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What is Ivan like? You ask me one night at the bar. Dr. Alfred F. Jones, downing your sixth beer and belching stridently into your fist. Out of the blue, blue like your eyes, you ask me about my boyfriend. I turn the question over in my head a few times but I can't think of a good way to say it. I shrug and you drop it. You act like you don't see what was going on around you, you pretend to be tactless and stupid, but I can see through it. After all, how could an idiot make an esteemed doctor at only twenty-five? I didn't like the question, you could tell, so you backed off. I thanked you inwardly for that.
Long after we had stumbled together downtown, after the sharpness of a hangover drilled it's way into my temples, after the weekend was back again I pondered your question.
What is Ivan like?
Some days, Ivan wont get up. On my days off, I slide into consciousness at ten AM. I sit up and stretch, rub the grime out of my eyes, and pat him on the shoulder. He's always slept light, so that's all it takes. Normally he slithers out of bed to hog the shower until the hot water is gone, or he'll roll over and snatch me back under the covers and play until I was as close to sated as I could be. But some days, he wont get up. He grunts and waves me off, or says nothing. He's in a funk again, and I don't know how long it will last. Sometimes it only stays a day. Sometimes it hangs over him like a dark cloud for the rest of the week. There's no building up to this not-quite-depression. It comes and goes like anything else with him. Waxes and wanes, his moods, his interests, everything else. I bring him breakfast and he says he's not hungry. I try to tell him that he'll feel better after he eats, that he'll only make himself sick if he doesn't eat. He yells at me. He yells at me from that cocoon of blankets and pillows and the things he says cut like a knife. I take his food back into the kitchen and put it away. Separated and organized they go, little Tupperware snacks to pop into the microwave and eat later.
He'll stay like that for hours until his bladder forces him to crawl out of bed. His eyes are red-rimmed from the stinging tears he insists don't come and his hair sticks out every which way. He tries to sneak into the bathroom but he's not the most agile guy so I hear his soft footfalls on the clean wood floor of the hallway. I ask him if he's alright and he just glares. I hear the toilet flush and the running of water, and once his hands are washed he comes out and I ask him if he wants anything. He glares at me again and retreats into the dim quiet of his room. It's always his room when he's like this.
On the third day of it I come into the room - his room - and sit on the bed. My back is sore from sleeping on the couch and I want my side of the bed back.
"Tell me what's wrong." I say, pulling the blanket back a bit to look at him. He glares at me and bares his teeth before yanking the soft blankets, deep purple like his eyes, back up over his head.
"You're acting like a child." I say and he squirms a bit before finally speaking.
His mumbled response can barely be heard. "You are."
I roll my eyes and lean over to place a kiss on the top of his head. His hair is messy and thick and so pale that it's almost white. I know I should go into the other room and just watch TV or something. I'm poking the tiger here and I know it but I just kiss his head and sigh. When I speak it's muffled. "You're acting like a child."
He tenses up again and I back away a bit. I shouldn't have said that, I knew it before I opened my mouth and now I regret it to my very core. I should have left the room and given him time to work out whatever it was that was plaguing his mind. He sits up so suddenly that I almost lose my balance and when his hand connects with my cheek I do lose my center and darn it the floor is hard on my hip when I hit it. There are tears in his eyes. Tears of pain and fear and pure, unbridled rage.
"Get out!" He yells at me and I flinch. I don't move because I know if I do he'll actually get out of bed and that would be bad. "Get out! You hate me, you hate me just like everyone else! Just get out of my house! I know you want to leave me anyway!"
If I wanted to leave I would have.
"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" He yells at me until he's winded and tired and he just throws himself back onto the bed and cries. It's a loud, broken sound but I make no motion to get up. Not to leave, not to comfort him. I sit there, lightly rubbing my sore cheek until his loud cries taper off into pathetic little whines. Only then, only when I know he's back to the near-dead log he was before this little outburst do I slowly rise to my feet and sit back on the bed. I don't touch him.
"I don't hate you. No one hates you." I say and he tells me to go away because he hates me.
I ask him if that's really what he wants and he says yes. I nod and quietly leave. This is normally when I go to your house, Dr. Jones. I drop by and ask if you want to go out drinking or something and you see the look in my eyes, hear the sound of my voice. You always say yes and I thank you inwardly for it. We go out and drink and talk and after a while I can't legally drive and Ivan is the furthest thing from my mind. Either you and I stumble back to your house and scarf down a delicious meal your pretty little wife whipped up special or I go home with someone else. Some stranger that I don't need to worry about trying to console and I spend the night with them. No matter where I end up I sneak out early in the morning and take a long walk in the cool air before heading back home to my own place.
My condo is all but barren since I had moved many of my things to Ivan's apartment. I look out of my large window at Millennium park below when the house phone rings. I wonder why I even have one of those things but then I remember my parents. I don't want them to have my mobile so I keep a house number. When I pick up the receiver it's Ivan. I don't know how he got this number and I never bother to ask.
"Please come home."
I do.
Some days, Ivan is adventurous. He wakes me up with a passion that leaves me tongue-tied and weak in the knees. He pulls me up out of bed - It's too early! I whine - and ushers me into the bathroom to get ready for the day. He's all smiles and energy and love that's so deep and pure that it leaves me confused and disoriented. Once we're ready he pushes me out the front door and to his car. We could take mine but he insists on driving and I don't really care enough to argue. I would rather be the perpetual passenger than foul his mood. My phone buzzes and he snatches it away from me and checks the messages. He always needs to know who's texting me, who's calling me, where I am and who I'm with but it doesn't bother me much. It shows that he cares, if not a little too much. It's from you and he hates you so he deletes it before I get a chance to read it. I'm not too happy about that but I don't say anything when he drops my cell into my lap.
I ask where we're going and he says that it's a surprise. He's practically oozing giddiness and it rubs off onto me. I'm getting excited, whatever it is must be great fun.
And then I'm standing at the top of a snowy mountain with skis strapped to my feet. This is not what I had in mind. This was not what I wanted to spend my day off doing. I tell him this and he just smiles at me. It's disarming and I think that we'll just pack up and go home when he suddenly pushes me. My eyes go wide and then I'm rocketing down the track. The cold air burns my cheeks and I can't even scream for the shock of it. After a few seconds, precious seconds in which I was sure I would tumble and break my leg, I get a handle on myself. I can ski but I don't think he knew that. I look to the left and there he is. He grins at me and motions that we race. I don't really want to; I like taking things slow and steady. I like to be comfortable and racing down a frigid hill is anything but. He motions again and I nod. We race down the hill and by god it is exhilarating and oh so fun. I win and he's laughing and his round cheeks are pink from the cold. He pulls me into a hug and it hurts and he knows it hurts. He kisses me and we get back on the lift. I'm sure to jump off and get moving before he pushes me again.
We take our lunch in the resort's cafe. He gets the fish and a glass of vodka. I had once asked him why he didn't mix it and he had laughed and said that the drink was too good to sully with other flavors. He sips it slowly and actually tastes it. Watching him makes me gag, I can picture the burn of that liquid and I can't stand it. I get the ham and it's good but a little dry. My phone goes off again and I flip it open to see that you messaged me.
Yo dude u get my lst txt we shud go 2 that concert nxt week!!! hmu if u wanna
I go to reply when Ivan plucks the phone from my hand and reads the message. "Are you going?" He asks me with a frown and I say that I am. He doesn't seem too happy about it but he hands my phone back. I shoot off my reply and put my mobile back into my pocket. I try to go back to my meal as if nothing has happened but I can tell that Ivan's angry with me. That was too bad for him, I have other friends and he just needed to accept that. I knew you, Dr. Jones, long before I had met Ivan and I have no intention of giving you up. Ivan had persuaded me to stop going to my SAA meetings, he had convinced me to drop most of my friends, he had even basically made me move in with him but I was steadfast on my friendship with you, Alfred.
By the time Ivan had a few drinks in him the air of animosity began to fade.
Some days, Ivan is romantic. It's Christmas and a terrible storm knocked the power out. He and I sit on the living room floor huddled together wrapped in blankets in front of a little lake of flickering candles. There's three boxes before us. One is tall and white with red ribbons, one in flat and rectangular and covered in red paper, one is a rectangle who's paper sparkles in the candle light. He pulls the white box closer and apologizes even as he's opening it. It's an ice cream cake and I can't help but laugh. White plumes of breath leave my lips and that just makes me laugh harder. Who eats ice cream cake in the middle of winter, power or no power? I laugh until my sides ache and he slumps a bit, still apologizing.
I say that it's okay and kiss his cheek. We each have a slice and by the time we're done we're shaking so hard that it hurts and our teeth are chattering. We decide to open our gifts at the same time. He passes mine to me and I pass him his. The sound of ripping paper fills the room and soon we're both sitting there admiring the winter coats in our hands. His is thick and grey and long enough to reach his calves. Mine is dark red and puffy with a detachable hood. We pull them on and are so glad for them. The air around me stings and the cake feels like a lump of ice in my belly. I look out the window and see that the snow has calmed and ask him if he wants to test the gifts out. He says yes and after we snuff out the candles we leave the apartment hand-in-hand. Our cells are left resting together on the kitchen table.
The streets are all but empty and I can understand why. The air is still bitterly cold but at least the wind had died down. We decide to take a walk at the park and it's slow and relaxing. After some ten minutes spent together in a comfortable silence he suddenly squeezes my hand and starts pulling me off into the woods. I want to know where we're going but he just keeps pulling me. I trip and struggle through the thick underbrush and I can't help but to sigh in happiness when we come out of the woods to a little lake. The full moon's light casts silver - like Ivan's hair - over the placid water. The scenery is beautiful. I gawk when he throws his jacket off and starts pulling his sweater up over his head.
"What are you doing?!" I demand to know, looking around to be sure no one was around. He tells me to do as he does and when he's down to his boxers he runs off into the cold lake. I stand there a moment in shock and when he calls for me I know I'm going to regret this. I strip down and the cold air hurts and from the look of him he knows it hurts. I run into the water as fast as I can before I lose my nerve and it feels like being stabbed with a million tiny needles. I shriek and wrap my arms around myself. The water looks inky black from where I'm standing and I scream again when he splashes me. Ivan just laughs and after a moment I manage to pry my arms from their place frozen around me and send a large splash of the painfully cold water his way. Soon my teeth are chattering and I'm sure my lips are blue but I don't care for the fun I'm having.
What is Ivan like?
The silvery moonlight shimmering on the frost that stretched out over the white/black of birch bark, the thousand frozen knives of chilly lake water, the flush on Ivan's pale cheeks, my shocked squeaks of discomfort. That was what Ivan was; he was the fusion of pleasure and pain, something you know is unwise but can't get away from for the joy of it. He was up and down, good and bad, swimming in winter.
"I love you." He says to me.
"I know. Thank you." I reply.
I had a fever for the next three days.