The words hit him like a freight train: the open offer is least expected, and he stands wide-eyed like a child hit by a wave (though most children do not hold knives, knives suddenly pulled from who in fuck’s good name knows where).
A better sort of god, a thing less merciless; a god that is not a creature of ugly hands and teeth and picking him apart in every single worst way known to man (and yet he is terrified he will not know how to live without that: this is, after all, the kind of love he deserves – the kind that for all real purposes, cannot be called love but rather abuse). So he holds the knife and shakes: he isn’t even really pointing the thing at Ivan, just sort of – reflexively aiming it into space while clutching so tight that his nails meet the palm around the handle.
Yes, he is selfish enough to beg death unto that which has harmed him – he too is a monster (he supposes it is in the blood, the ugliness of it all, likely inherited from their mother). He wants the freedom but doesn’t know what to do with it, it has been too long since he’s had it – and he curses himself for being so far bent he should probably call it broken instead.
“Not in front of me, just not in front of me.”
He doesn’t recognize the sound of his voice for a moment, jarringly raw as it is – not empty, not forced. (It sounds as if the cork has been pulled from something long, long sealed, and that thing is almost a scream as it leaks out.) The knife-hand is lowered but the shaking stays, the wide eyes as blank as painted wood – he does not know what to do with himself (a fool who always puts what little remains of his heart in the hands of things that reflect how awful a youth he himself is: perhaps this was some form of divine retribution, or maybe – maybe this was everything he’d screamed to in the dark finally listening, as death is a better god than pain). How lost does he look? Likely very – he is scrambling for where to attach himself now, settles on Ivan’s wide soft-lipped smile, those long-fingered delicate hands. It is as good a place to start as any.
“Oh, is that your only request? No problem at all! But favours aren’t free. Come with me afterwards! It’ll be fun. There’s always trials before one can be happy, after all, that applies to you too.”
His hand slips around Junichirou’s side to hover in front of his eyes, Ivan almost half-hugging him without making any physical contact. The hand in front of Junichirou blocks his vision with the implication clear-- close your eyes for a second, snowstorm. A step to be made before he is drawn through the threshold.
Ivan is the earth, whatever he connects to, he controls all soil he can see or knows the location of. The only reason he has not devoured every member of the agency is because he knows it is God’s job to destroy ability users, unless he is ordered otherwise. But this is Ivan’s own machination and this woman is a sinner without ability (all, all on this earth are sinners, sans Dostoevsky himself). He relishes in the knowledge he can cause an elegant death, even for those who don’t deserve it.
(Mother Earth is the enemy of all but Ivan Alexandrovich -- but she will hold even enemies in her embrace.)
Ivan’s hand drops and his smile is engaging.
“Keep your knife, if you want, little bunny. But you won’t need it again if you don’t want to.” That’s a promise. But only one made from the desire to self-preserve. Drop the knife, don’t turn it on Ivan now. (Junichirou will be protected. Dostoevsky wanted him. While it would cripple to Agency to be without the Tiger, the detective, or the bandaged one, it would be painful for them to lose their best little spy, keep all of their movements easily trackable and trusted. Dostoevsky said he would be easiest to steal, too. Sad little stray, beaten and mangled like so many of the others Dostoevsky collects. The easiest to manipulate. There is method, a list of instructions Ivan follows.)
“Walk with me. God has chosen you! Aren’t you lucky! It’ll be much more fun than your current life!”
He skips backwards, holds out a hand in a clear invitation, posture bowed in polite deference. Something befitting the title of grand chamberlain, dramatic but the pose of some cinema-butler.
Take his hand, learn what a second life is. (Good or bad, all lives are despair and pain in equal measure to happiness, except through the grace of God.)
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