Red Ascent: Sequel to Red Fall 35-37/?
Night was rapidly advancing.
The sun was fading once again, slipping into an uneasy slumber as it marked the sky with broken, swirling trails of brilliant red, as if the horizon was bleeding.
A hum of chuckles broke through the semi-silence, drowning out the forgettable music floating in the background.
How funny.
Standing straight-backed, Ivan allowed himself the pleasure of a tiny smile, one that could never convey the amount of humor he found in that particular realization.
Gracefully extending his arms, he permitted the tailor to fiddle with his sleeves, checking to make sure that the cuffs fell just below the milky wrists. Accents of gold traced their way around each edge, complimenting the matching gilt that crept up the frame and around the collar of the extravagant double-breasted jacket.
Parallel lines of glimmering buttons marched down raven fabric in neat, ordered rows, the single crimson lapel rich against the black; two gleaming pearl chords were connected to an adjacent fasten, the epaulets raining bullion fringe down on broad, strong shoulders. Charcoal pants slinked over polished dress shoes, the laces tied neatly into bows by the hunched tailor. A cape of shadows was draped across his back, the lining composed of such a brilliant red it was as if it had been dyed in the vanishing embers of light in the sky.
“Master General, you ready,” the old man rasped, his accent thick and intruding in his speech, “Anything else I do?”
“нет, xорошо,” the Russian said, language slipping without thought at the broken English; catching himself, he turned back to the mirror, the elder’s presence no longer a concern, “You may leave.”
With a slight bow, the old man left, his shoulders hooked and drawn inwards from years of hard labor, chest rattling from wheezy breaths.
Adjusting a few strands of pale blond, Ivan finished pinning the bars and medals to his chest, the honors shining brightly under the now muted light. Carefully, ever so carefully, he donned his gloves, fingers placed one by one before he finally pulled the dark material across his hands.
He was almost ready.
It had been several weeks since then, he thought casually, mind wandering away from the present.
As he had lifted the receiver to his phone, the subject of the prospective call had come tumbling through his door, breathing rough from running and hair tousled from the speed.
“Little patriot, I do not appreciate your tardiness,” Ivan had cooed, tone all sweetness and warmth, “The flesh forgets so easily,” he had breezily announced, walking in slow, measured steps towards his charge, “but it is fixable, da?”
It was then that the Russian had noticed.
Tears were trickling down deathly pale cheeks, drops falling pitifully to the floor as the blonde had tried to swallow his cries, azure pools rimmed with red.
“I-Ivan,” the bespectacled man had hiccupped, his voice strangled and strained, “I-I’m s-s-sorry; I f-fell asleep in the g-gardens and tried to c-come ba-back a different way; I was s-so sc-scared, I didn’t-I didn’t k-know a-anyone-”
Alfred had been unable to continue as he fell into incomprehensible sobs, his frame shuddering violently. He had nearly fainted into the Russian’s arms, the elder’s face a mix of poorly concealed shock and surprise as he held the trembling man.
“P-please d-don’t be a-angry with m-me, M-mother,” he had whispered, gripping Ivan’s coat with shaking fingers, finding comfort in the other’s warmth, “Please.”
And, suddenly, lips had captured the elder country’s, the kiss warm and tender, but most of all needy-he needed this like the air that Mother allowed him to breathe-
Ivan smirked into the contact, responding to the touch with a low purr.
And who said broken dolls weren’t fun to play with?
Parting, the younger buried his face in the coarse wool, straw locks granting modesty to the American as he cried.
“Promise; promise to never leave me,” the blonde had murmured, the sound mumbled and raw.
He couldn’t laugh, Ivan had told himself, he couldn’t; it would give him away.
“Please let me be with you, always.”
Heh heh…
“I love no one else but you.”
The grin had threatened to break his countenance; dimming this, the Russian had stroked the younger’s head gently, humming a few nothings into downy strands.
“Mother will take care of you, da?” he had promised, tracing gentle curves around the outer shell of the American’s ear. Alfred had looked up, fresh tears burning in his eyes; reaching out with shaking fingers, he had guided his captor’s hands, resting them intimately on his waist and hips. Standing tall on the tips of his toes, he had kissed the elder’s throat, heat flaring across snowy cheeks.
“Put your hands on me, Ivan.”
Ivan smiled at the memory, the shadows gathering in his eyes as he added the final touch to his ensemble: the antique mask, marked with dark ruby strokes that seeped into the inkiest of blacks.
He was ready.
Echoing, demented laughter drowned out the too weak music.
For everything.
~~~~~
One chance.
He only had one chance to make this work.
Toris fastened the final button on his dark, heavy coat; it was bulky enough to add several pounds to the slender man, the rough fabric rubbing abrasively against already sensitive wrists.
By the muted glow of candlelight, the Lithuanian adjusted the ever-present fabric across his eye, giving a tentative yank to his pilling gloves as he glanced at himself in the mirror.
The man was much older than he remembered; choppy brown locks tumbled over a sole sight, lips drawn into a thin, grim line. His face was lined, more weathered than it had been before, experience outlining his features. Toris stared this man down, gazes locked, as he leaned over the small dresser.
We’re tired, Toris, they had said; it’s been twenty years, they had said; we only have enough left for one more try.
Just one more.
Reaching down towards the lowest drawer, he paused momentarily before gripping the handle.
“Alfred and I have discussed everything,” he mumbled quietly to himself, thinking back several weeks previous, as if this gave him the courage to open the drawer. Giving it one harsh tug, it moaned open, the item he sought resting peacefully inside. Swallowing hard, he gently removed it from its place, running his fingers along the metal casing.
It shone brightly as he unsheathed it, sharp gleams of light reflecting about the room; it was he most prized possession, his only true possession, the only thing he took that night other than the clothes on his back.
“I wonder if I am even worthy enough to wield this anymore-?”
With slightly shaking hands, he replaced the cover, tying the weapon around his waist; while he would most certainly be bringing his gun and knife, it was almost as if the sword was more empowering, giving him the courage from all those years ago, when he had been a knight, when the bravery had flowed through him like water.
He took a deep breath, his hand tightly gripping the hilt.
He was ready; for everything.
~~~
The clothes lay on his bed, untouched.
They were dyed dark colors; shadows and crimsons dominated the few touches of sun-kissed gold and wan white, making Alfred wonder why the latter were included at all.
They were extravagant, Alfred had to admit, ghosting long fingers down the luxurious fabric and tracing around shining buttons.
He stood in nothing but his undergarments, the mirror reflecting a willowy, pale frame; blonde cascades brushed his shoulders, the prominent bones along sculpted flesh barely shifting as he touched the clothes.
He didn’t want to put them on; they were filthy.
Memories trickled back to him, sepia-tinged pictures taunting him with their messages.
He had buried his face in the Russian’s coat, hiding his tear-stained visage from the fading light.
“Promise; promise to never leave me,” he had murmured, his throat aching horribly.
Because that way I can always watch, and wait for just the right moment.
“Please let me be with you, always.”
Because one day you won’t be able to stop me; there will be retribution.
“I love no one else but you.”
I hate you more than anything.
“Mother will take care of you, da?” the elder had whispered into his hair, the cold fingers playing around his ears. Alfred had looked up, fresh mist in his eyes.
If Ukraine could pretend…
Trembling fingers had guided his captor’s hands, resting them intimately on the bespectacled man’s waist and hips. Kissing the taller, his cheeks had prickled painfully with warmth.
He was ashamed, sick to the core of his being; he had promised that the other would never touch him again, that that night would be the last time, and it was.
The last time Alfred wasn’t in control.
It was for Toris-for Francis-for Romano-for Anontio-for Engl-
“Put your hands on me, Ivan.”
But he hadn’t expected to want it-
Did she wonder too? Where the acting stopped and the real began?
He couldn’t tell; not anymore.
He recoiled from the neatly arranged outfit, going as far to even step back from the rumpled bed; swallowing hard, he lifted the only thing he had truly touched from the nightstand. Resting it on the bridge of his nose, the mask molded to his skin, unblemished white marked with only a thin line of gold. He tied the silky ribbon neatly around his head, allowing himself to look in the mirror.
Separated only by glass, the two men gazed at each other, scrutinizing features with shallow gazes.
Words, run-together phrases and conversations blurred together in his mind as he reminded himself of his talk with Toris; even if it had been weeks, the brunette would not forget the plan.
I believe in you.
He was ready; for everything.
~
Three gazes looked into different mirrors that night, each expression twisted in a dissimilar fashion; but all were united in thought.
It ends tonight.
нет, xорошо- No, I’m fine.
The sun was fading once again, slipping into an uneasy slumber as it marked the sky with broken, swirling trails of brilliant red, as if the horizon was bleeding.
A hum of chuckles broke through the semi-silence, drowning out the forgettable music floating in the background.
How funny.
Standing straight-backed, Ivan allowed himself the pleasure of a tiny smile, one that could never convey the amount of humor he found in that particular realization.
Gracefully extending his arms, he permitted the tailor to fiddle with his sleeves, checking to make sure that the cuffs fell just below the milky wrists. Accents of gold traced their way around each edge, complimenting the matching gilt that crept up the frame and around the collar of the extravagant double-breasted jacket.
Parallel lines of glimmering buttons marched down raven fabric in neat, ordered rows, the single crimson lapel rich against the black; two gleaming pearl chords were connected to an adjacent fasten, the epaulets raining bullion fringe down on broad, strong shoulders. Charcoal pants slinked over polished dress shoes, the laces tied neatly into bows by the hunched tailor. A cape of shadows was draped across his back, the lining composed of such a brilliant red it was as if it had been dyed in the vanishing embers of light in the sky.
“Master General, you ready,” the old man rasped, his accent thick and intruding in his speech, “Anything else I do?”
“нет, xорошо,” the Russian said, language slipping without thought at the broken English; catching himself, he turned back to the mirror, the elder’s presence no longer a concern, “You may leave.”
With a slight bow, the old man left, his shoulders hooked and drawn inwards from years of hard labor, chest rattling from wheezy breaths.
Adjusting a few strands of pale blond, Ivan finished pinning the bars and medals to his chest, the honors shining brightly under the now muted light. Carefully, ever so carefully, he donned his gloves, fingers placed one by one before he finally pulled the dark material across his hands.
He was almost ready.
It had been several weeks since then, he thought casually, mind wandering away from the present.
As he had lifted the receiver to his phone, the subject of the prospective call had come tumbling through his door, breathing rough from running and hair tousled from the speed.
“Little patriot, I do not appreciate your tardiness,” Ivan had cooed, tone all sweetness and warmth, “The flesh forgets so easily,” he had breezily announced, walking in slow, measured steps towards his charge, “but it is fixable, da?”
It was then that the Russian had noticed.
Tears were trickling down deathly pale cheeks, drops falling pitifully to the floor as the blonde had tried to swallow his cries, azure pools rimmed with red.
“I-Ivan,” the bespectacled man had hiccupped, his voice strangled and strained, “I-I’m s-s-sorry; I f-fell asleep in the g-gardens and tried to c-come ba-back a different way; I was s-so sc-scared, I didn’t-I didn’t k-know a-anyone-”
Alfred had been unable to continue as he fell into incomprehensible sobs, his frame shuddering violently. He had nearly fainted into the Russian’s arms, the elder’s face a mix of poorly concealed shock and surprise as he held the trembling man.
“P-please d-don’t be a-angry with m-me, M-mother,” he had whispered, gripping Ivan’s coat with shaking fingers, finding comfort in the other’s warmth, “Please.”
And, suddenly, lips had captured the elder country’s, the kiss warm and tender, but most of all needy-he needed this like the air that Mother allowed him to breathe-
Ivan smirked into the contact, responding to the touch with a low purr.
And who said broken dolls weren’t fun to play with?
Parting, the younger buried his face in the coarse wool, straw locks granting modesty to the American as he cried.
“Promise; promise to never leave me,” the blonde had murmured, the sound mumbled and raw.
He couldn’t laugh, Ivan had told himself, he couldn’t; it would give him away.
“Please let me be with you, always.”
Heh heh…
“I love no one else but you.”
The grin had threatened to break his countenance; dimming this, the Russian had stroked the younger’s head gently, humming a few nothings into downy strands.
“Mother will take care of you, da?” he had promised, tracing gentle curves around the outer shell of the American’s ear. Alfred had looked up, fresh tears burning in his eyes; reaching out with shaking fingers, he had guided his captor’s hands, resting them intimately on his waist and hips. Standing tall on the tips of his toes, he had kissed the elder’s throat, heat flaring across snowy cheeks.
“Put your hands on me, Ivan.”
Ivan smiled at the memory, the shadows gathering in his eyes as he added the final touch to his ensemble: the antique mask, marked with dark ruby strokes that seeped into the inkiest of blacks.
He was ready.
Echoing, demented laughter drowned out the too weak music.
For everything.
~~~~~
One chance.
He only had one chance to make this work.
Toris fastened the final button on his dark, heavy coat; it was bulky enough to add several pounds to the slender man, the rough fabric rubbing abrasively against already sensitive wrists.
By the muted glow of candlelight, the Lithuanian adjusted the ever-present fabric across his eye, giving a tentative yank to his pilling gloves as he glanced at himself in the mirror.
The man was much older than he remembered; choppy brown locks tumbled over a sole sight, lips drawn into a thin, grim line. His face was lined, more weathered than it had been before, experience outlining his features. Toris stared this man down, gazes locked, as he leaned over the small dresser.
We’re tired, Toris, they had said; it’s been twenty years, they had said; we only have enough left for one more try.
Just one more.
Reaching down towards the lowest drawer, he paused momentarily before gripping the handle.
“Alfred and I have discussed everything,” he mumbled quietly to himself, thinking back several weeks previous, as if this gave him the courage to open the drawer. Giving it one harsh tug, it moaned open, the item he sought resting peacefully inside. Swallowing hard, he gently removed it from its place, running his fingers along the metal casing.
It shone brightly as he unsheathed it, sharp gleams of light reflecting about the room; it was he most prized possession, his only true possession, the only thing he took that night other than the clothes on his back.
“I wonder if I am even worthy enough to wield this anymore-?”
With slightly shaking hands, he replaced the cover, tying the weapon around his waist; while he would most certainly be bringing his gun and knife, it was almost as if the sword was more empowering, giving him the courage from all those years ago, when he had been a knight, when the bravery had flowed through him like water.
He took a deep breath, his hand tightly gripping the hilt.
He was ready; for everything.
~~~
The clothes lay on his bed, untouched.
They were dyed dark colors; shadows and crimsons dominated the few touches of sun-kissed gold and wan white, making Alfred wonder why the latter were included at all.
They were extravagant, Alfred had to admit, ghosting long fingers down the luxurious fabric and tracing around shining buttons.
He stood in nothing but his undergarments, the mirror reflecting a willowy, pale frame; blonde cascades brushed his shoulders, the prominent bones along sculpted flesh barely shifting as he touched the clothes.
He didn’t want to put them on; they were filthy.
Memories trickled back to him, sepia-tinged pictures taunting him with their messages.
He had buried his face in the Russian’s coat, hiding his tear-stained visage from the fading light.
“Promise; promise to never leave me,” he had murmured, his throat aching horribly.
Because that way I can always watch, and wait for just the right moment.
“Please let me be with you, always.”
Because one day you won’t be able to stop me; there will be retribution.
“I love no one else but you.”
I hate you more than anything.
“Mother will take care of you, da?” the elder had whispered into his hair, the cold fingers playing around his ears. Alfred had looked up, fresh mist in his eyes.
If Ukraine could pretend…
Trembling fingers had guided his captor’s hands, resting them intimately on the bespectacled man’s waist and hips. Kissing the taller, his cheeks had prickled painfully with warmth.
He was ashamed, sick to the core of his being; he had promised that the other would never touch him again, that that night would be the last time, and it was.
The last time Alfred wasn’t in control.
It was for Toris-for Francis-for Romano-for Anontio-for Engl-
“Put your hands on me, Ivan.”
But he hadn’t expected to want it-
Did she wonder too? Where the acting stopped and the real began?
He couldn’t tell; not anymore.
He recoiled from the neatly arranged outfit, going as far to even step back from the rumpled bed; swallowing hard, he lifted the only thing he had truly touched from the nightstand. Resting it on the bridge of his nose, the mask molded to his skin, unblemished white marked with only a thin line of gold. He tied the silky ribbon neatly around his head, allowing himself to look in the mirror.
Separated only by glass, the two men gazed at each other, scrutinizing features with shallow gazes.
Words, run-together phrases and conversations blurred together in his mind as he reminded himself of his talk with Toris; even if it had been weeks, the brunette would not forget the plan.
I believe in you.
He was ready; for everything.
~
Three gazes looked into different mirrors that night, each expression twisted in a dissimilar fashion; but all were united in thought.
It ends tonight.
нет, xорошо- No, I’m fine.