Obsession

A Hetalia story.

Chapter Eight: Orders

Quietly, the cops clears his throat when once again the strange man's story trails off. "Feliks sounds like a wonderful person."

Toris folds his arms on the table, the drying mud crackling against it. "He was. He truly was."

"I wish I could've met him."

The bloody man has a foreign looks in his eyes that makes the veteran's chest ache. Why is it always the good people that got the worst end of the deal? It is obvious that he is still just a kid at heart… and to suffer as badly as he did.

"So…" The officer chews on the end of his pen, watching the man before him closely. "Is… that soot in your hair?"

"Probably." The manager perches his head on top of his ligaments, unable to find the gaze of the cop. He keeps his vision leveled at the corner, away from the sight of another human, as if the progression of his story makes him ill seeing one.

"How did that happen?"

Toris gives him a bitter smile. "You're getting ahead of the story now."

A shiver snaps down his spine. "Er… I apologize. Please continue… if you like."

He couldn't wait until this interview is over. Screw going home to bed; he would bring Ivan Braginsky to justice, for him and his friend Alfred. He owes him that much doesn't he?

Tracing vague circles on the table now, the cop patiently waits as the strange man finds his words again.

"Well… in the next few days we had Alfred's funeral…"

And it was a somber event indeed. The heavens had already wept the night before, leaving it a murky evening for those at the grave side funeral in three-piece suits. The ground suckles so heartily at their feet, that through his tears Toris nearly fell multiple times, if it hadn't been for Feliks snatching the manager last minute.

"Easy now Toris…"

Even with his blood stilled, the manager couldn't hear anything above the steady beat of his heart. He is still alive, while Alfred is not. He is breathing, while Alfred is not. It is all his fault.

Feliks forehead creases as he gently places a hand on the Lithuanian's shoulder. He knows when he doesn't even look up at him that he is heading to a dark place in his mind.

"Toris this isn't on you… this is on Ivan remember?"

He receives a nod, but it is a robotic response; Toris isn't listening.

The rest of the Rebels assemble in their uniforms of all things; Mathias even carrying a hockey stick, out of the ICU against doctor's orders. Toris couldn't even look at them in the face anymore. If he had never come along, they wouldn't be their right now, preparing to put Alfred in a grave.

The manager sucks in a breath. Oh God. His brother would be here.

"Toris… please listen to me." Feliks tries to tilt the man's face up, but he wouldn't budge, especially as Lars passes him to join his new team at the graveside the Lithuanian would not approach. "Don't shut me out Toris."

Alfred would still be alive if wasn't for him. Slowly, Toris takes a step away, nearly tripping when his foot bumps another head stone. "I can't…" He feels like a small child, and knowing he did something wrong, attempts to flee it.

Gently, the cheerleader extends a hand to him that he eyes wearily. "It's okay… I promise. Alfred would want you here."

He isn't sure about that, but he doesn't protest when his arm is taken by that hand and he is guided closer to the hole that would remain Alfred's home forever. Suddenly, the rest of the team seems much shorter than they had been before, the intimidation seeping like their tears to the ground. First, Toris ruined his brother, and now he ruined his entire team. Did he just not deserve anything good?

Before he can get the courage to turn and walk away, a voice speaks to him directly.

"How are you doing Toris?" It is Mathias, leaning on the hockey stick, watching him instead of the grave, his cast covered in little mementos of Alfred. Toris nearly chokes on his next breath.

"Yes… I'm fine…" His voices refuses to cooperate, the previous screams living it hoarse and nearly inaudible. Mathias frowns a little.

"Do you need a hug?" Gilbert looks over his shoulder at him.

"Why… would you want to hug me…?"

He is met with questioning gazes.

"Why wouldn't we? We're your friends." Vash scoffs, as if it is so obvious.

"Well… I figured…s-since…"

"Sometimes you think too much." The tiny smile makes Berwald look years older.

"We are family, remember?"

The manager wants to burst into tears when he is pulled into a hug by none other than Ludwig, the full weight of the events sliding onto his shoulders when the Rebel's jersey crinkles beneath his fingertips.

Keep it together Toris… but he couldn't. As the tears begin to fall, he buries his face into that shoulder and scrunches the fabric in his hands. How could they still want him? It would be a question that plagues him for the rest of his life.

"Group hug everyone." Mathias announces and join in, wrapping his bruised arms around the two. Gilbert and Berwald join willing, followed by a snorting Vash, but Lars is a little more hesitant.

I knew someone would hate me… Toris thinks, shutting his eyes tightly to stifle the rate of tears; but suddenly opens them when the group shifts, seeing Lars blink at him from the outer ring of the hug.

The manager could not help himself when his whimpers become vocal.

"Hey it's okay."

"This isn't on you."

"We'll get Ivan. That's a promise."

They are Feliks's sweet words in the mouth of the friends he has ruined. He did not deserve such amazing people.

But maybe, just maybe, he could learn to forgive himself.

"Thank you… everyone…" Despite being at the graveside of his best friend, he is met with smiles. Alfred would want that, Toris thinks. He couldn't bring him back—but he could at least do the best in his memory couldn't he?

When he looks at Feliks, the expression he receives is gentle and comforting.

Maybe it is all Ivan's fault, not his own. How could he have predicted it would've turned out like this? He couldn't, and the American wouldn't want him to blame himself, would he?

"After this, you can stay at my place." Mathias offers. Toris's heart hums a little with pride.

"Thank you... but I can't. I left my brothers at home."

Knowingly, the blond nods, and the others pull away to pat his shoulder and pay their respects to their fallen teammate.

Maybe things will be better. Maybe.

But some things aren't meant to be.

Dismissing himself to give them time to mourn, the manager watches from behind the group of jerseys. He follows each number he had documented on the rink, jumping from each back until he reaches the end and #5 turns to him and smiles a cheesy grin, his ahoge curling undefeated by the atmosphere.

Toris smiles sadly.

That's when he feels something sharp against his back.

"So sentimental my little Tori." The manager's body seizes up. "We didn't get to have our date or anything."

Toris couldn't breathe as he shakenly whispers. "Ivan…"

Ivan tsks him, speaking so softly that the others would not hear him. "I am disappointed in you, you know. After I helped you and everything."

The manager trembles when he pushes harder, the definite outline of a knife ghosting over his spine. No… no no..!

Toris wants to reach out, to tug on the jersey just an arm length away, and to save himself from this nightmare.

But then he remembers.

When he didn't do what Ivan said, someone died. If he gets them involved again, he would surely lose another friend—something Toris couldn't even bear the thought of.

If I don't listen, he thinks, it might not be the team next… His body tenses when images of Raivis waving goodbye from the window and Eduard scowling his departing figure thrust into his mind.

He could not, would not put the burden on them also.

Toris's body lurches forwards when his soles sink into the mud and leans his back heavier against the blade, nearly losing his balance if it hadn't been for Ivan roughly yanking his shoulder.

"Look over there Toris."

Slowly, he obeys, glancing in the direction the Russian has indicated. At the end of the grave is another boy, suited up in his hockey uniform, except it didn't say the Rebels. Toris doesn't even have to look up at the tousled blond hair and glass covered eyes to know who it is; the dread coiling in his stomach told him so.

"Yes. You know who that is. Matthew, the late brother of poor Alfred." The manager heart leaps when his stalker moves closer, his bangs tickling the shell of his ear. "You ruined his life. You got Alfred killed.

All the moisture dries the Lithuania's mouth.

"What did he do to you hm?"

Nothing, is his reply.

"This is all because you would not listen to me." The cemetery fades into a dark night, and the voice jumps before him, into the seat of a purring truck, waiting for his order to be executed. "Things didn't have to be this way."

The Lithuanian knows that.

It is all his fault.

"You don't deserve these friends." He could feel himself being pulled back, one step at a time, from the group that called him family.

He doesn't protest.

"So let us go on our date, da?"

Toris lowers his eyes, unable to remain on the backs of the Rebels; all those things Ivan said, he already knew—but hearing it from the voice that has haunted him these past few days drills it into his soul.

"O…Okay…" His body screams for him to run forwards; to nail him in the gut and run. But he is more scared of the repercussions of his rebellion than the consequences of the date.

Triumphantly, the Russian guides the slaughtered lamb from the grave side, everything going according to his calculations until—

One of those jerseys turns.

"Ivan!"

The rest of the team twists in their direction at Gilbert's shouts; Toris's heart sinks to his feet. No… please… he could not speak.

"Just fuck off already." Mathias threatens Ivan with his hockey stick, but that only makes the Russian smile darkly and twist the knife against the manager.

"How cute. You plan to bring a hockey stick to a knife fight." Toris yelps, trembling so hard when the blade cut through his shirt and draws blood.

"Why can't you just leave him alone?" Ludwig demands, shoving his arm into his brother's chest when he nearly charges Ivan and his hostage.

"Because Tori is mine. That's why."

The Rebels are ignoring the messages the manager is projecting with his eyes, begging for them to just leave him. It is like the night of the date, when Lars and the others prevented him from leaving, and the end result was one of them ended up in the ground—but now Toris is more desperate to preserve what is left of them.

"Is there a problem over here..?"

Everyone has to look around for the speaker, and Mathias would have completely missed him if the long and curly ahoge hadn't smacked him the face.

"This man is the one that killed your brother." Vash crosses his arms, his gaze pinned on Ivan. Toris gulps quietly when he sees Matthew darken.

"That was not my fault." Pulling the knife from Toris's back, he goes to tracing his jaw with it. Some of the team lunges forward, only to stop when the blade is redirected to a more vital spot. "If only Toris would have gone with me…"

"He wouldn't have gone with a creep like you!" The manager has never seen Mathias look so fierce, even on the hockey rink. "So take the hint and take a hike! Give us our manager back!"

Toris's heart is constricted so tightly, his breaths are little and brief. At one moment, it is swelling with acceptance, the next it's tightening with reality. It isn't long before his chest begins to ache.

Ivan hums lightly. "That doesn't sound like fun though." Another step. Only a few yards separates him from his murderous get away vehicle.

"Ivan, we will call the cops on you." Ludwig says.

Toris's heart nearly stops when he hears that dark chuckle next to his ears, and feels Ivan's eyes tantalizing over him like a slab of meat. Why did it have to come to this?

"Those cops will not help you…" The manager wants to throw up when his lips brush his ear. "Isn't that right Tori..?"

Suddenly, Toris isn't at the graveside anymore, but in the den of law enforcement, pleading with a cop who was indifferent to the child carrying his youngest brother, a baby, and holding the hand of his other brother, a toddler. He had implored with the officer for over an hour, only to be sent back to the home of his childhood abuse soon after.

How could Ivan have possibly known that?

"I know more about my little Tori than any of you can come up with on the spot." The Russian projects his voice to the Rebels, who are all tensed and ready for a moment of attack. "We are made for each other."

The Lithuanian couldn't feel his heart beating, could only sense the way his blood ran cold through his veins. In a matter of minutes, this could go horribly wrong, if he didn't do something to prevent it. Dismissing his fears, he looks in the eyes of his friends and gives a small, forced smile.

"I'll... I'll be okay guys… I promise. Don't worry—"

"Bullshit."

He feels like he had been shot through the heart when the speaker meets his gaze—and it isn't a Rebel.

"My brother wouldn't want you to go with this man. Not before he died." Matthew slowly pushes his glasses, a glint obscuring the view of one eye. "And not after either."

He should be yelling. Screaming at Toris for being a failure. What he is saying is not connecting.

"It's okay—"

"No!"

That is enough to shut Toris up, to make him stutter on his own breath when Lars steps forward, his hands raised to show he is not going to do anything.

"You cannot leave us. You are family." Patiently, the Dutch player takes small steps towards them, as to not alarm Ivan, his large frame blocking Toris's view of the others. "Trust us. Please."

The manager opens his mouth, but a short constriction from his heart has him shutting it again. It's not like he didn't trust them… he just didn't trust himself. He couldn't, after he got his best friend killed. The thoughts quickly dissipate when a sharp pain stings his neck.

"You better back off." Ivan warns, but it isn't Lars that moves—it's Vash, using the large Dutch player as a cover as he ducts around his side and nails his fist into Ivan's face.

Toris stumbles from his grasp, his foot smacking a headstone and tripping him. His hands slam into the ground as he tries to catch himself and slides out from under him, allowing him to watch as Ivan, much bigger and more powerful, wrestles Vash to the ground.

The Lithuanian tries to scramble up at his next movements, but there isn't enough traction for his hands and he flops back into the mud. "Ivan! Please! Don't!"

But his stalker doesn't listen, slicing his blade across Vash's chest like he is a piece of meat meant for the butcher. On his second attempt Toris is up, but before he can make his way to the hockey player, Ivan hooks him by the neck and throws him into his truck.

When did they get that close?

"Vash! Vash!" Toris leans his head out the window as Ivan tosses the knife into the seat and joins him on the driver side, starting up the vehicle with a feral growl.

"Toris!" The other Rebels rush forward, and they make it in time to consume the fumes the truck spits out as the Russian guns it.

The manager feels even colder when the fear begins to pump inside him. He just got another teammate killed didn't he? He leans further, trying to catch another glimpse of Vash, to convince himself he didn't screw up again, but he feels something cold against his back, and it isn't a knife.

"Sit down."

And Toris did, not knowing if another friend has died in front of him. He holds his head in his hands as Ivan drives away quickly.

Is it too late to dedicate this story? Because I dedicate it to my best friend Saru. I think this is one of her favorite fanfictions I have written, and she is what keeps me going.

-Soul Spirit-