Red Fall: 13-17/25
His fever broke sometime during the night; the overbearing heat slowly trickled away, his body finally able to fight the sickness during his forced rest. However, the illness had left its own mark; one couldn’t help but wonder why it all came together so perfectly, like the pieces of a child’s puzzle.
The sunlight streamed through the timid curtains, panels of light warming sections of the bed. Slowly, Alfred opened his eyes, blinking to dim the brightness of the room. He pushed himself to a sitting position, his chest protesting painfully. Dazedly looking about the room, the American wrapped an arm protectively around his ribs.
“So you are awake, my patriot.”
Alfred shifted his gaze towards the door, the frame occupied by the tall, light-haired Russian. There was little reaction from the welkin-eyed man, other than a slight squint that descended over his visage; confusion.
“There is something wrong, da?” Ivan said, his head tilted in mock concern. Lifting a hand, Alfred rubbed his head, resting his brow in his palm.
“Who…who are you?”
There were several beats of silence; a smile wormed its way across Ivan’s features and he had to bite back his laughter.
Fever indeed.
Wiping the demented grin from his countenance, he eased concern into his face; a slight sad sparkle to the eye, a downward quirk to the lip.
“What do you mean? I do not enjoy these games you play with me, little one,” Ivan said disapprovingly, sitting on the edge of the bed. He rested his cool hand across Alfred’s upper brow, checking his temperature; the sky-eyed man unconsciously leaned into the touch.
“Your fever is gone; this is good, da?” the Russian said with a smile; his perfect mask didn’t falter as he let concern further saturate the guise, “Do you really not remember me, Мой милый? Do you not know where you are, who you are?”
Alfred gripped his head; a throbbing pain was manifesting in his temples; there were shards, the briefest glimpses of a battle, of hollow laughter; broken, faded pictures of a crying brunette comforted by a bespectacled boy and a trembling blonde; but his name…?
I can’t-I don’t-w-who am I? Why c-can’t I r-remember?” the straw-haired man finally choked out, his eyes glazed with tears. Ivan gathered Alfred in his arms, whispering nothings into the sobbing man’s hair as he rubbed circles on his shuddering frame. Raising his chin with two fingers, violet eyes met azure as tears were wiped away. Suddenly, lips touched, and Alfred pressed into the contact, salty streaks still damp on his cheeks.
Flash; unbearable heat, his mind filled with cobwebs, warmth spreading across his mouth as he fell into unconsciousness-
They withdrew from each other, a light pink dusting on the American’s face. His still sleepy eyes regarded the Russian in a different light.
“Ah-I-Ivan…?” Ivan turned his smile as high as possible as he hugged Alfred tightly.
“Yes, Мой любимый; you haven’t forgotten me after all. I-I’m so grateful,” the elder country said, misty eyes the final touch on his act. Alfred rested on the other, his hands holding the coat in a slackened grip.
Something felt…wrong. But Ivan would help him through it, right? Said country’s teeth were grazing the outer shell of the American’s ear, earning a breathy whimper for his efforts.
“Yes, Mother is very thankful; do not worry. Mother won’t leave you alone anymore.”
Flash; the life of the lonely Hero. He was trying his best, he really was, but it wasn’t enough, never enough-I need-I want-Why aren’t you-It’s all your fault-
“Thank you, thank you; p-please don’t leave me. I d-don’t want to be alone anymore,” Alfred sobbed, the broken rememberings suffocating him as he cried into the wool.
He couldn’t contain his smile; it broke his face, the twisting nestling itself deep in his black heart. As he stroked his charge’s head an almost inaudible laugh slipped past his lips; the taint was beginning to pick up, stripping the American layer by layer, his vulnerable core easy to manipulate.
“Hush now, little patriot; remember,” Ivan began, fighting to keep the glee from his voice, “Mother loves you.”
(I wasn’t as satisfied with this part as I hoped to be, but it’s still okay, I think. ^^; The Batlics make an appearance next chapter, so stay tuned! Please keep reading and commenting (Thank you for those, BTW! A-Anon turns to goo every time she reads them *o*)
Translations:
Мой милый- my sweet (boy), Мой любимый- my love)
~~~~~~~~~
It had been almost three days since Toris had seen America; guilt gradually ate away at him, charring the insides black. He felt horrible, sick and angry; worst of all, however, he felt responsible.
He could have freed Alfred, let him escape after he treated his injuries.
He could have tried to break his chains instead of just bringing the weak man food.
He could have, somehow, tried to have been stronger…
The Lithuanian buried his now shaking hands in his chocolate locks; the tears pulsed against his eyes, threatening to fall again. He hadn’t cried this much in a while; no reason to, really. He’d grown used to the treatment; the leering gazes and chilled touches, the semi-sweet tone that was soaked in death and blood, and Ivan’s brand, lovingly given by the Russian’s own hands and a rusty pipe.
But him…he was still pure-he was still a Hero.
Toris hastily swiped at the tears; it wouldn’t be good if Ivan found him crying again. Taking a steadying breath, Toris added a final pinch of salt to his sauce, taking a tiny taste. Eyebrows knitted in frustration; it hadn’t come out right again, but it was the best he could do with so few ingredients and with his mind...elsewhere.
Quelling his frown, he set the table with the nice china, as the tall Russian had requested; Toris couldn’t help but wonder if they had company coming. Setting the roast in the center of the table, he planted the vegetables and potatoes in their respective places. While not one of his favorites dishes, Kotmis Satsivi was one of the few Russian meals he could make fairly well, and Ivan would always praise him on his proper preparation.
He didn’t know if he could take that this time.
Swallowing the hollow feeling, Toris quietly informed his brothers that dinner was ready and soon found himself at the foot of the large staircase.
“Ivan, sir, dinner is ready; please join us when you’re ready.”
Though there was no answer, the Lithuanian knew that he had been heard. He returned to the dining room, taking his place at the table, next to Eduard, but across from Raivis. He served his brothers before fixing a plate for himself and a rushed prayer was mumbled, a luxury they usually couldn’t afford.
As Toris prepared to take the first bite of the moist chicken he heard the door click open; turning, his eyes met the sight of Ivan, who was absent of his usual coat. Brushing the thought aside, the Lithuanian slightly bowed his head.
“Ivan, sir, we are glad you could join us. I hope the meal suits your tastes, sir,” Toris said quietly, his gaze fixed on the floor. A hum of chuckles answered.
“I’m sure it will, my Liet; your Kotmis Satsivi is always very nice, da? I hope our guest enjoys it as well.” Toris mentally nodded; so they did have company coming.
“It is all right, little one; there is no need to be shy,” Ivan said sweetly. The brunette couldn’t help but look up in confusion; the guest was a child?
Bashfully, a form slipped from behind the Russian’s back. He was wearing the violet-eyed man’s coat, which pooled slightly at the wrists and feet. Cobalt eyes shined slightly behind wire-framed lenses, straw hair ruffled and askew. A thick white bandage tightly encased the blonde’s head and one arm rested in a sling. Gripping Ivan’s limb, the blonde smiled, timid and unsure. Toris heard silverware clatter in the background.
“Al-alfred?” Toris whispered, the words tumbling from his slightly parted lips. The American met his gaze, shifting slightly back behind his living shield.
“Little patriot, what did I tell you to say?” Ivan prompted gently, pressing a hand along his lower back. The American immediately looked fearful and upset.
“I’m s-sorry, M-mother; I-I didn’t mean to f-forget,” Alfred said as if he were on the verge of tears. Standing as straight as possible, he bowed slightly to the table, “My name is Alfred; it is very nice to meet you.”
Toris felt the warmth returning to his eyes; this-this couldn’t be America. Where was the confident, cocky grin? The sparkling fervor as he introduced himself? This child couldn’t be him; but Ivan’s smile told him otherwise. Said Russian gave Alfred’s head a soft pat.
“That is better; come, sit, little rebel,” Ivan said, folding into his chair at the head of the table. Alfred nodded and sat in the closest seat on elder country’s immediate left, next to Raivis. Serving the American first and then himself, Ivan finally began his meal, prompting the others to do the same. Somehow, the Baltics managed to pick up their utensils, though their minds and eyes wandered to hay-haired man at the edge of the table.
“My Liet, your culinary skills never fail me; you have done an excellent job with the meat as always,” Ivan said, sweetness oozing from him once again.
“Thank you, sir,” Toris said numbly, his fork awkwardly twisted on his plate, “It means a great deal to me that you say so.”
Silence took over as pointless conversation was abandoned; Latvia continuously flicked his gaze sideways, his eyes almost overflowing with tears. Eduard, hoping to remain invisible, methodically ate his meal, his mind racing with possible methods of allowing the American to escape.
A scrape interrupted Lithuania’s thoughts.
Toris realized that Alfred was having a hard time cutting the meal, even though it was moist with flavor, because he only had only one arm to do so. His eyes widened slightly; this was his chance.
“Ah, Mr. America, would you like me to cut your Kotmis Satsivi?” Toris said, hoping his voice was as innocent as he intended. Forks froze half-way to mouths and Ivan’s eyes darkened several shades; he was dangerously close to the line.
Alfred met the Lithuanian’s gaze, his own clouded with thought.
Flash; ‘Mr. America, should I get some coffee for you?’ ‘Ah, yes, coffee would be lovely, Tor-‘
There was that pain again; remember, it said, remember! The American’s hands began to shake and he pressed one against his now throbbing temples, the tremors reverberating in his skull. He met Toris’s eyes, Alfred’s own filled with the beginnings of unraveling.
“Don’t I-don’t I know you?” the American began slowly, each word carefully spoken, leaning against his hand for support, “There was crying-and, and…coffee? Your…name-T-t-or-”
Before another syllable could be spoken, Alfred’s lips were captured by a very demanding kiss, commanding all attention. Lips parted as Ivan drew away; the words had died before birth.
“You had sauce on your mouth, little patriot; I thought I would get it for you,” the Russian said pleasantly, his hands dancing along the back of Alfred’s neck.
“A-ah, M-mother, wh-what was I talking-?” Press. The American’s eyes briefly widened as he slipped forward, eyelids fluttering closed. Ivan stood, lifting Alfred into his arms; his gaze challenged that of a steel-eyed brunette. Lithuania did not turn away.
“You will not ruin this for me, my Liet, no matter how much the poison in your blood talks and fights. The America you know is dead. You should know, dearest Liet; you killed him.”
A crack.
“No-I-it’s not my-” Toris fumbled, his voice breaking. All of his doubt, guilt came to a head, crushing him from the inside out, “What have I-what have I…”
Ivan smiled as he left the room; the little Baltics had yet to realize the other branch of the plan. He was not only breaking dear Alfred, but he was breaking them too, crushing their remaining strands of hope, snuffing out the last feebly flickering flame. And who would be there when they looked up with tear-filled eyes?
A smirk.
Mother always waits with open arms.
((Fun Facts: A-Anon is American and Kotmis Satsivi is a real Russian dish (Roast Chicken with Walnut Sauce).:o A-Anon is a horrible patriot. XD The place Ivan pressed is the carotid artery, which causes fainting from depressing heart rate and blood pressure.))