The couple stared at each other as the information slipped past their lips. Their son was gone, and so was the car. That only left one conclusion. But where could Alfred have gone?
"If he ran away to that Russian again, I swear—!" Francis seethed, stopping himself mid sentence. He was furious. He hadn't stopped being furious since last night. Hadn't stopped being furious, frightened, worried, frustrated and every other negative emotion in the world.
"Calm yourself, Francis." Arthur quickly soothed and it felt extremely odd to do so. Francis was the calm one, he was the one who assured everyone. It was rarely him. But for some reason, right now, he wasn't angry. He was just worried. He wanted his son back. He wanted to hold him, he wanted to tell him how much he meant to him, and he wanted to talk to him. To really talk to him.
When had he gotten so emotional?
He touched his neck, hitching his breath slightly as it sent tiny jolts of pain when he brushed against the fresh bruises. Francis' anger left him immediately, taking his husband's wrist away from his injured neck regretfully. The Frenchman's eyes were getting watery again and Arthur was getting tired of seeing him like this. So, he forced an angry expression onto his own face.
"We better get him back." He snapped, turning to retrieve his coat but the grip on his wrist refused to loosen. He turned to look at Francis' impatiently.
"You're not coming with me." The elder blond hissed while green eyes widened, "I refuse to have you near him again. What if—What if he does it again? And I can't stop him? I-" He faltered slightly, taking a deep breath, "You're not coming with me."
"Francis don't be daft! Alfred is my son too and I wish to see him back home safe and sound! And what if he hurts you? What happens then?" Arthur argued, feeling his throat go hoarse by the end of his yelling. He shouldn't have spoken so much before...his throat was still sensitive.
"Arthur—" Francis stopped when he saw that determined stubborn look leveled at him. He let out a sigh and nodded but the worry in his blue eyes never dissipated. Arthur tried to give him a reassuring smile but it came out more as a grimace.
The Brit maneuvered to his jacket, slipping it on before freezing. He patted at his pockets, his thick eyebrows drawing close in confusion. "...Where is my wallet?"
Francis blinked, looking around the house for any signs before halting himself, "..You do not think he...?"
"We need to get to Toris' home. Now." Arthur growled out in a raspy breath, flinging the door to the garage open.
Ivan groaned, turning on the couch he still resided on. He'd never gone to bed. He'd sat there and drank the entire vodka bottle. He felt so sick. His head was pounding with a horrid headache, his stomach twisting and he just felt so alone. No one would care. No one would come help him.
The only person who would have would have wasAlfred. But he was gone now.
Because Ivan was an idiot. A fucking idiot who deserved to feel sick because he was a murderer. He'd killed two people and he had just attempted to kill another.
He groaned again, sitting up clumsily. He needed a shower. A shower would make him feel better. Not that he deserved to feel better.
He stood from the couch, staggering over to the steps. Why did the shower have to be on the second floor? It was so inconvenient. Still, he continued on.
Miraculously, he made it to the shower with little incident and the cold water did alleviate much of the pain. He still felt horrid, but now it was mostly emotional instead of physical. Soon he was back downstairs, dressed and depressed.
He was just so—so frustrated with himself. And angry. God was he angry. How could he have done something so stupid? How could he have let himself go so easily? He'd thought he was better. He'd thought that he was practically cured.
He was wrong. Horribly wrong.
And it made him so angry. Furious. It was his fault. It was his stupid father's fault. He could hear him now, laughing at him tauntingly. Why couldn't he just leave him alone? Didn't he see that he had ruined his life enough?
The glint of the empty vodka bottle caught his eye where it lay abandoned on the ground. He could already hear the mocking. You are no better than him the voices hissed into his ears. He wanted it to stop. He needed it to stop. He couldn't take any of this anymore.
He wanted to hurt something, he wanted to hurt something so much.
He grabbed the vodka bottling, smashing it against the wall with a loud shout. It shattered, and he covered his face quickly to protect himself. He shouldn't have been so close to the wall. He let out a gasping breath, taking a few steps back and sinking to the ground.
What was he doing? Breaking a bottle would not help him in the slight—
He looked down at his hands to see them covered in blood. He must have gotten cut. Now he was bleeding.
There was blood on his hands once more.
Ivan started to take in shallower and shallower breaths, staring at his hands. The voices multiplied until there was a cacophony of whispers in his ears. He couldn't take all this. He couldn't. He wanted everything to stop. He could tell he was crying. He was whispering too, he just didn't know what.
No one was going to help him this time though. Alfred wasn't here. Alfred didn't care. Nobody cared. He was alone. So horribly alone.
Then, the door flew open.
"Like, you need to calm down. Seriously, it'll be totally fine!" The blond man assured happily, lying on the bed on his stomach. His feet were in the air, kicking childishly as he spoke.
"I just want us all to be together again!" The woman lamented, trying to stem her near constant flow of tears.
"And you like will. No worries. All three of you guys will be out of here in a day or two!"
Arthur leaped out of the car as soon as Francis drove it into the Lithuanian's driveway. His car wasn't here, but perhaps Alfred had parked it down the road. He could definitely still be here. The Brit rushed to the front door, his husband right beside him.
The heard a loud shout as they neared it, hurrying their steps. They knocked and yelled through the door but received no response. Francis tried the doorknob and they were both shocked to find it unlocked. Without another thought he flung the door open, stepping inside.
Alfred wasn't there. Arthur didn't know how he could tell so easily by just one look but he just knew his little boy wasn't here. Logic then dictated for him to leave, to continue his search because every moment he wasted was another mile between him and his baby.
But something stopped him. Ivan stopped him.
Ivan was slumped to the ground in the corner, looking lost and frightened. He hadn't seemed to notice them yet which was extremely odd since the door had made an awful loud sound. He was staring at his hands—was that blood?—with wide unseeing eyes. He was talking to himself too, a creepy chant that Arthur could not comprehend.
This was the boy who endangered his family. This was the boy who hurt his Alfred numerous times. This was the boy he had grown wary of for months. This was the boy who had just a few hours prior attempted to take away his life. This boy was the very reason his Alfred was missing.
But in the end, he was just that—a boy. A scared, frightened little boy.
Arthur didn't know what compelled him to approach Ivan. Perhaps it was his heightened fatherly instinct, the already high worry for his son now translating to sudden worry for the boy in front of him. Whatever it was he went with it. He knew he should just leave, continue searching. But he couldn't. He couldn't when Ivan looked just so hopeless, so little.
Like a tiny blue eyed boy in the alley way scared and frightened, wanting his Daddy to come save him and his little brother.
Except, Ivan didn't have a father. At least, not anymore.
"Ivan? Ivan are you alright?" Arthur spoke surprisingly softly. He edged closer, still not understanding the pale blond's strange words. He was probably speaking Russian.
"Arthur..." Francis voice sounded in the background. The Frenchman was worried, rightfully so. But, like usual, the Englishman ignored him completely.
He crouched downs so that he was now at the teen's eye level, "Ivan..Ivan I need you to focus." He continued, a little more sternly.
The boy looked up. "Я никогда не могу устанавливать мир, не так ли?, отец - всегда там. Шептание мне, напоминая мне. Я - ужасный человек. Это невозможно для людей остаться со мной. Все, что я люблю, убрано. Есть так много крови на моих руках, и это никогда не отрывается независимо от того, насколько я моюсь. Каков пункт даже попытки? Я должен только позволить мне падение." (I can never have peace, can I? Father is always there. Whispering to me, reminding me. I am a horrible person. It is impossible for people to stay with me. Everything I love is taken away. There is so much blood on my hands and it never comes off no matter how much I wash. What is the point of even trying? All I do is desperately cling to the edge. Clinging for forever. I should just let myself fall.)
"Ivan. Ivan stop it." He snapped, taking the boy's face and forcing it to look into his own, "Now you listen to me, boy. You're going to snap out of this. Do you understand? Stop this nonsense." His voice rasped by the end of it but he ignored the tender feeling in his throat.
Ivan still wasn't focusing, but at least he had stopped his chanting. Arthur frowned, releasing the boy's face in favor of taking one of his wrists and tugging him up. On closer inspection his hand was bleeding, he needed to stop that.
"Francis, find Toris' first aid kit." The Brit ordered, leading the pliant boy to the kitchen sink. He wasn't entirely sure if the Russian knew what was going on in his surroundings. He seemed to be stuck in his own little word.
He turned the faucet on, making sure the water was neither too hot nor too cold. He placed the injured hand under the stream, watching the blood wash away. He felt the teen jolt under his firm grip on his wrist when the water first touched his skin. The Englishman tilted his head back to see violet eyes refocusing, staring at him in utter confusion.
"Good. You're back." Arthur clipped out, "This might sting." He warned, washing the wound gently before patting it dry. It was just a cut, but it was a bit deep. Francis brought the kit and Arthur rummaged through it quickly. "This will sting." He said, rubbing the disinfectant before wrapping the boys hand with a strip of band aid.
Ivan, meanwhile was terribly confused. What was Alfred's English father doing here? Most importantly why was he helping him? Why was he taking care of him? Why did he care?
"Why?" He vocalized lamely, feeling very odd. He could clearly see the bruises he'd left on the other man. He shouldn't be doing this. Why was he helping him? It made no sense. Absolutely no sense.
Arthur released his wrist, closing the kit and ignoring the question entirely. Frankly, he had no idea why. He'd just done what was right. Francis decided to step in, placing himself between his husband and the boy protectively. The boy could snap at any moment...
"Have you seen Alfred?" Francis asked coldly, skeptically. His blue eyes glared at Ivan's confused ones, waiting.
"..Not since last night..." Ivan responded slowly, "He is gone?"
"Yes. Are you sure? Do you have any idea where he could possibly be?" Arthur continued, displeased that Francis had stepped between them. This coddling was getting on his nerves. He was a man. He could take care of himself.
That and the frustration and worry within him over his lost son was trying to spill out in a more familiar fashion—anger toward his husband.
"Nyet...Alfred hasn't spoken to me...Perhaps a fast food place?" Ivan offered though he still wasn't grasping it, "What is it you mean by 'gone'?"
"I mean that he is missing. So is the car and my wallet." Arthur growled back, feeling anxious and frustrated. They needed to get back to searching. They were wasting time.
"The wallet!" Francis cried out suddenly, turning toward his husband, "If he has used one of your cards then we can see where he has been!"
Green eyes widened in realization. Why hadn't they thought of that yet? How could they have been so stupid? With a shaky hand he grabbed at his cellphone, opening it, "I'll call the bank." He stepped a ways away, waiting impatiently as the phone rang.
Narrowed blue eyes focused on the tall teen once more, "You are sure Alfred has not been here?" Francis did not trust him at all. Never again would he make the mistake.
"Yes. I am sure." Ivan replied, no longer concentrating on the two. Alfred was gone. Gone. Missing. Without a word. Where could he be? He needed to think. Who would he tell other than himself? His violet eyes lit up, "Have you asked Matvey—Matthew?"
Francis' eyes widened in horror. He'd forgotten Matthew. He never forgot Matthew. He was the only one. There had been too many things happening, the boy had slipped his mind completely. Mon Dieu, he didn't know anything!
He slipped his hand into his pocket, taking his phone out and pressing the speed dial. He waited impatiently for it to be answered.
He had almost given up when the soft familiar voice answered, "...Hello?"
"Matthieu! Matthieu something has happened. We are picking you up as soon as possible. Be ready."
"..What? Wait, what's going on? What happened?"
"I'll explain later. Just be ready." Francis snapped hurriedly before quickly remembering, "Alfred hasn't contacted you, has he?"
"Al? No...Why? What happened? Is he ok?"
"Just be ready."
Francis hung up, pressing his fingers to his temple. Dear God hearing Matthew's worried voice was not helping him. He needed a smoke. No. No he didn't. He quit.
But God would it be heavenly to have just one.
"Thank you very much. Goodbye." Arthur mumbled hurriedly, hanging up his own cell and turning to the two. He looked awfully pale. Francis dreaded whatever he was about to say, perhaps he would need more than one hypothetical cigarette.
"He bought a ticket to Russia."
The two stared at him in disbelief. Russia? Russia? Francis was the first to recover, "Russia? Why ever would he do that? He can't go to Russia! You can't just buy a ticket and be off to Russia in less than a days notice!"
"The plane hasn't left yet, we have to stop him."
Alfred, though, had already stopped himself.
Everything had been fine. He had been grinning, his mind racing and reassuring himself that it would work out. Everything would be fine. He was speeding to the airport on an adrenaline high, just itching to get on that plane and save the day. He was going to be a hero.
He made it to the airport's parking lot before he crashed.
He had parked the car, took out his keys, and reached for the door handle. Then he had stopped. He froze really. And then, suddenly, everything fell on him.
What the fuck was he doing? He was running away to fucking Russia. He didn't even know where the fucking orphanage was, what Ivan's sisters looked like. Russia was fucking huge. How the hell would he be able to find them? No wonder his father called him an idiot.
And his Dad. Oh God. His Dad had almost died. Died. Been lost forever. He'd never see his green eyes and huge eyebrows. He'd never get those rare soft smiles. He'd never feel those comforting hands as they ruffled his hair. He'd never hear his voice.
He had almost lost him. And he had done nothing.
He'd stood there like an idiot. And what did he do after that? He locked himself in his room for a few hours. Why hadn't he gone to his Dad! Why hadn't it crossed his mind? What if he had died! He should have hugged him, done fucking something!
And Alfred found himself hugging his backpack tightly to his chest, sobbing. He didn't know how long he sat in that parking lot crying alone but it felt like an eternity. What the fuck was he doing?
He tried to calm himself. He took deep calming breaths, wiping at his eyes constantly with his wet sleeve. He picked up his cell, canceled the flight and started crying all over again.
He wanted someone to hold him. He wanted his Daddy.
He wanted Ivan.
He couldn't have any of that though.
Part of him told him he should go home. But he just couldn't. He didn't know why, or what was telling him not to. He just knew he couldn't set foot in that house, at least not for a while.
After what felt like an eternity, he started his car and pulled out of the parking lot.
"Hurry up Frog!" Arthur snapped, flexing his grip on the arm rest as Francis speeded through the streets. "Why are you going this way?"
"To pick up Matthieu." Francis growled, turning sharply. "Remember? Our other son? Now please shut up, you yelling will not help the situation."
Ivan remained silent in the back, thinking. He'd rather the bickering couple forget his presence all together since it was a miracle that he'd even been allowed to come. Alfred was going to Russia. Alfred was going to Russia. Why would he do something so stupid? He knew nothing of Russia! And why? Why would he ever want to go there?
Perhaps to find his sisters, was a warm romantic thought that seeped through his brain. But he shot it down. Alfred hated him. He wouldn't do that.
And he'd never told Alfred details, important ones. Such as, where the orphanage was, what it was called, what his sisters looked like etc. It be impossible to find them.
So, why did he go?
He had to stop him. Alfred wouldn't survive in Russia. He didn't know the language, he didn't know anybody. He would get lost, he could get mugged or worse. He needed to make sure he didn't get on the plane.
Which was why he had convinced Alfred's fathers to let him come. And for the first time it was the English one who had agreed with him first.
"He is not coming! I do not even want him this close to you!"
"The kid is right! Alfred will listen to him! He'd get on that plane just to spite our arses!"
It had been quite the surprise, but he hadn't argued and found himself in the car with the two bickering men. He'd heard them bicker before but this was...a bit darker. He didn't know why, the air just felt tenser, their body language angrier.
They fell silent though, as the car stopped in front of a house. Ivan could see Matthew, already waiting outside, hurry toward them. He had barely climbed in when the car was racing again, this time in the direction of the airport.
"What's going on? What's happening? Where's Al? Is he okay?" Matthew asked quickly, worry dripping from his soft voice. The twin knew there was something horribly wrong.
Unfortunately no one would answer him. His parents had started arguing again and Matthew was taken a back by the ferocity of it. So, he decided not to interrupt. He looked over at Ivan (whom he'd been surprised to find in the car) for some sort of answer.
Ivan ignored him though, much too preoccupied with his own thoughts to even acknowledge the other boy. He would find out sooner or later.
Matthew sighed, flipping his phone out to see if he could maybe text Al himself for answers. He cringed when his parents arguing went up a notch in volume. This was one of those rare fights that had him wanting to make a fort with his twin, hide away in it and hug Kumajirou close. But Al wasn't here and he was stuck in the car.
Just what had Alfred done?
"Will you just shut your bloody mouth! My phone is ringing!" Arthur cried, picking up his phone and shoving it open. "Yes? What?"
He grew deathly silent, "You're certain?" Francis blinked, flicking his gaze at his husband and slowing the vehicle down.
Arthur hung up, "He returned it."
"What?" Francis asked, confused.
"..Alfred returned the plane ticket."
There was silence. For once Matthew, was the one to break it, "Wait! What plane ticket? Can someone please tell me what's happening? Where's Al?"
After a moment he was finally answered, "We have no idea." Arthur replied grimly.
I almost didn't post a chapter this week...Someone very close to me past away a few days ago. I've been pretty down from it but I got some inspiration yesterday and wrote this. I'm sorry if it sucks (i'm pretty sure it does; it's short as hell too orz) but honestly, I'm just too depressed right now to care.
I love you guys. I still do. I'll be fine so don't worry your pretty little heads. Reviews are always nice.
See you next week and I promise it'll be ten times better than this crap.