Derivative - a measure of how a function or curve changes as its input changes.

Through hundreds and hundreds of text messages, Ivan scrolls; an endless rolling sea of i miss yous, suggestive emoticons, and exchanges of sexually explicit photographs and passages. Each one twists the knife in his heart a little farther. But it is the i love yous, the innocent selfies, that send him careening helplessly toward the couch. He tosses the phone onto the coffee table as if his fingers have been scalded, though really, it is his heart that bears the scorch marks of betrayal.

i love you, the words stare back at him mockingly until the screen fades to black. Then it is the small reflection of his torn face he is inspecting, streaked with swiped smudges. When, he wonders, did he become this pathetic husk of the man he once was? Broken and dependent, restless and sickened by a love that seemingly has nothing to do devotion. When? Or rather, why?

Finally, he understands Alfred's qualms about communication because he cannot answer. Why, why, why? There is no answer and he needs it—the why. Ivan needs it in the midst of the chaos that is his world crumbling beneath his feet without a single thing to show that the agony of it all will be worth it.

With his throat tight and his heart weakening, he sits motionless, breathless as his mirrored image begins to blur. Tears, that burning sensation in his eyes. Anger, that weighty throb beneath his skin that urges him to do without consideration of the consequences. Without consideration for him, who never had the decency to gift Ivan the same respect.

Outside, he hears the consistent thumping of jogging footsteps, the jingle of keys hitting one another. The locks to his apartment begin to slide out of place, the knob twists and the door swings open to reveal a heaving Alfred. His face is flushed, his chest a jolting rise and fall as he sucks in ragged breaths.

"Ivan, I—" he starts, only to cleave his sentence in half when his eyes, blown wide with fear, land on his phone.

Without a word, Alfred surges forward, rushing to get to the device, but Ivan is there first, given the advantage in distance. He snatches it up, raises it high above his head and out of Alfred's immediate reach.

"What the hell, Ivan!" Alfred exclaims, rocking up onto the balls of his feet to extend his height. His hand snags the sleeve of Ivan's shirt but with the table between them his grip swiftly loosens.

"Who is Gilbie?" Ivan asks, tone lilting on the name in a taunting manner. He asks, though he knows the answer. He knows, he's seen him, he's spoken to him, even shook his hand.

Alfred immediately freezes up, struck by realization. His almost hopeful fear bleeds away, vanishes to be replaced with contempt. Disdain is an ugly thing on him; an ugly thing that pinches his eyebrows close together and snuffs out the glittering light in his eyes. Those shamelessly expressive blues that Ivan fell so hard for grow cold and lifeless; absent of the love Alfred once held for him. Was it ever truly there?

"You went through my phone," he says accusingly. The same tactic of flipping the script, preying on Ivan's conscience, over and over, again and again and again.

That raging anger within him does not allow Ivan to cede this time. "Are you having sex with him?"

A stupid question, he knows. Stupid because he knows the answer, holds the evidence in his hand. The messages, the pictures, the goddamn videos. Yet he needs to hear it. A confession worthy of bringing Alfred back to him, capable of reminding them of the unwavering love beneath the hurt, the anger, the conflict. And he's weak, so weak. If Alfred denies it, he will believe it. He wants to believe it, he can make himself believe if it will allow him to salvage what's left of their happiness.

"That's none of your business," Alfred answers, stalking around the table to make another lunge for the phone.

Ivan takes a step back, holding out an arm to keep Alfred at a distance as he taps the pin into the cellphone. He scrolls through the texts until he finds the thumbnail of a video from "Gilbie." He presses play and turns the device so Alfred can view the screen.

It is almost comical how quickly the tables turn to the music of Alfred's gasping breaths and whimpering moans pouring from the speakers. Alfred, here now, visibly deflates, averts his gaze as if he cannot bear to see the exhibition of his own infidelity. The passionate cries and vulnerable pleas that Ivan has not heard in weeks. It hurts to listen to, each frame of the video already imprinted in his brain, the images flickering and repeating behind his closed eyes, rolling on a mental strip of film he'll never be able to forget.

"Stop."

"I'll ask again," Ivan remarks, increasing the volume to maximum of the video. "Are you having sex with him, Alfred?"

"Turn it off!" insists Alfred. He covers his ears, blocking out the recorded audio of his indiscretion. "Turn it the fuck off if you already know."

"This—" Ivan pauses, brings up the album of graphic photos exchanged between the two. "This is what you were doing while I was sitting here loving you, Alfred?" His voice cracks, overcome by abruptly uncorked emotions, and dwindles into something pitiful and tiny. He relents, drops his hand down to his side, hiding the pictures, the videos, the messages.

Alfred, seemingly uncaring, thrusts out a hand and demands, "Give me my fucking phone right now, Ivan. I swear to God. This isn't funny."

Like Ivan is a child. As if nothing but receiving his phone matters in this situation. In a fit of uncontrolled rage, Ivan hurls the device past Alfred's head. It smashes against the wall with a harsh crack, chipping away the paint and leaving a sizeable dent. There is a sick satisfaction Ivan draws from hearing Alfred gasp in shock, knowing that he has destroyed something that he owns, something he loves and cherishes.

"Jealous," Alfred states, rushing over to inspect the damages. From where he stands, Ivan can see that the display is veined, splintered. "You've always been so fucking jealous and insecure. It's pathetic."

Another knife to the wounded cavity where his heart lies. He cannot conjure a counterargument to something that is undoubtedly the truth. He is jealous, rightfully so. He is insecure, never able to truly trust the sweet nothings Alfred whispers into his ear when things aren't sullied by hostility. Even before they sank into this tragic cycle of suffering.

The tables are turning again, leaving Ivan cornered, mute and burdened by his own wrongings. He is the one who burst under the weight of it all, fell weak to his fury and allowed it to command him.

Alfred clicks his tongue. "And you wonder why I don't want to marry you."

The last stab to Ivan's heart forces him back to where this all started. He sinks down into the cushions of the couch, he exhales a shuddering breath and squeezes his eyelids shut against the onslaught of tears to no avail. He drives his palms against his eyes in a futile attempt to halt them but he can no longer hold it in, this irrepressible hurt and he is weeping. After it all, he is still the one to break. Always the one torn with grief.

"I'll see you later, Ivan."

The door closes and Alfred leaves him to cry for the man he once was.

author's note: i apologize for slacking in this department. i want to let you guys know that i really love your reviews and appreciate them so much. especially for those who review consistently. thank you so much. i'm glad that people enjoy this story and feel things for these characters.