ivan
oh ivan
you're so fucking godly
❥ heartbroken and filling loneliness up
started: 19/5/5
ended: X
It's not fucking fair.
It's not fair how they cover up such a hideous and disgusting- an absolutely revolting emotion, was disguised with a word as pretty as love. As simple and lovely as love. They should've called it something much more degrading. Call it fake, call it a disgrace to Pride's sinful soul- call it every word and new ones. It just didn't deserve such happiness.
Alfred thinks this over, his sad blue eyes- so, heartbreakingly sad, sad-sad, not depressed-sad, but just oh, heartbreak sad- gazing over the other, from the delicate roots of his silver hair (reminding him of rings he wanted so much) to his brittle-looking yet sharp and masculine jawline, resting like a gentle bird against its protector.
"I hate you. I hate you so much." His voice comes out in little trembling shakes- kind of like the candy store he used to go to, where he'd swing his little feet around, giggling as the ice cream and milk and whatever sweet unhealthy junk they had in the milkshakes swish around in the blenders, "My god, who cursed you to be so damn… Fuck you."
Ivan's still asleep. Alfred's still sad.
They're not in love. Oh lord- they are most definitely not in love. Do not think I am just joking, or making him seem 'hard to get'. No- they are not in love. Ivan is looking for somebody to fill the emptiness within him, to quench his never ending thirst for pleasure and a feeling of affection and being needed, while Alfred is falling into the grasps of infatuation. Infatuation, unfortunately, does not equal to love. It is something a bit more innocent, and carefree, while love is a fucking devil and she's counting your sins with her seven fingers and sienna ribcages.
"Undeserving. Undeserving. Un-fucking-deserving. I wish you would die." And tears start running down his face, dots of tears running down and creating a small puddle near his chin. He continues sobbing his heart out (sometimes he wonders- does it even fucking exist? And if it does, would it beat quite as loudly as Ivan's? Ivan's heart was lovely and red, and it's a shame it kept falling out), as he brings the cigarette to his swollen red lips.
He inhales, and is immediately calmed- god, if his life was like it used to be, doing paperwork while listening to old pop songs, with some hot chocolate and some snacks, doodling little cats on the sides of the paper, and just being happy. Maybe it wasn't happy before, but nothing could be worse than this, right?
"That's what you said when we were making out, Alfred." Just Alfred. No Alfredka, no Sunflower, no Capitalist Pig. Just Alfred. It's so formal, and soon enough he's upset that one day it'll turn into Mr. Jones, and maybe- once they've reached the age of nationhood where nothing really matters anymore and you're just waiting for death, maybe Ivan won't call him anything anymore.
"That's a lie." He swiftly responds. No need to stutter and blush anymore.
"And so was the fact that you said you could handle alcohol," he teased- and this surprised Alfred- he wasn't used to Ivan being playful anymore, but his second of joy fell when he remembered when Ivan used to call him 'darling' or 'beloved' just for the fun of it. Nothing serious- mostly to mock him, as they had a long and tough rivalry.
They didn't talk for the rest of it.
Alfred dropped and stomped on his cigarette, placed on his clothes and turned around to give Ivan a sharp look that could almost be defined as a glare, "Pretend this never happened, as usual. I was just feeling lonely."
…
Oh, my darling.
"Why don't you fucking realize that I love you?"
Alfred's gone again. Ivan's lonely again.