This story will contain male/male relationships, RusAme and RusLat. If any of that offends you, what are you doing here? As always, I apologise for any spelling or grammar mistakes. If you're a reader of Your Biggest Fan, I have not forgotten or abandoned that story, my muse is just growing mushrooms in the corner. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia Axis Powers.
On the way home from work Ivan stops at the supermarket to replace the almost-empty carton of milk lingering in the door of their fridge, and to top up his supply of vodka. He has a feeling he'll need it to get him through tomorrow night. The cashier raises an eyebrow at his choice, as if she thinks he must live exclusively on White Russians. His briefcase is stuffed with assignments waiting to be graded, so he's forced to take one of the flimsy plastic bags to carry his items in. This always feels strangely humiliating. It's difficult to project an air of professional capability and maturity whilst carrying a shopping bag that's liable to tear at any minute, spilling purchases and dignity all over the floor.
He gets off the tube one stop earlier than usual, so that he can pick up his best (and indeed only) tuxedo from the dry-cleaners. It's good quality, tailor made to fit his large frame and wide shoulders, and although he hates wearing suits as a rule, this one is tolerable. Alfred says that it makes him look like a James Bond villain, but judging from how frisky he gets whenever Ivan wears it he suspects he doesn't exactly mind it either.
The fifteen minute walk to their apartment is more difficult whilst carrying the suit, but he struggles bravely on, and only trips over twice on the way. Once inside he places it carefully down on their bed, laying it out so that it won't crease, then puts away the drinks he bought. Koshka follows him into the bedroom and winds herself around his ankles, rubbing her head against his legs and purring as if she's delighted to see him. Ivan knows that it's all an act – she's hungry, that's all. Cracking open a can of wet cat food and scooping it into her bowl is the next task on his mental list.
Finally he can ease off his shoes, shrug himself out of his coat, tug the scarf from around his neck and begin to relax. He has an itching, crawling craving for coffee, a new sensation that he blames entirely on Alfred, so he moves to start up the expensive machine that the American lugged home last month. He's waiting for the water to boil when his phone vibrates in his pocket, sending a peculiar buzzing feeling up his thigh.
Home late, the message says, new client. Don't wait up!
There are a few kisses at the end, which do little to placate the irritation that floods through Ivan's body. It seems like Alfred is always home late these days. He knows it's not his boyfriend's fault, that he's moving up in the company and that being a lawyer is an incredibly demanding job, but it's still frustrating. They used to take turns to cook dinner, and watch movies together or go out to bars in the evenings, but now more often than not Ivan sits in front of the television with his plate balanced in his lap, watching crappy movies on the sci-fi channel with only Koshka for company. Without Alfred's career they would never be able to afford their spacious, pretty flat in a premium inner-city location, but Ivan doesn't think that's worth the time spent alone. He can't say anything to Al, though, because his boyfriend adores what he does, thrives on upholding justice (as he calls it) and there's no way Ivan could take that away from him.
The red light on the machine flashes, indicating that the coffee's done, but he doesn't really want it any more. Now that it's made, though, there's an obligation to drink it. He takes a sip, but it's bitter and nasty and he pours the rest down the sink without feeling very guilty about it.
A departmental meeting at lunchtime means that he hasn't eaten for about six hours, but he's definitely not in the mood to conjure up some fine cuisine. Instead he shoves one of Alfred's pizzas (ham and pineapple – not a great combination, but perfect for an evening like this one) into the oven and takes a quick shower. He's more comfortable, although no less tense, once he's changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt. With dribbles of water running down his back from his hair he retrieves the pizza, plonks himself down on the sofa and tries to ignore his briefcase, which he thinks might be staring at him. He didn't use to mind marking papers, but now it seems like an impossibly dull, thankless task. Last week one of his students handed in an assignment that was written entirely in purple crayon, and Ivan couldn't even be bothered to make him redo it.
He feels old. Old and tired and bored, although he's barely past thirty. The coveted flat is lifeless without Alfred, and Alfred's never around. His enthusiasm for Russian literature has seeped away after eight years of teaching it to sneering, hung over, unappreciative university students. Even living in London, which he used to think was so exciting, makes his skin itch now. He shoves a slice of pizza into his mouth and turns on the television, and it takes him ten minutes to realise that he's watching Passport Patrol instead of the news. Koshka hops up next to him and stares at him as though berating him. It's that sort of a night.
When Alfred gets home seven hours later, sticky and exhausted, he finds his boyfriend slumped over on the sofa, with the cat licking at the plate on his lap and Traffic Cops on the television. He sighs, and briefly considers waking him up, before dismissing the notion and hurrying off to their big, cold bed.
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