It's been a while since I've updated, but this tale has not been abandoned. Thanks must go to missionquestthing, for bringing it to the forefront of my mind. Apologies for any spelling/grammar errors, and I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia: Axis Powers. Shocker, I know.
Ivan sleeps fitfully, restlessly, his mind clouded with strange, nonsensical dreams about chasing blonde men down endless corridors. When he wakes it's still dark outside, and there's an unfamiliar dampness on his pillow. He touches it with a fingertip, and then wipes his palm over his face, brushing away the wetness that clings to his eyelashes. He hasn't cried in years. The last time was when Sobaka, Koska's ill-fated predecessor, was run over. Alfred came home to find him sitting on the kerb, clutching the poor thing to his chest, his once-white fur streaked with grime and blood. It was Alfred who kissed his forehead and ushered him upstairs, Alfred who discretely disposed of the body.
Ivan would have liked to bury him, but there's no garden here, and he couldn't exactly put him in a plant pot on the balcony. As if on cue, Koshka mewls and pads into the bedroom, hopping easily onto the mattress and rubbing her soft head against Ivan's shoulder. Alfred never liked cats. After Sobaka's departure he spoke loudly and frequently about the dog he had owned as a child, how affectionate and optimistic it was, and when Ivan returned from work one evening with a tiny snub-faced kitten in his arms Alfred had exhaled through his nose, stormed off to the bedroom and refused to have anything to do with it.
He'd grown to tolerate Koshka, though, even going as far as to pet her when she wound herself around his legs, and Ivan had thought- no. Such notions are foolish, now. Now that he lies alone, both in body and in mind, now that Alfred's suits are gone from their wardrobe. His watches and trinkets have disappeared from the dresser, too, as Ivan discovered when he stumbled into the bedroom last night. It is as though he never lived here, save for the jagged hole in Ivan's throat. And yet- and yet how can he be gone, when Ivan still feels his presence so acutely?
He stays in bed until after eleven. Koshka curls up on his chest, making her characteristic whining sounds. Ivan always thought she sounded a little like a baby, with her plaintive high-pitched cries. Perhaps that was another reason for Alfred's initial antagonism towards her. He never understood the appeal of children, or at least that's what he said – he thought them whiny, messy, irritating. Ivan always accepted that, on the surface, but sometimes when he passed a pushchair in the supermarket, or saw a mother wiping her child's face in a café, he felt a curious tenderness in his chest. He thinks, secretly, that he would be a good father, that his large hands are the right shape to cradle a baby's head.
Ivan kicks away the covers, suddenly furious with himself. Impotent, foolish thoughts. Impotent, foolish man. What use is it to think of children when he doesn't even have a partner, when, at thirty years old, he is utterly alone? There will be no ruddy-cheeked son on a tricycle, no pigtailed daughter bouncing on Alfred's knee. No-one to sing lullabies to, no-one to soothe when nightmares come calling. No more walks through the park, no more hazy nights in jazz bars, no more slow, sultry Sunday mornings with Alfred's long body a streak of gold across the bed. No more anything.
He doesn't realise that he's punched the door until pain blossoms in his knuckles and he jerks backwards, cradling his hand. What a ridiculous cliché. The wood has been completely bashed through. He'll have to fix it. This, at least, he can still repair.
He considers skipping work, because the thought of facing a rabble of corrosive students seems too much to bear, but as he collapses onto the sofa he realises that Alfred might return at some point, to collect his furniture or the rest of his belongings, and that makes him get up again. The university it is, then. He dresses quickly, messily, without caring that his socks don't match or his shirt is crumpled. Koshka's tail flicks against his ankles. In his rush he scoops out nearly twice her usual amount of food, but from the way she immediately pounces on the dish he suspects she doesn't mind.
The tube is quieter than he is used to – the morning rush has long since dispersed. He finds a seat and relaxes into it, reading the signs on the ceiling so he doesn't have to think about long fingers, or grey suits, or shockingly blue eyes. Opposite him an old man in a green woollen hat is listening to music through an enormous pair of headphones, his entire body bobbing in time to the beat. For some reason, the stranger gives Ivan destructive urges. He wants to rip those headphones away from him, throw them onto the gum-stained floor, crush them beneath his feet. He folds his hands in his lap, sickened, and is grateful when he can leave.
Going out of a tube station is a little like being born, moving smoothly out from the dark, heady underground to the blinding brightness of a busy street. Ivan ducks his head and hurries, sidestepping wandering tourists and arguing families, until, almost without realising it, he finds himself in his own office.
There are no pictures on his desk, just a Serov print blue-tacked to the walls, which are painted a sickly utilitarian green. Ivan has never felt compelled to accessorise his space in the way his colleagues do – his work surface is free of snow-globes and sculptures, his drawers full of papers rather than magazines. He is talented at compartmentalising, which is often mistaken for coldness. He sinks into his ergonomic chair, the one luxury he allows himself at work, and picks up the note on his desk, frowning for a moment at his own scrawl.
Shit. It's half past one, and depending on Raivis' perception of 'lunchtime', there's a good chance Ivan may be late. Sure enough, when he opens the door of the lecture room, the pale-haired boy is already waiting by the desk, clutching some sheets of paper in his hands.
"Sorry," Ivan says immediately, "I lost track of time." It's not exactly a lie, although Raivis probably imagines that his morning has been full of more than lying in bed and destroying furniture.
"It's fine," Raivis replies, a little too quickly. He licks his lips, his eyes fixed on Ivan's shoes, and the professor wonders why he seems so nervous. Perhaps his idea for his assignment is so radical that he's afraid it will shock the university establishment to its core, or maybe he's just unusually timid.
"So," Ivan settles in his chair, motions towards Raivis' papers, "You said you wanted to talk about the assignment."
"Um, yes." The student glances up at him, his eyes surprisingly pale. It's almost as though he's gathering his strength. "Well, I thought-" At that moment the door slams open, and a young man Ivan recognises from one of his other classes bustles in.
"Do you have a minute?" he says, completely cutting off Raivis' soft voice, "It's just, you gave me a D in this paper, and I don't really get why, so I was thinking I should come talk to you about it."
"Ryan," Ivan tells him firmly, "I'm with another student at the moment. If you want to come see me, send me an email and we can make an appointment." Ryan opens his mouth as if to complain, but then thinks better of it.
"Alright. But- well. I'll email." Ivan nods, and he leaves in a whirlwind of red hair and canvas rucksack. Ivan turns back to Raivis, who is (once again) focusing intently on the floor. He sighs.
"Do you want to go somewhere we're less likely to be disturbed?" he asks, and feels a tightness in his stomach. "We could get some coffee?"
"Okay." They could go to Bernard's, but Toris will be there, and he'll doubtless ask about Alfred.
"I know a good café a few streets away," he says instead, "If you don't mind walking a bit." Raivis shakes his head, picks up his satchel from the floor, and follows Ivan out.
"So what do you think of the class?" Ivan asks, when the silence becomes too much for him. He notices for the first time that Raivis is having to hurry to keep pace, and slows his steps a little.
"It's interesting," the boy says carefully. "I think- I think it has given me more of an understanding of universal constants. In literature."
"Such as?" Ivan wonders idly if the quiet boy minds his prodding, but for the first time in a long while he's genuinely interested in what his student has to say, if only because he seems to be echoing a sentiment that Ivan himself has often expressed.
"Well, the main underlying themes are familiar," Raivis says softly, "Desire, oppression, conflict… they're always present, no matter what country or time the text comes from."
"Yes," Ivan nods, "And do you find that monotonous?"
"No, no!" Raivis' odd-coloured eyes are wide, "It's, um, comforting, in a way." They've reached the café now – it's small and cheerful, the walls painted the same shade of yellow as an egg-yolk. Ivan hasn't been here in almost a year, but it doesn't appear to have changed at all. They settle at a table near the back, Ivan with an Americano, Raivis with a cup of green tea. He sips at it intermittently as he talks, his voice still quiet but gaining confidence.
"I wanted to do my assignment about, um, Anna Akhmatova, about how her personal life affected the production of Requiem." He glances quickly at his professor, as if gauging his reaction.
"Hmm." Ivan takes a mouthful of coffee. It's strong, but too cold. Dispassionate. "And what were your main ideas?"
Raivis cups his drink with both hands, a gesture that makes him look awfully young. He's small, slight, but he must be at least nineteen, or Ivan wouldn't be teaching him. "Well, obviously there are the difficulties involved with writing in the shadow of Stalinism," Raivis begins, "But I also wanted to focus on her, uh, unenthusiastic marriage to Gumilev."
Before Ivan can reply, the café door opens, and a familiar figure steps inside. Ivan ducks his head, suddenly nauseous. It can't be a coincidence – but then, what else could it be? Perhaps he won't notice him. Perhaps-
"Ivan?" Fuck. "Hello." Ivan raises his eyes to meet Matthew's, mustering up a blanched grin. The blonde-haired man looks flustered, but then again, that isn't uncommon.
"Hi," Ivan says tightly. Matthew's not alone – there's a tanned man standing near him, studying the specials board. A boyfriend, maybe. Matthew once dated Katyusha, but he's bisexual, so he could be with a man now.
Matthew's eyes flick towards Raivis, who is fidgeting in his seat. The student must wonder what's going on, why this silent tension has suddenly erupted. Ivan thinks, not for the first time, that he is a terrible teacher. "Uh, Alfred called me," Matthew says in a low voice, "Last night. He told me what happened."
Such a pathetic, formless statement. 'What happened.' Ivan bites his lip to stop himself from spitting out that he would like to know what happened, too. "Right."
"I, uh, I'm sorry." Matthew scratches the back of his head. "This- you might think this is a bit weird, but there's an empty apartment in my building. You know, if you're looking for somewhere to move to. I could put in a good word for you with the landlord."
Ivan stares at him, torn between anger and a twisted amusement. How can Matthew suggest that they share a building, when Ivan never wants to see him again? "No," he says, "Thank you, but no."
"Alright." Matthew sounds almost relieved. "Uh, I better be… bye." Ivan just nods, watches him hurry back to his companion's side. When he turns back towards Raivis, the boy is looking at him with barely disguised curiosity.
"That was my…" Ivan trails off. His what? His friend? His acquaintance? His ex-boyfriend's brother?
"You don't have to say," Raivis says quickly, "Um, if it's private."
"No." He wants to say it. He has to say it. This isn't a novel, this is real life, and he can't pretend. "He is the brother of a man I used to be in a relationship with." The past tense still stings, may always sting. Like an irritable wasp against his neck, against his palms.
"Oh." Raivis stares down into his tea. He doesn't speak much, but when he does, it's thoughtful. Considered. There's no inanity here, which is both refreshing and oddly unsettling. Ivan finds himself holding his breath, wondering what the boy will say. "My brother rents apartments."
"What?" Ivan frowns at him, confused.
"Um, that man said you needed somewhere to live. So. My brother rents apartments." He flushes, looking oddly embarrassed.
"Oh." Ivan looks at him, considering. He doesn't want to move out. He likes his flat, likes his furniture, likes his view. But- he thinks about the cold, sharp look in Alfred's eyes, and swallows. He doesn't exactly have a choice.
"Does he do viewings?"
Updates will be erratic, as ever. Thanks for reading, and if you enjoyed it (or hated it) please let me know by dropping me a review!