Title: Where It All Went Wrong
Rating: K+
Genre: Family/Angst
Words: 1,500 without AN
Summary: Makarov found out the hard way that even if he did what he could to raise his son properly, Ivan's pain would always stick with him until the very day he died.
AN: A ridiculous amount of research went into this oneshot. The first part (when Ivan is seven) takes place when Makarov is 38. In real time Makarov is 88, and Ivan's age is unknown so I had to make something up. And I need to stop writing angsty things for this writing contest. Seriously yo.
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He loved his son like every father should. He did his best to give him the happy childhood he never had, and even though Makarov had little to nothing to give him, Ivan smiled like the boyish of all boys. His laughter was true, his eyes always alert with barely concealed excitement. Little Ivan was Makarov's pride and joy. Sure, most fathers wanted their sons to resemble them, but as Ivan grew to be taller than him by his seventh birthday he couldn't have been prouder. Not to mention his features. A narrow face with a strong chin, tan complexion, dark hair, and deep dark eyes-he was the spitting image of his mother.
As Ivan sat at the kitchen table, eyes boring into the wrapping paper of his birthday presents like he could burn the barrier away, Makarov watched the clock. He'd promised her that he would not let their son open the presents until she got home, but it was already an hour past the time she said she was going to be back and Ivan was getting fidgety.
"Dad, mom said she would be home by eight!" Ivan turned his intense eyes to him, worry turning in their depts. Sometimes, when she would go on solo missions, Ivan would worry about her more than he would. Makarov knew that she could handle herself, for goodness sake, the first time he met her at the guild she handed him his butt on a silver platter after a friendly spar.
Trying a reassuring smile, Makarov sat forward on the bench, resting his elbow on the table. Typically he would sit at the head of the table where Ivan was currently perched on the chair. But Ivan insisted on the reversal of the seats, and who was he to deny his son on his birthday? "You're mom's strong Ivan. You don't have to worry about her."
It seemed like that'd been the hundredth time he'd told him that within the day.
"I know dad. You keep saying that. But I had this dream last night and—"
"Ivan!" Makarov's reassuring smile slipped into a disapproving frown, his tone turning serious, "You've been talking about this nightmare all day! Now stop thinking about it! You're only scaring yourself."
"But—"
"No buts! Your mother will be home at any moment. Why don't you go get the cake from the snow outside. Maybe the cold weather will clear your head." Makarov pointed to the back door.
Grumbling, Ivan pushed away from the table with so much force one leg fell in. His gifts tumbled to the ground at his feet, along with Makarov's drink. He could see the fury igniting in his dark eyes, and with a disgruntled growl Ivan stormed out the back, slamming the rickety door shut behind him.
The house they lived in was a hole. It didn't have running water, the table was one of those fold out ones, the furniture was ratty, the roof had holes that were patched up by plywood, they didn't have electricity and instead used candles to light the house, and since Ivan's mother has been gone for a week and a half, the place wasn't very clean either. The winter was harsh this year, and considering the place didn't hold heat for any decent amounts to time, they had to dress in layers to keep warm.
It was the best they could do at the moment. Only two more months left before they could move into an apartment that was closer to the guild. Life would be better there, Makarov was sure of it.
The timepiece struck nine, and like clockwork, someone knocked on the front door. Smiling, Makarov stood up. That was surely Ivan's mother. He knew the boy was fretting for no reason. She was strong, and brave, and smart. Not someone to be overcome easily.
Trotting over to the front door in the living room, Makarov opened it with gusto. "Welcome home De—" His words caught in his throat. The air crushed from his lungs. In front of him stood a solider bearing the uniform of the Fiore Kingdom. He was tall and formal looking, his expression professional. Around them the bitter winter wind blew, spewing snow drifts in their faces.
"Can I help you?" Makarov's back straightened, the happy smile melting from his face. Behind him some of the candles lighting the living room went out, and he shivered.
The man looked down at a crumbled paper he was holding in his gloved hands. "Makarov Dreyar I presume?"
He nodded, leaning up against the door frame. The solider looked him in the eyes, bright green eyes swimming with sympathy. "I regret to be the one to tell you this, sir, but an accident occurred on the train coming from Creston to Magnolia. It is to my belief that your Fiancé was on that train." He spoke like it was rehearsed.
Makarov didn't say anything. What could he say? A horrible feeling was welling up in his stomach, and as much as he tried to fight it, tears were welling up on the surface of his eyes. His fists clenched. His jaw became tight in effort to keep the sob forming in his mouth at bay. A heavy feeling set on his chest, making it hard for him to breath.
"There were no survivors," The solider concluded, dipping his head down in a modest bow, "I'm sorry for you lost."
'Splat'
Makarov turned at the odd sound. It came from behind him, and when his eyes met the darkness of his son's the tears he'd been holding back fell down his cheeks. Ivan's eyes were emotionless, even as tears streamed from them. He was frowning, skin paled. His body began to shake. Makarov reached for him, but Ivan flinched away, a look so resentful carved into the snarl on his lips as he turned his back on him and rushed to his room.
Makarov went to dismiss the solider only to find him halfway down the path, his figure only a silhouette in the snow drifts. Makarov shut the door, resting his head on it. Raising a fist, he slammed it into the hard wood, his hand bursting through it with one hit. It wasn't like it mattered anyway. What would one more hole in his life do?
He squared his shoulders and wiped his eyes. He had to be strong for Ivan. Swiveling on his heels, he stepped over the cake that Ivan had dropped on the ground. The floor creaked as he made his way down the hallway, only stopping when he paused at his son's bedroom. He tried the door, but wasn't surprised to find it blocked. He probably pushed his toy chest against it.
"Ivan," Makarov heard a sniffle on the other side, "Let me in."
"Why should I?" Ivan's muffled voice countered.
"Because I'm your father."
No response. The silence hung over them in thick rivulets, and although Makarov wanted to interrupt it, he couldn't fathom a single word to say. Much to his relief, the sound of heavy furniture scrapping over wood flooring broke the tense moment, and soon the door opened.
Ivan's eyes were bloodshot, his breathing heavy. It was funny because now that he had access to his son's room he had no idea what to do.
"Why didn't you listen?" Ivan croaked, "Father, why didn't you listen to me?"
Puzzled, Makarov stepped closer to his son. Ivan backed away, a fierce coldness stirring in his eyes. "A-Answer me, Father." He spat, venom dripped from his words. Such a tone should not be used by such a young child. For the second time that night Makarov shivered.
"I do listen to you, Ivan."
Whatever was holding Ivan's emotions back broke, "Father, if you listened to me then mom would be here!" He spat, taking a step closer, a dangerous edge to his demeanor, voice gravelly with pain, "We could have saved her! I saw the train crash! I've been seeing it for the past three nights!" A new wave of desperate tears fell down his face. He stepped forward, looking down at Makarov with apparent accusation. "She's gone, and it's your fault."
Ivan shoved him out of his room with ease, slamming the door in his face so hard, it cracked the door-jam on impact. Makarov slipped to the ground. Even with a whirlwind of emotions clouding his mind, he'd never felt so empty inside.
In retrospect he should have figured that his son was a lost cause when he called him 'Makarov' instead of 'dad' the next morning. Or when he took to dissecting small animals. Or when he became obsessed with power and money, even to the point of threatening his friend's and family's lives. Even so, he would never give up on finding the little boy he knew was still buried underneath all the grief and sadness. Even if Ivan would forever resent him. He was still family.