One

Ivan's eyes flash demon-black from the back seat. Alfred, too used to the bone-deep exhaustion and hallucinations that come from hours (and hours and hours) of sleeplessness compounded with hours upon hours of stressing and worrying (and basically just overall anxiety 24/7 because he can't figure out how the hell they're still alive and how to keep them that way), doesn't do anything but turn his gaze back to the road.

He knows Ivan is asleep. If he listens closely, he can hear Ivan's sleep-breathing, steady and slow. He tries to focus on that to tether himself to reality, but he still finds his mind drifting tiredly and then he gets lost in the hypnotising blur of the yellow line flashing by as the rest of the road gets swallowed into the inky black depths of the moonless sky above. In the corners of his eyes he sees thin shuffling figures briefly illuminated by the dim glow of the one working headlight. He pays them no mind.

The miles pass by like this. Alfred continues to ignore the signs they pass by, partly because he doesn't really care where they're heading - it never matters, every place they run to is in ruins - and partly because it's too dark to make any of the words out. As time crawls by (Alfred's sleep deprived brain thinks comparing it to a snail's pace would be far too generous) and the odometer ticks ever higher, somewhere in between seconds Alfred becomes aware that there is an uneasy creeping thought in the back of his mind that he knowsthis place. He tries not to dwell on it, his mind is probably just playing tricks on him. Even if it wasn't, there is really no use trying to figure out where they are, without the moon all they have is the headlight and that's pretty much useless. The thought is still there though.

He keeps driving.

Until, on a whim, he hooks a right down a thickly overgrown dirt road. From what he can see the road is lined with long-dead bushes, he wants to say roses. It feels right. Rows of roses, all different colors. As he continues down the winding road, driveway he now realises, the familiarity of it hits him like a punch to the gut. He should know this. He feels sick. The end of the road comes too soon and Alfred slows to a reluctant stop. He shuts the car off.

A momentary break in the clouds allows a sliver of moonlight in which he can faintly see the outline of a two-story house looming ahead. The area where the front door should be is somehow darker than the rest.

'It must be open.' Alfred thinks. 'Or broken down.'

If it was daytime he might risk checking things out, but at night... Yeah, no. That is a monumentally bad idea, because those things are faster than you would think a reanimated corpse could be. He wants to though. If only just to find out why it's so familiar.

Alfred can feel the answer clawing at the back of his mind so hard it hurts, but he just can't reach it. He lets out a growl of frustration, hitting the steering wheel with his fist for good measure.

Ivan mumbles uneasily in his sleep at the noise, starting to stir. Alfred quiets. There's no use to getting angry and Ivan needs his sleep.

He stares at the house for another long minute, before deciding that they need to keep moving.

He feels an ache deep in his chest as he pulls back onto the highway. It feels like loss.

Two

The rays of the morning sun find the car's windows streaked with dust and splashes of mud. "Fucking dirt roads." Alfred mutters low under his breath as he walks around the car surveying the damage while Ivan leans against the driver-side door, looking on edge and dead-tired, taking up the role of look-out duty. Alfred sighs in annoyance, and he knows that she's definitely been through worse, a lot worse, but that doesn't mean he's a-okay with her getting caked in mud and what he really hopes isn't blood or anything of the sort - guts, viscera, fleshy bits. He doesn't want a replay of last time, it had taken hours of scrubbing to get all the chunks of hair (attached to scalp, of course) and god knows what else because the thing had exploded like some kind of grotesque water balloon made of human flesh. That is also the reason he doesn't drive with the window down anymore, which admittedly was already a bad idea to begin with but the bits of brain matter splattered on his arm really cemented it. In any case, they kind of need her to be in tip-top shape. He doesn't want to think about what will happen when something happens that they can't fix. It's inevitable, he knows. Gas won't last forever. He shakes his head, they'll cross that bridge when they get to it.

He tosses the keys to Ivan, trusting that he will catch them, and crawls into the back and flops, boneless, onto the still-warm seat and tries to get in a bit of shut-eye. The crunch of wheels on gravel gives way to asphalt and Alfred drifts off to the car's low droning hum of a lullaby.

When he comes to again, sun high in the sky, it feels as though he hasn't slept at all.

Three

They're holed up in a motel that has definitely seen better days, but the deadbolt and the heavy dresser shoved against the door make it feel a shade more homey. Well, safer, anyway. They hang blankets over the windows. Neither of them speak through all this, though Ivan never says much these days.

They haul blankets and pillows into the windowless bathroom. It feels safer with an extra door between them and the world outside. Alfred lights a few candles - apple pie scented because they had used up the fresh linen ones - so they can see. It feels very middle school girls' slumber party - pillows and blankets and all they need is a few scary games (bloody mary, bloody mary and all that). Though, he supposes, games are nothing compared to the world now.

He shies away from the more obvious connotations of a candle lit bathroom, Ivan sitting the in the bathtub. Fully clothed, of course, but his mind goes somewhere else entirely. He coughs, glancing at Ivan as he does. He seems unaware of Alfred's thoughts. Good, he thinks, now is not the right time (lately, it seems that it is never the right time).

Ivan seems more out of it than usual. His violet eyes, with bruise-purple shadows underneath to match, stare somewhere beyond the tiny motel bathroom. The cosmos, maybe, he always loved space with all it's beautiful and terrifying possibilities.

He remembers Ivan saying that one day he wanted to travel among the stars.

"But, I'd miss you." Alfred blurted out, panicking even as the words left his mouth, he hadn't meant to say that, hadn't meant to let that slip because the way he'd said it meant so much more and Ivan would understand because he always did.

"Don't." Ivan said. Alfred's heart had dropped, before Ivan continued with "Because you will be with me."

Then he said Alfred's name, warmly. "Alfred." And when Alfred looked up, curiously, Ivan leaned down to press a soft kiss to his mouth.

Alfred blushed happily, stammering out "O-okay, yeah. Yeah, that sounds good. Very good. I mean, um, as long as you'll have me, of course. Just, yeah. Good."

Four

"Hey, Ivan, you hungry?"

Without waiting for an answer, he reaches for the dufflebag that contains their dwindling food supply. They will need to stop somewhere to stock up soon. He slides Ivan a bag of Swedish Fish and keeps the bag of pink-frosted animal crackers for himself.

Alfred treats animal crackers like vampires. He neatly separates them at the neck and starts two piles, one for the heads and the other for the bodies. It feels childish, playing with his food, but anything to stretch out the process and prolong the inevitable.

God, what he wouldn't give for a burger. A nice, juicy, bacon cheeseburger with a side of curly fries. Or maybe a milkshake and chili cheese fries. He's so hungry.

Headless animal crackers just don't do the trick.

He doesn't even have to see Ivan to know that he's giving him that look, one eyebrow raised in amusement and smiling like he's trying not to laugh.

Alfred knows how the rest of it would play out. He'd say "What?" Eyebrows scrunched in confusion, mouth probably full, spraying crumbs.

Ivan would shake his head once and say in that pretty accent of his "-It's nothing, Alfred, no need to worry." Then he'd shake his head again, laughing. And Alfred wouldn't mind because he'll never get tired of the way Ivan says his name.

Or maybe that's just how he wants it to go. It's been a while since he's heard Ivan laugh.

Five

The gas station contains a distinct lack of pie. As did the diner a ways back and at the news Alfred had gestured with his hands and a look of shock as if he were absolutely appalled with the absurdity of the statement. "What kind of self-respecting diner doesn't have pie?"

Ivan had shrugged, lips curled ever-so-slightly, filled with amused fondness.

So, gas station. Again, no pie.

They stock up on other things instead. Water, snacks, first-aid supplies and Alfred finds a paperback tucked onto a small shelf beneath the register, an old faded receipt sticking out somewhere in the middle of the book. He snags it for Ivan after a quick flip through the weathered pages. It seems like something Ivan might like. He leaves the makeshift bookmark in it's place. It feels disrespectful somehow to remove it. So it stays.

Six

Another motel. They're all starting to look the same. Alfred swears he's seen that exact mystery stain in that exact location on the carpet before.

He loses the last bag of sour patch kids to Ivan in a game of 'rock, paper, scissors'.

His calls for a rematch ("Come on, big guy, best two out of three!") are ignored.

Alfred doesn't even like sour patch kids, he just likes interacting with Ivan in any way he can.

He spreads his sleeping bag out next to Ivan's on the bathroom floor along with a threadbare pillow and an extra blanket, the kind they use in hospitals. It's thin and scratchy and does absolutely nothing in the way of warmth, but as always they make do.

He's dead to the world almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

When he wakes up a few hours later, feverish and sweaty, he's thankful the toilet is so close. He has just enough time to lurch forward before he empties the contents of his stomach into the bowl. The movement makes his throb sharply, like hammers on rocks, and that visual makes things worse. His vision swims, the room tilting violently, and then the last sensation he's aware of is the cold ceramic flooring leeching the fever-heat from his cheek before everything fades to black.

Seven

"Alfred?"

"It's too early, Ivan, just come back to bed." Alfred mumbles. God, his body aches.

There's a pause and Alfred deems it okay to go back to sleep.

"Alfred. Wake up."

He ignores him in hopes that he'll give up on the whole staying awake thing and crawl back into bed (or sleeping bag) to keep him warm.

"Alfred."

"Ugh. Fiiiine."

Alfred forces himself to sit up, his joints and muscles protesting the movement. He keeps his eyes closed, stifling a yawn, as he reaches for his glasses. When he finally opens his eyes, glasses on, he finds himself staring into a pair of purple eyes, though not the ones he expected to see.

"Mattie?"

Eight

"Oh my god! Dude." Alfred launches himself toward his brother, hugging him tightly. "You're alive! I missed you so much, bro!"

Alfred pulls back to look at him, grinning.

"I missed you too." Mattie says quietly.

There are a million things Alfred wants to ask, but his nose scrunches in confusion when one comes to mind.

"Wait -How did you find me?"

Mattie laughs nervously. "Um, I saw your car. And then I crawled through the bathroom window."

"That doesn't really answer much you know. Like, why are you in this area or- Wait, I gotta get Ivan, he'll be so happy to see you!"

"Wait, Alfred." Mattie gives him a strange look, curious and concerned. "You really don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

Mattie doesn't say anything. He just keeps looking at him in that infuriating way, pitying.

Alfred sighs. "God, Mattie, what?"

"Alfie." Mattie begins haltingly and Alfred frowns at the nickname because he never calls him that. "Ivan is- Ivan's dead."

There is a long pause wherein Mattie continues to watch him carefully and a little confused.

Alfred laughs abruptly, loud and sharp. It echoes off the bathroom walls. "Wh-why would you say that? Of course he's not. He was just here. He's probably just on a food run or something."

He stands, vision blacking out for a few seconds, and opens the bathroom door to see if Ivan was in the main room. He's not, but that doesn't mean anything.

Mattie puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. But he doesn't need comfort, because Ivan's not dead. He shrugs it off.

"Don't. You're wrong you know. He was here. We were here together. He can't, he's not!" His own voice sounds alien to him, high and shrill and threaded with panic.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees his brother reach for him again, see his mouth moving, but whatever it is doesn't reach his ears.

"I said. Don't." Alfred warns and then he can't breathe. Can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe. His chest feels like a compressed spring and there's so much pressure, what if his heart explodes and what if his chest bursts open and there's been a parasite in their this whole time like in that movie and he dies and the last thing he sees is that stupid alien thing coming out of him and that would be super painful and he won't get to say goodbye to Ivan or tell him that he loves him and oh god, Ivan's dead.

His eyes burn and there's a lump in his throat and everything hurts. He can hear that alien voice again, sobbing in great, ugly gasps. It sounds painful and then he realises that it's him and that somehow makes it so much worse and then he feels hands on his shoulders and Mattie speaking quietly to him. He can't understand the words, it's background noise, but after a long while, the sun considerably lower in the sky, he quiets. He feels strangely empty and he doesn't know if that's better than the other thing and then he decides that they both suck and he just wants to see Ivan. He focuses on Mattie's words because he doesn't want to start crying again, but he feels the ache like a giant empty cavern in his chest.

'Focus.'

"and he got so mad, remember that Alfie? It was kind of funny, actually. When he's angry his eyebrows take on a life of their own, ya know? and then he called you a wanker" Alfred almost laughs because that word sounds weird when Mattie says it. "and the look on your face was great, like you were so surprised even though he says it all the time and then you said you just wanted the roses to give to Ivan because he was feeling sad and that even though sunflowers are his favorites, we didn't have any so it's the thought that counts, right? Dad got that look on his face like he couldn't decide whether he should still be mad at you or not. Then he said 'Well, if the lad likes sunflowers.' and then he brought you to a sunflower field to pick some. He didn't even ground you that time."

"Mattie." Alfred says, voice scratchy, before he can start another story, he wishes he had listened to all of them.

"Alfie. Hey." Mattie says. "This is going to sound dumb, but are you okay?"

Alfred shakes his head no. "I should be asking you that. Have you been talking this whole time? Doesn't your throat hurt?"

"It's fine." It does, though he hadn't noticed until Alfred mentioned it. "Do you want me to keep telling stories?"

"Well...if you don't mind?" Alfred doesn't want silence.

"Of course not. Um, what about the one where..."

Alfred falls asleep, on the bed for once, in the middle of a story Mattie had dubbed The Mystery Of The Teacups.

Nine

"Are you ready?" Mattie asks, for the millionth time.

"Yes. Well, no. No I'm not, but we can't just sit here forever." Alfred says, staring up at the two-story house in front of them. It looks different in the daylight. Or maybe it's because he remembers now why it seemed so familiar before.

It was their house.

He and Mattie used to lived here with their dad, Arthur.

And... and Ivan died here.

Alfred takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He nods, still trying to convince himself to just do it and says. "Okay, I'm ready."

Ten

Alfred hears Mattie next to him, murmuring at Arthur's grave, but he can't look away from the small wooden cross with Ivan's name carved in blocky letters. He has no idea what to say or how to start.

"Hey, Ivan." Alfred laughs softly, because it's stupid that he talked to Ivan for months when he wasn't really there so why is this so hard? And he'll have to do this all over again at his dad's grave.

'It's too much.'

Quiet sniffling reaches Alfred's ears and god, now he feels like an asshole because he's only been thinking about how hard this is for himself when Arthur was Mattie's dad too and while Ivan was Alfred's, he was also Mattie's best friend.

I'm an idiot. I'm sorry.'

He laces his fingers together with his brother's, Mattie squeezing his hand, and takes a deep breath. Time to try this again.

"Ivan. I miss you..."

Notes: Title from Over The Garden Wall. Review, if you'd like.