Kings
Chapter 7: Wounds
"Now that I know what I'm without, you can't just leave. Breathe into me and make me real. Bring me to life.
"(Wake me up.) Wake me up inside. (I can't wake up.) Wake me up inside. (Save me.) Call my name and save me from the dark. (Wake me up.) Bid my blood to run (Wake me up.) before I come undone. (Save me.) Save me from the nothing I've become. Bring me to life."
―"Bring Me to Life" by Evanescence
oO_Oo_oO_Oo
"What are you listening to?" Ivan asks as he enters the kitchen where Alfred is singing and dancing with Lapushka in his arms.
"Don't you listen to country?" Alfred asks, pausing.
Ivan shakes his head.
"Okay, come on. This is my jam, dude!" Alfred sets Lapushka on the floor and checks the water, which has yet to boil. "You don't have to sing, but dance!"
"I cannot dance, Alfred."
"Neither can I; that's not the point! Besides, you just have to move your butt!"
Ivan slowly repeats, "Move…my butt." Sounds far too much like "just show them your boobs". "I do not think that constitutes dancing."
"No, but it constitutes having fun. Loosen up, big guy!"
Big guy?
Before Ivan can say anything more, Alfred is just moving his hips and doing a weird mixture of stomping, turning, and singing.
"Now, honey, ya can't blame her for what her mama gave her. It ain't right to hate her for workin' that―" Alfred leans in and grabs Ivan's butt for a split second while whispering, "―money maker."
Ivan's cheeks burn as he watches Alfred dance. And he can't help but look at what Alfred is…moving the most.
"Band shuts down at two, but we're hangin' out 'till three. We hate to see her go, but love to watch her leave!" Now Alfred takes Ivan's hands in his and jerks them back and forth in time with the music. "With that Honky Tonk Badonkadonk! Keepin' perfect rhythm makes ya wanna swing along. Got it goin' on like Donkey Kong. 'N' woo-wee, shut my mouth! Slap your grandma."
Why would one slap his grandmother? And what is a Honky Tonk Boat Dock? Ivan is more than a little confused.
"There outta be a law; get the sheriff on the phone. Lord have mercy, how's she even get them britches on? With that Honky Tonk Badonkadonk."
As the song goes back to music, Ivan asks, "What is that?"
"Honky Tonk Badonkadonk," Alfred replies, the words rolling off his tongue with a noticeable country accent that Ivan hasn't heard before.
"Which is?"
Alfred stares at him for a moment. Then he laughs. "It's your rear-end, man! 'N' it's a big en'!"
Ivan frowns slightly. "Why are you speaking like that?"
"Like what?"
"Your accent changed."
"Oh, that. It happens sometimes when I'm 'round the Southern States 'n' stuff." After a moment, Alfred glances down, dropping Ivan's hands. "Do ya not like it? I can try to get outta it if ya want. Might take a few minutes."
"Nyet, I…I like it. I am just not accustomed to you speaking with…that…."
Alfred brightens immediately. "It's a country boy drawl, darlin'."
"Darlin'?" Ivan repeats, which sounds ridiculous in his Russian accent.
"Let's do another!" Alfred says, picking up his phone. "I gotta show ya all my favorites. It's gonna take a while for the pasta to cook anyways."
And Alfred continues to prove that while he can't dance, he can sing halfway decently, and he persistently tries to makes Ivan dance, even if it's just moving his hips a little.
"'Cause I saddle up my horse 'n' I ride into the city!" Alfred looks ridiculous as he mimics riding a horse. "I make a lot o' noise 'cause the girls, they are so pretty! Ridin' up 'n' down Broadway on my old stud Leroy. 'N' the girls say, 'Save a horse, ride a cowboy!' Everybody says, 'Save a horse, ride a cowboy!'"
Ivan raises an eyebrow at the wording. "Do all country songs involve sex?"
"No!" Alfred pauses. "Well, maybe, but not all of 'em."
"Prove it."
Alfred grins. "I got one that's not all 'bout sex. Just mentions it, so that counts, right?"
"Sure."
"Ya gotta dance."
"Good luck."
"C'mon, just walkin' in a circle. It ain't that hard."
After a moment, Ivan steps forward hesitantly. "Alright."
"'Kay, put your left hand on my shoulder."
Ivan does this while Alfred sets his own hand on the Russian's waist. Then Alfred interlaces their free hands. "Just walkin' 'n' rockin' back 'n' forth 'n' singin', 'kay?"
"Yes, without the singing on my part."
The song isn't as energized as the others, but Ivan likes the rhythm, even if he does have to dance. Alfred is leading, and in all, it's not that difficult, but when the American starts singing, Ivan doesn't understand half of the terminology he uses.
"I'm a forty-five spinner on an old Victrola. I'm a two-strike swinger. I'm a Pepsi-Cola. I'm a blue jean quarterback sayin', 'I love you' to the prom queen in a Chevy. I'm John Wayne, Superman, California. I'm a Kris Kristofferson Sunday mornin'. I'm my mama and daddy singin' along to Don McClean at the Levee.
"I'm a child of a backseat freedom. Baptized by rock 'n' roll. Marilyn Monroe in the Garden of Eden. Never grow up; never grow old. Just another rebel in the great wide open, on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams. 'N' I learned everythin' I needed to know: John Cougar, John Deere, John three-sixteen."
With as much as Alfred wanted to dance and sing, it's a miracle that they even finished making dinner, though constant reminders from Lapushka helped.
"So what d'ya think?" Alfred asks as he eats.
"I think it came out rather well considering that you forgot about the pasta―"
"No, I mean the accent." Alfred smirks. "D'ya like a country boy, big guy?"
Ivan promptly turns red, but tries to hide it by taking a sip of water. However, Alfred's grin widens.
"So ya like country boys a lot."
"Only one country boy," Ivan mutters, staring at his plate. Something brushes his leg, and he jolts a little before he realizes that it's Alfred's foot.
"I didn't know it 'til real recent, but I think I gotta thing for Russians." Toes wiggle at Ivan's pant leg. "Well, one Russian."
Ivan's mind swirls with images. Extremely inappropriate images that make certain parts of him wake up. Studying his rotini noodles, Ivan struggles to clear his mind of the fantasies as well as center his blood in his chest and away from his face and…well.
"Y'know, ya always say that I'm cute when I blush, but I got nothin' on your face right now."
I know. Stop talking.
Oh, please, keep talking.
Nyet! Nyet, nyet, nyet, stop!
Show me why all those country songs are about sex.
Ivan quickly shakes his head, not noticing the confused look on Alfred's face. Stop…please. Alfred, please…stop….
"Please, no! It hurts! STOP! I am begging you! Please!"
"Shut up and take it!"
When Ivan falls silent, Alfred frowns. "Ivan?"
Nothing.
Standing and walking around the table, Alfred puts a hand on Ivan's shoulder―
"DO NOT TOUCH ME!"
Alfred freezes. Not because of a roar and fierce expression, but because Ivan is now curled up in the floor, eyes squeezed shut. His voice had been hoarse and barely above a whisper.
"Ivan…."
Violet eyes slowly open, tears pooling at the corners. Then his eyes widen. "A-Alfred. I-I apologize…um…."
"Are ya okay?" Alfred asks.
Ivan takes a deep breath and nods. "D-da, I just…would like to be alone for a while."
Alfred barely has time to blink before Ivan is gone, followed by a door slamming upstairs.
Oo_oO_Oo_oO
When a ringtone starts blaring, Arthur sighs, glancing at the closed bathroom door. He picks up the phone and answers without looking at the number. "You have reached the mobile of Francis Bonnefoy. He is not available at the moment, but may I take a message?"
"Is this a thing now?" Alfred's voice is lacking something, though Arthur can't pinpoint what. "He answers your phone and you answer his?"
Arthur rolls his eyes. "He's having a shower, but he should be out in a few minutes if you want to wait."
"Yeah, that's fine."
"Has something happened? I can't imagine that you would call Francis if it wasn't for love advice of some form."
There's a long pause. "I really screwed up, Artie."
"What have you done?"
"I don't know!"
"As much as I would rather blame you for every problem in the world, it might not have been your fault. Have you considered that?"
"Yes! But I think I may have…pressured him."
Arthur rubs his temples with one hand. "Sexually?"
"No, with a pressure cooker."
"Shut it, git." If Alfred is being sarcastic, he must really be upset. "What have you done? Or wait, Francis has just left the bathroom."
"Oui? Is there something you need, mon ange?" Francis asks as he runs a comb through his hair, straightened from the water.
"Alfred's having a breakdown of some form," Arthur replies as he puts the phone of speaker. "Put some bloody clothes on."
"I'm not having a breakdown!"
Francis ignores Arthur's demands for clothing and lies on the bed, spreading out beside his partner in all his naked glory. "What is the problem, Amérique?"
"I…I don't really know. Ivan and I were dancing to country music, and because of all the singing and stuff, my accent became really Southern. I thought that Ivan liked it, but then he just…freaked out. Like…he told me not to touch him and was crying, and then he said he wanted to be alone. He hasn't come out of his room in nearly five hours."
"Wait a moment, how does that involve pressuring him for sex?" Arthur asks.
"I said that I thought he liked my accent. So I was…making passes…I guess."
"And then he 'freaked out', as you said?" Francis asks.
Arthur glances at the other's face, noting the grim expression.
"Yeah. I mean, he told me earlier that he can't go past kissing, but…he could have just told me to knock it off instead of…that."
"Amérique, I want you to listen very closely to what I am going to tell you," Francis says. His arm wraps around Arthur's shoulders, holding the other closer to him, and with such an expression of anger mixed with despair, Arthur can't find it in himself to pull away. Instead, he rests his head on Francis's shoulder. "I will not tell you what I know about Russie; that is something he shared with me in confidence and is something you will have to earn from him. However, I will tell you that your nightmares cannot compare to his past." Francis's arm tightens around Arthur. "Let him move at his own pace."
"Okay. Um, thanks."
"De rein. Adieu."
"Yeah, adios."
Francis rolls his eyes as he hangs up and sets his phone on the nightstand. "Amérique can be so clueless at times."
"Tell me about it another time, will you?" Arthur sits up and looks down at Francis. "Why have you been talking with Russia?"
"Jealous, Angleterre? Do not worry. You are my only, amour." Francis's smile has a forced edge to it.
Arthur doesn't reply, but his fingers trail down Francis's body. It's beautiful, yes, but some things are permanent, and no country has a body without scars, some more than others. Younger countries like America only have a few, but others…Arthur can only assume what Yao's body looks like.
Francis willingly opens his legs, knowing where Arthur's fingers are going. On the inside of his right thigh, the smooth skin is pale white and raised, shaped into a swastika.
"I suppose…some wounds are worse than others," Arthur murmurs, tracing the scar. "Why is that? Why have I not got these kinds of wounds from the Battle of Britain?"
"Because London did not fall. Paris did."
"Even so. I've gone to war and I've been…" Arthur closes his eyes for a moment. "So why…?"
Francis sits up, leaning over to press a kiss to Arthur's neck. "I do not know, Angleterre. I am hardly the most abused country."
Arthur tilts his head to the side, letting the other darken the hickey on his neck. "Why have we got to suffer this? If we didn't exist…the world would be happier. We've got to live through the horrors of war, rape, and pain worse than death, but a bullet through our brains or a knife in our chests will do nothing but increase the agony."
Francis's lips move to Arthur's ear. "Let me love you for every time you have tried."
"We would be awake all night," Arthur whispers.
"I do not care." Their fingers intertwine as they fall against the mattress together. "Let me. Mon ange, I want to replace your pain with pleasure."
Arthur smiles into the other's collarbone. "Only if you let me do the same."
Francis kisses Arthur's forehead. "Two nights then."
oO_Oo_oO_Oo
As the night draws to a close at midnight, Alfred turns off the lights in the house and pauses at the door of the guest bedroom. Lapushka beats at the door with sheathed claws, meowing pathetically.
After a moment, Alfred knocks on the door. "Hey, Ivan? Um, do you want me to let Lapushka in? He's been really upset all night and wouldn't eat anything, so…I think he's worried about you." When there's no reply, Alfred adds, "And, uh…he's not the only one. Can you at least say something so I know that you're alive in there?"
Silence.
Alfred sighs and pets Lapushka on the head, telling the cat, "You can sleep with me tonight if you want."
"Wait."
The door opens slowly, though Alfred can't see Ivan. Lapushka immediately runs in and rounds the edge of the door, purring like he swallowed a motorcycle.
The door remains open, void of light.
Alfred quietly asks, "So…um…I guess I'll go to bed then. Goodnight."
"You do not need to, though it is your choice." Ivan's voice is even, not shaking or changing at all in pitch, but that only concerns Alfred more.
"Do you want me to stay in here?"
Ivan is silent for a long moment, still behind the door. "I would enjoy that."
So Alfred changes his clothes and returns to Ivan's room. The Russian is standing near the closet door, holding Lapushka. His hair glistens lightly, probably from a shower, though Alfred doesn't think he's been out of the bedroom at all, and he's wrapped in some sort of robe, plus his scarf.
After an awkward minute of silence, Alfred says, "So…I guess I'll lie down if that's not a problem."
Ivan shrugs, nuzzling Lapushka. "I will sleep in the closet. I do not have a preference where you sleep."
"In the closet?" Alfred looks at the closet more closely than before, noticing the blankets and pillows falling out of the doors. "That can't be comfortable."
Ivan doesn't look up from Lapushka. "I do not mind. Goodnight."
As Ivan lies down in a plethora of blankets and pillows, Alfred opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. The closet is rather large, maybe the size of a full-size bed, and if there was a mattress underneath it, Alfred would probably dive face first into it with as comfy as it looks. But he doesn't, watching as Lapushka settles in.
Ivan eventually puts a hand on the door. "I am closing this now. Decide quickly."
The worry outweighs everything else. "Scoot over."
It's a tight fit, but it's not as uncomfortable as Alfred originally thought it would be. Ivan closes the door, putting them in darkness without even moonlight. Alfred has his back to the wall, his arm around Ivan, who has his face buried in Alfred's chest.
"I…um…I called France―" Ivan stiffens. "―and he told me to let you move at your own pace. So…yeah. You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to, but…I'll listen."
Ivan lets out a breath. "Thank you, Alfred."
"Uh, you're welcome. I haven't really done anything, but―"
"Nyet, you have done more than most would." Ivan snuggles closer. "Goodnight, myshka."
"Night."
Author Note: Oh, what's wrong with Russia? I'm trying to put in a twist, so I hope you all are surprised. I know you're probably not though. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and if you did, please, Please, PLEASE REVIEW!
"Honky Tonk Badonkadonk" by Trace Adkins
"Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy" by Big & Rich
"John Cougar, John Deere, John 3:16" by Keith Urban
A hint for next chapter:
"Ivan, I―"
"Shut up. You want to know, so I will tell you," Ivan says, his voice barely above a whisper but with the force of a roar.
