Every time the conversation turned towards family, Ivan stopped talking. It was rare for him to voice his opinions to begin with, between the constant thought about whether or not he was in the right and the anxiety surrounding his inability to speak well. But when Cameron brought up family, he closed off completely. It had been that way since the beginning; since the moment he told Cam that he hadn’t come out to his family, and wasn’t sure that he could. Despite the simple explanation that he gave, the topic seemed to come up more frequently in recent weeks, and each time it did the knot in his stomach seemed to tighten and grow. Laying with Cam at night wasn’t as comfortable as it usually was; holding his hands, making plans, thinking about the future. It felt cheap, in a way. He knew it was his own fault. It was his decisions that kept him from feeling truly at home in the relationship, and he hated knowing that affected Cam too.
It was why he had gone to see his father. He’d known, from the moment he’d woken up, exactly what he planned to do that afternoon. It was worse that way. Planning ahead gave him time to think—to obsess—and he did it on repeat in his mind. There was a constant film of how it could go wrong, if it went right, the possibilities of how his father would take the news. None of them were really good, and he wasn’t sure if it was his own pessimism seeping in or just a clear understanding of reality. By the time he knocked on the door of his father’s office in their home, he felt faint. Eating had been out of the question, his nerves leaving his stomach unsettled. Just thinking about putting food in his stomach was enough to leave him queasy.
When he heard the familiar voice of his father usher him to come in, he was stepping slowly through the doorway. He’d spent more time than he could count in his dad’s office. While he kept himself far from the business that his father built, he had found ways to discuss Dragomirov Vodka with him. He was business savvy and decisive; the kind of traits that Ivan admired but never quite emulated in the same way. His father’s office had been, in the past, a quiet and safe place. It was comfortable. The two could have worked side by side if necessary, only because they both kept themselves focused on their tasks and didn’t often overwhelm themselves with the desire to speak to the other person in the room.
Ivan paused before he’d fully entered the room, almost convinced that he had gone ashen white in an instant. It wasn’t just his father sitting there, but his eldest brother, Dimitri. Of all the possibilities he’d thought through in his mind, coming out to both his father and brother at the same time had not been one of them, and the sudden shift in situation had him stalling.
They both looked towards him expectantly, waiting for the cause of his visit and the sudden shift in his mood. Though, he couldn’t necessarily say that there had been much of a shift; his face simply expressed what he had already felt internally for hours.
“Uh—” He could already feel the words on his tongue catching in his throat, the tightness in his chest extending up and practically choking him. What if he stopped breathing right there? What if he didn’t stop breathing until after he told them? Would they try to save him when they knew the truth? His thoughts raced while the rest of him stood unmoving and still. “I—”
There was a sense of impatience in his father’s look when he shifted at his desk. Dima was standing, arms folding slightly and nearly mirroring the expression his father wore. “Think. Then speak.” Anton’s approach to most issues that had been presented to him by his children was to tell them that it could easily be solved if they just gave it some thought. The stutter that twisted his son’s words was just the effect of not properly using all his mental capacities. Ivan often found himself agreeing, and yet this time it seemed the opposite was the problem. He was thinking. He couldn’t stop thinking.
Dima was looking towards him, a moment of concern on his face rather than the impatient ease that his father seemed to naturally wear. “Are you o—”
“I’m gay.”
The entire room went still, and he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or reality. He wasn’t sure if he’d managed to form the words in a way that was understood or if it’d come out in some broken sentence of repeated syllables and stumbled letters. All he knew was that his brother and father weren’t moving, and it seemed as if he’d gotten his message across very clearly.
“What?” His father’s voice didn’t necessarily sound like confusion as much as indignation. He must think he heard wrong, was Ivan’s thought. He refuses to believe it. He won’t believe it. Say something else and walk away. It would have been easier to lie about it, but facing Cameron knowing that he walked away seemed impossible. He could be a lot of things, but he didn’t want to be a coward, even if it was true.
Taking as deep a breath as he could manage, even if it felt like his ribs were digging into his lungs and his entire body was pressed under the weight of his own inadequacy, he spoke again. “I’m g-gay.” He knew his tongue had caught the G on that one, but it hardly mattered—he’d barely gotten the word out when he felt the sharp sting of a blow at the side of his head and he was stumbling to the side. Stars dancing momentarily across his vision and the whole world became white noise. Dima could have easily laid him out had it been his intention, and the fact that he was still standing meant something.
It meant it was a warning. Or shock. Both, maybe. His hand went to the side of his head, wincing at the feeling of warm flesh from the hit. When he was steadying himself and looking towards Dima—it could have been seconds or minutes, he wasn’t sure—the older boy was stepping towards him again. His hands were clenched into fists and he had the undeniable knowledge, even if it wasn’t explicitly said, that the next hit wouldn’t be a warning. It wouldn’t be ‘gentle’, if the first could be classified as such. It would put him on the ground, and he was already trying to brace himself for the impact when he felt the air pulled from his lungs.
It wasn’t a hit that caused it, but rather his father’s fists slamming against his desk and his voice booming across the room loud enough to make both boys still. “Stop!”
Dima didn’t relax, his fists still clenched at his sides and muscles through his jaw taut. It didn’t escape Ivan’s attention, despite his gaze being solidly on his father. He was shaking; adrenaline and stress and fear coursing through him. His cheek burned as the blood rushed towards the surface. There would likely be a bruise, but he hoped that it would be minimal.
“Get out.” For a moment, Ivan thought his father was directing it towards Dimitri, but his gaze was squarely on Ivan. The firmness left no room for argument and it unsettled Ivan. The knot in his stomach twisted, making him feel like he could throw up right there if he thought on it too long. When he didn’t move fast enough to appease his father, the man was speaking again. “Get the fuck out. I don’t want to see your face right now, or I’ll what he did will seem pleasant.”
The threat was enough to make Ivan feel instantly cold, because he knew it wasn’t just made idly. If he didn’t move—if he came back without invitation—the bruise on his cheek would likely be the smallest of his worries. So he turned, not letting himself pause to think about whether or not he truly wanted to turn his back on either of them. He fled, because despite trying to convince himself otherwise, to convince Cam otherwise, to do something to prove otherwise—he was a coward.
He felt sick. He was light headed, either from the blow his brother had given him or the gravity of the whole situation. He couldn’t breathe or speak or think. Everything was going to change because of this, and the only thought that echoed through his mind was that he shouldn’t have said anything. He wasn’t sure if ever hated himself as much as he did in that moment; knowing that he wouldn’t say anything at all if given the chance to repeat it.
He was a coward, and he had no idea what to do now that he had undeniable proof of the fact.