*~Scream And I Will Only Love You More~*

Warning: The following chapter is extremely disturbing and no amount of kitty cuteness can make up for it. Normally I'm really afeard of scary stories, but I tried to freak myself out here. The original version was actually much, much worse, but I cooled it down a little so that your stomachs don't eject.

Hey, folks. Hope the haps are good ones…my production ended—it was my first one, so I think it went reasonably well, though I don't think we or the play got an especially awesome review. *Facepalms* But enough about my boring life.

There's a line in here from one of Tim Burton's movies. Name it and I shall give you a kitty hug! Speaking of cats, I think I referred to Vodka as a Russian Blue, but after some research, realized that the Nekotalia version is actually a Siberian breed (Fynniona, like Ukraine-cat, Kalyna is an Exotic Shorthair. ;) ). Sorry about the mishap.

I'm afraid don't know if Happy Meal Guy shall ever be avenged, Lyndsey dear. *Pats on back* If it will make you feel better, you can have this HM Japan keychain. Collect them all or the terrorists win at life!

Fun fact: The national flower of Russia is chamomile (which is good because it's a herb to help ease colds), but the Ukrainian flower is a sunflower! Bet Ivan's jealous!

Yes, bottle bombs are real (no, I do not make them)! They're sometimes called the "kiddy terrorist's toy," because all you need to make them is Drano, water, a plastic bottle, and foil. About half a minute after you move one of those suckers, they explode. Some people have lost fingers picking up strange bottles they found in their yards. :( Obviously, this is a very bad thing, but it seemed like something Ivan would pick up on. Considering what you guys still don't know about Ivan, this isn't quite so extreme! But still, don't try to make them at home!

~*oOo*~

"Mama, when will you be better?"

"Hush, Vanya."

A tiny little boy held onto his mother's cold hand, willing the warmth from his own body to flood into it. Tears dripped down a large nose, purple eyes miserable.

"I want you to be better now."

"And I want you," the bedridden woman said wearily, drawing a hand through graying hair, "To remember that you can't always get what you want. God is calling me home, little one—ah, do not cry so much! Is not a bad thing, you realize."

"Why can't he call me home now, too?"

"Because it is not your time. You will grow up to be someone very special, my little troll. I feel this in my heart."

"How special?"

"Very special," the dying woman croaked. "You will find someone who make you feel this way always. Whether you cut trees for living or are fancy celebrity, to someone you will always be mountain, and someone shall always be tremendous star to you, like sun." The old woman closed her eyes and let out a long sad sigh, which sounded like the wind beating itself against the hospital windows. "That was your Papa to me."

"Then why did you marry that man?"

The woman cast him a very dark look. "You know why. I had no choice."

"Mama, please stay here. I don't want you to go to heaven."

"Then you are selfish and wicked boy, and you will go to hell if you talk such."

"You are most important person to me," Ivan begged, trying to crawl up the bed but his mother pushed him away.

"The day will come when I am like nothing to you, because I will be dead. There will be precious light in your life that if you do not hold tight to, it will slip away like a fish. Hold fast to it, Vanya, never let it go. Else someone smarter than you will snatch your angel and you will be bereft."

"Where is my angel?"

"Perhaps looking over you right now," his mother said mysteriously. "Or perhaps you have not yet earned one. Maybe you simply haven't met them yet-maybe you must seek them out yourself. I do not know. But they are waiting, my darling, waiting to heal you and enfold you. When and if the time is right, they will come into your darkest dreams and give you the strength to try again."

"Does my angel love me?"

"Better than anyone else-it can only ever love you."

This sounded remarkably agreeable to Ivan, and the little boy wiped his eyes. "I want my angel right now."

"When the time is right, I think they will come to you. They take on many forms, but you will know in your heart when you see them."

"I want my angel now."

~*oOo*~

It was getting dark out now, and Ivan still hadn't come home. He probably wouldn't be very hungry when he came back—he certainly didn't have much of an appetite these days—but she started preparing dinner just the same. Katyusha was a woman who preferred to have her hands busy every moment of the day, and idle activities like watching TV or even reading a book sometimes made her anxious.

Humming, the young woman sprinkled flour over some dough and began to knead it, glancing at the clock every now and again to amuse herself. After she surmised that the dough was ready and not overworked, she packed the food into a pan before popping it into the oven, straightened up to adjust the dial for the burner.

It was pretty, watching the electric blue flames flicker and sway, rise or fall under her control—a miniature aurora borealis. She smiled at it.

Katyusha heard a dispirited meowing and shook her head, turning to glance at Vodka, who was slowly shuffling across the linoleum, purple eyes staring at the door in a way that made the eldest Braginski put her hands on her hips and chuck sadly. Their cat, who had once seemed so happy and content here was now almost always agitated, plodding restlessly across the apartment to and fro, looking for a place to lie down but getting up to pace again just as soon as he found one. Twice, he tried racing out when someone came home, scampered down all the stairs. The first time she had caught him, the second, well, a crying Katyusha had looked around for him in the cold streets for two hours only to receive a call from her bewildered brother. Somehow, Vodka had appeared at the Jones' house, and was snuggling up with Franklin in front of the fire.

She had rushed there, apologized so many times the words nearly lost all meaning. Thankfully Matthew had been very gracious, laughed about it even, made her a cup of chocolate….

"I think you are missing your little girlfriend, da?" Katyusha asked teasingly, stooping to lovingly tap Vodka's broad nose. "And you just saw her yesterday, too. Lucky Vodka, making friends. Lucky Ivan, making friends," she murmured, standing again to peer into the large pot on the stove. "Is so nice. He is at bonfire with Alfred and his friends tonight, so I am very happy! He is such good friends with Alfred, speaks of him most highly and so often! It's almost like—"

Her ladle slipped from her fingers, splashed into the stew. For a moment, the young woman just stared at it, nonplussed. Then, she started, and hastily scurried to the fridge.

"Oh! I forgot the milk!" she exclaimed, taking out a carton and rushing to the stove. "Can't forget it, or else food will be too watery. Can't have that, now, can we, Vodka?" The cat nuzzled her leg. Katyusha began muttering to herself as she glanced at the timeworn, splattered recipe book in Cyrillic next to her, though she knew its contents by heart:

"The food will be bland if it is watery. And I don't want that. Even if none of us eat it, it should still be good. I don't want to waste food, though, so I hope that we all eat it. And that it won't be bland," she fretted. "Or burned. But cooked properly just the same."

She scooped out a ladle-full of food, her hand shaking so badly that most of it splashed onto the floor. Alarmed, Vodka flitted away, and then darted back to a bit of fallen meat, tentatively sniffing at it before scooping it up with his mouth. Rather than eating it, however, his attention wandered back to the door. Katyusha seized a nearby rag and began to scrub at the immaculate floor.

"O-oh! Thank you, Vodka, saves me the trouble of c-cleaning that bit u-up….I will set the table in a bit, just in case they come home soon. Maybe Alfred will come too…." She swallowed, and pressed her wringing hands against her heart. "I hope he does…..goodness, I hope he will. It is good for Ivan to have friends. Friends keep you busy. Friends keep you out of trouble—"

Starting as if someone had whipped her, a mortified Katyusha stared at the clean floor, clutching her damp rag. She all but staggered to her feet, headed to the garbage, and in an afterthought, threw the rag out the window before sweeping back to the stove, her nails digging into her wrist as she stared at the bubbling stew.

"But my dear little brother would never get in trouble now," she scolded herself, cautiously stirring around the mixture in the pot with her ladle. "He is well. They made him well again. I hope Alfred will come, because the boy has such big appetite and he is always so nice."

A hint of a smile glowed in her powdery blue eyes as she dipped a saucer into the food, pulling it out and blowing on it before tasting. Vodka's purple eyes traveled back to her, and he watched Katyusha attentively, in case she dropped any more morsels.

"He and his brother are so nice when they talk about the cooking….oh, it's still bland!" she exclaimed in dismay, dropping the saucer to the counter, making a loud clattering sound that startled the cat once again. Katyusha hastily started sprinkling liberal amounts of spices from various shakers set at the shelf over the stove, stirring them in before she picked up the saucer again, tremor back in her hand. She tried another sip and then winced, hurriedly setting the dish down to fan her mouth.

"Too spicy, too spicy now, does Natalya like spicy food? I can't remember," she fretted. "Oh, God, I don't remember. I will put more milk in it to mellow flavor. I do not want anyone burning their mouths on the food I cooked," she croaked, dumping a third of the milk into the mixture, stirring feverishly. She scooped out a saucer full once again, and this time lowered it to the floor next to the Siberian cat. "Vodka, tell me what you think, please."

Reluctantly, Vodka dropped the bit of meat and started to lap at the milky stew, getting the front of his whiskers and the edges of his face wet. He tried to swipe himself clean each time he licked at the saucer's contents, and the sight made Ivan's sister laugh a little, easing the rate at which her heart was hammering. When he finished, he picked up the bit of meat again and turned to face the door, mewing hopefully.

"Silly Vodka, Ivan has car. You can't visit her tonight, though is nice thought, feeding her," she said gently, smoothing a disappointed feline's head. "I can't let you run over there and be nuisance, even if you know way. Ivan told me you caught poor bird while at Alfred's house, naughty kitty, and tried to drag it inside." Her brow began to furrow, and for a moment, she traced a pattern on the floor with her fingertip, foot tapping restlessly at her side. "It is not good to chase the birds. It is not…not good to make trophies out of them."

The silence had only a second to carry on before the girl wrenched herself back to her feet, shaking like mad. She scooped the ladle up again and, not bothering to blow on it, took another sip, burning her lips in the process. But that didn't seem to distress her nearly as much as the quality of the food.

"The food is too watery! I need more beef!"

She made to rush to the fridge again, and then stopped dead, her eyes dilating and shining with horror. Moaning, she buried her face in her hands, breathing and heart rate steadily climbing, becoming erratic.

"I am out," she whispered, "I forgot that was the last pound of meat I had, and Ivan will be home soon. The food is too watery, oh, what do I do, Vodka, the food is too milky! I will add more spice," she said decisively, turning back to the stove and scooping up a pepper shaker. But before she could add it, she frowned, dropped it back. "But what I need is meat, for substance. I will pour some soup out—I will add more spice, more vegetables and no one need ever know—and boil it nice and hot."

She bent again to peer anxiously at the oven. "Oh, I wish the bread would hurry up and rise all the way. I need it to cool before everyone comes back."

Katyusha started throwing a hodge-podge of spices into the pot.

"Natalya likes her food very spicy," she muttered excitedly. "I remember now. Ivan likes dumplings very much, so I scoop up many and give them to him. My little brother and sister are happy this way. My little sister—"

She turned to look at the table, where one extra place setting waited. Eyes clouding over with tears, she trudged to the kitchen table and sank down at her chair. Vodka hastily made his way over and leapt into her lap. The corners of Katyusha's mouth twitched, her bloodshot eyes shining with a sort of amused, self-deprecating sadness.

"Natalya's not here….I keep forgetting. Am I a fool, Vodka?" she asked, scratching the cat under the chin, feeling the cat headbutt her hand. "I suppose I am…..nowadays, almost believe it when Ivan insists that she lives with us, that she goes to St. Sebastian's and simply isn't home very often. I wish that were the truth. My God, how I wish that were the truth!"

Vodka mewed worriedly as Katyusha's frame shook with sobs, and the girl wept, hiding her face in her calloused hands. "Oh, God, Ivan, Natalya, I am sorry, so sorry, so sorry. Is all my fault, I know, but I didn't know—"

She never anticipated Stepfather would have gone so far as to do what he did to Ivan. As much as Katyusha had forgiven the man's abysmal failures—and even she could now call them that—she would never, ever pardon him for what he'd done to her poor little brother. And Natalya…all the sad little girl must have wanted was for someone to care, had found that in Ivan, had become so dangerous as a result—

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, out, in, out, in, out—

Out—

Out—

Out—

God, what came next? Something alleviated the burn, some following action was meant to be there, but she panicked like a player who has forgotten their lines on stage, near hyperventilation. What did she do? Her lungs were beginning to burn.

~*oOo*~

It was late. Katyusha had dinner waiting on the table when the man had come back in, covered with snow, his clothes torn. She greeted him quietly, not daring to make eye contact. Thankfully, the man had ignored her as he trudged to his chair, where dinner was waiting. Tiny Natalya was staring at the floor near her place, hands behind her back. As a rule, none of the children in this tiny house sat down to eat unless given permission to do so—enough lashings had taught them all that much.

Though, in all fairness, there were few ways one could escape a lashing in this place, where hell was a place called home.

But now, it was dinnertime and Ivan was still not among them. Katyusha kept her eyes to the floor, eyes free of the hot dread beginning to make her heart race. Where was Ivan? He had been outside earlier that afternoon, as he was rarely found in the house unless it was bitterly cold out, but he knew enough to come when Katyusha called, when HE called. No one had been whipped or punished for a beautiful four days now, and it looked as if that were to all come crashing down!

"Stepfather?" she asked timidly as she finished spooning most of the contents of the pot onto the man's plate. "Do you know where Ivan is? I called, but I don't believe he heard me."

The man had taken one bite of his supper, and abruptly spat it out, as if it were arsenic.

"Natalya, you may sit," the man had growled as he rose to his feet. "Anyone and everyone who would want to eat this shit you try to feed me is welcome to it! How dare you? You think to laugh at me, you little whore?"

He seized the terrified young girl's hair and tugged her to him, lifting her up so that only her toes brushed against the floor. Eyes watering with pain, Katyusha cried out as her stepfather swung her bodily against the wall. She bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood, shakily raised her hands to protect her throbbing head, but the man clamored after her again with a roar, grasping her hands and tugging them away, forcing her to look at him, flecks of spittle hitting her face.

"Little cock-sucking slut, I'll kill you!" he cried, pinching the crying girl's cheeks. "Dirty, ugly, useless little whore you are, someone ought to split your head open! You're lucky I'm apparently as retarded as you, to want a little pig-whore like yourself! Say it!" He shook her, slapped her when she started to whimper. "Say it, you little bitch, or I'll beat you! You cow-raping, ugly shit, you're a whore! An ugly whore! Say it!"

"Stepfather!" The girl shrieked as the man mimicked her, voice pompous and baby-mocking.

"Stepfather!"

Katyusha started to wail, and all the while the little girl just ate her meal at the table, paying no mind to the spectacle going on.

"Natalya, Natalya, dear, dear little sister—help me!"

But Natalya did nothing. She didn't even look as Stepfather's hands clamped themselves over Katyusha's chest, and despair stole into her heart like a black snake. Her Stepfather shook her again.

"As for where your brother is, that's your concern, you little brat, or at least was your concern," he murmured hotly into her ears, a truly terrible smile appearing on his face. "Want to see what happens to naughty, ugly, horse-fucking bitches like yourself who can't do as they're told? I think you and Natalya need a little trip outside. I have a special surprise prepared for the two of you."

Now Natalya looked up, her cold eyes narrowing with suspicion and what looked like alarm. Katyusha's eyes widened in terror.

"You—you don't mean you—"

The door flew open, and a soaked Ivan staggered in, as pale as the dead, his clothes and scarf splattered with red and brown. Stepfather's head swiveled up, and the man screamed, dropping Katyusha as Ivan slowly limped in, eyes burning hollows.

"Nyet!" Stepfather cried. "No!"

He staggered back against his chair, knocking it over and tripping over it. He slammed against the ground with a pained grunt, and Natalya rushed out of her chair to a nearby corner. With some difficulty, a swaying Katyusha hurried to join her sister as Ivan swung out a pipe behind his back, all stained red and dripping. She recognized the spigot as the old one in the backyard, the one that didn't work anymore.

Stepfather shrieked. He wasn't the only one who did.

"I buried you." He cried, holding out his hands and cowering up like an oversized baby, every faucet of his face outlined in horror. "I left you!"

Katyusha clamped a hand over her mouth. Next to her, she could feel Natalya shaking, though judging by her expression, she looked more infuriated than frightened.

Ivan just gazed at the man, the whites of his eyes so large it looked like the quivering violet balls were about to be swallowed up in his mad mask.

"For dead" Was all her brother said before he raised the instrument, and swung it down the way a judge will a gavel.

The screaming went on long into the night.

~*oOo*~

She'd left the burner on high and now the food was boiling, bubbling over and trickling down the sides of the pot. With a shriek, Katyusha lurched to the stove, nearly tripping over Vodka. Beginning to tear up again, she immediately took the pot off the burner, peering in to see if the food was still salvageable. But it was burned.

"Vodka, it's no good, no good, no good," she cried out, the pot sliding from her useless fingers and clattering to the ground. Vodka ran from the hot avalanche with an alarmed yowl, and the young Russian woman just stared at it in dismay, tears running down her face.

Pigswill. She slowly stooped to the steaming food all over the floor, briefly considered throwing her hands in it, gripping for dear life even as she swelled up and blistered.

If he saw that she had already punished herself, perhaps he would not be so terrible. She deserved it, but he terrified her.

"Are you kidding? You cook like an angel!"

Katyusha's teary eyes dilated, her hands inches away from the hot, ruined food. Retreating to a quiet, more rational corner of her broken mind, she slowly sank again to her knees away from the hot mess that had spilled on the floor, and closed her eyes. She almost smiled.

Stepfather was right. She was a dirty bitch. A dirty, ugly, cowardly bitch who was so pathetic that she recanted a single, undeserved compliment over and over again in their heads. Proud. Smug. Dirty, brainless whore.

But if she was so low, then it really wouldn't hurt to replay the memory in her head again, would it?

"Katyusha, I'm serious," Matthew said enthusiastically, digging into his food. "I never thought I'd like Russian food, especially after that one time it made me sick as a kid…but this is really wonderful! Is it really your own recipe?"

She hadn't known where to look; she knew she ought to correct him, because she certainly wasn't good at cooking, was hardly good for anything, but the words made her stomach flutter, warmth pooling into every nook and crevice of her body, settling in like Vodka when he curled up on her lap. It felt foreign and scary and good all at once. "I, well, it's really not that….it is a family recipe, but I added bits and pieces to it over time…"

"It's amazing!" Matthew had insisted gently, taking another bite of the pirozhki. "Katyusha, believe me, I'm not trying to butter you up—this is something you ought to pursue professionally." His eyes had sparkled with shy, secret laughter as Katyusha fidgeted in her seat, blushing madly and stuttering. "Thank you so much for the dish. I really hope you don't mind me and Al dropping in like this."

"Oh, of course not, of course not!" Katyusha exclaimed hastily. If there was a way she could keep them both from leaving, she would.

The two peered around the kitchen table to get a look at the living room, where Ivan and Alfred were sitting playing some bizarre game that involved chess pieces, checker pieces, scrabble letters, battleship pieces, and monopoly blocks—Katyusha had bought a great deal of games from yard sales, but none of them had all the game pieces. Franklin and Vodka were curled up next to them in a cozy little ball. "Iv, I think you're just lettin' me win again."

"Why would you ever think that, Alfredka?"

"Because I just sunk your scrabbleship for the third time, or however the heck this is working. Um, is that your King or mine?"

"I think it changed because he has more poker chips on Madison Avenue, or something."

Alfred huffed and fell back on the floor. "Dude, this is as pointless and as infuriating as an Adam Sandlers' movie. Wanna play poker?"

"Strip poker?" Ivan asked playfully.

"What?"

"Kidding, Alfredka."

Face flaming, Katyusha turned to apologize to Matthew, only to find to her astonishment that he was shaking with silent laughter. It was infectious, and soon she found a smile blooming across her face, a genuine one.

"Will you two be staying for dinner?" she asked. Now it was Matthew's turn to blush.

"Oh, well, we've imposed enough on you as is—we'll be going soon—"

"Oh, it is no trouble! Unless your parents have plans already…?"

"Well, uh, they're actually going out on a date tonight," He confessed, the tips of his ears turning pink, which Katyusha found oddly endearing. "So, no plans other than to heat up leftovers or something—"

"Oh, Ivan and I would be delighted to have you, please stay!" Katyusha chirped, and a second later felt the all-too familiar burn of shame. Just what sort of desperate, foolish woman did she appear to be, anyhow? "I—I am sorry. I do not want to make you feel guilty, I just—it would be lovely if you stayed, and I'm sorry if I am being an ungracious hostess—"

Matthew's hand wandered over the table and squeezed hers, smiling timidly. Katyusha didn't know where to look, her hand nearly snatching its way free out of his loose and friendly hold out of shock. "Katyusha, really, you're very kind. Al and I'd be glad to stay for dinner, if it's not an inconvenience."

"T-thank you." So warm, so warm, the kitchen was so warm! "I will have to go out and buy some more groceries today, then….maybe you should join boys in living room…."

"I'll go with you!" Matthew eagerly volunteered, finishing up his meal and grabbing his coat hanging over his chair.

"Oh, you don't….I mean, I'd, um, ah—"

"Al, Iv, Kat and I are heading out," Matthew had called out, before his face went bright red. "U-um! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to just call you that, I don't know if you like it, sorry, sorry—"

"Kay!" Alfred called out, his voice playfully sly. "Don't have too much fun out there you two, if ya get my drift!"

The young woman just smiled at the stammering red mess next to her, her eyes shining. "Kat is fine."

~*oOo*~

They'd gotten groceries together. Even picking produce with him had been enjoyable. And….

Her eyes wandered to the vase of sunflowers sitting on the table, and she let out a small cough, torn between remarkable embarrassment and great pleasure. She didn't want to come out of this high back into reality. But she knew she must.

It was just an untrue compliment and some flowers, given to her by a boy several years her junior, still underage. Even if he WERE interested….no. She was filthy, she was presumptuous, and she was such an asinine, selfish, evil whore. Katyusha clutched at her white hair and let out a sad keening sound.

Dear Matthew. Dearest Matthew with such a kind smile for her. No, not for her, but she could pretend, at least. It wasn't as if she could possibly sink any lower than the grime she already was.

"You cook like an angel." And there were other things, too. That time on the bus, when they'd had to sit so closely together, he had bashfully noticed aloud the fact that she smelled like roses, complimented her careful hands when they chopped up onions together, uncertainly wiped a tear from her eye when both their eyes had begun to sting, caught her singing that one time they'd ran into each other at the library, called her voice pretty….

Matthew. Perhaps one day, he would come back. And when he did, Katyusha would fix the greatest meal of her life, work even harder than she did when living under the tyranny of her stepfather, when a poor meal or a sour mood could mean her being dragged out to the barn, her clothes being torn off her body, and—

No. No. No. No. That was all gone now. She wanted happy things in her life. Only happy things. Life was too sacred to make room for sorrow. Even for an ugly sow like herself. Someone had been kind enough to compliment her, to visit her—that was what she should be dwelling on, even if she knew she ought not to get carried away.

Her eyes wandered to the mess on the floor and Katyusha let out a long sigh before she dragged herself up to get a mop.

Perhaps tonight she would just order a pizza. She was awfully tired.

~*oOo*~

Every heart he cut out with the safety scissors seemed to be bleeding in his hands. Like Stepfather's heart, like Fyodor's heart. Boris ought to be pleased he got to keep his, even if the heart would likely never again see the light of day.

Ivan dropped the red construction and the dull plastic scissors with a dark scowl. Useless things—these scissors couldn't possibly cut through a stick of butter. What else could he expect from a place where items deemed as "sharps"—pencils included—were forbidden to the "patients?"

Somewhere next to him, someone was babbling, muttering inadvertently to himself.

He moodily picked up a gluestick and started to carefully run the sticky substance around the edges of one of the red hearts. Ivan supposed he ought to be "grateful" that he even got to participate in this ridiculous craft at all, though he'd much rather be painting. He'd had another dream about his Sunflower Saint last night, and he longed to at least sketch it out before the image faded in its glory from behind Ivan's eyes.

He cut out another bleeding heart, to be edged with lace for Katyusha. Wondered whether or not he ought to send the second one to Natalya—it might only encourage her delusions that the two could actually wind up together. Stupid girl. Ivan had always been immaculate with his work until the most unlikely of circumstances wound up leading a bloody trail back to him through the snow. But while Natalya was cunning, she also yearned for credit. A shame that she'd killed that nice Lithuanian boy—Ivan had thought perhaps that the two could be good friends—but the boy's companionship with him and his feelings for her had been his undoing.

And now Natalya shared her brother's fate, only she had no hope of freedom even if she were by some miracle "cured" of her longing for Ivan.

He shivered as he finished Katyusha's valentine, picked up a broken crayon and absentmindedly began to draw a sunflower on the second heart he'd more or less torn free.

~*oOo*~

It had taken Ismael a long time to fall asleep. Not only had the meds he had taken failed to kick in when he needed them to, but it was almost impossible to lie down without some annoying discomfort. Mama had been hysterical about the whole thing, kept rubbing her son in stinging, homemade remedies (many of which involved vinegar, to his horror) while Papa had just mainly looked disappointed that he didn't pay back his attacker twice as bad.

But he would. Even if Ivan was scary as all hell, he would knock the living daylights out of the cocky, self-important attention slut Alfred. Matthew could get as pissed with him as he wanted—SOMEONE had to teach Jones a lesson, and when he got a little better, he would shatter the jerkhole's jaw.

Ivan probably wouldn't let that go unpunished. Well screw the fucking freak, too. Even if Ismael wound up hurting twice as bad as he did now (and the Cuban did not like to think that were possible), he would just deal with it, bask in the sweetness of knowing Alfred finally got his just desserts, even if Ismael himself were in traction.

Mumbling murderously to himself, he had awkwardly tucked himself under the covers earlier that evening, hissing with pain as they brushed against his aching muscles, the many lumps and bruises, the bandaged cuts. To his disgust, he could still see the bruising imprint of Ivan's fingers at his wrists when the Russian had held him fast and beat the living shit out of him.

When he'd finally made himself sort-of, acceptably comfortable, he realized he'd forgotten to turn the light off.

After some more stumbling (and no small amount of cussing), he stared out into the darkness with his non-blacked eye, almost able to make out the many soccer posters that littered his walls. Shifting unhappily on his small bed, the pain medication at last took its effect, and Ismael fell into a stupor, snoring.

But later that night, Ismael stirred to find an awful throbbing coming from his already injured wrists—they brushed against something cold. Frowning, still in the throes of sleep, he made to pull them back to his sides, but they resisted; something clanked.

Ismael froze in the pitch blackness, bewildered, beginning to come out of his half-awake, half-asleep blur. Not breathing, he tried again, but something very solid and very metal kept his arms at bay, kept his hands awkwardly posed above his head. Alarmed, he stiffly made to move so that he could see what was going on, but his ankles caught, resisting his attempts to pull them free. More clinking sounds, as if the Cuban had become Jacob Fucking Marley.

The hell….?

He wiggled like a worm, cringing when his injuries groaned in protest, but he kept moving, feeling around in the darkness, trying to figure out what was holding him. His fingertips ghosted over something that felt like a chain, his wrists and ankles felt as if they were being held fast by…by fucking manacles of some kind…..

His breathing escalated to a bewildered, panicked panting, and he tried to roll out of bed, only to fail miserably. His little hermana was at a slumber party tonight, so she obviously wasn't trying to pull a fast one on him—

Ismael quickly drew breath to scream for help, but out of nowhere, a fist abruptly struck him upside the face, making the astounded Cuban see stars before he fell back against the bed with a gasp of pain. Something hurriedly plastered itself over his mouth, and Ismael blindly kicked out like a tethered bull, hands desperately trying to fly to his face so that he could rip the suffocating material off—

Someone gently shushed him, clicking their tongues in mock disapproval before cruel fingers dug into his hair and dragged the thrashing boy upwards, ignoring his squeals and grunts of pain. They held him there for a moment, and then hot breath ghosted against the astounded Cuban's ear, whispering sweetly:

"You and I need to have a little chat, Yблюдок."

~*oOo*~

Ismael startled so badly he let out a shout, or at least as good a shout he could make with his mouth virtually glued shut. The hand released him, and the Cuban fell back against the sheets, his injured body sticking to them as a cold sweat broke over his body.

A lantern lit up beside his bed, and Ismael found himself looking up into the Russian's face, his expression twisted in a childlike smile, soft and serene.

Akin to a child's whilst he watched ants burning up. In the dim light, Ivan had a cartoonish, piano-like sort of smile, one that looked too large and gaunt for his mad face, his teeth looking mismatched and ghoulish in the eerie light, as if they were comprised of broken glass.

Ismael's eyes bulged out of their sockets and his violent thrashing for freedom continued, the bed frame knocking against the wall as he tried to rip his way free of the chains he could now very easily see holding him fast to all four corners of the bed.

If the situation hadn't been so bizarre, or sick, Ismael might have laughed. Ivan certainly looked like he were about to as he bent his head back down to the Cuban's ear, and murmured softly:

"I'm going to take the tape off now," he said mildly, tapping the heavy-duty padding over Ismael's mouth. "If you say a word, I will go to your parents' room." The smile grew into something even larger, more twisted, distorting Ivan's face so badly he no longer looked like a child, but a vicious, demented maniac in excruciating pain. "And I will make you watch as I twist your mother's neck, hold you fast as I drown your father's head in the toilet."

From behind his back he drew out a pipe, pressing the cool metal against Ismael's bare chest. The Cuban tried desperately hard not to shake, but his body betrayed him, trembling as if a million bolts were throbbing through his frame.

Ivan prodded the pipe against a bruise, making the Cuban grunt with pain under the tape. "Do you understand? One word, one scream, and I will kill you all."

What, with a pipe? My Dad can pack some heat, you son of a bitch.

But Ismael reluctantly nodded, brow visibly gleaming, eyes dark brown pools of panic. Looking pleased, Ivan lightly took hold of one end of the tape and promptly ripped it off Ismael's face. Ismael nearly let out a howl of pain, but Ivan simply clapped a hand over his mouth, despite the other's attempts to draw his head away, to bite the hand. He managed to sink his teeth into flesh, tasted blood. Ivan did not make so much as a sound, but he did abruptly swing his elbow into Ismael's eye, forcing him to let go.

"The fuck you doing in my house?" Ismael wheezed when Ivan let his hand drop, pulling on his chains again, not caring that Ivan jabbed him in his still injured side. "And what the hell'd you do to me? Caramba, you really are insane! Get these damn things off me and I'll show what you real pain is! You got no right to go around threatening mi Papi or Mama!"

"Oh, but I think I do. And," Ivan added, drawing a knife out of his pocket, flicking it open and pressing it against Ismael's pounding heart, "If you don't keep voice down, I'll be happy to show you that I make good on my threats."

All the vigor drained out of Ismael's face. He blinked away tears.

"The hell? They didn't do nothin' to you," the stockier of the two stammered, teeth chattering as Ivan rubbed the cool faucet against the underside of his chin; a caress. "They aren't guilty of nothin', man! Leave 'em alone! Hell, leave ME alone! Get outta my house!"

"Oh, but I believe they are guilty, guilty just as you are, sniveling wretch. They brought scum like you into the world." The monster's eyes flashed in the dark. "As for your little sister, I believe she is at slumber party tonight, da? Very lucky. I promise I won't lay a scratch on her, however. Why should she suffer for your sins?"

"You're a fucking lunatic," Ismael gasped. "You. You and Jones. Great, bullying, bossy, crazies. Someone shoulda thrown you both in the loony house a long time ago. Fight me like a man, you son of a whore."

Ivan smiled at him. Then he seized the duct tape again, tore a piece off and slammed it over Ismael's mouth, despite the young man's desperate attempts to avoid it or tongue it off. "Mmmphhh! Mmmph! Mmmpphhhhh!"

And then, in a flash of silver, Ivan impaled the sharp end of his pipe directly through Ismael's hand, pinning it against the wall.

The scream Ismael let out through the tape was so loud that Ivan covered his face with a pillow as the shorter man writhed and struggled, bleeding hand flailing as blood continued to ooze down the wall in liberal amounts. Ivan wrenched it out after a moment or so, and Ismael cradled the bloody wreck against his neck, chest heaving with searing screeches and silent sobs as tears trickled down his face.

"Shhh," Ivan soothed, ripping the tape off Ismael's face, the Cuban biting his lip with every ounce of energy he had to keep himself from crying out. "Never fear, squirming little toad. I will not saw you in half. There is no time for that. But you will apologize," he added, childlike pretense abruptly pooling out of his cold, cold voice. "Apologize for your heresy."

Bewildered, nearly delirious, Ismael stared up at the nightmare with swollen eyes, nearly senseless with terror and pain. "The…the hell you talkin' about….f-fucking psycho—"

"QUIET!" Ivan roared, and Ismael recoiled. Howling in rage, Ivan brought the pipe flying down over the Cuban's face, and Ismael only just rolled out of the way in time for the metal to sink into a pillow instead of flesh. The Russian ripped at the fabric before tearing the weapon out, and feathers spilled out all over Ismael's body, hot blood dripping on them from the terrible wound on his torn hand.

Ivan's shoulders rose and fell rapidly, trembling pipe poised to plunge into the horrified teenager's body, still red with his blood. "Quiet, quiet, quiet, QUIET! You sniveling little beast, Выродок, Ёб твою мать!" He seized Ismael by the chin and shook him, pressing into his cheekbones with his thumb and forefingers with crushing force, as if determined to squeeze the tears out of him before bursting his face like a smashed orange.

"How dare you, how dare you pretend not to know what I'm talking about when you KNOW," he fumed, "You KNOW you insulted my innocent, called him a LIAR! My innocent, MINE, you evil fuck, vile brat, my innocence! As if that weren't enough, you hurt him," he snarled, teeth bared. "Broke what was his, mine. And I'll break you for it!"

Ivan suddenly tensed; he seemed to at last realize how loud he was being. And a sleepy voice from downstairs suddenly called out: "Ismael? For God's sake, keep it down already! It's past eleven!"

The Russian's pipe flew back to Ismael's stomach in warning, and the agonizing Cuban had an awful mental flashback of the frog he'd dissected in biology last year.

"One word, and I'll gut her like a fish. I will grab her by the hair and skin her alive."

Ismael was gone; the proud, arrogant teen was replaced by a stranger, one whose main identity constituted horror, horror and the agony at his torn palm and shattered bone; hot blood and ripped skin and fat and pain, pain, throbbing, bleeding, pain so bad it was almost as bad as the fear—

"S-Si, Mama," he croaked out, trying to keep the sobs ripping at his chest out of his voice.

With some difficulty, he turned to look at the hideous face above him, trembling. Ivan stared at him, violet eyes cooling into indifferent amusement as Ivan lay back against his soaked sheets and prayed Ivan would not kill him then and there.

"I wonder if I ought to give my sweet angel your heart as a present," he commented idly, pulling a vial out of his pocket and turning it over carelessly in his hands. "A gruesome valentine, to be sure, but my dear Alfred deserves some retribution for the wrongs you caused him." Ivan's icy eyes narrowed into slits, and Ismael's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He had to keep the lunatic talking. Distract him from the murderous craving he could see pulsing in those terrible, predator eyes.

"It was you," he gasped, bleeding hand still twitching like mad. "Yer the one…who's been leavin' Jones messages. You're da one after him."

He had to break free. Save his family. Save his fucking self somehow. Then, he had to get the police, because while Alfred F. Jones deserved a lot of things in Ismael's book, one of those things was certainly not in the hands of an absolutely unhinged sociopath, where he'd end up six feet underground.

Ivan did not react beyond the lifting of an eyebrow. "I would love to respond…how is it my love quaintly responds when someone tells him the obvious?" the Russian asked dryly, tucking his pipe under his arm as he unscrewed the lid of his little bottle and peered inside curiously. "'Well, duh,' I believe it is? But I do not need to pursue my dearest little rabbit," he added, unhinged face betraying a hint of softness. "He is already mine, whether he knows it yet or not."

Ismael forced himself to swallow around the fright gripping at his throat. Had to stall for time. Had to survive. Time to kiss up.

"I'm sorry," he croaked, wincing as blood dripped into his eyes. "I'm sorry, okay? Sorry I insulted yer….angel." He almost let out a hysterical snort of laughter himself at the term. Jones, an angel?

Ivan looked at him.

And promptly splashed some of the liquid from the little bottle onto Ismael's bare chest, which sizzled immediately upon contact, and Ivan cheerfully grabbed a pillow and planted it over Ismael's weeping face until the hysteric sobs quieted. "I am glad my sister works at hospital…is so funny that we have this acid in our stomachs," he remarked as he threw the pillow aside, and the Cuban whined helplessly as he tried to blow on the large burns that felt as if they were nibbling his way through his body like so many termites with razor sharp teeth.

"You do not seem sorry," Ivan said dryly, lowering the bottle. "Well, you are very sorry to see me here, that is so. As you should be. Would you like to hear a story, little toad? Actually, it does not matter if you do or not," he added cheerfully. "Because if you make a sound….well, actions speak louder than words." He drew up a chair, pulled out a small notebook from his nearby bag, and began to doodle as Ismael shook with hurt, his eyes rolling madly around in his head from the splitting pain everywhere. "Ah…I wish I could see better. But no matter."

He hummed contently. "This story does not have very happy beginning. But glorious ending, like all good stories do.

"Once upon a time, there was a pretty young woman who gave birth to three children," he commented, as Ismael fought back the torrent of swear words he longed to hurl at the crazy man."One destined for madness and hopeless love, another for misfortune and destitution, and another….for a saint." Ivan carefully brushed away some excess pencil dust away from his drawing, smiling brightly. "A radiant, blue-eyed prince of sunflowers. This prince gave hope to the hopeless and rekindled life into something dazzling, something enjoyable." In all irony, Ivan's smile started to fade away with his words.

"The prince had a servant who loved him desperately, more than anyone or anything else in the world, even his own flesh and blood. The servant saw the great purity in Alfred's heart long, long ago, and by destiny was reunited with the jewel-like little bird. And the servant swore that the prince's purity never be compromised by the many jealous and wicked evils stalking him." A tear raced down Ivan's face.

"Sadly, there are people like you who do not much like my sunflower. This makes me unhappy, because those who do not like flowers tend to step on them. And that, as flower's caretaker, makes me very unhappy." Much to Ismael's alarm, an angry grimace began to deepen over Ivan's face. "Jealous, filthy pigs, all deserve to have their throats slit and their mouths stuffed full with rodents. But even that is too good for them, because my sunflower is the epitome of goodness. Why else would he take pity on me, a lost boy three times? And, what else he has done for me…to have someone who will hug you, cheer for you, ask after you and fight for you…someone to watch for you and to care and to notice and to touch you…." Another tear streamed down his face. "How can I not love him? My living darling! For him, I killed Arthur Kirkland."

"No." The word came out as an astonished, dismayed gasp. A terrible smirk appeared on Ivan's face.

"Da," he said lightly, lowering his sketchbook. And I took no small pleasure out of it. He has quite a high voice, don't you think so, Ismael? Or at least had," he added thoughtfully, and Ismael nearly fainted. "You see, I broke the squirming hyena's leg, retribution for what hurt he'd caused my sunlight. Then I broke another arm, and then another, and then his other leg, and then I nailed him to the wall and worked on my target practice." Ivan chuckled with mirth. "Turned out, I was a little out of shape…I had to throw many, many knives, but that was because it so fun to watch him cry as they almost hit him." Ivan held his thumb and index finger very closely together, still basking in Ismael's repulsion and overwhelming fear.

"Only a few sank in…non-vital areas, of course, sunk in deep enough to cause him mortal agony, though. Then, I had a change of heart and told him I was letting him go. I detached him from wall, pulled knives out and carried him to car. I told him to wait—we would be going to a hospital soon."

If Ismael screamed now, Mama and Papa would only be able to hear a muffled shouting—they might come to investigate, but Papa probably wouldn't think to bring his gun….

"Fetched my pipe. Dragged him out. Beat him until he at last lay still. Have you ever heard the sound of a human skull cracking under metal, Ismael?"

"P-please," Ismael begged tearfully. "No…"

"Oh, come now," Ivan said impatiently, looked annoyed. "I am not going to do that to you." He fondly considered the vial in his hands and Ismael started to cry, forcing himself to stop when Ivan threateningly raised the pipe again. "I meant to be much kinder to Mr. Yao, though—only beheading. But he screamed and cried, just as Arthur screamed and cried, so to make him feel better I tied his arms together with Hello Kitty sheets and the Hello Kitty jumprope. I thought of maybe burning his face off with the Hello Kitty barbeque, but I saved that for someone else. Then, I beheaded Mr. Yao with the Hello Kitty axe," he added blandly. "Kitty got quite a bit of blood on her face…I must admit, the pink and daisy-covered weapon was good touch…."

Ivan checked his watch and sighed before getting to his feet.

"I normally put good thought into what I do for company," he said somewhat ruefully as he put away his sketchpad and slung his pack over an arm. "So sorry that is not case tonight. I know, is very rude of me…." He said sympathetically, patting a stricken Ismael on the arm, not caring that the boy desperately scooted away from his touch. "I have been…what is word for it? Ah, da. Agitated, lately." A bark of laughter. "There is one who thinks they can take my flower away from me, and yet I cannot touch them. I cannot make my sunflower sad, else its petals will brown and wilt and I will not survive that. But there are ways," he said merrily, his purple eyes lighting up like a child rescued from gravest disappointment. "Other ways of getting rid of an annoyance. You should be proud to know that you are going to help me dispose of a wicked thief who has stolen into my garden."

The Russian picked up his lantern, starting to mutter under his breath. "Rotten, conniving, scheming fuck, Alfred is my little candle, my hope, I will protect him and run Kiku through a meat grinder, piece by piece…"

"But what I do to you," the Russian sang, "Is read you a poem."

Momentarily distracted from the piercing knife-stabs of discomfort radiating everywhere throughout his body, Ismael gawked at him. Ivan sent him a winning beam, playfully poked the disgusted Cuban in the cheek, and recited:

"My mother told me long ago
When I was a little tad
That when the night went wailing so,
Somebody had been bad;
And then, when I was snug in bed,
Whither I had been sent,
With the blankets pulled up round my head,
I'd think of what my mother'd said,
And wonder what boy she meant!
And "Who's been bad to-day?"
I'd ask Of the wind that hoarsely blew;
And the voice would say in its meaningful way:
"Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo! Yoooooooo!"

"I told that poem to Arthur, actually," Ivan said apologetically. "It just so happens to be mutually beneficial for both situations, though I beg you forgive my unoriginality." Ivan exhaled and glanced at his watch again. "Katyusha will be waiting…I suppose I should wrap this up."

"Wait," Ismael faltered again, desperate to keep Ivan talking, his eyes fixed on the glass of hydrochloric acid he still held. "Al doesn't know you're doing this? Ya think Jones is really gonna be okay with you mauling people?"

Ivan considered him, gentle smile on his face.

"One day, I will tell all to my Alfred," he said quietly. "And make him understand how I yearn for him. He will be mine," "He will be mine and no one will touch my sunflower again, no one will tend to him but myself and myself alone—I will see to it that he needs for nothing. It is my right to take him—he is what was promised to me. My salvation. He is everything I cannot be, all that I desire in life. It's not enough to simply have him….I want him one with my flesh," Ivan mused, and Ismael let out a strangled hissing noise.

"But I will settle for having my adorable little bird in my talons. Anyhow…" He approached Ismael, putting the glass beaker on the nightstand whilst reaching for his roll of duct tape. Recognizing that his time had at last ran out, Ismael made an attempt to roar, but Ivan quickly silenced him once again before seizing the beaker and—

Lowered it. Ismael cowered, waiting for the whiplash of pain that did not come.

"I was going to blind you," the Russian murmured. "But I think this will suffice."

And with that, Ivan made to turn around and leave. On his way to the door he came to a stop, slowly turned around, and Ismael winced. There was that awful not-smile again, the grimace.

"Earlier tonight, you told me to 'fight like a man,'" Ivan tittered. "Said the boy! Tee hee! Oh, Ismael, you were always good for a joke. Shame you had to hurt my little one, else…." He shook his head, a mockery of regret. "You might have seen graduation."

"Up in flames in jealousy," the Russian murmured as Ismael writhed like a trapped insect tethered in a web, tried to tear the tape off. "Consuming you and everyone around you. Da, I think it will be suitable for you to die as you lived. Goodbye, Ismael. You will not be missed."

And with that, he left.

Stricken, Ismael lay against the sheets and waited for a sound, a shriek from Mami, an angry demand from Papa—but nothing. The seconds crawled by, and Ivan's quiet footsteps faded away to nothing. After awhile, he thought he heard the front door shut. Was it safe to start making as much noise as he could, alert his parents that there'd been an intruder, that someone had just fucking stabbed him?

But before he make good on his plan, waves of something distinctly familiar began to waft into his nostrils, and he leaned his head up to sniff the air, still incapacitated.

Bafflement returned to the searing chill of terror.

Is that….gasoline?!

~*oOo*~

The snow glittered like a sea of diamonds underneath the stars. Ivan slowly walked down the street, hands deep in his pockets to protect them from cold. He fingered the now-folded Swiss Army Knife in his pocket, pleased that he hadn't damaged the blade whilst breaking into the house. He'd much rather spend the money on getting Alfred a new pair of glasses or a nice bouquet of sunflowers rather than go through the trouble of getting another knife. This was a small town and he'd really rather not have to drive all the way to the city to find one with good quality.

He noticed that his clothes now smelled like rust and gas. Ivan would have to take a good long soak in the tub and throw his clothes in the wash. Katyusha wouldn't notice, was so deliciously willing and able to swallow up his lies about where he'd been.

Though he supposed he technically hadn't been lying tonight. He told his sister that he would be home late because he was be attending a bonfire. Ivan paused in his trek, and checked his watch.

The fuse on his homemade chemical bomb would take three minutes to burn to its end; with any luck, the bottle bombs he'd rigged up against the staircase would topple like dominoes according to plan, and then, the gasoline he'd poured all over the hallway, splattered on all the walls—

He checked his watch.

Three…two….one….

And the house behind him promptly exploded, and with it, everyone inside.

Silver glass shards burst out the windows as flames immediately foompfed! into life, so many skywards, massive gold and red tongues consuming the little house entirely, licking at the wood and brick as they raced for the midnight blue sky. Comparable to so many lions, the fire roared its triumph over the dwelling and its denizens, sparks hailing down to Earth like shooting stars.

Ivan admired the sight, inhaling the ashy air. A masterpiece for you, my living sunflower.

The neighbors would be out any second, and the fire department called. Given the fact that Ivan could still smell gasoline even from where he stood (although in all fairness, the scent could easily be coming from his clothes), they'd know it wasn't an accident.

He needed to get out of here. He made to rush down the street, where he could walk a block or so to his car under cover of darkness, but he stopped in his tracks, smiling faintly at his own stupidity. Oh. He almost forgot.

Ivan took the bag slung carelessly over his shoulder and threw it on the lawn of the burning house. That had been the parcel he'd obtained just that afternoon. He was happy he'd remembered it; picking the locker for the backpack had taken more time than Ivan had anticipated.

The backpack now contained one box of matches, one half-full container of gasoline. A lighter. Some rags.

It was marked with a name, first in Japanese characters, then in English. As alarmed people began to flood the streets, Ivan slowly turned and began to walk away from it all. One little boy wandered to the backpack and scooped it up, turning to gawk at the fiery inferno before looking back at the name on the bag:

Kiku Honda.

~*oOo*~

Several weeks ago

His head ached, burned against the pillow he'd already turned over, his torso shivered, gooseflesh popping up everywhere on the hot flesh. Throat was bitterly sore, and his stomach rolled and felt ready to eject its contents, though Alfred hadn't been able to digest much more than a few soda crackers and some water in the past two days he'd been ill with the flu.

Suddenly, he'd heard something creaking, something like cloth fluttering, and a rush of cold air blew into the room. Still in a feverish stupor, Alfred wriggled under the blankets and held his churning stomach, longing to just fall asleep until this misery was over.

He imagined he felt the bed sink a little, and fancied someone touched the small of his back, rubbing it. But he was probably still dreaming.

The blankets lifted, and a pair of unseen icy hands planted themselves over his stomach, caressing the aching body.

"Shh," he imagined he heard someone breathe when his breath hitched, something velvety tickling his ear. "Don't be frightened, my love. I will make you better."

Something sharp pressed against Alfred's shoulder, and for a moment his eyes flew open, vision blurry without the aid of his glasses. Pale moonlight was streaming into the dark, bluish room, and Alfred tried to prop himself up on his elbows so that he could see what had just sticked him. But something forced him back against the bed, something rough and leathery pressing up against his forehead. A gentle shushing sound, as if someone were trying to calm a distressed infant.

"Sleep, little dove," the darkness said softly. "I'm not going anywhere. Sleep, my only."

A second needle was sliding into his arm, but the pain hardly registered anything in Alfred's sleep-deprived mind. With a sigh, his eyes flickered shut, and he gladly sank against something solid, something cool wrapping around his form and squeezing him tenderly.

When he woke up, fever evaporated and stomach only mildly queasy, he found a yellow sunflower sitting by his head, and the window wide open.

~*oOo*~

Alfred didn't sleep well that night. He'd tried calling Elizabeta, but the girl refused to return his calls, and then he'd been at the mercy of his parents, who'd questioned him for what felt like hours. He'd almost broken down in tears by the time he climbed into bed, tiptoeing two or three times out of it to make sure it was firmly locked.

But his dreams were still unpleasant; he saw a dead sow lying dead on the ground, its chest ripped open. A little boy was hammering a heart to a door, humming as he did so, and people moaned and cried out from beneath the ground Alfred ran on, the nearly monochrome world flashing in and out of his eyes as some nameless terror pursued him, about to eat him—

And then he awoke to the sound of screams.

With a yell of alarm, Alfred tried to yank himself out from the blankets, but he was twisted into them so badly that he couldn't see, couldn't escape, ended up rolling over in the suffocating mass until he tumbled off the bed, hitting the floor headfirst with a loud THUD.

Swearing, Alfred worked on unwinding the sheets from his body, desperately kicking at them when he realized that the hysteric sobs weren't filtering in from his dreams, but were filtering in from the living room. Mattie was crying, crying rough, jagged sobs, as if he were terrified, or in worse pain then he'd been when that creep had punched out a few of his fucking teeth—

A prickling burn replaced Alfred's spine, and the young man hurtled out the door, nearly tripping over the sheets two or three times, grabbing one of his old baseball bats along the way. He raced down the stairs to the living room, where Matthew was lying huddled up in a small ball next to the television, hands covering his eyes as tears streamed down his face. Mrs. Jones was kneeling next to her son, squeezing his quivering form as Mr. Jones stared blankly at the TV, mute. Under the couch, Franklin was watching the proceedings with large eyes.

The bat slipped from Alfred's limp fingers, and he dropped to his brother's side. What had happened? His mind vaguely flashed to the 911 attacks that had happened when he and Mattie were just little kids, and Alfred's head flew in the direction of the TV, expecting the end of the world or the death of several small puppies and kittens.

Instead, all he got was a vaguely familiar building caught on fire.

"Mattie, Mom, Dad, what in the…?"

"It's Ismael," Mrs. Jones said faintly, and Matthew's sobbing grew wilder. "A huge blaze broke out at his home last night." Her voice was low with trouble. "Alfred, he's dead. His parents too."

All the feeling went out of Alfred's legs.

"This might sound awful, but the person I feel the worst for is that little girl," Mr. Jones said sadly, clapping his stunned son's shoulder and shaking it. "Imagine, going to a party and coming back to find your house, all of your things, your family….gone….wiped off the face of the earth…."

Wiped off the face of the Earth.

"Alfred?"

There was no question about it this time. He heard a strange jabbering sound in his ears, and he heard Matthew crying and felt his father asking him something-

"ALFRED!"

And the floor rushed up to meet him suddenly.

~*oOo*~

Ivan couldn't remember the last time he'd been taken to a restaurant, nor could he ever before recall being told to get whatever he liked. The very thought would have been a laughable dream just hours ago, when he'd craved a mushy apple to soothe the pangs beating at his insides like stones. Now that it was actually happening, Ivan found the soreness of his injured arm almost to be a relief—every painful pulse he felt from it was a reminder that he was miraculously awake.

The guilt he'd felt when thinking of poor Katyusha and Natalya was easier to overlook whenever he looked into Alfred's bright eyes (as well as whisked a few complimentary crackers off the table to store in his pockets for later). The little American boy sat next to him, occasionally babbling in his strange tongue in a fashion that had Ivan's attention, even if he couldn't understand. Mr. Jones sat across from the two of them, translating for the two of them.

It was a bit strange, Ivan decided, like a game of telephone, but rather fun in its oddity. When Ivan shyly asked Mr. Jones to tell Alfred that Ivan liked his jacket, Mr. Jones translated in English and Alfred's eyes lit up, the little boy giggling as his legs swung back and forth in the booth. He'd said something himself, turned to his father and likely asked to pass on a message, and the man smiled broadly before telling Ivan in Russian that Alfred thought he was amazingly tough for not crying over his injury.

When their food came, it was hard to say which was more intoxicating—the flow of conversation, jilted as it was, or the food itself.

"Slow down, son!" Mr. Jones exclaimed when Ivan tore into his food with all the energy of a starving panther. "Gracious, Alfred, you too," he scolded as Alfred looked up from his burger, face splattered with ketchup and mustard. "You're going to both get stomach aches at this rate….oh, darn it all, I'm still talking in Russian, aren't I?" Mr. Jones dryly asked Ivan, beginning to laugh when his son just made the cuckoo sign.

Choking down a mouthful of potatoes, Ivan had taken a good look at Alfred and laughed, laughed merrily and genuinely for the first time in what felt like years. Alfred didn't really understand what Ivan was laughing at but he'd drank it in and laughed that infectious, carrying laughter with Ivan instead of at.

After the two had had dessert, they'd walked hand-in-hand together to The Cathedral of Spilled Blood.

Please consider this my late Halloween entry...although I guess this isn't very cute and fluffy. I have some ideas for cute and fluffy fictions, but I am definitely open for suggestions. Sorry to cut this chapter short-got my midterms coming up and I gots to study. *Makes face* I hope this chapter's name didn't ultimately wind up disappointing you.

Actually a cathedral, despite creepy name. Look it up; if I ever go to Russia, I would love to see it. The murals look astonishingly beautiful and would make Michelangelo jealous! I bet Russia's very proud of it. :)

Alfred's such a girl. And Kiku's in trouble. And I like pie. *Goes on epic quest to find some*

Please, please review!

Next Chapter: Silver And Gold Will Be Stolen Away.