You guys get an extra long chapter this time around! Also, my long promised dreamsex makes an appearance! This one took my longer, naturally, because I started up college again this week. But I was able to put out three chapters over spring break, which is pretty damn good.
Alfred! You have no idea how much I missed writing for him in this story. Even in such a bad situation I feel warm fuzzies when he appears.
This chapter is a lil different. Most of it occurs in a dream. And, *relatively* it's not as depressing. It's even a little cute at times.
There's some sex, but it's not too explicit, I guess.
And I finally got to write sex in a sunflower field, which I've been wanting to do for fucking ever.
.
Ch 8: Disintegrating
"Last night I leapt through the ceiling.
There was just something appealing about leaving my body behind
And coming through as you circled overheard."
Ivan sits on the couch. He has not gotten up for days, not since he had been escorted to Alfred's house, hands secured behind his back, painfully cool against the still bleeding wound in his wrist.
He'd left the wound on his arm exposed to the air. It does not matter. He is no longer his country's representative. He no longer has the regenerative and resilient power of a nation. If he is to be waiting for death, then there is no point in bandaging up the wound, which has already begun to turn bright red, veins around it darkening to an almost purplish tint. Ivan assumes that it must've started hurting at one point.
For the night, Ivan forfeits the sleeping pills. For the first time in months he doesn't feel as if he needs them.
He can feeling something within him cracking, something breaking, he is teetering on the brink between this world and the next, of the world he composed for himself and the truth—
He lays himself down in the nest of the couch, feet propped up on the arm, forearms folded behind his head, wrist wound pulsing under the weight.
Ivan finds himself looking at the ceiling, unaware of when he slips into dreams, until he sees a glimmer of gold swim through the stark plaster before disappearing.
Gold—Ivan's little golden rabbit, disappeared down the rabbit's hole—
His eyes flutter shut and he follows the glimmer upward through the ceiling.
Suddenly Ivan is bathed in light, the light of summery days, unlike the recent dreams of dark deathly rooms or the cloudy fogs from which he occasionally had found himself observing his darling boy.
Earthly scents touch his nose, something soft kissing at his arms and face and fluttering against his hair. When his sight fades in all he can see is gold.
Ah.
Sunflowers, naturally. Great fields of the molten flowers, as far as his eyes can see. A sight that had often frequented his dreams before. He turns in a full circle, arms out to touch the gentle flowers, indulging in the dreaming peace of the moment.
Suddenly, Ivan sees movement amidst the still golden heads of the sunflowers. A tanned back, rippled in muscles, wafting blonde hair that almost blended in with the sunflower's yellow petals—
I've found you.
"Ah—" Ivan's voice catches his throat. It is dream, wonderful dream, but—
"—little one." His voice is quieter than he intended it to be, a mere whisper, almost to himself, but in dreams things work out in strange means, so in that mysterious way his voice carries to Alfred and he hears him, and he turns—
And Oh God oh God Ivan's chest constricts because he can see his sunflower's face, devoid of any pain, glowing with life, that boy-like expression of surprise registering in his freckled face before it splits into a wide, white smile that in turn parts in a barely audible giggle—
He greets Ivan with an exuberant wave, and all Ivan can manage to do in return is gesture back with a shaky pale hand.
And then Alfred is bounding towards him through the flowers, laughing, perfect blue eyes alight with childish glee—
He's everything that Ivan remembered and more: all suntanned skin and blonde hair, lean, not overly muscular body, bright eyes and beautiful smile—
And the marks. The purpling marks around his neck, marring that beautiful tanned flesh—
Ivan takes a step back.
Alfred halts in his tracks at the look on the Russian's face, his own expression dropping sadly.
"What is it?"
Oh God—oh God Alfred's voice, like absolute honey, ecstatic and vibrant in his ears, Ivan hasn't heard that nectar tone in so very long—
"Alfred," Ivan sighs out his name, a long, drawn out breath as he just stares at him.
"Cолнышко."
His little sun.
Alfred stays in place, that little, questioning smile on his face, as Ivan takes slow, tentative steps towards him, terrified that any moment the dreamscape will shatter, the images of Alfred bursting into the black of a house that seems dead so dead compare to this—
Once he's close enough, so near that he can feel the flicker of Alfred's breath, his wonderful, warm breath, Ivan's own breath begins to hurt, his chest constraining his bursting heart and lungs.
Alfred gives him another smile, more subdued, more restrained, but equally as loving.
"Hi Vanya."
Alfred's voice hums in his ear as the vibrant American takes Ivan's large hand in his, and Ivan feels his heart melt at the touch as Alfred smiles and draws patterns into the skin of Ivan's knuckles.
He presses his forehead against Alfred's, who's eyes begin to slide shut.
"Nyet, little one. Keep your eyes open, please." Alfred complies, and they lock gazes, Ivan getting lost in those familiar, dreamy pools.
Alfred reaches up and puts his arms around Ivan's neck, with his own dropping down to circle the American's waist, the mere sliver of space still between them.
"Alfred," He rubs a circle into the American's lower back, sighing again. An overwhelming sadness settles deep with in his chest, stifling his heart.
"You do not know—how long, how long I have been without you—"
How much I have given up for you—
"Where have you been, my sunflower?"
Alfred rubs his forehead against Ivan's and shoots him a soft, sympathetic smile.
"That don't matter, right? 'Cause I'm here now, big guy."
Ivan shivers as he feels Alfred's fingers touch the back of his neck as he plays with the short grey blonde strands and his eyes are drawn like magnets to his sunflower's neck, because those are real, those are there and they are evidence of something horrible—
"Alfred," Ivan starts, removing his hands from Alfred's waist and coming to rest on the tanned forearms about his shoulder. And Alfred looks at him with eyes that are so alive, it is not possible, Alfred cannot possibly be—
"You—you are not dead, are you?"
Alfred looks at him blankly, before letting a slight laugh leave his lips.
"You're so weird, Vanya."
"Alfred."
The American stiffens, and pull away his arms at Ivan's tone. He chuckles softly and looks down, hands now on Ivan's chest, unsure of whether to push him away or pull him into another hug.
Ivan reaches one hand up to cup Alfred's head, feeling the touch of the blonde locks.
"I want—I want to kiss you, sunflower—"
Alfred cocks his head to the side, questioning.
"No one's stopping you, big guy."
Ivan shakes his head, his breath weak, shuddering.
"But I can't. I can't, sunflower."
Alfred leans forward and puts his head into Ivan's shoulder, sighing.
"Why not?"
When Ivan speaks again, he sounds almost hysterical.
"Because you are gone. Because you are gone and it is all my fault. It is my fault."
Ivan swallows, then tries to breach that most terrifying question once again.
"Please—" God, he is broken, broken broken broken Alfred is breaking him-
"My sunflower, tell me—"
The words are terrifying, absolutely terrifying, they hurt coming out of Ivan's throat—
"Are you dead?"
Alfred pulls back from where he had been nuzzling Ivan's shoulder, and lets his hands rub up and down the Russian's chest. He bows his head and sighs—a pained, weak little sigh.
"I'm sorry." He says quietly.
And in that moment, this dreamscape is worse than any of the nightmares Ivan had had before. Ivan closes his eyes and tilts his head back, barely, just barely restraining himself from screaming out.
"I'm sorry."
"Nyet." Ivan shakes his head and runs his hands up Alfred's forearms. "Nyet, little one. I forbid you from saying this."
Alfred's answer had brought up new terror within Ivan, new horror because no, no it wasn't possible, he couldn't have, it was a dream, dream Alfred was lying somehow-
"It—it was—did I—"
The sudden solemnity in Alfred's eyes answers any of Ivan's remaining questions. And somethings tears inside of him.
His knees buckle suddenly and Alfred yelps and grabs onto his tightly, holding them both up until Ivan finally regains feeling back in his legs.
The memory of what he had done is still a fog, but he had done something, he was guilty of something that had made Alfred go away—he had caused him pain.
"Did I—" Ivan swallows shakily "Did I hurt you, sunflower?"
Alfred reflexively touches the purple marks on his throat. Ivan makes an absolutely miserable noise.
"Well, I mean, I'm not going to say that it was at all a pleasant experience—"
Ivan's breath hurts as Alfred speaks, speaks from a voice that had been silenced, no, no, Ivan couldn't have, couldn't have murdered that nectar tone—
"I am sorry. I am so very, very sorry."
He takes Alfred into his arms again, not caring about dreams and realities because the warm body in his arms is as real as anything else he's chosen to believe in.
Alfred stills for a moment, quiet, saying nothing as he breathes out into Ivan's chest. Then he slowly returns the hug, albeit more tentatively than Ivan.
"I was scared Vanya. I was so scared. I didn't know what was happening, I didn't know why you would want to do that and that was worse than any of the pain—"
"I am so sorry. So sorry, so sorry, so sorry, so sorry." Ivan's body begins to tremble, and he curses the weakness in his arms, brought on by sadness, because it means he cannot hold Alfred as tightly—
He sniffs audibly, eyes stinging. Alfred looks up at the noise, worming his arms up in Ivan's tight embrace to touch the scarfless skin of his neck.
"Oh God, please, Vanya, d-dude, please don't cry—"
"How can I not cry, my darling, my beautiful sunflower—" His kisses Alfred on the hair, the forehead, the cheekbones, the nose, any piece of visible skin that he can, except for the lips, he hasn't earned it back yet, he hasn't earned the right to do that to Alfred yet—
He runs his hands almost restlessly through Alfred's hair as his breath hitches, tears now openly coursing out of his eyes as the field of sunflowers becomes his hell, becomes the evidence of his guilt—
"I was coward. I ran away, little one. I ran away when I saw what I had done to you."
His kisses the top of Alfred's trembling head, remaining there to smell and speak into America's hair.
"You are a dream. I-I do not want you to be a dream. You cannot be." He states simply.
Alfred looks up at him sadly, then, without making a sound, takes Ivan's head in his hands and brings it down, lightly kisses him below the eyes, soft lips taking up the salty water of the Russian's tears. Ivan shivers, America's lips seem so utterly real and warm, a warmth that he has missed deeply, whose absence has hurt him more than any and all of the wars, assassinations and invasions combined.
When Alfred is done he buries his head again in Ivan's chest and hugs him tightly. Ivan is still shuddering, breath still uneven, wondering why his darling was trying to comfort him, despite everything that he had done—
"I want you to forgive me. I know you cannot, you cannot but I—"
Alfred tightens his grip on Ivan.
"Who says I can't? I fo—"
"No." Ivan interrupts him, voice full of self hate. Alfred looks surprised for a moment, before he molds into a painfully sad expression that breaks Ivan's heart. Forcing a crooked smile Ivan placing one long, pale finger to Alfred's quivering pink lips.
"It is not you, sunflower. It is just—I do not deserve that."
But Ivan still craves his sunflower's warmth, so he leans in, leaving only a small amount of space between Alfred's face and his own.
"I want to kiss you," he whispers against Alfred's lips, "I want to—I want to do so much for you—"
He presses their lips together, and everything is familiar, everything is perfect in that one moment, as Alfred is warm and willing and undoubtedly there and perfect, he is perfect, except for the marks on his neck that will surely fade with time, with all the time that they will have together—
He will make it up to Alfred, he will make up everything to Alfred.
Ivan's kiss becomes hotter as he delves deeper, the American opening his mouth willingly and ignoring the sensation that dulls his pleasure like a wet towel placed over his skin.
But Ivan needs him, needs to feel that warmth again, so he begins to lower himself and Alfred, cupping a hand on his back to cradle his body as they both go down.
Soon Ivan's laid the other back down on the flat, overturned dirt beneath the sunflowers, both bathing in their shade and warmth.
The sunshine through the yellow petals seems to make Alfred's skin glow, his eyes sparkle, his hair shine,and for a moment Ivan is struck numb by the absolute beauty and perfection of his little one.
Alfred puts his hands on Ivan's shoulders and smirks that quirky white smile, encouraging Ivan to touch, to let his fingers roam the suntanned terrain of Alfred's body. And Ivan complies willingly, muscle memory instantly tracing the familiar paths, the toned arms and chest, slipping over the slightly softened belly and tracing his hipbones, before dipping underneath his waistband and squeezing his hips.
Ivan pulls the tattered blue jeans down to his lover's ankles, inhaling at the bright and brilliantly bare body beneath him. He leans down and kisses Alfred's stomach, rubbing his thigh before removing his own clothing.
Ivan is exceedingly gentle, almost paranoid in his movements, afraid that one harsh touch could turn the sweet, loving, beautiful Alfred into the screaming, bleeding Alfred with his perfect body cut open from his previous dreams—
But it doesn't happen, Alfred is perfect, how Ivan remembers him, save for the dark marks over his neck which Ivan kisses with quivering lips, urging them to flee the tanned plains of Alfred's skin—
Alfred wraps his arms around Ivan's neck as he nurses the space under the American's jaw with his mouth, whimpering at the barest touch of tongue and teeth.
Alfred is perfect, absolutely perfect as he lies before him, framed in the fertilized dirt of the sunflowers, bangs clinging to his sweaty forehead, eyes dulled with want, want for Ivan—
"V-Vanya—" He hears Alfred gasp, tightening his grip around the Russian's shoulders as his fingers skim the top of his dick, flicking the top of the head, shuddering at the feeling of the sensitive, vulnerable skin.
Ivan tilts his head, taking in Alfred's pleasure-flushed body as he spreads his thighs, stroking the tensed muscles there. He lifts the others tan legs until they rest on his shoulders, tightly holding onto Alfred's hips as he levers him up.
Alfred sits up slightly and Ivan leans down, meeting each other halfway in a slow, reverent kiss, Alfred's shaking fingers touching the sides of Ivan's face. There's no use for teeth, none of the usual battle for dominance between their tongues, it is smooth and equal, Alfred's mouth is yielding but not submissive, Ivan's almost guiding him, aiding the other along, the way it should be, romantic and sensual and perfect—
Ivan slicks his own fingers in his mouth and sets about to prepare Alfred because even if it is a dream even if it's not real it's still Alfred and he still does not want Alfred to hurt—
He leans in and kisses up and down Alfred's neck and chest, stroking his freckled belly as he enters in one finger, followed by another and another, distracting the American with gentle lips.
After a few moments he withdraws, Alfred letting out a contented moan and nuzzling into Ivan's cheek. The Russian smiles, genuinely smiles, and tenderly kisses Alfred on the nose.
"Are you ready, my sunflower?"
Alfred smiles and nods, and Ivan takes a breath and began to push into the beautiful warmth, shuddering at the feeling of Alfred all around him, moving in until he is completely within the mewling American.
Ivan starts to thrust shallowly into Alfred, his own breath starting to come into pants as the thrill of the moment courses through him. As he speaks, his words are fragmented by rapid inhales.
"This—is not—real—is it?"
"N-no," the other manages between quickened breaths, "Y-you know that already, don't you?"
Ivan is silent for a moment as he almost completely pulls out before thrusting all the way back in, and Alfred gasps and holds the Russian tighter.
For a few minutes neither says anything, simply listening to each other, Ivan drinking in Alfred's soft pants and Alfred taking in his passionate exhales, until the American puts a hand into Ivan's pale hair, the other cradling the Russian's whitened cheek. Ivan is struck by the sudden sadness in Alfred's eyes.
"Vanya—" Alfred starts, opening his mouth and then closing it as his lips tremble.
"I'm—dead—" Alfred chokes out between whimpers of pleasures, "Don't—don't you understand that—?"
Ivan simply leans in and kisses him, not seeking entrance, merely brushing their lips together to quiet the American. Ivan lifts a hands to cup Alfred's cheek and smiles at Alfred's flushed face and wet eyes as he pulls back.
"No, little one, but it does not matter. I will be dead soon."
It was different than what they had had in the past, but somehow it was still that level of intimacy, but with a new equality, and new peace—
Alfred didn't cry at being filled over and over again, Ivan didn't moan at the depth he could achieve in the dream; save for the whisper of names and the slightest of whimpers, it was near silence, broken only by the rustle of the sunflowers in the small breeze.
It is perfect.
And Ivan stops, stops for a moment, plants his hands in the dirt besides Alfred's head and just looks at him, body dark under Ivan's shade except for his blushing face and sweat plastered hair that sparkle in the light.
Alfred's eyes slide open, mere slivers of blue, questioning the lack of movement.
"H-hey, Vanya, wha—woah!" Ivan dives forward and grabs around Alfred tightly, picking up his pace to small, shallow thrusts as he whispers to Alfred, holding him so close that Ivan feels they could almost share the same heart, the same blood, the same warmth—
"Ya tebya lyubyu." Ivan whispers into Alfred hair, eyes watery. "I love you I love I love you I love you I love you."
Alfred melts in his arms and rubs Ivan's back, the whispers back to the Russian strained with pleasure, but still there.
"I know. I know. I love you too."
Ivan nods into Alfred's shoulder and recomposes himself. He draws back and pushes Alfred back against the ground, reclaiming his mouth again as he resumes the former pace of his thrusts, needing to make both Alfred and himself feel good, to completely erase anything hurtful, anything negative and painful and brutal in a flash of white—
Ivan lips finally break from Alfred's as he comes, ecstasy washing over him. Alfred himself releases only seconds after, his body shuddering, his perfect hair tossed about and his perfect eyes glazed in his rush.
Ivan's arms tremble as he loosens his grips on Alfred's hips, the surge of this dream release coursing along his spine into his weakened legs. His chest heaves, sweat standing on his forehead as colored bursts explode in front of his eyes.
Ivan falls exhausted, waiting to be caught in a nest of warm arms and soft hair and gentle words and kisses but instead jolts into the scratchy couch cushions as his eyes blink and swim the world into view.
Ivan tears through the sheets on the couch, tossing them aside, searching for a sign that Alfred had been there. But there is nothing, not even a lingering scent of sweat and sunflowers. Ivan palms a damp hand through his hair, his breath quickened. He drags the hands down his face and sighs at their coolness.
Alfred felt so real, he had felt real and wonderful in Ivan's hands, he had felt warm and real and he had looked beautiful, he had felt beautiful—
He had been beautiful. But now that beauty was gone, and Ivan didn't know where it had went.
Had Alfred—had Ivan done—
He doesn't know whether to believe what dream Alfred had said, what he himself had admitted to. Either way, the horror is much the same.
Either way, Alfred is still gone.
Ivan cannot handle being apart from him much longer.
"Karma can't control the beast
I've born to swallow us whole."
There hasn't been a lot of Ivan/Alfred interaction thus far in this story, but its a relief to write it again! I love these two so much. :) even in this shitty situation they're both so goddamn adorable.
Ivan is breaking my heart at this point :( Even though this chapter is more fluffy I feel that makes it sadder, cause you get inside of what Ivan had and what he is missing…He's also beginning to realize that he had a hand in Alfred's death, although perhaps not to the actual extent yet...
Two more chapters, and Vanya's shield of denial is starting to crack. How's it all gonna go down?
Please read and review! The more reviews I get, the more inspired I am to work on chapters, and thus the more quickly they will come out!
