Chapter 21

The Man Behind the Monster

(The past 24 hours have been HELL. I now officially hate a certain online booking site that decided it was okay to change my flight without letting me know until two hours before it was scheduled to leave. I went from a 10 am flight to an 8 am flight. Problem? The airport was an hour away. By the time I got my bags checked in and got through airport security, the flight gate was closed. I was shattered. Luckily, the merciful flight staff were kind enough to reopen the gate just so I could board my flight. Needless to say I will be letting a certain online booking company know EXACTLY how much I love being informed of such schedule changes two hours before my flight. *eye twitching* )

(Please enjoy.)

Death was after him. That much he understood. Death had yellow eyes, sharp teeth, and a snout that glistened with blood, his blood. It snarled behind him, brush crunching and snapping as it pursued.

He had to escape. Waves of pain and dizziness tore through him, threatening to send him onto the forest mulch. The world was a swirling mass of color and sound. He hurt so much. His white frock was soaked with his blood and ripped in several places. Pieces of him were missing, taken by those horrid fangs.

He wanted to cry, but deep down even at this age, he knew he was the hero and heroes don't cry.

So he ran, each step leading him back to his other half, his twin. No matter how he fought it, they were drawn to each other, bound by more than blood. Not even death would separate them.

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Ivan woke, cold with sweat. That was visceral. The first nightmare he'd had while sleeping next to his beloved. It was also different from his normal ones. From those he always felt rage and despair, but this one had evoked sadness and desperation. He had never dreamed of wolves before.

He frowned, realizing someone was not curled against him. His Mattie had scooted away from their place in the center of the bed toward the edge and had taken most of the covers with him. No wonder Ivan was colder than normal.

Naughty boy, Ivan mused, pulling his pet back against his lap and wrapping them both in the green comforter. They were both still naked. He savored the heat radiating off his Sunflower and felt his length stir. Ivan breathed in his Mattie's scent, savoring that oat, grass, and herbal scent.

Smirking, as his Sunflower tried to wiggle away, squirming in fantastic ways against him, Ivan reached up and caressed that stubborn cowlick, eliciting a "mmm" from his Matthew who reddened.

Curling and tugging at it, he kissed at Mattie's nape. His Sunflower's mouth opened slightly and he made a small noise. From his face, it was obvious his Mattie's dreams were becoming sensual. Ivan grinned, moving his fingers down the boy's temple, his jawline, pausing at those soft lips, sighing at the feel of Matthew's warm breathe on his fingertips.

One hand went between Mattie's hip and the bed, holding his Love in place, while his right travelled down Mattie, tracing circles on his hip and back. His Sunflower's face pinched with pleasure and he moaned. His mouth going more ajar; still he remained asleep.

Ivan squeezed the boy's firm buttocks, more groans, and then he wrapped his fingers around Mattie's half-hardened cock and teased the head with his thumb, coaxing it.

His pet's lips twitched as he cried silently in ecstasy, his blush deepening. You will not be quiet for long, Ivan thought. Ivan moved his hand up and down, faster, his own member hardening. He bit his lip; he wanted to mount the boy and ride him until the bed board broke. Alas, not today. He had overslept, but he couldn't resist the exquisite sound of his pet's completion one more time before he left.

He pushed the boy onto his back. Ivan threw a leg over the boy's legs, half-straddling him, humping into Mattie's hip as he nuzzled his neck and peppered the boy's throat and collar bone with kisses. Ivan took the open mouth, driving his tongue deep. The boy bucked into his hand.

His Sunflower's hands balled up the sheets as he moaned, his sapphire eyes fluttered open, awareness filling him. Ivan pulled back, giggling at that confused expression. So adorable.

"Y-you - aah, ah!" the boy gasped, his words turned into eager cries. His protests ceased as the sensations overwhelmed him, his back arching into each stroke of Ivan's hands. His face was ripe with pleasure.

Ivan kissed him deeply, the boy didn't resist, but joined, needy for Ivan. His whole body shook as Ivan drove him to the edge and their tongues entwined.

"N-no!" he whimpered, pulling away from Ivan's mouth, but he couldn't escape what his body craved. Ivan went faster on his pet's stalk until at last his Mattie yelled out with joy, his whole body quaking from the orgasm. His seed spurted into Ivan's hand, some landing around his thighs.

Matthew collapsed, gasping for air, his eyes misted over with lust. Not waiting for the boy to come to his senses and argue about how Ivan had done that while he was unconscious; Ivan wiped off his hand on a nearby towel, put his clothes on and left. He didn't feel like arguing.

Ivan's member was still hard, but Mattie would pay him back later.

So much we will do, Ivan thought, smiling as he shut the door. He caught a surprised, and almost hurt, expression on his Mattie's face. One day, he thought, you will beg for my touch.

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It was a relief Ivan left when he did. Alfred had come this close to thanking him for a mind-blowing hand job. Like woah, he had almost said and would have regretted that later since he wasn't supposed to be enjoying sex with Ivan. Nor becoming addicted to it.

I'm fucked, he thought, covering his eyes with his forearm. So very fucked in more ways than one.

The guy was a well-known psycho. So why couldn't Alfred's body and heart understand that? Alfred had always trusted his instincts before, but now they were just confusing him. All of them kept giving the same message that there was good in Ivan. That somewhere beneath the madness was a man worth saving.

Just crazy, he lamented in his head as he got up and drudged over to the wash basin. He was now wide-awake thanks to a certain commie bastard. Using the rag in it, he scrubbed himself clean. He wrinkled his nose at the thought of putting on Gilbert's now soiled clothes. Unless, he realized, heading for the door.

Opening it, he found outside a fresh set of brown pants, boxers, and one long-sleeve, off-white shirt. Adding to his delight, were two silver trays filled with plates and bowls of food. Boris, or one of the other servants, had brought Ivan and him dinner.

"Thank God," he cheered. After tossing on the clothes, he dropped to his knees, wiping away some drool as his eyes roved over the dishes. His stomach growled with a, hurry up!.

He chose one of the trays, because it had the bigger steak. Alfred just started to lift it when he paused, eyeing Ivan's dinner, or more specifically Ivan's loaf of bread. An idea entered his head, he won't notice a little missing.

Checking that the coast was clear, he very discreetly put Ivan's loaf on his tray. Again he was about to go, but his eyes noticed Ivan's dessert. A small stack of pancakes with two more strawberries than his and an extra glop of whip cream on top. Alfred licked his lips, his stomach grumbling again, he said, "What's a little more?"

By the time he sat down at the small, oak table on the other side of the bed, his tray was precariously laden with several extra dishes. Meanwhile, Ivan's had only a bowl of cold pea soup left and a plate full of vegetables, both Ivan and Alfred's. It was fair, he assured himself, My greens for his stuff.

Any guilt he might have felt was washed away with the first mouth-watering bite of those pancakes. He sank into his rose-satin seat cushion, moaning with pleasure in a way only food could make him.

"Idiot, left his meal unguarded!" Alfred mumbled, crumbs flying out as he spoke. It was barely understandable even to this own ears. "What a dumbass! Doesn't he know food gets lonely? I had to find it a nice home," he mused, patting his stomach as he munched. "Coz, I am the hero and all!"

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Setting his empty tray by the door, Alfred went exploring. He was pretty familiar with the West Wing, but there was one room he still needed to see.

The West Wing was laid out like a reversed L. The right wall was all doors, while the left was windows, showing the cityscape. The windows stopped mid-way down at the tower stairs and did not continue beyond. Instead, the left wall became empty of anything but iron torch holders. Several feet later, the hall turned left, dead-ending a few feet back at an oak door.

A door that in Alfred's opinion was very odd. There were several reasons for this. First it was bigger than the others and adorned with carved ivy. Second, it was locked.

When he found it a couple days ago, he hadn't been able to investigate much because he had heard what he thought was Ivan returning. Turned out, it had only been Boris who taught him some more of that heavily-accented English that Russians spoke.

"Priveyet" he guessed meant "private", but why Russians ran around greeting each other with private was beyond him. It was like that "da" Ivan always said. Clearly, a butchered form of "yeah".

"Unless," he said, halting in front of the door, "Russians... don't speak English." He thought about that and laughed, "Nah!" They weren't silly like the French and the Spanish. Of course, they spoke the most logical language on the planet!

Turning his attention back on the door, he twisted the handle. Still locked, but this time he had come prepared. Holding up a toothpick, he knelt down and set to work on the door, using the amazing lock-picking skills his incredible father, Mr. Jones Sr. had taught him.

"Stupid, mother effin' door," He muttered, wiggling the pick until finally - click - and wa-lah! Mysterious door was open! Not one for meek entrances, he threw it open. A bad idea because it kicked up layers of dust. He stumbled away, sneezing and coughing.

Stupid dust! he thought, waving it away. Finally, it settled and he pushed the door open, slowly this time, peering in. The room struck him as odd, off somehow. He couldn't put his fingers on it.

Is it the ceiling?He wondered, staring up. It was twice as high as the other rooms and was vaulted, criss-crossed by large beams of wood. There was one arched window on the left, just four feet before the ceiling, that allowed evening sunlight to bathe the room gold. Motes of dust floated idly in the rays.

The carpet? He thought, dropping his gaze. It dominated the floor with a multitude of red, green, and blue floral designs. Across from Alfred was what had to be the biggest fireplace he had ever seen, large enough for four men to stand in. Above it was a marble mantel filled with carvings of horned horses, winged lizards, and all sorts of mythical creatures.

All of those things, he realized, were just additions to the strangeness of one item in particular. A tapestry on the right wall. Rich in detail, like everything else, it looked old and badly neglected.

Moving into the center of the room, he studied it, hugging himself. The tapestry was of a battle. In the upper left corner stood an old-grey bearded man dressed in dark blue robes. His hands were gnarled and curled like claws, blue light flowed out of them. His eyes, Alfred shivered, were frost blue and cruel.

Ahead of him was his army, a composite of giant wolves and large lizard-like beasts that blew ice from their maws. In the very center were soldiers, clad in hauberks and silver-colored helmets, their faces revealed them as dead. The soldiers on the old man's side were nothing but corpses he was using his blue light to puppet.

An army of ghosts, Alfred thought with a shudder.

Fighting them on the other side of the tapestry were their living counterparts, wearing the same as them, except their faces had color and expression. Their lips were snarled in battle cries and pleas of desperation. Smaller, human-like creatures filled the right, behind the men, they had wings like a butterfly and tall, gravity-defying cowlicks on their pink, blue, green, or yellow-haired heads.

What are those? Alfred wondered; he sucked in a breath, his eyes falling on a young woman at the very bottom right She was drawn as big as the old man. She had eyes as blue as a summer sky. Her golden hair fell down in wavy tresses, spilling around her. Roses, sunflowers, and all manner of wildflowers were woven through it. Her dress was flaxen wheat, bare at her shoulders. Her skin was tanned a deep bronze. Unlike the old man who glared directly at her, she faced out of the picture with sad eyes.

"Oh, my God," Alfred breathed, realization tearing through him. He moved to the right, then the left, then forward and backward. It was true. No matter where you stood her eyes seemed to follow you. "God, that's creepy. I hate it went paintings do that."

He didn't want to stare at in anymore. Something about her, besides the creepy eye-following thing, made his head hurt. He didn't know why this room had been locked and abandoned, but surely there had been a reason.

Just old ghosts best forgotten, he told himself, shutting the door as he headed out.

He was just passing the foot of the tower stairs, wondering where Ivan had gone when he heard the man. His ears perked up, listening closely. A chilly air was flowing down the steps and Alfred found himself feeling cold once again.

He heard Ivan again, speaking from up in the tower, but he wasn't alone. There was a second voice, a deeper one.

"Who's up there?" He whispered, wondering if he should look. He paced back and forth, finally giving in to his curiosity. Ivan was talking to someone else and he wanted to know who.

He mounted the steps quietly. He had not been up here since that time when Ivan took his virginity. At the top was that door as before, but now it stood ajar. Ivan was speaking in that heavily-accented English.

I can't understand anything but da, he thought, adding, they really need to work on their pronunciation.

He leaned his ear closer, trying to determine the source of the second voice. If evil had a voice, it was whatever was in there. It sent chills down Alfred's spine. The icy air emanating from the room, numbed his ear and nose. Frost formed on his lens. There was a smell of winter, but unlike Ivan's scent, it wasn't the pleasant side of the season. No, this smell spoke of frozen corpses and biting winds.

He jerked back when he touched the door, causing to creak. The voices hushed. He was about to retreat when Ivan called out, "Matthew." Alfred tensed. "Please do join me."

Not wanting to seem timid, though he knew that's what the real Matthew would do, he flung open the door and strolled in proudly. Ivan stood in front of the center window, that eerie smile alive and well on his face. Something told Alfred that Ivan's pipe had been out a moment before.

"Why are you here, Sunflower?" Ivan asked, his eyes flickering to the floor between them and back to Alfred, "Recalling our fond times here, da?"

"As if!" Alfred snorted, averting his eyes, hoping Ivan didn't see his embarrassment. "I came up for fresh air and instead heard voices." He brought his gaze back to Ivan's as he asked, "Who was here?"

Ivan's smile shrunk a little as he replied, "Ah, hearing voices, da? You poor thing."

Alfred frowned, protesting, "I'm not crazy! There was someone here and you know it!"

Ivan's eyes grew emptier and suddenly, Alfred felt the hairs on his nape start to rise as the temperature dropped. That creepy feeling from before, he realized.

"Lovely weather, da?" Ivan noted, holding his arms open, "Come, my love, enjoy the with view with me."

Alfred didn't want to, but the air was already warming again with the changed subject. The message was clear: Don't mention the other voice. It unnerved him deeply, but he knew better than to defy Ivan's increasingly expectant grin.

Crossing the area where Alfred had lost his virginity, he fell into Ivan's embrace, the cold fabric of Ivan's coat sleeves engulfing him as he was turned to an all too familiar view of Toronto, the capital of Canada. For some reason the locals always called it Ottowa. Alfred just didn't get these silly Canadians sometimes.

He flinched when Ivan's gloved fingers cupped his chin and guided his face toward the snow-capped, blue Atlantic Mountains; they separated Canada and the wild lands from the other Western Kingdoms.

"Beyond those my love," Ivan said, his cool breath tickling Alfred's left ear, "Lie our kingdom, mother Russia."

Our kingdom? Alfred repeated in his head, his mouth going dry. His heart sped up, but not from joy. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice weak.

Ivan giggled, squeezing Alfred closer and kissing the top of his head as he insisted, "You will love it there, my sweet Prince."

Alfred's blood ran cold and he tried to jerk away, but Ivan wouldn't let go. He managed to face him though, staring wide-eyed at Ivan, asking, "What are you talking about?"

"Your future, da," Ivan answered, petting Alfred's head as he continued, "You are returning with me, my love. Canada is to become one with Russia."

NOW HOLD THE FUCK ON! Alfred screamed in his head, stiffening. The color drained from his face and for a moment he couldn't say a thing. Finally, air returned to his lungs and in a voice of barely-contained fury, he said, "Why the hell would I go to Russia?"

Alfred's mind was going haywire from the shock. It was all too much. His farm. His dream. The land of the free he wanted to make there. Everything was falling to pieces. All of his hopes were being stripped away just so he could become this madman's plaything. His little pet.

Alfred's whole body trembled with rage, but Ivan paid no notice, as he continued to smooth Alfred's hair and asked in an amused voice, "What do you mean? Of course, you will come with me. We are lovers, da?"

"Like hell we are!" Alfred growled, taking his chance to shove Ivan off. Ivan stumbled back, pinwheeling his arms, he caught himself on the window sill as Alfred yelled, "Like hell will I go anywhere with you ever you goddamn commie psycho!"

"Darling," Ivan warned, standing to his full height. Alfred backed away, edging for the door. "You should not act this way toward me. It is very rude."

That was it. Alfred snapped.

"Go fuck yourself, Ivan," Alfred screamed, his fists curling at his side, "You're out of your fucking mind! Relationship! Give me a fucking break! Did you bother asking me when you decided this? A relationship involves two people you fucktard! Two! Ivan, two!" He held up two fingers for added emphasis.

Ivan's childish smile never reached his eyes as he approached Alfred who kept his distance. "Pet, I do not care for you tone. Why are you so upset? We love each other," he said, stopping, he permitted their distance to remain. "This is only a natural step."

"No!" Alfred snarled. "No, it's not! I'm not going to Russia! I'm not even...," he froze, realizing he had almost finished, "...the Prince of Canada." He knew saying that would only make things worse for him and Canada. Who knew how Ivan would react if he found out the Canadian Prince what's-his-face had been lying to him.

"My love," Ivan cooed. "You must calm down."

"And another thing, who the fucks talks this way to their love, Snowflake?" Alfred said the last word like it was vile. He ran his hands through his hair; he wanted to pace. It was all going wrong. This was wrong, but if Ivan was aware of Alfred's rattled mental state he remained a sea of tranquility.

"Come to me my love," Ivan urged, holding out a hand. "You will see my way with time."

This conversation is going nowhere, Alfred thought. C'mon man, calm yourself. Think of burgers. Melted cheese dripping over the side. Despite having just eaten, his stomach growled a little. It worked though. He relaxed a little.

Alfred knew he had to talk to the real Prince. Now. Swallowing all the colorful metaphors he wanted to fling at Ivan was like gulping bile, but he did it. Through gritted teeth, he said, "May I leave the West Wing? You know for Princely duties and stuff?"

"Nyet," Ivan answered, shaking his head, he lowered his hand. The look of disappointment unmistakable.

Alfred's nail pressed into his palms as he asked, "And why not? You're letting me keep a damn weapon by our bedside because you claimed you trust me. What's wrong with my wandering around my own castle?"

"Our castle," Ivan corrected, replying, "Because this is subjugation and you may not meet others."

"But you said we were lovers. Lovers trust each other, right? Are you saying you don't trust me? That we aren't lovers?" Alfred pointed out. Ivan's grin faltered a little, but came back with a vengeance.

"So silly," he chuckled. "Of course, we are lovers. Of course, I trust you, but you cannot leave."

Alfred snorted, clenching his teeth, he asked, "Why not?"

"Because you will run back to that Prussian worm again."

Alfred slapped a palm against his face, groaning, "You can't be serious. For the last time, there is nothing between me and Gilbert!"

"That is not what he said, da?"

"Gilbert was lying. He's a jackass!" Alfred insisted. "He made that shit up just to get your guards to back off and piss you off!"

"It was very effective, da? I almost killed him," Ivan said, his eyes widening slightly for a moment. "Good thing you were so desperate to save him, da?" The sneer in his words was all too obvious.

"If I swear not to meet with Gilbert, will you let me out?" Alfred asked, adding, "Please."

"Nyet," Ivan replied, shaking his head.

Alfred threw up his hands in frustration, demanding, "Why the fuck not?"

"I cannot trust you to come back," Ivan replied. "You have run away too many times. I will not risk it again. Darling, you are not mature enough to understand."

That was it! If Alfred had snapped a minute ago, he exploded now. A tirade of profanities launched from his mouth, Ivan's smile widening with each one.

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Alfred stomped down the stairs, trying not to wince at each fresh jolt of pain that shot up his ass. God, it hurts, he muttered in his head. His fresh clothes were now disheveled and an uncomfortable stickiness was oozing out of his butt, more was also on his stomach. He had hickeys and bite marks all over his chest and shoulders, and poor Nantucket was aching from its abuse.

I hate! HATE, HATE, HATE THAT COMMIE BASTARD! He shouted in his head. Worse yet, that bastard was causing him to now do a very un-Alfred thing: brooding.

But what pissed Alfred the most had to be how Ivan had dismissed him after fucking him senseless into the stone floor.

Sunflower, he had said, you may go. I have grown-up things to do. You will understand when you are older.

Not wanting more punishment, Alfred had dressed himself and left without a word, shooting the back of Ivan's head the finger before slamming the door shut. God only knew what that commie bastard was doing up there, but whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"Commie asshole," he breathed as he descended, repeating it like a litany. Ivan had no right to treat him that way. The really sick thing in all this was that ever since their "make-up" session it had become increasingly clear that Ivan had changed from regarding Alfred as a favorite toy to being his "precious, little angel". One that he needed to guard from the big, bad world that was trying to corrupt Alfred.

What terrified Alfred more than anything was that Ivan seemed to want to cage him. Alfred hated the very idea of being trapped almost as much as he feared ghosts.

"I will never be locked up!" he swore in a low voice. There was no way he would accept this. He was half-tempted to run over to the guards, kick their asses, and get the hell out of here. Let Ivan try to find him in the wild lands! The only thing stopping him was the thought of what would happen to Canada and its Prince after he did that. He was a hero after all and heroes didn't just abandon people.

Still, what could he do to make Ivan get over this obsession with him? He halted, holding his chin in the crook of his forefinger and thumb, his frown deepened. Beads of sweat grew on his forehead.

He groaned, throwing up his hands in exasperation as he bemoaned, "There's nothing! Nothing that can lessen my sexiness!" Sometimes it was so hard being gorgeous.

"Could I pick my nose?" He wondered aloud, but shook his head. He'd still look sexy doing that. "Could I pick his nose?" No, that wouldn't work either. He'd vomit first and even Alfred vomiting had to be sexy, he was positive. "I know!" he said, hitting his fist in his palm, "I'll grow a super-long beard! It'll be sixty, no two hundred, no one mile long and filled with super-powered lice!"

No, that won't work, he realized, his shoulders sagging. After all, where would he get the lice?

"Can't blame the guy for falling for me," He admitted, continuing his march down the steps, adding, "It is only natural, coz it's me and all."

A flutter of yellow snapped him from his thoughts and he threw himself against the wall, almost tumbling down the stairs as he let out a garbled cry of, "Holy shit!"

He blinked, seeing nothing until he heard a chirp from his left and noticed a small weight on his shoulder. He turned toward it, staring into two tiny, black eyes. A bright yellow bird with a soft, white underbelly was perched there staring at him. He couldn't decide if it was a really fat parakeet or a flying baby chick.

Now I really am crazy, he thought, gaping at it. That bird had a very familiar cocky pose and aura of I'm-so-awesome. Before he could stop them, his lips uttered, "Gilbert?"

End of Chapter 21 Who is this pesky baby chick thing that resembles Gilbert and what does it want? Find out in Chapter 22: The Secret Passage

(Ugh, most of this chapter was easy to write but that tapestry room scene was just awful. I took that one scene through seven drafts and still it didn't flow right. So I kinda gave up. I thought the Ivan/ Alfred scenes read well enough that even if it got a little boring the Ivan/ Al scene would capture your interest again.

Did it work?

*hits head against wall and mutters about, "stupid impossible tapestry room scene"* See ya next time!)