I'm (not) Okay
WHO: Ivan and Alfred
WHEN: Saturday September 25th-26th
WHERE : St. Florence Hospital, Third Floor, Room 23
WHAT: Ivan visits Alfred in the hospital, talks about possible suspects, and gets frustrated when Alfred refuses to tell him who did it.
He gets his moment.
Or rather, a long moment. He stands in front of room 23 for what seems like hours. The nurses walking behind him are blurs, as well as the perplexed gazes upon their faces. He hates hospitals. He cannot fathom how a person sharing his title - Doctor - can work in such an environment. The lights ahead flicker, everything looks too clean, and as if he's staring through a green filter. He's been to hospitals before, visiting clients with bandages around their wrists... clients with stories to tell about abuse from their parents. Ivan's been in these beds before - and he hates how scratchy the sheets are, how plain the food is, and just how clean it is. White. Everything's white. Like snow.
Including Alfred's skin.
He guesses that the doctors have nursed some color back into him, but the sunlight has been a stranger this past week. He's never seen him this pale, but the room is flooded with light, so much that Ivan has to squint to see. It's quiet, but the roars of car engines and fire sirens play out the open window. A breeze passes through and barely lifts the hair from Alfred's head.
Ivan is slow when approaching him, going against every principle sickening his stomach and every episode of House and ER, and he represses the urge to demand upfront who is responsible by masking it with a smile. It's bitter, and he can see the reflection of it in Alfred's glasses sitting on the side table. He's certain he's in Alfred's field of sharpening vision by the time they're two feet apart. Ivan leans down, presses a kiss into his hair, and then takes his hand - Ivan is wearing gloves, again, in the midst of winter - and then presses a kiss to every knuckle until they're white from attention. He tries to pretend he doesn't see those bandages on Alfred's arm, like he does with every client before him, because... because the ones wearing the bandages like to pretend they're not there either. Ivan felt that way. He still has burns down his forearms from the painful flames and baths in ice in this same hospital.
He mutters a few things, tells Alfred that he's stupid in the most endearing way possible, and finishes that with another kiss to his temple. He cannot cry. He's incapable. By the time he feels the moisture prodding the corners of his eyes, the door opens again.
The next few hours are spent watching Alfred get showered in gifts and hugs and kisses and pats on the back. Ivan sits in a small wiry chair in the corner of the room, pretending to be wrapped up in Tolstoy, but he's never gets past page eighteen. He's watching them. Those guests: Lucy-Marie, Mei, Elizaveta and Roderich, Remy, Jared, John Paul, Dewi and Arthur. Waiting for that flash of terror or uncertainty in Alfred's eyes when he walks in, but it never comes. In fact, he was certain that Alfred had given Ivan that look.
By the time the door had finally closed for the last time, Ivan was on page nineteen. His finger had gone raw from stroking up and down the page, and his eyes were sore from a lack of blinking. Alfred's window was positioned just right so the light of the waning moon shone through, but he refused to turn the lights off. Ivan still felt like a shadow in that corner, and Alfred looked like a prince the way he was crowned with silvery balloons and bears and candies.
The book closed with a thump that resonated all throughout the room. Even the ticking clocks and the distant humming of cars seemed to cease.
"Who did this to you?"
WHEN: Saturday September 25th-26th
WHERE : St. Florence Hospital, Third Floor, Room 23
WHAT: Ivan visits Alfred in the hospital, talks about possible suspects, and gets frustrated when Alfred refuses to tell him who did it.
He gets his moment.
Or rather, a long moment. He stands in front of room 23 for what seems like hours. The nurses walking behind him are blurs, as well as the perplexed gazes upon their faces. He hates hospitals. He cannot fathom how a person sharing his title - Doctor - can work in such an environment. The lights ahead flicker, everything looks too clean, and as if he's staring through a green filter. He's been to hospitals before, visiting clients with bandages around their wrists... clients with stories to tell about abuse from their parents. Ivan's been in these beds before - and he hates how scratchy the sheets are, how plain the food is, and just how clean it is. White. Everything's white. Like snow.
Including Alfred's skin.
He guesses that the doctors have nursed some color back into him, but the sunlight has been a stranger this past week. He's never seen him this pale, but the room is flooded with light, so much that Ivan has to squint to see. It's quiet, but the roars of car engines and fire sirens play out the open window. A breeze passes through and barely lifts the hair from Alfred's head.
Ivan is slow when approaching him, going against every principle sickening his stomach and every episode of House and ER, and he represses the urge to demand upfront who is responsible by masking it with a smile. It's bitter, and he can see the reflection of it in Alfred's glasses sitting on the side table. He's certain he's in Alfred's field of sharpening vision by the time they're two feet apart. Ivan leans down, presses a kiss into his hair, and then takes his hand - Ivan is wearing gloves, again, in the midst of winter - and then presses a kiss to every knuckle until they're white from attention. He tries to pretend he doesn't see those bandages on Alfred's arm, like he does with every client before him, because... because the ones wearing the bandages like to pretend they're not there either. Ivan felt that way. He still has burns down his forearms from the painful flames and baths in ice in this same hospital.
He mutters a few things, tells Alfred that he's stupid in the most endearing way possible, and finishes that with another kiss to his temple. He cannot cry. He's incapable. By the time he feels the moisture prodding the corners of his eyes, the door opens again.
The next few hours are spent watching Alfred get showered in gifts and hugs and kisses and pats on the back. Ivan sits in a small wiry chair in the corner of the room, pretending to be wrapped up in Tolstoy, but he's never gets past page eighteen. He's watching them. Those guests: Lucy-Marie, Mei, Elizaveta and Roderich, Remy, Jared, John Paul, Dewi and Arthur. Waiting for that flash of terror or uncertainty in Alfred's eyes when he walks in, but it never comes. In fact, he was certain that Alfred had given Ivan that look.
By the time the door had finally closed for the last time, Ivan was on page nineteen. His finger had gone raw from stroking up and down the page, and his eyes were sore from a lack of blinking. Alfred's window was positioned just right so the light of the waning moon shone through, but he refused to turn the lights off. Ivan still felt like a shadow in that corner, and Alfred looked like a prince the way he was crowned with silvery balloons and bears and candies.
The book closed with a thump that resonated all throughout the room. Even the ticking clocks and the distant humming of cars seemed to cease.
"Who did this to you?"