A/N: Hello, yes! This is a story I have been wanting to release for a while, but with problems on what was my main account (MuchFanVeryFic), I could not. Any how, this is a gift fic for one of my friends, centered around RusAme. It is written from Ivan's point of view, as a journal by him, and offers a unique, and completely new contrast to the pairing and characters.
The first chapter is a bit odd, and for that I apologize, but have no fear, it isn't too bad, I've been told (I'm uploading a second chapter tonight, so it's fine, I'm sure). My update schedule for this story will be once, maybe twice a week. I will try my hardest to stay to this schedule, and I most certainly will not drop this story all together.
Thank you all for reading, enjoy~
Chapter 1: Nobody Said It Was Easy...
Think back to when you were but a wee little thing, a mere child... Think about your favorite words.
I think of words like lolligag, viola, batfish, scarf. There's no real reason, it's just what comes to mind. Those words caught my simple child mind, twisting and turning and forming meanings that I didn't really understand, nor thought about enough to understand. Lolligag was some sort of weird lollipop (allow me to stop that thought train where it is...), viola summoned up images of beautiful people with long hair, batfish was a misfit hero who everyone loved, even when he messed up, and scarf was just some warm comfort in the back of my fuzzy mind.
Whenever I see pickled eggs, I'm still reminded of that childhood thought: 'Those things look a lot like those animal babies they preserve in jars... Only more pink.' I didn't say this sinisterly, I never really thought about the moral questions posed by animal babies suspended in glass, because that is all they were to, just things behind glass, like fish in an aquarium. I much rather focus on live animal babies, than on those that float in some liquid that might be water, regardless of how much I doubt that fact.
Whenever your favorite show would come on, and you felt your whole world get just a little bit brighter, because surely... This one program on TV would negate any problems in your life. For the time being, anyway. That was quite long enough for me.
Then that dreaded work would be slapped right at your spot at the table, and you'd hear some authority-voice caw like a sore-throat crow, demanding you get in here and do your damned assignment, or may god have mercy otherwise! Gosh, you'd say. I've got better things to do than that assignment. Like figuring out the exact temperature of your eyeball at any given time (Which, if I correctly recall, is 94.1°F or 34.5°C, and if you'd prefer, 304.65°Kelvin). Or finding out which leaves are the best for building leaf forts (Study was... Inconclusive. Wind variable proves formidable in thwarting my scientific method). Perhaps even discovering the best branches for swinging and jumping on in the nearby forest (WARNING- DO NOT TRY! I ended up with a very broken arm and very sniffly nose).
Assignments are still frustrating. Tap, tap, tap. Pencil, you should be writing. Not gently nudging against the too-soft flesh of my cheek. Go on, get to work. Gah, you silly instrument...
There's a draft from the too-noisy window next to my desk. Gah, how distracting, I need still and quiet. The drab walls of this small place are devouring my precious light. Gah, I pay for that, you greedy panels of plywood or whatnot. I'm no wall-engineer, so I wouldn't know what they are made of. This chair is very, very uncomfortable on my butt. Gah, me! What was I thinking? Never trade aesthetic over comfort... Gosh, recollections of my childhood feel so distant, but so warm, like a blanket wrapped securely around my too-large body.
I don't say that in some self-hate way, no, I've grown past that stage. I'm just stating plain observation. Facts, if you will. My legs are just a little bit too long, my midsection falling into that category as well. Feet too big, hands too wide. Face too soft, eyes too... Weird. And all of these things, aside from the eyes (God forbid), are maybe just a little too 'round'. But my momma told me that I'm just perfect the way I am. My cheeks are fluffy like a hamster's, feet long like a rabbit's (they really aren't that long...), belly round like a Guinea pig's, legs long like a... I can't remember that comparison. Regardless, I think momma compared me to various species of rodent one too many times. However, my eyes... She said my eyes were like snakes coiled in mystery. I could never figure out what that meant.
I pondered exactly what the phrase could refer to as I strolled down the snow dusted pavement, headed to the local ABC store, located on Shady Corner.
Snakes... Coiled in mystery? Hadn't she just visually dissected various parts of my body, stating that they were like various rodent body parts? Rodents that snakes would gladly latch onto and gorge upon? Momma may have had a few screws loose.
Then again, I think I might too.
I love my eyes, though in such a morbid fashion, I could always imagine what it would be like to have them spoon-scooped from their crevices in my skull. And about how much I would hate that. My poor violet orbs stolen away from me, my snakes chopped into little no longer mysterious pieces.
Pushing open the door, I was greeted with the familiar dingaling of the door bell hung in such a peculiar place. It was strung up to the roof, attracted to the door by a string. Looking at it, I saw how it worked for the first time, which is odd considering that this isn't anywhere close to being my first time in this crooked shop. The door would push open, dropping the bells and ringing them, then close, and ring them some more. I thought to myself, 'I hope no one steals those lovely things.' Shame on me.
My hair... Momma never said anything about my hair. Pops (I only called him this when I tried to annoy him, my father) would give me a stolid look and ruffle my locks. Nana, on the other hand, would go to, in my opinion, stupid lengths to convince my parents to let me grow my hair out long. No, pops would say, slamming his fist down on the table because this has got to be the trillion and some odd number-th time Nana had mentioned my hair, and oh, how it'd look so good long, and oh, how I'd be the prettiest boy to have ever lived. My son shouldn't be the prettiest boy that ever lived, my old man would snap. His hair will stay as it is, or may god have mercy otherwise!
The woman behind the counter, she's a poor little thing. Probably the tiniest woman I've ever seen. I'm a whole four or five heads taller, and yes, I mean the head on my shoulders, thank you. Her skin is too tight on her bones, her eyes sunken into her skull like lost treasure ships, surely from too many late-night drug escapades. Somehow, her dark hair still gleams with youth and maintains a glowing luster that even I envy. It was all too sad to me that she was a godless prostitute on her days off, though I often wonder what it would be like to live such a life. She definitely had the body for the job, I could tell from my towering disposition that her curves were in all the right places, and her smile wasn't too yellowed from cigarettes. My body on the other hand... I just really don't think I'd make a good prostitute. Honestly, I thought to myself as I browsed the aisles despite knowing damn well exactly what I wanted, I would probably draw a crowd of pedophiles. My face is just too soft. If you subtract the rest of my body, you know, all the other parts that actually went through puberty like they were meant to, I've got a chubby cheeked kid face, as much as I hate it. Anyway, the last thing I want in my prostitute adventure is a bunch of people who actually think they can change the legal consensual age from 18 to 8 lining up at my prostitute door, ready to jerk it to my damned baby face. The thought sends tremendous tremors down my spine, which would probably feel like earthquakes to the tiny woman behind the counter. I discard the idea of being a prostitute all together.
Dad died when I was 12. He was shot at near point blank range with a shot gun, under context that was never explained to me. He was just dead, and he looked a lot like Swiss cheese. Bloody, visceral Swiss cheese. I asked momma, "Is that how they make Swiss cheese? By shoottin' it with a shotty, like they did daddie?" An innocent enough question, I was genuinely curious. She took off from her chair, sobbing into her hands, surely going to fondle one of the old man's stinky shoes. I felt bad, that I can assure you. But I didn't understand love at the time, and I still don't really get it. It's just not my profession. I'm much better at things such as measuring the temperature of human eyeballs without actually gouging out any of the sight-seeing organs. Nana sighed, and hugged me close when I cried because I had hurt momma, whispering in my ear, "Don't be so insensitive, ya lil shit." I loved Nana. Not only because she knew just what to say, but also because she let me make my own hair choices. Now that dad was gone, I didn't have to keep it so damn short. It could grow or be cut as I pleased. Momma never commented. Nana would braid it real pretty, and I would go off to school and brag to my friends. They would look at my hair style with google-eyes, then run home to their own mommas, demanding that their hair be allowed to grow, and eventually be braided. Momma never commented on my hair, but she sure did gripe to Nana when the mothers of my friends would call her and bitch about their boys wanting girl hair cuts because of me. Momma would always let them speak, remaining completely silent until they spat out every last closed minded, ignorant, and flat out daft comment they could. Then she'd say something like, "Go back to sucking those wrinkled cocks for that fresh dollar you crave, Beth." And slam the phone on the receiver. I would always giggle, and she would flash me a glare, but I knew she wasn't mad.
After finally drab bling through line after line of cheap alcohols, and maybe a few snacks, I finally got to where I needed to go. Unfortunately... I was a tad bit late. This other man, what with his daring blue eyes and all too flamboyant blond hair, snatched up the very last bottle of my preferred drink, right before my eyes. I made no spectacle of it, but I could tell that this man was waiting for me to. Not one to give in to other's will so easily, I pretended to inspect another bottle of some suspiciously off colored drink by some name I never could hope to replicate. My agitator snorted, going to check out, and leaving promptly after. Sighing as the door dingalinged shut, I too approached the counter, but with nothing to buy.
"He got the last one?" The small woman asked, dragging her wrist across her nose as some sort of human tissue.
"Yep." I said, rooting through my wallet.
Producing a twenty and a ten, I slapped them on the table. "Drug money." I explained, meeting her confused stare. "So you can spend your actual money on food."
The woman nodded, knowing damn well that I had no more money to spare than the next shambling idiot that happened to stumble into this place. She easily pocketed the cash, and I wondered if that would even buy enough of whatever drug she used to get high. It didn't matter, I knew it secured me a bottle of what I craved next time I came.
I couldn't think of anymore childhood goodness on my way home. I was hungry, and irritated, and... that bottle had ended up on the door step to my obscure apartment room. The very one that had been taken from me earlier. By that bold man who looked at me with that sneer, then left without a word. Attached to it, a note, which appeared to be scribbled on. I assumed that these scribbles were meant to be words, but I wouldn't know for sure. The bottle appeared to have been tampered with, the little lid mechanism had been opened... A small drink had been taken from it, I concluded.
Not one of wasteful nature, I toted the bottle inside, and crunched on some cheap noodle bricks I couldn't be bothered to actually cook. After finishing my purposely dry meal, I gazed longingly at the bottle, thinking to myself, "well, I am awful thirsty after all."
After the first ten gulps, I noticed something odd. My vision was a tad blurrier than expected. Hopefully it was my liver giving out, because rent was due the next day and I sure as hell didn't have that. Praying to whoever might be tuning into my pitiful channel, I took a good few more swigs, burning my throat in such a pleasant manner, and, much to my surprise, slowing my world down to a crawl. I faintly recall my head knocking against something a bit too solid for my taste, but I didn't linger on that thought for too long. No, what I wanted to know was exactly what the hell I had been drugged with! Because goodness, this was nice. It wasn't anything like speed, which I had no taste for, nor was it especially comparable to hemp. It was simple, just... Slow. I could hear my heart thud like a thunder in my chest, sending trails of lighting through my body. The voice in my head echoed gently off the edges of my mind, and the dust trailing through the air swirled with a beautiful magnificence. Any anger that had lingered from earlier vanished, as did my ability to move. I wasn't sure whether I had actually lost my motor skills, or my desire to put forth effort, and I quite frankly didn't care. A far more pressing matter had brought itself up: How to perfect the leaf fort.
Good thing I'd locked my door, anyway, because if anyone just so happened to walk through that doorway and saw me in such a state, well, I was scared that would steal whatever it was I'd been given.
...
I heard the door open. It didn't really register, until the adamant exclamations plowed through my previously silent room. I recall phrases such as, "What the ass?!" And after a few footsteps, "-Drank half of it?! Fucki-" and something that may have been "That was half an elephant tranquilizer, Jesus Christ, I think I just killed him!"
"No, no..." The words ambled out of my mouth. "I am alive..."
Following my announcement, a sigh of relief. And that was when it hit me: this guy might be stealing my precious things! Along with that, he might be stealing me, which was a less pressing matter. I felt my body hoisted up from under the arms, and the other's stranded groans amused me. "Can't handle big boy, eh?" I slurred, snickering at the name I'd used for myself. I believe it was something some football player and his gang of goody-two-shoes called me, before I cracked his nose and busted his jaw.
Sadly, I got no response. I was, instead, draped across my too-big bed, in nothing short of a compromising position. I didn't mind, and neither did the other. But suddenly, I DID mind. While this blond headed bozo was muttering something about a bad idea, I had realized that this fellow was probably some creepy pedo just waiting for me to slip into a coma, and then take advantage of my baby face. Bile had already collected in the back of my throat, and I considered projectile vomiting on this person if it came to it. For now, I would use my physical advantage. I could move, I discovered, and this disgusting pedophile who so audaciously entered my prostitute residence hoping for some incredibly strange and not quite legitimate underage sex was just within striking range.
Rightfully, I let my arm do its job, striking out with as much force as I could muster. Under normal circumstances, this force would be bone cracking, but in this situation, my arm moved the complete total of an inch. Well, that plan hadn't gone over so well. There as always the less pleasant plan b, I supposed.
Before I could get right down to it, though, a hand ruffled through my hair in an uncomfortably similar way to how my father had ruffled my pale silver tufts.
"Yeah," said the invader. "No more of this for Mr. Big boy." He took my new found pride and joy, much to my dismay. I stared at him, trying to muster a glare of disapproval. This dirty child molester had taken my drink, and dammit, I wanted it back! I would be extremely pissed if he took my superficial virginity with him too, this damnable man. Apparently all I was doing was just staring, because I could tell how unsettled he was, placing something else where my drugged bottle had once stood, then backing up, keeping his gaze settled on me to make sure I didn't go weeping angel on him.
"Uh..." He scooted to the door, opening it slightly behind him. "Yeah, bye." And with that, he was gone. I thought about getting up and locking the door, but I decided that a nap sounded like a far better idea on this drowsy Saturday evening.
...