A Monday two weeks from the next pay. No holidays until May, which was three painstaking months away.
To Alfred, it felt like there was no end in sight. The typically cheerful and easygoing young man had no energy left, which was rather rare, but today was one hell of a monster. Work tested his limits, and it was a cruel and unusual grind. Maybe it was the endless stream of customers, the computer system being down for the better half of the morning, or being subjected to the high and nasally voice of the co-worker he considered his number one rival. Despite feeling relieved he could get some fresh air, he still was returning home with a banging headache and empty pockets once again.
Exhaling hard, Alfred loosened his red and white striped silk tie. Next came the first few buttons of his neatly pressed dress shirt which freed his neck. Alfred turned to the dim-lit hallway before him, his well-polished black dress shoes making soft impressions on the gold-embroidered, crimson red carpet below.
He didn't bother to pick up his feet and dragged past the row of doors that lined the hallway, stopping at one with '1008' in small gold-plated digits. He was always happy to be greeted by those numbers every day, but it would be nice to see those numbers in the form of dollars.
Sliding a free hand into the pocket of his black trench coat, he fished out his keys with a jingle. He inserted the smallest silver key marked with the letter 'H' in red marker (Ivan insisted to label each and every key) into the keyhole and, after flicking his wrist, realized it had some give. The door must have been left unlocked.
Cautiously, the weary blond pried open the door and shouted into the darkness of the apartment.
"Yo, I'm home!"
There was no answer. He listened carefully for a response but could only make out the brass sound of clanking pots and pans. Large, skewed shadows scurried along the freshly painted walls and cascaded down the square modern paintings of flower fields and stars. He stared intently towards the end of the narrow hallway, trying to make out anyone in the blackness.
"...Anyone?" Alfred whimpered. God, if there were any zombies or revenge-thirsty ghosts...
Trembling at that thought, he squeaked and hugged his briefcase tightly against his chest.
"Hellooooo?"
"Ah, Alfred! I didn't hear you come in! How was work today?" A far voice answered. A large man decently built and unusually tall appeared in the kitchen doorway, resting his stocky figure against the wooden frame. The man's eyes softened and a flush, deep pink crept over his cheeks as he saw a very disheveled Alfred approach him. He made sure to keep a good grip on the wet cutting board that held the shavings of a recently chopped onion.
"Same old, same old," Alfred exhaled deeply, using the last of his energy to toss his heavy suitcase in an empty corner. His stomach growled and he instinctively let out a whine as he grabbed at his midsection. "Hey, what's for dinner? I'm starving."
"Mm, I believe Matthew stepped out for a little bit, so.." Ivan looked at the decorated wall across the hall, focusing on a black plaque with the greeting "Welcome" cut out in beautiful cursive lettering. Three strips of tape were haphazardly placed above three hooks designed to hold house keys. He found the tape with the name 'Matt' written hastily across it and gave a nod. "So tonight, it's my famous kolbasa! Your food choices are terrible, so I thought I'd make something more nutritious!"
Before Ivan even finished speaking, Alfred already stood in the kitchen to inspect the spread on the stove. He was lifting the glass tops, getting splashed with steam and scalding water with each one, but stopped when he saw a familiar item. "You really made hot dogs?! But not on the grill. And ew, the lettuce over them is totally expired!"
Ivan pushed himself off the doorway and tightened the strings of his pink apron behind his back.
"What you speak of is my very yummy kvashenaya kapusta. But I am so proud of you! It is fermented cabbage among other things if you want to get technical -" He clasped his hands together excitedly.
Alfred's face turned an unusual shade of white as his eyes fell on the heap of yellowed strands resting in a traditional red bordered ceramic bowl. His expression sour, he laughed nervously and took a few steps back from the counter.
"No thanks. I'd rather not."
"And it's high in vitamins yet low in fat at the same time! It will help you stay healthy and strong!" Ivan picked up a long wooden spoon, lifting the top of a piping hot pot resting on a back burner of the stove and stirred its contents. He yanked on his turtleneck collar to stretch the white cotton fabric just enough to have a little more breathing room. The kitchen was starting to get warm with so many items cooking.
"That won't matter if I die from the smell first." Alfred pinched his nose.
His Russian companion casually placed the wooden utensil on a folded piece of towel beside the cutting board. Ivan had heard it from others that his food didn't smell exactly the most appetizing, so it was in his best interest to give Alfred a taste to prove him wrong. With a clean new fork, Ivan struggled to gather a modest helping of the shredded strings. "Ah, you're so tense! Just have a little bite!" he chirped.
"N-No!" Alfred shrieked and flailed his arms. He refused to have anything 'weird' today after the day he had. He just wanted some good, high-caloric, 'stick-to-your-bones' comfort food like a mouthwatering, juicy steak with a large heap of buttered mashed potatoes.
"Here comes the airplane!" He sang sweetly, twisting and turning the spoon with wide zig zags motion in the air. He playfully jabbed the cold instrument against Alfred's sealed lips. "Ah, open up! You're gonna make the plane crash!"
"What the actual fuck?! Get tha-" And with a quick swoop, the spoon was propelled forward into his mouth. "Mmmph!" He stumbled forward as he let out a loud, abrupt cough, and struggled to cover his mouth with his hands. A hurried swallow prevented him from tasting much as the foreign substance traveled down his throat.
The American instantly gasped for air and leaned his forehead into the arm he threw against the wall.
"I... I almost died. I swear. I saw my life flash before my eyes."
"Aww, it wasn't that bad, Fredka." He brought his wrist to his mouth in a light-hearted chuckle.
Alfred stood still as he absorbed his words. It tasted so… weird! He clenched his fist tightly against the painted surface, still trying to get the unfamiliar taste out of his mouth.
Seeing that there was a trace of the food still left on the silverware, the Russian gave the fork a long lick, savoring the flavor of his old favorite delicacy. "You like it, da? Don't be shy, I know you do!"
"But I told you to quit it! What the hell, man?! I know you understand me... you know plain English! No means no!"
"Alfred," Ivan whimpered, sinking back against the oven door. "I'm sorry." He gave the bar along the appliance a tight squeeze as his deep purple irises cast downward, fat tears forming at the corners. Raised voices were always so frightening to him.
Alfred, often notoriously terrible at reading the atmosphere, instantly took note of the Russian's pained expression. When Ivan began fiddling with the hem of his apron, Alfred crossed his arms, still disgusted with the sour taste lingering in his mouth. "Whatever, it's fine! I ate some Cinnabon on my way home. Just...I don't want to miss the Saints game, so don't worry about me!"
Of course, Monday nights were always the same deal. Ivan took many mental notes about the ritual. Americans enjoyed their Monday night football, and they were crazy with it. It was the standard talk around the water cooler the next day at work: whose quarterback outperformed the other, how one's defensive line was nonexistent, and how the refs made several bad calls against their respective teams that made them "lose the game." The Russian never could get into such a strange and violent sport no matter how hard he tried to keep interest but respected it for the fact that it made Alfred happy, which was desperately needed right now.
Ivan reached for the younger blond, clumsily tripping over his feet. He stumbled and managed to regain his balance before he'd collide into one of the kitchen cabinets. His eyes followed Alfred as he stomped out of the room, the frames mounted on the wall rattling back and forth. With one particularly rough slam of the foot, one of them dropped with a loud clang. Ivan gasped and rushed over to assess the damage.
The Russian hurriedly fell to his knees to hug the frame tightly against his chest. If there was anything he treasured, it was happy memories. He pulled the picture away from him only to take a look at what it was: a photo of him with a very young sister Natalya. She looked not a day older than seven and beamed brightly with a wide smile in Ivan's arms.
As scared as he was of Natalya most of the time, Ivan thought she was a lovely girl with... a lot to offer, to say the least. The tiny Belarusian girl was very skilled at handling sharp objects, which wasn't much of a surprise, but it had its benefits: she could chop any vegetable or meat up in seconds flat. Ivan figured if he had a skilled and steady hard such as hers, things might have turned out differently tonight. Maybe he could try to prepare more exotic dishes...
His platinum blond stands shielded his eyes as he ran his fingertips against the cracks that now plagued and uglied the glass. His lip quivered he recalled the smiles that graced their faces. "Ah, sister. if only you were here, maybe we could cook up something extraordinary for Fredka..."
It was a quarter past eight, and Ivan was still cleaning up his mess in the kitchen. To him, it was unnatural to eat a meal alone at the kitchen table, but Alfred was still having no parts of dinner. It was something Ivan found difficult to comprehend, as his culinary skills were something he took much pride in. He always received numerous compliments from others (after getting over the smell, of course.) Yao devoured his dishes in seconds flat, Veneziano begged for seconds, and Arthur often asked for the Russian's cooking secrets, elevating his concerns the English Gentleman would ruin his kitchen reputation.
But cooking to him was always something more than art. It was the best way to show your love and dedication to family and friends, and one of the few ways to share one's culture. Big sister Katyusha would host family gatherings every Sunday, making sure that Ivan watched when she cut out circles in the flattened dough and pinched the sides of a dumpling with a fork. Her dishes were the best he ever tasted. Ivan would always ask his sister what her secret was, but she would always answer with the standard "One day you'll see."
His heart sank. He tried his best to imitate Katyusha's lovely dishes but Alfred wasn't happy with his choices. Ivan tried to shake the harsh words and upsetting images out of his mind with busy work. "Труд человека кормит, а лень портит," he sighed and rolled his heavy cotton sleeves up past his elbows. But the way the American's eyebrows remained furrowed disturbed him.
Turning the faucet on with a flick of his wrist, Ivan grabbed the sponge resting on the basin of the sink to begin wiping off his plate. He made sure to spread the soap suds for a thorough clean. When he was finished, he set the lone plate on the drying rack beside him and looked up at the clock above the sink. A tiny, red arm made its way over every number with a shallow and nauseating tick.
The flannel scarf around his neck was loosened with a free hand and he shyly looked over his shoulder towards the living room. The usually jubilant, young man once so excited about life was now reduced to a lifeless sack of potatoes. Finding the courage, Ivan twirled on his heel, his boots clanking against the floor with his advance into the living room.
"Alfred, it's not good to continue being like this."
There was no answer. Dull, lifeless eyes fixated on the TV screen. The baby blues lazily followed a group of green and white jerseys that scurried across the screen in a long touchdown pass. Alfred took a sip of his lukewarm, frothy beer but otherwise refused to move another finger as the recliner around him swallowed him whole.
Ivan hummed at the silence as he passed their large, furnished black bookcase, idly running his hand along the collection of books held there. His pale fingers traced along the golden letters of one book's spine: Grimms' Fairy Tales, a wonderful anthology of stories he just recently discovered. It was always one of Alfred's favorites, thanks to Arthur, and remained one of the few pieces of Alfred cared to read. He gave the book a pat.
"I.. had Toris over today. He says he misses you. He wonders how your job is going at the office and all," Ivan stopped directly behind Alfred and entwined his fingers above his waist in anticipation. He twiddled his thumbs anxiously.
"Oh yeah? That's cool. Give Toris my regards," Alfred said flatly. He dropped the blue plastic cup on the coffee table beside his armrest. He hissed in disgust as the camera panned over to the small and quick quarterback hugged his teammate, slapping his trusty running back on the shoulder in celebration.
Ivan's eyes narrowed in disappointment. Alfred was acting like a spoiled, ungrateful child. It was one of the downsides of loving and caring for a much younger man. Times were much different from his own young adult years. Those were the days you were forced to confront your fears; unable to hide behind a screen of some complex piece of technology. To Ivan, it was inconceivable.
A more direct approach was in order. Ivan pressed his hips forward into the back of the couch, the heat of his body making a soft, temporary imprint in the leather. Bending in half, he pressed his fingertips below Alfred's chin and broke his trance as he leaned forward and inhaled deeply. Ivan paused for a moment before shooting a daring glare at the tired businessman from underneath his lashes.
"You always smell so sweet whenever you eat from there. But today, you smell so foul."
The young blond shuffled anxiously in his seat. If there was one thing that brought feelings of insecurity, it was his appearance and hygiene. Alfred whirled around, breaking Ivan's hold.
"You're saying I smell bad?! You really don't have any manners, do you?"
"No. I just know a bad liar when I see one. What's really bothering you, Alfred?" Ivan slid his fingers down his neck, tracing a slightly pronounced vein. The drowned out sound of a car horn could be heard in the distance. "Alfred, you can say it, I won't tell a soul."
"You totally would! You're probably already dialing your sisters." The American scoffed and waved him off. He adjusted in his seat, clasping his hands around his leg and lifted a bare foot off of the cold, hardwood floor. The slick leather fabric stuck to his skin as he rolled his foot to a comfortable position. The game came to a halt and the halftime report was about to start. He prepared himself for a rundown of scores and stats of other games.
Alfred's volatile response was certainly a curveball. His tall, awkward roommate straightened himself back up, turning around to return to the kitchen to finish his chores. "Ah... well, if you really think so, I'll just go and finish cleaning the -" Ivan was cut off by the sudden tugging at his sweater.
"Am I fat?" Alfred's voice trembled, his head hung low in embarrassment and gaze cast to the floor. His arm remained outstretched as he gripped tighter the loose fabric of Ivan's sweater.
"Eh?" Unsure if he heard him correctly, Ivan froze and looked behind his shoulder.
"Tell me the truth. I'm fat, aren't I?" He repeated and gave the sweater a jerk.
"Is that what this is about?" Ivan placed a hand over Alfred's and lifted it away from the pulled fabric. "My, you really are helpless, dorogoy. Who poisoned your mind with such thoughts?"
"N-no one did! It's just that I..." A blush appeared across the American's cheeks. He paused for a long moment and brought an uneasy arm behind his head, muttering almost inaudibly.
"...Francis did."
Ivan's expression darkened to something sinister. "That vile frog... did he now?" He nibbled at the tip of his finger in suspense, a voice coaxing the Russian to get his pipe.
"All he does is sit around all day and claims he's on strike! That's not fair, I want to be on strike too!" Alfred sat up and slapped his chest indignantly.
Ivan shook his head. He should have known it as soon as Alfred walked through the door. Countless nights were spent talking about Francis and his deplorable work habits. "So you got into it again with him? You have always worried so much about what others think..."
Alfred whined and desperately tried to reach for the remote secured in Ivan's grasp. "Hey! Turn the volume back up!"
Ivan placed the remote on the glass surface beside him, "That won't be necessary." Alfred looked up at the older man towering over him and felt himself sink deeper into the couch. Long fingers delicately caressed Alfred's cheek, tucking vagrant strands of honey blond hair behind his ear. Alfred opened his mouth to protest only to be met with a warm breath against his lips. The rich taste of Slavic cooking flooded his mouth as Ivan pulled him up into a deep and passionate kiss. Like being thrown into vast, warm waters, the American was overcome with mixed emotions and clutched onto Ivan's sweater for something to keep him grounded. Ivan was the only person who could match his energy, soothing his racing heart by planting serenity in his soul.
Pulling away slowly, Ivan continued to keep a steady hand at the center of Alfred's back as support. He studied his boyfriend's facial expressions and, after seeing Alfred's hazy eyes and flushed face, he knew he got to him. Ivan waved a finger from side to side before tapping Alfred on the tip of his nose, breaking him from his trance. "Now then, turn that frown upside down!" he chirped.
Well, Ivan recovered quickly. Almost too quickly.
Alfred desperately tried to regain composure, his chest rising and falling at a quick pace. He loosened his grip gradually. "Ha… you're so... mean." A devious grin crept across Alfred's face as he wiped his mouth with a shirt sleeve.
"Really now?" Ivan asked, "Would it be mean of me to say I also made one of your personal favorites for dessert?"
"Chocolate chip cookies?!" He made fists with his hands and brought them up to his chest in excitement. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?!"
"But you can't have any until you eat all of your dinner! If you refuse, I can feed it to you if you'd like!"
"A-ah, no, that's okay. I'll pass." Alfred waved his hands politely. When the two paused, exchanging glances, the American ran a free hand through his rustled hair. "So, about before… I-I'm sorry about that."
"Don't be," He flashed his signature sweet smile. "Would you like to join me? A happy Alfred makes a happy me! Ufuu!"
It was an hour later, and the kitchen was once again full of life. The two sat across from each other at the tiny wooden table set against the wall. Ivan idly played with one of the wilting petals of a yellow tulip in the centerpiece by rubbing his fingers together. The sound of the pull string hanging from a ceiling fan strangely relaxed the Russian as it tapped against the exposed light bulb.
Alfred was preoccupied stuffing his face with various items Ivan reheated for him. He remained adamant but eventually agreed when he felt he would die from starvation. He was thankful Ivan suggested - well, intimidated - him to eat. His initial thoughts were dead wrong: everything was so crazy SWEET!
Alfred took the time to precut all the items on his plate in squares before digging in. He enthusiastically stabbed a large cut of kolbasa with his fork and began praising the chef, his mouth full of food.
"Mm... Mmmm! Hey, this hot dog is bitchin'! What did you do to it?"
Yep, Alfred was now his typical gluttonous self. There was no doubt in that.
Ivan leaned his elbows on the table as he laced his fingers together, resting his chin. "My recipe is top secret!"
He continued to watch Alfred whose eating habits fully amused him. Gradually, the Russian felt an overwhelming sensation of what seemed to be butterflies in his stomach. Silly Alfred, him and his quirky ways...
Maybe this was what Katyusha spoke of when she said she cooked with love.
Spotting a small piece of food at a corner of his lip, Ivan folded a white handkerchief and leaned over, dabbing the cloth against the younger's skin. With a short inhale, Alfred's eyes opened wide.
"Welcome home, Alfred."
Translation:
"Труд человека кормит, а лень портит." - Something along the lines of "Hard work never hurt anyone."