Red Ascent: Sequel to Red Fall 23-25/?
Alfred was almost a master at it now.
At a moment’s notice he could change his stance and countenance; strong grasps were traded for feather light touches and a simmering anger was transformed into shy smiles and rosy, blooming cheeks. Arms would be cradled protectively against his chest, fingers reaching out in uncertainty before curling back into themselves, tips brushing his uniform.
He was an artist; the perfect actor and liar.
He loved himself for it.
He hated himself for it.
A rather crooked smirk would twitch across his face whenever the Russian would fall for the little charade, the elder rubbing wide circles across his back, murmuring endearments into heated flesh.
But the grin would break, the pieces shattering further as the idea was considered over time.
He was becoming more and more like Ivan.
A sneer; a slash across the face, a rip in unblemished white.
There was going to be retribution; that fucker was going to get what he deserved. It was at this point that the American’s gaze would darken, shadows edging his irises as he unflinchingly stared into the mirror.
And what did he, himself, deserve?
Hollow laughter would always wheeze from his chest at that thought.
Best not to think about it, really.
However, there was one benefit from that constant vigilance, the exhausting front;
The Resistance thrived.
After finally convincing Ivan that a stroll through the wintry gardens would be beneficial to his health (for the fresh air, he gently pressed), he was allowed out into the small, fenced yard.
But only the yard, the Russian had sweetly reminded him.
Ducking his head into his scarf, the American had summoned mist to his eyes, shifting uncomfortably under the too saccharine gaze.
“Of course, Moth-I mean, um, Ivan; I understand,” he had said softly, picking at a loose thread on his coat. A hand indiscriminately ruffled his hair, fingers lingering too long around the outer shell of sensitive ears.
“That is a good patriot,” the elder had said as he honored a temple with a light kiss; the edge of the long wool was beginning to unravel and run in the American’s hand. The younger had bitten his lip, a sharp reminder to quell his laughter.
How ironic.
Alfred sat in the eerily silent garden, most, if not all, surfaces blanketed by layers of fluff; perhaps in the sun and with vibrant colors of life the area would have been pretty, maybe even beautiful.
But it was dead, cold, devoid of all.
Just like everything else.
Brushing more snow off the stiff stone bench, he began to slowly trace patterns on his book’s cover, one that he had found, sitting alone and dusty, on the forlorn shelves of his room.
Turning the pages half-heartedly, the American gazed up into the sooty grey sky, watching as heavy, sorrowful clouds languidly floated by.
He wondered how much longer it would be.
“To a bright and peaceful future.”
Alfred couldn’t stop happines from blooming in his breast; closing his eyes, he almost began to cry from relief.
“May our eternal darkness and night be finally ended,” the blonde responded to the disembodied voice, the warmth pulsing behind his eyes. He could almost feel the other man smile.
“Sorry I’m late, America.”
“I would have waited here forever, Toris,” Alfred replied, warmth slipping into his tone. He wasn’t completely sure whether or not he was joking.
Almost a week prior, Alfred had nearly come to the breaking point as he racked his brain for ways to contact the Lithuanian; he knew that he had an obligation to the Resistance now, and even more important personal one to the brunette.
Promise me you’ll come back, that you won’t forget.
Close to tears, he had gripped his desk with white knuckles, trying to keep his arms from shaking.
He couldn’t leave without Ivan knowing, and Alfred was risking severe punishment, and possible discovery, if he tried venturing outside again. So how…?
A timid knock at the door had interrupted him.
“Come in.”
A wisp of a girl, no more than seven or eight, shyly met his eyes, brown pools darting back to her silver tray filled with tea and cakes.
“H-here, G-general Alfred-d, s-sir, I was t-told to bring this to y-you,” she had squeaked, resting the heavy plate on the edge of his desk. As she had been about to leave, an idea stuck the blonde.
A child, however-
“A-ah, wait one moment!”
The girl had frozen, starting to quake. Big doe eyes met his gaze, frightened and unsure. Alfred kneeled to match her height, a genuine, amiable smile spreading across his lips.
“I need your help with something,” the bespectacled man said kindly, “Do you know Master General Braginski?” The little girl had responded with a shaky nod, her lips trembling in fear of thought of the elder country. “Well, I have to deliver some very important documents for him, but I can’t leave the fort. Can you deliver them for me? If you do, I can give you these.”
He had held up a small packet of what looked like stamps; they were food ration tickets, a very valuable and lacking resource in the ‘new world.’ The child’s eyes had widened, regarding the book with a sense of awe and raw want. Swallowing, she had nodded, gaze never leaving the tickets.
The American felt awful for using such a method on an innocent child, but he needed that contact, and she knew she wouldn’t tell; such unauthorized gifts were always frowned upon.
Smiling once more, Alfred had quickly scribbled a note to Toris detailing a meeting place and time and stuffed it in an envelope, instructing the girl on where to go and who to give it to. After describing the brunette and assuring his directions were understood, he added a final clause.
“Bring me back something to prove you delivered it; if you doid, I’ll know it by what you bring.”
Almost an hour later, the girl had returned and handed him a tiny edge of paper.
I believe in you.
Alfred had hummed with happiness at the thought that the girl would finally be able to eat a decent meal.
“Do you have them?” the brunette questioned, his voice slightly muted from the other side of the wall. Drawn back from his reverie, Alfred leaned back against the stone, discretely pushing his book through an almost unnoticeable gap in the bricks. After a moment, he felt something against his fingers and he pulled the object out. It was the same book he had given Toris, only a different copy.
A gasp.
“America-these…these are-”
“They’re diagrams of the fort; weapons schematics and schedules. I can’t even tell you how long it took to copy those,” Alfred chuckled softly, “but I tried to fit in as much as I could. I might have found a point of entry, too.”
“What’s that?”
“The Masquerade.”
Several beats of silence followed this declaration, the only sound the wind howling in the distance.
“But that would-would be almost impossible…” the Lithuanian mumbled incredulously.
The Masquerade.
An annual ball held for all of Ivan’s favorites, the still rich and powerful. It was a magnificent affair, one that everyone would die to be invited to.
Because that would mean you were safe, safe from what the real world was like.
Ivan always took care of his favorites.
“That’s just it; it wouldn’t be expected; who would try to rush the fort with so much security?” Alfred explained, “Besides, you have me now; I won’t let you fail.”
There was no hesitation.
“I believe in you.”
No matter how times it was said, it always stirred the fire in his heart, making him think, truly, that anything was possible.
There was hope.
Reluctantly, the blonde stood, holding the decoy book close to his chest.
“I have to go; I-Ivan might be starting to wonder about things,” he said quietly, his voice meek and low; he swore to himself it was just part of the act. “I’ll see you in a few days.”
“America.”
Alfred paused, a few white flakes tickling his nose. It was a whisper, but it seemed so loud in the painful silence.
“Don’t forget.”
And that was all.
Returning inside, the American was greeted with a blast of warm air, his fingers spasming slightly in response. He looked up and down the halls, frowning when he realized he didn’t know where he was-again.
Mentally berating himself for not entering through the original door, Alfred began to walk, his boots clicking on the wood below. This section of the building looked older, maybe slightly shabbier than his room’s marble floors and ruby accents.
“Halt there!”
Startled, Alfred quickly turned, azure eyes meeting an unexpected sight.
A young woman stood before him, gun drawn and pointed; long blonde hair trickled over an ample chest, reaching to a cinched, slender waist. Though she wore the uniform of a soldier, it did nothing to deter an image from flashing across the American’s mind. Recognition hit both of them at the same time, her aim faltering as her violet irises expanded. Numbly, Alfred just barely felt the words on his lips.
“Ukraine?”