Summary: A revelation shakes Alfred to his core. Ivan picks up the pieces. A giving and a taking, and the morning afterward.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Alfred nibbled at a strawberry as he stroked Blini behind the ears, the cat purring away contentedly on the angel's lap. There was a bowl of fruit—cherries, grapes, plums, three different kinds of berries—on the low table next to the settee. Alfred picked out the strawberries, a few cherries, and ignored the rest. If he felt hungry later, he'd eat what was left.

The trip back to the castle had been quiet. Alfred rode the white pegasus that he had stolen. Beside him, on Ladya, Ivan had looked somber. The other demons had given him a wide berth. Alfred knew that they didn't trust him. They talked about him behind his back—murderer, monster, whore—and made no secret of it.

Whatever. Like he cared.

Alfred stretched his arms upwards; Blini batted at his leg with sharp claws. With a huff, he lowered a hand down to her ears again. He loved Blini, but she was very demanding sometimes.

Alfred laid his head down on the arm of the settee and propped his legs up.

During the war, he had killed a lot of demons. He had killed them without mercy, without sparing so much as a moment's thought. His bullets had torn through flesh as easily as if they were ripping through a piece of paper. His guns had fired volley after infinite volley at his command.

Ivan's life would have easy to take. Laughably easy. The Dark soldiers who fell under his gunfire had brandished weapons, wore layers of armor, were animated and made desperate by their desire to live a little longer. If Alfred had been closer, he might have seen the hard twist of their mouth, the frightened whites of their eyes.

Instead, Alfred had just felt the general miasma of fear and dread, potent enough to drift across no man's land to the Light encampment. They feared him, the demon forces. They feared him the same way that humans were afraid of earthquakes or tsunamis or tornadoes. They feared him with the same animalistic hatred that small things always reserved for something that they couldn't touch. He would annihilate them and leave the battlefield and have dinner and wake up the next day and drink his coffee and repeat the process ad nauseam.

There wouldn't be a single scratch on him.

The other angels, the rest of Heaven, had adored him for it. They had loved him for crushing their enemies and making it look effortless. They had praised Alfred for doing his job so well, and that had made him feel proud of himself: it was his duty and what he had been trained to do. He was good at it. They called Alfred a hero. They had called him a hero because of how he had destroyed the Dark side's army and capacity to hope in one fell swoop.

It was all very efficient. Heaven approved of efficiency.

Back in the forest, Alfred could have killed Ivan efficiently, cleanly. A snap, and Ivan would have crumbled into dust. His magic could do that. Alfred could have killed Ivan, and it would have been the easiest, cleanest thing in the world. Then he would have returned to Heaven and the war and kept on killing like it was the easiest, cleanest thing in the world.

Alfred wouldn't be on the settee, petting Blini and eating his favorite fruit, if he had killed Ivan.

He snagged another strawberry and thoughtfully bit into it. If he had killed Ivan, there would have been no more Ivan in his life. He wouldn't have had to fuck Ivan every night that Ivan wanted to fuck him, and he wouldn't be cooped up in the castle when he didn't want to be.

There would have been an Ivan-shaped void in his life. That would have been nice—an Ivan-shaped void meant there was more space for Alfred to fill with other things, Alfred-things—but the Ivan-shaped void also looked like no more impromptu trips to the human world to stargaze. No more planetarium shows, no more afternoons spent thrashing other players in Call of Duty.

No one to hold him when Alfred had a nightmare, no one to tell him that it would be okay.

Maybe Alfred could kidnap Emma and bring her back to Heaven with him? Lucille wouldn't go, she'd chide him for being silly. But Emma also had her own life and her own little joys and hopes in her life at the palace. It would be very selfish of Alfred to take Emma away from that, and Alfred couldn't imagine ever hurting Emma.

Hm.

Back in Heaven, the angels had always said that demons were incapable of any genuine feeling besides animalistic fear and rage, and that was why it was right and just for Alfred to do what he did during the war. The demons were nothing but wild beasts, and so Alfred slaughtered them like one would slaughter wild beasts.

Emma had felt a lot of things, though. She had missed her brother and worried for him, and loved Alfred like a sister to make the Lars-shaped void in her life feel a little smaller. Lucille… was Lucille, all practicality and sensible advice. Alfred knew that she cared about him even if she hadn't shown it the same way that Emma had.

But they had been civilians. Civilians were different.

Ivan knew that. He and his men went ahead and massacred the angel village, nonetheless.

Ivan, who was in the military and one of the highest-ranking generals besides, felt a lot of things, too. He had been sad after the Manticore attack had killed a hundred of his men, and happier after Alfred dragged him down for the picnic in the sunflower garden. He had been sad again after the recent campaign, maybe because he had made a stupid decision and people had been hurt for it.

Was that why Alfred had saved his life, instead of ended it?

Alfred's duty was to Heaven. He was raised to serve as a Light general. He knew this—it had been taught to him since he was very young. Alfred had been selected and cultivated for the role. Alfred should have taken the first opportunity that he had to escape.

Instead, he had chosen to stay in the Underworld as Ivan's captive.

If Heaven found out, they would be very disappointed in him. Ivan wasn't worth Heaven's disappointment, especially since Ivan had been a monster like Alfred during the war—Alfred remembered the innocent angel village again, and a wave of nausea welled up—so why…?

The door to the lounge opened, and the Dark general trudged in. He looked as if he were going to head for the cellarette where the vodka was kept, but then he saw Alfred peering at him and walked over to the settee.

Alfred tucked his legs under him, jostling Blini, who meowed. I require advance warning next time, Servant. Ivan drooped into the space that Alfred had made.

Alfred gnawed at his lip. Ivan looked exhausted and miserable.

He nudged Blini away. The cat threw him an indignant look and padded out of the lounge, tail high in the air.

"Come here," Alfred said. He patted his lap and reached out for Ivan.

Ivan stared at him with surprised violet eyes. Then, very cautiously, as if he were scared that it was a joke or that Alfred would hit him, he set his head in Alfred's lap.

The angel threaded his fingers through Ivan's platinum hair. It was like petting a bunny. "Hey," he said softly, "don't be so hard on yourself. What happened with the Manticores sucked, but the losses weren't as bad as they could have been." Alfred traced the downward spiral of a glossy horn with the pad of his index finger.

Ivan nodded. A tear slipped down his cheek anyway.

Without speaking, Alfred swiped it away with his thumb and clutched Ivan's head to his chest.

—

They stayed on the settee until Toris arrived with dinner. Then they ate quietly, avoiding each other's eyes.

When the food was gone, Alfred made himself small on the settee. Ivan stayed at the dining table, looking pensive and troubled.

"Ivan—"

"Alfred—"

They stopped. Ivan smiled faintly.

"You first, Fredka."

"Um, are you feeling better?"

"Da. Thank you."

Alfred hummed.

"Alfred, why did you heal me back in the forest?"

The angel shifted, uncomfortable. He didn't really want to talk about this, but Ivan's eyes were searching, confused and a little afraid.

Ivan looked like he really wanted an answer. He looked like he thought that the answer would make something important clear to him.

Ivan… looked like his heart might break if Alfred gave him the wrong answer.

Ah, Heavens above, Alfred did not want to be having this conversation right now. Still, he opened his mouth.

"You... haven't been terrible to me," Alfred fumbled for the right words. "And I don't hate being here, I guess, even though there's nothing to do and you live like you're stuck in Imperial Russia.

"And I guess that I don't hate you completely, either, despite the fact that you massacred everyone in that village—"

"Wait," Ivan interrupted. "What?"

Alfred scowled. "Don't play innocent, Braginsky. You know what I'm talking about. During the war, there was a village of angel civilians near the battlefront, mostly women and children. We were supposed to transport them to another of Heaven's cities, where they'd be safe. When we got there, the village was deserted. No one was there. You and your men killed all of them. How the fuck could you forget that?"

Ivan looked very tired as he sat back in the chair. "We wouldn't have done that," he said. "We wouldn't have murdered civilians in cold blood. Representatives from the village approached the demon camp at night. They requested that some of our soldiers escort them to the human world. The residents wanted to go to the human world to begin new lives, lives that weren't touched by the war.

"We were reluctant at first—we didn't have many men to spare—but they said that Heaven wouldn't take kindly to their leaving. The angels would have seen their departure as an act of betrayal.

"They had heard that demons tended to be more lax about going to the human realm, so they thought that they would ask us instead. After they explained the situation to me, I assented to the request. We escorted them to a portal that connected to the human world—Alaska, as I recall—and they went through it."

Alfred looked stricken.

Ivan shot forward, alarmed, as the angel burst into tears.

"Fredka?" The demon moved to the settee.

"Fredka, dorogoy, what's wrong?"

Alfred swallowed, hard, and made to bury his face into the velvet fabric of the settee, but Ivan was faster—strong fingers were already gripping his cheek and turning Alfred to meet concerned amethyst eyes.

Alfred shook his head; he tried to turn away, again, tried to hide so that Ivan couldn't see as his body betrayed his weakness, but Ivan held fast. He promised himself that he wouldn't cry in front of Braginsky. Couldn't. But here Ivan was, watching him cry like a small child.

"Alfred."

"I—"

He was full out sobbing now. How pathetic. "I thought, the whole time, that you killed them," he hiccupped.

Ivan didn't say anything as he plucked a silk handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbed at the water on Alfred's cheeks. His arms wrapped around the angel's waist.

Alfred shivered.

Braginsky was holding him as he cried. Braginsky was tending to him like he was a delicate flower as he sobbed out his heart. Braginsky was holding him as his world was rent asunder—the demons were monsters, like Alfred was, only apparently they weren't—and it was so comforting and good to be in Ivan's arms that Alfred felt sick, utterly disgusted with himself.

Gods, he was so fucked up.

Alfred felt a sudden vicious spike of hatred for the demon; Ivan dried another tear with his handkerchief, and the hate abruptly faded.

Alfred slumped forward in defeat.

He felt raw and vulnerable and exposed, like an eagle hatchling that broke free from its egg to see no mother, just the craggy surface of a tall cliff.

Alfred… really, really wanted to be held tonight. Ivan was holding him now, but Alfred knew that Ivan wouldn't hold him until he fell asleep, wouldn't hold him through the night. Ivan only held him like that after sex.

The sex probably wouldn't be very good—Alfred was too emotional for it—but Ivan hadn't fucked him in a while, not since leaving for the campaign, and Ivan had a pretty high sex drive. Maybe Ivan wouldn't mind. He probably wanted Alfred, anyway, even if Alfred was a disgusting wreck. Alfred knew that he was hot stuff; hadn't that been why Francis made him into a sex slave in the first place?

Sniffling quietly, he leaned up and kissed Ivan.

Ivan made a small, surprised sound.

"Fredka?"

Ivan broke away from the kiss, then tilted Alfred's chin and studied the angel's sapphire eyes.

"Fredka, do you want to sleep with me tonight?"

Alfred nodded wretchedly. He did want to sleep with Ivan—not in the way that Ivan meant, maybe, but Ivan didn't have to know that, and he wanted so badly to be held that it almost felt like a need.

Ivan bit at his lip. He couldn't tell what Alfred was thinking, but his eyes weren't dull and empty. They were glassy, shiny with tears. Alfred dropped his head.

"Fredka, I'm taking you to the bed, okay?"

Ivan heard a mumbled "yes." Cradling the angel to his chest, Ivan stood up.

—

No good. Alfred had fucked up again. What a shitty night. He started crying as soon as Ivan had set him down on the covers. He was in Ivan's lap, and the demon was patting his back.

"Fredka," Ivan was saying, "please talk to me. I can't read your mind." He sounded worried.

Alfred took a deep, shuddering breath. In. Out. He couldn't get much lower than this. "I thought that you and the other demons were heartless murderers." His voice quivered. "I killed monsters. That was why I was a hero in Heaven. Heroes kill monsters."

Alfred stared, unblinking, at the cream sheets. "But I'm not a hero. I was a monster. Am a monster. This whole time, the only monster was me."

"Don't say that."

Alfred turned his head. "What?"

One of Ivan's large hands cupped his cheek. "You are no monster. You saved my life, Alfred." The demon tenderly kissed Alfred's forehead. "You are my hero."

Alfred nestled his head into the crook of Ivan's neck. Ivan's scarf smelled like chamomile and pine.

"…Really?"

"Da, lapochka."

Alfred nuzzled into the fabric. "What are those things that you keep calling me?"

"They are terms of endearment, like Fredka. 'Dorogoy' is darling and 'lapochka' means sweetheart."

Alfred hummed as he processed the information, then brought up a hand to Ivan's scarf.

"Can I?"

"Whatever you want."

Alfred unwound the tan cloth, folded it neatly, and placed it on the nightstand alongside his glasses. He grazed the scars on Ivan's neck with the tips of his fingers. They didn't look like bullet wounds, but…

"From the war?" From me?

"No, Fredka, they were from when I was very young."

Alfred relaxed. He brought his mouth closer and licked along a thin, textured line.

Ivan groaned. Alfred could feel something pressing into his lower back.

The golden blond drew back.

"Really?" He asked, amused. "Is that why you never wanted me to touch them?"

There was a definite blush on Ivan's pale skin. "They're very sensitive."

"Just like my cowlick," Alfred decided, "I like them. They look cool." He ran his tongue down another.

"Alfred…"

The angel pulled away and grabbed the bottle of warming oil from the nightstand. He shoved Ivan down on the bed, undressing the demon, then expertly worked himself open with three fingers. He prayed that it was enough, Ivan was huge and it had been a while. He should really have done this earlier—he had to always be prepared, Emma had told him—but it didn't look like Ivan minded. The demon's eyes were dark with lust and hunger as Alfred dripped oil on his cock.

Forcing a smile, Alfred shimmied up the chiseled torso and lowered himself onto Ivan's slick erection. He arched his back with a whine as Ivan filled him.

Fuck. He hadn't stretched himself enough. He messed up. This was too fast. Alfred ducked his head so that Ivan couldn't see his face. The sooner that he got Ivan to orgasm, the sooner Ivan would gather Alfred in his arms.

It would be over soon, and then Alfred would be held. He'd just have to endure a little longer.

Alfred closed his eyes, concentrating as he tried to find the right angle to feel a spark of pleasure. What was taking so long? He usually found it in a few seconds.

Alfred hissed in frustration.

"S-sorry, Ivan," he whimpered, "give me a minute."

"Nyet."

Alfred's eyes cracked open. "Master?" He asked uncertainly.

Ivan was frowning at him. Alfred's heart sank. Would Ivan send him away? Tell him to leave the bed?

No.

It was worse.

"Let me take care of you tonight, Fredka." He grasped Alfred's wrists in one hand and carefully—he was still in Alfred—flipped their positions.

The angel's sapphire eyes widened.

"I'll make you feel good."

Alfred trembled underneath him.

"I promise I won't hurt you, Alfred." Long, cool fingers brushed back the golden blond's bangs. "Tell me what to do. I'll listen."

Panic continued to bloom in Alfred's eyes. He struggled briefly, and when it became evident that Ivan wouldn't let go, he froze, as tightly wound as a violin string.

Ivan saw the tears trickling down Alfred's face and inwardly swore. He slipped out of Alfred.

Alfred was scared. Ivan had made him that way. Everyone froze with dread and terror the moment that they saw Ivan. Everyone looked at Ivan as if they were looking at something inhuman, a monster.

…Everyone except for Alfred. Alfred was the only person who had never feared him, who gave as good as he got. When Ivan was on the edge of death, Alfred had brought him back. He had been weak and helpless and Alfred had treated his wounds with care. Alfred had patiently fed him and warmed him with his own body heat, even though Ivan must have been so, so cold to touch.

Alfred had been kind and sweet to him, when all Ivan had shown him was cruelty and violence. What were a mere trip to the human world and a handful of distractions to Ivan's brutal rapes and beatings? Alfred hated him, and Ivan deserved it. He hated himself.

Ivan released Alfred's wrists. Alfred didn't move from where he was underneath the demon, didn't try to get away.

Without his magic and his strength and his sword, Alfred had nothing that he could use to defend himself against Ivan. He was utterly powerless.

So Ivan bent his head to Alfred's ear and said—softly, sincerely—"I'm sorry."

He hoped that Alfred knew what he meant in all that he had left unspoken.

The angel tensed. He was still crying silently, but his eyes were wide and unseeing, now. He looked like a rabbit who had noticed a fox, and who had noticed it too late.

Then, to Ivan's complete amazement, Alfred reached for his hand and put it on top of his head.

"I, um, I like having my hair pulled. Not too hard," Alfred whispered. "And you know about the cowlick. Again," he glared half-heartedly at Ivan, "not too hard." He let Ivan thread his hair between his fingers. Ivan would hold him after this. Ivan had to, or else Alfred would have given up everything for nothing.

Ivan nodded and gently tugged. Alfred whimpered.

"…Behind my ears and just above my neck. I like being touched there."

"All right, dorogoy," Ivan murmured. He shifted until he was hovering over Alfred. Alfred squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his cheek to the pillow.

Ivan followed Alfred's hushed directions as he made his way down the angel's body. He daintily lapped at a collarbone and was rewarded with a moan. He rolled a dusky nipple between his fingers, dragged his tongue down Alfred's toned abdomen, swirled a wet circle around his navel, licked a stripe up Alfred's cock. The angel—flushed, sun-kissed skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat—writhed under him, mewling deliciously.

Enjoying how vocal Alfred was—ah, he had been quiet all the times they've had sex before, Ivan had missed out on so much—Ivan took his time taking the exquisite creature under him apart.

"You're beautiful," Ivan breathed into the side of Alfred's hip.

Alfred's eyes flashed. "Braginsky," he snapped. "If you don't fuck me right now, I will rip your balls off."

Ivan chuckled. There had been no vitriol in Alfred's voice, only urgency. "Da, da, lapochka."

He slid in to the hilt, and Alfred sighed. The angel draped his slender arms around Ivan's shoulders.

"I-Ivan…"

The demon thrust into him, and Alfred saw stars. He tossed his head back with a sharp gasp.

Ivan's amethyst eyes, hooded and dark, glinted. "Found it," he crooned. He effortlessly picked Alfred up so that the angel was seated in his lap, and started to fuck Alfred in earnest.

Breathless and boneless, Alfred buried his face in Ivan's chest and let Ivan do to him as he wished. When it got to be too much, he came with a hoarse cry and clamped down. Not a second later, the demon released into him with a low grunt.

Alfred's head lolled as Ivan carefully set him back down on the bed and tucked the sheets in around them. Alfred felt lightheaded and loose-limbed; he felt good.

He felt better when Ivan's arms wrapped around him. Mm, this was what he wanted. To be safe, to be protected, to be held. Alfred melted into the embrace. Ivan made him feel safe and good.

"Thank you, Ivan," he mumbled into the hollow of the demon's collarbone.

"…Vanya."

"Hm?"

Ivan's arms wrapped tighter around him. A soft, content sound left Alfred's throat.

"Call me Vanya, Fredka."

"Oh, your nickname thing." Alfred yawned. "Sure. Vanya." His eyelids were getting heavy, and he was well-fucked and drowsy. Alfred saw no reason to be awake any longer.

He fell asleep to the sound of Ivan's heartbeat.

Sweetly enveloped in the scent of apricots, cardamom, and summer, Ivan smiled and closed his eyes.

—

Ivan awoke to a clear day and a chill by his side. For a second, he felt fear, raw and primal—last night must have been a dream, there was no possible way that it had been real, Alfred—

Then he saw the angel sprawled out on the other side of the bed, and the fear dissipated. Alfred must have gotten overheated during the night; the sheets were pooled around him, and his golden limbs were everywhere.

Ivan watched the angel peacefully slumber. His long, curling lashes fluttered against his cheeks with every exhale. There was a fine dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

Gilded in sunlight, Alfred was a vision, radiant and ethereal.

Ivan's heart quickened.

He had been no match for Alfred on the battlefield; he was no match for Alfred in his own bed.

Last night, Alfred had heard Ivan's foolish, desperate request. If, gods forbid, he had listened, if he decided to humor Ivan in the morning and call him by the name that no one except his sister had used in decades—no one else had been close to him; no one else had loved him—Ivan would be ruined. Undone. Alfred would have destroyed every defense he had, and Ivan would have lost the fiercest battle of his life to the loveliest opponent he ever had.

Alfred stirred and stretched. His spine arched. Ivan swallowed painfully.

The angel blinked when he saw Ivan staring at him, lavender depths unreadable. Last night had been good, really good.

Ivan was still here in the morning.

He seemed like he was waiting for Alfred to do something, so Alfred grinned—sapphire eyes bright and sparkling—and flopped across the demon's lap.

"Morning, Vanya!"