Summary: Alfred and Ivan duel. The aftermath.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

Author's note: Fasten your seatbelts, folks! This chapter is a ride.


"You are being needlessly dramatic." Yao passed a plate of sliced apples to Alfred. "And it's a terrible idea. I can't see how it will end well."

Alfred crunched into an apple slice and spoke around the mouthful. "I don't really have a choice at this point."

"You do, you absolutely do," Yao said, rolling his eyes. "If you're too stubborn to see that, though, I don't suppose that I can change your mind. Finish chewing first, and don't talk with your mouth full."

Alfred hastily swallowed. "Sorry!"

"Anyway," Yao went on, "Ivan isn't a bad person. Really," he said sternly as he saw Alfred open his mouth. "He isn't. He can be reasoned with."

"Well, he's hardly what I would call a good person," Alfred grumbled under his breath, before he addressed the healer in a louder voice. "I can't call off the fight now. Braginsky'll think I'm a coward. And I don't want to."

Yao sighed. "I will see you tomorrow after the duel, then. Try to not have anything hacked off. My potions can only do so much."

"All right, Yao," Alfred gave him a crooked grin, "but no promises."

The qilin shook his head in exasperation as he retired to his room for the evening. A new batch of medical texts had just arrived, and some of the discoveries described seemed positively ground-breaking. Perhaps there might actually be a potion formula for restoring lost limbs in there…


"Mister Alfred"—"How many times do I have to tell you, just Alfred is fine!"—"Alfred, it's not too late to back out now, there's no shame in it," Toris was saying as he escorted the former general to the arena.

Alfred chortled. "And make it easy for that bastard? Never."

"Ah, b-but Master Braginsky is widely renowned as a prodigy with the sword. He has been trained by the finest masters since he was a child. Even General Gilbert Beilschmidt would not dare to pick up a blade against him. In fact, no demon to date has been able to best him in a duel."

"Ha, ha! Good thing I'm not a demon, huh, Toris?"

Alfred's cockiness would be his downfall, Toris thought to himself. He bit his lip and hoped that Ivan would show mercy for once and not kill Alfred. He was starting to quite like the sunny blond.


The amphitheater was packed. Rumors of a duel between their esteemed commander and his angelic captive, the notorious General Jones, had spread quickly through the ranks. And since the arena was situated close to the barracks, Ivan's men had no qualms about pausing in their midday duties to see what promised to be the spectacle of the century.

They were shouting as they rushed to place bets.

"Fifty that Jones lasts for thirty seconds!"

"Twenty on a minute!"

"Thirty on three minutes!"

The last call was met with guffaws. "Three minutes? Are you insane? Have you seen our general with a sword? He'd trounce Jones in two minutes, and that's if he's going easy."

From down in the arena, Ivan listened to his rowdy soldiers with an amused smirk. Not one bet was on Jones; no one cared to lose money in such an imprudent manner. Three minutes, huh. Someone certainly has faith in Alfred. He rotated the hilt of the Light-forged sword in his hand. His own was in its scabbard at his side.

Two figures were emerging from the entrance at the other end of the arena. The sun caught on golden strands, a bobbing cowlick. Alfred was walking towards him with a cocky grin plastered across his face. Next to him, Toris mouthed something that was either "Best of luck" or "Please spare him" and turned to leave.

"Ready, Jones?" Ivan tossed Alfred his shining sword, and the angel caught it easily in one hand.

"Yep! Hope you're ready to get your ass handed to you, Braginsky!"

Ivan laughed at the boy's arrogance, and lunged.


Feliks elbowed past another gaping soldier as he struggled to find a vantage point to see the fight. Despite having no idea what was going on, he was determined to see what was so great that the loudmouth guards had to stay up chattering about it until two in the morning. Feliks had to bury his head under the pillow until they finally shut up.

Since leaving the brothel, his life had been nothing but a jumbled mess. His new owner—someone called Ivan Braginsky—apparently didn't give two shits about what he was up to. The only person who was nice enough to answer questions from a very, very confused Feliks had been Toris, the cute brunet Head Housekeeper.

Braginsky, whoever he was, must have had a few screws loose to buy a prostitute on a whim and, like, just completely forget about him. How rude! Toris had chuckled awkwardly and said that it might have been because Master Braginsky saw too much of the war.

Saw… war.

Feliks' thoughts turned to the last leave he had taken before he was captured. His commanding officer had okayed Feliks' week-long trip to Warsaw with a gleaming Hollywood smile, a thumbs-up, and his customary ignorance of human geography—"Dude, I have no idea where that is, but have fun! Bring me back a bagel or something, ha ha!"

As he wove through the dense crowd of soldiers, Feliks absently wondered where the guy was now. He was kind of an airhead, but he hosted movie nights with a ton of candy and popcorn, and those were always lots of fun, even though the only flicks they watched were action-packed trash.

Feliks ducked under the arm of a tall demon with a stern face and glasses.

There! A small patch of unoccupied space close to the arena.

"Like, excuse me!"

The spectator blocking his view dumbly stepped aside to let Feliks through, and he popped his head through the gap.

"Oh!" The green-eyed angel perked up. Speak of the devil. Or, in this case, his former commanding officer. "Hey! Alfred!"


Alfred's eyes flickered to the side for a millisecond when he heard the familiar voice call his name.

It was all the distraction that Ivan needed; the demon immediately swiped his blade forward, nicking Alfred's arm.

Alfred's eyes narrowed as he recognized what the brief moment of inattention had cost him. Hissing at his mistake, the angel parried and returned with a thrust of his own, but it was too late—Ivan had already put him on the defensive, and the demon was too good of a swordsman to give Alfred an opening.

The arena was deathly silent except for the clanging of steel on steel. The blades whirled too fast to be tracked by the naked eye. They were evenly matched. For every strike that one landed, his opponent responded in kind.

Blood dripped steadily from their wounds.

Alfred stabbed at Ivan's chest; the demon leapt up to avoid being impaled, and the wind caught his wings. To Ivan's surprise, Alfred's next swing drove him higher. His eyes widened. Jones wanted to turn this into an aerial fight, and he wasn't giving Ivan a chance to refuse.

A slash to his jugular. Ivan swerved at the last second, and a trail of crimson bloomed on his cheek. Alfred was fighting to kill, the platinum blond realized grimly. But Ivan had the upper hand, still. He would not lose. He flapped his wings and gained altitude. Blade and bracelets flashing, Alfred pursued him closely above the arena.

In the air, they continued as twin dervishes in their own lethal storm.

Fuck, Ivan thought, at the same time that his blood sang with adrenaline and exhilaration at having found such a worthy adversary. The only thing he had ever seen the other wield on the battlefield was heavy artillery—he hadn't imagined that Jones would be amazing at close combat.

Alfred was utterly savage and so, so beautiful in the sunlight that it almost hurt to look at him. If he had cut Ivan down at that moment, the demon realized with some alarm, he would have no regrets. He'd gladly fall to the sword of such a magnificent creature.

The blades clashed again.

Something in Alfred's eyes changed. With a low growl, Alfred abruptly whipped around and shot up in the air, putting distance between himself and Ivan.

Below, the soldiers roared their disapproval at the display of cowardice.

Ivan paused. The spark in those cerulean depths had not been that of fear. No, he had seen resolve and something else. So why…

Ivan lurched forward. His outstretched hand grabbed empty air as Alfred pressed his wings to his back and dropped like a diving falcon towards the ground.

Desperation. Alfred was resolved to win, and desperate. Alfred angled the sword so that its blade was facing him.

The tip of Alfred's shining sword was pointed to his heart.

"No."

Alfred might have started his descent earlier, but Ivan was heavier; he fell fast through the air and, when he was an arm's length away from the angel, he rammed the flat of his blade against the fingers clutching the divine weapon.

Alfred released it with a curse. He swore, again, when Ivan snagged the crook of his elbow with the pipe—always tucked in that damned military coat— and drew Alfred into arms like freezing iron bands.

The former general trembled with rage as the pair landed lightly on the sand.

"I win," Ivan whispered into Alfred's ear as the amphitheater erupted in cheers.


"Good job, blondie!" A demon clapped Feliks heartily on the back. "If you hadn't distracted Jones, he might have actually won the wager!"

"W-wager?"

"Yeah! If Jones won, he'd have been free to go."

Feliks covered his mouth with his hands in horror.

He had totally ruined Alfred's one chance at escape.


"They aren't too bad." Yao sounded relieved as he carefully inspected the angel's injures. He handed Alfred a glass filled with brown liquid. "Drink up. You'll be fine in an hour."

Alfred wrinkled his nose. "This smells terrible, Yao, and I can heal myself."

"Ivan didn't complain like a child when he drank his potion," the qilin said drily. "It's brewed with herbs from Heaven and the human world, so it won't hurt you. And Ivan insisted." The physician's dark brown eyes glinted. "Potion or acupuncture, Alfred. I know how much you love needles. Your choice."

Alfred squeaked. "Okay, okay! I'm drinking it, Yao." He downed the glass in one gulp, then grimaced. "Ew."

Yao collected the glass and patted Alfred on the head. "Good boy. Now go back to Ivan's room, he's expecting you there after his meeting ends."

"Can't I just stay here? I won't be any trouble, I promise."

"No, Alfred. Ivan's instructions were very clear. After you take your medicine, you're to return to his room." Yao ruffled Alfred's hair. "Besides, don't you want dinner?"

Alfred pursed his lips. He was getting hungry, especially since the sword fight had lasted so long. Seven minutes—he hadn't thought that Braginsky would be that good. Arthur had been the only one in Heaven who could outmatch him, but then again, Arthur had been the one who taught him to fight in the first place. If he hadn't gotten distracted by Feliks' shout… Well, no use in crying over spilled milk.

Why was Feliks here, anyway? He hadn't known that there was another angel in Ivan's castle. It was nice to have another friendly face around, though.

Mind made up, Alfred got up from the infirmary bed and headed to the door.

After this whole disaster with Braginsky was settled, he'd go and catch up with Feliks.


That he had lost the wager didn't truly hit Alfred until he was sitting on the edge of Ivan's bed.

His heart plummeted. His heart rate sped up.

Alfred's final few pieces had crumbled. Only the king was still standing. Ivan would destroy him the first chance he got.

But maybe if he moved first

Don't freak out. No point in freaking out. Don't freak out.

Trembling, Alfred ran his fingers gingerly over the metal bedposts. After this, he hopefully wouldn't be chained to them every night.

He took a deep inhale. Ivan would be back—he didn't know how soon. He had better prepare now. No telling what his demonic master would do, and Alfred couldn't afford to hesitate again. Not after last time.

Taking a glass stoppered bottle from the chest that Braginsky had so kindly left unlocked, Alfred vanished into the bathroom.


When Ivan entered the suite after the too-long meeting, there was a steaming plate of beef stroganoff and a porcelain bowl of pitted and halved plums on the small table.

Ivan ignored the spread in favor of the cellarette. Alfred wasn't in the lounge, so he must be in the bedroom. Ivan sent a small thanks to the gods.

He poured a shot of vodka and quickly knocked it back. He really did not want to deal with the obstinate angel without at least a few drinks in his system.

Stupid, willful boy.

Another glass of alcohol in hand, Ivan sat down heavily near the bay windows. Alfred's latest idiotic stunt was still on his mind. What in the seven rings of Heaven was the boy trying to accomplish by attempting to skewer himself on his own sword?

Ivan drained the glass and measured out another. Jones always did have a thing for histrionics, he mused. Oversized firearms that spewed showers of bullets, a magical aura that was dazzling even against the bright white of the tundra, the way he strutted about the battlefield as if he owned it, as if it were a catwalk and he knew that he was what everyone had come to see.

Alfred had a knack for being the center of attention. Confident and charismatic, he attracted every eye to him instantly, as if it were somehow the most natural thing in the world.

Was the boy aware of how alluring his beauty and sheer power were?

Ivan took a bite of the stroganoff. Most likely not. If Alfred had even an inkling, he would not be so careless—no, not careless, impetuous—with his life. He would protect it like some fragile thing, instead of keep trying to fling it away.

Ivan finished his meal with a sigh, picked up the bowl of fruit, and walked over to the bedroom door.


Alfred had been sitting on the bed, fingers laced, legs crossed at the ankles, shoulders leaning against the metal headboard. He had been studying the Rococo ceiling and thinking; when Ivan cracked open the door, he slipped out of the bed and dropped his glasses onto the nightstand. He stood up.

Ivan tightened his grip on the bowl as Alfred stalked towards him, hatred and determination glittering in his sapphire eyes. Inwardly cursing, Ivan slid the porcelain on top of a vanity and grasped for the pipe in his coat.

Alfred was very close now. The demon snarled in warning. He wouldn't underestimate the former general—not if he wanted to live. Beautiful or not, the boy was a monster. Even with powers restrained and strength suppressed, he didn't doubt that Alfred had plenty of tricks up his sleeve.

Ivan would kill Alfred if he had to.

His fingers wrapped around metal, but before he could tug the pipe out, Jones had grabbed his lapels, shoved him against the close bedroom door, dragged his head down, and was pressing his plush lips against Ivan's in a searing kiss.

What?

Ivan's eyes grew enormous as the angel moaned into the demon's mouth. His own chapped lips had parted in surprise, and Ivan could feel Alfred's tongue probing urgently around his mouth. Alfred tasted like apricot and cardamom and summer. The fragrance was overwhelming—Alfred was everywhere, his hands were tangled in Ivan's hair, now, and his eyelashes fluttered against Ivan's cheeks.

Ivan briefly got a hold of himself amidst the swirling maelstrom of apricots and cardamom, pleasure and warmth. He broke away from the kiss.

"What in Tartarus are you doing?" he hissed, pupils dilated.

Alfred looked distracted. He licked his lips, and Ivan stared at the luscious pink little tongue. "You won. This is me being willing. I did say that I'd be, didn't I?" His brow furrowed in confusion. "Weren't those the terms? I thought—"

Ivan lifted Alfred by the waist, spun around, and pinned him against the mahogany door. Alfred's legs instantly wrapped themselves around the platinum blond's waist. Threading his fingers through the silver hair again, Alfred drew Ivan into another deep kiss as he rolled his hips against the demon's front. His nimble fingers made quick work of the buttons on Ivan's coat, and then he was peeling off Ivan's shirt, unwinding Ivan's scarf. He nibbled at an earlobe.

Alfred had just started licking a long, wet stripe down to Ivan's neck when the demon pulled away with a gasp. His shoulders were tense.

"Don't." Frost edged the command.

Alfred raised an eyebrow as he took in the textured scars. "Okay, dude, chill." Shrugging, he moved down to swirl his tongue around Ivan's collarbone.

Ivan melted into Alfred's arms again. He had never thought—could never have imagined in his wildest fantasies—something so delicious and good and thrilling as Alfred's mouth on his body, or touches as scorching as the ones that Alfred's fingers left on his skin. He felt as if he were being enveloped in warmed honey.

Panting and barely coherent, he stumbled over to the bed and fell with Alfred atop him. He was fully undressed now—when had Alfred taken off his boots?—and Alfred was straddling his abdomen, grinding into Ivan's crotch. Those fingers traced patterns of gentle fire across Ivan's chest, his torso, his thighs; they left drippings of caramel in their wake.

Alfred sank down on his impossibly hard cock with a whine, and Ivan choked on his breath at the perfect, tight heat. He could feel the oil slicking Alfred's insides, the easy way that Alfred swayed his hips just so. It was the height of summer, and the lazy buzz of bees was crescendoing. He was lost in the apricot orchard, draped in drizzles of honey and the comfort of cardamom—Alfred, all summer sky eyes and golden locks and tanned skin, clenched around him—and Ivan saw the sun flare suddenly, once, engulfing everything in brilliant, blazing light.

Ivan's vision went white as he exploded in the best orgasm of his life.


"Good?" He heard Alfred dimly, as though through a veil. Alfred's voice was teasing.

Ivan hummed in assent as one arm reached sluggishly for the angel. He wanted Alfred curled up against him tonight, needed the sweetness of what had just occurred to linger, so that Ivan might, upon waking, know it was not merely a dream.

Alfred stiffened when he felt the arm wrap around his waist and bring him against Ivan's chest. Faintly, he could hear Ivan's heartbeat—erratic, too fast, so weak that it was barely there.

Hm.

Alfred had been full of surprises tonight, the thought crossed Ivan's mind, fleeting and soft, as he drifted off into sleep. The last of which was that instead of fighting his embrace, Alfred had relaxed into it.


I love comments and kudos! Feedback/thoughtful criticism is much appreciated. I assume that people are liking this based on the hits, but it's always nice to know. Next update won't be another chapter of OC—it'll be a oneshot about how Alfred became the delightful little minx that he is ;)