Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hmph. A still sleepy, bed headed America opened his eyes earlier than he wanted to. There would be a meeting at his place today and as the host, he needed to be there early. He quickly rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses on the night stand Without even bothering to lift his head *clank* shit. “There goes my glasses” Alfred grumbled in his sleepy stupor. Now more annoyed than sleepy he unwillingly left the comfort of his warm blanket and stepped onto his cold hardwood floor to retrieve them. Now standing up, glasses in hand, he placed them on the bridge of his nose and paid extra attention to make sure they were perfectly straight.

He finally managed to bust through his bedroom door and lazily made his way to the bathroom across the hall. If anyone were to be looking through his windows they would have thought they had seen a zombie. Luckily, he lived on a the third floor so he didn’t have to worry about that, unless there just happened to be someone looking up at his window from the street. He shivered at the thought, throwing it to the back of his mind he quickly washed up and prepared for the day. 

he selected a dark blue navy suit and a tie adorned with the colors of his flag, hair slightly slicked back- except for his cowlick he could never get to stay down. And Considering England was at the meeting, he paid extra attention to wearing cufflinks, the British man would always pester him about it and say things like “a real gentleman pays attention to the finer details.” Alfred however could care less, as long as he got there in one piece he didn’t care what he was wearing. He didn't need to look good to be a nation. He’d rather wear something less stuffy to give more freedom of movement in case he needed to act as a hero like saving someone from the thieves that run rampant in the city. Finally deciding he looked good enough, he left with plenty of time to spare, he even got the chance to water the flower that sits on his kitchen table! Today’s meeting would start at 10am, currently it was 8:30am. It gave him plenty of time to think about ways to avoid talking to the majority of the fellow nations, Not that he wanted to avoid them entirely, some of them were just a handful to talk to. Even the hero needed a break once in a while. 

After pushing the buttons on the elevator, he stood in the hallway waiting for it to arrive. Even though he was just on the third floor, the elevators happened to take a while to arrive. The apartment complex wasn’t the best but it worked for what he needed it for, It was right by the place he hosted the meetings at when it was his turn, the UN building. It didn't bother him that the place was a little run down, t’s not like he stayed at this apartment frequently anyway, he had other homes littered across the country.

*ding* after waiting for what seemed like an eternity, the elevator finally arrived ready to deliver him to the ground floor.

“Good morning Alfred!” A voice greeted him from the now opening doors, it was his elderly neighbor miss Sharon. America wasn’t supposed to talk to his neighbors, it was apparently a "threat to security" but how could he ignore her, she always brought him cookies and other sweet treats he adored whenever he was staying there

“Morning!” Alfred said with the best smile he could muster this early in the morning. He really did like miss Sharon but when she started a conversation, it would go on for hours. She would end up talking about the most mundane things too.

As she stepped out of the elevator, Alfred walked in, but this time she didn’t start a lengthy conversation as she usually did, letting him quickly press the buttons and close the door.

Thankfully, it didn’t take too long to hear the ding of the elevator arriving at the ground floor, not that he was in a rush, he just didn’t care for cramped spaces all that much. Especially dingy elevators that seemed to get stuck every so often. After making a swift exit, he left the building and waved down a taxi. He didn’t own a car in New York so he had to get by with public transportation. it wasn’t all that bad except for the one time he almost suffered an attack at the hands of a crazed lunatic wielding a butter knife on the subway that was screaming about him being the devil. luckily he managed to disarm him without causing much harm and the authorities arrived in a timely manner. His boss was not happy at all about this whole “incident” especially when the cops started asking one too many questions.

The taxi ride to the UN building was, mercifully, uneventful. Having nothing better to do and not wanting to make awkward conversation with the taxi driver, Alfred leaned against the window and looked out at the city buildings passing by in a blur. New York in the mornings always had something to see, whether it be drivers in their cars raging at the traffic around them or business men rushing to their morning jobs, it was always fun to see how his citizens spent their mornings. The sounds of cars honking and sirens wailing in the distance brought him a sense of peace, knowing he was never alone in this world. It gave him a sense of duty knowing he had to watch over them.

He finally sat upright and let out a small yawn while looking at the time on the dashboard clock. 9:02. He wasted more time than he would have liked waiting for a taxi, it didn’t matter though, he had plenty of time, and knowing England he was probably already there. It wouldn’t hurt making him wait a little longer.

And so his mind wandered, trying to guess who would already be there. Germany, most definitely. He was pretty sure Germany hasn’t missed a meeting since his creation, He always showed up early and prepared for anything like his life depended on it. Where ever Germany was, Italy was sure to follow. America could hear him complaining to Germany about how it took so long for people to arrive, either that or he was already napping away in the corner without a care in the world. 

Eventually the silence of his thoughts was broken by tires screeching. The taxi came to a halt in front of the United Nations Building. Being the hero he was he paid the tired driver with a generous tip and stepped out into the chill morning air. It was early May but the mornings could still be a little cold, well, cold for Alfred’s standards. 

As the Taxi whisked away he stood straight and checked his jacket and shoes, making sure everything was in order, not a wrinkle in sight as he strode towards the entrance.

Pushing through the doors, a voice rang out, it was none other than England glaring at him already.

 “You’re late.” 

“Dude, I’m early” Alfred replied without even bothering to look up at him, he was busy getting through the checkpoint.

Standing across said security checkpoint stood England, arms crossed and brows furrowed like he’d been preparing to say that all morning. He looked the same as always- perfectly fit suit, shoes that were polished so well they could probably be used as a mirror, and that look only a British person could have that gave a sense of annoyance and superiority.

“It’s 9:19,” Arthur said as he stood glancing at his perfectly clean watch. It was a miracle it wasn't scratched yet with all the fights he got into with France. 

Alfred looked up letting out a small huff before saying “I had to look this good, it takes time to get ready. Not everyone is graced with your impeccable fashion sense” he rolled his eyes while saying that last sentence.

Arthur shot back, “Atleast I don’t look like a campaign poster”

a little stunned, Alfred quickly shook off the shocked expression slowly creeping across his face. “Thanks, that was the goal, Atleast people will know who I am” 

“As if anyone wouldn’t know who you are” Arthur scoffed. "like it or not, the whole world knows you and I'm not sure its all positive impressions."

Alfred quickly made his way through the medal detector and made his way next to Arthur. The pair made their way through the inner halls, footsteps echoing against the marble floors. Staff was bustling about, busy as usual with whatever they did, even Alfred wasn’t too sure what exactly the staff did but it couldn’t be fun considering they were always rushing through the halls or busy taking calls But it had to be better than sitting in hours long meeting with nations who are at each others throats. 

As they finally arrived at the designated meeting room, and approached the doorway, Alfred caught a glimpse of familiar blonde-haired man, slicked back as always with glasses that made him look like a school teacher. It was none other than Germany with his usual clipboard and pen. Seated next to him was Japan, sipping on some tea and chatting to Germany, presumably about what they would discuss during the meeting today. Unsurprisingly, Italy was sound asleep in an empty chair in a far corner of the room.

Alfred leaned towards his brother and whispered “$10 Prussia shows up with a bagel and his sunglasses”

Arthur smiled back, “$15 He’s hungover and trips on the way in.”

They shared a rare quick laugh and quickly made their way in pretending they didn't just bet on the unsuspecting Prussia.

“The hero has arrived!” He called out to the room and stepped in, usual smile plastered on his face.

Germany looked up, brow furrowed with irritation, to see Alfred showing off a blinding smile. “You are Seventeen minutes early, good. That gives us time to review the agenda before-“

Keseseses an all too familiar laugh sounded out. “Booooooooooring,” came a dramatic drawl from the doorway. Atop his head were none other than a pair of fashionable sunglasses, Bagel no where in sight but obvious crumbs sticking to his dark blue coat.

“Yes! Called it.” Alfred gave England a shit eating grin while holding out his hand, waiting for his prize money to be delivered to him. 

“Goddamn it,” Arthur muttered under his breath. He reluctantly fished out a ten dollar bill from his pocket and handed it over to his all too eager brother. 

Prussia made his way to the table, brushing off his coat, freeing the many, many loose crumbs before sitting down next to Germany. Prussia didn’t have an assigned seat because he wasn’t required to attend, they just always saved him a spot regardless.

“Guten Morgen!! I’ve filled this room with my awesome presence, you better be thankful I even showed up, I almost didn’t attend but I knew my dear west would be so lost without his big brother.”

Germany pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep sigh. It was too early in the morning for this, even for him. “Gil- Prussia, You do know you don’t have to show up, yes? This is a formal meeting, not a place for you to be acting like it’s a party.”

Prussia leaned into his chair, chewing on some unknown object one could assume was gum, “C’mon, don’t be like that. This whole meeting would go no where without the awesome me, everyone likes it when I show up. Look, even America is smiling.”

“Only because I just made ten bucks,” Alfred grinned while pocketing the bill.

Across the room, Japan gave a soft nod in greeting before returning to a document in front of him, one that was passed to him by Germany. His expression was unchanging but Alfred was pretty sure he sighed.

America, England and Germany all looked down at their notes and started drafting things up. It would have gotten done faster if Prussia wasn't leaning over Germanys shoulder telling him to change things.

Eventually France made his way in , just on time, if not late by a few minutes. Wearing a grey suit and pink undershirt with a tie that had a design no one could quite make out. He carried the air of Smug confidence he always did.

“Bonjour, cher amis.” He said ever so smoothly. He quickly took his seat with the grace of a man who's never known discomfort. “Is this where the nations fashion comes to die?” He chirped out, head now resting on his hands. “sacre bleu!” He suddenly shouted eyes wide. Alfred quickly turned to see what the commotion was only to realize he was looking at him. “Who- Who did this to you!? Did you let England pick out your tie again?! This is most terrible, you know that angleterre has terrible fashion sense.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow at him, ignoring the obvious insult to his tie choice. “Dude, it’s literally ten in the morning, way too early to care about beauty and what not. besides I think it looks fine.”

“Beauty never sleeps Mon Ami. France replied, smoothing out his hair. 

“You certainly do.” England scoffed. “You were supposed to arrive early to help out with the preliminary draft.”

“I was busy being beautiful, besides I’m sure you and America handled it just fine”

“You were hungover in your hotel room”

“It can’t be a hangover if it was just wine!” France shouted back. “Besides, same thing anyway.”

Before the argument could escalate, a chill came over the room, an unnerving presence emanated from the doorway. it was Russia who gave his usual cold smile, eyes scanning over the other nations present. “Good morning.” He simply said not even bothering to look anyone in the eye. he silently made his way to his seat. And No one even dared look at him after he sat down.

America just silently watched, even if no one else did, as the host he had to greet everyone and so, after some uncomfortable silence, he spoke up. “Morning.” Russia just glared back at him. Alfred just ignored it and shifted uncomfortably in his seat that he had taken sometime earlier. 

Moments later, China arrived, He looked sharply at the clock, making sure he was on time. (He wasn’t) “Hmph. I see you haven’t started on time.” He muttered under his breath, “What did I expect, You westerners are always disorganized.”

After a while, The rest of the nations that were invited arrived. Finally at 10:20 the meeting would begin. It started later than anyone would have liked but this is how it usually went when America hosted meetings.

Germany cleared his throat, causing America who wasn't paying attention to jump as he remembered he had a meeting to hold. He coughed into his hand trying to dispel the embarrassment and stood up quickly. “We will now officially begin today’s meeting, The agenda includes updates on..” Alfred quickly glanced down at his paper, not quite sure what he was expecting “International environmental cooperation, economical alignment strategies, and some security oversight measures…” Alfred trailed off. 

He immediately leaned back into his chair with a sigh. Alfred had hosted the meeting but Germany was usually the one to really lead it. America didn't think he would let him take charge even if he asked. He knew the meeting this time was somewhat important but he didn’t expect all of that. “So much for an easy going meeting” he mumbled to himself.

After starting the opening statement, Germany took over, as usual. he really was a natural leader. He began to look over his own notes to make sure he got all the facts right before speaking. He did this every meeting so it was no surprise but this usually took a little bit. Alfred zoned out slightly, Japan nodded along with whatever Germany was beginning to say, France carefully observed his nails and the rest were whispering among themselves. 

Somewhere in the back of Alfred’s mind he wondered how long it would take before someone completely derailed the meeting, probably Prussia or France. He took a deep breath and jumped up in his seat once he heard Germany straightening his papers. Alfred listened on for a while but eventually it turned into a snooze fest for him. listening to Germany going on about some issue in Eastern Europe that didn’t really have anything to do with him made him feel less interested. Just as he was drifting off to fantasy land, he felt a prickly feeling on the back of his neck, bringing him back into reality. He was being watched and he wasn’t sure for how long. Casting his gaze across the room, he spotted Russia. Of course it was him, sitting there, watching. Not glaring exactly, Just looking. Calm. Measured. Like he was waiting for something to happen.

Alfred Felt it every time, an uneasiness in his chest, a chill crawling up his spine like a cold breeze. He didn’t feel fear, No. he stopped being afraid of Russia a long time ago. It was more like wariness, or awareness. 

From across the table Russia adjusted his scarf while still staring, as he did, their eyes met and Alfred quickly looked away pretending to be interested in whatever Germany was talking about. Something about Tariffs, or fertilizer. Who knew.

He quickly glanced back only to see Russia watching as always. Staring intently with an emotion he wasn’t able to read. He quickly readjusted in his seat and tried to ignore the piercing gaze directed at him. Russia always knew how to get to him.

Arthur noticed how uncomfortable he looked. “You alright?” England leaned over, his voice quiet so only America could hear, “your twitchier than usual.”

“I’m fine,” Alfred muttered, “im just a little cold, that’s all.” He said while fiddling with his sleeves under the table. 

Arthur shot him a look as if he knew the issue but refrained from saying anything about it. “You’re dressed in three layers and still complain when it’s below seventy.”

Alfred didn't didn’t reply, instead he cast his gaze over across the table and to Russia-and this time, he was smiling. It wasn’t a genuine smile, it was too pleasant, too practiced. 

He knew Russia was doing this to get under his skin but still, he felt it, a warning or general uncomfortable feeling that settled in his stomach. It bothered him but he’d rather die than cower before russia. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the silent standoff between Russia and America ended with the announcement of a short break. Italy, who was still sleeping, finally opened his eyes to face the world and made his way out with Germany. After the nations filed out, the only one left was America and Arthur who was still lagging behind the last group leaving to get refreshments and hung back for a while until America shot him his usual Smile to let him know he was ok.

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Alfred said with a small wave of his hand. Arthur just nodded and made his way out. As much as England didn’t admit it, he was still worried for his younger brother he spent so much time with. He had a feeling something was off but he couldn’t tell exactly what.

America now left alone in the now desolate meeting room took a few deep breaths to try to sort himself out. Hopefully no one would ask any questions as to why he was last to arrive at the coffee machine as he usually was the first one there. Russia was up to something and it completely threw him off.  Now alone, he watched and observed. The ticking of the clock on the wall, the smell of ink on the paper, and the shuffling in the hallways. It helped keep him sane taking in everything around him. It was exhausting being the hero, even more so a nation trying to keep positive relations.

After taking a deep breath and a few moments to collect his bearings, he made his way out to the refreshment area down the hall. The smell of coffee immediately inundating his senses. Gathering around the coffe machine stood the usual suspects, Germany, Russia, and a few of the Nordic nations.

“Morning America!” Shouted a way too cheery Finland who spotted him across the room.

“Morning Finland!” America said giving him a slight wave while making his way over, careful not to get too close to a certain cold country.

“Did you want something? I can grab it for you if you want.”

“No, it’s fine, I like my coffee a certain way. I can wait until everyone’s done here.” America replied in a way that seemed too rigid. Did Russia really throw him off that much?

Finland just gave him a quick “oh ok” and finished pouring the coffee from the pot into one of those cheap styrofoam cups. Pretty soon everyone grabbed their coffee and started idly chatting with one another about matters that didn’t seem too important. Finally pouring his cup, making sure to add 3 teaspoons of sugar and some flavored coffee creamer, and silently made his way to a nearby table and sat down, ready to mentally prepare himself for the next round of cold glares and pointless arguments.

“You seem tense.” A voice said from behind him as a hand gently touched his right shoulder. It was none other than Japan. Japan had always been his friend, maybe that’s why he was one of the ones he actually enjoyed talking to.

Alfred let out a small breath while staring into his untouched coffee. “That obvious?”

“I suppose it’s hard to relax, you always have many eyes on you all the time” Japan said while pulling out a chair and sitting down. Alfred tapped the table with his fingers.

“are you here to be my therapist, or are you bored.”

With a hint of concern in his eyes Japan slowly started to speak, “Neither. I worry about you sometimes America.”

After taking a sip from his still somewhat hot coffee, America scoffed. “A little stress won’t take this Hero out. Besides, I’ve been through.. worse.” Ignoring the small pause and eyes that seemed to wander to some far off land, Japan added on. “Like that one meeting France showed up drunk and started a competition of who could piss off England first”

Snapping back to reality, Alfred laughed. “Britain was so angry, he wouldn’t even look at France for days. Maybe that’s why there hasn’t been a meeting at his place since.” Japan always knew how to lighten up the mood.

“Speak of the devil.” Quickly approaching the table was France himself, “Now now, even England can’t stay angry at my beautiful face for long.” Alfred rolled his eyes, noticing the aforementioned British lad give a nasty scowl at their table.

“Now then Amérique, Japan as well, care to head back? Better to leave now before everyone else rushes in.” With a nod of their heads, Alfred and Kiku quickly pushed out of their seats, hurrying back to the meeting room before everyone else followed. Besides, it was better to straighten out the mess left in the room after the first round of conversations, or arguments, depending on who you asked.

Leaving the room unnoticed by the other nations and making their way down the hall, footsteps heavy against the marble floors and a coffee in hand, silently they approached. To no one’s surprise at all, Germany was already sitting down looking through his now thinner stack of papers. However much to Alfred’s dismay, in the seat labeled “Россия” (Russia) sat the tall light haired man, as if he was always there from the beginning and never left, like a statue overlooking an important place.

Ignoring the slightly unwanted presence, He, Japan, and France took their seats and prepared for the second round of talks that Alfred could care less for. All America wanted was to get home and forget this whole thing ever happened. he would need a long rest after this meeting was over.

Eventually the rest of the morning passed in a blur of policy talk, number crunchy, and fake diplomacy.

Alfred could barely focus.

Eyes down on the notepad in front of him, the shouting match now occurring between France and England, and the obnoxious laughter produced by Prussia, eventually broken up by Germany now bringing the meeting back on track. he kept a his pen moving. Doodling spirals in the corner and a blob shape that somewhat looked like him in the margins of his notes. He tried to focus on the words spoken by the now annoyed German but his thoughts kept slipping- backwards

Russia still hasn’t said a word, the only time he spoke this meeting was to comment on how well his country handles certain situations. He hadn’t needed to speak. The overwhelming presence of a superpower was proof enough he was competent on his own. his presence in the room was the same as always.

Cold.

Heavy.

And familiar in the worst way.

Alfred tapped his fingers against the table out of habit once more, faster than he realized. France shot him a glance, Japan gave him one of his usual unreadable expressions. He was sure even Germany paused for a moment.

He couldn’t help it. Being in the same room as Ivan for more than an hour made his skin crawl and his chest tighten in a way he didn’t like admitting. And it wasn’t the usual “we hate eachother and may fight to the death” tension.

It was deeper.

Older.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Sirens.

Concrete bunkers.

A phone that never rang but always threatened to.

Alfred remembered the weeks he didn’t sleep- when even blinking felt dangerous, because what if this was the moment Ivan finally pushed the button? When it would all end.

He remembered staring at the grainy television broadcast, The panic in his people’s eyes. The drills. The pressure. The way his boss walked as though he was on a tightrope.

The gun he kept to his chest and the trigger ready to be pulled.

And he remembered The talks of peace, calm over the radio whilst danger lurked in the silence of the night, submarines inching ever so closer to Cuba like a snake baring its fangs.

Back then, Alfred didn’t know if he hated Russia more for lying— or knowing how afraid he was.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — —

“America”

Germanys voice snapped him out of it. Looking at him. Without even realizing it, he had broken the pen he was fiddling with.

Like a deer in headlights, Alfred stared. “Huh.”

“I asked if you would share your nations updated carbon strategy,” Germany said. “You seemed.. preoccupied.”

Alfred cleared his throat, flipping through his papers, smile slowly growing on his face as though all was well. “Yeah, of course. Just wasn’t a good idea to drink caffeine on an empty stomach.” He said with a small awkward laugh at the end.

Looking across the room, he noticed a small knowing smile growing on the face of Russia. It wasn't the one from before, it was different. One that he hadn’t seen since…. He quickly cut his train of thought and prepared to speak.

He wouldn’t face him. Not yet. Not when he had problems of his own to deal with but the more time that passed in the meeting room, the more irritable he became.

Chapter Text

He looked away fast. Staring down at the words on the paper infant of him that didn't even make sense anymore. releasing his grip on the now cracked pen, letting what was left of it fall to the desk. The others around him were getting ready to leave- papers shuffling, chairs screeching against the flooring and small talk was heard all around him. Yet that gaze never left.

He could feel the tension crawling up his spine like frostbite, knowing away at his senses. The more time he spent in that seat, the more it burnt.

He wasn't going to look, not today. Not when right now all he could think of was the missile maps and telephones waiting to ring. Of rooms lit only by the glow of screens. Nights spent in isolation, hand hovering over the launch key. Nights preparing for the end, unsure of tomorrow.

America had been fine for while. Its been decades and the march of time is ever moving forward. But Something about the look Russia gave him brought him back to when times where different and he didn't like what he saw.

He stared down at the table, reflection staring back but all he saw was an empty shell chained down by the past, eyes darker than they should be and smile gone.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed as he sat there. Unsure of even his own thoughts. Germany left, Japan nodded and followed behind. France said something in passing and yet no one noticed when he didn't respond.

Except him. the only one who stayed behind. Russia stayed.

America could feel it. a burning anger or guilt building up inside of him. like a weight tying him down. as if the past was whispering in his ear saying "you did this too"
a reality he didn't want to face, not today.
He sat in silence. A silence that seemed to last an eternity until, like a wave crashing over he barked out "say something or leave." voice sounding sharper and more cruel than he intended.

Russia didn't flinch, nor did he make a sound until he did. "I thought you didn't want me to speak America."

Alfred stood up abruptly, chair screeching as though it was screaming, slamming his hand on the table, he stared at the Russian with a gaze so sharp it could pierce through him.
"why do you do this to me. what do you know. that smile. it's as if you're waiting for me to crack."

"Is that what you think I want?" Russia said, emotion unreadable from the tone of his voice. America hated that. He hated how he could never read the one who he knew most about.

"don't pretend you haven't thought about it. your always there. watching. waiting for a slip up, something you can use against me. looking like you remember." not slowing down he continued. "do you think I forgot what you did? proxy wars, Cuba? Berlin? the phycological warfare. you pushed so many people into the dark."

russia silently moved closer, staring him down. "I remember." he simply said with a hum. "but do you?" Does he really remember, maybe he forgot, or maybe he wanted to forget..
As if toying with him, Russia didn't point out Americas faults instead he simply said "One day you will get past your self-righteousness and face the truth of your actions."

Alfred flinched. He knew what Russia was insinuating but it didn't matter. He had changed since then and it doesn't affect him. He may have had unsavory decisions but why would he let that bother him- it didn't, right? it was for the cause, for freedom. right?
Russia was closer, unsure when he even got that near to him, America stepped backwards. As if expecting his actions, Russia leaned forward once again closing the gap.

"We were playing the same game America. you just liked to think you were playing for the right reasons." And with that he stepped back to leave, back facing America who was frozen. standing like a statue as if reliving decades of history in a moment. He gritted his teeth.

in an instant when Russia was just leaving, without conscious thought, he thought of the gun he kept near him, he always had it on him. ever since the beginning. no. ever since that day. it never left his side like a friend that never left. always close to his chest. His hand moved to his vest, fingers curling around the ice cold metal, he drew his pistol.
now aimed at the back of Russia, sweating slightly, America was fully prepared to face the consequences of his actions. its not like he'd really die. They couldn't. He couldn't, he figured that out decades go.

"you won't shoot." Russia said, voice flat as if nothing bothered him, arms lifted as if surrendering. no. more like taunting him, daring him to finish what started all that time ago. "You couldn't even pull the trigger when you had that opportunity"

he lowered it, Russia was right. He couldn't. America wasn't even thinking straight in the moment but he knew, if he pulled the trigger right then and there, he would regret it for as long as he had left to live.

"Увидимся, Amerika" And with that he left, as though he was a ghost of the past. Only existing to dig up memories rather forgotten.

Crash - Alfred clenched his jaw and smashed his fist through the table made of wood out of frustration. Coming back to his senses He felt ashamed. He fell for whatever Russia wanted him to. He gave Russia satisfaction from this reaction to his words.

Now he would have to face that man again with the same resentment he had back then, reignited and unresolved.

The meeting room was silent, the walls whispering no tales of what occurred. thankfully everyone had left. regretfully, he would have to pay repair costs for his stupid actions. with no one left behind in the room, leaving just the now splintered table, he left.

The way home was unbearable, he wasn't angry, or explosive. just hollow. He hadn't bothered calling a taxi, he needed time. A lot of it. the now setting sun casting his shadows on the sidewalk and the flickering of street lights coming on. he clenched his fists and kept walking, chest tight. The trembling hadn't stopped since he lowered the gun. Maybe he should have taken the shot when he had the chance, that way he wouldn't have ended up like this. The only image flashing through his mind was that damned smile. That small icy smirk Ivan wore like a mask although, he wasn't better. parading around a smile to hide the fact he was still torn apart. acting like everything was fine when it wasn't. Maybe he and Ivan were the same.
no. he would never have anything in common with that man. The man he fought so hard against, The one that could truly go against him.

He kept walking, not even realizing he had already long passed his apartment. Every time he stopped moving the air grew tight. Cars driving past, pedestrians all around him rushing to get home before the coldness of the night overtook them. it reminded him he was still here. the world was still spinning. time didn't stop. The world went on, but he didn't.

why did the world get to move on?

why was Russia still walking free after all he did?

he stood still, abruptly stopping, taking in the scene of the now ever closer night. did he even have the right to say anything?

-

after making it home he sat down like the weight of the world was pressing against him. tired, even more so mentally. sitting up slightly, he decided it better to get up and do something rather than nothing. His brother was supposed to come over to hang out for a bit tomorrow before he had to fly back and he couldn't let Matthew see him like this. There was one cure to solve everything that Alfred knew best, Alcohol. Its not that he liked to drink, its just what happened to get him through the worst of times. Now fully sitting up, he decided to walk to a certain hidden stash behind the couch cushions. Mattie hated him drinking so he'd hide it. That way his brother didn't get on his ass about it. he'd usually say something like "There's better things to do than get drunk and sit on your ass all day, do you want to turn into France?" thinking of his brothers nagging put a smile on his face.

"sorry Mattie. lets hope I don't wake up speaking French," Alfred joked to himself before pulling out a half full bottle from the depths of the couch.

finally pouring himself a glass and leaning back to enjoy the night, hoping to sleep peacefully without dreams of Red.

Alfred took as slow sip, savoring the burn sliding down his throat, savoring it like it was his lifeline.
The couches fabric rubbed against his back, the prickly feeling of the fibers poking him. he didn't even bother to move, not tonight. looking into his glass still not nearly half gone. thoughts still running rampant in his head, ones that he'd rather not have to face.

Why does he get to breath so easily as if nothing happened while I have to remind myself to inhale.

his grip around the glass tightened, all he could think of was that smile, the way he was so carefree, the sureness in his words knowing he wouldn't shoot.

he didn't mean to break the glass. He didn't even realize how hard he had been holding it until he heard the sound of it making contact with the floor. The glass shrards reflecting the low, dingy lighting of his apartment, The amber liquid bleeding onto the floor.

Alfred just sat, not bothering to deal with it right now. Thoughts weighing heavy with no remedy.
He slowly moved to the floor, knees pulled up. The air was still cold even with the heating on, It was a kind of chill that settled into your bones. one that reminded him of the unforgiving winters of Moscow.

He'd been there once, back when things were civil between them, When they could share the world without drawing blood, the feeling of the snow beneath his feet and the cold in his lungs. a silence between them that was comfortable. Ivan had said something back then, a simple sentence that carried the warmth of the world "you look cold, Alfred" And he had smiled, not the fake rehearsed smile he shows the world today but a genuine one. a smile that was real.

He almost pulled the trigger. He could have saved himself from the pain he was feeling now but he didn't because he knew. He knew deep down it wasn't just Russia at fault.
The clock ticked, the night deepened, and Alfred, slouched against the couch finally let himself rest. Eyes fluttering closed. He knew the dreams would come. they always did.
He just hoped- for once, they wouldn't be in Russian.

This time he slept, dreaming for the past, before he became a man to be ashamed of.

Chapter Text

The morning sun slowly rose against the backdrop of the city. The sound of the now bustling city coming to life, and the warm light hitting the cold floors of the apartment illuminating the now somewhat dried alcohol and glass shards still making peace on the floor.

Alfred stirred, a soft grunt escaping him as he slowly blinked awake. His back ached from sleeping slumped over on the hardwood floor. He didn’t move right away, still processing the broken glass on the floor next to him.
Hearing the buzz of his cellphone that was resting on the coffee table, he reached for it and checked the notification. It was from his brother, Canada. It wasn’t just one message waiting for him. It was many. Matthew must have spammed his phone last night.

[Mattie 🍁]
- You awake? I’m coming over. I’ll be sure to bring you my famous blueberry muffins you swear you hate. Hope you’re hungry.

While most countries immediately head home after attending the meeting, Matthew stays a few extra days to spend time with his younger brother. They rarely get to hang out outside of meetings so it give them the opportunity to gossip or play games together.

Slowly reading the message, having to look at it multiple times for it to make sense, Alfred let out a sigh. He glanced over at the clock— 9:17 AM. His brother always had the habit of coming over early, much to his dismay.
He stood up with a slight huff, stretching his back that was now sore. Picking glass he didn’t realize got stuck on the bottom of his socks and kicking the glass under the couch. Out of sight, out of mind. He’d clean it later. Probably. Maybe.

Fifteen minutes later, just washing up and changing into clothes that weren’t covered with floor dust, he heard a soft knock at the door. Knowing it was his brother, he made his way over to open it.
With the unlocking of the door he was greeted with a tubaware full of muffins one could assume he baked the night before.

“You’re early,” Alfred said, voice still a little raspy.
Matthew gave him a look before pushing his way into the small apartment like he lived there. Alfred simply stepped back and let him enter.

Looking around the place and placing the muffins onto the counter? He look at his brother and simply said “You look like crap.”

“Love you too.” Alfred grumbled, closing the door and locking it while moving in on the baked goods he swore he hated.

“You didn’t answer my messages last night” Matthew said while taking off his light coat. It was warm in the small apartment. The heater must have kicked on last night, or the sun was unusually warm today. “You usually always complain to me after the meetings. Are you ok?”
Alfred shrugged, grabbing a muffin. Noticing his brother eating, Matthew let out a satisfied smile.

“Define okay.”

Matthew started at him, waiting for him to continue speaking without prompting him.

“Ok fine. I broke a glass and had a minor existential crisis but it’s the usual for me.”

Matthew handed him a coffee. Was he always holding it? Things he hold seems to disappear along with his presence.

Alfred greatfully recived it. He even noticed it was his favorite— a caramel macchiato from a local coffee shop he frequented.

“Drink it before it gets cold. I’m sure you still need your morning caffeine.”

Alfred nodded in gratitude and took a sip, letting the warm liquid jolt him awake. Whether it was his brother’s presence or the caffeine entering his system, he felt more at ease.

Voice quieter than usual, Alfred spoke again. “…Thanks for coming.”

Now with a muffin and coffe in hand, Alfred headed for the couch, Hoping his brother wouldn’t notice the glass underneath.

“Don’t mention it,” Matthew said, a second later than he would have liked.

Alfred hummed, plopping down on the coach and almost melting into it. His brother followed behind.
They both sat in peace. Outside the city buzzed — horns, morning traffic, a dog barking a building over. It felt normal. Even a little comforting. If Alfred didn’t happen to notice a tall, scarf wearing man walking the streets heading to the market that happened to be down the street his window faced.

Suddenly the world turned quiet. His brother now talking to him about something he couldn’t hear. All he could focus on what Ivan. What was he doing there? Was he spying on him again? Was he going to show up in the middle of the night, gun drawn and threaten him? Thoughts raced, ruining the once somber moment. His breath hitched as his hand shook, shaking the warm coffee cup he held in his hand.

“Al? Earth to Alfred.” Mattie said, shaking his shoulder to grab his attention.

“Oh sorry, I just saw something.. interesting.” Alfred said weakly, turning back to his brother with a smile on his face. He put his coffee on the table and picked up the remote. “So. Wanna play some Mario Kart?”
Matthew grinned. His brother was just asking to lose. He snarkily replied, “so you can feel better by throwing shells at me?”

“You know it!” Alfred joyfully replied
Matthew paused, not wanting to rain on his parade quite yet.

“I’ll be sure to kick your ass on rainbow road.”

“In your dreams Maple head, your brain must be full of syrup if you think you can beat me.”

And just like that, The world felt a little lighter. For once he forgot his worries.

“Dude.” Matthew said while seriously inspecting the red joycon like it was a foreign object. “Why is there syrup on it?”

“I haven’t been here in a month, if not longer.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow, “maybe everything you touch turns into syrup. Like a Canadian superhero.”

Matthew rolled his eyes and wiped his now slightly sticky hands on his jeans before picking Yoshi as usual. Alfred, Picked Mario. “Basic..” Matthew muttered under his breath, barely audible but loud enough for Alfred to hear.
Alfred scoffed. “Says the guy who picks the lame green dinosaur guy all the time.”

“Hey! Atleast Yoshi isn’t Italian.”

Alfred laughed before putting his finger to his lips and shushing. “What if Italy hears you.” They both let out a small giggle.

The first race started pretty civil. They both laughed when one of the AI players drove straight into a banana peel. But lap by lap, all bets were off. It started turning into a battle.

“Stop throwing shells at me!” Matthew shouted slightly, gripping the control harder as if it was going to stop the shells from coming at him.

“But that’s the game, we are racing!” Alfred responded. “Besides, you would lose anyway even if I wasn’t using them.”

Matthew sighed in defeat. He couldn’t argue against that, it’s not like his brother was going to beat him anyway. He might as well let him have some fun.

Alfred, focused intently at the screen flashing with bright colors. By the time he was done with his coffee and several games that were becoming more chaotic— including the many times Alfred drove off the rainbow road in the first thirty seconds — The apartment felt alive again. Sugar crumbs from the now depleted Tupperware of muffins, coffee rings cold on the table and the sound of Alfred humming the theme under his breath.

Matthew sprawled across the carpet, head propped up on a pillow he stole from the couch. “You ever think how we are litterally cartoon characters? I mean, we are already the personified version of nations. We might as well be characters in some shitty comedy show.”

“You alright dude?” Alfred raised a brow at the absurd suggestion.

“Honestly, anything’s possible at this point. If that was true maybe I would get stuck in traffic anymore.”

Matthew giggled. “I don’t think that would change. Even paying taxes doesn’t go away for us.”

Alfred sighed. Even being the nation itself didn’t give him an excuse, he still needed to masquerade as a “normal” citizen.

Alfred leaned back in thought, hands both resting behind his head. Continuing the topic of mindless conversation, he sighed before saying. “Do you ever miss when things were simpler? Befor ethe meetings turned into a way to gossip about rumors and pointless drama?”

“Sometimes.. but it hasn’t changed so much. Kind of like even though we don’t live together anymore, I still leave you notes, just through messages.” When they were younger, they used to live together out of convenience, sometimes Alfred missed having a family to keep him company when he felt alone. But times change.

Alfred laughed. Reminiscing “Dear Alfred: if you drink the milk and leave an empty carton in the fridge again, I will make sure you never wake up again. Love, your big brother Mattie.”

“Hey! Atleast it worked. I didn’t see an empty carton since!” Matthew said proudly.

Alfred let out a soft chuckle, “Thanks for being here for me Matthew.”

Matthew shrugged. He didn’t need to be told Alfreda was acting off lately but he ignored the slightly different tone in his voice. He’d talk to him about what was bothering him when he was ready. Turning his eyes to the flickering TV screen he said “Well, I don’t need my brother turning into some tragic Antihero with an inflated ego. You’re too unserious for it.”

Alfred threw a couch pillow at him.

The rest of the morning into the afternoon passed in a lazy way, weekends were supposed to be spent like this: Soft, lighthearted jokes, dumb cartoons, and bickering over games. They debated whether to order pizza or Chinese, settling for the latter.

And for a while, Alfred didn’t think about Russia, about the harsh winters, The red dying the snow, or the trigger he could have pulled.

He just sat in his apartment, surrounded by crumbs from the muffins and sibling banter. He let the weight lift, just a little. Just enough.

By the time the sun started setting, they were knee-deep in takeout containers and empty soda cans. The Tv he forgot to turn off was now changed to a cooking show Alfred was sure he’d seen Atleast four times already. Neither of them were paying attention.

“I swear.” Matthew said between bites of the now cold lo mein. “If Arthur sends me another passive aggressive email about Climate policy, I’m going to block him.

Alfred snorted, almost choking on a noodle. “You won’t, you’re Canadian. That goes against your national values”

Matthew rolled his eyes. “You have no Idea how many emails I dont respond to, especially the amount of ones I’ve “accidentally” trashed.”

“Dude. He called me un gentalmanly before meeting a couple months ago. He sipped his tea like he was trying to piss me off the whole meeting. I could hear the judgment in it.”

Matthew chuckled, “Atleast he didn’t make you smell every single cologne available for purchase. That’s what Francis did to me after I told him his cologne was too strong.”

Alfred’s jaw dropped. “Dude. You insulted his cologne? You’re lucky your lungs are still intact. He once fogged up an elevator after I told him I use Axe body spray instead of the expensive fancy stuff.”

They shared a quick Look before falling into laughter about their experiences.

As the sun dipped lower, the laughter faded into the night as Alfred looked around his now empty apartment that was in shambles. Today was good. Maybe not perfect, maybe not painless. It was good. And that was good enough.

Matthew had left awhile ago after sharing a few more horror stories about their encounters with a very drunk France and Prussia. Alfred stood at the sink, slowly cleaning up when he noticed a handwritten note left by his brother. “Im still better at Mario kart ;) - Mattie” Alfred smiled fondly at the note before searching for a magnet. The note, now stuck to the fridge with an “I Love New York” magnet made his dingy apartment feel more like a home.

Just as he was about to collapse onto the couch again, he heard a soft knock that echoed in the hallway. It wasn’t urgent or impatient. Just rythmatic and gentle. The kind of knock that became familiar over the past year.

Alfred got up and opened the door after unlocking it and was met with the small figure of his elderly neighbor, Miss Sharon.

She stood there bundled in a cardigan one could assume was knit by the woman herself. Her silver hair was neatly wrapped up into a bun as she clenched a container to het chest as though it was treasure.

“Good Evening Al.” She said, Voice as soft and motherly as ever, tinged with a slight smile. “You eat yet?”

Alfred blinked, a bit suprised at her question. “A bit. I just had some takeout with my brother, he left a moment ago.”

“Well takeout doesn’t count. You need good food to continue to grow. Here.” She pushed the container into his hands. “Pot roast. I made too much, I still cook like my husband around.” She said with a small laugh to mask her grief that still lingered.

Alfred chuckled. “Miss Sharon, you spoil me too much.”
“Someone’s got to. You are still a growing boy and you look like you haven’t slept in a week!” She leaned in and squinted, “Are those crumbs stuck to your shirt?”

“Muffin related incident.” Alfred said with a cheeky smile.
She let out a humph, clearly unimpressed with the lack of cleanliness. “You’re lucky you’re a cute child.”

Alfred rolled his eyes and stepped aside, inviting her in. “I know it’s getting late but would you like to come in for a bit?” Alfred pitied the woman who now lived alone. Her son was in the army stationed in another town so she didn’t have many visitors.

“Oh no. It’s alright, my show is on.” She politely declined the invitation. Noticing the flower on his table, she pointed it out. “That poor thing looks dehydrated, be sure to water it well.”

Alfred glanced over. It did look a little pitiful. He’d be sure to take better care of it after all, he didn’t even know how old it was or when it got there. All he knew was that it was important, he had a feeling he shouldn’t let it die.
“Well, I’ll get going now. Be sure to eat and clean up if you break another glass.”

Alfred winced. “You heard that?”

“Paper-thin walls. Just be careful . It gave me quite the fright.”

He gave her a sheepish smile, “Thanks Miss Sharon.”
She patted his arm with warn out hands, gave him a look of care and worry and disappeared down the hall with shuffling steps.

When she was out of sight, He gently closed the door, careful to lock it behind him and carried the container to the kitchen. The smell of roasted vegetables and warm gravy filled the air as he popped open the lid. It smelled like something home-cooked. Something Real.
For a moment he stood there, taking it all in. She didn’t have to care, but she did.

He made a mental note to check in on her later this week. Maybe bring her some of those muffins Matthew liked to cook or just sit and gossip about neighborhood drama or old sitcoms, ones even he could remember watching.
He owed her that much.

Chapter Text

The front door creaking open like it always did, loud enough to alert the whole building he was leaving. He told himself he would try and fix it but he never did, always getting preoccupied with something.

He paused on the threashold, keys in hand with one foot already on the dirty hallway floor. The warm air instantly hitting him making his back already start to sweat. Summer was approaching ever so closer, a season he didn’t mind all that much. The sounds of cicadas not yet producing the melody of the season but the heat proving summer was near.He took a deep breath and stepped out, pulling the door close behind him, being sure to lock it with the keys in hand. The lock clicked in place with a hollow metallic sound.

It had rained sometime last night making the sidewalk still damp in certain spots. Making his way down the street, pedestrians passed by wearing clothes warmer than yesterdays morning, some slightly jogging and others walking taking in the morning air. Somewhere else in the lawns of houses who had them, people were out mowing their grass, kids were playing ball being too loud for the morning but making the world seem livelier. 

And somewhere — maybe — he was still here.
Alfred hated to even think about it.

He hadn’t slept well since the meeting, not really. Mattie had left a few days ago already and Miss Sharon hadn’t stopped by since. He’d just been laying in bed staring at the ceiling, the cold metal of his gun on the nightstand reflecting the tiredness in his eyes. A reminder of why he couldn’t sleep. Moments passed by in his mind, The uneasiness setting even further inside. The expression on russias face, one that wasn’t fear, no. It had been one of knowing. 
Alfred rubbed a hand through his hair as he continued his journey to the store. He had a job to do— just a normal task, a little errand. He wanted to repay Miss Sharon’s kindness, she had helped him through a lot lately, before this mess. He could Atleast make himself get out and do this. For her. 

Gift bag, Tea, Honey. Maybe those little mint chocolates he always saw on her counter when he visited. And a card — something with a cat one it. She liked those. He could continue living on like a normal person. This was normal. 
His eyes darted up and down the street.
No trench coats, no scarves. No ghosts. 
Ever since seeing him on the street, he’d been on edge. As though he was following him, a shadow of the past. 

Alfred exhaled through his nose and starting walking a bit faster. Anything to get there a little quicker.

It was just a ten minute walk from his apartment to the small street side market.  Just passed a corporate building that shut its doors and the small gift shop who’s owner always waved to him. 

He stopped when he noticed a flower blooming from a crack in the broken concrete, admiring the resilience of the little plant, still trying hard to bloom even when the odds were against it, when the sun beat down too hard on it. Even when no one was looking. 

He was about to move on when he felt it.
A chill, subtle and unwelcome, slithered across the back of his neck— like a snake coiling around its prey.

His head jerked up, eyes scanning the sidewalk, the shops, and the cars wizzing by around him. 
There. At the edge of the street near a produce cart. A tall figure, pale hair, and a scarf with frayed edges. A coat in this heat?
Alfred’s breath got caught in his throat, but then the man turned.

Too narrow, face was thinner, younger. It wasn’t him. 

Alfred’s hands unclenched slowly, His heartbeats never settling. It pounded like a warning drum. 
He straighted and kept walking, just a store away. Every person he passed looked like they could be someone else. He hated this. Hated that a shadow in his mind could turn strangers into threats. 

The automatic bell above the shop door rang out as he stepped in, the cold air from inside hitting his face, cooling him down from the heat.
The cashier, Maria, who he admittedly chatted with all too much, waved “Hey, Al.” 

“Morning.” He mumbled, nodding.

His voice didn’t sound right, it sounded like a robotic voice with programmed responses, as though there was no emotion and said solely on reflex. He grabbed a basket and headed down the isles, eyes flicking too fact between the shelves and reflective surfaces. A security mirror in the corner reflecting his actions back to him.
The tea section was near the back.

He spotted the jasmine blend Miss Sharon frequently drank almost immediately, tucked between the chamomile and peppermint. He reached for it — then froze. 

Right next to it sat a sleek, dark tin. Cyrillic scrawled underneath the label. The letters stared at him, bold and familiar in the worst way.

He pulled his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove. The tin didn’t move, but it felt like it watched him.

He looked around as though expecting to see something, his throat tight. Nobody paid attention. The hum of the refrigerator and the beeping of the checkout filled the silence but it still felt too quiet. He forced himself to pick up the Jasmine and shoved it into the basket.

Honey. Chocolates. A card. He respected to himself as if to push unwanted thoughts back.

Move. Keep moving. 

He wandered through the aisles, trying to ignore the feeling of something amiss. He chose a tin of dark chocolate mint thins, Her favorite. And a watercolor card with a large cat with dark, thick fur pawing at some yarn. The caption read: Thinking of you always. 

It made his chest hurt for some inexplicable reason. 

As he approached the checkout, his hands trembled slightly, quickly shoving them into his pockets.

“You okay?” Maria asked, scanning the items.

Alfred’s gave a tight lipped smile, “yeah. Just.. didn’t sleep.”

She nodded, sympathetic but distant. “Long week.”

He paid in cash and left without another word.

Two floors above the flower stand across the street, in a half boarded building;

Russia sat by a dusty window, chin resting on one gloved hand, eyes following Americas every step. 

He hadn’t left town. 

Not yet. 

He didn’t know why, not entirely.

When America had aimed his pistol at him — when the eight of fifty years of history had cracked open in one seething moment, something inside of him had trembled. But it wasn’t from fear.
Recognition. Yes, that was the word.

He had seen it before.

Seen it during proxy wars and embargoes, midnight speeches over satellite broadcasts. He had seen it when America had pushed too far and too fast into his territory. And the boy had burned for it.

But now…

Russia tilted his head, observing the figure move nervously through the streets like prey convinced it was still being hunted.
Perhaps it was.

He liked seeing him like this, Broken open enough to reveal the humanity beneath all of that bluster. Russia did not enjoy suffering for its own sake — but understanding? He savored that.  

His breath fogged the glass, even in this rising heat.

He had no right to be here, But neither did Alfred have the right to act victim. As though he’d forgotten the suffering he inflicted and the scars he left on this world.

Russia hadn’t provoked him, not this time.
He only wanted to observe, to see what remained. What scars were still visible.

You haven’t changed much, still loud. Still frightened. Still scared to face the consequences. Still thinking of yourself as hero who does no wrong.

He thought, fingers tapping against the glass.
When he reached the end of the street, about to turn the corner, a bouquet and bag in hand, Russia saw his shoulders hitch. The way the boy looked over his shoulder —again and again.
Still expecting him to be there.

That was something.

That meant he passed along his message. 

Back at home;

Alfred sat on the couch, begin his lap. He sat there, motionless. 
The house was too quiet. 

He hadn’t taken off his shoes, the blinds half drawn, casting crooked shadows across the floor. He should’ve gone next door to deliver his gift to Miss Sharon. It was still early enough but he couldn’t get his legs to move.

He kept thinking of the tin of tea, lettered in beautiful Cyrillic. Of the scarf that looked so identical.

He kept thinking of pulling the gun again. Of how easy it would have been, how much it had felt as though he’d already done it.

He wasn’t right.

He knew that.

His breathing was too shallow, His palms itching. He felt like he was being watched in his own home. He kept expecting to see him— in the hallway, through the peephole, behind the bathroom door. 

He pressed his knuckled into his eyes until a flash of colors swarmed behind them.

A flash of white. A light coloredscarf. A grin he knew all too well.

“You cannot aim a gun at the past, товарищ, it does not bleed.”

He shot to his feet, the words he heard so long ago ringing in his ears. The bag tumbled to the floor, its contents spilling out.

He didn’t pick them up.

He stumbled to the sink and splashed water on his face, he looked up to his reflection in the mirror, one that was distorted, as though reality was playing tricks on him.

He gripped the edge of the sink, breaths heavy. There was no war.

There was no cold front creeping up the walls.
But his bones told a different story. 

And somewhere out there, behind a cracked window or a crooked smile, Russia was watching.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

The hallway light flickered as he passed under it. He wasn’t sure if it had always done that. Maybe not. Everything felt as though it existed in a blur between memories of the past and the present—

 
The water he’d splashed on his face had dried but the feeling of it lingered, just like the words that still echoed in his ears. He wanted to scream. Or maybe sleep. But neither felt as though they would help. The latter, had become an act of faith he no longer had.

He’d stare at his own reflection long enough to see the cracks that hadn’t been there before. Under his eyes. At the corner of his mouth. He looked like his age was catching up to him.
Alfred crossed the apartment in a few quick steps and shut the blinds. The last bit of sunlight disappeared behind thick slats. The living room was dimmed to a low grey, it felt safer that way. Like there was less surface for something— someone, to see.

The bag was still on the floor, jasmine tea, mint chocolates and the card with an innocent looking cat sitting in silence.

He couldn’t give it to her, not with him shaking like a leaf.

He turned his phone screen on, displaying new notifications from the group chat. 

England - 
“Just checking in, are you ok?”

France -

“Saw the news. Something about embassy drama. Gave angleterre a heart attack. You’re not involved, right?

Mattie 🍁-
“We are all a bit worried. Hope you’re ok ;)”

Alfred stared at the messages without answering. His fingers hovered over the keys but he couldn’t think of a response. Nothing felt true enough to send.

Instead, he placed his phone down on the table, next to the flowers with blue petals he watered yesterday, although they were still looking weak, they started to perk up. 

 Walking towards his bedroom, he walked in without even bothering to turn the lights on. He didn’t want to see the space too clearly. He knew the reason.

The grim reminder sitting on his nightstand.
He should have put it back in the box, he meant to. But it was always a step behind him, like his own shadow— 

He sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed it off the nightstand, cradling it in his hands like a relic. Not out of reverence, but memory. He remembered Russias actions that day. The feeling of things resurfacing.

Alfred’s fingers tightened around the grip, double checking the safety like it was a ritual.
“You don’t get to haunt me.” He whispered. “Not in my home, not anymore.”

He stood up abruptly, tucked the gun back into its case and slid it inter the bed. Then, without thinking too hard, he grabbed the bag of gifts, slipped his shoes on and left his apartment.

Next door.
Miss Sharon’s apartment was just to the left so it wasn’t too much of a walk. But it felt like traversing a border. He lifted his free hand and knocked three times— lightly but firmly.

No answer.

He knocked again, Still nothing.

Alfred frowned, leaning in to press an ear to the door to listen for movement. It was quiet, but there was a faint sound of movement— like a chair sliding. He let out a slight sigh of relief.

After a few seconds, the deadbolt unlocked.
The door slowly cracked open, and Miss Sharon’s face appeared, tired and thin lipped. She blinked at him.

“Oh, it’s you.” She murmured, letting the chain stay on. “You startled me.”

“I-sorry,” Alfred said, holding up the bag as a peace offering. “I brought you something.”

She didn’t open the door wider, she didn’t smile.
“I’ve been a bit… under the weather.” She said. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

Alfred hesitated, unsure what to say for a moment, “I can leave it by the door if you want.”

 
A pause.

She finally undid the chain and opened the door just enough to take the bag from him. Her hands trembled slightly as she did, but she hid it well.

“Thank you dear. I’ll look at it later.”

“You okay?” He asked quietly.

Something about her eyes darkened, just for a second. As though she had seen something. Felt something.

“Of course.” She said. “But you should go, you look like you need rest.”

She hadn’t asked how he was. She hadn’t asked what was wrong. But she had looked at him and known something wasn’t right.

“I will,” he mumbled. “Sleep well.” Knowing she was lying, as much as he was.

She gave a polite nod and shut the door, slower this time, as if a bit hesitant to be alone. The lock clicked behind him.

Later that night, the sky turned black, the stars covered by clouds. The streets emptied. The cicadas had finally started their song, high pitched and constant, like static.

Alfred lay in bed, the blinds cracked open just slightly, letting the lights of the city peek through.

From were he was laying, he could see the rooftop of an adjacent building. 
It was empty.

For now.

He pulled the covers up, pulling himself into a cocoon of blankets and shut his eyes.

And across the street, in a building not too far, Russia stood just out of view, silent.

He had not come to threaten. Not unless he needed to.

He had not come to speak.

 
He had come to relive the memories of those nights.

And to see if Alfred would wake up, and remember.

He dreamt of glass breaking.

Not violently— the slow, spreading kind. The kind of crack the slowly spiders outward, like frost on a windshield. Silent and inevitable. And when he turned his head to look at it, he could see his own reflection warped in each growing fracture.

He jolted awake before the glass gave away.

It was still dark.

The only light that came into the room was from the street lamps outside— orange and dull through the blinds. His shirt clung to his back, the air stagnant. Heavy with the scent of metal and sweat. His lungs felt tight in his chest.
He sat up and stared at the door.

Nothing moved, it never opened.

The silence wasn’t comforting, it was poised. Watching. Listening.

He checked the locks. Once. Twice. Three times. Pressing his palm against the deadbolt like he could force it to be stronger by touch alone. He thought about calling Mattie but what could he say?

“I may or may not have thought about shooting Russia and pulled a gun on him,  He’s still here in the shadows, or in my head. Or maybe both.”

Instead, he pressed his forehead to the door and whispered to no one. “I can’t keep doing this.”

He didn’t fall asleep again. 

Russia

The morning sun didn’t reach his face. He sat behind a curtain, still as stone, the lace casting fractured shadows across his cheeks. His gloved sat on the windowsill, the leather fingertips curling in like insects. He took them off for once. 
He watched America leave the apartment around ten.

Slower today, shoulders hunched forward. No sunglasses this time.

You’re beginning to show it, Amerika. The weight. The fatigue. The fear.

Ivan reached for the small notepad beside him, flipping it open with the edge of his finger.  His handwriting small and neat— Cyrillic of course. He didn not write names. Only locations. Impressions. Moments. 

His pen tapped thoughtfully. “Still alone.” He muttered to himself. “Still refuses to turn the lights on during the day. Still looking over his shoulder.”

He glanced towards the far end of the window, glancing to the blondes apartment building, squinting his eyes.

Miss Sharon. 

A kind woman, respectable. Elderly. Tired, like most who have survived long enough to see people repeat their mistakes. 

He’d spoken to her once.

Only once.

-
It had been late, nearly midnight, two nights ago.

Miss Sharon had always been careful taking out her trash. Not afraid, just vigilant. Arms steady with the bag, one slipper slightly dragging as she stepped over the cracked pavement that lead to the bins. 

That was when she saw him.

A man. Tall. Still. Standing not too far, looking up into the building. Not quite in the shadows but not quite in the light of the street lamp. His coat was absent but his scarf was still wrapped neatly around his neck with its fraying edges.

She paused.

He didn’t move closer, just inclined his head politely.

“Evening.” He said, his accent lingering like smoke,

Her eyes narrowed. “You lost?”

“No.” He said simply, “I was just…passing through.”

That accent, heavy but smooth. Like something from an old war film, one that sounded aged unlike his youthful appearance.

He once again glanced subtly towards the building once more. “You live here long?” He asked, his tone not urgent, just conversational.

She hesitated, fingers tightening around the trash bag. “Long enough.”

“Do you know the young man upstairs?” He asked, nodding towards Alfred’s window on the third floor. “The blond one. Lives alone.”

Her body went still. She was put on edge, wary.
“Why are you asking?”

He smiled gently- almost sadly. “He used to be.. a friend, I worry he’s not doing well.”

Miss Sharon studied him, lips pressed into a thin line.

“You know he’s not well,” she said. “He hasn’t been sleeping well, I worry about that boy.” She felt guilty for telling him, as though she shouldn’t. 

His eyes lit with interest— not bright but sharpened, like candlight on the edge of a glass. “Do you really know?”

She set her jaw. “He doesn’t tell me much. But he doesn’t have to. It’s clear he’s struggling with something. He’s tired. He hasn’t eaten much. Keeps to himself.”

“You’re very observant,” he said gently. “It’s rare.. especially here.” 

He meant in America, she thought. She didn’t like the way he said here. Like he didn’t belong, and didn’t need to.

“Well,” she said. “You want something?”

He didn’t answer right away.

she had, without meaning to, given him everything he needed: that Alfred was alone. Fraying. Paranoid. That no one had intervened.
He could use this. 

“You’ve already told me something useful tonight. I wonder if you might do so again.”

Her spine stiffened. Unsure how to respond.
“You’re not a friend.” She said.

“No.” He admitted, “But I knew him. Once. Before he forgot, before I was the only one to blame.”

He looked her in the eyes, “when the season turns, and something begins to rot, do you blame the flower?”

She didn’t answers. 

He nodded politely. “Good day, Miss Sharon.”
And he left, as though he was never there in the first place.
-

She was sharper than he’d hoped.

But not sharp enough.

He never stepped inside her home, never crossed the threshold. That would be too much, too fast. But a careful word here, a nudge there — enough to draw out the concern, the observations. People underestimated what neighbors noticed. What they saw when no one else was looking.

Miss Sharron did not trust him.

But trust wasn’t necessary.  Only opportunity.

She was emotionally invested. That was enough.

she had, without meaning to, given him everything he needed: that Alfred was alone. Fraying. Paranoid. That no one had intervened.
He could use this. 

He wrote down her words later that night: 
“Not sleeping. Not eating. Isolating.”

Russia underlined it. Then added one final thought beneath it in crisp cyrillic.

“The cracks are widening.”
And with that, he closed the notebook.

Tomorrow, perhaps, he would send Alfred a gift.

Something gentle,

Something familiar.

Perhaps a photograph, or something that was left behind in that house in Berlin.

Something to let him know,

I haven’t gone anywhere.

Alfred

By mid afternoon, he’d walked up and down the street twice. 

He told himself he was going out to get fresh air. for sunlight. But without even realizing it, he stopped in front of the market. Staring up across the street at a dilapidated building, half boarded up. The slight breeze moving rusted chains and tarps that were littered across it.

His feet had moved before he thought. He crossed the street, eyes scanning the windows. Most were shattered, and a few were intact, covered by old curtains. He had stopped just outside of it. The familiar feeling crawling up his spine. He was being watched. He was sure of it.

One step forward. One step more. shoes crossing over the cracks in the sidewalk. He stood there, silent, trying to listen for movement. Breath. Anything.
But the building said nothing. The silence speaking for itself.

A pigeon fluttered past the window above him, scattering some of its feathers. He clenched his fist. “I know you’re there.” He muttered. 

Nothing answered. 

But in one window, up on the third floor— barely visible. A curtain swayed. 

And stopped.

Chapter Text

Time itself seemed to stop. Patiently waiting. staring. Hoping something would happen, but nothing did. All he was left with was the silence of dusk slowly approaching. He wasn’t sure how long he had stood, it felt like an eternity. 
As the sun set behind the clouding sky, he begrudgingly made his way back, worried about the shadows falling behind him. What if- he was also there. Blending into the night, unseen but felt. 

The city outside Alfred’s window hummed with its usual midnight harmony — distant sirens, small scuttling on the streets, the occasional bark of a street dog—but his apartment remained heavy with a strange unnatural stillness that was quieter than the rest. It was the kind of quietness that lingered in the wake of something intrusive. The quiet before the storm.

Alfred didn’t know yet.

He was asleep, or almost. Slumped across the couch, wearing the clothes he wore during the day, half-curled underneath a knitted throw blanket. One hand twitched occasionally, the remenants of an unwelcome dream playing across his subconscious like a record doomed to spin eternally.

Outisde, past the apartment door, past the hall with the peeling wallpaper, past the stairwell filled with cobwebs, the buildings entrance door closed with the softest click. 
He hadn’t heard it, but Russia hard.

Ivan stood at the bottom of the stairs for a long time, the shadows carving harsh lines into the edges of his coat. His gloved hand was still rested on the cold doorknob, as if unsure to release it. The parcel in his other hand—Thin, wrapped neatly in an old newspaper and tied with twine— sat  still against the fold of his arm.

He could hear a clock ticking somewhere within the apartment complex. One of those old ones with the pendulum inside, maybe it was Alfreds. Maybe it was the neighbors. It was steady. Stern. And unchanging.

And then he moved.

Each step up the cracked concrete stairs was patient. Quiet. There was no rush. No fear of being seen. America wouldn’t hear him, and if he did— well, Ivan supposed he would be flattered. That’s what this was all about, right?
Connection. Memory. A shared history, all wrapped up and pressed into the weight of a single photograph.

He reached the third floor and turned down the hall. Alfred’s door loomed, tall and worn at the edges, the wood faded around the handle where countless touches had stripped the lacquer over the years. The mail cheap mail slot almost beckoning him to slide the package in.

Ivan knelt.

There was something almost reverent about the way he slid the parcel through the mail slot. It fit in perfectly, as if it’s only purpose was to deliver this exact moment. It passed through and landed in the dark entryway with the quietest of thumps.

He lingered there, crouched in front of the front door, his face inches from peeling wood. A strange look passed over his eyes, Not amusement. Not satisfaction. 

Nostalgia. A pang of sadness having to let go of the photograph.

When he finally stood up and straightened his back, he took the time to brush a speck of lint off his sleeves then turned around and walked away without a sound. 

The morning came in grey. 
The rain pelted the windows with an uneven rhythm, the raindrops racing down from the sky. The sky outside had collapsed into a heavy fog, diffusing the sunrise until everything was coated in the kind of dull light that made the apartment feel like a forgotten photograph. Like the past itself had wrapped around the present.

Alfred stirred.

His body ached. His mouth tasted of the coffee he had yesterday when he went out. He squinted up at the ceiling, confused by the dullness of the morning sun. It was too late for it to be sunrise and too early for him to already feel crappy.

He sat up slowly, brushing the sleep from his eyes with the back of one hand. Something felt off, but he’d been feeling this way for days. His throat ached, but not from sickness. Like he’d been yelling in a dream.

Then he saw the “gift.”

It sat innocently at the front door, thin and flat. The newspaper wrapped over it illuminated by the light of the morning peeking through the curtains. It had no return address. No name.
Just the string of twine wrapped in a bow.
He didn’t move towards it at first. He just stared. 

Every nerve in his spine had gone still. Every instinct that had helped him survive through centuries of war and paranoia began to buzz under his skin. 

He slowly rose, walking towards it, each footstep making the floor creak in betrayal.

He bent down and picked it up.

The twine came off easily. Too easily. It felt like muscle memory, like he’d done it before. 
Inside, wrapped in layers of old newspapers, lay a photo.

Alfred blinked at it.

At first, it didn’t register.

Then it hit.

It was them.

Him and Ivan.

Berlin. 1961.

A cold afternoon, early spring. He could almost smell the smoke again—sweet and chemical, curling through the fractured streets where they’d once stood across rubble and wire. Behind them the wall hadn’t risen to full bight. The wounds of war were still raw.

They were standing together.

No uniforms, no flags.

Just two men. Too close to be enemies and too familiar to be friends. Ivan had his hands behind his back. Alfred was smiling- one he hadn’t seen himself give in a long time, despite the state of the world in the moment the photograph was taken. 

And at the bottom of the frame— unmistakable — was the flower. A flower that had lived through war, its petals bright like a false ray of hope.

The very one now sitting in a vase on Alfred’s dining table, now slowly wilting.

Alfred dropped the photo. 

His hands were shaking.

Later, after the fog had thickened and the traffic started to swell below, three very different figures stepped out to a yellow taxi cab two blocks from Alfred’s apartment.

“Well,” Francis said, unbuttoning the top of his shirt with unnecessary flair. “This.. is charming.”

Arthur grunted beside him, squinting up at the nearby signs. “Charming is one word for it. Bloody depressing is another.”

“I think it’s kind of cozy.” Matthew offered, brushing the light rain off his shoulders as he looked around the street. “Looks like the kind of place he’d stay if he didn’t want anyone to find him.”

“Which is precisely the problem.,” Arthur hissed. “We haven’t heard from him in nearly a week and it’s unlike him to stay here for so long. It’s unusual.”

“He’s been brooding.” Francis said, deadpan. “Poor thing. probably hasn’t even changed his clothes, and we are here stalking him.” 

“We’re not stalking him,” Matthew added, less convinced than he had hoped. “We’re just..checking in.”

“Discreetly,” Arthur said.

Francis grinned, “Discreetly.”

“Very discreetly.” Matthew muttered.

They quickly made their way over to the street Alfred apartment was on and huddled beneath an overhand across the street. Alfred exited the building, the envelope now stuffed into the inner pocket of his coat. His face was unreadable. The rain got caught in his hair. He didn’t even notice the trio across the street.

Francis slapped Arthur on the shoulder, “target acquired.”

“We’re not calling him target!,” Arthur snapped.
But Alfred was already walking down the street.
He didn’t look back.

Alfred Didn’t remember locking the door behind him, but the sound of the deadbolt clicking into place rang louder than it should’ve. Maybe it was the silence in his head. Maybe it was the pressure building behind his eyes again. Either way, the photo burned against his ribs. 

The Flower on yeh table— the one beginning to wilt— looked different now. No longer a symbol of stubborn life or resilience. It looked like a message.

A warning. 

A symbol of change.

He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and walked faster.

It was raining harder now, each drop sharp and cold against his skin, but he didn’t put up his hood. He didn’t even notice the cars or people. The dogs barking behind chain linked fences. 
Down three blocks, Around a corner, Another. Towards nowhere in particular.

But he wasn’t alone.

Across the street, poorly disguised underneath a comically small umbrella, Francis, Arthur, and Matthew tailed him like a group of incompetent private investigators. 

“Is he going to work?” Matthew whispered, squinting through his rain drop covered glasses.

“No breifcase,” Arthur murmured. “No coffee either. Probably hasn’t slept. He’s walking like he’s looking for a fight.”

“Or an ex,” Francis offered. “I’ve done that walk. Very cinematic, very flashy. Very, I might punch a wall and then cry in a stairwell.”

“Can we not make this about you?” Arthur snapped, making Francis give him a side eye.

Matthew, practical as ever, kept scanning the streets. “I don’t think he’s seen us yet.”

Francis fiddled with his shirt buttons, “Oh, he’s definitely seen us. He’s probably pretending he hasn’t. Poor dear, too embarrassed to ask for help.”

“Or too stubborn.” Arthur muttered. “Bloody idiot, if something is wrong he should have just told us.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to worry us.” Matthew mumbled.

“Oh please, he’d rather drag himself through a battlefield on fire than ever admit he’s not okay.”

Francis raised an eyebrow, “And you’re just now realizing this?”

Across the street, Alfred stopped in front of a small Cafe. The window was fogged from the inside, warm lights glowing behind

condensation. He stared at his reflection in the glass, not seeing just  himself, but the shape of Ivan’s silhouette from the photograph beside him.

That day in Berlin hadn’t meant anything. Not really.

He told himself that.

They’d been in the same place. The same city. A few hours of pretending. A moment too intimate to be called diplomacy, too shallow to be friendship. The flower blooming within the cracks of demolished concrete and Ivan’s smile, one he hadn’t seen in years.

And now—

Alfred pressed a fist to his chest, trying to ease the unfamiliar feeling that was building once again. Why the hell did Ivan still remember?
He turned away from the window before the reflection could make him think differently.

Back across the street, Arthur was losing patience.

“I swear to god, if he circles this block one more time—“

“We should just call out to him.” Matthew said. “It’s not like he will be too happy with us tailing him.”

Francis put a hand on his shoulder. “Matthew, Mon Cher. There is an art to surveillance. One must be subtle, graceful, and unseen—“

A garbage truck pulled beside them with a thunderous clank , drowning out the rest of his sentence. Arthur used this as an opportunity to drag them both behind a bus stop.

“You want subtle?” Arthur hissed, “stop talking about your damn espionage fantasies and focus.”

“Espionage?” Francis smirked. “How romantic..Remember the one time we-“

Arthur cut him off. “You’re insufferable.”

“And your worried, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Matthew sighed, “Can we just… keep following him, quietly?”

And so they did.

Alfred’s walk eventually took him to Central Park, where the grey light fell in heavy sheets through the trees. The rain slowed to a mist, but the color above looked like the grey of ash. Everything was quiet.

He stopped near the edge of the path, next to a bench that looked older than the state of New York itself. Moss clung to its legs. The trees stood bare and soaked, branches skeletal against the sky.

He pulled the photo out again after sitting down. He touched the worn edges, hands trembling. 
They were standing so close. He cold almost feel the memory passing around him— The wind blowing past them, Ivan almost glued to his side, warming where he stood.

His eyes drifted downward.

There. At their feet. That flower.

The same one sitting on his table, that’s been with him since.

Alfred rubbed the side of his face with one hand, trying to banish the image from his mind. He couldn’t go home. Not yet.

He was being watched. 

Not just by Ivan. Not just by the ghosts of war past.

He turned slightly. 

Behind a tree—barely hidden— was a mass of beige trench coats, blonde curls and two very familiar arguing voices.
He closed his eyes and let out a small sigh. God damn it.

“He looked directly at us,” Arthur hissed.

“He didn’t see us,” Francis insisted.

“I waved,” Matthew admitted.

Arthur grabbed his forehead. “We’re doomed.”

“Why don’t we just confront him?” Matthew said. “He clearly knows we’re here. Let’s just—”

But Alfred had already started walking again.

This time with more purpose.

They scrambled to follow.

Back on the far side of the city, Ivan stood at the door to Miss Sharon’s apartment.

The most air had intruded into the hallway through an open window, making it feel stuffy and damp. But Ivan was unbothered .
He stared at the potted flowers in front, the Roses she loved growing, The hydrangeas that were ready starting to wilt. He then turned to knock at the door.

Miss Sharon had opened it without him having to touch it.

 “You again,” she said, voice cautious.

Ivan smiled. “Me.”

She squinted at him. “What do you want?”

“To check on you. And on Alfred.”

Her expression changed at his name. A mixture of affection and unease.

“He’s been acting the same as before, still.. off”

“I know.”

Miss Sharron stepped aside. “You want tea?”

“Please.”

Chapter Text

The apartment was dim and smelled faintly of lemon polish, dust, and something warm and herbal—lavender, maybe, or something older. She led him with deliberate steps, her pace slow, feet dragging slightly on the carpet. He noticed the trembling in her left hand as she reached to adjust the thermostat on the wall.
She didn’t try to hide it.

“Excuse the mess,” she said, even though there wasn’t much of a mess to speak of. The room was lived in, not unkempt. blankets draped over the back of the couch, an open book resting on the armrest, reading glasses laid on top like a forgotten afterthought.

“Is a jasmine blend ok?” She asked, already making haste towards the kitchen. She paused partway through the motion, her other hand finding her lower back.

“Yes, that’s fine,” Ivan replied smoothly, watching her from the corner of his eye.

He didn’t sit down right away, His eyes drifted along the small hallway instead. The photos lining the walls caught his attention. Some were old, Black and white— wedding photos, wars, and childhoods frozen in time. Others more recent but still just as faded.

One in particular caught his eye.
A narrow frame of brass, dulled by age, sat on a small table at the end of the hallway.

Alfred.

Younger—but not by much. He hadn’t changed, His smile was wide, boyish, careless. But there was something in his eyes even then—some glint of knowledge, of history, that didn’t match the youthfulness of his face. Standing beside him was another young man, a soldier in a WWII-era American uniform, his face was sharp and kind. The two had arms slung over each other’s shoulders like they’d been friends for a lifetime. Or brothers. As though they learned the hardships of war together.

Ivan’s brow knit, faintly. His fingers itched to touch the frame, to lift it. But he didn’t. He only tilted his head.

“He’s been here before, hasn’t he?” He probed to see what she knew.

Miss Sharron didn’t answer for a moment. The kettle clattered slightly as she filled it from the tap.

She noticed Ivan eyeing the small photo, and mentioned in passing. “That used to be a photo of my father and a soldier he met in France. He used to talk about him in letters. Said he looked young—too young— but never aged. He used to joke about it by calling him “‘The immortal boy with the stars-and-stripes smile.’”

A very small smile, unnoticeable to most, formed at Ivan’s face at the mention of the ridiculous sounding name.
She set the kettle on the stove and turned on the flame. The quiet whoosh of ignition followed. She still hadn’t turned to face Ivan.
Miss Sharron’s voice floated in from the kitchen.

“That used to be a different picture,” she said.

Ivan tilted his head, not turning toward her. “Oh?”

“It used to be one of my father alone..”
After the slight whistle of the kettle, she emerged slowly with two cups full of freshly hot water and tea bags in both hands. Her grip was tight, her knuckles pale. She moved like her spine was full of glass.

Ivan stepped forward and gently took one of the ceramic cups from her.

“I replaced it myself after flipping through an old photo album.” She said, lowering herself into her chair with a breath she didn’t intend to be heard. “Because I realized who it was.”
Her hand trembled again as she set her cup down on the table. She winced and flexed her fingers, trying to hide it, but not trying very hard.

“I remember faces better than most,” she said. “Especially ones that shouldn’t be possible.”

Ivan sat across from her, placing his cup gently on a coaster shaped like a pressed maple leaf. He didn’t speak.

“You haven’t changed either, have you,” she said. “Not since that first time I saw you out by the dumpsters.”

“I don’t age,” Ivan replied plainly. Hiding nothing from her.

“Neither does he.”

She leaned back in her chair. For a moment, she looked impossibly tired. The skin under her eyes was darker than he remembered. Her breath hitched in her chest, and she reached for a small tissue to dab at the corner of her mouth. Her hand came away with the barest hint of pink, which she quickly folded out of sight.
“I’m dying,” she said suddenly.

Ivan looked up.

She wasn’t staring at him anymore. Just at the cup in her hands. Her thumbs moved along the ceramic rim in slow, looping circles.
“Doctors don’t call it that,” she added, her voice steady but soft. “They say ‘chronic.’ Say ‘manageable.’ Say ‘treatment options.’” She gave a small shrug. “But I can feel it. It’s slow, but it’s coming.”

Ivan’s expression didn’t change. But something about the air around him shifted. Like the room had gotten colder.
“Have you told Alfred?”

“No.” Her voice was sharper now. “He doesn’t need to know. He already walks around like the sky’s falling and he’s the only one who noticed.”
Ivan looked into his tea. It rippled slightly, his breath making barely a stir.
“He brought me gifts some time ago” she said. “And honey. His voice was trembling . He tried to hide it. Kept his voice too loud. I used to teach children. I know how to recognize fear when it’s trying to disguise itself.”

She took a slow sip of tea.

“I think you’re making it worse.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Ivan said.

“Then why?” she asked. Her voice cracked, but not from frailty. From anger. From something brittle and exhausted that she had kept buried for too long.

“Because he broke something,” Ivan replied. “A long time ago. Something that never healed.”

She stared at him, “you want revenge?”

“No. I want understanding, I want him to understand something. But it may take everything from him first.”

Silence fell like a curtain.

She looked to the hallway. Her gaze caught on the photo again.

“My father said he thought that soldier was a ghost. Said he saw him again in Korea. And then in Veitnam. He was a well decorated soldier. Said he still had the same face. Still the same voice.” She closed her eyes. “And now he lives across from me. Brings me tea. Carries my groceries. Smiles like nothing has ever touched him.”
She set the cup down, Looking back at him. Her eyes, glassy but alert. They held steady with him.

“It must be hard to live that long.. long enough to witness the regrets of many lives.”

“He’s something old, isn’t he? Older than even me.”

“Yes.”

“And so you are as well.”

Ivan gave the smallest nod.

She glanced to the hall way at the photo sitting in silence. “I put this out a week ago,” she murmured. “After a dream.”

“What kind of dream?”

“There was fire. Snow. People screaming. But he wasn’t screaming. Just standing. Still. Watching it all fall.” Her voice dropped lower. “I saw you, too.” It felt almost as though it was a premonition.

Ivan tilted his head, intrigued.

“You were behind him. But you didn’t move to stop anything. You stood still, watching, Like a shadow. Like you were waiting.”

“And what do you think I was waiting for?” Ivan asked.

She took a breath, slow and measured. “For him to fall with the rest.”

Another silence stretched between them.

“You’re observant,” Ivan finally said. “But you should be careful with what you notice.”

She didn’t flinch.

“I’m old, Mr. Braginski. My time is almost done. I don’t scare easy anymore.”

Ivan wasn't quite sure when she had learned his name.

He looked at her, then, truly looked. At the loose cardigan draped over shrinking shoulders, the way her body leaned slightly to the side as if her balance was no longer trustworthy. At her eyes—bright, defiant, fading.

“You’re still useful,” he said.

“That why you came here?”

“I came here for tea.”

“Bullshit.”

A dry cough caught her chest. She gripped the chair’s armrest tighter until it passed.

“You’re using me,” she said quietly. “Watching him through me. Talking to me like I’m an old radio feeding you information.”

Ivan smiled faintly. “Would you rather I lied about it?”

“I’d rather you stop.”

He didn’t answer.

“I replaced the picture because I realized something,” she said. “And now I wonder if I did the right thing.”

Ivan rose, tall as ever, coat settling around his shoulders like storm clouds.

“I think you did.”

She watched him walk toward the door. He didn’t rush and he Didn’t look back. His boots made no sound on the carpet, like a ghost passing through.
At the doorway, she called to him one last time.

“You want him to suffer.”

He paused. Turned just his head.

“I want him to understand.”

“You sure that’s not the same thing?”

He stayed silent.

The door opened. This time, it didn’t stick.
She sat back in her chair and stared at the face-down frame, trembling fingers wrapped around a cooling cup of tea. Her chest hurt. But it wasn’t just the illness.
Outside, the wind howled faintly down the hall. She thought she heard footsteps pause for just a second longer than they should have.

And then he was gone.

After the door shut, and the dust silence settled in  like dust, Miss Sharon waited.

she didn't move right away, she just sat there, listening to the soft hum of her old refrigerator. Her tea had gone cold and the faintest ache settled in her chest.

When she finally stood, it was with care. She walked to the small hallway cabinet, opened the drawer beneath the old landline, and retrieved an phone no one else knew she had- thin, matte black, and old enough to be forgettable.

she flipped it open and dialed a number from memory. No name. No contacts. Just silence on the other end until the line clicked once.

Her voice ws low, even.

"Mr Braginsky is in the country.

A pause. Static.

She glanced towards the hallway, the memory of the tall man walking through replaying in her mind.

"he visited my location about 10 minutes ago. He seemed to want to know something."

she glanced down at her slippers, breath heavy. the line was quiet but the other end was listening.

"No breach. No suspicion. he knows I have connections to Him."

She hesitated, then added, softer this time. "Mr. Jones is fine. He doesn't know."

Another pause, longer this time.

then the line went dead.

She closed the phone and slipped it back Ito the drawer. Shut it. Smoothed her hand over the surface.

Her face didn't change but her shoulders dropped, just slightly.

Then she returned to her seat, lifted the cold cup of tea, and stared out the window at nothing in particular.

Silently hoping the young boy wouldn't do anything out of line. Watching the outside, always watching.

Chapter Text

They were still behind him.

They were following him—his family, if you could call it that. One pale, sheepish brother. One bitter ex-colonial guardian. One over-perfumed nuisance. All three stepping on his shadow, pretending not to be there.

Alfred shoved his hands into his pockets and veered left at the fountain, boots heavy on the worn stones of Central Park.

He didn’t need to turn his head to know. He could feel it in the way the city seemed to hush itself. In the rhythm of footsteps that paused when he did. They thought they were being clever—Francis pretending to tie his boot, Arthur acting as though he was interested in a newsstand no one manned anymore, Matthew saying nothing, but too close. Too still.

He kept walking.

Not quickly, but not aimlessly either. Each step was measured. It wasn’t a retreat—not quite. He was just moving forward with purpose.

He didn’t want them to see where he was going. Not this time.

He cut through the deeper parts of the park, the kind that felt like they belonged to another century. Still-standing lamplights. Statues overlooking the years. Gravel crunching under the weight of his boots.

Twilight had settled in, draping the city in the kind of light where shadows blur together and everything feels like it could be a dream.

He ducked through a narrow space between trees and brush when they weren’t looking, toward a half-bent section of iron fence, warped by time and weather. No signs. No warnings. Just the quiet sense that this place was meant to be left alone.

He slipped through without a word.

Branches clawed at him. Leaves caught in his hair. Somewhere not far off—a siren wailed, then cut short, its echo carried off by wind that didn’t smell like the middle of May. The air felt colder, like it was trying to ward people off.

The first subway station he found wasn’t listed on any tourist map. It looked like it hadn’t been updated since the ’60s—cracked tile mosaics, rust-stained signage, air thick with the scent of steel and mildew. The world passed above, full of noise, light, and responsibility. Down here, it was just him, lit by the dim flicker of old incandescent lighting.

He stepped onto the train when it came, not bothering to check the line. He didn’t care.

He took the train that seemed to head nowhere and transferred twice, eventually slipping off the map completely—each station older and more decayed than the last. Transit lines that weren’t supposed to run anymore. Lines that looped through the bones of the city where no one else dared to go. The lights buzzed weakly. Dust danced like ash in the air.

By the time he emerged from the underground, the city had changed.

The air smelled different here—colder, quieter. Buildings leaned a little more crookedly. Streetlights blinked like they remembered better days.

He walked like someone returning to a place he’d never really left.

He hadn’t been here in years.

Not really. Not physically.

He had thought about it—traced it in memory—but standing in front of the rusted gate now, it felt like trespassing on something sacred and long-buried.

The gate gave a long, metallic whine as he forced it open. Ivy crunched under his boots, brittle and half-dead. Past it, a narrow dirt path wound through overgrown concrete ruins—shells of old warehouses, rust-bleached beams jutting up like bones.

The facility—he couldn’t even call it a bunker, not really—was built beneath an abandoned shipping depot, masked by time and forgetfulness. A place caught between past and present.

No one knew about it except for him.

Not even Mattie.

Not even Ivan.

The air shifted the moment he stepped inside.

Cooler. Still.

The entrance was narrow, wedged between two collapsed storage crates. He crouched low, flashlight in hand, until the dark swallowed him completely. The tunnel was lined in old steel—damp, cracking with age.

Each step echoed.

The silence was oppressive.

Every so often, he’d hear a drip. A creak. The sigh of old metal breathing.

It hit him the moment he stepped inside.

The past.

The cold, metallic scent of it. The weight pressing against his ribs like gravity. The sound of boots on concrete. The stale air that carried no time, no warmth.

It looked like hell. Torn-out wiring. A rusted map of the U.S. and USSR still pinned to a cork board. An old cot in the corner, half-collapsed. File cabinets stacked on top of each other. Dust on everything.

Alfred didn’t clean.

He dropped his bag on the table and took off his coat.

There was a strange comfort in the ruin. Here, he could be a mess. Could sweat through nightmares. Could fall apart and no one would see. No one would try to fix him.

The only other sound was the hum of the emergency light.

He sat, elbows on knees, staring at the cracked cement floor.

For the first time in hours, he breathed.

He breathed. Just for a minute.

He needed—

Silence.

No more meetings. No more questions. No more Matthew’s quiet disappointment, Arthur’s tight jaw, Francis’s theatrical pity.

No more him.

No more Ivan.

His fingers trembled when he poured a glass of prohibition-era alcohol stashed in the corner. He hated the trembling. The way his body betrayed him.

He stared at his reflection in the small glass.

He looked—wrong.

Like something had been carved out of him and stitched back in upside down.

He raised the cup to his lips.

The silence was broken by the sound of boots scuffing against old concrete.

Alfred jerked his head toward the source, pistol already raised. Heart in his throat.

He recognized the figure even before the shadows peeled away from his face.

Ivan stood in the doorway, motionless. Dust drifted through the room. The dull medal stuck to his chest caught the dim emergency light.

“You always run to places like this,” Ivan said softly. “As though you want to be haunted.”

Alfred’s voice came low and sharp. “Cut the crap, Braginsky. What do you want.”

Ivan’s eyes scanned the room—the cot, the maps, the bottle, the gun—before they landed on Alfred.

“Of all places,” he said, quieter now, almost like he was talking to himself. “You came back here.”

“I said answer the question.”

Ivan stepped forward. Calm. Measured.

“I want to hear it from you,” he said. “The truth.”

Alfred grit his teeth. “I don’t owe you a damn thing.”

Ivan studied him. The way Alfred’s shoulders held tension. The way his thumb hovered near the trigger, like he wasn’t sure what he wanted more—to shoot or to speak.

Then Ivan’s voice dropped, nearly a whisper.

“You owe yourself more than silence.”

“Don’t,” Alfred snapped.

Ivan took another step. Closer now. Almost within arm’s reach.

“You used to let me get this close,” he said, voice soft.

Alfred’s eyes flicked up.

And that was it.

Just one second—

One breath too long.

Chapter Text

The sound of a shot being fired tore through the silence. The bullet itself grazing past Ivan’s face and lodging into the wall behind him.
He didn’t flinch. He moved. Swiftly and with intention.

He closed what little distance was between them, one glancing hand snapping out and seizing Alfred’s wrist before he could react in time. The gun was caught still aiming straight ahead, frozen in place. Alfred’s finger trembling near the trigger, pressure tight - but Ivan twisted his wrist hard enough to pop a bone. Alfred cried out.

The pistol clattered to the concrete, skidding against the cold floor with a high-pitched metallic scrape.

Alfred swore and struck back almost instantly, his elbow making contact with the side of Ivan’s face. The hit connected but Ivan was barely fazed.

He shoved back, ignoring the sudden hit to the face. They slammed into the back wall lined with old maps, yellow and curling at the edges, pinned in place with old rusty thumbtacks. The pins came loose, scattering the papers like dead leaves around them.

“You always bring a gun,” Ivan muttered, bracing his forearm against Alfred’s throat, pinning him to the wall. “But you never shoot to kill.”

Alfred snarled, under choked breath, “You’re crazy.”
Ivan didn’t move.

Ivan’s expression flickered, not with rage—but of something quieter. One long thought to be buried.

“I waited through the silence, through the sanctions. Through headlines where you pretended I didn’t exist.”
His grip didn’t loosen.

“But I never stopped watching you. Not once.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“Is that what makes me Crazy, Alfred? That I still see you?”

He tilted his head slightly, studying Alfred’s face with something far too steady to appear sane.
“You tried to change your face, your personality, and wrapped yourself in Stars and Stripes, hoping no one would remember what you did in the shadows.”

A pause, and the corner of his mouth twitched— almost a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “But I remember. I always did.”

He leaned in closer, their foreheads nearly touching now.

“Do you remember Berlin?” He asked, quiet as a breath. “Not the treaties. Not the speeches, I mean the night— the cold, the walls, the way the city held its breath like it was waiting for us to say something we never did.”

His voice softened, but the pressure of his body never relented.

“You touched me like none of it mattered— then left like all of it did.”

He blinked slowly, almost tired. As he removed the pressure from Alfred’s throat just enough to allow him to take a breath.

“You thought if you looked ahead long enough, no one would see what’s left rotting behind you.”
His voice dropped lower, sending shivers up Alfred’s spine.

“But I see it. I see all of it. And I see you, even now.”

A beat of silence. His breath was cold.
“And you hate that, don’t you? That after everything, you can’t hide from me.”

A beat passed. Just one.

Then Alfred made a move.

It wasn’t clean. Wasn’t choreographed. Just raw emotions erupting through muscle and memory through blurred vision. He acted while he had the chance, grabbing hold of Ivan’s shoulders before kneeing him in the gut. It was clumsily done but, it was fast, and it was furious.

Ivan’s balance faltered, the light grasp he had on Alfred slipping. But as Alfred fought back, Ivan’s arm lashed out. Knuckles scraped across Alfred’s cheekbone, dragging skin and bringing with it a hot sting and the taste of iron.
Alfred didn’t flinch and took the hit. His fist drove up and into Ivan’s ribs with a sick meaty crack. Ivan grunted, his body folding slightly on impact but he didn’t fall. Instead he caught hold of Alfred by his arm as it reared back again and yanked him forward as though it was a dance, smelling their foreheads together with a blunt violent thud.

White exploded behind Alfred’s eyes. Blood welled somewhere near his temple.

“Shut the hell up.” Alfred roared, voice tearing out from somewhere deep, animalistic and hoarse. “You don’t get to say that. Not here. Not about that.”

He hadn’t meant to say it—that. He hadn’t meant to give it shape, hadn’t meant to let the ghost in.

But Berlin was already in the room, coiled between them like a snake bearing its fangs.

The gun was somewhere— The silver glint catching Alfred’s eyes. He lunged for it, and Ivan let him.

Fingers closed around the cold grip, scraped and wet from sweat and blood. Alfred rolled to his knees, swinging the pistol up with ragged breath. The barrel aligned between Ivan’s eyes.
“Don’t fucking move.”

Ivan didn’t.

He just stood there— blood drying across his cheek, chest rising with slow breaths. Watching Alfred. Always watching. Like the past was alive in his eyes.

“I’ll kill you,” Alfred said, louder this time, desperate to hear it echo. “I will. Don’t think I won’t.”

“You won’t.” Ivan said calmly. His voice sounded like winter, even now.

Alfred finger tensed near the trigger. His hand trembled slightly— not from fear. From restraint.
“Say Berlin again,” Alfred growled. “Say it and I’ll shoot.”

Ivan tilted his head, just a fraction and smiled smugly.

“Berlin.”

Alfred lunged forward, slamming Ivan against the wall, the barrel of the gun crushed against the under of his jaw, forcing his head up. The force shook a rusted map off the tack board beside him, fluttering to the floor like a fallen flag.

“You don’t get to bring that place up like it mattered,” Alfred spat. “You don’t get to act like you remember something I didn’t erase.”

“But you didn’t erase it, дорогой,” Ivan murmured. “You buried it. and it’s still breathing.”

Alfred pulled the hammer back with a click that should have ended the world. But ultimately didn’t fire.
“I should’ve killed you in ‘61.”

“You tried,” Ivan whispered. “You failed.”

Alfred struck him, not with his fist, but with the butt of the gun. Hard. Across his jaw. Ivan’s head snapped to the side, but he didn’t go down. Blood sprayed across the concrete, spattering against the cold floor and the old map of Europe that lay beside them.

Alfred didn’t wait. He struck again— shoulder, ribs, temple. Every hit was a sentence, a scream, a failed treaty made flesh.
Ivan twisted with a grunt, taking each and every hit while responding with a fist of his own. It collided with Alfred’s ribs— once, twice, until something made a grotesque crack.

They tumbled, fists flying, teeth grit, colliding like two nations crumbling apart.

Alfred’s back hit the floor again with a thud.
Ivan’s weight pinned against him, knees at his sides, breath hot and ragged in his face.
Alfred raised his arm, holding up the gun he was so desperately clinging to, the cold metal trembling against Ivan’s forehead, which was dyed with crimson.

“Go ahead,” Ivan breathed, “Do it.”

Alfred growled something unintelligible and punched him with the gun again. Blood flew and Ivan’s head rocked back— but he stood anchored on the spot. Through blurry vision he grabbed Alfred’s wrist and slammed it against the floor. Once. Twice. The gun finally dropped. Alfred howled through gritted teeth as nerves flared white-hot up his forearm.

Ivan shoved it aside with his boot, then pressed down hard on Alfred’s sternum with his knee.
“You always thought you were righteous, painting yourself in false freedom,” he snarled. “You branded yourself a savior while locking half the world in your grip.”

“I held the fucking line,” Alfred hissed. “You were the one building walls.”

“You built them inside yourself.” Ivan snapped. “Around your conscience. Around me.”

Alfred surged upward, but Ivan shoved him back down, his hand around his throat. Not enough to kill— just to choke.

“You kissed me with one hand and deployed missiles with the other.”

Alfred slammed his fist against Ivan’s ribs again. The force made him stagger, but he didn’t fully lose his grip.

“I never kissed you,” Alfred hissed.

Ivan smiled, bloody and unblinking. “Then what was Berlin.”

“A mistake.”

“It didn’t feel like a mistake when you said my name that night.”

Alfred shoved hard—writhing, twisting, and finally broke the hold with a vicious jab to Ivan’s throat.

They both rolled apart.

Alfred gasped for air, dragging himself across the floor towards the gun. Ivan grabbed the back of his clothing and threw him against the wall. He hit it with a sickening thud, stars flashing across his eyes.

The gun was lost somewhere again— hidden in the dark like history.

Ivan didn’t stop, he was on Alfred in seconds, hands fisting in his collar, slamming him against the wall, into the past, into himself.

“You think you were the hero?” Ivan roared, his voice cracking for the first time. “You weren’t! You were a storm. You erased cities like chalk, left them smoldering and called it peace.”

“I did what I had to.” Alfred coughed, blood

rising to the back of his throat. “We were at war—“
“You loved it!”

Alfred spit blood into his face again.

Ivan took it, unbothered, he just pressed harder, face twisted with something far too human.

“You say I’m a monster, but you wore the smile of one while the world screamed.”

Alfred’s eyes snapped up—wild. Empty.

“I was right,” he snarled. “I was always fucking right.”

Ivan punched him again.

And again.

The concrete behind Alfred’s skull vibrated with the force. His vision doubled, then blurred, then caught fire.
Still— he didn’t cry out.

“You don’t feel guilt,” Ivan said. “You feel regret—that you couldn’t finish me.”

“I should’ve.” Alfred rasped.

“Then do it,” Ivan whispered softly. “Prove that all of this meant nothing. That I meant nothing.”
Alfred lunged—headbutting Ivan, catching him off guard.

He grabbed him by the coat, slammed him onto the floor and straddled his chest, driving a fist down—once, twice, a third time. He didn’t stop.
He didn’t stop.
Blood coated his knuckles.

His breathing was ragged.

Ivan laughed beneath him, red in his teeth. “There you are.”

“You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.” Alfred growled.

“I know everything. You’ve always hated that I see it.”

Alfred’s fist froze midair. Breathing heavy.
Ivan didn’t blink.

“You hate that I remember you,” he said, voice low and hoarse, “not the face you show the world, but the one that shook in Berlin. The one that held me like he wanted to burn the Cold out of me.”

“Shut up—“

“The one that left.”

Alfred slammed his fist down again.
Hard enough to break skin. His own. Ivan’s. Everything.

Then finally—finally—he stopped.

His hand hovered midair, trembling, knuckles smeared in red and rust. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, chest rising and falling like a dying engine.
Ivan didn’t move.

He lay beneath him, half-pinned, arms splayed across the cracked floor. Blood dripped from his temple down the side of his face, his lip split wide. One eye was swelling shut. The other remained open—dark, distant, and horribly calm.

Alfred stared down at him, breathing hard.
His whole body screamed. Bruises bloomed across his ribs and shoulder. His wrist throbbed where Ivan had slammed it into the ground. A ringing gnawed at the edge of his hearing like tinnitus from too many bombs dropped long ago.

Neither of them spoke.

Not at first.

The silence felt thick. Damp. It clung to their skin like sweat and regret. The only sound was the distant drip of some pipe in the dark and the static hum of fluorescent lights half-dead above them.

Alfred slowly pulled back.
Not far.

Just enough to shift off Ivan’s chest, his knees sinking into the dust beside him.
He couldn’t bring himself to stand.
Could barely sit.

The adrenaline was leaving. All at once. And in its place came the weight.

Carefully, trying to ignore the pain shooting up his body, he stood while Ivan watched intently.
Alfred took a slow, shuddering breath, his body aching but his mind still pulling away.

He met Ivan’s steady gaze, eyes sharp but guarded.
“It meant nothing. Just a means to an end.” Alfred’s voice shook, but the words came sharp. “You don’t get to tell me what it meant. you’re clinging to a fantasy that was never real.”

Alfred turned towards the exit as Ivan struggled to prop himself up against the wall. He walked without another word, boots hitting the floor heavy and uneven. Each step sounded like it cost him something.

Ivan’s lips twitched—half a smirk, or maybe it was just patience.

“You’ll come back.” Ivan said softly. “You always do.”

He reached the door. Stopped.

Didn’t look back.

“You’re not in my head, Ivan,” Alfred muttered to himself. “You’re not…anything.”

But the words tasted like ash.

“You don’t get to follow me,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I don’t have to,” Ivan murmured behind him. “You carry me with you.”

Alfred stepped into the hall. The air out there didn’t feel any lighter. The door groaned shut behind him.

Aboveground — 35 Minutes Earlier

Francis dropped his half-eaten croissant. “Mon Dieu—how was I supposed to know the goose was part of the surveillance team?”

“You abandoned the trail to chase a goose, Francis,” Arthur growled. “We had him cornered!”

“It stole my sandwich!”

“You chased it into the fountain for ten minutes—”

“Guys,” Matthew said, quietly. “We lost him.”

Arthur froze. “What?”

“I mean lost. I can’t feel him anymore.” Matthew’s voice dropped. “It’s like he vanished.”
They stood in stunned silence.

“He’s not a ghost,” Arthur muttered. “He can’t just disappear.”

“He’s Alfred,” Matthew said. “That’s worse.”
—
Later — Back in the City, Near the Docks

They saw him just as the sky began to pale.
Alfred emerged from the shadows behind an old warehouse , limping along the gravel path beside the water. Blood streaked his pants. One sleeve was almost falling apart at the seams. His hands were red and raw like he’d tried to punch his way out of a coffin.

He looked like a soldier walking home from a war no one won.

Arthur didn’t recognize him at first.

Matthew did.

“Alfred?” he called gently.

Alfred stopped. His shoulders tensed—but he didn’t turn.
“Back off.”

His voice was wrecked, shredded like gravel dragged across asphalt.

Arthur stepped forward. “Alfred, we were trying to—”

“You weren’t supposed to follow me.”
He turned.

They saw the bruises. The swollen lip. The blackened eye. The blood crusted along his jaw. More than that—they saw the hollow behind his eyes, like something had cracked and no one had been there to stop the pieces from falling.

“Mon Dieu,” Francis breathed. “Who did this to you?”

Alfred didn’t answer.

Matthew edged forward. “Al…”

“You don’t get to ask,” Alfred snapped. “Not when you let me go in the first place.”

“We didn’t let you—” Francis started.

“You were too busy chasing a goose!”

Francis opened his mouth, then shut it.

“That goose was suspicious,” he muttered.

Alfred laughed once—sharp, bitter. “Yeah. Real tactical.”

Arthur moved to place a hand on his arm, but Alfred jerked away like he’d been scalded.
“Don’t touch me.”

“Let us help,” Matthew said.

“There’s nothing left to help.”

“That’s not true.”

“You didn’t see him.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Ivan?”

Alfred nodded.

Francis exhaled slowly. “Jesus Christ.”

“What did he do?” Arthur asked.

Alfred smiled, but it wasn’t a real smile. It was a wound in the shape of one. “You mean this?” He gestured to his face. “This was the warm-up act.”

Arthur stepped forward. “Then what did he—?”

“He asked me questions,” Alfred said. “Questions I didn’t want to answer.”

Matthew looked at him gently. “Did you?”

He stayed silent.

He looked toward the city, toward the skyline beginning to take shape in the rising light.
“I’m going home.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed. “You need a doctor.”

“I’ve got one.”

“A hospital won’t—”

“Not a hospital,” Alfred interrupted. “The guy who used to patch me up during the Reagan years. Still owes me a favor.”

“That’s horrifying,” Francis muttered.

Alfred didn’t argue. He just started walking again, slow, uneven, like every step cost something.

They didn’t stop him.

They didn’t know what he’d said back there in the dark. What had been broken open. What couldn’t be stitched shut.

But they all knew—he hadn’t escaped.
.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The old door creaked open and shut with a groan telling of its age. The lock clicked into place with a metallic snap that echoed through the silence of the now fallen night. With light steps, Ivan walked through the dilapidated hallway leading to the room he resides in. The faint hum of electrical boxes humming, the old pipes ticking like bones shifting in the dark. There were no voices, no footsteps. Just him in the building he was familiar with in America. It was unsightly to most, but it was where he could rest without the weight of others on his shoulders.

He exhaled slowly; the sound caught between a sigh and a low laugh. His breath stung where his lip had cracked, he licked at the copper taste before finally letting his hand fall away atop the doorknob. His coat weighed heavy upon his shoulder. Sodden with sweat and the dampness of the air on the way back, opening the door, he walked slowly into the small room that could barely be called livable. He slung off his coat in one rough motion, falling over the back of the nearest chair, followed by his scarf he folded neatly.

The wool was damp, frayed at the edges, smelling faintly of alcohol and smoke. Without it around his throat, the apartment seemed colder and foreign.

He rolled his shoulders, bones aching from each impact Alfred had left behind, His body carried the memory like a scripture; the bruise swelling along his jaw where a fist had struck true, the shallow slice across his ribs where fabric had torn and skin split, the dull throbbing pain in his knuckles from his own blows thrown. His torso felt stiff, tight where muscles had seized from the fight.

And yet he smiled faintly. He hadn't smiled during the fight—not truly—but here, alone, the corners of his mouth tugged upward. He could still feel the shape of Alfreds touch against him, painful but certain. He welcomed it.

He moved through the small room with slow deliberate steps, boots thudding against floorboards worn smooth by years. The room smelt faintly of iron, old wood and faint traces of smoke that never fully left his walls— from even before he came. The silence he was accustomed to swelled with each step he took until he reached the kitchenette.

The table sat against the window overlooking the usual view of the few businesses. The bare wood was nicked with old scars, he set his hand on it, dragging the chair back with a scrape, then crossed to the cupboard. The small wooden door creaked open, barely hanging on the hinges, revealing mismatched glassware and a bottle standing tall among them. Vodka, clear and unyielding. It was something special brought from home, not like the cheap American “imitations.”

He took it down and poured generously into a chipped glass. The liquid caught the light faintly, reflecting the dim bulb overhead, and he held it up briefly before drinking deep. The familiar feeling of the liquid traced down his throat, spreading that warm feeling to his chest and stomach. It dulled the ache in his ribs, softened the sting in his jaw. He lowered the glass, exhaling a low sigh that fogged faint against the cool air of the night.

“Mm,” he muttered to no one, setting the glass aside. The sound of it clinking against the wood was loud in the silence.

He worked at the buttons of his shirt next. Each one slipped through its while slowly, fabric stiff with dried blood. The shirt clung to his torso, sticky against scrapes and bruises, and he hissed softly when it peeled away. The air of the room touched his bare skin usually not shown, cold and sharp, but he let it come. He did not flinch, only letting his eyes fall briefly to the deep violet blooms across his ribs, the smear of blood drying brown near his hip, the faint cut tracing just beneath.

He took another swallow of vodka before reaching for the cupboard above to the right, A dented tin box rattled faintly as he set it down on the table. Its rusted hinges groaned when he opened it, revealing what he always kept; a roll of linen bandages, a bottle of antiseptic, a pair of scissors dulled with time, and a few miscellaneous objects rolling about freely.

He dipped a strip of cloth into the antiseptic and pressed it to the wound at his side. The sting was immediate, sharp enough to draw a low hiss through his teeth. He did not wince; it was something he’d grown accustomed to. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as though welcoming it. The pain carried him back – back to the pressure of Alfreds hand shoving him, the burn of knuckles across his jaw, The weight of being struck. Pain and closeness tangled together.

The cut bled fresh beneath the sting, but he cleaned it thoroughly, movement methodical as though he had done this time and time again. When it was done, he reached for the bandages, tearing the linen with scissors before winding it tightly around his ribs. Each pull drew the fabric snug, pressing against the bruise until his breath came shallow. The ache deepened, but he tied the knot firm, tucking the edge neatly beneath.

His hands remained steady. They rarely trembled.

When his wounds were wrapped and the tin closed once more, Ivan leaned back in the chair he had previously pulled out, glass in hand again. He took another sip, savoring it as the liquid slid down his throat. He tilted his head, staring up at the ceiling where faint cracks spidered across plaster. In the dim light they almost looked like a map, but one that lead to nowhere.

The silence pressed close. His gaze lowered, drifting to the window.

The curtain stirred faintly with a draft. On the sill, a small vase containing a bundle of blue petaled flowers stood quietly.

He set his glass down carefully and shifted forward, drawn to it.

The stems were straight, The leaves a deep but vibrant green, Its petals wide and fresh. It leaned towards the glow of the city beyond the glass, Alive, Thriving, unbent.

Ivans lips curved into a faint smile. He thought of the other—The one he had given long ago that lays quietly in Alfreds home. Its stem bowed, the leaves curled dry, petals drooping heavy as though even the effort of living had grown too much. Left uncared for, Forgotten, fading.

But not here.

He had watered this bloom carefully. Turned it to the light each morning. Shielded it from the cold air that crept through the cracks in the frame. He had tended to it as though it mattered. And it did. It was more than a plant. It was proof. A living fragment of a memory.

He lifted his hand, brushing one finger gently along the edge of a leaf. The plant swayed faintly under his touch. His smile lingered, soft but certain.

“For you,” he said, voice low, heavy with quiet.

He lifted the lass once more, vodka gleaming pale. He raised it toward the flower in a silent salute before drinking once more, finishing the glass.

The flower stood unshaken, as tough ignorant to the gesture.

And yes-- for the first time that night, Ivans smile reached his eyes.

The flower stood quiet on the cracked windowsill, The petals open against the draft. Ivans gaze lingered on it, the smile still on his face. He tilted his head back, fully leaning his body against the back of the chair, his eyes half lidded. The vodka hummed warm in his chest, the sting of his wounds softened, and the silence pressed him backward- into memory.

Berlin.

The city moved with a quiet tension beneath a thin winter moon. Buildings stood tall, Their Facades scarred in places by history—a cracked brick here, a patch of worn plaster there—but the streets were largely intact. The scars were subtle, whispered reminders of what had been, not the jagged chaos of a city freshly bombed. Streetlights flickered along the cobblestones, illuminating alleys where shadows pooled, and the faint hum of distant traffic from the west carried across the city, a reminder of life still moving despite the Cold War's heavy weight.

The air was sharp with spring chill, carrying the faint scent of smoke and oil from factories and heating stoves. Signs of division were everywhere; propaganda posters on walls in the east, checkpoints looming in the distance, soldiers patrolling along the borders with careful discipline. The city felt alive, but cautious—every step, every footstep felt weighted, as though the streets themselves expected something to go wrong.

Ivans boots crunched softly on the uneven pavement, the sound swallowed quickly by the quiet streets. His scarf was pulled high, muffling the ghost of his breath, but the cold pressed through, biting at skin. He moved quietly, careful, a tall figure threading between the lamplit shadows. For all the activity Berlin contained, here it felt abandoned, hushed, as though the city itself were holding its breath.

He thought himself alone.

Then he saw him.

Alfred stood beneath the dim pool of a streetlamp; his outline framed in pale light and deeper shadows. His jacket hung loose, Tie absent, his hair uncombed and catching the faint wind of winter. He leaned against the still scarred wall of a streetside shop, boot pressed flat against the brick, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a cigarette that burned like a tiny ember in the dark night.

The glow faintly lights his face in small intervals—his face hollowed by exhaustion, glasses catching the light, His eyes glinting with something unreadable.

He looked younger than he should be, yet older than he ever admitted to.

Ivan stopped mid-step, the crunch of his boots on the cobblestone echoed through the hushed street. His scarf rose high over his mouth, concealing the small shift of his expression, though his deep purple eyes did not waver.

“Америка,” Ivan said at last, voice even. It came quiet but not soft. It cut through the silence. “You should not be here.”

Alfred Exhaled smoke, the curl of it dissolving in the lamplight. “Could say the same to you,” He replied, His voice low, rough, but still carrying that easy Rythm of his.

“This is my side of the city,” Ivan countered. His tone held no bite, only the calm of ice pressed against steel. “Yours lies beyond hat wall.”

Alfred shrugged, letting the cigarette dangle between two fingers. ‘Maybe I got lost.. Streets all look the same at night.” His smile flickered, but it wasn't the same grin he showed to the world at Summits or World meetings. It was tighter- more defensive.

Ivans eyes narrowed. “You do not get lost, America.”

The hush around them stretched, filled only by the sounds that weren't noticed before. The faint hum of a transformer nearby, The echo of boots somewhere far off checkpoint. The propaganda posters on the wall—bold reds and heavy lettering—seemed to stare at them from every angle- pushing ideals, demanding loyalty, vigilance and obedience.

Alfred shifted against the wall, His free hand pulling away from his pocket to adjust the collar of his shirt. ‘What about you. Huh? Out here in the middle of the night, lurkin around the border. What are you looking for.”

“Order,” Ivan said simply. The word lingered, heavy.

“Order, huh?” Alfred let out a small, sharp laugh, that died quickly on the air. “Looks like shit to me. Cracks patched over in propaganda. You can call it order all you want, but...” He waved the cigarette vaguely, the smoke trailing behind. “Doesn't smell like it.”

Ivan stepped closer, not hurried, not threatening, His steps just deliberate. The air between them tightened. “You cross into my streets, insult my city, and expect what? That i let you walk freely back across?”

Alfreds smirk grew wider, though his eyes didn't show it, they were alert, sharp, and watchful. “You gonna drag me to one of your guards? Make an international incident? That what you want, big guy?”

The nickname, Careless and ever, felt like a stone tossed into deep water. It rippled, but Ivan let none of it show.

‘I do not need an incident,’ he said evenly. ‘I need to know why you are here.”

Alfreds gaze flicked away, just for a second—to the empty street, to the buildings who's windows were closed up. His jaw tightened, taking a drag on the cigarette again, the ember flaring bright.

Ashes fell to his feet as he spoke, “You ever think maybe i just wanted a walk?” He muttered, smoke curling from his mouth.

Ivan let out a quiet sound—something between a scoff and a small laugh. ‘At midnight. On my side. Alone.”

“Yeah,” Alfred said, and though his tone was firm his posture betrayed him. His shoulders sagged with something heavier than arrogance. “Maybe I wanted to see what you call order. Maybe I wanted to look at it myself.”

The words hung between them. Fragile and edged all at once.

Ivan studied him, eyes cool and unreadable. ‘And what do you see?”

For a moment, Alfred said nothing. He flicked ash to the ground, watching the ember scatter. His voice was softer when it came, “A city waitin for the next war to hit it.”

The cold air bit around them. A shout echoed faintly somewhere in the distance, then faded. The streetlamp buzzed once, briefly faltering before glowing steady again.

Neither moved.

Finally, Alfred pushed off the wall, the scrape of his sole against brick breaking the stillness. He stood straight, dropping the cigarrete on the ground, the glow finally going out against the concrete.

“You look like hell y’know,” he said suddenly, turning the sharpness back on Ivan.

Ivan tilted his head faintly, scarf still drawn high. ‘Do I?”

“Yeah. You got that... same damn look I've seen in mirrors. Tired, Heavy. Pretending it doesn't bother you?” Alfred smirked faintly. “Guess even you cant drink it away.”

Ivans eyes flickered, though his face was still, “You are bold, to say such things here.”

“Yeah well, typical Americans huh?” Alfred took a breath and leaned his back into the wall. His gaze softened, almost unnoticed. “Besides, if I don't say it, who will.”

The hush stretched again. The tension of War grew thick between them—Suspicion-rivalry, treats muttered through clenched jaws in faraway offices and officials planning against communism. Yet here, on this street in Berlin, under the hald-dead glow of a lamp, it was only two men staring across a gulf they both carried.

Ivans voice was low, even. ‘You should go back to your side.”

“Yeah,” Alfred said, staring at nothing particular. His tone came off too quick, too easy. “Maybe I should.”

Ivan did not step closer but his presence filled the space regardless. Tall, broad, the cold gleam of his eyes catching the dark. Alfred went to reach for his pocket but hesitated slightly.

Then he sighed, ran a hand through is unkempt hair and finally reached in. He pulled free the crumpled pack, shook it once and offered it towards ivan.

“Smoke?” His voice carried a crooked edge, part sarcasm, part truce.

Ivans eyes lowered to the pack, then back to Alfreds face. A beat of stillness, long enough to feel like a decision.

At last, he stepped forward and plucked one free, holding it in between his fingers. Alfred followed suite.

The American flicked the lighter, the small flame trembling beneath them. For the first time that night, both their faces were lit—sharp shadows, tired eyes, lines softened by the glow. Ivan leaned in, the tip of the cigarette catching, fire briefly bridging the gap.

When he pulled back, he exhaled slow. Smoke curled between them in a somber dance, pale and thin, dissolving into the night air.

Neither spoke, the street was quiet save for the distant hum of the divided city, the sound of two nations breathing in fragile rhythm on a street where no one would have met.

Smoke curled in the pale cold moonlight, dissolving into the chill. Alfred silently walked to the stone steps of the shop behind him, letting out a sigh that sounded heavier than it should.

“You gonna keep standin there glaring at me,” he muttered, tilting his head towards Ivan, “or are you gonna sit?”

Ivan remained still for a moment, eyes fixated on him without wavering. His instinct was to remain upright, looming, a figure of authority in these fractured streets. But the invitation, careless though it was, tugged at something quieter inside him.

He stepped forward, boots crunching grit and lowered himself beside Him. The stone was cold even through the coat, rough against his palms. Their shoulders did not touch, not yet but the proximity itself shifted the air between them.

Alfred stretched his legs out, leaning back on one arm. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, ash drifting down in lose ribbons. ‘Always so stiff.” he muttered, half a smirk creeping at his lips.

“Always so careless,” ivan replied evenly.

Alfred huffed a laugh, though it lacked its usual swagger. “Guess that makes us even.”

The silence that followed was think but not sharp. Life moved on muttering elsewhere around them A truck far to the west, boots pacing, the hum of an electrical line overhead. But here, in this pocket of shadow, it was only them.

Ivan, with the cigarette that Alfred offered earlier, took a drag. The light burgeoning, illuminating a little more space. Although it didn't hit the same as a drink of vodka, it still helped ease the tensions.

“You should not be here,” Ivan said quietly, repeating his earlier warning, though softer now.

‘Yeah,” Alfred answered, dragging on his own. “I know.”

No one moved, taking in the silence.

Minuets stretched. Alfreds tapping fingers finally stilled against the stone. He tilted his head back, gave fixed on the fractured stars. “You ever get tired of it?”

Ivans brow furrowed faintly. “Of what?”

“All of it. The speeches, the stand-offs, pretendin like were not the same damn thing, just in different uniforms.” Alfred laughed under his breath, but it was empty. “Kinda feels like were just winding ourselves up to do it all over again.”

Ivan studied him quietly. The lamplight that barely reached them caught the edge of Alfreds jaw, the faint shadow under his eyes, the way his mouth pressed tight between words. He looked less the hero he boasted of and more of a little boy worn down.

Yet they both knew it was just the beginning.

“You sound old,” Ivan murmured.

Alfred smirk twitched faintly. “Yeah well... War does that. Guess we both grew up fast, huh?”

The words struck something in Ivan. Although older and more experienced in life, they never got live without the burdens of responsibility. He let his eyes drift forward again, to the street stretching quiet before them.

“We are not children anymore,” he said softly. ‘But perhaps... Children still know how to dream.”

The silence after was fragile. Alfred blinked, then laughed quietly, almost disbelieving. It was a real laugh, small but unforced, and it softened the tension more than any truce could have.

For a few moments, they simply sat. Breathing, in a comfortable silence.

The silence stretched, but it no longer felt like a barrier. It was more like a fabric between them. Thin, worn, easy to see through if either dared.

Alfred tilted his head down a bit, blowing smoke toward the sky. His glasses had slipped down his nose, the faint light glistening against the frames. ‘Dreams huh? What kind do you mean?”

Ivan drew slow on the cigarette, letting the smoke burn before exhaling, preparing his thoughts. “Ones that are not soaked in blood. Ones that are not steeped in lies and suspicions. or bought with cities like this.” He gestured faintly at the street before them, where walls still bore the scars of war regardless of effort.

Alfred studies him through the corner of his eye. “Didn't think you were the poetic type.”

“I am not,’ Ivan said simply. But his voice had softened, and it hadn't gone unnoticed by Alfred.

The younger nation chuckled, a low sound that ended in a sigh. He rubbed a hand over his face, dragging fingers through his hair until it stuck up in wild tufts. ” Damn. You really know how to kill the mood.”

Ivans lips curved faintly beneath the scarf that wasn't pulled up too high anymore. “There was a mood to kill?”

Alfred looked at him then—properly looked. Not with suspicion, not with rivalry. His eyes were bright in the dark, but weary around the edges, rimmed in something Ivan could not mistake. He held the gaze longer than he meant to, and when he finally looked away, his voice had dipped low.

“Maybe there was.”

The words lingered, heavy like the haze that lingered in the air.

Thie shoulders brushed when Alfred leaned back again, this time not pulling away. Ivan remained still, letting the warmth bleed through cloth, through bone. He felt it settle in his chest, heavy and steady against the chill of the night.

“You ever wonder,” Alfred started speaking after a moment, “What it would be like if we weren't... yknow. Us”

Ivans eyes narrowed faintly, curious. “Us?”

“Countries, nations. Whatever you wanna call it. Just... people. Two guys who didn't have the world strapped on their backs.” Alfred let out a huff. “Bet it'd be easier.”

Ivan considered him for a long moment. The thought hadn't crossed his mind before. “Maybe. But then, maybe we would not have found ourselves here at all.”

Alfred frowned faintly at his response, tapping the edge of his cig against the step. ‘Yeah. Guess you're right. Funny way to look at fate, huh?”

The Russian said nothing. Instead, he let his hand rest flat against the stone between them. His fingers brushed against the others—just barely, as though by accident.

Alfreds tapping stilled.

Neither moved a for heartbeat, two, three. Once more the silence accompanied them, only broken by the groan of a truck somewhere across the city.

Slowly, deliberately, Alfred shifted his hand so their fingers overlapped. Not fully. Just enough that Ivan could feel the press of warmth, the steady pulse beneath skin.

Ivans chest tightened. He did not pull away.

Alfred glanced at him from the corner of his eye, mouth twitching as though he might say something, but the words never came. Instead, he leaned back against the step, putting out his smoke with a long sigh. “Hell of a night.”

Ivan hummed in agreement, though his gaze had lowered now. not to the street, not to the posters and graffiti glaring down at them, but to their hands. Their joined stillness said more than words ever could.

The silence deepened again, but this time it wasn't harsh. It was fragile. Intimate. The small commotions around them faded to a murmur, the lamplight flickered faintly, the shadows stretching long.

Ivan finished his cigarette, crushing the end against the stone, and let the smoke dissipate from his lips one last time. His hand did not leave the younger mans.

Alfreds chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm. Though his throat bobbed once in a swallow. He finally turned his head again, meeting Ivans gaze fully. Blue against deep purple, sharp against soft.

For the first time, neither looked away.

The air was thick, almost stifling. Alfreds gaze didn't falter, though his lips parted like he wanted to speak again, yet still not finding the words. Ivan held his stare with the same steadiness he had carried all night, though something in his chest tugged, like a thread pulled too tight

For once, it wasn't suspicion that filled the space between them. It wasn't rivalry, the need to on up each other. It wasn't even politics. It was something quiet, something dangerous for its simplicity.

The undeniable truth of being two men who had forgotten how to be only human.

Alfred broke first. His hand, already brushing against Ivans, shifted fully. Their fingers threaded loosely together. The motion was small, almost hesitant, but the warmth of it spread through Ivans chest more than vodka could ever burn.

“You know this is stupid,” Alfred muttered, his voice low, but soft.

Ivans lips curled faintly, half hidden by the scarf that was barely pulled up. “да. Most things worth doing so are.”

Alfreds laugh came soft, shaky, almost disbelieving. He shook his head, gaze dropping briefly to the stone before rising again. “God, you're impossible.”

“I Have been told this.”

It should have ended there. Alfred should have stood after crushing out his cigarette and walked back across the border. Ivan could have risen too, turned back further east and let the night swallow what had nearly happened. That was the logical end. The safe one.

But neither moved.

Instead, Alfred leaned in- not fast. Not reckless. But careful. His shoulder pressed more firmly against Ivan’s, the brush of fabric shifting into something undeniable. His breath, warm and sharp with smoke, ghosted against Ivans cold cheek.

He didn't flinch. He didn't lean away. His gaze lowered to Alfred's mouth, then lifted again to meet his eyes.

The decision balanced there, teetering, until Alfred finally closed the space.

Their lips met tentative at first, a brief press like testing the weight of a bridge before crossing. Ivan inhaled sharply through his nose, the warmth of it flooding his chest. Alfreds hand tightened around his anchoring them both.

The kiss deepened.

Ivan titled his head, the scarf tugged aside, lips parting just enough to draw Alfred closer. Alfred responded with a low sound-- not quite a sigh, not quite a groan—and leaned in fully, his free hand bracing against the stone beside Ivans thigh.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't sweet. It was desperate in its restraint, heavy with exhaustion, with need, with the weight of everything they could not say in daylight. Thir mouths moved against each other in a rhythm that felt stolen, defiant. Like a secret carved into the night.

Alfred pulled back first, breath ragged, glasses crooked, eyes wide and bright with something raw. His forehead pressed against Ivans', the cold of the frames cooling the heat between them.

“This doesn't change anything,” He whispered, as though trying to convince himself.

“No...” Ivans voice trailed off. His thumb brushed against Alfreds knuckle. “It only shows what was always true. I'm sure you understand.”

Alfred flinched, as though the words touched something too raw to deny. His blue eyes darted away then back again, trembling on the edge of retreat.

Ivans hand rested on the other nations jaw and slid to the nape of his neck, warm, steady, holding him there. For once it wasn't a gesture of dominance but of care, of certainty. His thumb brushed faint over Alfreds hairline, and his chest ached with wanting.

He had always wanted this. To be able to feel the warmth of a beating heart close to him To be close enough to feel his breath, to see his eyes unguarded, to touch him without force, without fists. Now that this possibility, this chance was real, he thought selfishly, he would give anything to not let it go.

“Stay,” Ivan whispered, so softly it could have been mistaken for a breath. “Just tonight.”

Alfred made a sound- half a laugh, half a broken plea – and leaned forward, his mouth crashing against Ivans again. It wasn't careful anymore; it was desperate, needing, his lips parting with a gasp as Ivan answered, meeting him, deepening the kiss until Alfred melted against him.

Ivans other arm slid around his back, drawing him closer, feeling the tremor of his body, the sharp rhythm of his hear against his own chest. The warmth of the other seared, filling the emptiness Ivan carried, and for once, the silence in his mind felt whole.
They broke only when breath forced them apart, Alfred gasping, Ivans lips damp against the corner of his mouth. Alfreds hand lingered at his collar, clutching as though he didn't know how to let go.