Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

you close your eyes and you feel.

alfred's hair is tickling your cheek, soft wheat-gold strands cut too short, almost like yours, so close to your own, but not.

ivan is beside him, and you can hear his soft little breathing sounds, asleep and surrounded by a darkened world of what you hope are good dreams. alfred snores loudly in contrast, and you laugh quietly into his hair.

it's a rush, being with these two people, these two humans you absolutely adore with all your heart, and you love them so much that sometimes you worry that your heart will stop beating and stop sending blood to your brain and lungs and that you'll stop thinking and stop breathing and just die.

(you wonder if it's possible to die from love. a reverse-broken heart syndrome, where your heart expands and starts pumping so much blood and you're suddenly aware of everything, like the genetic makeup of alfred's smile and the exact length of ivan's eyelashes and the sound of their combined laughter and moans and insults and compliments and you wonder if you aren't already dead yet.)

you're all on this couch, a ratty little chesterfield arthur's kept for fifteen years, apparently, according to francis's complaining and peter's bragging. peter himself has been put to bed upstairs, after a long, long, tiring evening. the child is exhausting and you think you might love him for it.

you were supposed to babysit him, but alfred wanted to come over as well and you invited ivan because you knew he didn't have anything to do or anyone to talk to today, and three heads and six hands were better than one and two. and peter is exhausting. you do not exaggerate even a tiny bit when you say that. the three of you could barely control him while arthur and francis went out on their 'business date.' college kids and nine-year-olds do not mix, apparently. after spending three hours chasing a hyperactive peter, you sat down on this old, 'antique' sofa that you're quickly beginning to associate with the sound of affection, alfred fell asleep, practically on top of you, and ivan fell asleep on top of him.

(you tell your heart, beat, beat, keep beating please, i need to be alive for this moment.)

Chapter Text

The Hatter sighed, watching the cup tip over and spill the tea within on its own accord. The man in front of him- teenager, boy really, overly tall and gawky- stood awkwardly, playing with the frayed edges of a scarf that looked too worn to wear.

"Hello," said the Hatter, snapping his fingers and watching the tea and cup disappear completely. "I've not seen you here before."

"No," the boy said. "I am. I am looking for someone." His words are stiff but practiced, and the Hatter turned, emerald eyes lifted in interest.

"A someone?" asked the Hatter in wonder. "We don't usually get newcomers here. Perhaps the Queen knows who you're looking for?" There was a strange sense of amusement in luring unsuspecting innocents towards the most dangerous individual in the kingdom.

The boy stared at him, something like disbelief and condescending annoyance on his face, trying to hide behind a pleasant-but-not-pleasant-enough smile.

"The Red Queen is known for her murderous tendencies, yes?"

"That she is," the Hatter said nonchalantly. A teacup floated up beside him, seeming to spawn out of thin air, and the Hatter discreetly flicked it out of sight. "She does, however, know everything that happens in our quaint little land. What is your name, weary traveler?"

The stranger pursed his lips. The Hatter smiled wide.

"Ivan," the boy said, after a moment of consideration. "I am looking for my sister."

The Hatter grinned in triumph, and the teen nearly shrieked when a dozen floating teacups shattered around him in excitement.

"Well, Ivan," the Hatter drawled, lifting his top hat and tipping it in an ever-so-gentlemanly fashion. Ivan winced at the sight of his smile. "I'm the Mad Hatter, as the dreadful residents of this hellhole adore to call me. But you, love, may call me Arthur."

"..." Ivan blinked. "I will...be calling you the Mad Hatter."

Chapter Text

"So, Mr. Jones," Gilbert says, flashing his best smirk and putting his feet on the desk. "I haven't been a very good student, now, have I? Third detention this week!"

Mr. Jones smiles tiredly, places a heavy-looking binder on the teacher's desk at the front of the room. He yawns and fixes his glasses, looks at Gilbert with his oh-so-blue gaze. "We all know I'm pretty cool and all," he says, grinning right at Gilbert. "Best history teach this school's ever seen! But you've gotta stop flirting with me, Beilschmidt. I'm too old for you."

Gilbert huffs. "Please, we all know you're dyin' for a piece of my awesome self!" At Mr. Jones' raised eyebrow, he tries not to flush. "I-- I mean, who wouldn't, right?"

"I've never had a student with a crush on me before," Mr. Jones muses. "At least not such an obvious one."

Gilbert shrugs and flutters his eyelashes jokingly. "Oh, Mr. Jones, please, indulge my many sordid, depraved fantasies of us makin' burning hot love on a school desk at midday," he says sarcastically. He covers his eyes with the palms of his hands. "Why the fuck did I just say that to you."

"Language," Mr. Jones scolds. "And control your hormones, kid."

"Could ya just, like, shove a sock in my mouth?"

"What did I say about the flirting, Gilbert?"

"Oh my god."

 Mr. Jones-- Alfred's breath is fire on his neck, hands gripped tight on Gilbert's hips and pinning him against the bookshelf. There isn't really all that much of a height difference between them, so Mr. Jo-- Alfred's head fits snugly into the crook of his neck, and Gilbert thinks his heart is going to break his rib-cage.

"Oh, okay, wow," Gilbert states intelligently.

"What did I say about the flirting?" Alfred-- Mr. Jones-- whatever-- mutters, indignant. "I told you to stop with the flirting."

"Awesome," Gilbert says dazedly. "So, uh, are we gonna get it on, now? 'Cause I'm totally okay with that."

"I thought your fantasies involved desks at midday." Alfred pouts, and it looks so petulant and this man is too immature to be a fucking teacher. "Bookshelves aren't desks."

Gilbert rolls his eyes, because he's spent months fawning after Mr. Jones and now, now it's finally time to take the sword by the teeth and fight for what he wants. "I'm fine with this. Shockin', isn't it? Now shut up and kiss me."

Mr. Jones blinks, and he chuckles nervously, one hand letting go of Gil and reaching up to fix his glasses. "Well, um." Oh no. "Gilbert, I can't. You know I can't."

"Yeah, you can," Gilbert tries, placing his hands on Alfred's cheeks and smushing them together. Alfred sputters. "All ya gotta do is lean a bit and then chew each other's faces."

"Ugh, Beilschmidt, gross," Alfred whines. Gilbert frowns and squishes Mr. Jones' face even more.

"Pleeeease?" Gilbert goads. "Come on, ya know ya want to. The school desk fantasies, Mr. Jones." He pauses and breathes into Alfred's ear. "The school desk fantasies." He grins when Alfred shivers.

"Nope, no, Gil, that is not a good idea--"

"Please?" he simpers. "I can tell ya all the details, and I think you'd approve of them a whole lot, Mr. Jones." Gilbert smiles, wide and sharp-toothed, scrapes his fingernails down Alfred's arms. "Maybe I'll learn something."

Alfred actually shakes, startling Gilbert when he roughly snatches his hands back.

"No," Alfred snaps. "Not to you, not to anyone." He steps away from Gilbert, gaze darting to the books on the bookshelf. "I think you should go, Mr. Beilschmidt."

Gilbert blinks. "But--" He shudders in a deep breath. "...Then...when can I come back, Alfred?"

"What do you think? You're still coming to class, but I will not have any private chats with you anymore, Gilbert. Further detentions and punishments will be handled by another teacher, and you can get a tutor to help with your history homework." Alfred-- fuck, Mr. Jones visibly swallows. "I don't want you alone in this class ever again."

"Mr. Jones--"

"Leave!" The command is barked out, snarled, so uncharacteristic of him that Gilbert stumbles out the classroom, grabbing his bag and running out the hall.

He almost doesn't hear the sound of Mr. Jones brokenly murmuring, "Please."

Chapter Text

Everyone says that Natalia Arlovskaya broke a guy's hand when he asked her out on a date. That she threw a fork at a girl who called her brother creepy in first grade. That she spent the summer in a juvenile detention center. Everyone says that Natalia Arlovskaya is absolutely fucking psychotic.

A lot of people say that. Amelia is-- Amelia isn't exaggerating, not that part.

But fact remains that Natalia is very pretty. Long blonde hair like a princess, eyes like Arctic ice-- real damn pretty, okay? And alright, cold and monotonous isn't really Amelia's type-- she hardly knows what her type even is, her last boyfriends were Lovino, who was too shy and angry to share most of his feelings, and Gilbert, who was Gilbert and self-explanatory. And Amelia's never dated another girl before! But she can work around that.

It's just that, Natalia stopped calling her a disgrace and started calling Amelia by name, even if she wasn't the most enthusiastic about saying it. Natalia says hi back in the hallways. Natalia is acknowledging her, really seeing her, and to be honest, that's...

That's more than Amelia was ever hoping to expect, from the Snow Queen.

By the way, Amelia totally isn't hung up over this or anything like that. Natalia's just the crazy pretty girl from math class! That's it! That's all!

And Matt is being such a smug bitch about this!

"Don't mind me, I'm just laughing about your crush," Matthew says with his stupid Canadian accent and stupid nerd glasses and stupid chuckle. Eating his goddamn pancakes at breakfast. Fucking Matt, Amelia should've never admitted that he was her twin brother to anyone ever. Maybe then she'd still be living life in some sort of rational and not-nonsensical way or something!

"There isn't any crushing," Amelia says petulantly. "What crush? I don't crush. I've never crushed anyone in my life. Why would I ever hurt someone like that? Is it even possible to crush someone with my bare hands? I'll have to conduct some totally legit science experiments. Thanks for giving me the idea, Mattie."

Matt stares at her over his fucking Harry Potter glasses, except more oval-er, or whatever it is Arthur's currently geeking out over.

"You've been shamelessly staring at Natalia Arlovskaya for the past few weeks," Matt tells her. "She actually asked me if something was wrong with you. I mean, she threatened me about dating her sister, but that too. Also, she seems to be uncomfortable with how you keep staring at her in the gym's changing room."

Amelia stares. "Goddamn, am I that obvious?"

"Arthur made a shipping chart and everything," Matt supplies helpfully. God, what an asshole.

"Goddamn," Amelia says in horror. "Also, it's not my fault Nat wears such adorable underwear--"

"I don't need to know about your sordid fantasies."

She sticks her tongue out at him and steals the last bite of his pancake.

Chapter Text

Alfred's dealt with sidekicks.

Alfred knows about the little upstarts and the frantic hotshots and the sarcastic little shits. Look, he knows.

"I'm your sidekick?!" Gilbert screeches. "What? No! The Awesome Gilbert as Rated Top Awesome on the Awesome Gilbert Scale of Certified Awesomeness is not a sidekick!"

"Calm yourself, kid," Alfred mutters. "You don't want to be yelling your real name out everywhere."

Gilbert pouts at him angrily. "I'm goin' to get all my work tacked onto your name, and that is so not cool, STARTELLER."

"The StarTeller," Alfred says loudly. "Is a noble and heroic name to be associated with, Beilschmidt! Yeah, okay." Alfred looks the kid up and down- pale skin, pale hair, bright red-blue eyes framed by pale eyelashes. Fuck, he's one of those ghost types, isn't he. "Okay, I admit you might have some cool powers, but that doesn't mean-"

"That doesn't mean," Gilbert interrupts. "That I can't get credit for my own work."

"It's not about credit," Alfred says. "It's about saving people."

"It's all about credit." Gilbert huffs and looks down at his shoes. "You got news reports and spectators wonderin' and you only care 'bout the big criminals, the sensational ones, you don't help anyone else 'cause they're not big enough an achievement to you."

Alfred sees the way Gilbert sort of- sort of hunches him on himself, before his head snaps up and his coffee-stained teeth are bared in an obnoxious smirk. "So don't fuckin' tell me it's not about credit!"

"You got a sad backstory or something, kid?" Alfred asks worriedly.

Gilbert laughs at a grating pitch and oh god this is gonna be a long two years.

Chapter Text

"'Kay, so," Alfred says casually, his greasy fingers smearing over the stolen blueprints. His once clean dress-shirt is torn and patched with oil stains, and his tie is tied 'round his wrist in a sad attempt to bandage the cut he'd gotten from the angry guy with the stick. He'd lost the jacket somewhere along the way, which sucks, 'cause he looked damned nice in that suit. "I think we made a mistake."

"A mistake," Ivan repeats slowly, carefully listening for any sign of movement from the floor above. He's somehow still looking composed and nonchalant as ever, despite the bloodstains on his gloves and his murderous little sister relentlessly chasing after him. Ivan is also completely ignoring the fact that he was near tears a few moments ago because of his oh-so-scary little half-sister, and Alfred is being totally polite and benevolent by not mentioning it.

Meanwhile, Gilbert is twitching every so often, and he lets out this loud, uncontrolled, nervous laugh. Alfred shushes him by covering his mouth with both hands.

Gilbert makes a frantic sound, probably meant to mean "fuck your hands are so gross don't touch me," but Alfred cheerfully ignores him. Gilbert's hair is disheveled beyond belief and his shirt is buttoned wrong, but then again, he usually looks like that.

"Just a bit of a miscalculation!" Alfred chimes in a whisper.

"Fredka," Ivan says sweetly, quietly. "I know very well that sulfuric acid is quite dangerous when forced down one's throat."

"Geez, Vanya, everyone knows that!" Alfred hisses. "I don't get how you think spewing random facts at people somehow makes you more threatening." Gilbert is flailing in his hold. "Anyway, this is only a minor setback!"

"There is no such minor in this matter," Ivan hisses back, and the three of them still at the sound of a heavy-set door opening

Gilbert frees himself from Alfred's deathgrip while he's distracted. "You took the wrong plans, didn't ya."

Alfred forces a grin. "Maybe?"

Gilbert just stares at Alfred with those tired, slightly manic red eyes. "I knew I could trust ya, kid. Hey, Braginsky, hand me that revolver you're always keepin' with you and never admittin' to havin'. I need to kill myself. Or him."

"I do not have any weaponry on my person, Mr. Beilschmidt," Ivan says briskly.

"Fuck you too, Braginsky."

There's the sound of voices from the floor above.

"Fuck," Alfred says. "Is Kiku talking to your crazed half-sister?"

Ivan frowns. "She's not crazed, she's simply having a fit at the moment."

"Dude, if that's a tantrum then I don't wanna see her succumb to psychosis like you did," Gilbert grumbles, trying to wipe his mouth on-- shit is that Alfred's handkerchief?

(The little maple-leaf patterned one Mattie had given him all those years ago, with a roll of his eyes and a slight smile, last thing he did for Alfred 'til his blood dripped to the floor and Alfred was too late to see who had--)

"YOU DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH THAT WITH YOUR WHORE MOUTH," Alfred shrieks, and doesn't hear Ivan mutter a curse beneath his breath (if he had, he would've held it over his head for years, because that would've been the first time he'd ever hear Ivan Braginsky swear.)

"Fuck, you're stupid," Gilbert says, as the sound of Natalia Arlovskaya's cold, suspicious voice rings out, "What was that?" Alfred freezes.

"Sulfuric acid," Ivan snaps at him.

"Still not getting the intimidation factor," Alfred squeaks.

"It will hurt." Ivan's eyes are bright with danger and his smile is wide.

"Okay, calm down, psycho," Gilbert intervenes. Ivan huffs. "We'll crucify Jones later, but first we have to get out alive, and away from your totally-not-crazy half-sister."

"Priorities," Alfred agrees.

"You." Gilbert pokes his finger in Alfred's face, directly between his eyes. "Are not. Allowed. To talk."

Alfred slowly nods, and the three of them hear Kiku's flustered attempts at keeping Natalia from entering the basement.

"Alright," Gilbert says, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose. But then he grins brightly, wildly. Obnoxiously. "Right, so first of all, Jones. You're runnin' up the stairs sayin' there's a fire. Arlovskaya's never seen you yet. Just pretend to be Kiku's roommate, the kid'll roll with it. You get everyone outside. Braginsky, you and I actually are settin' the place on fire. We'll get out through the basement door." He points at the aforementioned door-- the house's basement is only half-underground. Alfred frowns worriedly. At least this isn't actually where Kiku lives.

"But remember." Gilbert grins that feral grin again. "Fire."

"That is ridiculous," Ivan says. "It sounds rather life-threatening. And also fun."

"Damn right, psycho, my plans are always awesome. We'll meet up at the hotel room, 8PM tomorrow. And you," Gilbert pokes Alfred's cheek. "You're allowed to talk for critical reasons only. Critical, like, you're 'bout to die 'cause you're hung up above a swarm of flesh-eatin' scorpions dipped in kerosene, that type a' critical. And also fire. That too."

Yeah, yeah, whatever, Beilschmidt. Alfred nods and tries not to sulk.

"So," Gilbert says. "Can I have the gun now, Braginsky--"

Ivan smiles. With teeth. "No."

"Fuck you."

"Perhaps later."

Chapter Text

It starts with Natalia.

At this point, everything starts with Natalia. Natalia got the entire school banned from the local aquarium. Natalia is the reason that the girls' bathroom on the second floor in the math hall is getting repainted for the second time this semester.

And it always starts with Natalia Arlovskaya. But it never, ever ends with her.

Because Natalia Arlovskaya does not get caught.

Lily knows this. Lily sees this. She's Witness No. 1, Accomplice the Premier, because snitches get stitches and squealers need wheelers. But she digresses.

Natalia Arlovskaya is self-declared Queen of the Girls' Bathroom, but no one really knows that. Except for Lily, of course.

Because that's what's happening to her, right now. Natalia had rolled up Lily's sleeve to her elbow, and is now carefully writing the words on Lily's forearm. Dark pinkish sharpie, fuchsia, underlined three times, and the i is dotted with a stylized bullet. The class is talking, volume loud-- the bell is going to ring in five minutes for lunch and their English teacher doesn't bother to attempt to teach at this time. No one pays attention to Natalia's weird fascination with Lily's arms. No one pays attention to the fact that Natalia Arlovskaya is drawing on Lily's arm, oh my gosh.

The bathroom on the second floor, that one in the math hall? It's getting repainted due to severe vandalism, something about jealous girlfriends and boyfriends and sisters, all scratched into the wall with some sharp object.

Natalia caps the marker, gazing at Lily expectantly. "Well?" she prompts, resting her head on a dainty, manicured hand. Dark blue nail polish. Lily giggles nervously.

"I...really don't understand," Lily says. Natalia continues to stare. "Ah, shouldn't you be working?"

"You shouldn't tell me that when you fell asleep in class yesterday," Natalia says flatly.

"I was absorbing the information," Lily murmurs, turning to stare at her arm. There it is, wrist to elbow, fuchsia sharpie-- QUEEN OF THE GIRLS' BATHROOM. She calmly rolls her sleeve down, chewing at the inside of her lip.

Natalia nods in understanding. "Yes, my brother told me something about that, when he was more excited about science. The brain registers information as the body is sleeping." She pauses, peering at Lily through her Snow-Queen-blonde eyelashes. "Or something."

Lily forces a smile. "Um, y-yes! Of course." She glances down at her now-covered arm. "Why did you write that?" And why did you write on me, Lily adds in her head, a little desperately.

"Meet me there," Natalia declares. "You know which one." She lifts up the fuchsia-pink sharpie and points it at Lily with skilled fingers, and oh, Lily didn't want to think of the word skilled, that leads her mind to all sorts of unnecessary conclusions. "I have a request to ask of you, after school. 3PM."

Lily gives Natalia her most pleasant smile, ignoring the way she's tapping her own feet. "My...my brother usually expects me to walk home with him."

"..." Natalia looks away, suddenly. Quickly. It's by no means cute, or adorable, or, or whatever Lily's traitorous mind is thinking of. "I understand." She taps a manicured finger against the inside of Lily's wrist, and the touch is enough to make Lily squeak. "But, if you change your mind..."

The bell rings and Lily almost pushes the teacher out of the way, trying to leave the class.

Chapter Text

Ivan Braginsky needs to shut his stupid mouth and sit down, or at least put that mouth to better use, a use that doesn't involve tearing apart every little flaw in Alfred's ideas and rendering them obsolete. 

And then Braginsky always just flashes his blond eyelashes up and down, smiling this insufferable smile that's three or so notches away from cute, and goddammit, Alfred needs that smile torn off his stupid face.

Or, preferably harshly kissed off. By Alfred's mouth. With Braginsky left gasping and dazed. But whatever, Alfred isn't picky. There's probably other ways to shut Braginsky up.

Like with his dick.

Haha, nope, no, we're not going down that road, crazy. Worst thing Alfred can do is put one of the most sensitive parts of his body in between Braginsky's teeth. Bad idea. Abysmal idea. Phenomenally stupid.

That...doesn't explain why Braginsky is kneeling between Alfred's legs with his hands on Alfred's knees. "This is going to sound strange," Braginsky starts off, as though his mouth wasn't right in front of Alfred's crotch, as though he was perfectly fine with stuffing all his bulk and his height underneath Alfred's desk, pushed onto his knees.

Stuffing was not the word Alfred intended to use. In any context whatsoever. Oh, god.

Alfred makes a sound in the back of his throat that sounds vaguely as though he's dying, and he really tries to ignore the heat quickly sweeping through his face. Welp, this is how he'll go, the daily distributed obituary will read Alfred Jones, Stellavation worker, had a heart attack while his arch-enemy and co-worker tried to suck him off. Maybe Matt will finally get rid of the decades-old comic book collection he keeps complaining at Alfred about, and maybe the funeral will be a lovely ceremony.

Braginsky continues, "But I can explain."

"Then explain, Braginsky," Alfred squawks, shifting awkwardly and almost knocking the pile of Space Exploration Today, Bitch! posters off his desk. That one didn't go over well with the bosses, even though the mini-tiger design with a astronaut helmet was cute as fuck. "Because I'm kinda starting to feel really fucking attacked right now!"

"I apologize for that," says Braginsky, almost sheepish, what the fuck. "Also, please call me Ivan? I am not calling you Jones all the time." He peeks up, bright violet eyes focused and adamant. "Alfred."

Shit, that just makes Alfred's heart twist into circles. "Okay, fine. Ivan. What do you want?"

Not-Braginsky-It's-Ivan darts his gaze down. "You've met Natalia, yes?"

Alfred blinks. "Natalia? Blonde, kinda short, scary as fuck? Wears skirts all the time?" Ivan nods. "Yeah, I know her."

"She wants me," Ivan says. "In a, ah, she wants me to stay in her bedroom with my mouth held shut and limbs tied up? All the time."

"Shit, wait, she's a dominatrix?" Ignoring any and all mental images, because he's a fucking saint like that, Alfred finds himself leaning down a bit. "She your ex or something?"

Ivan sighs. "She's my sister."

"Wait, what?" The fuck, Alfred doesn't say. What the fuck.

"Step," Ivan amends. "Step-sister. But still."

"WHAT?"

"I know this is sudden but may I stay with you for a bit?" Ivan asks quickly, shooting that unsettling smile up at him. "Stay in your cubicle, is what I mean. To work." After a moment's hesitation, Ivan adds, "She, ah. Wants to talk about things."

Alfred winces. "Holding that off might not help." Though, it's not like he isn't used to Braginsky coming around with his stupid face all the time, to his actual place, for Matt's weird...hockey rivalry thing.

Ivan smiles again. "She has knives, Alfred."

"Fuck it. Stay a couple days, sure."

Chapter Text

"Alfred," Arthur says through gritted teeth. Alfred looks up, smirks lazily. The man on his lap blinks in embarrassment and stumbles off, standing up and immediately reaching for his coat hung on the opposite chair.

"I- I am very sorry, Mr. Jones," he stammers, wrapping a heavy scarf around his neck. He's quite tall, and looks down at Arthur with pink cheeks and a nervous smile. "And, I apologize to you as well, ah...?"

"Arthur Kirkland," Arthur says dryly. The man nods.

"I'm truly sorry, Mr. Kirkland!" he says when he's already out the door.

Arthur sighs in exasperation, before turning to Alfred and scowling at him.

"Alfred Jones," he snarls, slamming his hands flat against the desk. "This kind of behavior is despicable of the heir to this company."

Alfred shrugs and smirks, starts buttoning up the collar of his shirt. "C'mon, Artie. It's not like anyone cares."

"Do you understand what kind of scandal this is?" Arthur glares at Alfred, at his idiotic fur coat and his disheveled hair and that fucking star on his cheek. "This is not the time for your silly dalliances! The Magical Strike Movement is fighting us actively, that man-" whore, slut, Arthur bites his tongue, "-you had here might've been a spy!"

Arthur growls in frustration, staring the company president's precious son straight in the eye. "Do you know what just how much you could shame your father, do you know what we all could lose?"

Alfred stands up, smiles his slow-sticky-honey smile and leans forward, gently grasps Arthur's chin in his hand. This stupid, proud, arrogant child. Those steely blue eyes flicker in mischief, and his grin would be soft if his teeth weren't so sharp.

"Oh, Arthur," he coos. "I like scandal."

Chapter Text

Alfred chews at his lip, slumping in defeat. "This is your fault."

Ivan huffs, crossing his arms around his chest and tucking his fingers against his sides in an attempt to keep them warm. "You should learn to stop blaming everyone but yourself, perhaps."

Alfred stares at the stupid, stupid door, his gaze solemn and hardened. He kicks it in one last ditch attempt at escaping from this newly-branded hell. "I can't believe my brother just locked us in here."

"You see?" Ivan murmurs. "It is his fault." He purses his lips. "It's very cold."

Alfred eyes him warily, noting the thin nightshirt and lack of scarf. He shrugs his own jacket tighter around himself, still wearing his own pyjamas.

"Yeah," Alfred mutters. "We don't turn on the heating until things start dying from the frost. Then again, this is the cold storage, it doesn't get any heat..."

"Mm." Ivan's eyes flutter closed, lashes casting the lightest shadow over his cheeks, visible with the decades-old lightbulb shining above their heads. "Did you manage to make your brother angry? Which one?" He blinks his eyes open at Alfred, and his lower lip sticks out, just a tiny bit. He...probably doesn't realize he's doing it.

Ivan isn't supposed to be this cute, Alfred thinks. Honestly.

"A-Arthur," Alfred finds himself stammering out. "It was Arthur. Siblings, am I right?"

Ivan hums in understanding. "Yes. Though, Matvey is too sweet for such a thing."

Alfred bristles. "He still lets you call him that?"

"Is there a problem, Fredka?" Ivan asks innocently. He smiles, but it's not exactly inviting.

Alfred huffs, chewing at his lip. It's not like Ivan can just call everyone by his weird diminutive pet-names, come on. Alfred is okay with it, of course, because 'Fredka' sounds kinda cute if he tilts his head and squints a bit. But like, maybe Ivan should just stick to that. Only calling people in his family and Alfred by nicknames. Certainly not Mattie.

Not that Alfred is jealous, or anything.

"No," he chimes, grinning nervously. "I don't have problem with it. I swear!"

Ivan blinks at him, lowering his gaze to the floor. "I'd-- like to leave, soon. I don't think I would be willing to spend the entire night here?"

Alfred nods, absentmindedly-- and god, Ivan Braginsky who's taller than everyone in their class, whose smile can cause a shiver to go up the spines of people all the way in fucking Alaska-- he should not be so cute. He should not be lifting a hand to push a strand of hair out of his face, and he should not be ducking his head down to avoid Alfred's eyes, and he shouldn't be shuffling his feet in discomfort, a tiny shiver set into his shoulders.

Oh, wait. Ivan's trying to hide his neck, with the arm in front of his face and his head down. Alfred frowns-- there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it, but he always wears scarves, so maybe there's something...?

Ugh. Whatever. Alfred shrugs off his precious jacket and gruffly shoves it into Ivan's chest. "Just take it, man, if it's too cold."

Ivan opens his mouth-- to protest, maybe, but he closes it after a few seconds of contemplation. And he's awfully quick about putting it on, despite it being a bit small.

There's this light flush on Ivan's cheeks, and he still won't properly look at Alfred. It's starting to fluster Alfred himself, especially when Ivan pulls up the collar of the jacket and tries to cover his mouth and nose with it, peering down at Alfred with wide eyes.

"...Thank you," he says quietly. "I'm glad you're here with me."

"N-no problem!" Alfred chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. There is absolutely no heat rising to his cheeks, no sir. "Wha-what kinda person would I be if I just let...you..." Stand by yourself in a fucking ice-closet because I annoyed my bitter, vengeance-seeking brother. So not a cool type of person. Alfred gulps. "I...guess this is my fault anyway..."

Ivan giggles, muffled by worn fabric. It's light, childish-- h-happy, maybe...? An honest to god, uninhibited giggle. "Perhaps you should not be making your brother so mad next time, Fredka!"

Alfred flushes, but he flashes a grin, too. "Please, he's just too prissy to handle any kinda fun!"

They're still locked in the cold storage, though.

Chapter Text

It makes Alfred so flustered that he drops all his notebooks across the floor of Matthew’s room.

“I’m just saying!” Alfred hisses, glaring at Matt. “He’s a fuckin’ disgrace!”

“A disgrace,” Matt repeats coolly, glancing at his math textbook.

“Stupid fucking asshole trying to say he knows more about space than me--” Alfred crosses his arms and kicks his Scrapbook Notebook Thing across the floor (it’s the one with all the headcanons and ideas he has about superheros, glued together in this glorious dollar-store notebook. Gently. He kicks it gently.) “Gilbert! Beilschmidt! Knows! NOTHING!”

“Yep,” says Matthew.

“You CANNOT colonize Mars that easily! There’s that whole problem about the fact that Mars doesn’t! Have! A goddamn magnetosphere!” Alfred’s face is warm with rage and the self-righteous duty to defend space science. “It’s NOT EASY to make a GODDAMN MAGNETOSPHERE!”

“No it is not,” Matt acquiesces quietly. “Hey, is it just me, or did Arthur seem kinda sad today--”

“And Beilschmidt just decides that all we need to establish a sufficient magnetosphere on Mars is a couple of electromagnets. He literally said that. HE LITERALLY SAID THAT.”

“Yeah, but, um.” Matthew smiles placidly and tries to break through Alfred’s wrath. “Arthur seemed really, um, out of it, I guess--?”

“And that’s not even addressing the fact that it’d take at least a century to get some sort of breathable atmosphere on Mars!”

Matt looks up and sighs. “You’ve never gotten this mad at Ivan when you guys argue about space--”

Alfred stops.

He smiles softly at his brother. Matthew stares back, with wide eyes and a slight flinch, a general look of ‘oh my god I fucked up.’

“Oh, Mattie, you sweet summer child.”

“We’re-- we’re both summer children, we literally have the same birthday--”

“Matt, hush.” Matt shuts up. Alfred’s smile drops and his eyes flash with unholy blue fury. “At least Braginsky actually knows what he’s fucking talking about.”

Matthew says, kind of cautiously, kind of brazenly, “I don’t actually know what you’re fucking talking about.”

“Obviously it’d be easier to colonize Venus’s sky with giant zeppelins than it would be to establish a permanent colony on Mars,” Alfred says. He’s smiling again. It’s that sharp, Hollywood-reject smile he gets when he’s on the verge of brutally attacking something.

That something is most often Matthew’s old teddy bear, but hey. The heart wants what the heart wants.

Alfred’s heart wants to set Beilschmidt on fire.

“I think I’m gonna set Beilschmidt on fire,” Alfred says.

Matthew sighs. “Why did you tell me that, I don’t want to count as accessory for arson and murder--”

“Let this be a lesson, Mattie, darling,” Alfred beams. “Don’t fight me on space. Don’t fucking fight me on space.”

“...”

“Also, Beilschmidt suggested that we nuke Mars. In order to create a magnetic field. And just-- just-- no! That’s the DUMBEST IDEA EVER--”

“Wait, Alfred,” Matthew realizes. “Gilbert Beilschmidt doesn’t even go to our school.”

Alfred pauses. “What makes you think I was at school?”

“Nevermind.”

Chapter Text

"Why are you here," Switzerland says flatly, standing on his porch with a shotgun strapped to his back.

The United States of America grins at him, a flash of sharp, Hollywood-white teeth. The Russian SSFR of the Soviet Union is standing next to him, twisting his fingers through his scarf in discomfort, a tiny, forced smile on his face.

America hooks his arm through Russia's, ignoring the little hiss of, "Don't touch me, you capitalist pig--"

America stomps on Russia's foot to silence him. He's got these sensible, all-American leather loafers, made for business, way better than whatever those commies can come up with. Of course they'd be! Even though Russia doesn't even flinch, but America's willing to bet those boots aren't even Russian. Or Soviet. Probably snatched them at some over-the-top black market price, because the USSR can't even break the law right.

Or something.

"We're getting hate-married," America explains happily, pulling Russia closer so that their hips bump together. Russia huffs and jerks his head in a different direction. Switzerland raises an eyebrow. "And we want you to be our witness. And also everything else that comes with a marriage. But this is a hate-marriage." America frowns, then repeats it, just to clarify. "Hate-marriage."

"And you saw fit to do this at my house at four in the morning," Switzerland continues. "You're asking me to say the vows to your...hate-marriage thing."

"Well, yeah," America says sheepishly. "Since the past few days were filled with meetings and negotiations and stuff, and we're all going home tomorrow, so."

"I have not agreed to this," Russia protests weakly. America keeps grinning and slips a hand around his waist, and Russia tenses, drawn in like a taut string, or maybe a bear just realizing that its territory has been invaded. Not that America has any experience with that. How was he supposed to know that Canada's pet was a godless killing machine?

Switzerland sighs. "I now pronounce you Mr. and Mr. Cold War." He steps back into the house. "Now go away before I shoot you for trespassing."

The door slams shut. There's a beat of silence.

America still has his arm around Russia, and he shivers, because, whoa, did the air just get a whole lot colder?

"Amerika..." Russia giggles darkly.

"Okay, sorry," America says quickly. He snatches his arm back. "Geez, no need to do the creepy-aura temperature-drop thing, it's only September."

"Comrade, time of the year does not stop me."

"...Good to know, buddy. Good to know."