DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
THE CALL OF THE WILD
LOST BOYS
FOUR
WESTERN EMPIRE
WILDERNESS
Alfred felt cold, wet, itchy. He inhaled the earthy scent of mud, felt it squish against his cheek. It made a sucking sound. His eyelids felt heavy, but he slowly peeled them open. His thick blonde lashes were clumped. His sight blurred. A teardrop—no, raindrops rolled down his face. The rain fell relentlessly as Alfred stared, absently watching the drops splash into a pool. The forest was loud. Windless, the raindrops fell vertically, pelting big-leaved foliage and bouncing off evergreen needles like little hollow drumbeats. Amphibious life croaked and a nearby plop alerted Alfred to the direction of the creatures, the river. He tried to rise, but his body was stiff. With effort he pushed himself onto his elbows and pulled at the reeds, slithering over the riverbank like a disoriented serpent. His leg throbbed, but his burning throat demanded water. Despite being soaked, he was parched. He licked raindrops off his lips before descending to the river, which was flowing at a happy, harmless pace. The water revived him. Since both of his hands were filthy, he stuck his whole face into the river and lapped greedily. The current tugged gently at his hair, as if mocking the storm's previous mercilessness. That had only been a few—hours, days—? ago.
Fuck, he thought, surveying the forest with a degree of fleeting clarity. Where am I?
Where is Mattie? "Ma—" cough cough
Alfred's head pounded. He felt weak, deafened, only half-conscious. He retreated and took shelter beneath a dense canopy. Shivering, he pulled his legs to his chest and closed his eyes.
Later, Alfred awoke. It was still raining. The sky was still dark.
He had no notion of how long he had been asleep, but it was hunger that woke him. It gnawed at him, a deep, angry, all-consuming hunger that made him feel sick. He tried to rise, but this time his body collapsed. "Aah-roo!" A howl escaped him. His left leg was red, swollen, and searing-hot. The sharpness of the pain brought tears to his eyes. His hand hovered over the wound, which oozed thick, gelatinous blood, but he didn't touch it. He was too afraid that the bone was broken. If it's broken, I'm as good as dead. I can't move. I can't hunt—
His stomach growled in protest, clawing at his insides. The pain was worse than his injured leg. Together, it was torture. Alfred had been starving now for days, weeks. Why did I do this to myself? he thought in self-hatred. For vanity, he was starving. For vanity, he was too weak to save himself. For vanity, he was going to die.
If I don't eat something soon, I'm going to die.
Fueled by desperation and raw adrenalin, Alfred dragged his long, heavy body back to the river, inch-by-inch. It depleted his strength. He had to rest—briefly, he passed-out—before he managed to push himself to sitting, and then kneeling in the long reeds. Feeling woozy, he watched the water's clear surface for the shadow of fish. Fortunately, he didn't wait long; the river was plentiful. Clumsily, he slipped as he plunged his hands into the water, startling the fish. Half-submerged he waited, then fervently tried again. By the fourth try, he was frustrated. He clawed angrily at the water, lacking the tact that Francis had taught him, but eventually he succeeded in procuring a wriggling fish. He squeezed it tightly as he shimmied back onto the bank, but his hands were weak and trembling. The slippery fish fell and flopped onto the grass. Alfred descended on it like a wild animal, refusing to lose it. With no knife to decapitate and gut it, he simply grabbed it by the tail and beat it against a rock until it ceased to move. Then he sunk his teeth into it, coating his lips in blood. It tasted horrid. At first he gagged, but each bite was easier to swallow than the last; each bite eased the gnawing pain of starvation. He devoured the meager meal, spitting out bits of bone and scales, until there was nothing left but the creature's round, glassy eyeballs. Then, panting, Alfred crawled back to the canopy, where he was very suddenly and very messily sick. Heaving and gagging, he vomited everything that he had just eaten, his stomach rejecting the raw meat, which had been consumed too fast. The effort left Alfred exhausted and dehydrated.
No, he cried, collapsing on the wet grass. This can't be happening. I can't die out here, I won't. I refuse. I'm a survivor! I'm stronger than this! I—I—I—
He blacked-out.
Alfred felt heavy. He laid on his back in the grass and stared absently at the canopy, green leaves yellowed by sunlight. He blinked. Even his eyelids felt heavy—so heavy. The pain in his head, belly, leg had numbed, but he couldn't move. The effort of wiggling a single finger, of licking dry lips, of opening his half-closed eyes was too much. He felt the sun's soft kiss on his face, but that was all.
Am I dead? he wondered. He tried to take a deep, slow breath, but his chest was heavy. I must be. The living world was so wet and dark, but this place is dry and bright. So bright. He closed his eyes, shielding his blues from the penetrating sunrays. It turned his eyelids red; he envisioned dilating spots. Is this the afterlife? Will the spirits of the dead come to take me to paradise? Did I drown? Did I starve? Alfred's parched lips curled into a sardonic grin and a dry, choked chuckle escaped him. I guess I was wrong. I wasn't strong enough, after all. I couldn't survive. Dad was right, he thought, a tear rolling down his cheek, Omegas can't survive alone.
A caress, stronger and warmer than sunlight, touched his face. His eyes fluttered and half-opened. At first he saw nothing, then a face took shape. He saw violet eyes and thought in relief: Mattie.
But it couldn't be Matthew. Matthew was gone, lost. Unless he was dead, too.
Instead of sorrow, Alfred relaxed. He took comfort in the thought of Matthew being dead, as well. He didn't want to go to the afterlife alone. You and I together, Mattie. Always.
He smiled.
Ivan stared down at the Omega-pup curiously. Where did you come from? he wondered, kneeling down. The Omega's skin was caked with dried mud. It camouflaged his prostrate figure, lying in the long grass. He wore more dried mud than clothes. His garments were soiled, wet and tattered. The Alpha wouldn't have spotted him lying there if he hadn't smelled blood. The salty, iron scent of the Omega's blood was mixed with more pungent, earthy scents, but the closer he crept, the more discernible the Omega's natural scent became. That's when Ivan realized his youth; only fourteen, maybe fifteen-years-old. The swollen river had swallowed the poor, unlucky thing and deposited him here. How far he had been dragged, tossed to-and-fro, Ivan didn't know. He sighed. He had seen many—too many—dead Omegas in his life already. He had seen them bloodied, beaten, and raped.
Consider yourself lucky that the river got you, little one.
Ivan reached for the Omega's throat, thinking to relieve him of his adornments—Westerners wore valuables around the neck and wrists—but instead found himself touching the Omega's cheek. As soon as he did, the Omega's eyelids fluttered and opened. Ivan blinked, frozen in surprise.
Not dead—?
The Omega's jewel-blue eyes stared up at him, seeing, not him, but someone else. His lips parted and silently formed a word, a name. Then those parched lips curled into a peaceful smile.
Ivan cocked an eyebrow. "Omega—?" he said. But the Omega's blue eyes had already rolled back in his head; not dead, just fainted. Ivan tapped his cheek, but he didn't stir. He leant forward and listened acutely to the Omega's weak heartbeat; felt his shallow breaths. Then he sat back on his haunches, thinking on what to do. He could leave the Omega, he was half-dead anyway. Ivan needn't feel his body to know that he was starved, he could see it. He probably won't survive the night. Westerners were weak; that's what he had been taught. He had been taught—bred—to kill the barbarous lot of them. It's a mercy, he decided, standing in retreat. He'll die peacefully in his sleep. There's no use in me prolonging his suffering. Mercy was self-taught in the Eastern Empire. Over the years, Ivan had learnt how to put down an enemy like a beloved pet, quickly and not without feeling.
But—
He started to leave, then stopped.
—is he an enemy?
He glanced back at the young Omega, who looked nothing but helpless. And he sighed.
Alfred dreamt of flying, like a bird. His body no longer felt heavy, but hollow and weightless. He pictured himself soaring, his arms outstretched; or sailing like a boat on a wavy air-current; or hanging suspended in midair, floating gently. He pictured an eagle's nest perched high in the trees, a throne for the king of all birds, and he, himself, the eagle. It was a cozy nest, insulated with furs and hides, like Alfred's little bed at home. He nestled down, burrowing beneath a wing, a feather-soft touch.
He drifted in-and-out of consciousness, aware of a brightness, of warmth, the vague taste of liquid food, but nothing else. Too soon his waking-mind yielded to the desires of his dream-self and he was an eagle again, flying. He soared high above the treetops, screeching loudly in a show of dominance. He alone was the predator of the skies. But he always returned to the same nest every night. It's where he felt safest.
Again, he awoke. His dreams shifted and transformed to accommodate the atmosphere, but always he was a great bird of prey. Always, he returned to the nest.
Finally, after countless days—countless flights—Alfred's mind awoke for real.
The first thing he noticed was the fire, the orange flames dancing merrily in a pit. The second was the arched vault and rock walls of a cave. The third was the fish smoking over the flames.
Alfred's eyes dilated predatorily in hunger. Single-minded, he pushed himself onto his hands-and-knees, letting a thick pelt slip off his naked shoulders as he crawled out of the bedding and over to the fire. He winced, favouring his uninjured leg, sparing a glance for his left, which was wrapped tightly in stiff cloth, then resumed his hunt. Eagerly, he wrenched one of the fish from its stake and sunk his teeth into it. It was hot. It burnt his tongue, but he didn't slow. His teeth tore into the flaky, smoked fish flesh with vigour. Dusty mud peeled off his face as he chewed, but he didn't slow to scratch his dry, itchy skin. He devoured the fish, tossed the bones aside, and grabbed another. He was halfway through his third when a dark, formidable shadow engulfed him.
Alfred tensed, but didn't speak; didn't try to hide; didn't let go of the half-eaten fish. He stared unblinking at the Alpha, whose violet gaze was unforthcoming. It was challenging. Those aren't just the eyes of a hunter, Alfred thought, half in apprehension; half in admiration. He was the biggest, tallest Alpha whom Alfred had ever seen; bigger even than Lars. It brought to mind Arthur's folktales. He must have giant's blood in him! But unlike those vile beasts, the Alpha was not unsightly. No—not by far. He looked like a warrior, like Scott, but bolder, broader in the shoulders and chest. His face was well-sculpted, defined by long, flat planes and a slightly hooked nose. He had a wide mouth, a strong jaw, and skin as luminescent in the fire's glow as a pearl. A windswept mane of silver-blonde hair crowned his head, shielding one glaring eye from view. The other was feline in shape and as hard and vibrant as amethyst.
Alfred found himself staring back, meeting the Alpha's gaze, not in challenge, but in intrigue.
Finally, the Alpha spoke. His voice was deep; Alfred felt it. He said: "Aren't you afraid, little one?"
Alfred's reply was reflex: "No."
The Alpha's throat vibrated with a growl. He stepped forward, close enough to swallow Alfred in his shadow, and raised his head, making himself seem, if possible, even taller. Everything about him was large, bred to intimidate. He was not graceful. He moved abruptly, deliberately, like a heavy-footed stalker; and forward, never in retreat. When his advance provoked no reaction from Alfred, the Alpha lowered himself slowly to his haunches, staring down at the Omega from a shorter distance. "Not afraid?" he asked rhetorically. His voice was provocative of a threat. He took Alfred's chin in a powerful hand and forced his head up. (His hands were huge!) He needn't have bothered with the theatrics. Alfred had no intention of looking away first. In a mocking voice, the Alpha said: "A brave little thing, aren't you? Proud," he growled, showing his canines.
The sound sent a shiver down Alfred's spine, but despite the Alpha's efforts, he remained unafraid. The Alpha's hand was big and strong, capable of crushing bones, but his touch was gentle. He's trying to frighten me, not hurt me. Alfred raised his head even higher, nearly nose-to-nose with the Alpha, and, flavouring his tone with as much arrogance as possible, said: "Pride is what keeps you alive.
"You're not going to hurt me," he gambled, encouraged by the Alpha's silence. "You wouldn't have saved me if you were."
"I didn't save you," said the Alpha, releasing Alfred. He stood and stepped back. "I took pity on you."
Alfred heard the bite, a verbal-blow, but couldn't be offended. If Alfred had learnt his pride from somewhere, it was from the Alphas. And this one, looks aside, was no different.
"Aren't you cold?" the Alpha asked. His violet eyes drew subtle attention to Alfred's nakedness.
Alfred glanced down at himself, covered in dry mud and goose-bumps. "Yes," he admitted, unabashed. Alfred's Alpha friends had seen him nude so often that any bashfulness he might have felt had long since fled. Look all you want, he used to tease good-humouredly, but only I decide who gets to touch. A rude gesture always followed, but Alfred refrained. He didn't think that this Alpha, this stranger, would appreciate the joke in the same way the Islanders did. In the end, it was the Alpha who grabbed the pelt from the bed and chucked it at Alfred, a gesture of peace—or at least a cease-fire.
"You're an Islander," said the Alpha, sitting down by the fireside. It was a fact, not a question. His violet gaze watched the Omega cover himself. "You speak English," he added in explanation.
"Yes, but you're not," Alfred said needlessly. The Alpha spoke English with a thick, undulating accent, the likes of which Alfred had never heard. Suspiciously, he asked: "How did you know to address me in English?"
The Alpha grinned wickedly before revealing: "You talk in your sleep."
Alfred clutched the pelt tighter, feeling suddenly exposed by that grin.
When he failed to reply, the Alpha cocked his head, and asked: "What's an Islander-pup doing so far inland?"
"I'm not a pup, I'm fifteen," Alfred said, affronted. "And my name is Alfred. Alfred Kirkland."
The Alpha inclined his head in mock-apology, but in sincere acknowledgement. Alfred waited, then said:
"Aren't you going to tell me your name?"
"Ivan," he said stoically.
Again, Alfred waited. "Ivan—? Ivan who?" he prompted. On the Isles the family-name denoted the clan. It was more telling than a given-name, more important.
But Ivan was adamant in his secrecy. "Just Ivan," he said.
"Fine," Alfred conceded unhappily. He shifted, favouring his uninjured leg. Ivan's unblinking gaze was starting to make him feel uncomfortable, like no Alpha's ever had. It was the focus, he decided, like a hunter—No, more than just a hunter, he thought again. Whatever it was, it was unwelcome. Alfred's mere presence had never enraptured an Alpha so completely before, which left him at a loss. Is this how Mattie feels all the time? It's no wonder he's so anxious. Alfred didn't want to break eye-contact with Ivan, like surrendering, but nor did he want to maintain this facade. Instead he let his eyes wander, surveying his surroundings in feigned boredom, acknowledging everything except Ivan himself.
"So, Just Ivan," he said casually, "you're a Lone Wolf, aren't you?" He had deduced as much by observation: the Alpha had the defensive bearing of someone who had been alone for a long time. Alfred got the feeling Ivan was just as lost as he was in this situation, unused to guests. But if the Alpha understood the terminology—Lone Wolf—he didn't show it. Alfred asked: "Are you a Westerner?"
He, having never met a Westerner before, thought it a valid query, however, Ivan's response revealed deep offense.
An ice-cold temper flared, showing teeth. "No," he said with great feeling. Alfred flinched, but recovered quickly. The Alpha swallowed, his body tense, and quietly added: "I'm not.
"You should sleep," he ordered, closing the conversation. "You look pale, little one."
I doubt I look paler than you, Alfred thought scornfully. What he said was a lie: "I'm fine. I'm not tired. I've been sleeping for too long already, haven't I—?"
"A week."
" A week?" Alfred gaped in shock. He felt suddenly lightheaded. He had expected Ivan to report a day, or maybe two; not a week! "Oh, gods! My family—! They'll think I'm dead!"
Ivan watched Alfred begin to pace frantically, dragging the pelt. A horrible, guilty feeling churned in his stomach. He felt hot, suddenly flushed as the colour returned to his cheeks. He tasted bile rise in his throat. Ivan said: "Are you going to be sick?" The words themselves prompted an immediate reaction. Alfred said, "No," even as his legs buckled and he fell onto his hands-and-knees, and was violently sick on the floor. His back arched, shoulders tensing as his whole body convulsed with the effort of retching. Sweat beaded his skin. He let go of the pelt and knelt naked on the floor, gagging and coughing and gasping. He would have collapsed if Ivan hadn't grabbed him. Instead, he was pulled back and held snug against the Alpha's chest. It was broad and hard. Alfred trembled. He let his head loll weakly back, finding a place to rest beneath Ivan's chin.
Ivan said: "You shouldn't have eaten so fast. You shouldn't have left bed, little one." As he spoke, he lifted the Omega as if he was weightless.
It felt like flying.
LATER
Alfred awoke feeling dizzy. Ivan said: "The next time you vomit, you're eating it for your next meal."
Alfred blinked. "You're joking, right?"
He honestly couldn't tell. Ivan's tone was stony, but it masked a sinister smile. His violet eyes twinkled in the firelight, conveying a jest, or a promise, maybe? Alfred couldn't decipher it. And the Alpha's reply didn't help.
"It's unwise to waste food," he said.
Drowsily, Alfred accepted the hand Ivan offered him and was pulled into a sitting position. "Uh, thanks," he said, taking a bowl of plain potato porridge. It looked horrible. For a moment, Alfred wondered if the bowl really did contain his harvested vomit.
"Small bites," Ivan advised.
Alfred ate slowly, cautious of his fickle digestion. He had been starving for much too long. He needed to reintroduce his body to food slowly. The porridge was a good choice: it was hardy, but flavourless. Once Alfred got past the look, it didn't taste off-putting. In fact, it didn't taste like anything. Alfred paced himself, taking a small break after each bite to pummel Ivan with questions—"What's in this? Where did you learn to make it? Is this what you eat every day?"—all of which Ivan ignored. It didn't discourage Alfred from talking, though. He disliked silence.
"I bet it would taste better with a little spice in it, and maybe some fruit, and honey or salt; it needs salt. Dad cooks with a lot of salt; Papa hates it. Salt's not the only ingredient! he says. I'm a pretty good cook, actually. Papa taught me. He taught me to care about presentation as much as flavour; says people eat more if they like the look of their food," he said, criticizing the porridge. "Papa's an amazing cook! It's quite a domestic talent for an Alpha, but nobody at home minds. My uncles—I live with my uncles—prefer Papa's cooking to Dad's most days. But Mattie's been doing most of the cooking at home since he was ten. Mattie's my twin brother. He was with me when the river took us. I hope—" Alfred's voice caught. Ivan glanced at him. "I hope he's okay wherever he is. As soon as I recover, I'm going to find him. He's not strong like me; he's delicate, timid. He won't survive long on his own. He needs me. But I know I'll find him. I'm a pretty good tracker, you know. Papa taught me how to hunt. Funny, isn't it? That Papa cooks and I hunt—? I guess we're not a very traditional family. But like I said, I'm a good hunter. I've been hunting since I was a pup. I'll find Mattie. I mean, I can't just leave him..."
And so on and so forth.
Alfred licked the bowl clean and, seconds later, found more porridge ladled in. The process repeated until after sunset. Alfred kept switching between eating and talking—never running short on topics—until finally his eyes began to droop. He lifted the spoon to his lips, but yawned instead.
"Go to sleep."
It was the first thing Ivan had said in hours.
Alfred tried to refuse, but Ivan's blunt tone reprimanded him:
"How are you going to find your brother if you don't recover?"
"Oh, so you were listening," Alfred teased, lying down. "And here I thought that I was talking"—yawn—"to myself."
Ivan cocked an eyebrow. Sternly, he said: "Go to sleep, little one."
If Ivan intended to bully Alfred into sleep, it worked, but not because of his tone. Alfred was already half-asleep when he laid down, covering himself. He felt at-ease, belly full, and snuggled beneath a pile of heavy pelts. The fire crackled merrily, heating the cave. The wind blustered softly outside. Just then, nothing could have interrupted Alfred's comfort. The truth was, he was a young Omega, lost and alone and in the company of a strange Alpha, but he felt the furthest thing from afraid. He felt safe.
Day-by-day, the routine continued. Ivan worked while Alfred slept, slowly recovering. The Alpha was diligent in his tasks, always busy. Half-asleep, Alfred watched Ivan's big, capable hands at work, letting the rhythmic, repeated gestures soothe his weariness. He memorized every detail of those long, big-knuckled fingers, every scar. So many scars. Alfred watched Ivan in secret, pretending to be asleep when the Alpha drew near. Alfred still talked, but since Ivan refused to engage the Omega, refused to answer his questions, he had eventually given up asking. Instead, he got to know Ivan wordlessly, piecing together the Alpha's character bit-by-bit. By observing the mundane tasks Ivan performed daily, Alfred learnt that he was not only a good hunter, but a good craftsman, too. If something broke, Ivan could fix it; if something needed a solution, Ivan could invent one; if something threatened them, Ivan could defeat it. He worked quickly and quietly, barely speaking. Too used to solitude, he often ignored Alfred. Sometimes Alfred thought he forgot he was there at all. But for the first time in his life, Alfred didn't mind being ignored. It gave him the chance to study his reclusive rescuer on an intimate level without Ivan noticing. The Alpha never initiated conversation, and since that first interaction had never touched the Omega when Alfred was conscious. When Alfred was unconscious... well, that was different.
The first time Alfred had pretended to be asleep, he had done it to avoid a confrontation with Ivan, and he hadn't been expecting Ivan to touch him. But when the Alpha's hand brushed his cheek, feather-soft, Alfred felt his stomach flip. It hadn't even been a fortnight yet since Arthur had last held him, but the moment Ivan touched him, Alfred realized how much he missed that physical contact. Instinctively he had leant into the Alpha's touch, which pulled away too soon. Since then, Alfred pretended to be asleep whenever Ivan got close, hoping that the Alpha would pay him attention as long as he thought Alfred was unaware of it. Alfred breathed softly and slowly when Ivan pressed a hand to his face, testing his temperature to gauge his health. It felt good. Despite Ivan's pretense for indifference, Alfred liked his touch. Somehow, it felt familiar. And yet, Alfred's Alpha family and friends rarely touched him so tenderly. Ivan's touch was so remarkably Omega-like in carefulness.
It's because he's a big, tall Alpha, Alfred decided, thinking of the Isles. Big Alphas are the gentlest with Omegas. Alphas like Ivan have to know their own strength to prevent others from getting hurt. They have nothing to prove by being rough.
It was a couple of days before Alfred was shaken—gently—awake. By the time he roused, Ivan had gone, but a tub of hot water had been left for him to bathe. Alfred smiled sleepily and slowly got to his feet, hopping inelegantly. Outside, he could hear the sudden chop-chop of an axe and knew that Ivan was close by. He had left to give Alfred privacy, but would not go far. Maybe he thinks I'll drown, Alfred thought as he climbed into the wooden washtub. Would he even care if I did?The heat stung the cuts and scrapes on his body—he hissed in pain when his left leg submerged—but it eased the tension in his muscles, and his body sank languidly beneath the surface. It felt good to relax, even if the tub was too small for Alfred's height: legs bent, his knees poking out of the water. He pictured Ivan stuffed into the small tub and chuckled. Then he scrubbed enthusiastically at his dry skin, colouring the water grey as mud flaked off to reveal ripe, purple bruises. The bruises were tender and his body ached, but it paled in comparison to how good it felt to be clean again. Alfred closed his eyes and rested his head on the tub edge, soaking himself in the—less clean, but still warm—water. Eventually, he fell asleep.
"Get out before you catch your death," Ivan said, waking him.
Alfred's eyes fluttered open. An instant later, he realized how cold the water had become.
Covered in goosebumps, he crawled clumsily out of the tub and accepted the clothes Ivan gave him—a faded shirt and wool trousers. The thick fabric felt heavy as Alfred tugged it on overhead. The big, wool shirt hung off his shoulders and the trousers were too long, but the fit was comfortable. It was warm and clean. The feeling of being engulfed was a good one, immersed in Ivan's strong scent. Hastily, Alfred buttoned the shirt to block out the cold, and pushed back his wet hair.
"Come here," said Ivan, pointing to the bed. Sleepily, Alfred obeyed and sat down. Without a word, Ivan pushed Alfred's trouser-leg up to his knee and began unwinding the sodden bandage.
"Is it broken?" Alfred asked, implying his leg. The pain had ebbed into a constant throb.
"Yes, it is."
Alfred's heart sank. He couldn't search for Matthew with a broken leg. "Will it... heal?" he asked worriedly.
Ivan worked deftly, inspecting the break below the knee. Alfred cringed, thankful that the bone had been reset, splinted, and bandaged while he was unconscious. Ivan re-dressed it and met Alfred's gaze. "Yes," he confirmed, "it will heal. But only if you stay off it."
Alfred nodded in grudging promise. He pulled down his trouser-leg and crawled beneath the pelts and blankets, feeling contented—clean!—but cold. He shivered. Sighing deeply, he watched Ivan tidy his bath mess, acknowledging how domestic the Alpha suddenly seemed. I guess he has to be, living alone.
"Ivan? How old are you?" Alfred wondered why it had never occurred to him to ask before. Considering what he knew of Ivan, his size and skills, Alfred would have guessed mid to late-twenties. He was shocked when Ivan said:
"Eighteen."
"Huh?" Alfred bolted upright, then cringed. "But that's only three years older than I am."
"Yes."
Alfred felt weirdly self-conscious as he laid back down. He watched Ivan for a minute longer before curiosity got the better of him. "How long have you been alone for?" he asked.
Ivan didn't look at Alfred. He hefted the tub over his shoulder and was halfway to the cave's entrance before he answered: "Two years."
"Is fifteen the age of maturity where you come from, too?"
"It's sixteen."
"And where is that?"
Alfred knew that he had gone too far when Ivan stopped and gave him a stony look. It said: Enough questions. Wordless, he stepped outside. Alfred heard him toss out the water.
Alfred burrowed beneath the bed's pelts, burying his nose in Ivan's shirt. His retreat seemed to relax Ivan, who glanced fleetingly at the Omega when he returned. He settled down by the fireside and resumed a task, but Alfred's mind stayed active. He had a dozen questions that he wanted answers to: Where did you come from, Ivan? Why did you leave? Who were you before you became a Lone Wolf? They were all questions that Alfred had been discouraged from asking, forcing him to accept that he would never get more than a cold stare in reply. Ivan was a secretive Alpha, but it no longer mattered. It doesn't matter who you were before I met you, Alfred acknowledged as he watched Ivan's skillful hands; the concentrated tilt of his lips; the quiet intensity in his violet eyes. This is the only you I know. And I trust you.
"It's been a long time since anyone trusted me," Ivan said when Alfred told him. "Are you sure you're not making a mistake?"
"Yes," Alfred replied, quite certain now. "You wouldn't have rescued me if you were going to hurt me."
Ivan looked at Alfred, capturing him. His eyes were so alike Matthew's, so beautiful. Alfred found it hard to look away—so he didn't, despite the warning he saw there.
"Maybe I rescued you for my own purpose, my own pleasure." Ivan's deep, growling voice filled the cave. In a display of dominance, he rose, his lips curling back into a devious grin. It was wicked. He stalked to the bed and knelt, looming over Alfred. "Maybe I'm just waiting for you to regain your strength. I am an Alpha. And a rouge. What is it you called me, little one? A Lone Wolf." He growled. "And you're a young, unclaimed Omega." As he spoke, he leant down. Alfred felt hot, minty breath on his cold skin. His body tensed instinctively, his heart-rate increasing, but he didn't flinch. He didn't pull back. Ivan's gaze narrowed, his silver-blonde head cocked, and he whispered:
"Are you afraid now, Alfred Kirkland?"
"No."
It was Alfred's turn to grin.
In a quiet, yet confident voice, he said: "I've spent my whole life with Alphas. You'll have to do better than a few empty threats if you want to frighten me, Just Ivan."
Ivan smirked; in challenge or appreciation, Alfred didn't know.
"I know how Alphas think," he said, letting his words linger, letting himself lean toward the growling Alpha. I shouldn't provoke him, he thought briefly, but he liked the feel of having Ivan's full attention. It was intoxicating. "I can tell when an Alpha wants something, someone. I can tell by the lust in his eyes. It's possessive. It's instinctive. It's raw," he purred, watching Ivan's eyes momentarily flash. "It's the way they look at a conquest. It's the way they look at... my brother," he admitted. A degree of Alfred's confidence fled, but he soldiered on, hoping Ivan hadn't noticed. "I can tell when an Alpha wants an Omega by the look on his face," he said softly. "It's unlike the way you're looking at me now. You're trying to scare me, Ivan, but I won't be scared. Not until I see that look in your eyes."
LATER
Ivan stared down at the Islander, who shivered in his sleep. He had never met an Omega who challenged an Alpha as openly as Alfred Kirkland did. But to hear Alfred speak of it, he had been bred to it, spoiled and coddled and undisciplined by his family. He was catered to, his bad habits indulged. And, worse, Alfred didn't seem to see anything wrong with it. He was proud, arrogant in the most unattractive way. Or, that's what Ivan tried to convince himself. Alfred was selfish. He ate and slept and let Ivan, an Alpha, take care of him, which was shameful behaviour for an adult Omega. He had no respect for nature's hierarchy. He back-talked Ivan, disobeyed him, and pestered him with endless personal questions that Ivan didn't want to answer. He's so annoying! Ivan thought, wanting to wring his pretty neck. But every time he did touch Alfred, it was gentle. It was careful. As he knelt to pull a blanket up over Alfred's bared shoulders, brushing the Omega's cold, soft skin, he paused. Annoying, he mused, touching his knuckles to Alfred's golden skin, but so beautiful.
"I won't be scared. Not until I see that look in your eyes."
Ivan dropped his hand. He looked away—then back. He could feel his heart beating in his chest.
Alfred slept deeply, thick eyelashes quivering as he dreamt. Despite their being close in age, both young, Alfred's face was youthful in a way that Ivan's was not. His still had the softness of childhood, unlined by the burdens of adulthood; the scars of life. It was a nice-looking face, honest. Alfred slept with his full, shapely lips puckered. Ivan swallowed and licked his own. The Omega was picturesque to look upon: a masterpiece of vibrant colours and soft, supple planes. His figure was tall and lean, defined by delicious curves of athletic muscle, but it was not unscathed. Alfred had professed to be a hunter, a tracker, and looking upon his golden skin Ivan believed him. It was subtle: a scar here, a scrape there, the tiny imperfections that proved Alfred was mortal. It proved that he had been tested in a way few Omegas ever were and had been made stronger because of it. Absently Ivan bit his lip. His stomach tightened when he thought of Alfred's nudity, but the image was coloured by the Omega's disinclination for shyness. It made Ivan think: How many other Alphas have seen you naked? How many Alphas have had the pleasure of seeing you, touching you? It made him suddenly, unjustly angry.
"It's the way they look at... my brother," Alfred had said with a catch in his voice. It was the first time Ivan had ever heard the bite of insecurity in Alfred's tone. The first time he had seen regret in his eyes.
Such beautiful blue eyes.
Those eyes harboured a ferocity that, for some unknown reason, made the Alpha's heartbeat increase and his temperature spike. When those fiery jewel-blues pierced him, Ivan felt his own fire rekindle in reply, reminding him of the warrior he had been—maybe still was. He felt the fight return to him tenfold, and it shocked him, knowing that it was an Omega who inspired such a physical, carnal reaction in him. It made him feel possessive of the blue-eyed Islander, like rivals desperate to preserve and destroy each other.
It was a small comfort thinking that no other Alpha had ever taken an interest in Alfred, and yet it only fueled Ivan's anger. He felt insulted on Alfred's behalf, defensive of Alfred's insecurity. The Omega talked often of his beloved brother, enough for Ivan to envision a delicate, meek-mannered, helpless little thing in need of protecting. To Alfred, Matthew embodied perfection, but to Ivan he sounded regular—less than regular. Islanders must have a very different idea of beauty and perfection, he thought. Do they celebrate weaknesses?The fact that proud, arrogant Alfred—who talked and talked and talked—never spoke of his own eligibility made Ivan think the Islander Alphas were mad not to favour Alfred. Granted, they might dislike Alfred's attitude, but not to favour his looks—? They must all be blind.
Maybe it's because he's too thin, he considered. Alfred was attractive, but much too skinny for his height. He had been starving when Ivan found him and hadn't yet fully recovered. It was subtle, but his cheekbones were still too sharp, his collarbone too defined, his hands a touch too bony and weak. He hadn't yet regained his strength, but Ivan wasn't worried. You'll recover, and when you do—Then what? You'll leave. Alfred harboured an incredible will, the likes of which Ivan had never seen. Warriors lacked Alfred's level of devotion and determination, which was of Alpha-caliber—No, it was stronger. Alfred, a lone fifteen-year-old Omega, should have died in the forest.
Would you have? Ivan wondered, mesmerized by the artistry of Alfred's face. If I hadn't rescued you, would you have died, little one?
Isn't there anything you're afraid of?
"Don't be afraid," he whispered, contrary to his cold indifference. Careful of the Omega's injury, the Alpha crawled into the bedding beside him. Alfred was shivering. His wet hair gleamed in the firelight. Ivan rested his head on the corner of Alfred's pillow and admired the mosaic of colour, strands like threaded gold, bronze, and copper blending in a haphazard mess. As he drew himself closer, closing the distance between them, Ivan felt Alfred's lithe figure fit against his like two jigsaw pieces. It had been a long time since he had been so close to another living, breathing being, and it felt good. It reminded him of his humanity, the part of himself he was afraid he was losing to the wilderness. A minute later, Alfred was hugging Ivan's torso, unconsciously drawn to the Alpha's body-heat. Ivan let him, because it had been his intent to keep the Islander warm. As much as you pretend otherwise, you're still an Omega. And Omegas didn't produce as much body-heat as Alphas did. Ivan smiled, happy to lend Alfred comfort. It made him feel useful. It had been a long time since anyone had needed him to take care of them. A long time since he had been anyone's protector and provider.
Would I have been a good provider if I hadn't left? A good Alpha-mate? Would it have felt like this?
Maybe, he thought, closing his eyes in contentment, it wouldn't have been so bad.
