Let's do a bit of a switch up, shall we? I'm going to do a little experimenting with different P.O.V's, but this shift shouldn't happen too often. I would like for the development of Ivan and Alfred's "relationship" be seen from both sides of the spectrum. Thank you for reading. Oh, and even though it will be their point of view, it will still be in third person as I like to write in the "NARRATOR KNOWS ALL" style. I think it's called "ominous". Oh well, read on~


Alfred's Point of View

Not a word had been said in the car. Arthur's hands grip the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had a white tinge to them. At some point, Francis had comfortingly placed his hand on Arthur's leg. Arthur could feel the solemn calm pass through Francis, and it helped somewhat.

Alfred, however, simply stared out the window. He felt nauseous and Arthur's angry driving wasn't helping. On top of the mental strain, his body was exhausted from the game. His muscles ached and all he wanted was a hot, steamy shower and his soft, cotton pajama pants. He also wanted the weekend to go by slowly. He never wanted to face Sunday evening when Sam would pick him up. The thought of being alone with Sam after he had been humiliated sent a shuddered up Alfred's spine and he inwardly cringed. Then Alfred's thoughts took a different turn and he thought of the humiliator: Mr. Braginski.

He had stood up to Sam the way Alfred had always wanted to. When Mr. Braginski had confronted Sam, it wasn't like when Francis tried to fight back, but ended up relying on a very over-protective Arthur who would rant and rave. No. When Mr. Braginski stood up to Sam he was cool and collected. Every fiber of his being radiated confidence and self-assurance. Mr. Braginski didn't get angry, but rather he got cold and aloof, as if he was superior to the situation and nothing you could say or do would bring you victory: he was like a figure from the spy comics hidden in a box in Alfred's closet.

When they got home, Alfred dashed up the stairs and into the bathroom. He could finally have his shower. Alfred let the near-scalding water cascade down his head, shoulders, and spine. He rolled his shoulders and neck, waiting for the satisfying "pop" sound. He felt his joints pop and he sighed, feeling a little better all ready. He turned on his shower radio and was pleased one of his favorite songs was pumping through the speakers. The bass line thrummed pleasantly and Alfred found himself lost in the music soon enough; he was eager to escape himself for a few minutes and he didn't see the harm.

He worked his shampoo into his thick blonde tresses to the beat of the song. Alfred couldn't help but let his hips move a little bit as he did so. He wasn't worried about someone walking in on him as he had locked the door, so why not enjoy the privacy? As he internalized the beat, he let his hips swivel. Alfred had always been a good dancer, but he never got the chance to demonstrate that ability (He had always wanted to take a dance class, much to Francis' glee, but Sam said dancing was for girls and Alfred never questioned Sam). As he rinsed out his shampoo, he tilted his head back and closed his eyes. It was a dark for a moment and it was just Alfred, his thoughts, and the music. He had never assumed it was a dangerously sinful combination until certain images made their way across the insides of his eyelids. Certain images of a certain English teacher. A certain Russian English teacher. Thoughts of a certain Mr. Braginski. Alfred's thoughts seemed to orbit around the man. Alfred suddenly wondered if he danced, and he wished he hand't (yet he knew at the same time he didn't mind, as wrong as he knew it should be). In his mind, Mr. Braginski did, though. In Alfred's mind's eye, Mr. B was quite the dancer indeed. Alfred imagined the man moving his hips effortlessly to the beat of Alfred's music. Alfred felt his hand slowly make it's way from his hair, fingertips ghosting over his neck, down his chest, over his stomach...

His eyes shot open. What the hell was he doing?

Quickly, Alfred shut off the radio and the shower. He grabbed his towel and hurriedly dried off and put on his sleep clothes. The time of the beating of his heart was racing and his thoughts were whirling. Did he really almost...? Was he...? No! He couldn't be... Sure his uncle was, but it wasn't really genetic... was it? Alfred felt sick. He felt trapped in his own body; his filthy, lustful, awful body. Alfred also felt trapped in his mind. How could he think of something so utterly wrong? Sure he had had these passing impulses before, but he always assumed if he ignored them, they'd go away.

This method had worked well until he had met Mr. Braginski, however. Alfred knew something was not right with him as soon as he heard his teacher's smooth, thick accent. The accent sent shudders down his spine and he would do anything to get the other to say his name, to speak to him, to look at him with those exotic, lavender eyes. Anything. That was ultimately why he had ended up agreeing to tutoring. He could care less about his grades. He was going to play football for a living anyway; he wasn't smart enough to be anything else. Sure football was another important reason he would admit (he would never be able to go pro if he didn't even finish his high school program), but the thought of being alone with Mr. Braginski and having the older man all to himself was far too tempting to pass up.

Yes, Alfred was perfectly content with the tutoring so long as he was with Mr. Braginski... He just couldn't let Sam find out. Not that he was worried Sam would; as long as he performed well in sports and didn't act like he better enjoyed Francis and Arthur's company more than his, Sam really didn't give a shit about Alfred. He accepted this fact, but with his new dilemma (a.k.a his questionable sexual orientation), he fully embraced Sam's neglectful nature.

Alfred was shaken from his thoughts when he heard a soft knock on his door.

"Alfred?" Francis called softly from the other side.

Alfred wasted no time opening the door. No matter how disturbed Alfred believed he was, Francis was always there. Alfred's uncle smiled softly in greeting, his eyes soft and sympathetic, but not pitying.

"May I come in?" Francis asked, even though he knew what the answer would be.

Alfred nodded and moved to the side, allowing the older man entry. Francis went over to the bed and slowly sat down, then gently patted the spot beside him, silently coaxing his nephew to sit. Alfred did as was implied and the two sat together in comfortable silence for a few moments.

"I'm not going to ask if you want to talk, because I know you probably do not, but I do want to make sure you are alright, mon cher." Francis said, his voice was warm and his accent thickened on the pet name.

Alfred gave his uncle a soft, reassuring smile, "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks Uncle Francis," He replied.

Francis nodded and closed his eyes. Alfred couldn't help but notice how tired he looked and Alfred knew that he probably wanted to go to bed, where Alfred was sure Arthur already lay.

"That is good to hear. Are you sure there is nothing that is troubling you?" Francis asked again, his light blue eyes looked onto Alfred in a way that assured Alfred he was ready to listen.

Alfred wanted to tell him everything was a-okay, that nothing was wrong and that he could go to bed, but he didn't. Alfred was fully aware that his uncle knew better. That was something he had learned about Francis and Arthur; they cared enough to look past his smiles and really try to see what was going through his mind. It was like they had this way of knowing, something akin to a sixth sense, that allowed them the ability to know when something was out of sorts with their (yes, their) nephew. Alfred felt Francis' soft hand gently encase his.

"I'm here if you need me," Francis urged kindly, giving Alfred's hand a light squeeze.

Alfred knew he had to talk to Francis. He could trust his uncle and he felt if he didn't say what was on his mind, he might possibly burst.

"Well, I... There's this..." Alfred coughed and cleared his throat and rubbed the bad of his neck, "person at school and I think I might, I don't know, like them or something, but I'm pretty sure they aren't that into me." He began, carefully excluding all pronouns.

Francis chuckled suggestively. "Oh is that so? Is it juene amour?" He chuckled.

Alfred didn't know much French, but he did recognize amour, and a pink blush dusted his cheeks.

"No! Well, kinda, but.. you see, the person might not return my feelings. I mean, I'm almost positive they don't..." Alfred trailed off.

Francis rubbed his chin in thought, his eyes closed in contemplation, and a small smirk was settled on his lips. He then looked at Alfred with sparkling eyes and asked, "how do you they do not return your feelings? Did they say so with out a blush? Because you know Arthur says he does not like me but we all know he loves me! Ohononon..." Francis chuckled.

Alfred shuddered and decided it was best to press on with the subject before Francis began describing just how much Arthur loved him, "Well, I haven't told h-er- them yet. I don't know what to say..." Alfred said.

Francis' smile grew and he took Alfred's face in his hands and spoke excitedly, "You must tell them! Love is not without risks, mon petite neveu!" He then let go and stood up, dramatically placing his hands over his heart, "you must woo and charm them~"

"How do I that?" Alfred asked, suddenly worried.

"As cliche as it sounds, be yourself. Learn their humor, make them laugh and smile. Compliment them, flatter them. Then, as the relationship progresses, make them feel good by..."

"Okay, Uncle! I think I understand now!" Alfred interrupted before Francis could get carried away.

Francis chuckled, clearly pleased with his expertise, "I'm glad" He said before yawned and made his way towards the door, "Bonsoir, Alfred." Francis said with a wink, quietly shutting the door.

"Bonsoir, Papa..." Alfred whispered, only saying it once he was sure Francis was out of ear shot. Alfred then crawled into bed, certain he would have dreams of wooing a certain " person."


Francis was still chuckling softly as he made his way into his and Arthur's bedroom. Arthur sat on the foot of the bed with arms crossed over his chest and one leg was over the other. His green eyes were still blazing with a cold rage, though they weren't near as angry as they had been in the car.

"So how is he, frog?" Arthur hissed.

Francis gave Arthur a soft, reassuring smile and reached over to move the Brit's bangs so he could plant a kiss on Arthur's forehead.

"He is fine, mon amour. Maybe a little more so, ohonon~" Francis chuckled, rooting himself beside his husband.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Arthur snapped. Honestly, why did the frog feel the need to beat around the bush?

"Alfred has a little crush." Francis said with a wink.

"A what? On who? I demand to know the wench's name!" Arthur said, the anger quickly transforming into shock and curiosity in those emerald eyes.

"Oh I'm not so sure it's a wench, if you know what I mean..." Francis said with a lewd smirk.

Arthur's eyes widened more until Francis thought that they would pop out of Arthur's head.

"He's...?"

"Oui."

"Are you sure? This isn't something to be taken lightly, frog! Especially with Sam on a rampage-"

Francis cut his husband off, "I am sure, Arthur. I know these things. Besides, he's a lot like you." Francis said, gently leaning in to nip Arthur's ear.

A deep blush spread across Arthur's face. Oh Arthur was well aware that Francis knew about those kinds of things. Arthur swore up and down he was as straight as a board until Francis came along and seduced him. Francis knew what Arthur was thinking about and took the opportunity to pull himself into Arthur's lap, immediately getting a desirable result as the Brit's body heated up.

"Let us relive the night you discovered you had different tastes, shall we?" Francis said, licking his lips.

Arthur briefly looked surprised before his eyes narrowed and clouded over in lust.

"You read my mind..."


Ivan had taken a detour home. Long drives always helped steady his nerves. Ivan had always loved long car rides when he was young and it was something he had never grown out of. The soft percussive music gently pumped through his car's speakers and his driving grew less aggressive as he allowed his thoughts to settle.

It was none of his business. The Jones family's issues were none of his concern. Period.

No, not period. Ivan was concerned no matter how many times he told himself he wasn't. He could keenly recall the look on Alfred's face as his father approached; all color in the boy's skin drained away and his eyes widened. In fact, the more Ivan thought about it, the more he recalled an unidentified emotion coursing through those big, blue eyes every time Sam was mentioned. It shouldn't be any of his concern.

Ivan drove his car into the garage of his home and went inside. He helped himself to some tea, knowing he wouldn't get much sleep despite how exhausted he felt. He gingerly sipped his tea, savoring how the warmth spread through his body. No wonder some people claimed tea was good for the soul.

Shortly after Ivan finished his tea, he made his way up to his bedroom and changed into his night clothes. He got into bed, but he lay in bed looking at the ceiling. Why couldn't he stop thinking about Alfred lately? He had hated him only days ago! But now he was the only thing Ivan could think about! Even if Ivan wasn't thinking directly about Alfred, something would remind him of the boy. There was no way this was healthy.

Maybe obsessive behavior runs in the family...Ivan thought, his mind drifting to thoughts of his younger sister. He cringed. Ivan hoped he didn't turn out like she had, lest he go ahead and check himself into the asylum where his poor, delusional sister was... Ivan blinked rapidly as the corners of his eyes pricked. There was no need for tears. She would get help. She would get better. Ivan exhaled sharply and snuggled deeper under the covers as sleep had finally begun to settle on him, making his eyelids heavy. Ivan happily welcomed the embrace of sleep, even though he worried Alfred might find his way into his dreams, too...


Author's Notes

LAME FILLER CHAPTER IS LAME!

I'm so sorry that this chapter wasn't very good and was ungodly short. I've been on such a roll and I finally hit the wall. I'm so sorry. I'm not happy with this chapter at all. Bleh.

Anyways, I got some comments on Sam. Sam is an OC. I know, I know. We all hate OC's, But since Arthur was the only other choice for Alfred's Dad, I couldn't have that and wah-lah.

Also, there is a reason Alfred called Francis "Papa." That will be in later chapters which will hopefully be better than this one.

Thank you to all of my reviewers out there. The last chapter got 12 reviews and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Even if I don't reply to all of them, I still take your opinion into consideration. Thank you so much for reading.

~Germerica