It had been weeks since their encounter in the hallway, and Ivan was, to put it quite simply, bored. School had started, and he went through trigonometry and calculus without incident; in European History, Gilbert threw a wad of paper at his head (he wasn't bored enough to look at the note that adorned the paper, so he just threw it away at the end of class); in ESL, someone tried to poke him, so he had to show him that the muscles he'd acquired over the years weren't for exhibition (this nearly got him suspended). However, at lunch and in study hall - and the much of the later part of the day, therefore - he remained relatively free from the constant oppression and bullying. That is, until half-way through the last period of the day. He was packing his homework for his dorm, when someone had grabbed the back of his head and forced it against the neighboring locker.
He didn't even need to try to look for him to know who it was. "Well, Braginsky, fancy seeing you here," Alfred cackled. Behind him, Gilbert stood stoically. Ivan glanced at him once, and he averted his eyes to his shoes. "Gilly over there tells me you decided to be a smart-ass today; is that right?"
When Ivan didn't answer his question, Alfred slammed his head against the locker again, causing Ivan to growl as his teeth rattled. Alfred jeered at him. "So, are you a tough guy now, dumb-fuck?" He shook him by his hair. "Well?" Still, Ivan remained silent, choosing to let it be, like so many times before.
He knew Alfred was struggling; and it took all of his willpower to understand this. How he wanted to grab the little blonde fucker by the throat and pound his face into the tile. He wanted to kill. Kill everyone...
Gilbert watched, motionless, as Alfred threw the Russian onto the ground; he stared, unblinking, as he repeatedly kicked and swore at him. He wanted to run away, to stop watching; it made a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach to see the first purplish bruises form on his face. He wanted to scream at Alfred to stop; he wanted to stoop down to Ivan and brush the soft, powdery blonde hair from his face as he kissed the blue-black blotches on his skin. But he couldn't. He wouldn't.
To help Ivan meant that Gilbert was weak.
After Alfred had tired, he went on his way, panting and chuckling triumphantly to himself. Gilbert stayed behind, and stared at Ivan blankly. Ivan, however, didn't look up; he simply lay there, arms laying limp by his head and hollow, emotionless eyes staring at the wall behind him. Gilbert bit his lip, waiting for Ivan to acknowledge him, glare at him, spit on him; anything but remain silent and unmoving. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, and when he was afraid that he'd finally killed him, he slowly nudged the Russian's face with his shoe.
Only then did Ivan glance up at him. Gilbert winced at the apathy in his stare and looked at his feet, unceremoniously stepping over the unmoving body beneath him and continuing on his way.
Some time later, Ivan decided that it was best if he got up from the floor and went to his dorm. Grunting, he hefted himself up on sore arms and limped to his discarded bag, which lay open like a gutted fish by his locker. Gathering his papers, he stuffed them into his bag, slung it over his bruising shoulder, and went down the hall to his dorm. He didn't cry; he merely wiped his eye, only to find dryness. The tears had withered up long ago.
He reached the door of his room, opening it slowly, afraid someone was waiting for him behind the heavy oak. He sighed in relief when he found the space empty and dark, just as he had left it this morning. Plopping into his desk, he flicked on the lamp and began working on his homework, slowly going through European History and ESL when a knock came to his door. Yawning, he looked at the clock; 6:30. Damn.
He had missed dinner.
If he hadn't showed up, then he was probably being dogged by a hall-monitor. Stretching, he went to his door, opened it, and - lo and behold! - there stood a small, lightly tanned young woman in an orange vest, holding a clipboard. "Braginsky?" she asked, her voice melodic and slightly...French-sounding. He nodded. "You didn't show up for dinner."
He shook his head. "Why?" "I wasn't hungry." With that, he shut the door in her face, locked it, and went back to his desk.
He felt...Bitter.