These Boots Are Made For Walkin' - Hetalia fic AlfredxArthur
Hokay~ well there is no guarentee that this will work straight off the bat, and my luck tends to list away from me at things like this so I'm just going to pray and hope for the best.
Title: These Boots Are Made For Walkin'
Series: Hetalia Axis Powers
Rating: 17
Warning: Ivan creepyness and prostitution. My gramatical errors.
Pairings: US/UK, PolLiet, possible Rus/US (though its fleeting and creepy) and a few more...hanging around.
Summary: Alfred, a student in a London University, has a strong mindset that Love exists as more than a hormone, and that everyone is entitled to love and be loved. So when he meets a male prostitute after a freak escape, will his mindset be shaken?
Psychologists and researchers have proposed a number of different theories of love. The following are four of the major theories proposed to explain liking, love, and emotional attachment.
“Alfred.”
Psychologist Zick Rubin proposed that romantic love is made up of three elements: attachment, caring, and intimacy.
“Alfred.”
Attachment is the need to receive care, approval, and physical contact with the other person. Caring involves valuing the other persons needs and happiness as much as your own. Intimacy refers to the sharing of thoughts, desires, and feelings with the other person.
“Alfred!”
The sound of Alfred slamming the book onto the table top resounded across the room, demanding silence as he glared at the other man. “What, Feliks? What?”
The Polish boy stared at him from under long blond eyelashes, rimmed with an attention grabbing shade of pink. “You're, like, totally out of it, Alfie. I called you, like, a billion times.”
Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his wire-rimed glassed up onto his forehead. “I know, Feliks.”
“Then why, like, totally igno-”
“Oh I dunno, maybe 'cos I'm trying to work through a pile of psychology papers and there's you, 'AlfredAlfredAlfred', just stop.” He threw the thin paperback at a mound of books. Feliks looked at Alfred as they toppled loudly onto the floor.
“Alfie.”
“Hmm?”
“You need food.”
Alfred slumped where he sat. The long fingers of irritation that had rooted themselves into Alfred's strong shoulders seemed to recede slightly. “Yeah.” He said, addressing the carpet. “Yeah, maybe I do.”
Alfred stuck his fork into a slab of pie in a much more gentle manner than the one he had used with the books. He focused on his food for a while before bringing his thoughts back to the present. Feliks waited until Alfred looked at him, and then waited a little longer.
“Why do you always put on that lipgloss?” Alfred said round a mouthful of pastry, gesturing at his friend with the trident of the fork.
Feliks glanced up from the compact mirror he held in his pale hand. He snapped it shut and popped his lips, smiling through a painted, rose petal mouth. “because it looks fabulous, right.” He said.
“Naw” Alfred polished off the pie on his plate. “I mean, it does, but why do you use that particular brand? More specifically, why do you use that same tube, over and over. I know it's the same.”
Feliks pulled a dumbfounded expression while still somehow pursing his glossy lips. “Dude. What's so weird about that?”
“You know what I mean. I mean I know you, you're my roomate. We know who's underwear stains who's pink in the washer” Feliks showed some pearly teeth. “C'mon, man. I'm serious, you like to experiment. So why stick to that one tube of lipgloss?”
Feliks watched Alfred sideways, his green eyes glinting in the florescent light. “This brand is, like, super-ultra- special to me Alfred. That's why.” The two students looked at each other. A memory of a face passing between their minds like an electronic pulse.
“Now.” Stated Feliks, placing his manicured hands on the steel table-top. “I get to ask the questions. Why are you, like, burying yourself under, like, a ton of books? Dude, it can't be good for you.”
Alfred sighed and pushed his clean plate away. He looked at the polished china for a while. Then he took off his glasses and scrubbed a hand through his corn-fields-of-gold locks, making them stand up like chicken-fuzz. “It's the course. I...Feliks I wanna do well on the course.”
Feliks furrowed his blond brow, leaning forward slightly. “But..Dude. You are doing well...really well. Every-”
“I know what everyone says. But.. Feliks. I want to do really well.” Alfred leaned forward too. Begging his friend to understand with his gaze. Trying to establish a connection, blue eyes to green. Willing the emerald irises to spark with understanding.
The spark never came. “Alfred. I'm not going to pretend I get it, but I want to understand, I totally do, just try to explain. Maybe you'll, like, I dunno, make it clearer to yourself too.”
Alfred leaned back in his seat, sweeping his gaze over the diner and it's inhabitants. “Well. I mean, it's pretty clear to me. What I want. In my own mind. But. It's just. This is what I have to do to get there. I have to push myself, I have to be the best, the top of the game. It doesn't matter if it's hard for me. It's about the rest of the world. And it's like I'm the only one who can do it. It has to be me. It's like..I'm. It's just....” Alfred turned back to his friend, and leaned forward again. The words finally coming to mind. “It's like I'm born for this, Feli.”
Feliks studied his friends face, a second image floating like a haze before the man sitting in the booth across from his. He studied the tired, sickliness showing through the tan skin, the locks of messed, blond hair falling over his face, the slight shadow of stubble dusting over his chin. He compared this image with the ones he held in boxes in his mind. Alfred laughing, Alfred running, Alfred climbing trees, Alfred crying, Alfred bleeding, Alfred tearing up daises and dreaming of a future where he could be looked apon with love and understanding, and never, truly wanting anything else in return.
Feliks blinked himself back into the diner. He let his fair head tilt to the side, his long pale-blond hair sweeping his shoulders. He smiled, the small movement narrowing his eyes with love.
“You sound like a superhero.”
Alfred blinked, looking like a boy startled by a sudden compliment. Then his handsome face broke into a grin, creasing the corners of his eyes.
He chatted to Feliks. Asked the waitress for another cup of coffee and cake. Bought a few more slices of pie. Feliks jibbed him about his eating habits a few times. Then they went back to the dorms laughing and talking, through the dark, busy streets of London.
“Just because science claims that the feeling of love, is simply a rush of hormones released from the sex organs of men and women in a bid to reproduce, does not mean that love, in itself is simply an animalisitc urge. It does not mean that love is dead. It does not mean that love never existed. It does not mean that love is a figment of our imagination. I would like to draw your attention to anomalies of this case. Those of the human race who cannot have children, who cannot reproduce; they still retain the power to love, the need to be loved. Gays and lesbians. Young and old. Those with illnesses and mental defects. All still have the power and need to love and be loved. Therefore I believe that love, in itself, completely, and wholly exists. It has to, not only for the well being of the earth, but for the well being of the human race. Love is as vital for life, as the air we breath. Something so powerful, so completely mind blowing and life changing, has to be more than a scientists chart of glands and hormones. People have been known to fight, to battle, to sacrifice, to completely re-write their entire mental thought process, and even to die for love. I now draw attention to the fact that love, therefore, cannot be a simple rush of hormones, as it completely defies what it is to be a hormone. What hormone in the human body, what electric signal in the entire nervous system tells a human to destroy itself? It goes completely against what it is to be a hormone. It goes against human nature. Therefore. I conclude. That love actually is a force all of its own. I believe that love exists. And it exists for, and in, each and every one of us.”
Alfred finally stopped for breath. He kept his gaze steady as he made his way up the thin wooden steps, back to his seat in the lecture hall, he sat down next to Feliks, and finally, the room seemed to snap out of the dream Alfred's words had lulled it into. A massive surge of applause broke out and filled the room to the very top of the ceiling. People whistled and laughed and called out his praise. The entire room, moved.
“Like. Wow.” Feliks grinned. “I swear that, like, has to be your longest speech yet. What was that, twenty pages?”
Alfred gave his friend a sheepish, sideways grin. The skin under his eyes growing red. “Twenty-five.” He said then leaned down to rub a badly shaking hand against his leg. “Jeez, I thought I was gonna have a heart attack, stop breathing, and collapse all at the same time down there.”
“Like, wow.” Feliks said again. “And you think you have to push yourself harder.” He looked back to the desk where the lecturer was drawing attention back to the lesson.
“I do” Alfred said “Just a little more. Just a bit more.”
Feliks glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, then took the brand new, class-issue book from the girl handing them out.
“What is it?” Alfred leaned over so close that his ear brushed Feliks' long hair.
“Dude, personal bubble.” Feliks flapped his hand around in Alfred's face. “Can't you, like, wait 'till you get yours?”
Alfred leaned back and pouted. “No, my guy's all the way down-” A copy of the book was pushed into Alfred's hands. “Oh.”
Feliks raised an eyebrow at him.
Alfred flipped the glossy soft-back and scanned the cover. “Cool. Freud.” He drawled. His American accent colouring the words.
“Dude. It's Freud.” Feliks said.
Alfred frowned. “That's what I said.”
Feliks looked at him.
“So the Study of Dreams huh?” Feliks opened the book and cracked the spine. Grinning at the feel of it's pages.
“And a few essays on Sexuality.”
“Where?”
“At the back” Alfred pointed.
“'Deviations in respect of the Sexual Object'” Feliks read, “'A) Inversion, B) Sexually immature Persons and Animals as Sexual Objects.' This should, like, totally fit in with your “Love as an Actual Entity” bit.”
“Yeah? Well it's ticked all your boxes so far. Inversion, Sexual immaturity...”
“Shuddup.”
Alfred grinned.
“Hay, I know it's thrilling stuff, but can we keep on track here people?” The lecturer's well used voice reached out to all the gossiping students. Silence fell. Feliks openly giggled. Alfred hid behind his book and bit his lip.
Alfred groaned loudly, ripping off his glasses and sending them skidding across the small glass table. He buried his long, tan fingers into his hair and rested his elbows on his bare knees. He sat in his boxers and a shirt on the small, comfy sofa. Before him lay a battle ground of books and pens and papers, and open, on the cluttered table, lay the brand new Freud book, open around three-quarters of the way through.
The bathroom door opened, light flooding the darkened living room. Alfred scrubbed at his eyes and looked up quickly, flinging himself back and attempting to pull off nonchalance. Feliks walked in, skin flushed and water droplets rolling down his pale body. Fresh from the shower he wore surprisingly masculine boxers compared to the frills and lace he wore over them, misleading a stranger into thinking that the lithe slim body and capable, strong muscles underneath did not exist.
He raised his eyebrows at the pile of books, a towel around his neck, pulling a comb through his damp hair. “Whacha doin'?” he asked serious and playful at the same time.
“Workin'” Alfred replied in the same light tone.
“Thats a lotta' work.” He commented. Leaning down to shift a few sheets and peer at a few books. He caught sight of the copy of Freud. Creased and open. He snatched it up and stared at the page presented to him. “Kurwa, Alfred! We only got that the other day, you're nearly finished!”
“Not finished yet.” He said gruffly, and reached for the book.
Feliks held the book and suddenly looked nervous. His hair dripped. Alfred lowered his hand.
“Alfred. At the rate you're going. You could be called a genius.”
Alfred scowled. “I'm not a genius. I just work hard.”
Feliks leaned down and returned the book, dripping a bit more. “Work too hard, maybe.” Alfred opened his mouth but Feliks cut him off with a flick of his wrist. “By all means, work as hard as you want, be the top in the country, become the hero you where born to be. But have a holiday or two huh? It's the weekend tomorrow.” Feliks looked at his roommate until he met his eyes. “Why don't you leave the books to rest for a while? You, of all people can afford too.”
Alfred paused, a crease between his eyebrows. Then he sighed and looked at his hands in this lap. “I guess you're right.”
Feliks winked and bounced around the table. “I'm, like, always right.” He took Alfred's larger hands in his and yanked him to his feet.
“Now, get up, pull some pants on and scram.”
Alfred stumbled in confusion. “What? Why? You're dripping on me. Where are we going?”
“Um mm.” Feliks hummed negatively. “Not we; you. Your going out for a nice, relaxing walk on your own.” Feliks practically pushed the American student over as he hopped on one foot, trying to pull his jeans on under the viscous order of his friend. Alfred considered putting quotation marks on that term in the future. “Just you, London streets, and your thoughts.”
Feliks pushed him out the door. Alfred frowned, turned and opened his mouth to argue and got a face full of jacket for his trouble.
“Trust me, it'll, like, do you wonders.” The Polish student promised, sealing it with a wink, and shutting the door in his 'friends' face.
Alfred stood for a while in the empty hall, just staring at his side of the door. He could hear Feliks singing to himself through the wood. He sighed again, then turned and walked to the stairs, pulling on his jacket.
He walked quickly at first, before he realised that he didn't actually have anywhere to be. He cooled the pace a bit then. His long legs taking lazy strides across the tarmac. He looked at the other people out walking in the late London afternoon. Couples, gangs, businessmen and women, people on phones, people begging. People. Everywhere. And all of them had someone to love, someone to love them. Alfred almost lost himself in his work again, before pulling himself out of that train of thought. No. Feliks wanted him to relax, think of something else, something besides work...
What do you think about when you don't think of work? The realisation that he didn't quite know unsettled Alfred a bit. He walked. Looked at people. Bought himself a coke. Binned the coke. Browsed through books in a shop. Then went exploring through the wide and wonderful world of clothes. And finally, Alfred managed to loose himself for a few hours, and when he eventually left yet another clothes store he glanced at his watch and had to double check that the time wasn't lying to him.
Alfred looked at the sky. He hadn't noticed when it had gotten dark. The street lights had kept it bright enough. Alfred breathed through his nose, his eyes closed, then he turned to make his way home.
The street was dotted with cars. One car, however, seemed to be watching him. It's tinted windows seemed to grow eyes and stare at him, unblinkingly. It's dark paintwork emitting and aura of menace, sucking all the artificial light from the streets into itself. Alfred's fingertips grew cold and a ball of buzzing energy formed itself in his stomach, pushing the blood and organs out the way and making Alfred blink too fast and twitch slightly.
Alfred considered turning around and taking a longer rout home. But then, half of him reasoned. That would take longer. And whoever is in the car will think that you are weird. There's probably not even anyone in that car anyway. You can't base everything on feelings, it reprimanded him. Alfred drew a shaky breath and forced himself to walk again. His instincts screaming at him, and his logic screaming just as hard. Alfred's jaw clenched and his fingers shook in the pockets of his jacket. His legs felt like lead and the cold was creeping into his body. At last, he came to the car and was about to pass by when the window rolled down.
Alfred looked at the window, then leaned down to look through it. It's probably just a lost tourist. At this time of night? You shouldn't be so suspicious of people, what happened to your theories of love? Again, at this time of night? Well, even if it is a wierdo, I can take him. I'm the tallest in my class. Height won't save you from a gang of batshit crazy knife-wielding murderer/rapist/psychopaths!
Alfred plastered on a smile and looked through the window. “Hi, how can I h-.”
The coldness left him as he recognised the driver behind the wheel. His face contorted with rage.
“You. What the fuck are you doing here?”
Ivan Braginski looked at Alfred with happy, violet eyes. “Добрый вечер, Alfred.”
Alfred's lip curled and he made to walk away, but Ivan called him back. “Wait, my friend, can we please talk? I have a problem that regards Toris.”
Alfred paused mid-turn. An internal battle raged. Eventually he stamped his foot, wrenched open the door and sat in the car. Ivan made to start the engine but Alfred's hand clamped down on the leather steering-wheel. “Oh no.” He glared “we talk right here.”
Ivan simply smiled and folded his hands in his lap. “Very well.” His Russian accent heavy on every word. Clicking and purring. “It seems that Toris is not very happy.”
Alfred's lip curled. “Well, that's a shame. You can't be a very good roommate then.”
“Apparently not.” The Russian admitted. “I was wondering to myself. I thought. 'How can I make dear Toris more happy? How can I make him living apart from his dear Feliks more bearable?' and it hit me” The older man's eyes lit up and Alfred wished something had hit him. “I thought, since he is been going to a different university to his friends, I shall bring his friends to him!” Ivan clapped his hands, smiling. Then he turned back to the wheel and started the engine of the car.
This time Alfred make no move to stop him. His hands twitched in an almost reflex like way to the steering-wheel but he blinked, and pulled them back to his lap. He was going to see Toris? If he saw Toris, he could see how he was, catch up, and then report back that all was ok to Feliks. It had to be ok. Toris may not have called. He may not have texted. He may not have shared an email address, home address, or telephone number, but Toris had always had home problems. And he always got in touch after moving.
Alfred glanced at the man in the seat next to him. Humming to himself and navigating the road like he was so used to it that he could drive with his eyes closed. Ivan. Freshly graduated Ivan Braginski. Toris' new roommate as he went to a different university to his closest friends. Ivan who emitted the black aura of cold unease. Alfred looked out the window. A nagging wish to turn his head niggled at the back of his neck like ghost fingers. He wanted to glance around, just to check that Ivan was not watching him, reaching out to touch him.
Alfred shivered involuntarily.
“Are you alright? You are not cold?” So he had been watching him.
Alfred swallowed and opened his mouth to tell the Russian that he was fine. When he realised, “Wait, I don't recognise this part of London.”
Ivan chuckled “Of course you don't. You do not know where I live.”
This was true, but the cold, fear was settling itself in Alfred's stomach again. “But this isn't even a neighbourhood, look” he pointed out the rain-spattered, tinted window. “This is just a load of-”
Alfred looked at Ivan. The other man had pulled the car over to an dank, unlit road, pitted with potholes and pieces of rubbish growing damp in the rain.
“You are a very beautiful man, Alfred.” Alfred breathed in sharply through his nose, his blue eyes widening. “Maybe...” the Russian seemed to ponder something, totally relaxed, cool, clear minded. While Alfred's mind was filling with static. Ivan reached out a hand and touched Alfred's cheek. The American blinked so hard his head jerked. “Maybe...” Ivan said again “I should break you, like Toris. He is beautiful too.”
The words where a bucket of water in Alfred's face and he span in his seat, fingers fumbling at the door handle.
Large, cold hands clamped around his arms like a machine, ripping him away from the door. Ivan pushed Alfred against the car seat, his fingers bruising his skin. Alfred gasped and dug his nails into Ivan's broad hands, but the other man didn't even blink. Alfred turned his face away and his jaw worked soundlessly as he felt Ivan's cold lips against his cheek, his jaw, his neck.
Alfred balled a hand into a fist and threw a punch at Ivan. The Russian grabbed his hands and pinned them above his head, continuing his ministrations about Alfred's neck.
Alfred looked at the car roof above him. His eyes wide and fuzzy around the edges with panic. Fear pumped adrenalin around his body. His heart pounding. His palms cold and sweaty. And the realisation staring him right in the face that he was going to be raped. Right there. By a man he only knew through a feeling of intense. Cold. Fear.
Alfred screamed. He screamed so hard that the windows rattled and his ears rung afterwards. He wrenched his hands out of Ivan's steel grip, dug his knee into whatever it would connect with and squirmed as hard as he could.
Alfred thanked god that a grunt of pain had gasped its way from Ivan's cold lips. He gripped the headrests and pulled his way through the suddenly minute gap between the seats. He fell into the back seat and franticly looked for an escape rout. Ivan seemed to have recovered from the knee Alfred had delt him and glared, his violet eyes glinting in the darkness. He leaned over to the drivers seat and pushed a button.
Alfred's breath stopped when he heard the tell tale 'shunk' of the automatic doors locking. Ivan moved towards where Alfred was cowering in the backseat. Alfred screamed and kicked Ivan in the face, he fell back, a hand over his nose. Alfred lunged up and grabbed the handle of the rain-speckled sun-roof, wrenching it open. It stopped with barely enough space to get his arm out. Alfred screamed in frustration and punched the screen. The impact jarred his fist, but the opening gaped. Alfred's eyes widened, his heart soaring with hope. He drew his fist back again and punched the screen giving it all he was worth.
The screen flew back with a crack and Alfred laughed, gripping the sides and hauling himself up. Cold hands gripped his coat and he looked down into the darkness of the car, violet eyes glinting furiously up at him. Alfred struggled against the pull as it began to drag him back into the darkness, like an Angel being abducted by daemons. Is that what they would say when there was no sign of him? That he had been daemoned away by fallen angels? Spirited away by ghosts? Vanished by nightmares? The horror of that thought was enough to give him one last push. His hands shaking with the effort of keeping his body up, he heaved one last time, and kicked blindly with both feet. He felt them connect with something, a howl of pain and a thud, then Alfred was up and jumping off the roof, sprinting away with only one shoe, and his jacket left behind.
Title: These Boots Are Made For Walkin'
Series: Hetalia Axis Powers
Rating: 17
Warning: Ivan creepyness and prostitution. My gramatical errors.
Pairings: US/UK, PolLiet, possible Rus/US (though its fleeting and creepy) and a few more...hanging around.
Summary: Alfred, a student in a London University, has a strong mindset that Love exists as more than a hormone, and that everyone is entitled to love and be loved. So when he meets a male prostitute after a freak escape, will his mindset be shaken?
Psychologists and researchers have proposed a number of different theories of love. The following are four of the major theories proposed to explain liking, love, and emotional attachment.
“Alfred.”
Psychologist Zick Rubin proposed that romantic love is made up of three elements: attachment, caring, and intimacy.
“Alfred.”
Attachment is the need to receive care, approval, and physical contact with the other person. Caring involves valuing the other persons needs and happiness as much as your own. Intimacy refers to the sharing of thoughts, desires, and feelings with the other person.
“Alfred!”
The sound of Alfred slamming the book onto the table top resounded across the room, demanding silence as he glared at the other man. “What, Feliks? What?”
The Polish boy stared at him from under long blond eyelashes, rimmed with an attention grabbing shade of pink. “You're, like, totally out of it, Alfie. I called you, like, a billion times.”
Alfred pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his wire-rimed glassed up onto his forehead. “I know, Feliks.”
“Then why, like, totally igno-”
“Oh I dunno, maybe 'cos I'm trying to work through a pile of psychology papers and there's you, 'AlfredAlfredAlfred', just stop.” He threw the thin paperback at a mound of books. Feliks looked at Alfred as they toppled loudly onto the floor.
“Alfie.”
“Hmm?”
“You need food.”
Alfred slumped where he sat. The long fingers of irritation that had rooted themselves into Alfred's strong shoulders seemed to recede slightly. “Yeah.” He said, addressing the carpet. “Yeah, maybe I do.”
Alfred stuck his fork into a slab of pie in a much more gentle manner than the one he had used with the books. He focused on his food for a while before bringing his thoughts back to the present. Feliks waited until Alfred looked at him, and then waited a little longer.
“Why do you always put on that lipgloss?” Alfred said round a mouthful of pastry, gesturing at his friend with the trident of the fork.
Feliks glanced up from the compact mirror he held in his pale hand. He snapped it shut and popped his lips, smiling through a painted, rose petal mouth. “because it looks fabulous, right.” He said.
“Naw” Alfred polished off the pie on his plate. “I mean, it does, but why do you use that particular brand? More specifically, why do you use that same tube, over and over. I know it's the same.”
Feliks pulled a dumbfounded expression while still somehow pursing his glossy lips. “Dude. What's so weird about that?”
“You know what I mean. I mean I know you, you're my roomate. We know who's underwear stains who's pink in the washer” Feliks showed some pearly teeth. “C'mon, man. I'm serious, you like to experiment. So why stick to that one tube of lipgloss?”
Feliks watched Alfred sideways, his green eyes glinting in the florescent light. “This brand is, like, super-ultra- special to me Alfred. That's why.” The two students looked at each other. A memory of a face passing between their minds like an electronic pulse.
“Now.” Stated Feliks, placing his manicured hands on the steel table-top. “I get to ask the questions. Why are you, like, burying yourself under, like, a ton of books? Dude, it can't be good for you.”
Alfred sighed and pushed his clean plate away. He looked at the polished china for a while. Then he took off his glasses and scrubbed a hand through his corn-fields-of-gold locks, making them stand up like chicken-fuzz. “It's the course. I...Feliks I wanna do well on the course.”
Feliks furrowed his blond brow, leaning forward slightly. “But..Dude. You are doing well...really well. Every-”
“I know what everyone says. But.. Feliks. I want to do really well.” Alfred leaned forward too. Begging his friend to understand with his gaze. Trying to establish a connection, blue eyes to green. Willing the emerald irises to spark with understanding.
The spark never came. “Alfred. I'm not going to pretend I get it, but I want to understand, I totally do, just try to explain. Maybe you'll, like, I dunno, make it clearer to yourself too.”
Alfred leaned back in his seat, sweeping his gaze over the diner and it's inhabitants. “Well. I mean, it's pretty clear to me. What I want. In my own mind. But. It's just. This is what I have to do to get there. I have to push myself, I have to be the best, the top of the game. It doesn't matter if it's hard for me. It's about the rest of the world. And it's like I'm the only one who can do it. It has to be me. It's like..I'm. It's just....” Alfred turned back to his friend, and leaned forward again. The words finally coming to mind. “It's like I'm born for this, Feli.”
Feliks studied his friends face, a second image floating like a haze before the man sitting in the booth across from his. He studied the tired, sickliness showing through the tan skin, the locks of messed, blond hair falling over his face, the slight shadow of stubble dusting over his chin. He compared this image with the ones he held in boxes in his mind. Alfred laughing, Alfred running, Alfred climbing trees, Alfred crying, Alfred bleeding, Alfred tearing up daises and dreaming of a future where he could be looked apon with love and understanding, and never, truly wanting anything else in return.
Feliks blinked himself back into the diner. He let his fair head tilt to the side, his long pale-blond hair sweeping his shoulders. He smiled, the small movement narrowing his eyes with love.
“You sound like a superhero.”
Alfred blinked, looking like a boy startled by a sudden compliment. Then his handsome face broke into a grin, creasing the corners of his eyes.
He chatted to Feliks. Asked the waitress for another cup of coffee and cake. Bought a few more slices of pie. Feliks jibbed him about his eating habits a few times. Then they went back to the dorms laughing and talking, through the dark, busy streets of London.
“Just because science claims that the feeling of love, is simply a rush of hormones released from the sex organs of men and women in a bid to reproduce, does not mean that love, in itself is simply an animalisitc urge. It does not mean that love is dead. It does not mean that love never existed. It does not mean that love is a figment of our imagination. I would like to draw your attention to anomalies of this case. Those of the human race who cannot have children, who cannot reproduce; they still retain the power to love, the need to be loved. Gays and lesbians. Young and old. Those with illnesses and mental defects. All still have the power and need to love and be loved. Therefore I believe that love, in itself, completely, and wholly exists. It has to, not only for the well being of the earth, but for the well being of the human race. Love is as vital for life, as the air we breath. Something so powerful, so completely mind blowing and life changing, has to be more than a scientists chart of glands and hormones. People have been known to fight, to battle, to sacrifice, to completely re-write their entire mental thought process, and even to die for love. I now draw attention to the fact that love, therefore, cannot be a simple rush of hormones, as it completely defies what it is to be a hormone. What hormone in the human body, what electric signal in the entire nervous system tells a human to destroy itself? It goes completely against what it is to be a hormone. It goes against human nature. Therefore. I conclude. That love actually is a force all of its own. I believe that love exists. And it exists for, and in, each and every one of us.”
Alfred finally stopped for breath. He kept his gaze steady as he made his way up the thin wooden steps, back to his seat in the lecture hall, he sat down next to Feliks, and finally, the room seemed to snap out of the dream Alfred's words had lulled it into. A massive surge of applause broke out and filled the room to the very top of the ceiling. People whistled and laughed and called out his praise. The entire room, moved.
“Like. Wow.” Feliks grinned. “I swear that, like, has to be your longest speech yet. What was that, twenty pages?”
Alfred gave his friend a sheepish, sideways grin. The skin under his eyes growing red. “Twenty-five.” He said then leaned down to rub a badly shaking hand against his leg. “Jeez, I thought I was gonna have a heart attack, stop breathing, and collapse all at the same time down there.”
“Like, wow.” Feliks said again. “And you think you have to push yourself harder.” He looked back to the desk where the lecturer was drawing attention back to the lesson.
“I do” Alfred said “Just a little more. Just a bit more.”
Feliks glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, then took the brand new, class-issue book from the girl handing them out.
“What is it?” Alfred leaned over so close that his ear brushed Feliks' long hair.
“Dude, personal bubble.” Feliks flapped his hand around in Alfred's face. “Can't you, like, wait 'till you get yours?”
Alfred leaned back and pouted. “No, my guy's all the way down-” A copy of the book was pushed into Alfred's hands. “Oh.”
Feliks raised an eyebrow at him.
Alfred flipped the glossy soft-back and scanned the cover. “Cool. Freud.” He drawled. His American accent colouring the words.
“Dude. It's Freud.” Feliks said.
Alfred frowned. “That's what I said.”
Feliks looked at him.
“So the Study of Dreams huh?” Feliks opened the book and cracked the spine. Grinning at the feel of it's pages.
“And a few essays on Sexuality.”
“Where?”
“At the back” Alfred pointed.
“'Deviations in respect of the Sexual Object'” Feliks read, “'A) Inversion, B) Sexually immature Persons and Animals as Sexual Objects.' This should, like, totally fit in with your “Love as an Actual Entity” bit.”
“Yeah? Well it's ticked all your boxes so far. Inversion, Sexual immaturity...”
“Shuddup.”
Alfred grinned.
“Hay, I know it's thrilling stuff, but can we keep on track here people?” The lecturer's well used voice reached out to all the gossiping students. Silence fell. Feliks openly giggled. Alfred hid behind his book and bit his lip.
Alfred groaned loudly, ripping off his glasses and sending them skidding across the small glass table. He buried his long, tan fingers into his hair and rested his elbows on his bare knees. He sat in his boxers and a shirt on the small, comfy sofa. Before him lay a battle ground of books and pens and papers, and open, on the cluttered table, lay the brand new Freud book, open around three-quarters of the way through.
The bathroom door opened, light flooding the darkened living room. Alfred scrubbed at his eyes and looked up quickly, flinging himself back and attempting to pull off nonchalance. Feliks walked in, skin flushed and water droplets rolling down his pale body. Fresh from the shower he wore surprisingly masculine boxers compared to the frills and lace he wore over them, misleading a stranger into thinking that the lithe slim body and capable, strong muscles underneath did not exist.
He raised his eyebrows at the pile of books, a towel around his neck, pulling a comb through his damp hair. “Whacha doin'?” he asked serious and playful at the same time.
“Workin'” Alfred replied in the same light tone.
“Thats a lotta' work.” He commented. Leaning down to shift a few sheets and peer at a few books. He caught sight of the copy of Freud. Creased and open. He snatched it up and stared at the page presented to him. “Kurwa, Alfred! We only got that the other day, you're nearly finished!”
“Not finished yet.” He said gruffly, and reached for the book.
Feliks held the book and suddenly looked nervous. His hair dripped. Alfred lowered his hand.
“Alfred. At the rate you're going. You could be called a genius.”
Alfred scowled. “I'm not a genius. I just work hard.”
Feliks leaned down and returned the book, dripping a bit more. “Work too hard, maybe.” Alfred opened his mouth but Feliks cut him off with a flick of his wrist. “By all means, work as hard as you want, be the top in the country, become the hero you where born to be. But have a holiday or two huh? It's the weekend tomorrow.” Feliks looked at his roommate until he met his eyes. “Why don't you leave the books to rest for a while? You, of all people can afford too.”
Alfred paused, a crease between his eyebrows. Then he sighed and looked at his hands in this lap. “I guess you're right.”
Feliks winked and bounced around the table. “I'm, like, always right.” He took Alfred's larger hands in his and yanked him to his feet.
“Now, get up, pull some pants on and scram.”
Alfred stumbled in confusion. “What? Why? You're dripping on me. Where are we going?”
“Um mm.” Feliks hummed negatively. “Not we; you. Your going out for a nice, relaxing walk on your own.” Feliks practically pushed the American student over as he hopped on one foot, trying to pull his jeans on under the viscous order of his friend. Alfred considered putting quotation marks on that term in the future. “Just you, London streets, and your thoughts.”
Feliks pushed him out the door. Alfred frowned, turned and opened his mouth to argue and got a face full of jacket for his trouble.
“Trust me, it'll, like, do you wonders.” The Polish student promised, sealing it with a wink, and shutting the door in his 'friends' face.
Alfred stood for a while in the empty hall, just staring at his side of the door. He could hear Feliks singing to himself through the wood. He sighed again, then turned and walked to the stairs, pulling on his jacket.
He walked quickly at first, before he realised that he didn't actually have anywhere to be. He cooled the pace a bit then. His long legs taking lazy strides across the tarmac. He looked at the other people out walking in the late London afternoon. Couples, gangs, businessmen and women, people on phones, people begging. People. Everywhere. And all of them had someone to love, someone to love them. Alfred almost lost himself in his work again, before pulling himself out of that train of thought. No. Feliks wanted him to relax, think of something else, something besides work...
What do you think about when you don't think of work? The realisation that he didn't quite know unsettled Alfred a bit. He walked. Looked at people. Bought himself a coke. Binned the coke. Browsed through books in a shop. Then went exploring through the wide and wonderful world of clothes. And finally, Alfred managed to loose himself for a few hours, and when he eventually left yet another clothes store he glanced at his watch and had to double check that the time wasn't lying to him.
Alfred looked at the sky. He hadn't noticed when it had gotten dark. The street lights had kept it bright enough. Alfred breathed through his nose, his eyes closed, then he turned to make his way home.
The street was dotted with cars. One car, however, seemed to be watching him. It's tinted windows seemed to grow eyes and stare at him, unblinkingly. It's dark paintwork emitting and aura of menace, sucking all the artificial light from the streets into itself. Alfred's fingertips grew cold and a ball of buzzing energy formed itself in his stomach, pushing the blood and organs out the way and making Alfred blink too fast and twitch slightly.
Alfred considered turning around and taking a longer rout home. But then, half of him reasoned. That would take longer. And whoever is in the car will think that you are weird. There's probably not even anyone in that car anyway. You can't base everything on feelings, it reprimanded him. Alfred drew a shaky breath and forced himself to walk again. His instincts screaming at him, and his logic screaming just as hard. Alfred's jaw clenched and his fingers shook in the pockets of his jacket. His legs felt like lead and the cold was creeping into his body. At last, he came to the car and was about to pass by when the window rolled down.
Alfred looked at the window, then leaned down to look through it. It's probably just a lost tourist. At this time of night? You shouldn't be so suspicious of people, what happened to your theories of love? Again, at this time of night? Well, even if it is a wierdo, I can take him. I'm the tallest in my class. Height won't save you from a gang of batshit crazy knife-wielding murderer/rapist/psychopaths!
Alfred plastered on a smile and looked through the window. “Hi, how can I h-.”
The coldness left him as he recognised the driver behind the wheel. His face contorted with rage.
“You. What the fuck are you doing here?”
Ivan Braginski looked at Alfred with happy, violet eyes. “Добрый вечер, Alfred.”
Alfred's lip curled and he made to walk away, but Ivan called him back. “Wait, my friend, can we please talk? I have a problem that regards Toris.”
Alfred paused mid-turn. An internal battle raged. Eventually he stamped his foot, wrenched open the door and sat in the car. Ivan made to start the engine but Alfred's hand clamped down on the leather steering-wheel. “Oh no.” He glared “we talk right here.”
Ivan simply smiled and folded his hands in his lap. “Very well.” His Russian accent heavy on every word. Clicking and purring. “It seems that Toris is not very happy.”
Alfred's lip curled. “Well, that's a shame. You can't be a very good roommate then.”
“Apparently not.” The Russian admitted. “I was wondering to myself. I thought. 'How can I make dear Toris more happy? How can I make him living apart from his dear Feliks more bearable?' and it hit me” The older man's eyes lit up and Alfred wished something had hit him. “I thought, since he is been going to a different university to his friends, I shall bring his friends to him!” Ivan clapped his hands, smiling. Then he turned back to the wheel and started the engine of the car.
This time Alfred make no move to stop him. His hands twitched in an almost reflex like way to the steering-wheel but he blinked, and pulled them back to his lap. He was going to see Toris? If he saw Toris, he could see how he was, catch up, and then report back that all was ok to Feliks. It had to be ok. Toris may not have called. He may not have texted. He may not have shared an email address, home address, or telephone number, but Toris had always had home problems. And he always got in touch after moving.
Alfred glanced at the man in the seat next to him. Humming to himself and navigating the road like he was so used to it that he could drive with his eyes closed. Ivan. Freshly graduated Ivan Braginski. Toris' new roommate as he went to a different university to his closest friends. Ivan who emitted the black aura of cold unease. Alfred looked out the window. A nagging wish to turn his head niggled at the back of his neck like ghost fingers. He wanted to glance around, just to check that Ivan was not watching him, reaching out to touch him.
Alfred shivered involuntarily.
“Are you alright? You are not cold?” So he had been watching him.
Alfred swallowed and opened his mouth to tell the Russian that he was fine. When he realised, “Wait, I don't recognise this part of London.”
Ivan chuckled “Of course you don't. You do not know where I live.”
This was true, but the cold, fear was settling itself in Alfred's stomach again. “But this isn't even a neighbourhood, look” he pointed out the rain-spattered, tinted window. “This is just a load of-”
Alfred looked at Ivan. The other man had pulled the car over to an dank, unlit road, pitted with potholes and pieces of rubbish growing damp in the rain.
“You are a very beautiful man, Alfred.” Alfred breathed in sharply through his nose, his blue eyes widening. “Maybe...” the Russian seemed to ponder something, totally relaxed, cool, clear minded. While Alfred's mind was filling with static. Ivan reached out a hand and touched Alfred's cheek. The American blinked so hard his head jerked. “Maybe...” Ivan said again “I should break you, like Toris. He is beautiful too.”
The words where a bucket of water in Alfred's face and he span in his seat, fingers fumbling at the door handle.
Large, cold hands clamped around his arms like a machine, ripping him away from the door. Ivan pushed Alfred against the car seat, his fingers bruising his skin. Alfred gasped and dug his nails into Ivan's broad hands, but the other man didn't even blink. Alfred turned his face away and his jaw worked soundlessly as he felt Ivan's cold lips against his cheek, his jaw, his neck.
Alfred balled a hand into a fist and threw a punch at Ivan. The Russian grabbed his hands and pinned them above his head, continuing his ministrations about Alfred's neck.
Alfred looked at the car roof above him. His eyes wide and fuzzy around the edges with panic. Fear pumped adrenalin around his body. His heart pounding. His palms cold and sweaty. And the realisation staring him right in the face that he was going to be raped. Right there. By a man he only knew through a feeling of intense. Cold. Fear.
Alfred screamed. He screamed so hard that the windows rattled and his ears rung afterwards. He wrenched his hands out of Ivan's steel grip, dug his knee into whatever it would connect with and squirmed as hard as he could.
Alfred thanked god that a grunt of pain had gasped its way from Ivan's cold lips. He gripped the headrests and pulled his way through the suddenly minute gap between the seats. He fell into the back seat and franticly looked for an escape rout. Ivan seemed to have recovered from the knee Alfred had delt him and glared, his violet eyes glinting in the darkness. He leaned over to the drivers seat and pushed a button.
Alfred's breath stopped when he heard the tell tale 'shunk' of the automatic doors locking. Ivan moved towards where Alfred was cowering in the backseat. Alfred screamed and kicked Ivan in the face, he fell back, a hand over his nose. Alfred lunged up and grabbed the handle of the rain-speckled sun-roof, wrenching it open. It stopped with barely enough space to get his arm out. Alfred screamed in frustration and punched the screen. The impact jarred his fist, but the opening gaped. Alfred's eyes widened, his heart soaring with hope. He drew his fist back again and punched the screen giving it all he was worth.
The screen flew back with a crack and Alfred laughed, gripping the sides and hauling himself up. Cold hands gripped his coat and he looked down into the darkness of the car, violet eyes glinting furiously up at him. Alfred struggled against the pull as it began to drag him back into the darkness, like an Angel being abducted by daemons. Is that what they would say when there was no sign of him? That he had been daemoned away by fallen angels? Spirited away by ghosts? Vanished by nightmares? The horror of that thought was enough to give him one last push. His hands shaking with the effort of keeping his body up, he heaved one last time, and kicked blindly with both feet. He felt them connect with something, a howl of pain and a thud, then Alfred was up and jumping off the roof, sprinting away with only one shoe, and his jacket left behind.