#interactions: ivan

He hates packing. Hates it with a visceral, violent kind of passion that makes him feel as though his insides have been put through a blender and poured back into him. Though one might not believe it taking a look over his checklist, separated into sections with underlined headers and highlighted accordingly: yellow for clothing staples, blue for toiletries and medication, green for accessories, pink for travel aids and so on and so forth. Every box next to every item is ticked off on his notebook, as it is on the digital checklist he made on his phone to double check.

He has the most fashionable items his wardrobe has to offer, his Prozac and Xanax are in his gallon-size zip seal plastic bag, Barry the stuffed panda is at the very top of his duffle... And yet he still feels he’s left a pocket a bit too empty for comfort.

The knock on his door makes him flinch, the thickness in his chest starting to seep into his stomach, his hands starting to feel impossibly heavy as they work through his hair. One week. He just has to survive one week with the Marlowes, and then he can hop on the flight back to Wisconsin. Which... probably isn’t the right mentality to have about meeting his boyfriend’s family. Oh no, he’s already messing this up.

Another knock. Ivan’s been standing still too long. “Hi,” he breathes as he opens the door. “Hi,” he says again, walking back over to his backpack filled with books, some for leisure, some to get ahead on the reading list for English class come the end of break. He unzips the front pocket, reassuring himself he has headphones, mint gum, phone charger... 

“Can you... just...” he starts, standing back up and handing Victor his notebook, “read this off? I really feel like I’m forgetting something...” He looks down at himself, realizing he might not be missing anything at all. Maybe how he’s dressed is the root of his anxiety: the collar of his white button down poking out of the dark gray-blue sweater that’s only a little loose in the sleeves paired with light gray narrow-legged pants, brown oxfords slightly scuffed but newly polished. “Should I change? Maybe I should change.”

For the longest time, Ivan thought group projects were the worst thing the institution of education could have ever conjured up. He realizes now he’s spared little thought for working in pairs. Working in pairs is far, far worse.

Dread is supposed to work like adrenaline, right? Thrill through one’s system and drain as quickly as it came, stirring and pitching behind the skin for a few moments before flattening out and disappearing. Ivan’s finding there isn’t a clear timeline for its reign of terror over his core. It continues to fight its way lower, into a part of his stomach Ivan wasn’t even sure existed until that excruciating pang vibrates the muscles all around it. 

This dread has been swelling and throbbing behind his skin since the name Victor Marlowe fell from the instructor’s mouth. It slithered into his bones the moment Victor was sure to stand, indignantly—nearly everything he does is done indignantly, and every time Ivan has to wonder what the damn prince has to be indignant about—and assert there must be some sort of mistake.

Ivan cannot and will not understand the petulant, sulky pouts several girls in the class wore the moment Victor’s partner was revealed, upset they couldn’t spend another couple of hours after class to admire his shimmery golden hair or the high arches of his cheekbones. The fullness of his rosy lips or the infuriatingly perfect arch of his nose— okay, he’s attractive. Ivan will give him that. Silently and reluctantly, never to be admitted out loud, if he has any say in the matter. But he’s also a pompous, insufferable, ignorant, snobby posh boy. Though, Ivan supposes it’s better than being Ivan Farley, which is a lot like being nobody.

He sits at this mahogany table, surrounded by book shelves that reach very nearly to the ceiling, leaving plenty of room to disappear in their shadows. And if that doesn’t work, Ivan can lose himself underneath the oversized, threadbare sweater that’s wearing him more than he is wearing it. It’s a hand-me-down from his father. Though when Dave Farley wore it at the same age Ivan is wearing it now, Dave was 6′3″, 210 pounds, and a first-string quarterback. Ivan, five inches shorter, a couple pounds less than the national average for his height, and whose only work in athletics is in avoiding them, makes the top look more like a smock.

His hand is beginning to ache again, more from the essays he wrote in History than the few measly ideas he’s scrawled onto a piece of notebook paper. And after giving those ideas a once over, he decides they’re useless. He scrunches up the paper, working it into a ball which he promptly throws against Victor’s temple.

“Marlowe.” The paper rustles all the way to the floor, rolling feebly across the marble. “When I said ‘brainstorm,’ that was not code for ‘scroll your Instagram feed.’”

IVAN WAS OBSESSIVE BY NATURE. It was both a benefit, such as when he's working on a patient and refuses to give up on them until he fixes their ailment, but it was also a curse as well, such as now. He was studying some vampire blood that he got from someone who got a little too close to his lab and was comparing it to his own. He wanted to see the molecular differences between the two, so he could start piecing together how to adjust it and potentially bring Grace back to the world of the living. He was so focused on his work that he didn't realize his eyes were starting to drift off --- not until he woke up hours later with a bit of drool on his notes and KOZEN DE VOS in his lab.

"Shit." He murmured, eyes squinting as he readjusted to his lab. He tried to read the clock, but his eyes were still a bit blurry from the remnants of sleep and he couldn't make out the number. "How long was I out?"

THERE WERE VERY FEW PEOPLE THAT IVAN LET HIS GUARD DOWN AROUND. His family was an obvious choice (although he was becoming more guarded around his brother after the incident with their sister occurred), and Dominic had been a familiar presence since childhood, but other than that, new people were often held at arm's length. The exception was SCARLET, a burlesque dancer that Ivan had grown acquainted with over the months.

His trips started off as a way to distract himself from his work and the worries surrounding the fate of his sister, but as the trips went along, he grew a fondness for the dancer. There was something about her that drew him in, and it felt nice to talk to someone who didn't have any expectations from him or preconceived notions about him.

He spotted her the moment she left the stage, and he couldn't stop himself from wandering over. Other employees tried to catch his eye, but he ignored them and focused entirely on her. He slowed to a stop near her, hands tucked in his pockets as he nodded, "You were great up there." He glanced over the area before adding, "Do you have time for a drink? My treat."

IVAN TRIED HIS BEST TO KEEP HIS RESEARCH UNDERWRAPS, BUT HE KNEW THAT PEOPLE WOULD LEARN ABOUT IT EVENTUALLY. The concept of turning a vampire back into a human was idealistic at best and impossible at worst, but Ivan knew he had no other choice. His sister had become that creature because he and his brother failed to protect her. Since his brother didn't have the skills to fix this, it fell on him to take care of their family again and ensure they all made it through.

And he figured his research had been the reason why Rosalin had reached out to him. He didn't know much about her ties to these creatures, but he suspected she wanted to learn more about his studies or find a way to partner with him. After all, why else would he pique her interest? Sure, he was a surgeon, but there were plenty of other medical professionals she could go to. He also didn't come from a rich family, so his familial ties weren't enough to warrant anyone's intrigue. This was the only justifiable reason.

He spotted her near the edge of the bar and settled in the seat next to her. He ordered a scotch from the bartender and traced his finger along the rim as he spoke, "I'm sure you didn't bring me here to chat about mundane things." He glanced up, eyes hardening as he tried to gauge her thoughts, "Tell me what you want."