tried to process what had just happened. All of a sudden, as quickly s it had began, he was free, the oppressive weight that had bound him to the floor gone and his hands released from the iron grasp. Matthew gasped, his chest aching with the sudden rush of feeling, and for a moment he was merely content to just lie on the floor, trying not to groan at the dull pain. It was unbelievable how Ivan could take everything so causally, as if violently attacking and almost threatening others was normal, everyday behaviour. Then again, with how dysfunctional his own family was, it wouldn’t have surprised him if that actually was normal around where he had grown up.

Perhaps the elder was just a victim of circumstance, like himself, violent because it was all he knew. Perhaps it was some sort of defense mechanism, like his own quiet nature. At least that was what he tried to tell himself. He had always been an optimist like that, slightly naïve and willing to believe the best about people before condemning them, even in the light of unfavorable circumstances.

“I-I’m fine…” A lie, and not a very good one at that. As he tried to move, the Canadian winced in pain, his left leg refusing to obey him completely. Liquid fire raced down the appendage as he attempted to maneuver himself into a sitting position, and he hissed under his breath, keeping his gaze away from the larger man so as not to betray the pain in his eyes. Yet under all of the discomfort and beyond the leg that seemed to be unable to support his weight, there was a certain…hunger that he wasn’t entirely sure how to classify. Perhaps it was indeed because the Russian acknowledged him, or perhaps it was the fact that the man didn’t treat him like something small and fragile, but the last few minutes had been strangely exhilarating. Had made him feel…alive. So much more alive then he ever did anywhere else. Somewhere beyond the pretenses of companionship and sport, there was something much more primal that had awoken in his mind, and whatever it was, he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not. It was dangerous, it was sweet, it was wrong, and yet it was something that he had yearned for for such a long time that now he was not sure if he could handle and control it. “R-really…”

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Word Count:

1011
Muse: Tired
Tags: Ivan
Music: I Kissed a Boy - Cobra Starship
Comments: Tired, tired, tired. Didn't proof, will come back later and do so. Apologies.[/blockquote][/size]

[Ivan Braginski]

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[/font][/color] we are just
M I S G U I D E D G H O S T S
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Ivan stared at the boy as he moved—an action he knew most would consider disconcerting on the receiving end. He had made his prediction, and barely dared blinking for fear of missing a moment of the boy’s internal thought. He was no mind-reader, but at reading situations and people—few could hold a candle to Ivan’s prowess in such. He did not expect Matthew to meet his every standard; such would be foolish even for him. He merely wished to see if there was any change…or if Matthew would simply stand up and bolt out (or perhaps limp out, by the sight of things) of the skating rink, leaving behind only muffled crying and insinuations of insanity.

Thus, he was pleased to see a change in Matthew’s expression. What exactly that was, was anyone’s guess. He liked to imagine that it had been of shock at finding some truth behind the Russian’s words, but perhaps it was only latent fear. It was clearly an epiphany of sorts—but again, whether that was something introspective, or simply that his uncle-cousin was truly insane, Ivan hadn’t the faintest idea. Yet he continued to watch, unsure if his Canadian relative was even aware of the heavy scrutiny he was under. Or, for that matter, what being scrutinized by Ivan even implied. Yet whether or not he realized it, every quirk and idiosyncrasy had been jotted down internally—stored in the vast database that comprised Ivan’s mind. Having a photographic memory, that wasn’t a detail Ivan forgot when he took it in. He could tell you the minute details of a person’s life—the very finest details of how they operated. Someone’s favorite flower, their odd ticks, how they reacted to physical violence—all recorded and saved for future utilization.

Now Matthew sat hardly a foot away from him on the expansive rink, staring with eyes half-closed at the boy regained his composure slowly but surely, ruffled blonde hair sticking to his skin. He seemed shaken, Ivan observed, but even after the ordeal he’d gone through none the worse for the wear. Such amused Ivan—Matthew was resilient, he would give him that much.

When the boy finally spoke again, Ivan had to resist a giggle. Fine? Ah yes, he certainly looked it. A part of him wanted to give a sarcastic quip about the boy’s state; as the reason for said state, however, he thought it wise to stay silent. He had no desire to further bother Matthew—violence both physical and verbal were instinctive responses for him, but they were just as easily hushed by necessity. He knew he could be mean if he so desired, he could make light of Matthew’s pain, chide him into standing up to prove that his state was as he truly said. Amusing, certainly, but no longer Ivan’s intent for the boy. Gone was the desire to watch him suffer and struggle, that carnal part of Ivan that never truly died. He had desired to make the boy see as he did, to see if they had a mutual understanding—while his violence had accomplished the very base of this, it would take him no farther. Instead, he merely quirked a head to the side, his bottom lip inadvertently pouting out as he thought. ”This means I’ve lost, doesn’t it? The game that is~” He laughed, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling as he continued. "I had nearly forgotten that we were playing.”

To him, people were enigmas to be figured out. And like any objective, there was no singular way of approaching and figuring it out. No, there were obstacles to be seen, blockades to traverse—if he was going to truly befriend Matthew, he was going to need more than simply beating it out of him. It may have been strange for anyone to hear of Ivan’s methods of befriending, but in Ivan’s own mind the only way to start a good friendship was for both parties to allow the other to show their base natures—something he considered accomplished from their actions and brief dialogue.

Slowly he stood, feeling himself a bit sore from the shove the boy had previously administered. Giving a light smile, he crouched in front of Matthew. ”Mmm, I’m sure you’re just fine. But perhaps you will accept a hand up this once, just in case? For my sake, if not yours, da?” Gently extending a hand forward, he waited to see if Matthew would accept it.


He made certain to say nothing regarding what had happened—none of what he had said or done. As if he had completely forgotten the fact that the man he was extending a helping hand toward was the man he had also just viciously assaulted. There was no use lingering on it—it wasn’t something to be discussed in detail, as far as he was concerned. He had merely set the wheels in motion.

He was certain that, in time, he would see the seeds he’d sewn bloom. It was a simple enough analysis: a young boy, completely ignored and looked over his entire life. Ivan had no doubt in his mind—despite the fear in the boy’s voice, it would eventually set something off in him. A slowly consuming hunger, a desire for the exhilaration shown.

And Ivan…oh, Ivan planned on being there to help awaken the young man’s true potential when he was ready.

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❧ Word Count; 907 by Microsoft Works' standards, 1065 by the one at the bottom of the page. Believe who you wish :B
❧ Notes; sldhasodh. Not pleased with this at all. Failcat to the max, forgive me.
❧ Music; Who's your Daddy--Benny Benassi.
❧ Muse; Flurp.

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[Matthew Williams]

Here I am, a rabbit-hearted boy
Frozen in the headlights
I must become a lion-hearted boy
Ready for the fight

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It was more than disconcerting to see the larger man staring, and Matthew would have been the first to admit that he was more than intimidated by the way Ivan was acting. He had never seen another person act in such a manner, and in a strange twist of character, he found himself mildly put off by the attention. If anyone had told him earlier that he would have felt as such before the day was out, he would have found it to be preposterous, but now, with the Russian observing his every move, with the almost manic-psychotic way that he had been behaving, the Canadian had begun to wish that he had been ignored once again. There was still a part of his mind that was delighted, thrilled even, with the violence and the recognition, but the more rational part of his brain was still put off. Even in his more violent years, he had never come to blows with any of his family, so the idea of one flipping so suddenly was entirely foreign.

As he attempted once again to stand with little success, he was brought out of his focused reverie by the elder speaking again, and it was al he could do not to gape at the Russian. Was he seriously referencing the game again, after everything that had happened? Matthew wanted to state that it was very obvious that his opponent had forgotten, to sarcastically ask if Ivan had forgotten where they were, who he was, and what day it was as well, but fear stilled his tongue. Though admittedly, the thought of mouthing off to someone so much larger and stronger than he was exhilarating, to say the least. Still, self-preservation won out in the end, and he merely stared up at the larger man, unsure of what to do.

He was hesitant to take the help, if only because he was not sure how the elder would react. In the short amount of time that he had been with the Russian, the man had bounded back and forth between emotional extremes, and Matthew was afraid to test whether or not his current fit of mania had truly ended or not. Whatever had possessed the Russian to bare down on him seemed to be completely random, completely out of the blue, and he had no desire to spark it again. Trying to think back to what had provoked the attack, the Canadian found himself drawing a blank; everything had just been a game, a rather competitive one yes, but a game nonetheless. He hadn’t been rude, he hadn’t broken any rules…Ivan had just gone feral.

No, not feral when he thought more about it. Insane. His actions had had a cold, cruel intelligence behind them, motivated by more than animalistic instinct. He had never seen such emotion before, it was frightening, beyond terrifying, but…somehow it was intriguing. The thought frightened him, and he was momentarily disgusted with himself, but still the curiosity reigned. A tentative hand reached up, hesitating for a moment before grasping the elder’s in a cautious grip. His leg still ached, and it took a second for him to accurately maneuver himself so that he could attempt to stand without putting too much pressure on it. If he could have avoided showing his pain, he would have, but a grimace crossed his face, cutting through his previous uncertain expression before he could get his emotions under wraps. Not a second later he grinned in a distressed manner, trying to play the slip off in as cool a manner as he could manage. Perhaps his brother would have been able to sell the act, what with his natural charisma and such, but on the smaller Canadian it was almost laughably awkward. He was not as socially adapted as the rest of his family, but he tried, he truly did.

“A-ah….o-okay.” He mentally cursed himself for being unable to keep the slight tremor out of his voice. He wasn’t some scared child, after all, but in light of what had just happened along with the lingering agony in his leg was enough to shake him. Certainly he would treat his cousin with caution, but beyond all that he still felt the need to be courteous and polite. After all, even with the unprovoked attack, Ivan had still taken time out of his day to stop and play with him, as childish as the term felt. He had even let himself be beaten, and the strange incident aside, Matthew felt like the afternoon had probably been one of the best that he had had since coming to Spain. It wasn’t every day that he was able to actually spend time with people, and there was even the added bonus that there had been hockey involved. Hockey made anything automatically better in the blond’s book.

“…erm, thank you.” Would…would you ever like to play again? He wanted to ask, to know if perhaps Ivan wouldn’t forget him after the afternoon was through, but he declined, instead muttering something unintelligible under his breath and looking down at the ice. Certainly it would have been rude to accost the other, especially when Ivan was going out of his way to spend time with him anyways.

In a way…it was kind of nice, savage beatings aside.

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Word Count:

888
Muse: fkdlas;fds dead
Tags: Ivan
Music: 1-2-3-4 - Housse de Racket
Comments: FFF, I’m sorry this is so late. My brain has been on musedeadmode[/blockquote]

[Ivan Braginski]

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Some might consider it strange how Ivan’s mind work—how the principle of rationality functioned within his brain. He never once found himself obscure, or considered that he had lost control. For him, offering Matthew a hand up was on the same level of normalcy as brutally assaulting him moments ago was.

Of course he gave a worried look at the boy’s pain—if Matthew could attempt to appear fine despite the obvious pain, he would play the worried relative. Pain to him was mere fact; life was pain and suffering. Every person went through it, and whether or not he caused it was a trifling matter. In fact…it was at least more fun if he could cause it.


Yet he could not deny that there was something more…endearing about Matthew than he had originally presumed. Beyond the degree of even considering the boy’s reticent nature appealing, he recognized something in the boy; as if he were staring into a looking glass, there was a certain understanding of the boy’s situation. Growing up in such a harsh world, so often pushed aside and mistreated…yet they were not the same, he knew this. Matthew was different than he—younger. He had not yet come to utilize his feelings of displacement, had not realized that change would only come when he forced it. It was a strange feeling, that of feeling a degree of relation to someone. Indeed, anyone officially labeled as a ‘relative’ to him were more often than not complete strangers. He did not feel sorrow when he had heard that Matthew had been ripped from his adoptive father; he did not sympathize with the Canadian for his prior situation or his history. He sympathized only with the boy who stood in front of him who, for whatever reason, had so little confidence in himself. He saw a trampled boy, of a spirit too kind for its own good. No, Matthew was far different than anyone else he had known.

Matthew…Matthew was different. It was neither sympathy nor love that fueled his thoughts, but mere intrigue. Ivan had never met someone whom he had felt similar too—even if Matthew’s and his similarities were small and few, they were strikingly present to the Russian.

In a brief, euphoric wave of insight, Ivan made a decision: he would help the boy. He would help Matthew to realize his full potential; make him see his true, inner-nature, and utilize it against those around him. He smiled as the boy stood, making no outward sign of his musings. Yes…he would teach the boy how to truly bare his claws.

He wondered what he might call such an apprenticeship. Could it be considered friendship? He certainly had no ulterior motives behind the decision. There was no true gain for him, no monitorial profit. He tried to work his head around it, but could find no explanation beyond the simple desire to change the meek boy.

With a light smile, he placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder to steer him toward the edge of the rink. “Did you say something, dorogaya?” He asked, catching the tail-end of the boy’s mumbling. “You must speak louder if you wish to be heard.” He looked the boy over, mind churning against itself and trying to think of what to say. If anything, Ivan was a calculating person—rarely did he merely ‘react’ without thinking (given that violence wasn’t involved, of course). When they finally came to a stop, Ivan had made his mind up. He didn’t know much of Canadian culture, but one trip to America had given him the insight to what one ought to do to apologize; and by extension, that offering an apology would be his best course of action. Of course, the example he had seen had been a husband attempting to beg pardon from his wife—but he assumed that the cultures were similar enough, and the principles roughly the same. “Allow me to take you to coffee sometime.” Although he had meant it as a ‘request’, his tone of voice made it out to be more of a demand. Fitting, perhaps, since Ivan wasn’t going to take no for an answer. “It is…my way of apologizing, da? And you may teach me more of the proper rules of hockey.”

He briefly motioned towards Matthew’s obviously shaken limbs, “I’m thinking we may not be ready for more practice just yet, my friend.”

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❧ Word Count; 899
❧ Notes; Gawd. Worst post of my life, and I took so damn long. Murka. Not much to say--if you want, we can consider this closed...and that Ivan just pretty much demanded coffee time /the end. Ahaha. I'm fine either waaaay~
❧ Muse; Absolutely dead. College is crushing every fiber of my being.

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