Red Fall: 6-9/ 25
The silence in the room was deafening; blindfolded with a coarse strip of fabric, all of Alfred’s other senses were painfully aware. He could feel the gritty material digging into his face and a damp and rotting smell invaded his mind. No sounds, other than that of his ragged breathing, filled the room. Ivan hadn’t even shown his face yet, the sick fuck, and it had been several days …It had been days, hadn’t it? Alfred wearily shook his head; he was losing track of time in this place.
Every once in a while in quick, quiet footsteps, Toris would come to him, urging him in hushed whispers to eat and drink what he had brought; it was never a lot, a piece of bread and some water, but it probably came from Toris’s own share, and Alfred was always grateful. But Toris always left as quickly as he came, leaving Alfred alone in the darkness.
It wasn’t his fault; the Baltic was already risking a great deal to help him.
But…
He was just so lonely; though he would never wish for the company of the Russian, the Hero thrived on interaction, on conversation, on laughter…
Just not that laughter.
Alfred was jarred from these thoughts by the slow creaking of the door; lifting his head slightly, Alfred forced a small smile to his face.
“Hey,” he said, his own hoarse tone sounding foreign, “Welcome back; get caught up serving tea to that loon, again?”
“I find that statement ironic, dear Alfred,” a sickly sweet voice began, “since this is the first time I have graced you with my presence.” America felt his mouth go dry and the smile fractured on his face.
“Ivan,” he whispered, his throat burning painfully, “took you long enough to get down here; having trouble on the front?” A hum of chuckles answered him back.
“You wish, little patriot; I was merely reminding Liet that coddling the prisoners makes me very upset; while he was adamant about his misguided beliefs, I think that I finally convinced him of the right path.” Alfred paled; was that why Lithuania hadn’t come today?
“You mean you beat him until he finally agreed with you,” Alfred growled, “Lithuania deserves better than you; so do all the Baltics.” He felt two fingers tip his chin upwards and warm, vodka-saturated breath across his face.
“It is you, then, who has been corrupting my toys? Who made me punish sweet Liet? I don’t like to hurt my little Toris, but he needs to remember that Mother is always watching and Mother always knows best,” Ivan said, burying his head in the crook of the American’s neck, “Mother thinks that one more punishment is in order.”
“Don’t fucking touch me,” Alfred said viciously, though with a slight edge of uncertain fear. A harsh slap across the face was his reply.
“You will not speak to mother that way; apologize,” Ivan said, his tone cool and calm.
“Go to hell.”
Ivan’s boot connected with Alfred’s shin, causing the American to cry out in pain. Flames licked up his leg as he collapsed as far as the chains would allow, his legs threatening to give out beneath him.
“Apologize.”
“Fu-fuck you,” Alfred mumbled, feebly trying to regain his footing. The Russian continued to pummel him, breaking bones and drawing blood, but his target refused to give anything more than a terse reply; there were no tears, nor was there begging. The Hero was sure he could pull through this. Just last one more punch, one more hit-
And then the pipe connected with his chest.
Alfred howled in pain, fragile, previously broken bones shattering once again. Involuntary tears leaked from his eyes as rattling breaths choked his frame. His body felt heavy and limp as his chest shifted with each small inhale.
"Apologize,” Ivan said, his tone still even, though it had become even sweeter than before. Alfred fell into a coughing fit, his body wracked with shuddering tremors as a metallic taste filled his mouth.
“A-ah…Aaa-ah…”
“Oh? One more hit then?” Ivan said as he raised the pipe for another go; as he moved to swing downward, the shaking voice interrupted.
“A-ah, p-plea-se, n-no m-more,” Alfred managed, his blindfold completely saturated with tears. The tall man paused; lowering his pipe, he let the end hit the floor with a clink.
“What do you say?” Ivan drawled, his voice toned as if he were addressing a child.
“M’ srr’y,” Alfred mumbled, trying to limit his movements.
“Da? What was that?”
“I’M S-SORRY!” Alfred gushed, a new fit of coughing accenting his outburst. Red trickled from his mouth, dying his lips a lovely scarlet. Purring with pleasure, the Russian leaned forward, his tongue darting across his captive’s bloody lower lip. Shuddering in repulsion, Alfred pulled himself as far away as possible, trying to force back his gag reflex. His pride lay crying at his feet.
“Good boy,” Ivan hummed, savoring the remnants of ruby on his tongue. Alfred stifled the urge to cry; Heroes never cry Heroes never cry Heroes never give in-
Alfred repeated this mantra, head hung, as the larger nation gently ruffed his hair and gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead.
“Be a good by while Mother is gone, da?”
Alfred said nothing as he heard the footsteps retreat and the door click shut; the insufferable silence was filled only by the sound of teardrops hitting the floor.
~~~~~~~
It was almost six days before Ivan came again, not that Alfred knew; lost in pain and his constant mantra, which repeated like a broken record (the hero-the hero-the hero), it had felt like eternity. Alfred didn’t even look up as the door was opened; he thought it must have been another fragment of his mind, spurred by gnawing hunger and hurt. Still blindfolded, it was the smell that caught his attention.
The smell.
He could feel his mouth whet from the aroma, the mild fragrance of flaky bread and melted butter. His ribs shifted painfully at the thought of swallowing, but he was almost too hungry to care.
“Mother is back, little patriot,” the sugar laced tone said, “You have been good, da?”
Alfred wearily nodded his head, his temples pulsing with pain. He felt hot and sleepy; when had that come upon him? He heard the clink of china and suddenly a cool hand felt his forehead; as he felt himself leaning into the touch, he pulled back immediately, disgusted with himself. The Russian tutted.
“My rebel has a fever,” Ivan murmured thoughtfully, “This will not do. I cannot feed you in such a condition.” The American growled in displeasure, though the threatening edge had long since whittled away.
“Do not take that tone with me; you will be fed when I deem so, da? Now, I am going to move you; I advise you not to struggle,” the violet-eyed nation said. As the cuffs released his wrists, Alfred shot to his feet, but immediately crumpled into Ivan’s waiting arms, squirming and flailing.
“Do not test me,” Ivan rumbled primally, “I would not want to drop you on the hard-wood floors by accident.”
Slowly, the American stopped, his figure much like that of an over-loved rag doll. He barely felt Ivan remove his blindfold through the haze; his eyes fluttered as he met the smiling face of the Russian, the dim light seeming to blind him.
“That is much better,” Ivan noted, “What a good boy you are.” Alfred whimpered softly as he buried his head in his captor’s jacket, unable to stomach the crazed gaze. Held like a shy bride, Alfred gripped Ivan tightly as they went through the door and up a flight of stairs. Another door and, suddenly, they were back in the large foyer of Ivan’s house. Humming a soft lullaby under his breath, the blonde carried the American through the halls and approached the kitchen.
Alfred could hear the sounds of a foreign tune, obviously much loved through its careful annunciation. Was it Toris? Entering through the swinging doors, warmth and the scent of cooking food made Alfred further slacken in Ivan’s grip.
“Dear Liet,” the Russian sweetly began. Slightly tensing, Toris turned from the stove, a boat of gravy balanced in one hand.
“Yes? What is it-Oh my god!” the Lithuanian shrieked in shock, the dishware shattering on the floor. The brunette stood trembling, his wide-eyed gaze trying to connect with Alfred’s glassy one.
“N-no A-America,” Toris whispered, the words tumbling out of his mouth. Two sets of footfalls approached the opposite door, and two young men burst through.
“Toris, we heard the crash-my god…” the first began, but faltered. The light reflected off of his bespectacled stare, his mouth parted in shock. Young Raivis, who had followed Eduard out of concern, was now choking back bile, utterly horrified at the scene in front of him.
“You promised, Ivan…Ivan, you promised you’d leave him alone and wouldn’t hurt him if I took my punishment and I did! I-Ivan, why…? It’s all I asked for…” Toris sobbed angrily, tears streaking down his face at the thought that his pain had been worth nothing.
“Ah, but it is because of that I couldn’t give it to you, my Liet; you were being selfish. I left Alfred alone, for almost a week, da? I thought it was too cruel,” Ivan said with a smile, “But that is another matter; the little patriot burns with his twisted ideals; it is the first step in the right direction, to get rid of all the bad. Make some broth while I take him upstairs, da?”
The Russian left the room with a smile, the mass in his arms mumbling, ‘Toris? Is he okay? Toris…?’
The Lithuanian sank to his knees, tears clouding his vision as he pounded the floor; the broken bits of china bit into his hand, drawing red.
“Why? He promised; that bastard PROMISED!” Toris yelled in frustration; the middle-child quickly came to his brother, grabbing the country’s hands to prevent further damage.
“Toris, this isn’t going to help! Stop!” Eduard pleaded, giving his brother a rough shake. For a moment, Lithuania gazed at him dazedly before collapsing onto his shoulder.
“What have I done? What have I done?” the eldest moaned. His brother gripped him tightly, mumbling small phrases of comfort that didn’t seem to mean anything. The youngest stood apart from his siblings, salty trails marking his cheeks.
“What will the Hero do now, brother?” Raivis questioned softly, trembling, “what now?”