Trololol angst, guys. For seriously. Because I'm as much of an angst/horror/guro whore as I am a fluff!whore for Russiamerica.

This particular piece of infinite angst is inspired by the album Trainwreck by BoysNightOut, who are severely underrated, I swear. In some indirect way this album has inspired almost everything i've written over the past year, and I realized a little bit ago that it can be really fucking relevant to my favored brand of the Cold War pairing. So yeah. Listen to the album, read the poorly written angst.

Yeah. No real happy endings on this one, sorry

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Ch 1: Dreaming

"You scream "wake up!" inside your own body

But you're buried,or suffocating,or worse.

Tonight it's worse. Tonight the screaming hurts."

Ivan wakes to the downy tickle of grass on his face. Blinking, he rises, sits, finds himself sprawled in the middle of somebody's lawn. He tilts his head, looks around, recognizing the house behind him as one on a familiar suburban block—not far from Alfred's house, where he had been sleeping.

He looks down to his side, half expecting to find Alfred asleep next to him, dressed in the sunflower pattern pajamas Ivan had bought for him that made the Russian's heart throb with joy—

He remembers buying them for Alfred a few weeks ago. After a few months of being together the Russian seemed to get Alfred's taste down pat. Despite his heroic and "manly" proclamations, Ivan figured out that the American was slightly inclined to things more childish in nature. So Ivan knew that when Alfred unwrapped the matching blue pajamas dotted with vibrantly colored sunflowers his face would light up with a boyish glee and erupt into the brilliant white smile that made Ivan's heart flutter.

But Alfred is not there, there is nothing but damp grass: running his fingers through the blades is nothing like stroking his American boy's warm locks as he lies peaceful and untroubled and oh so adorable—

Ivan blinks, pulling himself out of day dreams. Or—he looks at the sky—night dreams, apparently. It had not been long since he had last been with Alfred, then. Doubtless the American is still sleeping back at the house. So how had he ended up outside?

He remembers looking down from his book and seeing Alfred asleep, he remembers smiling to himself and gently petting the side of the American's face, swiping away a trail of saliva with a soft chuckle—

It's strange, he thinks, being all the way out here—stranger still that he is unable to remember anything after Alfred going to sleep and before waking up on the grass. The stretch of blank time is puzzling and problematic. He is sure he stayed up long past Alfred, he had been reading some Tolstoy, reminiscing about the past—

He frowns. Something doesn't feel right. It feels strange without the American's warm body next to him, that reassuring presence. Ivan needs to go back to him, just to be reminded of the love and affection that he knows will always be here.

He eases himself up from the ground and wipes the damp pieces of grass from where they've stuck to his body, notices that he's still wearing his sleeping clothes.

Perhaps I have just been sleepwalking, da? It's not a common occurrence for him by any means, but still, Ivan knows he tends to have very—realistic dreams.

His feet quickly take him down the familiar block where he often would take walks with Alfred, if only to force the boy to take an outdoor break from television or video games—

Now in front of Alfred's house, he walks up to the porch, puts his hand on the doorhandles, forgetting for a moment that he doesn't have the key, only to find it creak open; unlocked.

The anxiety only increases as he enters to find the small table by the floor knocked over. He takes a small step forward and hears a soft crunch under his foot. Squinting at the dark floor, he lifts his foot, swallows—

The vase that had been sitting on the small table lies in pieces on the floor, the small bouquet of sunflowers he had picked out for Alfred the other day lying spread out over the floor. One of the flowers has been damaged, crushed under his foot, a couple of its petals scattered on the hardwood floor.

He feels a twinge of fear that sticks him in the heart and forces his legs to stumble as fast as he can down the hallway towards the room that he shares with Alfred.

Ivan doesn't know why he stops in front of the door, nor why he bothers to knock when it is already half open. But he does anyway.

"Sunflower? Alfred, dorogoy, are you awake?" He whispers, praying silently for a reply from the man who is surely sleeping just several feet away.

Nothing.

Alfred must be asleep. The boy is quite a deep sleeper.

It is only at that point that Ivan becomes aware of a soft noise coming from the room. Not the soft, comforting noises of Alfred's quiet snores, but the low din of music, coming from what Ivan can only assume is the radio.

Why is the radio on? Surely Alfred is not awake listening to music at such an hour? Perhaps he had set the alarm to a strange time on accident?

Ivan snakes his hand around the doorknob, curses as he hand shakes for no reason at all, once he opens the door he will find his darling American curled up and waiting for Ivan to hold him close—

Ivan eases the door open and takes a step into the bedroom, a stray thought hitting him that he'll have to buy Alfred new sunflowers in the morning.

"Our favorite song's been repeating all night.

Someone call an ambulance because something's not right."

So yeah. I'm pretty sure that you can tell from that that nothing happy is going to come from this story.