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“Do you think he has even the slightest clue of how badly you want him?” Zoya whispers in his ear, her floral jasmine perfume covering him in a wave that he knows will stick with him, even after she steps away. She’s come up from behind where he’s seated, her fingers crawling up over his shoulders, like spiders.
Sometimes, she takes advantage of the mutual respect they have for each other. Sometimes, Ivan allows it.
This is not one of those times, because he is far from being in a charitable mood.
Her thumbs press into the tight muscles on his upper back and Ivan growls at her, as if scolding a nippy horse, “Quit.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” she quips lightly, fingers digging in harder, trying to make him wince. She’s unsuccessful. “You’re disgusting me with all this tortured staring of yours. Man the fuck up, Ivan.”
Reaching back, he pries her offending hands away from his person. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The music in the ballroom is loud, accompanied by the sounds of laughter and glasses clinking together. The rich and the powerful have come to mingle with the Grisha. Ivan hates these affairs. He hates them not just because he hates being forced to play nice, to socialize, but because he also hates watching the way that these women put their hands on Fedyor, the way he smiles at them-
Zoya makes a chiding noise. She sees what he’s looking at, after all. “Are you really going to sit here and watch him take that wilting flower to bed with him?”
Gritting his teeth, Ivan takes a deep gulp from his cup, wanting to edge off his stupid emotions, the emotions that he doesn’t want to have. What use are feelings anyway? Useless. They only get in the way of more important things. “If she’s what he wants-”
The pretty Grisha behind Ivan makes a gagging noise. “Oh, just stop. How did those words not choke you on their way out? Stop with the pretending. You and I have always been alike.” Zoya’s typical arrogance is showing through like a beacon in the night.
“How is that?”
“We go after what we want. What we deserve. We have the power and drive to take on anything. And anyone.”
Ivan’s mouth arranges itself into an unkind smirk. Is this really the angle she wants to take this conversation? This is the hill she wants to stand and scream on? “Tell me, how’s that working for you and the General?”
Her blood pressure skyrockets hard for a moment there, but somehow, she manages to contain herself outwardly. “Oh no. We’re talking about you, Ivan. Don’t you deflect. Fedyor’s the only thing in this damn palace that you drag your heels on. Why keep tormenting yourself, why keep watching him make the rounds when you could have him in your bed-”
Turning like a viper, Ivan grips her face tightly, palm under her chin and fingers briefly digging into her cheeks. His voice is soft, dangerous, “I’d watch what I say next, if I were you.”
She’s not cowed by his display of aggression, because unfortunately, she’s right; they are painfully similar in temperament, if not personality. With a sneer, she yanks her head out of his grasp. “I’ve seen how you look at him, when you think no one will notice,” she breathes out, eyes glittering. “If you were a lesser Grisha, your heart would give you away to any heartrender within a twenty-foot radius.”
Scoffing at her, Ivan says, “Even if what you say is true -which it’s not- he’s never shown interest in men. Your point is moot.”
Slinking around like the predatory cat that she is, the beautiful Grisha neatly perches herself in his lap. Ivan sneers at her and she sneers back with a certain fondness for their shared love of being generally awful. Zoya turns his head to make sure he’s looking at Fedyor, far across the room where he’s laughing and socializing. As always, Fedyor finds his way into the center of attention.
Fedyor has been this way for as long as Ivan has known him. It used to drive him mad. That’s a lie. It still drives him mad.
He finds his eyes tracing Fedyor's profile, watching as he drinks from his glass, struggling with the burning desire of wanting to know what Fedyor’s lips taste like. Hating that someone else tonight is probably going to find out-
Ugh. Stop it.
Zoya’s lips brush his ear on accident as they both stare over at Fedyor, like two vicious beasts watching the same prey. “How do you know? Are you sure, Ivan? Because, you see, I think Fedyor will swing wherever the wind pushes him. I think he’ll go wherever the best time is-”
A red-hot flash of jealous zips through him, full of bloody teeth and sharp claws. “Not another word, Zoya. I’m warning you.”
She pulls back from him, her smile crimson and wicked. “How do you envision it, hm? Him, under you, saying your name-”
“Enough. You’re being vulgar.” Mostly, he just doesn’t want to listen to her voice what he thinks about in the privacy of his own room.
The party continues on, with the guests dedicatedly ignoring the two most reputedly fierce Grisha making unpleasant faces at each other. It isn’t unusual in the slightest, and no one is about to get themselves involved in it. Zoya has a bite as sharp as Ivan’s and if the pair of them want to verbally eviscerate each other, who is to say they shouldn’t? Who is to say they don’t enjoy it, even?
A slight breeze presses against him, a whisper of her power. She’s gloating, this odious bitch that he’s always found his match in. Her voice is dark as sin when she asks, “How often do you take yourself in hand and think of him? Wishing he could just be yours?”
A flash of shame and a dark coil of lust rushes up through him, something Ivan is completely unprepared for, because yes, he has done exactly what she’s mentioned, alone in his room, biting his lip to keep from saying the name that fills his thoughts-
These sharp emotions must have yanked his heart and pulse about in an obvious manner, because Fedyor’s dark head whips in his direction, concern written on his lovely face. His eyes are like midnight stars, even with the warm haze of alcohol in them.
When he realizes that Zoya is hanging off of Ivan, he raises one eyebrow, as if to say, ‘really, Ivan?’
Shaking his head at Fedyor, Ivan pulls an exasperated face, because he is fucking exasperated. This makes Fedyor laugh, his white teeth flashing across the room. It seems to be enough to settle whatever worry Fedyor may have had, because he allows his attention to be pulled away once more as some dignitary comes up to him for an introduction.
With Fedyor’s attention gone once more, Zoya draws her nails across Ivan’s scalp soothingly. It feels nice, but she’s a bloody nightmare. “You think he doesn’t pay attention to you?” Her voice is a low murmur. “What do you think that was about? Your heart so much as hiccups and he checks in on you. How disgustingly sweet.”
There are ways to explain that away. “We’re heartrenders, Zoya. It’s literally what we do.”
“He’s listening for you, idiot.” Her voice is short. “I don’t see him do that for anyone else.”
He’s not going to let her convince him of this madness. Feelings have no place in war. Emotions make Grisha weak. Ivan may be many things, but he will never be weak. “He’s my friend,” he replies tonelessly. Tries to convince himself. “That’s what friends do.”
They weren’t always friends, he and Fedyor. But, they are now and he’s not going to ruin it with something as sordid as what Ivan thinks of doing to that pretty mouth of Fedyor’s.
Zoya chuckles, the nasty kind that no one would ever describe as happy or friendly. “Read my lips. You don’t want him to be your friend. You want more. Is that why you avoided him when we were younger? Did he make your heart flutter?” She laughs.
Clenching his jaw, Ivan says nothing. She doesn’t know everything there is to know, even if she thinks she does.
Finally, she gets up and prepares to saunter away, likely to try her hand at pinning down the Darkling. “If you were brave enough, you could have more. Stop being so scared of Prince Charming.”
Good riddance, he thinks when she’s finally disappeared into the crowd. He’d been near ready to knock her out.
Ivan spends some time glowering into his drink, afterwards. He’s so dedicated to scowling menacingly that he doesn’t notice when someone slides next to him.
A familiar scent fills his nose, along with a voice that makes his insides tighten. “Struck out with Zoya, yeah? That’s rough.”
Fedyor.
“That’s not…” Ivan rubs his eyes. “Just. No.”
With a sigh of exhaustion, Fedyor rests his head on Ivan’s shoulder with a certain drunken charm. “I knew you had better taste.”
“She’s beautiful,” Ivan says wryly, as if to defend his supposed taste in her.
“Oh, sure.” Fedyor is slurring a bit, definitely too far into his cups for the night. “If you can get past those f-fucking claws.”
“Some of us like claws in bed,” Ivan replies flatly, the alcohol making him a little looser with his words.
Fedyor chuckles delightfully, his whole body shaking against the line of Ivan’s body. Ivan feels himself begin to thicken between his thighs and thanks his lucky stars that Fedyor is far too gone to be paying attention to literally anything related to heartrending.
“You-you would, w-ouldn’t you?” Fedyor’s slur is getting worse. Sleepy, almost.
“I think,” Ivan says quietly, “That you need to go to bed.”
Fedyor sighs, snuggling closer to Ivan in a way that would earn anyone else a sharp backhand. However, it’s Fedyor so Ivan allows it. Fedyor is murmuring against his neck, “Y-you know best.”
That mouth, brushing against the vulnerable skin of his throat, sends shivers up and down Ivan’s spine. Fedyor’s heart slows of its own accord, his breathing deep and soft. Ivan situates them a bit more comfortably because Fedyor is napping on his shoulder, has chosen Ivan to be his place for a quick power rest before his second wind for the night. Because there’s always a second wind with Fedyor. Always.
Ivan will wake him up. Soon. Eventually. He’s most definitely not enjoying their utterly innocent proximity.
Zoya catches Ivan’s eye from across the room and she gives him a knowing smile, a look that makes Ivan stiffen with irritation. It’s a reminder that being this soft for Fedyor is stupid. Not only that; it’s dangerous. How can he possibly be an effective soldier, a loyal Grisha to the General if his heart practically beats for the social butterfly currently plastered to his side?
How can he possibly be free of weakness if the very thought of Fedyor with someone else makes him feel ill? That he’s envisioned ripping out more hearts than he can count?
…and that’s the root of it, isn’t it? Fedyor is well adored.
The thing is, Ivan isn’t afraid of having him. Ivan’s afraid of what comes after.
He’s afraid he won’t be able to keep Fedyor.
And worse; Ivan isn’t sure he would know how to let go.