[Ch 3/?] The Boy in the Painting
Okay! So here's the next chapter of the boy in the picture. Not much plot action going on here, but then again this isn't really that much of a driving plot until a few more chapters in. But bear with me! There is a reason for the slow build up!
More Ivan/Alfred interactions! How fun!
Enjoy!
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Ivan sat in the library, enshrouded in the darkness that seemed to pervade the mansion like an aura. But he did not mind. His thoughts were as heavy and dark as the atmosphere. He held the bottle of vodka in his hand up to his face and swirled the contents around, watching the clear liquid slosh around the bottle with a look of deep concentration lining his face. He looks as if he hasn't slept the past few nights, even though every evening he goes to sleep early and sleeps until morning.
But the sleep is never good nor refreshing. Every night without fail, as soon as he falls asleep, he has the dream. The boy with the mesmerising eyes in a field of sunflowers. This part he would not mind so much if it wasn't for the fact that every time he tried to get closer to him to find out what it was he was saying, the world would turn to black and he would wake up shaking, sweaty, and feeling as if he hadn't gotten any sleep at all. Needless to say, this was not a pleasant way to start the day.
His sleeplessness had begun to manifest itself in his temper. Ivan had never had a very long fuse, but when he was running on little sleep and a lot of vodka, his temper flares became more frequent and sometimes bordered on dangerous. He'd had several incidents where builders would come to talk to him about modifications to the building that had ended in disaster. One memorable encounter had been with an overweight plummer who had told him that nearly all the pipes in the house were rusting and would all need to be replaced. He had blown up at the man, accusing him of lying to get more money. The man had shouted back, telling him that he wouldn't take the blame when his water was tainted or his pipes busted and flooded the place. Ivan had seen red and before he knew what he had done, the plummer was on the ground, nursing a broken nose.
He would have to make a formal apology later, and probably call in another plummer. As it was, the man had been right. The pipes were, indeed, all rusting. He had tried to run the water in the bathroom earlier and it had a reddish tint to it that couldn't possibly be good for his health. Lord only knows what could happen if he tried drinking it. Yet another problem to put on the pile of shit that was building up because he bought this damn house. He almost regretted moving from Russia. Almost. Because a broken down plantation house in Louisiana that gave him nightmares was still preferable to keeping his sister company.
The boy...Somehow it all revolved around the boy, he knew it. The rational part of his mind told him that the boy didn't exist. He was a figment of Ivan's imagination and existed only in his dreams. But every bone in his body was screaming at him that he was wrong. The boy did exist and he was somehow tied to everything. Somewhere in this house was proof that the boy had lived. Had, because Ivan was sure the boy was dead. Why else would he appear to him in his dreams?
He took a swig of his vodka and stared into the fireplace. It shouldn't have been necessary to light a fire at all in Louisiana in July, but the house was an ice box most of the time. That was a sign of a haunting, wasn't it? Temperature drops? He had read somewhere that patches of cold could indicate that a spirit was on the loose in a house. But this wasn't so much a patch of cold as it was an entire climate encompassing the house. Did that mean that the spirit was stronger or that there were many of them? Or did it not mean anything and Ivan was just over-analyzing things?
Regardless, Ivan had to get to the bottom of this. He absolutely had to know who this boy was and what sort of importance he held. That's why he was in the library so early in the morning in the first place rather than going to sleep and dreaming once again of the boy and the darkness. He had been scouring all the records the library had to offer, trying to find any mention of a blonde boy around 19. So far he'd found absolutely nothing and was left to ponder whether or not he really had made it all up.
He rose from his chair, determined to find some small scrap of evidence that he wasn't losing his mind. He would find that boy if it was literally the last thing he ever did on this earth. He practically snatched a record book off the shelf, thumbing through it rapidly. Most of it was records of the shipments of cotton and tobacco that the plantation had shipped out over the years, or slaves that had been bought and sold. There were very few mentions of the white owners, and even fewer mentions of any children or white servants they may have had. And for all he knew, the boy hadn't even lived here. He could have been a boy from the surrounding area who died here or something to that effect.
He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose as his eyes started to cross. He was exhausted, both from the sleepless night and the fact that it was 3 in the morning and he had been up reading through these damned records all night. But he couldn't give up, not yet. He scanned through another record book, eyes hard and fully absorbed in the information. Dammit, no mention of a blonde boy around his age. Another useless record. He tossed it on top of the pile and reached for another. He had to find out who that boy was!
.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.
Sunrise found him still scanning through the files and records in the library. He was sure that he was so close to what he was looking for. But every paper shuffled through left him disappointed again. The boy just wasn't in the plantation records! He could name off whole families of the slaves the original owner had bought and sold on the premesis, but there was not one goddamn mention of the boy from his dreams. This was absurd! He knew the answer was here somewhere, it had to be. He was not crazy!
Noon found him looking through the old family Bible that had been stashed somewhere near the back of the library. Now he would find something, he was sure of it! Birth and death dates, all recorded from generation to generation. His smile may have been a bit too wide and desperate as he opened the Bible, but he didn't care two bits. He would finally have his proof. He flipped to the front of the book, looking for dates and found....
Nothing?
He was floored. The room was spinning and black was closing in on the edges of his vision. He had been so close, so close to finding out the truth and all he had was a useless book with the page torn out. It had probably been taken out years ago by someone who'd tracked their geneology to the plantation or by some theif, vandal, or historical society. He tossed the book away in disgust. Without that page the book was useless to him.
So many hours of sleep lost, his chance to see the boy again. Both had been lost on this wild goose chase. It was too late for him to sleep now, much too late. He had a meeting with the electrician in an hour to look over the wiring and after that he'd promised dinner to a business associate who was in town for the weekend. By the time he would be able to sleep it would already be night time. He rubbed at his tired eyes, sweeping into the kitchen to hopefully down enough coffee to get him through the day.
On a reflex, he popped back into the library and grabbed the remaining record book. It would hurt to go through the thing when he had a bit of downtime. Afterall, he needed something to keep him awake during the long stretches of time between meetings and meals. It wasn't obsessive to want something to read to keep him occupied. And he could have easily brought any other book. This one just happened to be the first one he grabbed. With that personal reassurance he slipped the book into his briefcase and left to meet up with the electricians.
.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.
Once again Ivan finds himself lying in the grass, staring up at the sky. He is really starting to grow weary of the same dream over and over again. He wonders idly what would happen if he were to stay here until he wakes up. If he never moved from this spot, never went to the boy in holding court in his palace of sunflowers. But the second he thinks of the boy and those enchanting blue eyes he knows he has to get up and go to him. He is pulling at him like he has him attached to a string, beckoning him forward.
So he complies, unable to do much more. He foregoes the usual pre-walk stretch that had become part of his nightly routine in this dream world. Somehow he feels that it isn't necessary this time, not that he had technically needed to stretch the times before. In a dream, do your muscles even grow tired? He doesn't think so. He heds over the hill, more weary than anything. Even the anticipation is tempered with a deep tiredness that he can't describe. It isn't so much a tiredness of the mind or body, but one of the soul.
He stands just short of the invisible line between him and the boy, waiting for the other to realise he was there. He'd always thought that the boy knew he was there even before he opened his eyes to see the blue sky and merely acts as if he isn't there out of some sense of mischeif. But the youth inevitable turns around, hitting him once more with that gentle smile and the piercing eyes. His lips move, mouthing words Ivan can still not hear.
He stays there for awhile. It is nice, just standing there with the boy, keeping him company. He finds that the longer he can put off his curiosity and not try to get closer to the boy or understand what he is trying to say, the longer he can stay here with the golden-haired young man. And he does not mind that so much. He thinks that if he can get just one night with the boy where his world did not fade to black he would wak up refreshed and ready for the morning.
But, just as inevitably as his trek to the field or the boy acknowledging his presence, he reaches out towards the boy with a deep yearning he can't place. His vision starts to go black again and he knows he won't be here very much longer. But this time he is bound and determined to get to the truth. So he reaches out, nearly blond now, and manages to grasp something. The boys hand.
The warmth of it shocks him, it's as warm as a patch of summer sunlight and rough from working. He looks up into the boy's eyes and something clenches in his heart as the world turns...
white.
.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.
Ivan woke up the next morning groggy but well rested. He could feel a hand in his and he went to squeeze it, smiling because he knew it was his beautiful blonde....
But his hand only closed on empty air.
He brought the offending mandible up to his face and wiggled the fingers. He could still feel the ghost of the boys touch, though not as strongly as when he had first awoke. He colored as he realised that he had thought the boy was in his bed. Was he so lonely that he would imagine waking up next to a ghost? He wouldn't deny that the boy was beautiful, hauntingly so. But that did not change the fact that he was both dead, and a part of his dreams.
He shook his head to clear it and ran a hand through his hair. This was going to be a long day.
.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.
Well there you go, latest chapter! It took me way longer than i would have liked because I kept getting distracted and it's rather harder to write for one character with hardly any interactions with other characters than it is to write for two or more people. The lack of dialouge severely cripples me. Especially since the character is Russia and I'm like...totally an America kind of person :< I hope he doesn't come off as too OOC because of that!
But obviously, this is a good thing because it means that I get to practice things that I don't usually get to practice and get out of my comfort zone as a writer a bit.
More Ivan/Alfred interactions! How fun!
Enjoy!
.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.
Ivan sat in the library, enshrouded in the darkness that seemed to pervade the mansion like an aura. But he did not mind. His thoughts were as heavy and dark as the atmosphere. He held the bottle of vodka in his hand up to his face and swirled the contents around, watching the clear liquid slosh around the bottle with a look of deep concentration lining his face. He looks as if he hasn't slept the past few nights, even though every evening he goes to sleep early and sleeps until morning.
But the sleep is never good nor refreshing. Every night without fail, as soon as he falls asleep, he has the dream. The boy with the mesmerising eyes in a field of sunflowers. This part he would not mind so much if it wasn't for the fact that every time he tried to get closer to him to find out what it was he was saying, the world would turn to black and he would wake up shaking, sweaty, and feeling as if he hadn't gotten any sleep at all. Needless to say, this was not a pleasant way to start the day.
His sleeplessness had begun to manifest itself in his temper. Ivan had never had a very long fuse, but when he was running on little sleep and a lot of vodka, his temper flares became more frequent and sometimes bordered on dangerous. He'd had several incidents where builders would come to talk to him about modifications to the building that had ended in disaster. One memorable encounter had been with an overweight plummer who had told him that nearly all the pipes in the house were rusting and would all need to be replaced. He had blown up at the man, accusing him of lying to get more money. The man had shouted back, telling him that he wouldn't take the blame when his water was tainted or his pipes busted and flooded the place. Ivan had seen red and before he knew what he had done, the plummer was on the ground, nursing a broken nose.
He would have to make a formal apology later, and probably call in another plummer. As it was, the man had been right. The pipes were, indeed, all rusting. He had tried to run the water in the bathroom earlier and it had a reddish tint to it that couldn't possibly be good for his health. Lord only knows what could happen if he tried drinking it. Yet another problem to put on the pile of shit that was building up because he bought this damn house. He almost regretted moving from Russia. Almost. Because a broken down plantation house in Louisiana that gave him nightmares was still preferable to keeping his sister company.
The boy...Somehow it all revolved around the boy, he knew it. The rational part of his mind told him that the boy didn't exist. He was a figment of Ivan's imagination and existed only in his dreams. But every bone in his body was screaming at him that he was wrong. The boy did exist and he was somehow tied to everything. Somewhere in this house was proof that the boy had lived. Had, because Ivan was sure the boy was dead. Why else would he appear to him in his dreams?
He took a swig of his vodka and stared into the fireplace. It shouldn't have been necessary to light a fire at all in Louisiana in July, but the house was an ice box most of the time. That was a sign of a haunting, wasn't it? Temperature drops? He had read somewhere that patches of cold could indicate that a spirit was on the loose in a house. But this wasn't so much a patch of cold as it was an entire climate encompassing the house. Did that mean that the spirit was stronger or that there were many of them? Or did it not mean anything and Ivan was just over-analyzing things?
Regardless, Ivan had to get to the bottom of this. He absolutely had to know who this boy was and what sort of importance he held. That's why he was in the library so early in the morning in the first place rather than going to sleep and dreaming once again of the boy and the darkness. He had been scouring all the records the library had to offer, trying to find any mention of a blonde boy around 19. So far he'd found absolutely nothing and was left to ponder whether or not he really had made it all up.
He rose from his chair, determined to find some small scrap of evidence that he wasn't losing his mind. He would find that boy if it was literally the last thing he ever did on this earth. He practically snatched a record book off the shelf, thumbing through it rapidly. Most of it was records of the shipments of cotton and tobacco that the plantation had shipped out over the years, or slaves that had been bought and sold. There were very few mentions of the white owners, and even fewer mentions of any children or white servants they may have had. And for all he knew, the boy hadn't even lived here. He could have been a boy from the surrounding area who died here or something to that effect.
He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose as his eyes started to cross. He was exhausted, both from the sleepless night and the fact that it was 3 in the morning and he had been up reading through these damned records all night. But he couldn't give up, not yet. He scanned through another record book, eyes hard and fully absorbed in the information. Dammit, no mention of a blonde boy around his age. Another useless record. He tossed it on top of the pile and reached for another. He had to find out who that boy was!
.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.
Sunrise found him still scanning through the files and records in the library. He was sure that he was so close to what he was looking for. But every paper shuffled through left him disappointed again. The boy just wasn't in the plantation records! He could name off whole families of the slaves the original owner had bought and sold on the premesis, but there was not one goddamn mention of the boy from his dreams. This was absurd! He knew the answer was here somewhere, it had to be. He was not crazy!
Noon found him looking through the old family Bible that had been stashed somewhere near the back of the library. Now he would find something, he was sure of it! Birth and death dates, all recorded from generation to generation. His smile may have been a bit too wide and desperate as he opened the Bible, but he didn't care two bits. He would finally have his proof. He flipped to the front of the book, looking for dates and found....
Nothing?
He was floored. The room was spinning and black was closing in on the edges of his vision. He had been so close, so close to finding out the truth and all he had was a useless book with the page torn out. It had probably been taken out years ago by someone who'd tracked their geneology to the plantation or by some theif, vandal, or historical society. He tossed the book away in disgust. Without that page the book was useless to him.
So many hours of sleep lost, his chance to see the boy again. Both had been lost on this wild goose chase. It was too late for him to sleep now, much too late. He had a meeting with the electrician in an hour to look over the wiring and after that he'd promised dinner to a business associate who was in town for the weekend. By the time he would be able to sleep it would already be night time. He rubbed at his tired eyes, sweeping into the kitchen to hopefully down enough coffee to get him through the day.
On a reflex, he popped back into the library and grabbed the remaining record book. It would hurt to go through the thing when he had a bit of downtime. Afterall, he needed something to keep him awake during the long stretches of time between meetings and meals. It wasn't obsessive to want something to read to keep him occupied. And he could have easily brought any other book. This one just happened to be the first one he grabbed. With that personal reassurance he slipped the book into his briefcase and left to meet up with the electricians.
.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.
Once again Ivan finds himself lying in the grass, staring up at the sky. He is really starting to grow weary of the same dream over and over again. He wonders idly what would happen if he were to stay here until he wakes up. If he never moved from this spot, never went to the boy in holding court in his palace of sunflowers. But the second he thinks of the boy and those enchanting blue eyes he knows he has to get up and go to him. He is pulling at him like he has him attached to a string, beckoning him forward.
So he complies, unable to do much more. He foregoes the usual pre-walk stretch that had become part of his nightly routine in this dream world. Somehow he feels that it isn't necessary this time, not that he had technically needed to stretch the times before. In a dream, do your muscles even grow tired? He doesn't think so. He heds over the hill, more weary than anything. Even the anticipation is tempered with a deep tiredness that he can't describe. It isn't so much a tiredness of the mind or body, but one of the soul.
He stands just short of the invisible line between him and the boy, waiting for the other to realise he was there. He'd always thought that the boy knew he was there even before he opened his eyes to see the blue sky and merely acts as if he isn't there out of some sense of mischeif. But the youth inevitable turns around, hitting him once more with that gentle smile and the piercing eyes. His lips move, mouthing words Ivan can still not hear.
He stays there for awhile. It is nice, just standing there with the boy, keeping him company. He finds that the longer he can put off his curiosity and not try to get closer to the boy or understand what he is trying to say, the longer he can stay here with the golden-haired young man. And he does not mind that so much. He thinks that if he can get just one night with the boy where his world did not fade to black he would wak up refreshed and ready for the morning.
But, just as inevitably as his trek to the field or the boy acknowledging his presence, he reaches out towards the boy with a deep yearning he can't place. His vision starts to go black again and he knows he won't be here very much longer. But this time he is bound and determined to get to the truth. So he reaches out, nearly blond now, and manages to grasp something. The boys hand.
The warmth of it shocks him, it's as warm as a patch of summer sunlight and rough from working. He looks up into the boy's eyes and something clenches in his heart as the world turns...
white.
.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.
Ivan woke up the next morning groggy but well rested. He could feel a hand in his and he went to squeeze it, smiling because he knew it was his beautiful blonde....
But his hand only closed on empty air.
He brought the offending mandible up to his face and wiggled the fingers. He could still feel the ghost of the boys touch, though not as strongly as when he had first awoke. He colored as he realised that he had thought the boy was in his bed. Was he so lonely that he would imagine waking up next to a ghost? He wouldn't deny that the boy was beautiful, hauntingly so. But that did not change the fact that he was both dead, and a part of his dreams.
He shook his head to clear it and ran a hand through his hair. This was going to be a long day.
.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.-.~.
Well there you go, latest chapter! It took me way longer than i would have liked because I kept getting distracted and it's rather harder to write for one character with hardly any interactions with other characters than it is to write for two or more people. The lack of dialouge severely cripples me. Especially since the character is Russia and I'm like...totally an America kind of person :< I hope he doesn't come off as too OOC because of that!
But obviously, this is a good thing because it means that I get to practice things that I don't usually get to practice and get out of my comfort zone as a writer a bit.