All the Precious Stolen Things

Summary: Ivan steals Alfred away to snow and captivity. To ice and emptiness. To be his sunshine in an otherwise dreadful world. His only mistake was expecting Alfred to love him back.

Chapter One: Affable

Great puffs of frigid air curled from his lips and rose to meet a burnt out streetlamp. His hands were dug into his pockets, clutching a wad of money like he was strangling it. He half expected Arthur to go run out chasing after him, looking ridiculous in his old man sweaters, screeching at him until his face turned purple. Not an apology, a continuation of a previous argument. That was normally what happened.

That didn't happen.

He had the sense to put on a jacket before heading out. The sleeves were too short, and the hem had been worn to threads. He didn't mean to grab his old bomber, it had been a reflex. He needed safety, warmth, and the smell of faded leather. His bomber jacket. It had enough room for his wallet, his cellphone, and a half-eaten chocolate bar.

The sign had faded out years ago, and the staff were negligent. Alfred Jones, who commanded attention at every waking moment, could barely be noticed by the bartenders unless he was carrying money. Arthur hated the place, so Alfred inexplicably felt drawn to it.

"Sixteen dollars," She held onto his cosmopolitan as she spoke.

Alfred paused his dismal money counting. He looked up.

He looked into her eyes and saw his reflection staring back at him. A lifeless stare that only service workers possessed.

Alfred chewed at his lower lip before sighing. He tried to dig out his wallet again. "Do you take card?"

She pulled back his drink with a roll of her eyes. "Machine's broken. There's an ATM outside by the Starbucks."

As strange as it sounds, he could feel the presence before he could hear it. Like thunder after lightening, the hair on Alfred's arms rose. "I can pay for the rest."

Alfred turned.

He smiled down at Alfred with three dollars in his hands. Crisp. "I insist,"

Before Alfred could say anything, the bartender snatched the bills from the stranger's hand and slid the pink drink over. She left to fend off another customer without another word. "She seemed nice," the accented man said with a frown.

The drink was practically overflowing, not that Alfred minded. He would take three more of these without any shame. He smacked his lips together and offered a smile. "I was a pretty awful customer." He said it with a little flourish. "Thanks though,"

Ivan had one of those faces that imprinted itself on one's memory without consent. A slightly hooked nose protruded on his features. On anyone else it would be off-putting, but he seemed to be the type that accepted such a feature and made it look interesting. Regal, almost.

"Would you like to sit with me?" He gestured behind him. It was almost a mechanical grace that he had. Like it had been practiced many times before, but never quite perfected. Alfred must have hesitated because Ivan tipped his head to the side with a closed-lip smile. "I make good company. You should know that I have five jokes, and none of them are funny."

A tongue darted out between Alfred's lips after he laughed. He takes another sip and nods. "You know that'd be really nice. I'm Alfred, by the way."

"Ivan." Ivan grinned before spinning and heading to his table. Alfred notices his coat, and a pale pink scarf stretching down the sides of his neck. He can't help but think Ivan must be a little overheated in this crowded dump. He avoided making eye-contact with any of the other patrons, yet somehow weaved around them effortlessly. It took thirteen steps to reach Ivan's table.

Ivan didn't meet Alfred's eyes when they sat down. They kept flickering over the bar, never settling. It made him seem shy in an endearing sort of way. Like he didn't know what to say now that they had introduced themselves. "So, Ivan, what do you do?"

"I'm a physician." He said.

"Oh, awesome." Alfred smiled then, and Ivan finally met his eyes. Violet, Alfred noted. The gaze makes Alfred's ears heat up. "That's really cool that you take care of people, I mean," He prods Ivan's arm, the one that's holding a little shot of vodka.

"I'm private practice, actually." Alfred waited for him to continue. Ivan shifted. "…It's a medical thing. That was not one of my jokes, I promise you."

"Really, because it was pretty fucking bad." He laughed. Ivan laughed, half a second behind him. Quieter.

It happened very smoothly, easily enough it would be mistaken for a blunder by anyone. Perhaps he had done this before. Practiced it. Ivan put his glass down too close to Alfred's, knocking into it and toppling it over. Alfred stood up in a second, and Ivan followed suit. "I am so sorry." Said Ivan.

"Nah man, its fine." There was some spilled cosmopolitan on his fingertips, sticky and sugary. He sucked his pinky. "I'll just get another one."

Ivan knitted his eyebrows. "No, I spilled it. I will buy it. You clean up the table. I will be right back,"

Alfred meant to protest, but Ivan was already at the bar. He thought maybe he should go up with him but decided against it. Instead, he collected a couple of napkins from the other tables to soak up the mess.

The tall man returned just as the table was dry. "Our friend was not happy to see us back so soon, Alfred." He said the name like an exotic dish, rolling his R's. "But I did come back with a little straw, just for you."

"Aw, how sweet," He cooed.

"Oh, it is my pleasure," Ivan sat down and held out his drink to Alfred. His head tilts and a grin devours his face, "Cheers?"

"Cheers," their glasses clinked, and Alfred took a sip.

At first, there was nothing. Alfred cleared his throat and shook his head in a way that reminded Ivan of a wet dog. He laughed out, "it's smooth, let me tell you that."

Ivan leaned forward, sipping his vodka tenderly. A small grin still worried his features. "So are you from here?"

"Nah, I moved here like…six months ago? Met some pretty cool people, but it's certainly a lot different than where I'm from. I might be moving back sooner than I anticipated. Here it's bigger, but…tighter." Ivan was nodding as if he were having a poem recited back to him. Alfred could feel himself rambling, stopping himself with another drink. Ivan had stopped looking around, all of his focus on Alfred. It made him feel important. "But you're a stranger here too, aren't you? Where's home for you?"

A complex expression comes and goes on Ivan's features. It disappears before Alfred can decipher it. "Russia." His voice was strained.

"I knew it! I dig your accent, though. It's really nice," Alfred looked down at Ivan's hands. No wedding band around his fingers. They were rougher than they looked, coiled tightly around a shot glass. At bit too tightly.

Ivan put down his glass with a little laugh that made Alfred smile. "I'm sorry, I'm just not used doing this sort of thing. I'm a little tense." There was a twinkle in his eyes that trapped Alfred there for a second. He shifted in his chair, eyes flickering and trying to get a read on Alfred. He settled on an uneven no-lip smile. "I'm…well, I suppose I should just go on and ask. Are you seeing anyone?"

There was something in the way Ivan spoke that drew Alfred to him. He knew what he was going to say, yet there was a practiced method to it. Maybe it was practiced, Alfred figured. Maybe this was how he picked up guys at crowded bars. Alfred wondered if he was being picked up.

"No, not really. I think I'm pretty broken up with." He scratched his nose. Arthur's screech to get out still rang in his ears. It was the last thing he actually yelled before Alfred grabbed his bomber from the banister. He tripped on the welcome mat on the way out.

Weird how he remembered that.

Ivan paused for a fraction of a second. His mouth curls into something of a grin around his shot glass, more like a cat finding the canary cage open. "So he broke up with you, then?"

"He broke up with me, I broke up with him. Details." Alfred waved it off and took another big drink. "Fuck, this is really salty. She must've hated me." Alfred laughed. Ivan giggled.

"I don't think that's true at all,"

"This is fun,'' Alfred barely meant to say it. A tender smile crossed Ivan's face, and he looked down and away. Pale blond hair covered his eyes. Poor guy. He probably wasn't used to receiving compliments from a bar like this. Alfred thought it was cute. He poked him in the arm. "Hey, Russia sounds nice. Everyone wants to go there at least once in their life."

It takes a second, but Ivan looked up with an expression caught between wonderment and something darker. "We could go now."

The world suddenly became much too complicated for Alfred. His lips felt numb while time became wobbly and blurry.

A worrying smile is back on his face, sharpened by canines and glittering with enamel. Ivan downed the last of his shot and stood.

Alfred tried to stand too. Ivan caught his arm and threw it over his shoulder with a good-natured laugh made out of tin and copper. He even whispered something in Alfred's ear, too fast and too breathy to register. Alfred tried to respond, but all that came from his lips was a sound too mushy and gobbled to sound like anything at all.

Ivan moved too quickly, stealing Alfred out of the bar and toward a street with too many people. Alfred was hit with the scent of cigarettes and beer and piss. Air felt foreign against his skin. Alfred had never done any sort of acupuncture before, but it felt like tiny cold needles being stuck to him at once. Ivan never stopped moving until they reached a side street with no people. Alfred leaned against the side of a building, holding onto it and trying to make the world stop spinning. Alfred wanted time to slow down with him, but it instead betrayed him.

"I can't...Hey…" Alfred tried to stand upright, but his limbs aren't working right. His feet were like unrefined lead, clunky and graceless. He tried to bring his fingers to his face, but can't quite focus enough to fix his glasses. He smudges a lens with his forefinger and recoils. Ivan has his back turned to him, a section of the scarf draped over his back. Alfred reached out and tries to tug on it. It's soft.

Ivan turned around with a small carryon suitcase. He said something to Alfred. He had gloves on, now. Worn leather. Alfred struggled to not hear the sound of his heartbeat through his hands. It was making it very difficult to stay up.

Hands gathered around his shoulders and forced him to stand up straighter. Alfred tried his hardest to focus his eyes on the figure in front of him. Before he could get a good look his glasses were plucked away. He raised his hands to feel for them, but they were lowered by someone not Alfred.

Tall. Violet eyes. Pretty.

A placating voice whispered to him, but his lips moved too fast. Like wings on a hummingbird. Sounding like words spoken through a fan, drifting around him like a tune. He liked this voice. It reminded him of a lullaby. A mocking lullaby.

Black hair.

Not right.

Alfred reached up again with his hands and ran his fingers through the stands. Ivan stilled, and his tune stopped. The strands were rough and thick. Synthetic. For a while Alfred continued to feel the strands between his fingertips, musing them as he tried to form words on his cottony tongue. Alfred didn't like them.

Before he can rip the strands off, the man lowered Alfred's hands back to his side. Something attached to his head, something furry and itchy. Alfred didn't like that either, but the hands are too warm and rough to pull away from. They grip his wrists tightly, urgently. More words.

Alfred understood them.

First he took off his jacket. The acupuncture in his arms became more painful than strange with the loss, but he continued regardless. The bomber is traded for a button down shirt that is too complicated yet too simple to fit. Ivan buttoned him up with a few mummers. Alfred unbuckled his belt and let it be pulled off. His pants were off within seconds, a sudden fear roaring in his ears and blinding him. Alfred backed away only to be stopped by the gloved hands. New pants are forced on his legs and pulled up. They don't have a belt. A coat, not his bomber, is thrown over his shoulders. It was heavy, almost industrial.

He was led away from his comfortable alley with a jerk. His arms are looped through the other man, but he can't help but stumble across the uneven pavement. Ivan pulled him along regardless, and Alfred doesn't have the words or coordination to fend him off.

"You can sleep soon." The Russian pulled him somewhere dark and frightening before stopping. He was pulling the carryon beside him with his free arm. Though he was stopped, Alfred felt the ground moving away from him like a treadmill. A word is on the edge of Alfred's mouth, ready to bloom like a flower.

A cloth raised to Alfred's nose and mouth. Alfred meant to push it away, but only leaned his head back. Another hand corrected him, firmly grasping the back of his neck. Alfred shook his head.

He shook his head again, more violent. His lead feet shuffled backward. The tall man took a step forward, pressing against his nose. Ivan stands over him, only lit by the paleness of the autumn moon. Where Alfred was flailing, this new darkened figure was unflinching. Clinical. Alfred's eyelids grew heavy. They fluttered.

And then he was stolen.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think or if I should continue with this. It would mean the world to me :)