Summary: Ivan comes to uncomfortable realizations about his captive. Alfred wakes up.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.
It had been a week since Yao snatched Alfred out of Ivan's arms with a glare and a crude swear that was completely out of character for the castle's physician. After cleaning him up, Yao had moved Alfred to one of the hospital beds in the infirmary. The angel was currently recuperating, hooked to an IV that administered a healing potion—loaded with nutrients to prevent malnourishment—into his bloodstream.
His eyes hadn't opened at all, Yao had told the demon general with a frown, even though his body was clearly working hard to expel the toxins from Tartarus. A few times a day, Alfred would convulse and cough up a foul black sludge that was tainted with evil magic. He never woke up during those fits, although he was somehow able to swallow the potions that Yao shoved down his throat for rehydration without throwing them back up.
Ivan stared at the form tucked under the pristine sheets, illuminated under the moonbeams. It was the hour before midnight, and Alfred's face was relaxed in sleep. Alfred's wings had been fully restored to their previous condition, and his curling lashes fluttered with every inhale. He looked harmless and innocent, wholly unlike the ferocious, bloodthirsty beast Ivan had known on the battlefield.
Ivan didn't know when it started, or what drove him to in the first place, but he had gotten into a habit of sitting by the angel's bedside for a few hours every night.
It wasn't necessary, practically speaking—Yao was in the room adjacent, and a light sleeper, so if anything happened, he would be over instantly to tend to his patient.
But he did a lot of things that weren't necessary when it came to Alfred, Ivan reflected with a grimace. It was maddening, really. Ivan prided himself on his pragmatic nature, his tendency towards acting rationally in every situation. It had kept him alive on the battlefield. It formed the foundation of his success in the military.
Going to Tartarus and wandering around the pit in the dead of night to retrieve Alfred had gone against all of that. Ivan knew this, knew this from the second he had gathered Ladya's reins in one hand and departed with his sword in the other.
So why, then, had he done it?
Jones was troublesome and obstinate, and he displayed the most blatant negligence for his life and the lives of others out of anyone Ivan had ever seen. He provoked Ivan endlessly. He disturbed the order within the castle, reveled in the chaos that he caused.
But—
The image of Alfred smiling gently as he fed the fish suddenly flashed through Ivan's mind. He had been humming something soft and without melody, and he had looked peaceful as he sat at the edge of the pond, a short distance away from the bobbing sunflowers. The sunlight formed a halo around his golden head, and, behind his glasses, his eyes were gem-like, sparkling—
If, in that moment, radiant under the afternoon sun, Alfred had turned to him with that gentle smile—
No.
Ivan was a practical man, and practical men did not dwell on impossible, useless fantasies involving their unruly angelic captives. Especially when the angelic captive in question was also a monster capable of decimating entire armies, was a murderer lacking all remorse, was his sworn enemy—
"Ivan, you should go to sleep," a quiet voice carried across the moonlit room.
Yao emerged in a loose-fitting silk robe from the physician's personal chambers. The qilin rubbed at one eye with the back of his hand and stifled a yawn. "It's getting late, Ivan. If anything changes with Alfred, I'll let you know. Go to bed."
Ivan rose up and left.
Three days later, Alfred was struck with fever.
Ivan sat at his usual place by the bed, taking in the pink flush of the angel's skin and the wrinkling of his brow. It was a perfectly natural response by the immune system, Yao had said. It was a good sign; Alfred would wake up soon.
Well, the healer had amended, it was a good sign if he managed to fight through it. Either Alfred would wake up soon, or he would die, but—"Do not be too concerned, Ivan. From what you've told me of him, he seems like a tough, stubborn boy."
Alfred's fever had steadily crept up all evening. It seemed to be peaking now, judging from the helpless whimpers that emitted from the former general's throat. Yao had given him some fever reducers already, but it would take a while before it kicked in.
"Davie…"
Ivan stiffened. The scent of apricot and cardamom was very noticeable, all of a sudden.
"Davie…." The angel mumbled again. "'M sorry… should've been me…"
Ivan reached out a hand to Alfred's forehead, and hissed. Alfred was burning.
"My fault… not the hero… couldn't save you…" Alfred sobbed out something broken and incoherent, and his entire body shuddered. "Sorry. Sorry. I'm so sorry, Davie." Tears were trickling out of the corners of his eyes.
With heavy arms that felt like they belonged to someone else, Ivan pushed his chair closer to the bed. He brought up his hands and murmured an incantation. A frosty light briefly enveloped his palms and coursed up to his fingertips.
Tenderly, he pulled the golden head, damp with sweat, into his lap and placed a cool palm to Alfred's forehead. The whimpers died down almost instantly. Ivan started to stroke the angel's hair with his fingers, trailing the spell-chilled pads slowly through silky locks, taking care to avoid the cowlick.
Alfred's mumbles quietened.
Ivan did not know how long he had been petting Alfred when the former general abruptly choked out a cry.
"Davie!"
Alfred thrashed around, hitting Ivan in the chest. Black sludge was dripping out from between his lips again, and he coughed wetly as if his lungs were filling up with the foul liquid. Ivan shoved him back onto the bed to prevent the tarry substance from getting on his clothes.
Yao swept out of his bedroom with several vials clutched between his slender fingers. "Ivan, you should go. I have the medicine that he needs. Your presence here will not help."
Alfred's scent grew so cloying that even the faint notes of sunflowers and sunshine permeated every inch of the room. That smell—
Ivan realized with horror that he was getting aroused. Quickly stepping outside, he slammed the infirmary door closed and slumped against it.
"Fuck," Ivan said. Then, more emphatically, "fuck."
Ivan turned and tossed in his bed for what must have been hours. At last, he sat up with a sigh.
Trying to sleep was futile. Even after the cold shower, his thoughts had been stubbornly fixated on the mingling of apricot and cardamom and summer and on the stupid, infuriating, beautiful, radiant—
Ivan took a deep breath to calm himself.
This was pathetic.
He was pathetic.
He was an elite general, one of the finest in demon history, and he was pining like a lovesick schoolgirl after an insolent prisoner who had shared his bed for two measly weeks. Pining for a ruthless, dangerous homicidal maniac with the most abrasive personality, who had been unconscious for almost as long as he had been awake in Ivan's care.
What in Tartarus was wrong with him?
Ivan threw the covers off and headed outside. The cold air would clear his head, and if not, there was always anotherway to settle his problem.
From the outside, the brothel didn't seem too seedy, and Ivan was glad that the interior did nothing to dissuade this impression, even if the decorations were a bit gaudy.
The bell jingled. A middle-aged dark blonde with hair tied back in a French knot and a gold crown-shaped hairpin glanced up from her computer at the front desk. She looked professional in a purple blazer and long white skirt.
"Good evening, sir. How can I help you?" The madam—Marianne, according to the metal plaque on the desk—had a brisk, business-like manner.
"Ah," Ivan cleared his throat. "I am looking for a companion."
Her violet-tinted lips curved into a smile. "Of course." She slid a large binder towards him. "Rates are for per night."
Ivan flipped through the portraits of the brothel workers. The majority seemed to be angels. There was nothing shocking about the fact. The various inhabitants of the Underworld had identified, early on, a preferred occupation for the fairer celestial beings who were captured during the war. Had Francis not been adamant that the angel generals be placed under his personal purview, they likely would have ended up at such a brothel.
Something in Ivan's chest tightened at the thought of Alfred writhing under a different faceless demon every night. That would be letting him off easy for his war crimes, Ivan told his erratic, perfidious heart. He deserves it, and much worse. Then he turned the page with more force than was perhaps necessary.
Ivan paused at a picture of a blond angel with green eyes. He was a fetching little thing, slender and coquettish as he winked at the camera.
Marianne looked over. "Feliks is one of our most popular boys. A good choice. The entire evening?"
Ivan's mouth was dry as he nodded. She handed him a keychain with a gold key and a tiny felt pony. "Room forty-eight, on the fourth floor."
Ivan knocked on the door, hoping that it was the right one. Someone had covered it in pony stickers so that the room number was barely visible.
"Like, feel free to come right in!"
Ivan turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. His eyes were immediately assaulted by walls painted a blinding shade of pink and numerous posters of frolicking ponies.
He screwed his face in disgust.
The blond on the bed flipped his shoulder-length hair back and pouted. "What, you don't like the decor?"
"…It's not particularly suited to my tastes."
"Yeah, whatever. I, like, don't actually care. You're just here to bust a nut, right?"
Well, Ivan had definitely made the right choice. This angel was just as mouthy as Alfred. Was it sad that Ivan was actually grateful that Jones didn't have a horse fetish as well?
Ivan undressed and approached the bed.
He did not expect Feliks to immediately scramble back, fear in his wide green eyes.
"Okay, so, like, I love horses, don't get me wrong, but there's no way in Tartarus that your horse dick is going anywhere near me. That will, like, literally rip me apart. Like, what the actual fuck? Did your slutty-ass mom fuck a pegasus or something?"
Ivan was really getting tired of the equine comparisons, and the jabs at the moral character of his mother were losing their novelty. He pinned Feliks to the bed with a growl.
"Sorry, I take that back!" Feliks yelped. "Your mom's not a slut, she's a fine, upstanding woman!"
The scent of poppy and lemon flared. Underneath him, the angel was shaking, terrified. His eyes were green, not blue, but the shade of his hair was similar enough, if a bit lighter and not styled the same way.
The fear, however… Alfred had never looked at him like that. He had looked at Ivan with defiance and contempt and hatred in his eyes, yes, but never fear.
When Ivan drew back, there was a sour taste in his mouth. "Never mind," he said as he buttoned up his coat. "You're coming with me."
"Wait, like, what the fuck?" Feliks called after the retreating figure.
Back in his suite, sitting at the table near the bay windows, Ivan threw back another shot of vodka. He hadn't the faintest idea what possessed him to purchase the green-eyed prostitute from the brothel. The madam had only blinked at him once before printing out an invoice and wishing him a good rest of the evening.
The angel would arrive at the castle tomorrow with his belongings. Ivan would let Toris deal with him; just thinking about the situation brought about the beginnings of a headache.
Why had he made such a rash decision? Feliks had not been cheap, but Ivan would live—Francis compensated his generals well enough, and Ivan had enjoyed precious few opportunities to splurge during his time at the warfront.
Was it shame, then, at not being to perform? Or perhaps it was guilt, at seeing the way that the blond had shaken with fear.
No, Ivan thought resentfully. All of his rash decisions lately have had to do with one thing. One person. He was certain that Jones had something to do with it, even though the angel in question had been unconscious for the past ten days.
Alfred was propped up on a pillow, examining something in his hand, when Ivan entered the infirmary the next day. Yao was nowhere to be seen.
"Jones."
"Braginsky," Alfred said dully. He didn't look up. Ivan saw a flash of metal between slim fingers.
"Do you want to tell me what the fuck was going through your empty head when you decided to go to Tartarus?"
For once, Alfred didn't bite back with an obnoxious retort.
"Was it for Davie?"
Alfred's hand clenched around the piece of metal. "There was something that I wanted to recover," he said lowly. "I wanted to find Davie's dog tags. Francis didn't give them back to me. I promised that I'd keep him safe." Alfred's shoulders sagged against the pillow. "I couldn't. So I thought that I'd at least keep his dog tags safe for him."
Ivan seethed. The sheer audacity of this brat. "Don't lie to me, Jones. You went to Tartarus with your enchanted bands on. You entered the most dangerous place in the Underworld, malnourished and barely able to stand upright, after starving for weeks. You're not that stupid. No one alive can be that stupid. There's another reason you're not telling me."
The demon general slowly exhaled.
"Alfred," he said, "am I so bad that you'd prefer being torn apart in Tartarus than being in my bed?"
Alfred inspected the broken dog tag as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
Ivan felt a sharp burst of anger. The temperature dropped. "All right, then, Alfred. Be that way," he crooned, voice saccharine sweet, child-like. "I am clipping your wings tonight."
Alfred finally reacted. "Clip my wings, Braginsky," he enunciated each word carefully, "and I will kill myself."
Ivan studied the angel. Alfred wasn't bluffing.
"You can't keep an eye on me all the time," he continued. "One day when you're not there, I'll slit my throat or eat something I'm not supposed to, and I will die.
"You will have nothing to show for all of your long years of service. Do you really want to have suffered in that terrible tundra for nothing, bastard?" His smirk was caustic and showed all of his perfect teeth. "And after you went to all that trouble of saving me from Tartarus, too."
Alfred looked Ivan straight in the eye and inwardly shivered at the pure fury he saw in the violet depths. He kept his face from twitching; to Ivan, his expression must be perfectly blank.
Stupid, Alfred thought. He was so fucking stupid. He was in no position to be playing dangerous games, and yet here he was. Trying to save the king when his pieces were almost all gone. And against Braginsky of all people. Braginsky, who loathed him and was insane besides. Silly, stupid, reckless Alfred.
Well, it had been recklessness that got him into this mess in the first place. No point in stopping now.
If he were running out of pieces, he'd just make more.
"A wager."
"Excuse me?" The demon general hissed.
"Let's make a wager of battle, Braginsky. A sword fight. If I beat you, you'll let me go anywhere I want without trying to stop me."
Ivan snorted with derision. "A sword fight? You're hardly a swordsman. I've seen your hands, Jones. You're just a pampered whore."
Alfred gritted his teeth. "Tomorrow. In the arena."
"Very well, we will fight tomorrow." Ivan waved a hand carelessly. "And if I best you?"
"I will submit to you," Alfred spat.
Ivan's lip curled. "You'll have to offer something more appealing, Jones. Your body is already mine. I have no need for your submission."
Silence stretched on for several seconds.
"I'll be willing," Alfred said, voice hollow.
Ivan raised an eyebrow.
Alfred scowled down at his hands. "And I won't try to escape again."
"I accept the wager."
Alfred turned to Ivan in surprise.
"On one condition."
The glimmer of hope in Alfred's eyes died.
"If I win, you will also recognize that your life is mine."
Alfred bowed his head, fingers trembling against the sheets.
"Yes, master," he muttered bitterly. "If you win, my life is yours."
