A/N: Hello again! I was asked to do this prompt by one of my friends, and so I figured I'd do it for her, because she's wonderful. I may or may not be intoxicated right now by the very liquid Ivan is quitting in this story, so please forgive my grammar/spelling if there are mistakes. There will be cussing in this. This chapter is fucking gruesome. This story will be very short. Maybe three chapters. It will be kinda dark.

Prompt: Ivan is going through withdrawals while trying to sober up. Alfred feels bad for him and stays with him for support.

Ivan's hand slid down the only bottle with vodka still in it. The glass was cold below where his hand had been when he'd fallen asleep. Trying to ignore the headache that seemed to take a mallet and smack him upside the head every half second, he sat up and looked around his empty kitchen. His back ached in protest of the motion, causing Ivan to wince.

The kitchen was littered with empty bottles of Smirnoff and Absolut, and the entire apartment smelled faintly of the beverage. Ivan stood, putting his hand on the table to steady himself before running his hands over his face; normally he didn't get hangovers, but they'd been coming more and more often with his increased drinking.

Ivan took the ibuprofen from the cupboard above the sink and took three. He frowned and sighed softly, deciding to just go and try to sleep it off. It was all he could do, really. So, he made his way down the hall, thankful all of his curtains were shut to block the harsh rays of light that typically were welcomed in his home. He reached his room and made his way to his bed, where he cautiously set himself down, whereas he typically would flop backwards into the soft down comforter.

He winced as there was a loud, ornery knock at the door, only making his headache so much worse. He stood slowly, as not to agitate his throbbing head more, and wobbled back down the hallway. As he reached the kitchen the person outside his door knocked again, louder this time. Frustrated, Ivan fiercely tugged the door open, eyes squinting in fear of a loud hello.

Alfred, however, wasn't about to say anything. As he took Ivan's appearance in, he began to regret coming over to show him a new videogame he'd gotten. When he finally spoke, his voice was just a whisper. "You look like shit." He frowned and walked past a grimacing Ivan.

"Gee, thanks a fucking lot." Ivan closed the door and rubbed his temple, voice soft like Alfred's, albeit not a whisper, more of a very quiet voice. Alfred frowned even more, pushing some vodka bottles to the side to set the game case on the table.

"Dude, how much did you drink last night?" Alfred's voice remained a whisper. "There's like, thirty bottles laying around here! Your BAC must have been way the fuck up there, dude." He'd just finished reading the driving manual to get his license—he couldn't help but make that remark.

"Not all of these are from last night dumbass. I probably drank three last night. The rest have just accumulated." He shrugged and looked away. His alcohol tolerance was insanely high, but that didn't mean that he couldn't get drunk.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Ivan. I'm shocked your liver's still fucking working." Alfred leaned against the table, crossing his arms like a concerned parent. "Dude, you gotta stop laying it on so thick. I don't care if you're Russian, you need to tone it down a bit." Alfred's voice had increased from the whisper to a level similar to Ivan's voice.

Ivan didn't say anything and settled instead on cleaning up all the bottles. He took a trash bag and went around slowly, picking them up and setting them in the bag gently so not to make a racket. His headache was ebbing away, but he didn't want it coming back.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Alfred exhaled softly. "Dude, I don't care what you say, I'm going to make you stop drinking every damn night." He shook his head and looked up to watch an indifferent Ivan still picking up bottle upon bottle. He filled up a whole bag and tied it up, setting it by the door so that he'd remember to take it out to the dumpster later. He threw the remaining bottles in the garbage can under the sink, wincing a bit at the loud clanging they made.

"Quite frankly, Alfred, I'd like to see you try." His tone was bitter and cold. Alfred's brows knit together in determination at the challenge. "I'll be back in an hour." And with that, he walked out of the apartment, purposely slamming the door behind him to annoy Ivan. He planned on going home, packing clothes for a week, and coming back. He was going to make sure that Ivan stopped this ridiculousness.

Ivan was left alone the in the blissful silence of his empty home. He sighed and walked to his bathroom, deciding that a hot shower might help him start feeling better. Besides, he smelled strongly of vodka; not that he didn't like the smell of it, but it would be best to just get rid of it so Alfred wouldn't complain and nag on him about the steps to stopping and this and that.

He twisted the handle to start the water, watching the liquid waterfall from the shower head to the floor blankly. He stuck his hand in the water, making sure it was warm enough before stripping down and stepping in. Something didn't feel right, however. He looked down to see his feet still donned socks, the white things of fabric soaked. He sighed and took them off, hanging them on the side of the shower to hopefully dry.

He scrubbed his hair and body to rid himself of the alcohol's stench, taking his time before getting out and walking to his room, a towel wrapped around his hips. He grabbed out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, throwing those on over a pair of navy blue boxers. He did feel a bit better after that, not to mention his headache had finally gone away.

He tossed the clothes he'd worn the day before in the laundry hamper in the far corner of the room, which also had an empty Smirnoff bottle in it. He sighed; he had bottles all over his apartment. He went to start picking those up too, but was stopped by the sound of his front door opening. He returned to the kitchen to see Alfred with a duffel bag and a backpack slung over his shoulder, along with two coffees in his hands. He handed one to Ivan.

"Start drinking that stuff instead. Way better for you than what you've been drinking." Alfred took a sip of his own before setting it down on the table next to the videogame. "Alright, I've got stuff for a whole week. I'm staying here to monitor your drinking."

Ivan groaned in protest. "That's fucking ridiculous, Alfred. Why does this even matter to you? It's just a drink here and there." That was an understatement. A big understatement. Alfred rolled his eyes, obviously a little frustrated with Ivan.

"You're just fucking with me, right?" Alfred set down his bags and crossed his arms. "Ivan, you're one of my best friends. At the rate you're drinking, you're going to be dead in a month. See, here's the thing." He tossed a tone in that would normally be present when a teacher was speaking to a young child. It dripped over his words, almost to the point where it would be offensive to Ivan. "When you're friends with someone, you don't think, 'oh! They're dying! Better just leave them to it!' Fuck no! You say, 'bitch, get your fucking act together and your head out of the clouds.' And you help them anyway you can."

Ivan stared at Alfred for a while, unsure how to respond. Finally, after a few minutes, he just nodded and looked down at the ground. "Yeah, alright."

Alfred smiled ever so slightly at this little victory over Ivan. He wasn't about to admit that he liked Ivan in a way that probably wasn't socially acceptable to most strong republicans. In fact, he was fairly sure he was going to keep that a secret, and that secret would be buried with him, still stuck in his mouth, unable to expel it to Ivan's ears.

"Kay. Well, start with your coffee, and we'll just see how it goes, alright? What time do you usually start drinking in the day?" He figured Ivan might get some withdrawals around the time he started drinking.

Ivan looked at the clock which read 2:00. He sighed softly. "Oh, about four hours." He spoke the words as though they were no big deal. Alfred wasn't too happy with this, however.

"So you're telling me you get laid out drunk, pass out, wake up with a hangover, and start drinking five hours later?" Ivan nodded and Alfred did something similar to a facepalm. "Okay. What the actual fuck." He shook his head and muttered to himself. "Well, in the meantime, I wanted to show you this game. It'll pass the time until you typically start drinking."

With that, the two walked into the small living room area where Ivan had his television and gaming consoles. Alfred tapped the circle on the Xbox and then the eject button. He took Battlefield 3 out and put in his game, going back to the kitchen to grab his headset from his duffle, plugging it in per usual and handing Ivan his headset. The two turned on their controllers and watched the intro before delving into the new game.

-ooo-

"Just one drink." Ivan was standing in the kitchen attempting to negotiate with Alfred, who was standing in front of his liquor cabinet. Alfred was standing strong to what he'd said earlier. "No. You're not drinking tonight." Though it would be harder for Ivan that way, he figured he'd just stop him dead in his tracks. He was prepared to deal with any withdrawal side effects that arose from the sudden lack of alcohol intake.

"Please, Alfred. Pretty please. You can have some too!" Ivan was starting to sound ridiculous with his begging. "Just a shot. One fucking shot. Please?" Alfred shook his head and Ivan groaned, feeling a headache coming on. His hands had already began to shake, and were clammy. "Come on!" When he was denied once more, he trudged off to the living room and flopped over on the couch, whining to himself about how stupid this whole thing was.

Alfred took a padlock from his backpack and found some wire. He did some intricate tying and such to get it to stay closed before putting the padlock on it. He walked into the living room and stood in the doorway, looking at Ivan who had his face buried in a pillow. He did feel kind of bad for him, but it was for his own good. "Ivan, let's play some more until it's time to sleep." He figured that if it was seven now, they could sleep in two or three hours.

Ivan muttered his response into the tan pillow, making it hard for Alfred to hear. Rolling his eyes, Alfred just tossed Ivan's controller to him, the shiny black plastic landing right on his ass. There was a yelp of surprise, then Ivan slowly sat up. He took the controller in his hands and sighed. He figured he could probably play for a bit longer.

The two began to play again, both of them staring intently at the screen. They played in silence, both getting headshots frequently. After a while, however, Ivan began to feel a bit sick to his stomach. He said nothing, knowing it was just a withdrawal. They continued playing for a few minutes, then Ivan hurriedly pulled his headset off and tossed his controller away, making a dash for the bathroom.

He lost the contents of his stomach, which had only been a granola bar and a lot of coffee. His hands shook worse than before from the sudden exertion. He stood and flushed the bile, wetting his hands and splashing water on his face. He looked pretty exhausted, not to mention felt the same way.

Ivan dried his face and returned to the living room where Alfred sat, the game paused, waiting for him to come back. "You alright?" Ivan frowned, suddenly feeling agitated.

"What do you think? You take me off my normal fucking routine, and I throw up and feel like shit and you ask me if I'm alright? What the fuck kind of question is that? It's a bullshit question!" He plopped back down on the couch, now getting mad at himself for getting irritated with Alfred. "I'm fucking dandy." The sarcasm that was stapled to his words slapped Alfred across the face.

"You know what? I'm doing this to keep your from dying. Fucking dying. If you're just going to be mad at me for trying to prevent you from leaving this fucking world, I'll just fucking leave." Alfred huffed and crossed his arms, staring at Ivan.

"Look, I'm sorry, but this fucking sucks! You try this! It sucks fucking faucets." Ivan rubbed his face, his elbows on his knees. "I don't mean to snap at you like that, it's just that I feel like shit. Kay? Sorry."

Alfred softened slightly at that, feeling a bit better. "It's fine man. Just…we should go to bed. It's a little late and with you not feeling well, sleep will be the best thing for you." Ivan nodded in response.

"Sure. You're welcome to anyplace but my bed." And with that, Ivan trudged off to his room. He immediately flopped down onto his bed, climbing between the covers and falling asleep within a few minutes.

He slept well enough for the first little bit. Soon, though, his normal dream became something of a nightmare. He watched as Alfred was brutally murdered, a cut made in his stomach to pull out his entrails Alfred's eyes locking on the guts as they were pulled out and stacked next to his body, his screams horrific. The person then took a knife to Alfred's left eye, popping the eye and pulling it out to dangle. Finally, they made one more incision and stabbed both of Alfred's lungs, making his gasps into struggling gasps and pants.

The person thrust their hand into Alfred's chest cavity and grabbed ahold of his still beating heart. Alfred's eyes locked with Ivan's, Ivan's breath hitching. Something strange occurred to him; he had the urge to yell out to Alfred and tell him how much he loved him. Before he could, though, the person grabbed Alfred's heart tightly and pulled up, ripping the valves apart and completely removing his most important organ. Alfred's eyes slowly rolled back up into his head and Ivan began to scream.

That's when he woke up, sweating morbidly and panting as though he'd run a marathon. There was a knock at his door and he attempted to quickly regain his composure. "C-come in." Alfred opened the door and walked in cautiously.

"You were screaming. A-are you alright?" Ivan blinked back tears. Just seeing Alfred still alive made his heart jump multiple beats. The nightmare had been so vivid he had almost been sure it was real.

"I'm fine. Just a nightmare is all. Just, uh, go back to bed." His voice was shaky and he couldn't hide it. Alfred's features were contorted with worry. "Are you sure? Can I get you anything?" Ivan shook his head in response, laying back down. "Thanks though." Alfred left to go back to the couch, and Ivan let the tears flow freely from his eyes.

The nightmare played over and over in his mind, almost as though it were a movie with one of its chapters on repeat. He let himself cry until he had no more tears left, and once he was lacking tears, he fell asleep, still hiccupping slightly, and stayed asleep for the rest of the night, his sleep dreamless. He was thankful for that—he wasn't sure if he could really take another dream that evening, good or bad. Even if it started out as a good dream, the previous dream would just sink its teeth into the new, nice dream, and inject its horror into it, slowly but surely.

However, when he came to the next morning to the smell of coffee, he felt something of a satisfaction: he'd survived day one of no alcohol, and he felt something like pride swell in his chest. He'd take is slow, and he'd make it.

One step at a time.