Brother Knows Best

by Urchin of the Riding Stars

Arthur won't settle for being anything less than number one in his little brother Alfred's heart. But Ivan Braginski, Alfred's best friend since childhood, is bound and determined to confess his affections to Alfred. In a fit of jealous fury, Arthur decides to get rid of Ivan by any means necessary. AU, Possessive!Arthur, Rusame.

21. Epilogue: Meeting You (Once More)

Epilogue: Meeting You (Once More)

Or

Sophia's Waltz

*Hugs*

Hello, everyone. This is probably the largest long-term project I've ever completed (Psycho excluded).

This chapter is about cake, and people eating cake. That's it, really. Just cake. Okay, cake and maybe some angst, and existential stuff, and subject-matters admittedly less-pleasant then cake. But in all seriousness:

I cannot thank you enough.

For those of you whom encouraged me, advised me, comforted me and stayed with this gristly soap opera for as long as you have, thank you. For your long reviews that made me blush and squirm with joy, for your splendid and thoughtful fan art, for the compliments that made me feel buoyant and lovely and capable in my darkest moments.

Even if I can't always reply as quickly as I would like, I'm sending you lots of warm well-wishes from far away. Thank you for staying with me.

---

You'll be back, like before
I will fight the fight and win the war
For your love, for your praise
And I'll love you till my dying days
When you're gone, I'll go mad
So don't throw away this thing we had
'Cause when push, comes to shove...

-King George, Hamilton

---

The next several hours progressed in an epileptic blur for Ivan: First he was cradling Alfred's head in his lap, and then there were boats suddenly flanking the tiny craft, and someone was unnecessarily barking into a megaphone—what were they saying? There was crackling radio static; people were speaking English but it hadn't meant anything, because his shaking fingers were still pressed against Alfred's feeble pulse beat. The color in the unconscious—unconscious, only unconscious—boy's face was draining as rapidly as the blood from his chest….

Ivan's starving stomach wrung itself so sharply it felt as if he'd been stabbed too. He dry-heaved and retched, stomach instinctively attempting to eject contents that were not there. By now the world was so unsteady beneath him his legs failed him when he attempted to stand. Face chalk-white but burning feverishly, he took to counting in order to ground himself.

But what he counted kept hazing over into something else: The number of times the boat bobbed up and down, the blood beats in his throbbing ears, the whines that seemed to be emitted from an electronic bee, Alfred's dangerously slow breaths.

One, two, three, four—

Someone threw down a platform in order to board the little boat, and Ivan could've giggled in any other circumstance because Alfred would've immediately made a monstrously corny pirate joke.

But he heard an awful dry cracking noise, something maniacal and callous and near-hysterical underneath the cacophony of sound. Maybe he laughed anyway.

Twenty-eight, thirty, thirty-two, forty—

At last he managed to stand as the officers rushed on deck, their additional weight making the ship quiver warningly. Reeling, Ivan staggered towards them like a corpse, pathetic, holding out Alfred almost as an offering. The sight of the knife still protruding in the smaller boy's caught the Coast Guard's notice at once—

Someone urgently barked into a walkie and suddenly there were hands everywhere, a whir of red and black uniforms, prizing Alfred's crumpled form away and for a moment Ivan was stupid, so stupid that he could not let go, no, no no.

And they shrilled at him until Alfred was gently pulled free. Ivan stood in a watery blood pool, and numbly continued counting Alfred's heartbeats even though he no longer held him.

One hundred, one hundred and seven, one hundred and twelve…

Of course he could feel them, feathery like a butterfly kiss. The world was pulsing to their beat, after all.

For a split moment he was blinking rain and a nightmare out of his eyes instead, again a little child watching the ambulance take his father's corpse away. Natalya and Yekaterina were shivering against him like ducklings as they waited to be siphoned into a waiting police car with their mother….her scarlet-stained shirt plastered to her stomach.

I am sorry, she said blithely as Ivan grabbed her grimy hand. Rather, I would like be sorry. But five stars, would do again.

He looked down at his front, at his hands. Huge mistake. He'd caught himself red-handed.

The coast guard carefully laid Alfred on the boat floor. Someone cut his shirt apart with a Swiss army knife and everyone bent to examine him. They huddled together over Alfred like crows in their dark garb, obscuring him from view….Ivan lurched forward and someone grasped his shoulder.

His fist flew instinctively as he whirred around but the small woman seized his hand with a surprisingly amount of strength. Scowling, her lips began moving.

Ivan gazed at her coldly as she interrogated him. Or she likely was anyway; her tone sounded inquisitive from what he could distinguish. He couldn't answer, and wondered at the fact that the woman somehow stood horizontally now, as if perched against a wall. The boat must be tipping underneath the weight of all the new passengers….

He looked over the officer's shoulder to see another officer gingerly picking up his bloodstained pipe. Several more were inspecting the boat, and the woman still touching Ivan was glancing at him furtively. She pushed a bottle of water in his hands and he wasn't sure what to do with it.

He mechanically scanned the deck, and only later did Ivan understand that he was waiting to see Arthur cuffed and dragged away.

But Arthur was no longer there. He dropped the bottle.

Officers re-emerged up the steps, but all were empty-handed. Horrified, Ivan's good eye darted about the Arthur-less deck and a coherent word formed in his mind:

No.

The woman spoke in soothing tones as his rapid-pace breathing escalated beyond something he could control; the whistling gasps seemed to be drawn from the ends of his neck instead of his diaphragm. No, that wasn't right, just moments ago Alfred's head was clutched in his brother's arms, and Arthur wept piteously over it….

Ivan swayed; he fought to look at what little he could see of Alfred from the few gaps in the gaggle surrounding him. He spotted a deathly—his mind hastily autocorrected the word—very still bandaged leg and maybe a gold glint. That was all.

He felt a heavy pressure sink onto his shoulders, and he looked up to find a florescent orange thermal blanket draped around him. He gave it a nonplussed tug. This was idiotic, because even if he was drenched and the winds bit, the fog in his head anesthesized him from a suffocating horror spinning itself in his subconscious like cobwebs.

He could scarcely feel anything. Perhaps he'd already been bit,

He tried to shrug the blanket off, but it was slipped back around him again. He thought he heard a belt buckle snap around his torso this time.

Alfred had been stabbed in the chest, stabbed for Ivan, had recently suffered blood loss from a prior gunshot wound Ivan inflicted….and the coast guard worried about Ivan catching cold, what the fuck, what the actual fuck—

That girl was still speaking to him, now more gently so, and he only gazed at a maple leaf on her uniform shoulder.

He occasionally caught and deciphered words—mainly things like 'extreme shock' or 'dehydrated' and he wondered whom they were speaking about. He felt a quiet desperation.

And Arthur was gone. Where was justice? He'd vanished from the boat altogether after the coast guard arrived. Ivan knew that mattered very much, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Blood dripping to his feet—encore, encore—was his own, Natalya's, Alfred's, the cursed co-mingling. And Ivan tore at his hair, convulsing horribly like a possessed man. The girl was entreating him and he bared his teeth and gnashed them at her.

He couldn't protect anyone. He couldn't protect anybody—!

Lightheaded from too little sleep and food and too much of everything else, Ivan let out a piercing cry. Once the first one tore free the next ones spilled out of their own volition. Faceless people swarmed around him and they were all crooked, standing at ninety-degree angles.

No, it wasn't them. It was—

Ivan went down.

Gloved hands held him down and the girl looked into his eyes, her long hair tickling his face. People kept jabbering frantically and he could not stop sobbing and there came the whoomph, whoomph, whoomph beat of whirring helicopter blades. He was vaguely aware of a sting at his forearm.

He blinked and then found himself strapped down to a gurney. Red lights flashed and swam everywhere. Alfred was….Ivan tried to say something and gargled. There was the girl again...she was walking beside the rolling stretcher, looking down at him with eyes were full of pained sympathy, and Ivan looked at her as they pulled him away, wheels creak-creak-creaking….

Alfred had always wanted to ride in a helicopter. That day in the Air and Space museum so long ago the little boy turned to Ivan in the model they were perched in and proudly boasted he would fly one too….where was Alfred again? It wouldn't be right to ride without him. He'd never live it down.

But as abruptly as if a switch came down inside him, Ivan fell through the fog into the black, thousands of shining, predatory eyes fixated him. Then nothing.

-oOo-

Alfred. Where was Alfred? Leave it to the boy to play an impromptu game of hide-and-seek. Ivan huffed as he turned in an empty hall, heard a noise.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Frowning, he entered a bathroom. There were dark drops dripping from the bathtub faucet, which echoed in the bare room.

The tub was large, an excellent place to hide. Ivan approached. But when he stood over the tub he saw that it was full with something that looked like ink instead of water.

Both squeamish and curious he squeamishly dipped a hand into the tub. When he drew it out it came back blood-stained.

Not a second later a gore-spattered hand with its wrist slashed open shot from the water, seized Ivan's collar and attempted to drag him in.

He roared and wrenched against the iron grip, socking and scraping the hand for dear life. Its grip became vice-like and an arm emerged, as did its owner: Alfred sat up and hissed, blue eyes split open and expression contorted with pure hatred. There was a knife embedded in his chest.

At last a horrified Ivan managed to yank free and he ran out, glancing off the doorway as he did so. Arthur was waiting for him.

He smiled a smile that could cut. It grew wider and wider until his mouth ripped apart his lips and mouth until he was quite literally grinning ear-to-ear in an enormous gash, teeth visible. His eyes cracked open like eggs and what looked like tar leeched down his face.

He rose in the air, toes kissing the ground as if he'd been hung, contorting madly as eel-like black coils writhed around about the head.

His skin bubbled, and suddenly torrents of spiders exploded from every crevice on him, all of which spilled onto the ground, a wave of the creatures speeding toward Ivan.

Throughout all this, Ivanhad been rooted to the spot, unable to make a sound, hot piss dripping down his leg. He fell against a banister and tumbled over it, slamming into the stairs.

His vision blurred into stars, crushed with pain. Dazed, breath effectively knocked out of him, he began slipping down the stairs before they began moving like an upwards-escalator, every rising step smacking him across the face, in such quick procession he had no chance to recover.

The specter leaned over the balcony above, blue light in the holes in his face like two fireflies. And the spiders flooded through the bars and across the banister in droves, swarming frantically over every inch of him.

He screamed and screamed, which only led to live spiders pouring into his mouth. They crawled their way down, liberally scratching his throat and trachea with their many legs. Ivan thrashed to and fro in an attempt to scatter them, only inviting the arachnids to propel themselves more quickly inside him.

With the biggest effort he'd made in his life he hauled himself to his feet, the sound of the spiders' marching near-deafening as he threw a leg over the balcony and slid down the banister.

When he came to a stop retched up spiders and ran for the door, only to have his ankle yanked sharply back, sending him crashing onto the floor.

Agony searing its way through every fiber of his body, he managed to turn his head in time to see a rotting, white-eyed corpse with its jaw hanging off its hinges shred its way through the splintering wood of the floorboards. It clutched a graying-pink lasso—intestines from its torn open stomach—that was tangled around Ivan's leg.

The creature roared as it wrenched him backwards with Herculean strength. Shrieking, he clawed at the snare and hopelessly scrabbled at the floor as he was pulled within reach of the monster, only to look up and find an abomination already floating over him, bones in its mouth as mismatched as if they'd been taken from different people or animals, jammed into bleeding gums. The shadows flaring epileptically about its skull looked like slashing black crayon marks. The only recognizable feature was its blond hair.

And then Arthur descended on him.

-O-

When Ivan woke, his eyes were still shut. The first thing he noticed was the hospital-grade ammonia and other chemicals flooding his senses. The second was the intermittent beeping noise beside him, and the third was his parched throat pinching. And there something wet was sponging his brow.

Every limb felt as if they'd been replaced with dumbbells but he didn't hurt much; he must be drugged. When he slowly lifted his tender head and opened his eyes, it was to his mother sitting beside him. Her normally neat hair bun was ill-kept, hair streaming across her face. It was shot through with much more grey than Ivan remembered.

"Privyet, my darling. He's alive."

Ivan's head sagged back against the pillow as the woman tenderly kissed his head, dabbing at her eyes. "I don't know anything but that he's still in surgery…the doctor said she would keep us posted. But Alfred's a fighter. He made it all the way to hospital."

He let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Mrs. Braginski's voice broke as she cupped Ivan's cheek. "I could punish you a million times over for…suicide mission, but you are miracle. St. Jude looked on you well."

Mrs. Braginski's English tended to slip the more she was distressed. Ivan yearned to hug her, but was so groggy he could scarcely lift himself.

"….Arthur." He mumbled. Hardly the first thing he'd like to say, but he had to know. His hands wandered over the bedsheets as if to find a weapon.

Mrs. Braginski hesitated, and then lowered her eyes.

"The coast guard saw you coming. They see Arthur….hurt Alfred, and he plunge in water as their boats approached. They fish for sea serpent. Looked for him with helicopter that circled the water for miles. But no sight of him anywhere. There is no body, but the coast guard say no oxygen tank on his back. And he too far from shore to swim. He never emerged from the water." She stroked Ivan's hair. Her tone was joyless.

"He committed suicide, my darling. The coast guard now are on the search for a body. He can't hurt either of you anymore."

She stroked his hair some more and he looked at the IV drips he noticed he was attached to.

This was disappointing; if Arthur were to die in any case Ivan ought to have had that pleasure for himself. But in the end he was Natalya's double; his own venom rebounded on him and he fled from the world a coward. A lifelong prison sentence would be better, but Ivan could not say he was sorry. At least Jean's family might have some solace.

Perhaps if a person led multiple lives karma might decide to be gracious for a change and send Arthur back as a houseplant. At least a houseplant had some use, provided oxygen instead of tainting it merely by being alive. Ivan's eyes slipped shut again.

It was finished. He'd done it. He…Ivan's bandaged fingers curled in his blankets.

The waves of relief that very nearly carried Ivan back to sleep were contaminated by the dawning realization Alfred was still hurt irreparably. Ivan had been hours too slow; nearly worthless. Resilient and fighter though he was, Alfred would never be the same again. And neither would Ivan. There was no hope of innocence now—the prize for which they'd fought for all their lives.

But they'd both been given a priceless and frightening gift: Their freedom. And whatever pain came with it was something he would have to bear now. Something he ached to take for both of them, and never could.

He opened his eyes and realized he was crying silently. His mother tenderly hugged his head, and murmured kind murmurs in English and Russian both against his brow. Tiny woman though she was he sagged in her hold, so exhausted he couldn't speak. It was all he could not to drift into the comfortable haze between wakefulness and sleep; there was still no news of Alfred.

He reluctantly drew away. "Where is Katyusha? Matthew?"

His mother paled underneath the stark lighting in the cheerless room.

"Katyusha…" She took a long breath and was suddenly very interested in the window. "She here too. But she in surgery."

Alarmed, Ivan promptly propped himself on his elbow, but Mrs. Braginski pushed him back down without even looking at him.

"Katyusha, Mattvey and I fly like birds here when we got call. Eduard…." She looked annoyed, as if she were refraining from rolling her eyes with extreme difficulty. "….he say have conference, would come in later. But very good thing we come to hospital, because the strain finally got to poor Katyusha. Her water broke while we were sitting here a few hours ago."

"….but she's okay?"

A heaving sigh and a shrug. Mrs. Braginski looked older than ever.

"I told nurses to keep us informed. No updates of yet; it's been maybe two hours since they left. Katyusha make Matvey come with her to delivery room. He not sure what to do, so worried about his brother and child and crying so much, but Katyusha growled: 'You put it in me, you'll be there when baby come out, or I run your thing in sausage grinder.'" She smirked and snorted, shaking her head. "No matter how good you are, convulsions always make you animal…"

"…how much longer will Alfred be in surgery?" Ivan asked anxiously. "What about Katyusha? The baby is early."

Mrs. Braginski heaved her shoulders up and down again. "Someone have to stay here with you, Vanya. I do not know anything. The nurses said they would call when baby. Doctor said he would come when your baby—"

"Excuse me."

The two looked up to see a broad, blond-haired man in scrubs clear his throat uncomfortably at the door. His hair was slicked back and still looked wet; his eyes were pale-blue and his expression solemn. His shoulders were squared as he attempted to lean against the doorway; all the awkwardness of a rigid man trying to look at ease.

If Ivan didn't know better, he'd think the man were a soldier, not a surgeon. When the man spoke, his voice was gruff but no unkind.

"I'm Dr. B—well, most people can't pronounce it anyway, so just Ludwig is fine. The surgery is finished. Mr. Jones coded twice on the table—" Mrs. Braginski gasped and Ivan would've cried out if his lungs were working properly. "—but he's alive. We're wheeling him to a room downstairs as we speak."

"Then he is fine," Mrs. Braginski breathed, seizing her son in an embrace that suggested she'd forgotten how badly injured he still was. She crossed herself. "He will live. Thank God!"

"I did not say that. What I will say is Mr. Jones is comatose and will not be with us for much longer."

A tomblike hush fell.

All was still, save for the unnecessary EKG machine's blithe, intermittent beeping. At least Ludwig had the grace to look slightly apologetic upon looking at the expression on Ivan's face.

"But you finished surgery," Mrs. Braginski croaked. "Why…why would you take him from surgery if you weren't certain he was fine?"

Ludwig's brow furrowed. "I will say this for Mr. Jones: He has a tremendous will to live. When he coded on the operating table I thought for certain he was finished both times. But he survived the operation. It took eleven hours to get him as stable as he's ever likely to be, but at this point, there's precious little we can repair." Repair. As if Alfred were a damaged car and not someone whose heart had been literally torn apart. "Please understand what happened is not due to lack of effort on our part. But….."

How much Ivan would like to reach inside of Alfred himself, tinker away at all the hurting parts. Ivan would swallow them, the precious bits and pieces of Alfred Ivan could scarcely waste. How much he'd like to take on all the suffering that he deserved, despite the fact he buckled under his own misery.

"We've stabilized the damage to the extent that Mr. Jones can feasibly survive for the next two days, but…" He looked stony.

"I should tell you frankly it's in my medical opinion that Alfred's heart simply cannot recover at this point. The injury was too severe. He will need a new heart."

"…..a new one?" Mrs. Braginski croaked. "Where in the hell will he get a new one…?"

"We can put him on the donor list, but it's on a first-come, first-serve basis." The first few shovelfuls of Alfred's grave were dug, and Ivan waited dumbly. Surely it would be deep enough to accommodate two. "Even if Alfred had more time, you'd have to wait months before he becomes eligible. And the next available heart may not even be a match. I'm afraid to tell you that while we will keep comfortable tonight, I strongly advise you against false hope. In all likelihood he will pass before morning."

"Nyet, no." The angry woman sobbed. "No."

Ivan's hands yanked at his IV cords in a frenzy; alarmed, Ludwig batted his hand away. Ivan smiled a saccharine, murderous smile and seized the doctor's arm.

He gripped; there was a soft warning crack and Ludwig winced, scowling as he attempted to pull free.

"Ivan, I understand how upset you are—" No, he did not because Ludwig in all likelihood had never descended to hell and become a corpse with a pulse. Ivan's hand tightened and Ludwig grit his teeth, hissing through them.

"Please let go. We did the best we could. I promise you if we'd thought he weren't worth fighting for we wouldn't have spent half a day on him otherwise!" But what about the other half? "I wanted to save him, you don't know how much—" Ivan had some idea. "—especially w-with what he'd…..aah—been through, let go, Ivan, you're hurting me—"

Mrs. Braginski touched Ivan's hand with trembling fingers and it gradually loosened, though Ludwig still struggled to pull his arm free again. He scowled ruefully at them both as he rubbed his arm. Ivan's hand wandered to the cords again.

"Please. You need your bed rest. Alfred would want you to—"

"Don't," Ivan hissed, and the big man took several long steps back. "Don't you dare tell me what my partner would or wouldn't want, especially none of you seem to care that he wants to live."

"Unhook him," said Mrs. Braginski after a long and terrible moment. If she looked weary before, all the color had been drained from her face and tone. She was utterly lifeless. "I know him. He will drag the IVs along with him if he has to, even if the needles rip open his arms open."

She began weeping openly, and Ivan was still tugging viciously at the needles, though judging by his flinching it caused him great pain.

At long last Ludwig solemnly obeyed, carefully sliding each needle out properly from Ivan's forearms. But before the doctor could reach for the gauze in the first aid kit on the wall for the puncture wounds, Ivan already scrambled to his feet. "Young man—" Ivan nearly tripped over himself getting to the door. "Young man, you need to bandage those or you'll get an infection!"

"What room?" Mrs. Braginski begged him. The words had Ivan stop at the door, still barefoot and clad in a hospital gown. "Please, please, what room?"

"….0704. But ma'am—"

Mrs. Braginski scurried after her son as he strode down the hall, his pace three for every one of hers. "I will pray a rosary. All of the rosaries," she babbled fervidly. She seemed to be begging. "St. Jude and the Holy Virgin and anyone else—"

Ivan did not bother to step around a lunch cart a nurse was pushing in his direction, and wound up sending all the trays crashing to the ground as he rushed away. Mrs. Braginski gave an apologetic nod to the horrified nurse stooped over the mess as she rushed down the hall.

The worst thing about these hospitals is that they sell no liquor. They could make a killing.

But Mrs. Braginski came to a stop as she heard her name on the loudspeaker, and was surprised when a curly-haired young man hurtled towards her, face flushed. Mrs. Braginski thought he rather ran like a little girl.

"Si—Signorina," he gasped, huddling over to clutch his knees as he gasped for breath. Definitely ran like a little girl. "Lud…Ludwig told me where…where you were going." He looked up at last, clutching a stitch in his side."

"I just came from the maternity ward. Katyusha Van Bock is asking you. Aaaah! Ma'am, are you alright?!"

Mrs. Braginski's legs were shaking so badly she braced herself on a nearby wall.

"Can…can you tell her Mama will be there soon?" Her voice came out so timid and small she hated herself. "Please, one of my…..both of my boys are…."

"But signorina, you must hurry," begged the nurse, and Mrs. Braginski saw the name Feliciano on his ID. "She's begging and crying for you. We're having some problems with the birth, and we're not sure if the baby can breathe on her own, or if we can save both the mother and the baby at this point—"

"I killed a man," Mrs. Braginski breathed, burying her face in her hands. "A very bad man, but I killed him just the same…I have one daughter dead. One whom I feel is my son is dying, and my other son's heartstrings are tangled in his. Now you say my other daughter is dying, and my first grandchild with her."

She fell to her knees and started sobbing. "Please, God, why you do this? Why the children? Why all my children?"

Feliciano made to grasp her shoulder, thought carefully and drew back to give her a handkerchief.

"Signorina, I do not understand what you are saying. I don't want to alarm you, but in the worst case scenario this may be the last time you could see your daughter. Your granddaughter may not make it. Please, your daughter and her husband—" She quipped a brow at that. "—insisted you come."

At last she took his proffered hand and shakily rose, nodding. She tore in the opposite direction towards the elevator, Feliciano desperately attempting to keep up. She smashed her fist against the warm button, panting.

She would see Alfred soon. Of course she would. And she'd pray.

Just as soon as she finished her plea to the universe to for once take the infinitely-less painful route and let her die instead.

---

~o*oOo*o~

0704. Maybe the doctors were trying to be funny, or ironic.

Someone shouted something about shoes as he sprinted down the ward, glancing off walls. 0704 was the day Alfred was born. And now it seemed it would mark the place where he'd—

Ivan's mind massacred the thoughts with a violence that would've done Natalya and Arthur proud. He narrowly avoided colliding with a man in a wheelchair as he made a right turn after a quick glance at the signs.

The place where he'd….nothing. Newton's laws had nothing on Alfred F. Jones. Ludwig's insinuations were cold and heartless; the man had no business trying to force himself in a doctor's uniform when he didn't understand. Alfred's surviving two consecutive heart failures ought to have been a clue, but Ludwig didn't know him, didn't get that Alfred couldn't—

No. If anything the date on Alfred's door was a lucky omen. If not, he would make it be. He'd have to. He nearly tripped over himself when he realized he'd passed 0704, turned and burst in. As he did so, a fresh, pungent waft of bleach charged his senses.

Upon entering, he thought it was a stranger's room. And then the broken pieces began assembling themselves.

Alfred was motionless in his bed, once-animated features composed. His frame was tangled in wires, an oxygen mask hooked to his face. The electrocardiogram was just one of many apparatus towering over him and Ivan didn't know what terrified him more: The idea that someone as warm, soft and innately precious as Alfred was connected to cold machinery or the thought of what would happen should Alfred be pulled away from them.

Ivan sank into one of the hard plastic chairs beside Alfred's bed, and looked at him.

Perhaps he had died during their confrontation with Arthur and had tumbled into hell; but no, Alfred wouldn't be here too, he just wouldn't, but he wouldn't be much longer and—

"Please."

He dropped to his knees and with all the craven desperation of a starving man seized Alfred's hand and held it against his cheek, willing it to move. It was cold, and save for a dim, faint pulse, limp and lifeless.

Ivan promptly fell to pieces.

A concerned nurse looked in at the sound of what seemed like a man being crucified, only to see Ivan huddled next to Alfred's dying body like an infant, crying like a condemned man well on his way to Calvary.

~o*oOo*o~

The yellow evening slipped into night outside, cheerless lamps glaring outside. Matthew had not yet come in—a nurse had come in to tell Ivan there'd been some unexpected complications and it looked like it would be a while longer yet—but Ivan remained bent over Alfred, eyes ringed like a raccoon's, his now-bony hands wrapped around Alfred's, attempting to press his warmth into them.

He rubbed red eyes and caressed Alfred's cheek, wondering faintly if filching chloroform would be a difficult thing to do in a hospital. It was easy how matter-of-fact Ivan was now, now that he was on the cusp of losing everything.

And then someone padded in to the ward and cleared their throat.

Ivan mechanically looked up and saw Arthur Kirkland Jones standing before him, face a littered canvas of the painful color Ivan had beaten into him. One of his eyes was still swollen shut, while the other green one contemplated Ivan quietly.

Save for an oversized hoodie that blanketed his form, he was dressed in the same clothes Ivan had seen him in last. They were incredibly wrinkled and filthy, hair matted with mud and blood alike. They hung off his wiry frame as if Arthur were a scarecrow re-emerged from the deep.

Ivan's face betrayed nothing, but his hand wandered to his pocket, felt nothing. With an appraising snort Arthur slowly produced a gun from his oversized jacket pocket and turned it over in his hands contemplatively.

"If you're wondering how," he croaked, "I jumped ship when the authorities arrived, and clutched the boat from underneath the surface." His hands twitched as he contemplated his brother, gaunt features chilled in the doomed expression of a hunted and haunted man.

"When I commandeered the boat, I noticed there was a hollow dip beneath before it was cranked into the water. It had been molded as a slot that could catch onto a steel ledge, and keep the ship from slipping back into the water from the docking platform. That hollow left a small air pocket. Not a very large one, mind you, but enough that I could keep my head above water and breathe." A familiar, self-satisfied smirk flitted briefly on the taut face.

"As I clutched onto the boat that was being pulled to shore by the coast guard, I waited until my toes skimmed across the floor of a coastal shelf. From there I took my leave and swam away to shore unnoticed…the coast guard was occupied with ferrying you to the hospital and looking for me at sea, judging by the helicopters and boats circling from far away. They must have figured I couldn't make it to shore on my own power, not realizing…

"I slipped away from shore and away into the woods. I walked until I found the highway…and a truck adjacent it, belonging to hunters, judging by the moose tied atop it. They were away, no doubt in the thick in the forest continuing the hunt…hot-wiring a vehicle is no great trick for me, so that's what I did. I could scarcely believe my luck to find a handgun in the glove compartment with a map…as for finding you, it only made sense to go to the hospital closest to the border. It would've been necessary because…because Alfred was in mortal danger." His voice cracked as if he were an adolescent once again, and fell silent.

"You stranded those hunters in the wilderness."

"Probably," Arthur agreed. "But in my defense you're not actually allowed to own handguns in this country, so they more or less had it coming. But never mind that…"

He looked despairingly at his brother's near-lifeless form, still curled up on the bed.

"They've performed surgery? What condition is he in? Is there any hope left?"

"…they think his heart has been too damaged to go on. They want a spare." Ivan's voice sounded hoarse underneath the monitor's constant beeping. For him to say it aloud felt disgusting, traitorous, not when he was trying to clasp Alfred to life. "They put him on the list for a compatible new one."

Arthur snorted humorlessly, glancing down at Alfred and shaking his head.

"Poppycock." He sneered. "Do you believe it, Alfred? They'd have you like this for…months on end." There was a strange smile on his face. "….but a donation given specifically by a relative is different."

Ivan looked at him. Arthur blinked over-bright eyes and looked at the pale lighting. He looked ghostly underneath it.

"Well then," Arthur sighed. "The only thing that remains is for my heart to be transferred to Alfred."

Ivan nearly tumbled to his knees from shock. Arthur stared at him with hard eyes.

"I'll make certain you're not implicated in my death. Which is why I'll…I'll go downstairs, to see my end."

Ivan couldn't trust himself to speak for a long moment.

"How magnanimous of you, to suddenly take such interest in my welfare."

"Not yours." Arthur's snap stepped on Ivan's period. "Alfred's.

"Trust me. The idea that you could be potentially arrested for my death is alluring, terribly so, but you don't understand. The moment the gun goes off the police will be called, and forensics legally has to perform an autopsy. If they feel there's even a smidgen chance of foul play, they'll haul me off to the morgue to poke at my corpse for hours, if not days.

"Alfred doesn't have that kind of time. The time frame for a dead person's heart to be transferable to another is short, very short. If the procedure isn't begun immediately, my heart may be use than useless." Arthur shuddered, and looked sadly down at his brother once again.

"The police won't allow the hospital to start cutting me up for organs if they think they have to keep searching for some evidence that you knocked me off. Which is certainly insulting, but never mind….

"We need a roomful of witnesses to confirm that I killed myself. This must not be allowed to become a crime scene." He exhaled, the shakiest of smiles appearing. "To be honest, I doubt the police will look very hard in any case—I'm a wanted felon and no one will miss me very much anyway." He drew a hand through his dirty hair and looked at Ivan, the portrait of weariness.

"You also can't be taken away because you're the only one left, Ivan. I despise you, you'll never know how much, but you did track us down. He put up his hands helplessly. "I'm not so arrogant that I can't give credit where credit is due. Alfred has shoddy protection in you, but that's better than no protection at all." His green eyes turned feverish as he held Ivan's gaze. "If I took you with me, who would Alfred have left? Matthew? That coward heart pumps dust. He won't even try to convince Katyusha to leave Eduard, or to tell him the truth."

"How did you…"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, it's no big secret. The only people whom don't know are Eduard and Alfred. Alfred is just a lucky guess, mind you, but he was always willfully ignorant to unsavory truths….

"But never mind that. Whatever flimsy safety Alfred has in you, I won't allow that to be taken away." Arthur curled his free hand into a shaking fist.

"If I fail to execute myself with the first blow, all might be lost. Legally the paramedics would have to make some effort to save my life." His face contorted into a lopsided smile. "But I believe I can succeed, if my understanding of anatomy is correct." His hand wandered to the side of his temple, sliding carefully before stopping. "I'll make this shot count."

Nothing could be said to this beautiful and awful gesture, nothing that wouldn't be a candle before a storm anyway. The only appropriate response Ivan could give to this moment was to bear silent witness.

"I'd like to say goodbye first." Arthur said shakily, and he darted forward, Ivan letting him do so most reluctantly. Arthur took hold of Alfred's hand, his shaking so badly he could scarcely keep hold of it at all.

"Baby?" he whispered. "Baby?"

The monitor continued beeping, Alfred remained motionless, and Arthur closed his eyes. When he opened them, they shone with unshed tears. "I'm not entirely sure you can hear me." He drew in a deep, sharp breath. "But before I go, I wanted to say a few things. The first of all is how sorry I am." He looked away and bit his lip. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I know it absolves me of nothing, but I am sorry.

"I felt you needed saving. And you certainly did." He cradled the limp hand against his cheek. "But from me.

"I can only give you my heart, Alfred. Whether your body will accept it or not is ultimately up to you; I know you might wind up following me, in the end." He low over his brother, hair fanning over his face. "But I'll die trying. And while I have no right, I'm going to ask you something I've never asked you before: Please don't come with me.

"You have such a will, and now it is the time to put it to use. It's time for you to live. For as long and as well as you can." The tears came again, glancing off Alfred's eyelids. "Maybe it will be easier once I'm gone and can't hurt you anymore.

"You know I don't believe in anything after we die; I think what we were told in Sunday school was all bullocks. If I'm wrong and there is a hell, I'll be happy burning in darkness for all eternity knowing that you'll get your just reward, if there is any semblance of justice in this universe." He snorted again. "Justice. Natalya and I were born diseased, having done nothing to deserve it. Our only fault was that we lost an arbitrary genetic lottery—that's justice for you." He ruffled Alfred's hair affectionately.

"But if a deity does exist, then surely they will take you to where our mother and father are. I know it.

"You said didn't believe in any hell but the one on Earth. I suppose people like me contribute…but you believe that everyone one way or another comes to a nice field somewhere. I quite like that." He had not let go of Alfred's hand. "Do you remember my reading you aloud poetry from that Rumi chap you liked so much? There was one in particular….

"'Out between ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing

There is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in the grass, the world is too full to talk about.'

"If you are right," said Arthur, and his voice nearly failed him, "And if the sight of me won't terrify you by then, I'll meet you there."

Suddenly Arthur snapped back as swiftly if he'd been stung, Alfred's hand flopping back on the bed.

"Of course I'm raving nonsense." He muttered. Ivan wondered if Arthur remembered he were there at all. "I've always been adept at that."

He rounded on Ivan.

"If anyone asks you where you were, you nodded off here, and know nothing. You will not leave the room."

Ivan looked at him a long moment. How much he instinctively wanted to disobey, even now. "Da."

Arthur inhaled in briefly, made a curt nod. "Braginski." He said briskly, and he looked at Ivan with something that might've been grudging respect. He straightened his sweater, tucked the gun beneath it again, and headed out the door without another word.

Unable to help himself, Ivan padded to the door and looked at Arthur's retreating back.

That was the last time Ivan ever saw Arthur Kirkland Jones the second, footsteps clicking sternly down the hall. He did not look back once, save to glance at a nearby clock. Not one whimper or sob could be heard in his wake. Arthur marched into death un-mourned by anyone, least of all himself.

And Ivan knew in his bones he would succeed in his mission. He slumped against the doorway, and the tears streamed freely again.

In lieu of taking of the elevator Arthur took the adjacent door leading to the stairwell, and began his descent downwards, disappearing altogether.

Ivan slowly walked to Alfred's bedside, knelt before it again. How much he would like his own rosary now, even if the words were endless white noise.

He took Alfred's hand, and was surprised there was a small plastic decoder ring folded inside it. Arthur had left it there. As to why he did not know, but that was atypical of everything Arthur Kirkland had ever done, save for one thing.

There was a muffled bang. Alarms began shrieking, and the intercoms crackled as someone urgently implored staff and patients not to panic, and to remain on lockdown until the police arrived.

He buried his face in his hands.

"…..goodnight."

-O-

---

In the lobby people were fleeing out the doors in droves, doctors rushing towards the body on the floor. There were skull fragments scattered about the shredded grey brains, the gun inches away from the ruined body.

As Arthur bled out on the polished waiting room floor, somewhere else in the hospital a baby thrashed and wailed in the delivery room, still flushed and shiny with fluid. Katy was drenched in sweat and was collapsed in bed, one of her hands tangled in her mother's, the other in Matthew's.

The baby squirmed in the nurse's hold as she was swathed in blankets and had a cap slipped on her head. She was gently set in her waiting mother's arms, and Katyusha cooed tearfully as the baby scowled, still squirming.

Unlike her fair-haired mother and father Sophie Van Bock's curls were brown like her maternal great-grandmother's, and her brows sharply pronounced like her grandfather's.

"Most newborns have slate blue eyes," remarked the obstretician as Katy happily snuggling her disgruntled child. "But those green eyes are just something lovely."

---

~o*oOo*o~

The restaurant was called La Chambre Bleu. Its windows were old and dingy—pleasantly so. Inside were small tables scattered around a piano in an informal dining room that smelled of smoke. Some old men talked quietly at the bar. There were flowers on each table, although only one was occupied.

Francis Bonnefoy was the lone patron tonight. He had dressed up—doing so made him feel a tad more human—though he was unshaven. He was inspecting a white rose he'd pulled from the vase on his table, pricking his finger on a stray thorn. He put the flower back, pulled a small box from his pocket, let it sit in the palm of his hand as he silently contemplated it.

The ring would go to no one, now. There was a fountain not far away in the city square; perhaps he'd abandon it there. And perhaps someone would return it to the police and it would sit in a drawer for several months. Perhaps they wouldn't. He opened the top, watched the ring sparkle faintly in the candlelight. Returning it seemed cheap and heartless. Better to leave the waiting box open on a bench, or in a tree, or some inordinate place for a diamond and pearl band. Joan would have loved the romanticism of it all. He closed the box with a snap, put it back in his pocket.

One of his eyes was still black; the waitress avoided looking at his face altogether when she approached, very interested in whatever she was about to write on her pad.

"Another glass, sir?"

"Oui, merci. Two of them, if you don't mind."

The young woman glanced up in surprise, and apologetically looked down again. "Are you meeting someone here tonight?"

"In a matter of speaking," Francis answered vaguely, looking at the seat opposite him. It was empty, although a bouquet of red roses sat before it.

He felt the waitress scrutinize his marred-but-otherwise-lean-and-handsome face when she thought he couldn't see.

"That was an interesting piece," he remarked as the final notes of the current song tinkled away into silence. Nice, that they would continue playing for an almost-empty house. He set his cheek in his hand. "Do you know the name of it?"

There was an apologetic smile in her eyes before she shook her head. "No….I'm sorry."

"'The Blessing of God in Solitude.' Composed by Franz. A masterpiece."

The waitress smiled, bobbed her head obligingly, and left. Francis watched her go, disinterestedly considered escorting her home.

"Ma cheri," he murmured, taking his glass to the vacant seat.

She wouldn't have let him apologize. He hadn't just now, but he knew she would know what he meant.

Francis's phone buzzed in his pocket. He slipped it out to read:

Alfred in surgery again. Arthur dead. Theyre doing a transplant

Well. He raised a pencil-thin brow. That begged explanation, but if Matthew wanted to talk he could call. It was enough to know Arthur was dead.

He turned off his phone, stiffly rose and walked over to the piano, where the concertmaster was now disinterestedly flicking through sheet music.

"Chopin's funeral march. Do you know it?"

"Naturally." The man had a sticky and snobbish voice. Slightly accented too—Francis wondered if he were Austrian. "Dismal ambiance though, if you ask me."

Francis swept his arms about the empty music parlor. "I doubt the audience objects." He fished a bill out his pocket and slipped it inside a worn volume on the piano marked Chopin. "To bookmark your place, monsieur."

"Oh, all right," said the pianist, sounding incredibly put-upon as he opened the volume and began playing. He didn't even look up at the notes. The sight made Francis's non-damaged eye glitter with amusement.

Francis returned to his chair, staring into space until the waitress returned, bearing two glasses.

"Your wine, sir." She perked up as gloomy notes started echoing, hallowed trademark of funerals and the macabre: Dum, dum, da-dum, dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. "I know this piece."

"Everyone does," said Francis quietly, accepting a glass and peering down inside it. The other glass he slid across the table in front of the vacant seat. "You probably recognize a great many others when you hear them, if not by name. That will be all."

He sloshed around the contents of his wineglass, slightly unsteady hand sending a few drops sloshing onto white linen. He looked at the purplish stains, wishing he'd ordered white wine instead. A finger itched painfully and he glanced at it to see a small blood bead.

He drew the finger over his water glass, watched it drip dark scarlet tears. Francis's smile had not faded away entirely, but his eyes were cool again. He pressed a hand against his forehead, messy hair he'd halfheartedly tried raking back to some decency falling over his eyes. He glanced at the dripping wine, snarls of scarlet in fresh water, twisting and curling.

Replay a waltz as much as you like, Francis thought, and a heaviness descended on him so severe he imagined being dragged to the floor via pure force of gravity. To the center of the Earth, and then through that, straight to the bottom of the Earth, hurtling off int space.

He closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. His bruised eye throbbed as Francis gingerly touched it, producing an effect akin to faithless Moses tapping the boulders twice: Tears came down.

It always stops on the same beat.

---

~o*oOo*o~

---

Five months later the thick of summer had settled, giving the air a molasses-like, soporific consistency. Before the near-daily afternoon showers plummeted, the sky glared a fierce blue—it was bluing, Alfred and Arthur had liked to say once.

One such bluing morning found a forest of enormous, dusty-dry sunflowers cheerfully bobbing their yellow heads obligingly in warm gusts. Encircling the waving sunflowers was a green, sloping sea, grass progressively darker and cooler underneath heavy tree boughs, sunlight twinkling through the leafy canopy they made. It was a day wherein everyone was nicely becoming themselves.

Further away ruby-red rows of strawberries began, and three young men could be seen working dutifully over the rows.

Alfred wiped his brow and shaded his eyes as he looked up at the sky, noticing what might've been a hawk or an eagle on the wing overhead. He inhaled appreciatively. The overwhelming scent of berries permeating his senses made him want to roll in the fields like a dog.

He grinned broadly as he dropped several fistfuls of fruit into a nearby bucket, hands and mouth scarlet.

"There! And that makes eight," he crowed, wiping his brow and sitting back on his heels. "Told ya I'd beat you both!"

Ivan and Matthew both looked up from where they knelt. Matthew fanned himself with his hat, looking annoyed.

"And we told you that Ivan's mom asked for twelve buckets," Matthew muttered, scrutinizing a strawberry doubtfully as he turned it over. "And I'm fairly certain we both told you in some capacity that we weren't racing."

"I'm fairly certain I told you in some capacity that you're a salty sourpuss," Alfred said offhandedly, giving Matthew's shoulder an affectionate shove. "But just to be sure, I'll tell you again: You're a salty sourpuss."

"You know the farm has pre-packed berries in buckets," Matthew reminded him for the fifth time, pulling out a bottle on spray-on suntan lotion from his bag and applying it liberally. "'Let's go pick our own berries. It will be fun,' he said. 'Let's pay to do demeaning, back-breaking labor we normally reserve for illegal immigrants with the sun beating down on our backs. Let's get melanoma,' you said. 'It'll be a trip,' you said. These berries are probably teeming with lice."

"They look fine to me!"

"Yeah well, they probably have insect larvae inside. Worms are going to crawl out your eyes."

Alfred rolled his eyes, stooping to scoop some berries into his mouth. "Thanks so much for that image. Geezus, only you could be a Grinch in a freaking strawberry patch."

He immediately regretted saying that because both twins knew it wasn't true, not always. Not from very far away Alfred heard Arthur lecturing him to put on a hat, fretting that his latest new freckle was a cancer harbinger. And he spoke enthusiastically about the strawberry tart he would make and the one Alfred would eat only because he loved Arthur. The heart constricted painfully.

He blinked the nightmare out of his eyes. "I've tasted enough strawberries to know they don't have bugs inside or out!" Alfred protested, holding out a berry to Matthew for inspection. "I poison-checked because I care. You're welcome."

"They're still dirty. You wouldn't eat food that'd been on the floor for longer than ten seconds, right?"

"Yeah, well, we all eat a handful of dirt before we die, Mattie. Good for the immune system. I bet once we get these suckers washed you'll want them."

"I've smelled so many berries for so long I don't think I'll want any shortcake tonight."

"Really? Can I eat yours?"

"I don't care how skinny you are—one of these days I'm convinced that black hole in your gut will reach storage capacity and you'll die."

"Yeah, well, looks like I'm eating your cake and having yours too, which means I win at life."

"Seriously, Alfred. How are you still hungry? You've eating as many as you put in the baskets."

Alfred grinned at him, holding out his juice-fingers out. "Yes, you caught me red-handed!"

"….stop it, you monster, before you destroy Tokyo."

"No I won't! Back me up, Vanya. Don't we like Tokyo? And isn't this fun?"

"I-I-It might be f-fun n-now," Ivan stammered, peeling off the juice-stained gloves he'd had the foresight to bring. "But you d-don't know mama w-w-will have us w-working in the k-kitchen today. W-we'll be making e-e-enough j-jam to last us a y-year t-today."

"Sounds good to me! I love Ma's jam. I could eat it with a spoon."

"W-we will b-b-be m-m-m-mashing b-berries all day," Ivan reminded him, and Alfred was only more or less listening, eyes running up and down Ivan's bare arms and his muscular front visible through his tank appreciatively. "And s-stirring a h-hot vat of thick j-j-jam for h-hours. Your h-hands will h-h-h-hurt and t-t-the room w-will be hot as h-hell. And w-w-we'll all be s-s-squished together, b-b-because k-kitchen is small."

"I don't care how much that description sounds like sweatshop conditions. Still Disneyland to me!"

Ivan's eyes sparkled and looked like he wanted to speak again. He appeared to think better of it, and instead began admiring his own bucket of strawberries. Alfred wiped his hands on his pants, and willed with all his might for the part of his brain wherein Arthur could be heard wailing about the stains to rot.

"We're about done here, Vanya. Wanna go on a walk? And if you want to wash up Mattie, there's a pump by the farm doors."

"It's well-water and probably contaminated," Matthew said glumly, nonetheless looking relieved as they all rose. "At the very least it'll taste like rust."

Alfred rolled his eyes. "You're welcome, Eeyore." Ivan slipped his hand into Alfred's waiting one. The former had neither agreed nor disagreed to come along, but Alfred distinguished Ivan Braginski's different shades of silence the way you might hues on a paint swatch.

The two wandered from their row up the path as Mattie trudged away behind, and eventually they left the strawberry lines behind. The grass swished agreeably against their sandaled feet and they came to a stop underneath a large oak overlooking the farm.

On the other side of the hill they spotted a field of gold where the sunflowers began in the distance. Ivan's breath caught and Alfred whistled, wrapping an arm around the taller's waist.

"Here." He proffered his canteen, which Ivan gratefully accepted. "You okay?"

Ivan just nodded after passing the bottle back, wiping his mouth for a good long moment.

"I know you're probably sick of that question," Alfred said wisely, plopping to the ground. "But I can't help it." Ivan noticed Alfred's glinting hair, and thought that if his boyfriend were to hide amongst the sunflowers he might never be seen again. "That helps me when everyone keeps giving me the side-eye like they're worried I'm going to have a nervous breakdown any minute."

Ivan mutely sat beside him and kissed his cheek. Alfred's smile did not quite fade, but something in his eyes shifted and made it a little bit sad.

Shortly after Arthur's death, Ivan developed a nervous stammer. The psychiatrist whom his mother firmly insisted he see had said that adult-onset lisps was symptomatic of PTSD. When asked how long a stutter typically lasted, she'd given Ivan a practiced pitying look before she opened her mouth and explained.

Weekly visits to a speech pathologist had helped slightly, but not by much. Alfred certainly hadn't minded Ivan's stutter—it wasn't like he didn't have his fair share of idiosyncrasies Ivan patiently endured, even enjoyed—but if he were gregarious, Ivan was the most self-conscious person he'd ever known.

Alfred stiffened, eyes frosting over. Jerky classmates somehow associated both Ivan's height and halting English with stupidity, and jeered at him for years. It was a fact that made Alfred consider investing in a chainsaw, but however much he'd tried to reinforce Ivan's self-esteem, it'd taken a considerable battering for years. Now Ivan turned heads trying to order food, and was much quieter now. Alfred chewed the inside of his lip. Whatever he tried assuring Ivan, he was still taciturn at best, even with his boyfriend.

As if feeling Alfred's worrying gaze, Ivan turned and flashed him a rare toothy smile. Alfred's became a bit more genuine as he took Ivan's hand, scrutinizing, stroking, turning it over and tracing palm lines. This was his default when nothing sounded right in his mind.

But what had made Ivan quieter made Alfred louder, at least during night terrors when he thrashed about in sweat-soaked sheets twisted around him, smothering as Arthur penetrated him with flesh and sometimes with a knife and sometimes both at once, alike cutting into him so badly the world alternatively flashed blindingly white and pitch-black as his stomach churned and he was sometimes violently sick and always in a cold sweat and when the door flew open Alfred screamed until his throat might slit as Arthur's pallid face with craven eyes loomed in the dark and staggered over to the bed—

And if he looked long enough the flesh melted into a near-mirror image of his own as Matthew rushed over. Sometimes Alfred didn't look long enough, only buried his face in his pillow and sobbed uncontrollably as people breathlessly tried soothing him; Vanya, whom snuck in through the window most nights, Mattie, helplessly offering assurances of safety and water. Arthur, because again the two were in bed together and he was shushing him even as he penetrated his shrieking little brother, crooning his love as Alfred died inside, then out again as Arthur stabbed him, so desperate was he for Alfred's heart….

The only thing that stopped his loved ones from holding him then and there was the fact they'd learned by now not to touch him until he reached for them himself. Otherwise, Alfred was stronger than he realized in his terror. After he somewhat came back to himself he learned he left bruises.

Ivan was urgently shaking his shoulder. "Alfredka."

His breathing was shallow and he forced in several deep breaths, frantic to avoid a panic attack. Ivan's hand automatically went to touch his face, and then paused with utmost reluctance.

"C-can I t-touch you?"

"Yeah," Alfred gasped, and a second later Ivan tugged him into his lap. Alfred smiled at the young man anxiously cradling him. "S'okay, baby." His voice came out hoarse, as if his vocal chords had been pinched. "I got this."

"A-are you sure?"

"Yeah. Just stay like this. For a moment."

With no small effort turned his eyes outward instead of in. He would have today. At least this afternoon and this evening; that was hardly asking for much. If he couldn't find safe rest even in Ivan's arms tonight, or couldn't sleep at all because he drank too much caffeine and refused sleeping pills because they paralyzed him in his dreams—he would have this afternoon.

He looked down at the strawberry field and did a half-smile as he watched Mrs. Braginski and her sponsor Gilbert from AA at work, arguing on the finer points of jam-making and canning. Alfred chuckled fondly.

"Hey." Ivan's chin rested over his head and he grinned again. "This was a good idea. I'm having a real good time."

And he was, and he knew Ivan was too. Still, something in that seemed wrong, disrespectful even. To Jean, to the trauma that, young as they were, would color their lives forever.

But the only way to resume living was by doing, or so Ivan's mother had said, and so the Braginskis, the Jones twins, the Van Bocks and Francis had come to the strawberry farm Ivan and Alfred had visited on a field trip many, many years ago. Mrs. Braginski swore by the fruit here.

Francis scorned manual labor of any kind, so he'd gone to the farm's small bakery to flirt with the pretty salesgirl. Alfred thought he could make out Francis still sitting under the café umbrella. Somehow he must've convinced her to sit down with him, and judging by how he was leaning towards her with his chin in hand, he was certainly interested. Alfred glanced over at Ivan, whose expression was stony.

"You're not thinking of beating the crap out of him again, are you?" he asked warily.

"T-t-tempting, but n-no."

"You're so damn lucky Francis never ratted you out. The Bonnefoys might've pressed charges. What'd he do this time?"

Ivan gazed ahead moodily.

"It s-seems heartless to me, i-is all. S-so soon."

"No, I think this is best." Ivan looked down at him in surprise. "Jean wouldn't have wanted Francis to spend all his time wringing his hands mourning and weeping in a valley of tears, or checking himself into a monastery." The two paused to imagine such a thing, and immediately cracked up.

Ivan wiped his eyes. Alfred could always make him laugh even when he didn't want to. Or didn't think he should, anyway.

"No, she wouldn't have wanted him to make his life a shrine to lost love. She would've wanted him to go on. And I think even if he looks perfectly at home right now, he's remembering that."

"Y-you can be surprisingly o-o-observant when y-you want t-to be."

Alfred pushed at him half-playfully. "When the person you trust more than anyone you know turns out to be a sick, psychotic criminal, learning to tune your observational abilities suddenly becomes a priority."

He mentally kicked himself down a flight of stai—no, he would not think about that either. Neither of them said anything for a long while.

The boughs casted shifting shadow patterns over their faces, although one remained absolutely still in their expressions. As per usual Alfred broke the silence first.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring that here with us today."

"It stays i-inside of us." Ivan said gently, kissing the top of Alfred's head. "We h-have no c-choice in that. O-our only concern i-is that w-we not let it poison o-our insides."

"You spend way too much time in the self-help section in the bookstore, buddy."

"And y-you in the manga. I-It's a w-wonder your name i-i-isn't on a 'Do N-Not Admit' s-sign by now."

"Hey, where's Eduard?" Alfred swiveled his head toward the parking lot in disbelief. "He's not still in the car, is he?

"Why hasn't he joined us yet? Geez, what kind of guy brings a bluetooth to a farm? And why stay in the car? It's not like Sophie doesn't have a sitter."

Ivan's hands slowly clenched into fists from where they were folded in Alfred's lap. Alfred turned to consider him again.

"You still don't like him." It wasn't a question.

"Nyet." He sighed, picking up a stray twig and drawing lines in the dirt. "It i-isn't as if h-he's ever hurt her p-p-physically—I'd d-destroy him. But even t-though he isn't t-tearing her down w-with words either, he's…tenuous."

"Watery porridge," Alfred agreed, helping himself to some berries he'd filled his pockets with. "It's like the guy isn't present even when you're holding a conversation with him. Unless you ask him about his work," He snickered humorlessly. "I did that once during Sophie's christening party. He wouldn't shut up, so I told him I was feelin' queasy, like I got a sudden case of cancer-aids and had to excuse myself. If I wasn't traumatized beforehand, I was then."

Ivan rolled his eyes and snorted. "Cancer a-aids. Oh, w-will nothing b-be done t-to stop t-the plight of cancer a-aids?"

Alfred giggled and then sighed.

"Bottom line, Katy loves him." Ivan slightly tipped his head in grudging assent. "She takes him for what he is, for whatever that's worth."

The two looked on soberly as Matthew tentatively made his way over to Katy with a water bottle. He was flushed, likely from sun and something else.

"Thank you. For not beating the crap out of Matthie. For…"

"I would've," Ivan said honestly. "H-had I not…spoken to Katyusha h-herself and she c-confirmed that it was…c-consensual." He blushed and they squirmed, neither liking very much to talk of their siblings having sex. For more reasons than one.

"Mattie told me that it just…happened." Alfred threw up his hands. "I dunno how something like that 'just happens.' Jesus.

"I kind of wish he and Katy would just run away together right now, just grab their strawberries and ride off into the sunset. At least Mattie would move heaven and Earth for her."

"It could n-never work," Ivan reminded him. "M-matvey is h-hardly even a man."

"Hey."

"But he w-wants to go -to college. H-h-he doesn't have a j-job. He c-could never support a c-child."

Alfred let out his breath in a long huff. "I know. Guess there's no kinda hell like wishin' for something you know ain't gonna be.

"It feels weird that Eduard doesn't know." He frowned. "I don't like it. It doesn't feel right, but I don't want him to knock on Mattie's door and start beating the tar out of him. We don't need two mangled Bonnefoys."

"H-he doesn't s-strike me as the type w-who would," said Ivan dismissively. "He'd p-probably just m-make a f-face and disappear into h-his office. P-pretend it d-didn't happen. He's c-cold."

"Poor Katy. Poor Mattie. I guess there are two good ways of screwing someone up—too much attention, and not enough.

"Did everybody know that Arthur was in love with me?" The words spilled out of their own accord. "Was I really the only shit whom didn't see it?"

"…his devotion to y-you was always o-obsequious," Ivan admitted. "And b-borderline fanatical, g-growing up. It i-irritated me s-so." His mouth twisted humorlessly. "I never w-would've said o-outright that he was i-infatuated w-with you, o-only co-dependent." A weary groan. "I g-guess I d-didn't want to a-acknowledge what i-in hindsight was o-obvious b-because I w-would've had to a-accept…" He squeezed Alfred's midsection until the boy squeaked and Ivan hurriedly loosened his hold. "N-N-Natalya was the same. A-and I couldn't b-b-bear to acknowledge it. Not w-when I h-had such a small f-family left."

"I wish someone would've told me." Alfred said mostly to himself. "But does Eduard want to know?

"Forget it. Not here. It is beautiful all up here in this bitch. Christopher Robin woulda called this an enchanted place."

Alfred thought he could feel Ivan's smile against his head when he kissed him again. Very gently he pulled Alfred off his lap, and turned to face him, eyes wide and bright with anticipation. His face was bright pink and Alfred worried if the suntan goop they'd smeared all over each other (taking a generous amount of time to massage it in carefully) wasn't enough.

"Alfred."

Alfred curiously looked him over. Ivan closed his eyes, steeling himself for a moment as he let out his breath in a brief puff.

"I've b-been thinking." He wiped a glistening palm against the grass. "T-there isn't a-anyone else I w-w-w-want to s-spend my..m-my l-life with. S-so."

So saying, Ivan withdrew a small box from his pocket, parting it open with shaking fingers to reveal a small gold band. It didn't have but the tiniest of diamond chips, but it caught the light and sparkled fiercely.

It was lucky Alfred was still sitting, else his legs might've given way at that point. His jaw dropped, but all he could manage was a weak "I-Ivan." Now it was his turn to stutter.

"I'm s-s-sorry it's s-small. But it's y-yours. T-this and m-my heart w-were always m-meant for you."

For a sickening moment Alfred imagined Ivan's heart slipping out of his chest cavity of its own accord. His own—Arthur's—hurt so badly the tears sprang to his eyes.

Ivan looked up at him hopefully, his own eyes overbright as he took a deep, steadying breath.

"A-Alfred F. J-Jones." Judging by the fleeting frustration Alfred saw, Ivan was struggling against his stutter to no avail. "W-Will you m-marry me?"

For a moment Alfred could not move, and then he had to, because he loved Ivan too much otherwise to keep him waiting in a stricken silence that lasted seconds but felt like unsteady minutes. "Oh, Vanya." He slowly kissed Ivan's cheek. "No."

He drew back carefully, saw Ivan's face and immediately threw his arms around Ivan's neck. Ivan was unmoving as a statue, the box still frozen in the air where it had been offered.

"Let me explain, man." He stroked Ivan's very fair hair, swallowing back the pain that would have him crying and Ivan would feel the need to comfort him—no. When he spoke again his voice cracked as if he were pre-pubescent again.

"I want to marry you now more than anything else in the world." He kissed the nape of Ivan's neck, dotting small, near-reverent pecks everywhere he could. "And that's the problem. It's not fair to either of us."

After a prolonged squeeze Alfred cautiously tilted to look Ivan in the eyes. It was no easy task; the boy looked positively heartbroken. His plum eyes were blinking too fast, and shot with misery.

"B-but if you w-want to marry m-me," Ivan asked, small voice hurt and bewildered. "W-why…I c-can fix m-my l-l-lisp, Alfred. I c-can f-f-fix it—"

"No! I mean, it's not the stutter, Vanya! You can keep that forever for all I care." He slapped his knee for emphasis. "I want us to get hitched. I want us to have rice pelted at us as we dive into a car. I want your last name to be part of mine. I don't care that it's longer and people have a hard time sayin' it and it won't fit on a driver's license." He let out a shaky, watery laugh.

"It's everything I've ever wanted, more than ever. I want us to lean in for a kiss as our limo zooms away. Actually, scratch that: It'd be a race car. Let's say a race car with a 'Just Married' sign on the buffer. And I wanna be married to you and believe everything's coming up roses because…well, because we'd be married and of course we'd live happily ever after…" He hugged Ivan again, the latter's arms still not returning his embrace. "Because, well, we're us, I guess…

"And maybe it'd seem that everything that almost killed us and the hurting that's actively trying to kill us was miles and miles away," he whispered, stroking Ivan's back. "Or at the least couldn't touch us anymore. But that wouldn't be the case. It's like you said: We take ourselves with us." Ivan's shaking arms wrapped around him at last, and Alfred took the opportunity to sit on his knee. "Because I make a serious case for the 'most fucked-up person alive award,' I can't marry you. Not the way I am now. I need to be better."

"But I-I don't m-mind your n-n-nightmares. I-I-I will w-wait t-them all o-out w-with you. I-I'll kiss t-them all a-away. F-forever and e-ever, i-if you w-want me t-to."

"Vanya, as good as that sounds I know us well enough that we're going to be damn well tempted to use marriage to keep ourselves from falling to pieces. And as reasons to be hitched go, that's a lousy one. But I know I'll buy into it once my name is on that piece of paper.

"We've been trying to stitch up the mess people left behind with other people. And I don't think healing works that way; not all the way, anyway. And because I treat relationships like I do elixirs in Kingdom Hearts, I'm co-dependent. And I hate it. We've always fit well together because I wanted someone to take care of me and you always wanted someone to take care of, but I wanna stand on more equal footing with you, Vanya. And you've got to let me."

Ivan looked stunned. Alfred went on: "And right now, I'm in-between a sunflower and strawberry field. I'm real happy, but practically every hour I have at least one moment when I think I'm actually going to die. Not because of you, I promise, I would've already died if not for you, which is a problem—but this is every day of my life. I want to be better for us both."

"This is m-my life t-too," Ivan argued. "I u-understand better t-than a-anyone!"

"I know. But you can't slap a band-aid over a mental illness with a relationship. That's what Natalya and Arthur tried to do, and look what happened!"

Well, Ivan couldn't deny him that one.

"And to be honest? Sometimes I still want to die. I wanna live forever, but feel like dying every day. I might not have any plans to off myself any time soon, but that don't mean I don't think about it all the time."

Despite the heat, Ivan went deathly white underneath him. Alfred caressed his cheek.

"Like I said, no plans…but…we haven't made love in a long time." He shifted awkwardly from where he rested. "And I can't, because…I don't want to feel like he's there, in the room with us." He had to stifle a sob before it could escape. "Then I feel this—" His hand fell over his breast. "And I just want to rip it out, because he sort of is."

Ivan's hand flew to his heart as if to keep it firmly lodged inside; Alfred's hand fell over his. "I'm on three different kinds of meds. And they help, they really do, but even with them sometimes it's tough enough just to get through the fucking day."

"Me too."

"And I will never invalidate that, 'specially cause you're the real best friend I ever had. But if love healed everything, Natalya and Arthur woulda never been sick, cause we loved them both more than they ever loved us. And what I want to believe more than anything is that we can fix each other's grief—if I could open you up and take all your hurtin' parts and make them part of me—because every part of you is important, I would. And I know you feel the same. But just because you like to think something won't ever make it so. That's kinda been the story of our lives, huh?"

Alfred looked at Ivan fondly. "You know, I was plannin' on asking you, just a few weeks ago? For you to marry me. Was looking at rings and everything. But you beat me to the punch."

Ivan gawked at him. "N-nyet."

"I had it all planned out," said Alfred dreamily. "I'd enlist your ma's help. Her mission, if she chose to accept it, would've been to drive you out to the city and find the fanciest restaurant there. Then, while you two were overlooking your fancy-ass menus, your ma would excuse herself to the restroom and then the waiter would wheel over a cart with a fancy-ass silver platter. With a top, like the ones in the movies. Then he'd tell you it was sent to you with compliments from a dashing young man by the window, under the chandelier, and you'd look over and see me wearing a tux."

"I-I'm not entirely s-sure I do s-see it." Ivan said dryly, sounding genuinely amused. "Not u-unless I am s-seeing -the four horsemen o-f the a-apocalypse too."

"Oh, you think you're funny."

"On the contrary. I know I'm hilarious."

"Then I'd saunter over and turn on the charm, all James Bond-smooth. Maybe I'd wear a fedora," Alfred added thoughtfully, and Ivan wondered if Alfred remembered where he was. "Then I'd lift the dome and wham!" He drove his fist against his hand. "There'd be a cupcake—"

"A c-cupcake?" Ivan asked disbelievingly. "An e-expensive restaurant a-and you'd g-get me a c-cupcake?"

"A fancy-ass cupcake," Alfred protested. "And it would have a ring in the frosting. Blue frosting, by the way, 'cause you're worth it. That's when I kneel down, tell you again that you're the most incredible person I've ever known—my favorite person," he added, lovingly poking Ivan's nose. "And throw my heart at your feet. In front of everyone. No pressure, though.

"But you had the better idea." He swept his arms around the clearing again. "Just us, back again. What can I say but that you know me?

"To tell you the truth, I would've been okay with you proposing in a murder clown costume with a ring pop and us getting hitched at city hall before the hour was over. And as for a wedding cake, I'd cook us a huge blue wedding cake at home."

"Why blue?"

"Because we're free-ass Americans, that's why. And that'd be enough. No big huge Gatsbian affairs. Just us.

But that's why I have to say no. At least for the time being. This is gonna sound cheesy as fuck, but I wanna be the best version of myself I can be when we get hitched, even if I'm gonna be a work-in-progress for the rest of my life. You spent so much time protecting me. I want to know I can protect you too."

Ivan felt Alfred's forehead. "Y-you are sounding…s-so reasonable. A-are you s-sure you're feeling a-alright?"

"Ha-ha. Technically, we've only been together a few months. And during those weeks, everything felt so rushed because someone was out to fucking kill us. Romeo and Juliet probably felt less of a time crunch. Now, I want to feel like we've got time." He smiled, eyes giving and receiving the sky. "And we do."

"W-we do," repeated Ivan.

"I don't know how much further we'll go on. But when we're slightly less-fucked up and still together then, one of us is gonna ask. And I think I'm going to beat you there."

"I love you."

"Love you so much," Alfred sighed, kissing him. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the abandoned ring box lying on its side. He pulled away to pick it up.

"Can I ask you a favor?" Alfred asked, turning the ring over in his hands. "I want to keep this." He pressed the ring to his lips. "Sorry, you should know you're courtin' a selfish ho, fyi."

"Of c-course you m-may. It was m-meant for you."

"I'd like this to be a promise ring. And I'll keep it near my heart, if you don't mind." Alfred pulled out his dogtag chain from underneath his shirt and slipped the band on the chain, where a plastic decoder ring hung off it as well. "I'd also like to wear it around my neck because it reminds me of the one ring." He rubbed it covertly and Ivan started laughing again. "Precious, the precious…"

"I would h-hope you don't a-associate my ring a-as the r-representative of a-all that is e-evil in the w-world."

"And I hope you remember that it's a compliment to compare this ring to the bad-ass one that saved Bilbo's ass God knows how many times," Alfred complained, burying his face in Ivan's scarf.

"I can't believe you brought this to the farm in the middle of July." He mumbled, voice muffled as if speaking underwater.

"I don't want m-my neck to burn. B-but yours is perfectly e-exposed…"

Alfred looked up in surprise as Ivan's lips closed over his fluttering pulse, nibbling tenderly. Face flaming, he let his eyes flutter shut, letting out a funny noise as Ivan's lips trailed up, fastening over his own again.

The initial kisses were short and gentle, experimental as if it were the first time. Alfred's tongue lightly traced Ivan's lips and Ivan immediately responded, cupping Alfred's cheek as they hotly caressed and twisted and chased around each other, eyes slipping shut.

Ivan made what sounded suspiciously like a whimper when Alfred tangled his hands in his soft tresses and tugged slightly, their tempo becoming rougher, their breathing ragged. Alfred's breath still smelled like fruit and Ivan's head swam.

Alfred's trembling hand fell over Ivan's pounding heart before trailing his hand down Ivan's long torso, down, down, down, reaching his belt—

"HEY!"

The two startled apart. Matthew was calling to them now, hands on his hips. Alfred wished he had a camera.

"Ivan, your mom says it's time to start macking and start snacking! It's time for lunch!"

"Best we get back," Ivan sighed, wiping his hands as he stood. "I packed an extra basket for you, by the way. I hope it will be enough."

"I love you too, you fucker," Alfred said teasingly, prodding him in the ribs. "Hey, I'm worried 'bout my neck too. Mind if we share?"

In response, Ivan looped his trailing scarf around Alfred's neck and the two set off together, slippery hands clasped, bumping into each other in their wake.

---

-O-

Years Later

~o*oOo*o~

His tresses are pale blond, his eyes indigo.

His name, he'll tell you (or anyone else who listens), is Aleksandr Braginski-Jones, but he prefers Just Sasha. Just Sasha is much easier to write than his full name. Even when he writes very small, his full name will not fit on his placecard in kindergarten.

At five years of age, he knows a lot about the world, or at least supposes so. He doesn't know how people vote or how to pay taxes, but he knows other, probably more important things.

He knows he was born in the same country Papa was, in a region with the funny name of Yakustk. The memories of this place are few, vague, and drifting, like bits of sparkling dust in a sleepy sunbeam.

He remembers being very small (he's much bigger now and one day he'll be taller than Papa, thank you very much), and often very cold.

It wasn't a bad place—at least, he doesn't think it was, but can recollect almost no sunshine, and a great deal of gray. Gray hard snow that stubbornly persisted for months on end, black sticks scattered everywhere, wintry watery-blue skies. He also remembers being swaddled in a thick coat, snowpants that made it impossible to move, a large hat that keeps falling past his eyes, scratchy mittens, big, old, clonking boots, and a wet wool scarf draped around his mouth.

He recalls being told that someone wanted him, and that made him happy, though he didn't understand what that meant at the time. When the somebodies came, they talked funny, though the very tall man with violet eyes who initially frightened him spoke his language.

Ears popping, Sasha liked looking out the window of the plane, and being held by either the smiling man with blue eyes, or the very tall man with a kind face and peppermints in his pocket.

When they landed, there were lots of strange faces and banners and wrapped gifts and Sasha hadn't understood at first that they were for him. It had been scary, and he kept his face hidden in the blue-eyed man's chest, wondering why there was a man who looked exactly like him there in the crowd.

It was odd and interesting and he kept peeking out to steal a glance at him. When Matthew winked at him, he ducked his head back, suppressing a smile.

G'ma was a scary-looking old lady who said things Sasha's not allowed to repeat, but she gave him an avalanche of toys so he supposed she was alright. Katyusha gave him an enormous teddy bear, and her daughter Sophie thrust a toy rocket in his arms. She has brilliant green eyes and long brown hair twisted back in a ponytail. Sasha thinks she would have been pretty if not for the dour expression on her face.

Katyusha made a point of saying that her husband Eduard is Sophie's Daddy, but Sasha thought her nose looked more like Dad-dy's or Matthew's.

Life went on and he supposed he learned some English, though he doesn't remember struggling with it, so perhaps Sasha always knew it.

Sasha knows that Fourth of July is probably the best thing ever, because that day is also Daddy's and Uncle Mattie's birthday and Sasha wishes he were born on that day too, because how cool would it be to have fireworks on your birthday? But he doesn't mind, because Fourth of July means cooking with Papa and making Daddy with breakfast in bed. Daddy's always so surprised he practically falls out of bed every year when they carry the tray in, which makes Sasha laugh.

Fourth of July also means picnic with Aunt Katy, Uncle Eduard, Uncle Matthew (who has a lady friend but often stares sadly at Aunt Katy), cousin Sophie, who does not play with him unless her parents make her, and Gramma, and he and Daddy make homemade cookie dough ice cream. Because it's America's birthday too, they add red and blue food coloring to the mix, but it always comes out purple. Papa took one look at it once and said that it looks like the grossest thing ever, and Daddy said the light purple color kind of reminded him of his eyes. That meant Papa started chasing Daddy around the park and Sasha was more than happy to help, but it was hard because Daddy runs FAST, even while laughing his head off.

Blini at Gramma's is also probably the best thing ever, and Daddy probably thinks so too, considering just how many he can eat. Sasha is in awe every Sunday when they go over to Gramma's for brunch. Sasha's Daddy is a subject of legend on the school playground, known respectfully as the human stomach.

After thinking the matter over again carefully, Sasha will tell you no, the best thing ever is listening for either Papa or Daddy to start calling out 'bedtime' and you feel you don't really wanna go to bed just yet, and hide. It's always so fun to watch them wander around the rooms and call for him—don't they know he always hides under the bed?

Eventually, they do drag him out, and Daddy starts tickling him while Sasha shrieks with laughter. Then it's bubble bath, which is easily the best thing ever, and shampoo time, which is decidedly NOT the best thing ever because even though Papa is careful and doesn't let any soap drip into your eyes, it hurts having to tilt your head back, especially when you'd rather be looking down at your toys or pruning fingertips.

Being tucked into bed is probably one of the best things ever because if Daddy does it, sometimes Sasha gets a bedtime snack (provided he doesn't tell Papa), and if Papa does it, sometimes he'll sing Sasha to sleep or tell him just one more bedtime story (provided he doesn't tell Daddy).

But what's probably nicer than that is when they both tuck him in and kiss him goodnight, tiptoe out and leave the night-light on, and Sasha can gaze at the ceiling and wonder until morning comes (he doesn't sleep; sleep is for babies) and he gets up again.

Sometimes, the waiting is hard, and once in awhile, it's awful because Sasha imagines he sees things. Horrible, red-eyed, hungry things, and he dashes out the door, imagining beasts with sharp teeth nipping at his heels, hands trying to drag him underneath the bed. If he slips, trips and falls to the floor, he knows he's as good as dead, though there was that one time where he DID trip and DIDN'T die (only because he was very, very lucky and very, very fast).

In the hall, he is almost safe, but not quite. Even after he slams his door shut, he imagines he can hear something pounding against his door, howling in disappointment, longing to eat him. He dashes to Papa and Daddy's room, and sometimes that's not a good thing because once or twice he ran in and Papa and Daddy…were playing leapfrog or something under the covers. It looked like Papa was trying to hop over Daddy, but he wasn't doing a very good job. For some reason or another they weren't wearing their jammie shirts.

"Sa-SHA!" Alfred yelped one time that happened, falling over and pulling the sheets over his head. "GO TO BED!"

"I'm scared!"

Papa groaned and hid his face in his pillow. "I will give you something to be afraid of," he griped half-heartedly.

"Oh, stop," The lump that was probably Daddy sighed, fidgeting underneath the sheets and emerging in his wrinkled shirt. "C'mere, baby, it's okay, we'll get ya some hot milk or something. And Ivan, quit poutin'. You can get some later."

"Get some what?" Sasha asked as Alfred pulled him onto the bed with a grunt. "Milk?"

"In a matter of speaking," Papa grumbled.

Daddy creamed Papa with his pillow.

Get this. Sasha knows a secret.

He'd been unable to sleep last Christmas Eve, and upon hearing something stirring in the den he tiptoed down the steps and peeked in, wide-eyed. There was Santa Claus, albeit much trimmer than Sasha expected, complete in red suit, beard, and glasses. Daddy stood next to him, helping him unload presents from garbage bags.

"Is the suit really necessary, Alfred?" Said Santa in a muffled voice. He sounded a bit like Papa.

"Hey, I expect you be in full uniform, Santy. What if my kid were to see you not donning ye gay apparel?"

"I don't know if it can get much gayer than this."

"Don't tell me you left any coal in my stocking," Daddy purred, nuzzling against Santa the way he sometimes nuzzled Papa. "I've been such an awful good boy this year, too."

"Hmm," Santa agreed, violet eyes twinkling.

"Gonna go up my chimney?" Daddy asked in a low, funny voice.

"Come now, don't make me put you on my naughty list, little one. Santa might give you a spanking."

"That a threat, or a promise?"

Sasha saw Daddy kissing Santa Claus. The child crept back to bed, pleased to have some decent blackmail material against Daddy that could come in handy later in life.

Speaking of Christmas, the holidays are coming again soon, and Sasha already knows just what he wants.

~o*oOo*o~

One frosty December afternoon, when it was only four o'clock but already getting dark out because some guy turned back the clocks, probably, Sasha swung his feet at the kitchen table, munching on graham crackers and coloring. He glanced out the window and wondered if Santa would come if there was no snow. Maybe he'd come if Daddy were willing to make out with him under the mistletoe again. Sasha made a face.

The door opened and Sasha leapt off his phonebook. "Hey, Papa!"

"Privyet, little puppy," Ivan responded cheerfully, running a hand through his child's hair. "Where is Daddy? I need some help bringing in the groceries."

He jerked his little shoulder towards the ceiling. "Upstairs." Sasha shuffles his feet before admitting, "Um, I think I'm in trouble."

Papa's smile did not quite disappear, but it sort of froze on his face and Sasha froze with it, now feeling a very strong urge to use the potty. "Why? Did you bring home a note from school? Did you break something?"

"No!" Sasha cried out defensively, meeting his father's intense stare. "Nyet. Today, we did our holidays from around the world projects today. I got a gold star." He hastily went to the table and held up his poster; a clear defense. "And Gramma brought in blini for everyone to try, so it was fun. I came home and Daddy asked me about my day, and I told him, and he said good for you, then I said that we all wrote letters to Santa today, and he asked me what I wrote, and I told him." He wrinkled up his nose and frowned. "He got all quiet and then went to your room. I knocked on the door and asked if I could watch a movie, but he didn't answer, and I'm not s'posed to go in your room while the door's closed, so—"

"What did you ask for?"

And Sasha told him. "I've been good this year. I thought Santa could bring me one. Am I in trouble?" He asked anxiously, cocking his head.

Ivan didn't say anything for a moment. Then the pale man sighed; a long, sad sound.

"Nyet. Finish your snack and I'll put on a video for you."

As Sasha happily finished to his plate, Ivan headed up the stairs. He knocked on his bedroom door and without pause entered, "Alfredka."

Alfred was curled up in bed, staring at his hands. He'd clearly been crying, but at Ivan's approach he straightened, rubbing red eyes.

"Hey, babe. How was your day?"

Ivan quietly closed the door, checking it behind him. He remained where he was as he turned, and Alfred chose to admire his fingertips in lieu of looking up.

"Oh, Sunflower."

"I know…just bein' stupid, is all," he muttered, undoing his tie and taking a very long time to do so. Ivan slowly crossed the room and placed a fingertip under Alfred's chin, tilting his head up. Most unwillingly, Alfred returned his gaze.

"Nothing to freak out about. Doesn't matter. Still," he shook his head and let out a weary chuckle. "I read those words and all I wanna do is cry, Vanya."

"Our son does not get to decide whether or not we have another child." Ivan said firmly, sinking down on the bed and gathering Alfred up in his arms. "If Sasha asked for a rhino, are you going to get one for him?"

"Sure, if it's plastic," Alfred muttered, a hint of a smile entering in his voice. Ivan nudged him and Alfred nudged him back. "But as far as I know, you really can't get a toy brother or sister. You're right—of course it's nothing to freaking worry about, just—"

"We were the exception. A very, very rare exception. And I do think at all Alexandr is the type who would—"

"Stop," Alfred ordered through grit teeth, clapping hands over his ears. "Stop. I don't wanna hear anymore."

"Why is this troubling you so much?" Ivan asked, pulling Alfred's hands free.

"It's not."

Ivan quipped a brow, face in a resting bitch please look. Alfred rolled his eyes, lower lip slipping into a pout.

"Okay. You got me. I was just….earlier today….y'know how my workplace agreed to participate in a Toys for Tots program? The gifts were goin' to the Ronald McDonald house in town." He started chuckling. "They asked one of to play Santy and dude, you know I had to do that."

"Of course."

"Handing out those gifts…" Alfred murmured against Ivan's neck. "A lot of the kids were so little…some not so much. Is it weird that I felt worse for them?"

Ivan smoothed a hand up and down Alfred's side as the blond went on: "Screw childish whimsy. Being a kid sucks." His tone was most uncharacteristically bitter. "Sucks more when you're a taller kid living in an orphanage and you know your chances of being adopted are about zilch. Vanya, it broke my heart. I remember feeling like Arthur and I were…were defective goods, because no one wanted to make a space for us. I realize I can't just adopt…like, a million kids in the foster care system because I crunched some numbers and we can't afford it, but…"

He snorted, but his eyes were misty, his tone wistful. "Got me thinkin' again about our spare bedroom. And Sasha is wonderful, a dream come true, but the truth is I always wanted him to have a sibling. I'm okay with him having an older kid we adopt.

"I'm so stupid," Alfred sobbed, "Never again. No. We can't."

"Why not?" Ivan asked soothingly. "You know I would like another child also. Maybe a girl."

"…I don't know. I was scared to death I was gonna be a bad Dad and somehow pass on my family's crazy legacy, even if Sasha and I aren't genetically related. With actual siblings involved…what if I'm just doomed to screw up somehow and mess them up? Vanya, I don't want my kids to catch lovesickness inside this house. That doesn't seem like much to ask for."

"Sunflower, the real sickness wasn't so much Arthur and Natalya….loving us," Ivan said, for lack of a better word. "Though you will never hear me say that it wasn't wrong. But what made it so much worse was the selfishness behind this devotion. All love is selfish to some degree," He admitted openly, taking Alfred's hand in his and kissing it. "But Natalya let it eat up her existence, to the extent that she didn't want to live without it.

"And because of this frantic selfishness, Arthur was so terrified of losing you that he hurt the very person he claimed to care about the most, went so far as to steal you away." His hand smoothed through Alfred's hair. "And you were almost robbed of your life, and I of my heart. It's our saving grace that Arthur finally realized he loved you more than himself.

But our children won't inherit our blood, and I think they'll be perfectly fine, like other children whom would be revolted and incapable at….having lovesickness inside this house. What they'll inherit from you is your selflessness—and with any luck that will attract people they can have genuinely heathy and loving relationships."

"….I love you so much." Alfred kissed him, long and hard. "And you are so getting some tonight.

"Remember what yer Ma said about having kids? It's like gettin' a tattoo on yer face—ya gotta be sure. I think…." He took a deep breath. "I know I'm sure about this."

"Heh…I'm glad." Ivan smiled, eyes brightening with anticipation. "I will call the agency after supper tonight; see if our old advisor still is working there. Perhaps there is a case file she can pair us up with."

---

~o*oOo*o~

The Following Year

---

"Papa! Daaaaaad!"

A young girl wailed from the backseat of a red Ford, swiping at the boy pressing his smiling mouth against his shoulder. "Sasha just licked his finger and touched me with it!"

"I did not!" Sasha protested, innocently walking his index and middle fingers across the seat towards his sister's side. She retaliated by flicking his forehead, and Sasha swiped at air where her hand had been seconds earlier. "She flicked me!" He exclaimed, as if stabbed. "Daddy, tell her to stop!"

"I will if you keep your spitty hands off me and my book!"

"I was trying to help you turn the page!"

"I wasn't done yet! And I don't want your help!"

"Whoa, you guys. Easy," Daddy muttered from the driver's seat, slowing the car to a stop at a traffic light. He leaned over to take a drink from an oversized tumbler filled with coffee that had more or less been forced into its cupholder. "Let's start the school year off right, huh? Give each other some space."

"She started it!" Sasha protested.

"And I'll finish it," Papa offered pleasantly from the passenger seat, actually turning around. He was smiling, but his eyes were not.

They shut up. Throwing her seven year-old brother one last annoyed look, the girl tugged at one of her navy kneesocks, and smoothed her plaid jumper. Papa (it still sent little thrills through her to call him that) ironed it the night before, but now there were cat hairs all down her front from clutching Tigger this morning.

In retrospect, it probably didn't matter much, the pale, plump and fair-haired girl glumly reasoned. Resisting the urge to nibble at her cuticles, she instead adjusted her glasses, plum-colored eyes anxious in the rearview mirror. If her stomach didn't quit lurching, her breakfast was going to wind up on her skirt sooner than later, anyway.

Her name was Sophia Isabel Braginski-Jones. Her favorite book (besides the Harry Potter series) was Matilda. And The Tale of Desperaux (though she hated the movie). And Understood Betsy. And Praying at the Sweetwater Hotel. She was a darling at the library, and a near-fanatic devotee of its summer reading program. It was something she could do well, when she was uncoordinated at sports, a clumsy artist,

Sophia started rocking back and forth in her seat as the car started again. She wanted to chew a strand of her hair. But Sasha would definitely point it out if she did, as had the slim and fairylike girls in her old class. Her rocking increased, head bobbing.

"Soph, you okay, sweetie?" Daddy asked gently, cobalt eyes flicking to her in the rearview mirror.

Feeling something tight glide up her chest to her throat, lodging itself in, Sophia just nodded. She wished reading in the car didn't make her feel sick. Sticking a finger in her book to hold her place, she looked out the window as the car began moving again.

Her favorite season was winter because of Christmas and bulkier clothing. Her favorite colors were blue and yellow, her favorite food the chicken soup with the funny Russian name that grandma made, and she wanted to become a zoologist. Mostly because she wanted to work with penguins (even if they smelled funny at the zoo) and their babies, and with Polar bears, whom were not actually as fluffy as the one Papa got her from FAO Schwartz but still Sophia's favorite animal.

When Sophia was four, her mother had custody rights terminated for reasons Sophia did not like to think about, and did anyway, particularly at night. She wound up in the foster care system and lived in no less than seven homes before being adopted last year.

She smiled, but it probably looked weird. When you smiled when you didn't want to, your face hurt.

Life was good, better than Sophia ever dreamed it could be. Having two attentive parents asking you what pattern wallpaper you wanted for your room. Having your own room. Or getting to pick out your own bedspread for your own bed. Or living in a community where hearing shouts and shots at night wasn't the norm, or being in a house where goodnight and good morning kisses were.

Life at home still felt surreal, fragile, even though Daddy and Papa kept her after the foster period ended and the right paperwork was supposedly signed. Sasha, well, Sasha was a pain once the two got over their initial shyness, but he was a package deal and she'd take him. He was cute, though she'd die before she'd ever tell him.

Home life was near-heavenly, though the fact that she kept waiting for the other shoe made Sophia nervous, liable to start nibbling at bitten nail stubs. And the prospect of beginning classes in a school again made her taste the warning sting of bile at the back of her throat.

Sophia had not done well in school previously. Although she liked nothing more than reading and she had good marks in Language Arts, her math grades were poor, and she had a number of tics. There was the rocking, stuttering, a lisp that speech therapy would not shake, her habit of crying at the drop of a hat, the fact that she took ten minutes to wash her hands after using the bathroom, the fact that she sometimes spoke too low or too high, and her difficulty in meeting eye contact. Teachers noticed and sent home notes. Students noticed, and tortured her. She spent recesses alone.

She'd been prescribed anti-anxiety medication by the Braginski-Jones family doctor, and Daddy pulled Sophia out of school after she first moved in. Daddy's attempts at home-schooling had gone disastrously wrong, especially because he considered teaching Sophia how to make Hero sandwiches a valid Home Ec class. Papa had been a better instructor, but now Papa wanted to go back to work, and both Papa and Daddy thought Sophia needed friends that weren't Sasha, the cat, themselves, or behind pages.

Sophia's case worker suggested putting her in a smaller school, although this one was girls only. She wondered what her parents had been smoking at the time of this decision; she pressed her hands against her stomach, wondering if she could feel butterflies underneath her palm.

Ashley Hall was a private all-girls school. Sophie had seen some of it already on a tour; it had tiny gardens, a house covered in seashells, uniforms, and an actual (albeit tiny) bubbling fountain. It could be something out of a fairy tale.

And she was eleven, too. It was like Harry Potter, almost. Beauxbatons, maybe.

But while Sophia was a lot of things, stupid was not one of them. The girls whom attended this school were born and raised in the upper crust. She wasn't even the lower crust—she was the pie tin. And they would know it instinctually.

"It will be okay, lovely." Papa soothed, in his thickly-accented voice Sophia loved so well. "Your cousin Sophie goes here too. You will have a friend."

"Sophie's a sourpuss," Sasha said dismissively, popping open his Batman lunchbox for inspection. "She wouldn't talk to either of us at Thanksgiving, remember? She doesn't like anybody."

Daddy said, somewhat weakly: "Her mother says she's at a difficult age."

Sophia thought back to last night, when she'd gotten out of bed for a drink of water and heard Papa and Daddy talking downstairs as she padded her way to her room. She thought she heard her name, and paused, leaning over the banister to listen.

"—Sophie'll already goes there, so at least Sophia's got somebody there. But not much's changed, even after therapy." A pause—Sophia imagined Daddy taking a long draft of milk and honey. "I don't know what it is, but Sophie still has a piss-poor attitude. I know she's our niece, but I don't want Sophia exposed to that…" A gusty exhale. "I don't know. Negativity."

"She already has been," Papa pointed out. "At Thanksgiving. Sophie didn't want to play with either Sasha or Sophia."

"Yeah." Daddy sounded weirdly reassured. "Well, at least the kid's not a deviant—Katy insists she's an angel, just one that's always scowling." Daddy let out a hollow laugh, and sighed. "I don't know. Worse case scenario…"

His voice died, and then he laughed. It sounded strained. "Well, worse case scenario, Sophie ignores Sophia, and Sophia just does her own thing, and makes lotsa new friends on her own."

"This is it!" Daddy crowed as they pulled into the cobblestone parking lot, past open, worn black gates. A handful of girls were wandering the grounds, though most were heading towards the largest building.

"Tell us how all your classes are," Papa said, at the same time Daddy asked, "Try and find a nice girl to sit next to at lunch, kay?"

Sophia just nodded, rubbing a fist against her eye. Daddy got out, opening Sophia's car door for her with an embarrassing little flourish and bow. "Aw, c'mon, Soph. I think anyone who got to know you real well would be hard-pressed not to like ya."

"What your father means to say, is that while children can be unbearable little sociopaths, you are a treasure," Papa said kindly, getting out of the car, walking around the front. The tall man stooped to kiss his child on the brow. "Do not forget that, please."

"Uh, okay."

"Do you want us to walk in with you? To your classroom?"

Yes, yes, yes. And then take me out with you, please. "It's okay." Her voice sounded pinched, even to her. "I'll see you at two."

"Alrighty then." Daddy saluted and kissed her cheek. Papa took Sophie in a gentle hug (which was always a surprise considering Papa was strong enough to crack her ribs). He looked over her head, and smiled.

"Look," He said, pointing. Curious, Sophia turned, seeing a familiar little girl sitting beside the old, gurgling fountain, reading a book. "There is Sophie. Go and say hello."

"I'm fine," Sophia said, very quickly. Papa sighed.

"Go and say hello." Sophia must've looked doubtful, because Papa reassured, "If she ignores you, you at least know you tried. You can try someone else later."

"See ya, sweets," Daddy said merrily, saluting again before clamoring back into the car. Papa followed with a wave, and Sasha waved once from the backseat, poring over his comic book.

Sophia dolefully watched the car pull out, zooming down the drive, down the road, out of sight. Tentatively, she turned towards the fountain, not at all sure what to do. She'd felt less nervous approaching the neighbor's ill-tempered bulldog whilst inching towards her kite.

Sophia had met Sophie a few times—Thanksgiving, a barbeque, maybe. Aunt Katy always tried to make the girls play together, usually guiding them towards a board game or a tea set, but Sophie always shrugged her mother off, wandering off to play video games or to her room. Most of Sophia's questions and attempts to engage Sophie in conversation were usually met with disdainful grunts and shrugs—Sophie never even looked up, her pale eyes always coolly fixed somewhere else. Sophie moved from one loafered foot to the other.

But maybe now would be different. Maybe now that they were classmates, Sophie would obey her mother's instructions to show Sophia around, or at least introduce her to some friendlier people. Sophia hesitated a moment, and then took off running towards the girl.

"Hi!" Sophia shouted eagerly. "Sophie, hello! It's me!"

The girl looked up. The relief of a familiar face overwhelmed Sophie, even if said face were distinctly put-out. "Sophie, hello! Good morning!"

"It was" was all Sophie replied as she turned a page. Her sharp green eyes were cool.

"Do you remember me?" Sophia panted, as she unsteadily ran to the fountain, skidding to a stop. "You're in my grade, aren't you?"

Sophie shrugged. Chest still rising up and down, Sophia opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. "Are the teachers nice?" Shrug. "Are you exc…" Stupid question, stupid question, stupid question. "Do…" Sophia looked helplessly around the green courtyard.

"Is this place f-fun?"

Sophie still said nothing. Sophia's eyes slowly moved to the ground. She could feel the tears bubbling promisingly and painfully behind her eyes. Time to go. Time to read until the bell rang.

A breeze made Sophie's pages start fluttering, and the breeze strengthened to a gale, sweeping Sophie's plaid beret clean off her head. The girl looked up sharply as it sailed away, and Sophia eagerly gave pursuit as it sailed like a Frisbee towards another fountain. "I'll get it!"

"Just leave it," muttered Sophie. "I don't care."

"No, I'll get it." She reiterated, surprised and pleased by the firmness in her voice.

Sophia moaned with disappointment when the hat landed in the water. Not hesitating, Sophia clamored in after it, cringing as cold, pond-scummy water swirled against her legs. Ew. Oh. She was wearing kneesocks. She should've taken those off first. She lifted the hat out, soaked through and dripping, something green trailing from it like a ribbon.

Her face burned with shame. Wading in a fountain! Like a two year old! She sloshed out, burning and shaking. She knew the expression on Sophie's face would be incredulity and disgust when Sophia pro-offered the hat, spelling out all too plainly: Get away. Get away you chubby, gross person. Keep the hat. I don't want your germs. And by second bell, everyone would know. She wondered if it were too late to scale the fence surrounding the schoolyard.

When she dared looked up, Sophie was standing up now, book discarded. The girl looked positively thunderstruck. Ears bright pink, Sophia looked away, letting the wet wool slip from her fingers, landing on the ground with a plop. Unable to think of anything to say, Sophia began trudging away, stockinged feet squishing in her wet shoes. But a second later she started in surprise as a hand seized her arm.

"Thank you," Sophie murmured at last, tone significantly kinder. "Thank you very much."

Sophia stammered—and a bell started chiming in the distance.

"That's the warning bell," Sophie explained patiently. She smiled when Sophia squinted and peered around. "About fifteen to, you'll hear it. Then there's another bell at eight, when class starts." Her hand slipped into Sophia's soft and cold one. "Let's go in. It's too windy out here. You must be freezing."

Happily Sophie obeyed, falling into step as they headed towards the main building.

"I think we'll both be in Sister Shawn's room this year," Sophie said conversationally, casually looping her arm through Sophia's, something that thrilled them both. "She isn't too bad—she actually lets you pick your own seats, so we should grab two near the back. Better for passing notes."

Sophia just nodded, dazed. Passing notes had always seemed like such a catty, Mean Girls-esque thing to do, but now it just sounded fun. Rebellion! And with someone whose name was so similar to hers! Someone who was so close in age—just a month or so apart, she understood—and family! "Is the food here good?"

"No. It sucks ass." Sophia was instantly shocked and thrilled at the bad language. "Mama packs me lunch, so you can just share with me today. Tomorrow, I'll have her make one for you, too."

Sophia turned red as they hurried up the steps. Squish-squish-squish, with each footstep. Sophie didn't seem to care. "You really don't have—"

"Oh, she won't mind," Sophie said dismissively, awkwardly propping the door open for her companion whilst remaining arm-in-arm with her. "Not at all. That way you can save the money your Dads give you and get chocolate from this little shop down the street nearby. We can go at recess."

"Pick out something you want!" Sophia offered at once. "My treat."

"Thanks. I heard you like to read a lot," Sophie said, pausing by a pair of large oak doors and poked her head in. Sophia copied and found herself looking into an enormous library. "Me too. What do you like to read?"

An animated discussion involving J.K Rowling, Cornelia Funke, Roald Dahl and the American Girl books ensued. Sophia was amazed that whatever she abashedly admitted to enjoying, Sophie wholeheartedly agreed she liked those things too.

"Are the other girls here nice?" Sophia blushed at how juvenile the question sounded, but she couldn't help herself. Bullying had been a problem at several of her old schools when she hadn't simply been ignored.

"No. They're all terrible," Sophie said firmly, squeezing Sophia's arm for emphasis. "It's so great someone as nice as you are is finally here, because all the girls here are snobs."

"Thank you! But…all of them?" Sophia was shocked at the ire in her cousin's voice.

"Yes! They're all from super rich families, so they're all in their little cliques and think they're so much better than everyone else. They make fun of you for everything here—your hair, your voice….whether or not you can afford contacts instead of glasses…" Sophie added off-handedly and Sophia flushed, glancing at her reflection from the glass from a trophy case.

"But it's okay." Those fingers squeezed her own as the girls passed through the gymnasium. The school mascot stamped on the floor was a purple unicorn. "Just don't even talk to them. They love to make people look stupid, so they pretend to be all nice even while they're making fun of you, talking behind your back. You can bet that's what they're doing. And you need to watch out for some girls that try making you feel smart and special just so that you'll do their homework later on."

Sophia didn't know what to say. Sophie smiled, light and sweet like powdered sugar.

"Don't worry. You won't be lonely," she assured her, grip tightening. "I have a violin lesson after school, but you should tell your Dads you're coming home with me today, anyway. Mom will be thrilled to have you. Maybe you can talk your Dads into letting you play an instrument so we can practice together. And we can play with my Kirsten and Samantha dolls after. I have their books."

"We could have sleepovers," Sophia piped up, feeling better immediately. She'd read about girls having sleepovers, watched them on bad sitcoms and knew they were likely played-up and stereotypical. That hadn't stopped her from desperately wanting one of her own, or a best friend.

"That would be perfect."

And the two girls continued to the classroom, Sophia beaming, Sophie looking slightly dazed, footing tottery as if she were drunk. Her arm never left her cousin's. Not once.

~o*oOo*o~

Nico the janitor tipped his hat obligingly as girls passed and greeted him in turn. He worked here for many years and had known many of the middle-schoolers since they were practically in diapers.

Most of the students in this society school began in kindergarten and stayed all the way to high school, though Jim shuddered to think how much tuition that would amount to for just one girl. More than ten years of his salary. That was for certain.

"Morning, Nico!"

"Morning, Princess." He bowed to a second grader and she giggled as she went by. He had nicknames for some of the students.

He thought he saw Sophie Van Bock approaching from a distance and bowed his head as he swept, trying not to grimace.

Nico's cheerful demeanor solicited a greeting or a smile from virtually every student at this school except Sophie. The callous child was antisocial, and while very smart, was no favorite of the teachers, considering more often than not she was a smart-aleck. She sat alone at recess, which seemed fine by her.

For several years he tried making her smile and never succeeded; her face hardened at his jokes, nor would she be charmed. When once he called her "darling," the little pale-eyed girl marched over and emphatically stomped on his foot. He often called her Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary, whenever he addressed her at all.

He glanced up again as she passed.

"Morning, Mi—"

He cut off in amazement. Sophie was beaming, face absolutely aglow, arm-in-arm with an unfamiliar young lady whom was smiling broadly. "Good morning!" The new girl called out merrily as they passed. Too dumbstruck for words, Nico just smiled and waved.

Well, Sophie finally made herself a friend. Good for her. He looked up again just to confirm he wasn't dreaming. Nico was just in time to watch the girls scurry out of sight, giggling.

He wondered if Sophie's clutching at her friend wasn't a bit much; you would've thought Sophia were a raft at sea. Or a lover.

Shaking his head, Nico went back to work sweeping the floor. He had two little girls of his own; he knew how important girlfriends were. Giggling and peer pressure and petty secrets and squabbles were lifted to paramount importance during this therapy-inducing period of their lives.

After all, these things never amounted to much later on.

---

...I will kill your friends and family

To remind you of my love. -King George, Hamilton

---

BTW: If you're wondering which Hetalia characters Sophie, Sasha, Sophia are, Sophie is a micro-nation known as the Principality of Wy (chibi girl with big paintbrush whom inherited England's unfortunate brows and attitude problem.)

I imagine Sasha and Sophia as Siberia and Alaska respectively (technically these two territories are part of Russia and America now, but they weren't always.)

Signing off with a kiss

—Urchin ^o^