I always wondered if it was Rubix Cube or Rubic Cube. I went to wikipedia and found it was Rubik's Cube - singular Rubik, making Rubic and possessive Rubik's making the Rubix sound I always knew. Huh. Learn something new each day.
This chaptered is named so because Rubik's Cubes are headache inducing, as are hangovers.
Warnings!: language and mild violence - you've been warned!
Chapter Six: Rubik's Cube
Too bright, too bright, too bright!
Pounding vice-like grip, vertigo.
He was delirious.
He was nauseous.
He was in pain.
Pain, pain, pain - so much pain!
He ripped his shirt off and clawed at his own back as his body was wracked with another violent dry heave.
Nothing, nothing to vomit. His body had nothing to give. There was no alcohol.
None, none at all~
He heaved again.
Barely he could hear movement.
He was still in New Hope. His poor roommates were probably horrified with the large Russian's fit. Ivan would have laughed if he weren't already coughing up his own insides.
A night guard was fetched. A brave person tried to sooth Ivan but he lashed out like a wounded animal. Everyone stepped back, frightened.
They looked down their noses at him like he was dirty.
Another hand was at his shoulder, making Ivan yelp and rear back like a startled horse.
The hand tugged him along, ignoring the Russian's weak pleas.
Vodka.
Its all he wanted.
Or any alcohol.
Anything!
Please, oh God, make the throb go away!
He spun in and out of consciousness. He was offered water and some medicine but he spat it back up almost instantly. He knew what he wanted and begged for it, pleaded for it. He was ignored and refused each time, drink the water, it'll help.
They were lying. They had to be, it never got any better.
He was dying and knew that he would always feel like he was dying until he got his precious vodka.
He woke late into the morning, light filtering into the private room in a way that made him cringe.
He was presented with more medicine and another drink, this time hot chocolate.
"Berwald told me you had a rough night," Alfred said with a quiet, calming voice. He kneeled beside Ivan (who in the course of the night had fallen off his bed and onto the tile), to rub gentle circles into the Russian's tense back. "Take the medicine, you'll feel better."
Ivan whined and tried to push the offered remedies away with a weak movement. "No!" he cried like a child. He would just throw it up again.
Alfred pouted. "Come on, Ivan! Do it for me?" He fluttered his eyelashes but the action was wasted, Ivan had his eyes clamped shut.
"No," he stubbornly refused, shaking his head the way a child would.
"I promise you won't puke,"
"No! You Lie!"
Alfred rolled his eyes and shook his head. He was worried about his (boy)friend. The Russian had been complaining about dizziness the night before but Alfred had brushed it off as the larger man just being tired from their night together (Alfred had taken him to see and epic new action movie, and he ate hamburgers, and popcorn, and hotdogs, and candy, and soda, Ivan said he wasn't hungry which Alfred didn't believe for a second because no one could be un-hungry when the person next to them ate a hamburger so he bought his Russian date a big slushee they could both share - though Alfred ate most of that to, and during the movie Ivan leaned into Alfred and took his hand and they kissed and it was awesome and Alfred couldn't be happier).
The American had his suspicions because of the status his date was in when they first met but Alfred kept that to himself.
Now tough, there was no denying it. He knew from experience the agony Ivan was going through. Withdrawal was not a pretty thing to witness, or go through.
"Come on, Ivan. Drink the chocolate. I promise you wont puke. You can't puke chocolate, it's impossible, It's like going your entire life without a MacDonald's - it's just not right. I'm sure it's one of that Newton guys laws.
Alfred thought for a moment and nodded is head, self validating is own comment. The blond was adorably misled but Ivan could not find the strength to comment.
"Come on, sweetheart, you don't have to take the medicine as long as you drink the coca. I want you to eat before I take you to the liquor store."
Ivan sat up, eyes straining open.
Did he hear correct? Was Alfred really going to take him to get vodka?
What a fantastic idea!
What a smart man!
Alfred was so kind, so clever, so lovely!
~Ivan was in love!
How could he have gone through all of his life without the beautiful, caring, intelligent blonde?
Ivan reached out and tugged at Alfred's shirt collar, brining the blonde down for a kiss, spilling some of the hot chocolate in the process.
"Eww, puke lips!" Alfred complained when he was released, wiping his lips. He drank some of the coca to wash out the taste. Although he was more than happy to kid Ivan he wished the Russian had brushed his teeth beforehand.
Ivan took the coca with shaky hands, Alfred's still around the mug to keep it steady. The putty haired man drank down the hot chocolate like he was breathing it in.
Alfred had only seen Vash down coca quicker, being a chocolate fanatic.
"Pah." Ivan sighed when he finished, wiping his lips. His breathing was heavy but he did it. Now he'd get some alcohol.
Alfred laughed and took the mug. He helped Ivan to his feet. When the American asked if he wanted to freshen up in the bathroom before leaving Ivan complained loudly.
"You promised vodka!" he cried. "I need vodka!"
Alfred explained by the time they finished going to the liquor store New Hope would be closed but Ivan just kept demanding his vodka.
"It's okay, it's okay, I know, I know," said Alfred, letting the mumbling Russian lean on him as they made their way to the blonde's car. Ivan saw though a tunnel. Nothing existed but the car that would take him to the liquor store - not even Alfred.
The car ride was a dizzy fog for Ivan but once they stopped he knew where they were. He struggled out of the car, hands clutching onto the car and then to Alfred so he wouldn't fall.
He found the brand he wanted; Alfred paid for it using his credit card because the vodka was too expensive for pocket cash. Ivan was practically purring with delight when he finally got to drink it, in his pleasure missing Alfred's worried eyes.
~O~O~O~O~
It was a week later when disaster stuck. Ivan was late to dinner that day. Most everyone in the shelter had already eaten the hardy food - clean up was underway.
Alfred finished his own meal and was helping the kitchen crew with the dishes.
Ivan slipped into the already cramped room and pulled Alfred into his arms from around the American's middle, pressing sloppy kisses into the blonde's neck.
Alfred squirmed and kicked, ordering to be put down - an order Ivan ignored.
Then Alfred smelt it, like a bag a bricks to the face; the bitter, numbing sting of hard liquor. It rolled off the Russian in waves. Ivan smelt like he had bathed in vodka.
Alfred gagged and covered his nose breaking out of his partner's embrace, praying this didn't mean what he thought it meant.
"Ivan, what did you do with the vodka bottle?"
The one Alfred bought was only partially drunk, there being far too much to drink in one go. Alfred had taken the bottle back to his home, allowing Ivan a drink every other day.
Today, though, Alfred hadn't seen the Russian. Ivan must have gotten hold of another stash.
Ivan giggled and poked Alfred's nose (it was more of a jab, the blonde though his nose was going to break).
"Ivan, what did you do with the vodka bottle?" the blonde repeated, massaging his nose.
The Russian giggled and continued to poke Alfred, not understanding how much power he was using in his intoxication. Alfred was sure he was going to find bruises all over his face and chest the next day.
"I can't tell you that~" giggled Ivan, stopped him poking in favor of tugging that stupid cowlick of Alfred's. It was so adorable, like a little duck tail. Ivan couldn't help but want to pull it out of the American's scalp.
"Quit it," Alfred ordered, swatting away his boyfriend's hands. Ivan made a sloppy grin. "I know you've been drinking. Now tell me, what did you do with the bottles? Why cant you tell me?"
Ivan hiccupped and gave Alfred a very painful noogie.
"It's a secret," Ivan replied.
"Alfred, is there a problem?" asked one of the kitchen staff, a dark haired Spaniard. He wore a messy apron splattered with the night's dinner but despite is sloppy appearance Antonio held a serious air. He knew someone as powerful and drunk as Ivan was never a person to mess around with. He was like a bull, not an animal you lost your concentration when wrangling.
"No, we're fine," assured Alfred, trying to get Ivan to behave himself. The Russian was being stubborn. "Ivan, what did you do with the vodka bottles?"
"I can't tell you. If I did you'd toss me out~"
That was enough for Alfred. With a word to Antonio to watch the larger man the blond took off, to the room where Ivan was bunking. He passed Berwald on the way, telling the Swede he'd be needed. Alfred searched the cot, the other members of New Hope watching on with nervous curiosity. Berwald ripped the mattress off the steel frame, finding two empty vodka bottles and one more than halfway drunk.
How was he still alive after drinking all that?
Someone in the room gasped. Alfred stared, expression unreadable. Berwald picked up the bottles to throw them away. The American covered his eyes with the palm of his hand.
Oh Ivan.
~O~O~O~O~
"Mmmh, just like that~" Francis purred as his lover pressed delicate, fleeting kisses over his bare chest. Francis moaned as Mathew traced his pecks with his almost tickling touch.
Francis was going crazy!
Mathew was playing with him, he knew it!
Any second the hockey player was going to snap and unleash all that pent up energy! Francis was shivering with anticipation for the storm.
Any second. . .any second. . .!
The phone rang, and the mood was gone.
Francis wept at the loss, wishing a slow death on whoever called.
Mathew sent his lover an apologetic look and picked up the phone, slipping on a bathrobe on his way out the room.
Francis thrashed about in bed, mourning the loss.
I need a cigarette," he moaned, rolling out of bed to sulk on the balcony despite being in his birthday suit.
"Hello? Bonnefoy-William's resident, can I help you?" Mathew asked into the phone, polite as ever. He was just as disappointed as Francis about their interruption (it was one of his few days when he was home before Chell so they had wanted to take advantage of the empty house) but he simply could not ignore a phone call.
What if it was an emergency?
He just hoped whoever called would be quick.
Mathew knew his lover's habit of parading around like an exhibitionist.
"Mattie. . .hi. . .I, uh. . .I need to talk."
Alfred sounded like he was about to cry.
All of Mathew's frustration vanished in an instant. It was a rare occurrence when the American let himself cry, and only ever with Mathew. The two brothers had agreed long ago they could tell each other anything - Alfred was the first person Mathew told he was gay, and Alfred told Mathew all the drugs he had done when he wanted help quitting.
But for Alfred to cry. . .this must be serious.
"What's wrong?" the Canadian asked, sitting in an arm chair. He felt this would be a long conversation.
"I. . .uh, I had to kick Ivan out. He had three bottles of vodka under his cot." There was a pause where neither brother said anything. Mathew could hear Alfred walking around on the other side of the line, unable to sit still. "The Haters are still out there."
Alfred was regretting his decision.
"Alfred, do you remember what you said when you first made New Hope? You said it would be a safe place for everyone, and drugs including alcohol were to never be allowed. You promised that, to yourself and the people you said you'd help. Anyone in possession was to be kicked out, that's what makes New Hope such a good place."
"But he'd on the streets Mattie. . .he's still drunk and alone on the streets with those - those murderers!" There was the sound of something breaking and Alfred grunting in pain.
"Calm down, Alfred! Eh? I'm sorry but you need to sit, I don't want your hurting yourself!"
Or your leg. The American struggled to pay his medical bills as it was.
Alfred sighed a loud, irritated sight and sat, tapping his foot.
"I'm nervous, Mattie. I should have driven him to one of the safe zones. I should have made sure he was okay. Damn it! I could have let him sleep in my car!"
Alfred jolted up to continue pacing, snarling under his breath at his own stupidity.
If Ivan died tonight, it was all his fault.
"Al? Al, listen to me," Mathew said, voice stern. It was the tone he used only ever on Alfred or Francis when they were misbehaving.
"When you run your own business, especially a charity one, you have to make hard decisions."
Alfred stopped pacing, listening as his chest bubbled with sick emotions.
"Everyone told you you'd never make it, but you promised to prove them wrong. You said you could do it, and so far you have. Ivan's a big guy. Have faith he can make it on his own, eh?"
Alfred swallowed the knot in his throat.
"It's for the greater good."
His heart stung at those words, so often spoken by he himself.
Alfred nodded, "Yeah. . .for the greater good. . ."
Ivan already exhibited his danger when Alfred tried to make him leave. It wasn't fair to the other refugees of New Hope to be around someone as unpredictable as a wild animal. It was like keeping a pet tiger locked up in a small house full of people and stiff regulations.
Yes, New Hope was safe from danger at least in regards to Ivan. The rules were kept and the line that was never suppose to be crossed was still intact.
Everything met the standards Alfred set. . .
. . .but that didn't mean the American was happy with the outcome.
~O~O~O~O~
In what was becoming a regular occurrence, Ivan found himself staggering down the streets in a drunken daze.
He had enough sense to know he blew it, lost his chance for a home, job, and to be with Alfred.
Such a waste.
At least it wasn't as cold as it had been when he fist met the American. He was lucky that his part of the country changed seasons so quickly, a fact most Americans were spoiled with and didn't even appreciate. Spring was just around the corner.
He used the walls of the buildings he was walking by to guide himself, puffing breath steaming the air.
Where. . .Where did Alfred say the park was?
. . .What direction?
. . .This way?
Ivan stopped for a moment to get his bearings. When the world stopped spinning the Russian found himself in a ghetto. The streets were cracked, the street lights dimmed or broken, the buildings grungy. A dog barked, its booming voice echoing as a precursor to a siren in the distance.
This couldn't be the way.
Snarling, Ivan continued down the street, a large, grumpy pout gracing his features.
A motorcyclist roared down the street, cursing out the world as it zoomed past Ivan.
Although startling, the encounter was nothing more than another obnoxious noise in the cacophony of the dirty city.
Another motorcyclist zoomed by, the driver tossing a beer bottle a few feet in front of Ivan. It shattered across the stained cement, glass shards shattering around and into cracks.
Ivan glared at the passing motorcyclist.
That was disgusting.
He continued on, slow and steady, taking his time. He was still unemployed, still had no home and no one to worry for him.
At least it wasn't cold.
A third motorcyclist drove by, but this one was different from the others. The pace the driver was at was almost a crawl, slow enough to shutter in tandem with Ivan. The Russian eyed the motorcyclist, a large man with a wicked, lustful smile. The man's bright teeth shinned as he grinned, black goggles hiding his eyes.
The man blew a kiss at Ivan and cackled with raucous laughter at the Russian's expression.
He drove on, out of sight.
Ivan released the breath he was holding.
He was being stupid. He was huge, bigger and mightier than any other person he knew. A bear did not fear a pack of wolves; that was silly.
But the pack came back. Two of the motorcyclists zoomed past him again, coming back the way they came.
Ivan watched them, walking just a little bit faster, foggy mind clearing.
There was that laughter again, the noise a cat makes as it tears the wings off a mauled bird, releasing it to watch the bloodied creature struggle before swatting it again.
The first of the motorcyclists passed him again, but the second kept pace, the same man as before. He wolf whistled and made kissy faces at Ivan.
The Russian walked a bit faster, searching for a safe place to escape.
He was in a residential area. If he screamed would anyone help? Would anyone care?
The motorcyclist made his engine purr with a splutter.
"Good eats!" he sang, voice loud enough to be heard above the roar of the engine.
It was a signal. The second motorcyclist turned with a sharp jerk, heading back for Ivan - driving on top of the sidewalk!
Shit!
The man beside him cackled again, turning to drive Ivan like a sheep into an alley way.
The alley was cramped, Ivan wouldn't have been able to walk side by side with Alfred in it.
Stupid! Now was not the time to be thinking of the blonde!
He continued running, the light from the motorcycle bouncing and reverberating on the grimy walls. It was like an echo chamber, the motorcycle's snarl like a train about to run Ivan down. The putty haired man couldn't even hear his own terrified breath, little less than a scream as the third motorcyclist reappeared, charging down the ally from the exit Ivan was racing to.
Shit!
Ivan couldn't stop or he'd be run over, and if he continued he'd be run over anyway.
His only hope was a filthy dumpster. If he got to that the motorcyclists would have to stop since there wasn't enough room for the pair to pass each other. Ivan could climb on top of it and jump over the motorcyclist and while they were still fumbling to turn their blikes around in the tight passage Ivan would be long gone!
Plan settled Ivan pushed on, pumping his muscles to obey and work as fast as they could.
He neared the dark green dumpster, leaping into the air, climbing on top of the high container.
Yes! This would work.
The first motorcyclist stopped as he planned, but the mocking, cold laughter was still there.
Ivan ignored the fear the man caused, easing his breath in a meditative pause.
This was it.
The second motorcyclist stopped, turning the bike so it was almost wedged between the walls of the ally. The man stopped a bit farther than Ivan would have liked but no matter. He would roll with the circumstances.
Ivan braced his legs and jumped as far as he could, kicking the air for more distance.
"Oh no you don't!" called the third motorcyclist, grabbing Ivan by one of his long legs, yanking the Russian down so he slammed against the ground with an ugly smack.
His body crumbled and skin tore but his bones were strong. Nothing broke.
The first motorcyclist laughed, a high, frightening noise.
Damn it!
The third man tackled Ivan, knocking his head against the ground. Ivan groaned as the man pummeled him, turning Ivan over to punch him in the teeth.
"Easy, easy. Don't damage the fruit. We still need to talk to our little darling," said the first man. The third delivered another punch to Ivan's solid gut, making the large Russian wince.
The third man pulled out a pair of cuffs and locked Ivan's hands in a too tight embrace, the lavender eyes man too dizzy and drunk to fight. The second motorcyclist appeared, stopping close to the first.
"So, what's your name?" asked the first man. He hopped off his bike and took off his gloves, revealing massive hands, dirty and scarred with jagged hang nails.
Ivan didn't answer, struggling with the cuffs and trying to get the third man off his torso. The cackling man road him like a bull.
Alfred!
"Come on, pray to your god. What religion are you? I'd like to know so I can spit on them!"
The man chortled with that high pitched laughter, kicking Ivan at the side of his ribs.
"You're the Haters, yes?" wheezed Ivan, a sinister hatred seeping from his aura in a miasma of vicious anger. They were too easy to say. "You are like pathetic baby girls."
He knew he shouldn't provoke his attackers but he couldn't keep his words behind his lips.
The first man, the leader, kicked Ivan's head in retaliation. The Russian howled, mind spinning.
"Hah, we've been called Haters before but that's not us, no. In fact, I think I'm full of love."
He stepped on Ivan's chest, his boot (so like Alfred's) jabbing his throat. The man leaned down, spitting in Ivan's face as he spoke, "In fact I'm so full of love I became a crusader, irradiating vermin from the streets. I'm the fucking piped piper!"
He pulled Ivan's head up by his short locks, ripping a few hairs as he yanked to slam Ivan's head down.
The other two laughed in mockery, like an audience at a circus, watching as the lion tamer was eaten.
"You have such pretty eyes," the leader grinned, hot breath against Ivan's face, spraying him in thick spit.
"I've never seen that color before!"
The man spat again, in Ivan's eyes. The Russian's body convulsed with disgust but the man just laughed again.
"And such a pretty scarf!"
"Don't touch it!" Ivan cried, scrunching his eyes and thrashing. He tried to punch the man but another held his chuffed hands down. "Don't touch it!"
"Oh, so it's important to you, is it?" laughed the man, dirty, greasy, filthy hands slipping over Ivan's precious, clean, beautiful scarf.
"This way I'll be with you always," his sister said, wrapping the scarf around Ivan's small, boyish shoulders with a kind, protective hand.
"I wonder what kind of thread it's made of," the man on top of him said.
He was getting it dirty.
"You look so cute, Vanya," Katusha beamed, patting Ivan on the head. The young boy giggled, playing with the powdery scarf.
"Hey, Blade, my sister would love that. Could you cut a piece off for me?" said one man. Blade laughed and pulled out a pocket knife.
"Don't! Don't touch it!"
"Big Sister! Big Sister!" Ivan called, running up to his older sister. He had grown in the past years, towering over his not so big sister. Katsusha turned away, trying to hide her tears. "Big Sister?" Ivan cocked his head to the side, pouting. He reached a hand out to touch her shoulder.
Katusha moved out of reach, sniffling into a hancherchif.
"Big Sis-"
"I have to go Vanya. We're not allowed to talk anymore."
"What-"
"Please, Vanya, just go!"
Blade cackled. "Don't ~ You're such a bitch! Don't touch it ~"
The men beside him joined in laughter. "That just makes me want to do it that much more!"
The leader of the group, Blade, held the scarf up, Ivan pulled with it. The Russian could only gape as the man dragged the broken knife across his perfect, shimmering scarf.
The threads tore and frayed, ripping apart like heart strings. Ivan felt tears in his big eyes, baby face contorting in physical agony at the loss.
Rage.
Thunderous rage flashed through his system, heating his muscles. The laughter died away, all Ivan heard was the ghost of his scarf, wailing and crying.
They would pay for this. This act, this hate crime against fabric was more atrocious than rape.
Ivan saw red.
He jerked his hands away from the man who held them, snapping the chain of his handcuffs with a single flick, steel flying away like blast rubble.
"Oh shi-" Blade shouted before Ivan sat up, head-butting the man's throat. Blade gasped for breath as Ivan pushed him off, punching the man's face, breaking his nose. Blood squirted over Ivan's fists and coat.
The other two men charged but Ivan was quick, fueled by adrenaline and sadistic intent. He rolled out of the way of a kick, jumping into a standing position. One of the men continued with the attack, swinging his leg at Ivan.
He blocked the move, grabbing under the man's leg, hoisting him over Ivan's shoulder with the man's own momentum and tossing the thug on the ground. The man gasped, breath lost, but didn't have a chance to get back into the fight, Ivan elbowing him in the gut with all of his weight.
The last man, out of fear, swung his helmet at Ivan's head.
The blow was not enough to wound but got the bear's attention.
In the man's hands was the torn piece of his scarf.
"DON'T TOUCH IT!" Ivan snarled, experience in street fighting taking over his instincts. He tore a rusty pipe off the wall and swung it at the man, water spraying all over the place.
The thug blocked the blow with his arms, but the pain was strong enough to make the man crumple and scream out.
"Don't ever touch it!"
Ivan went crazy, blow after blow hitting the man. His face, his back, his arms, his pathetic boney legs.
The man in front of him was an insect, something to be exterminated - something that needed to die.
Ivan was in hysterics, unable to see though tears and blood splatter.
The bug stopped twitching.
Ivan breathed, rapid, stinging breath.
The heat, the fuel left him. He was cold.
Surveying the damage, Ivan wasn't surprised to see that Blade vanished, cowering into the darkness.
The man he elbowed was still there, moaning in his sleep. Ivan didn't know if the last man was alive anymore.
All that mattered was that his scarf was okay.
He pried open the bloodied man's fingers, still warm with residual life.
The scarf looked terrible. It was a shame, ripped, frayed, muddy, bloody, and as empty as a lifeless doll.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" he mumbled, unable to wrap his frazzled mind around anything else. "No!"
He untied the half still around his neck in an attempt to have the threads reattach themselves.
Ivan's hands shook. He couldn't see the scarf anymore, tears stinging and clouding his eyes.
A few of his tears rolled down his face to splatter onto the halved scarf.
Ivan whipped his face with a dirty sleeve, desperate to stop anymore harm to his dear garment. He scooped it up, pulling the scarf into his coat with the tenderness of a lover. Using the pipe still clutched in his hands he stood. The pipe was dropped, clattering and clanging to the floor.
He had to fix his scarf.
He had to fix his scarf!
Ivan ran, weaving like a drunk but out of weariness rather than actual intoxication.
Where to go? Where to go?
He collapsed in front of the first house he came to, adrenaline leaving his system. All the head and chest injuries he endured were catching up with him.
Ivan pounded on the door.
He couldn't give up now.
Not when his scarf was still so hurt.
He leaned against the door frame, unable to breath quick enough. He pounded again, finding his voice was gone.
The door opened a crack, a face peering out at him with a suspicious gaze.
". . .Help," Ivan said, eyes closing.
Everything went black.
A/N: I realized, I make Ivan throw up a lot. That's gross man, I can't stand seeing or hearing people throw up in real life or movies, but some how its okay in written form. Oh well.
Sorry for the violence, it was just….gah! I'm so proud of myself! I love romance, but action is a passion of mine - I love writing fighting scenes. I actually looked up Russian martial arts for a bit of it. I felt pretty bad for messing with Ivan's scarf….
I wrote most of this in one day, listening to Russia's character song "Winter" almost non-stop. Hehe, its such a pretty/creepy song.
Ah~ my other writing passion, being a cock block. Hahhahah, I love messing with Francis too much. I kinda want to write a whole fic where he just keeps getting interrupted and can never actually do the dirty deed…even with himself XP
Thanks to everyone who reviews, and those of you who wished me a happy graduation. You all make my heart go a pitter patter.
Till next time, AKS