Chapter 21

Upon being updated on the situation, Arthur's mother decided they wouldn't celebrate Christmas without her youngest, and that they would wait to open presents the next day. Madeline was locked up in her room crying anyway, and Francis was in a terrible mood after their fight.

"There you are, dearie. Come along, now. You must be Matthew. Francis has had a terrible Christmas, and I hope having a good friend right now we'll help cheer him up a bit," Mary said, wrapping an arm around Matthew's shoulders and guiding him towards the stairs.

"I'm very sorry for i-imposing on Christmas," Matthew said, a little flustered by the whole situation. Arthur's mother made a 'tsk'-ing noise and continued sweeping him up the stairs.

"As far as I'm concerned, Christmas isn't until tomorrow. Now is there anything you need, dear? Are you hungry? How about some hot cups of tea for you and Francis?" she offered. Matthew was about to reply that he was fine, but Mary had already decided tea was in order and rattled off the types they had in the house. Before Matthew could pick one, she recommended a holiday brew that was her favorite and promised him she'd be right back with the beverages. Matthew found himself standing in front of a bedroom door, presumably Francis's. Mary left just as swiftly as she'd brought him, and Matthew tentatively knocked.

"Piss off!" Francis's angry voice ordered in French from the other side. With a soft sigh, Matthew opened the door and poked his head inside.

"Francis?" he asked, stepping into the dark room. He'd barely entered and closed the door behind him before the blond was in his arms. Startled, Matthew simply held him for a moment before he realized Francis had begun to cry against his shoulder. Matthew had never seen Francis cry, and it surprised him.

"It's going to be okay, Francis. I'm here," Matthew soothed gently in French. Francis was heavy in his arms, and Matthew maneuvered them to the bed, sitting them both down on the edge. Francis didn't seem to care how he'd gotten there, or even how he'd known to come. He was simply exhausted and desperate for Matthew to offer him the comfort he could not accept from his mother.

Mary came and went, silent as a church mouse, and left the tea on the little table by the door. All the while, Francis held on to Matthew, quietly crying against the material of his shirt. It wasn't until nearly a half hour later before he straightened, and wiped at his eyes.

"Look at this…pathetic," he said in disgust, glaring at the wetness on his palms. Matthew caught his hands and sweetly kissed his palms.

"It's not pathetic. It shows you're human. What happened?" Matthew asked. Francis leaned gratefully against Matthew, his long hair forming a curtain between them. Matthew gently tucked it behind Francis's ear, and pressed a soft kiss to the other boy's cheekbone, still wet with tears.

"My parents are getting a divorce. Makes for happy Christmas memories, no?"

"Francis, I'm so very, very sorry," Matthew replied, pulling the other boy into a hug. He held him, rubbing soothing circles on his back. "It's already late. Let's drink our tea and then call it a night, okay? You'll feel a little better after some rest."

"Alright," Francis agreed. He didn't feel like talking about it, and he was grateful Matthew didn't expect it of him. The hot cup of tea was pressed into his hands, and he sipped at it slowly until it was nothing but dregs in the bottom of the cup. He felt a little more stable, and a little less like everything was falling apart. Matthew had found his pajamas in his luggage and now he knelt in front of him, undoing the buttons on his shirt with careful attention. He bit his lower lip slightly, as he always did when he was focusing very hard, and Francis leaned down to kiss him. It felt so good, so right, to have Matthew's lips against his own again that Francis nearly sighed in relief.

Matthew's fingers continued on their course, nimbly undoing his buttons until the garment could be pushed off his shoulders. Francis shrugged out of it, slanting his lips against Matthew's in a way that was both blissful and somber.

In a smooth motion, Matthew pulled off his own T-shirt, and crawled onto Francis's lap. The French teen held him there, his hands lightly skimming over the planes of Matthew's back in wonder. Matthew had never stripped in front of him before—always blushing and modest about nudity of any sort. Now, he pressed against Francis hungrily, until Francis could feel Matthew's heart beating parallel to his own.

Francis fell backwards, Matthew on top of him, over him and around him like a favorite blanket chasing away the chill of a cold night. Matthew began to kiss along his jaw and throat, speaking roughly and emotionally between each kiss.

"I missed you," he said, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss against the hollow of Francis's throat. "I love you," he whispered, adding another kiss to Francis's stubble-covered jaw. "And I'm not going anywhere," he promised, placing his last kiss upon Francis's lips.

"I should be happy," Francis whispered brokenly, his blue eyes filled with pain. "I should be happy that I'll never hear them fighting again…but all I can think of is when I was a little boy, and they'd take me to the park, walking on each side of me…and when I begged, they would swing me up in the air between them and smile at each other over my head. If you had seen those smiles, you would know how desperately they loved each other. So I don't understand how they could hurt each other so badly. I just don't understand," Francis said hollowly. Matthew pressed their foreheads together and cupped Francis's face, sharing little puffs of air with him.

"Everything…even love…has a time for ending, mon cher. We're not meant to understand why. All we can do is keep living, and loving, and starting over again when castles crumble."

Francis closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, summoning all the anger, mistrust, and despair into his lungs, and breathed it out as steadily as he could manage. Matthew kissed him again, and again and again, until Francis fell asleep to the gentle, comforting touches.

USUK

Alfred awoke late in the morning. Sunlight streamed through their large bedroom window and the snow was piled up on the window pane, glistening rather prettily. Alfred felt the urge to sneeze, and reached blindly for a tissue. One was pressed into his hand, and a second later, his glasses were gently placed on his face.

"Morning, Alfred. Feeling any better?" Arthur asked. He sat on Alfred's bed with his small feet curled up under him. Alfred's baggy t-shirt hung rather innocently off Arthur's slender shoulder, and his choppy blond hair was mused from sleep. In the grogginess one feels before fully awakening, Alfred decided Arthur looked very much like an angel who had just taken a tumble off his cloud.

Quite suddenly, Arthur leaned over him, allowing Alfred to smell the soap on his pale, unblemished neck. A blissfully cool hand pressed against his forehead.

"You still feel rather hot," Arthur diagnosed. A small moan of protest escaped Alfred's mouth when Arthur moved his hand away. "How about I get a cool rag for your head, hmm? Patrick should be back around in an hour or so. I don't really feel comfortable leaving you here. I don't think my mum would mind if I brought you home—just until you're back on your feet."

Alfred blinked sleepily, trying to process Arthur's words but not truly hearing him, because Arthur was sitting incredibly close, and he'd rested his hand oh-so-casually on Alfred's thigh. What was worse, Arthur's thumb was moving in comforting little circles. Sick as he was, Alfred's skin tingled beneath his pajama pants. All in all, it was a very pleasant way to wake up in the morning.

But apparently not so pleasant for Arthur, who had to smell him.

"I'm going to draw a bath for you. Do you want the water warm or cool?" Arthur asked. Even though he felt hot, a cool bath didn't sound too appealing.

"Warm," Alfred croaked. His voice had gone hoarse during the night, and he sounded like an angry bullfrog.

"Warm it is, then. Just rest a bit, and I'll be back in a minute," Arthur said. Then he did it again—leaned over and placed a sweet, chaste little kiss on his forehead. Alfred could have said something about it if Arthur was blushing, or acting as if it was flirtatious, but he wasn't at all. In both instances, he'd continued on as if he'd done nothing out of the ordinary.

It almost made Alfred doubt it had happened at all. Was the fever making him delusional? While he pondered the possibility, he heard the tap begin to run and the sound of water splashing into the large, porcelain tub. Arthur was putting in bubble bath, and lots of it, if the aroma was anything to judge by. Alfred smiled, feeling very special. While he actually used more skin care and hygiene products than Arthur did, the royal took his bubble baths very seriously. Whenever Alfred got on his nerves excessively, Arthur would retreat to the bathroom and his mounds of bubbles, with a book and a hot cup of tea. He'd come out refreshed and his patience restored, but he was protective of his arsenal of bubble bath supplies.

Alfred had messed around with his rubber ducky once and nearly lost his arm.

Arthur returned after a few minutes, and helped him to sit up. At first, Alfred scoffed at the notion he couldn't do it on his own, but when he actually tried, his whole body felt like it was made of lead and jelly simultaneously.

Panting from the effort just to stay sitting, and to swing his legs over the side of the bed, Alfred knew he was going to need Arthur's help if he planned on going anywhere. Luckily, Arthur seemed quite determined to help him. He looped Alfred's arm over his shoulders without prompting and stood, carrying most of Alfred's weight.

"Sorry—I'm trying to stand, but—"

"Never you mind. Just lean on me," Arthur said. Alfred cracked a grin.

"Ha…that should be our song. Remember our friend song?" Despite his voice sounding awful and raspy, Alfred began to sing the immortal lines—"Lean on me…when you're not strong…I'll be your friend, and I'll help you carry on…"

"Unacceptable," Arthur said shortly.

"Wha? But why?" Alfred whined. Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Because it's cliché and overrated, which doesn't describe our relationship," Arthur replied logically. Alfred seemed pained by the effort to think about it that much.

"I didn't expect you to analyze it—just a joke, Artie," he said with a small smile. They'd made it to the bathroom, and Alfred gratefully slumped against the doorframe, rasping heavily. Arthur smiled at him, his hands still bracingly held against Alfred's hips. Anyone that looked at them would have thought they were a step away from embracing. Arthur flashed an exaggerated 'I'm-laughing-at-your-stupid-joke' smile and, for a moment, Alfred was a little startled by just how beautiful Arthur's eyes were.

He blamed his moment of distraction on the fever.

Unfortunately, his fever-induced sappy appreciation of Arthur's unique green eyes cost him dearly. While he'd been busy smiling goofily at his shorter roommate, the assertive Brit had untied his pajama bottoms and given them a little tug. They dropped traitorously, revealing that he'd skipped on the underwear. His T-shirt just barely covered little Alfred, and the taller teen blushed so deeply that it was noticeable—even in his sick state.

Arthur's fake grin turned into a smirk that managed to be both innocent and cocky at the same time.

"What? You can't take a bath with your pants on. If you feel strong enough to undress yourself, by all means, don't let me stop you…" Arthur challenged. Slumped against the door frame as he was, with Arthur's hands keeping him stable, Alfred knew he was in no position to argue. Trying to control his blush (if Arthur could play it cool, then so could he) he weakly tugged one arm out of his shirt and let Arthur help him remove it.

If he'd been expecting Arthur to check him out, or giggle at his puny chest, or do anything at all negative, he was to be disappointed. With a completely neutral face (as if it were everyday he stripped Alfred down to help him into a bath) Arthur once ducked under Alfred's arm and helped him walk to the bath. He all but lowered him into it, too, getting his arms wet up to the elbows. The layer of bubbles was thick and concealing, and Alfred relaxed instantly once the hot water supported him and he was modest again. He slumped against the porcelain in bliss, his eyes closing and his jaw hanging loosely open as he breathed loudly through his mouth—nose completely stuffed up.

Then a washrag began trailing over him with gentle firmness, causing Alfred's eyes to shoot open in surprise. Arthur sat on the rim of the tub, not staring at anything in particular, just calmly washing him. Alfred tensed up, not knowing what to do or say, but not wanting to be rude when Arthur was only trying to help. Deciding to pretend it wasn't happening, Alfred closed his eyes again and let Arthur do as he pleased, with nervous butterflies erupting inside wherever Arthur scrubbed.

It was innocent enough as the rag smoothed over his arms and sides, his neck and face—even his shoulders—but then Arthur's hand (and the flimsy barrier of the rag) dropped lower, straight down his stomach to casually massage his belly. Alfred was thanking every god he could remember that he was too sick to get an erection. Even though his skin burned and his muscles weakly clenched in response, his prick didn't embarrass him.

"Err…Arthur…I don't really need—" Alfred tried to weakly protest. Arthur smiled in a way that was strangely predatory and gently tapped him on the nose, as if in warning.

"What's the point of a bath if you don't get clean, Alfred? Now don't fuss," Arthur said. And the rag slipped lower, to his inner thigh. No longer able to even look at his roommate, Alfred stared at the ceiling, wondering how it was possible for the most embarrassing experience of his life to also be the most erotic.

'Don't get hard. Don't get hard. Don't get hard,' Alfred chanted in his head, as the rag moved lazily under the water. The back of Arthur's hand kept oh-so-casually brushing against him, and it was torturous. Alfred's brain was about to shut down completely. 'This is so freaking weird! What the hell is he doing? He's gotta stop or else I'm gonna—'

His own thoughts were interrupted by the movements of his traitorous body. Completely without his permission, his legs tightened around Arthur's hand and a needy moan escaped his lips. Panicking, Alfred hastily turned it into a cough. He lurched forward, fake-hacking, and tried to conceal his very obvious attempt to trap Arthur's hand against his cock.

Calmly, as if nothing was out of the ordinary at all, Arthur gave his back a gentle pat and rested the dangerous rag casually on the tub, as if he were merely waiting for Alfred to finish hacking before returning to his task.

"Alright there, Alfred?" Arthur asked, his voice deeper and huskier than normal. Alfred closed his eyes tightly, as if by doing so he could shut out his roommate's rather distracting accent. Since when had Arthur's voice sounded like something out of a porno?

'Stop thinking about porn!' Alfred's brain yelled, but it was no good. His only saving grace was that his body was too sick to respond as it usually would have, and so he was spared the mortification of getting a stiffy in response to his roommate's innocent washing.

And it had to be innocent, didn't it? After all, he'd hardly been able to get out of bed. It was natural for Arthur to assume he'd need assistance in the tub as well. Like a good friend, he was trying to downplay it and not tease him for needing help, but all Alfred could do was think dirty thoughts and pervert his roommate's intentions.

The rag was back again, with ruthless persistence. Alfred's eyes rolled up to the ceiling and he nervously bit his lip. He tried to keep his mind perfectly blank, not thinking of anything at all, especially not the path of the rag and the hand. For a long while, the rag rubbed gently up and down his back, innocently enough. Alfred even relaxed again, his eyes drifting shut. His whole body was so tired and shaky—it was hard to stay upright, even.

Slowly, Arthur rubbed down a swathe of his spine, and massaged in tight little circles over his tailbone. Refusing to remember that he likely had the flu, Alfred's cock reluctantly rose to the occasion. His cheeks were burning, the pressure on his brain was nearly unbearable, and his muscles protested the arousal by seizing up and giving out on him, so that he slipped weakly down into the bath.

"Easy there," Arthur said, carefully hiding a grin. He scooped Alfred upwards, essentially hugging him in the process. Now Alfred wanted to grab the hand holding the rag and drag it downwards, to his half-hearted erection, where its dedication to rubbing would actually do some good. Instead, he let his head fall forward into Arthur's hair, which he nuzzled against like a cat. Arthur explained away the strange motion just as Alfred had explained away the washing he'd received.

"Too weak to even keep your head up? We might need to skip the house and go straight to a hospital," Arthur said. He actually sounded serious—the husky, almost playful tone was gone, replaced by one of concern. Alfred mentally berated himself. Now, Arthur thought his horniness was proof of life-threatening illness. How to explain that he wasn't that sick, just inappropriately aroused? It was a hard thing to diagnose, after all—what with all his moaning, strange jerking movements, and general inability to control his body.

"I…I don't need…I'm fine, it's just…all the touching…" Alfred stuttered out, feeling like the ultimate idiot. Arthur would never look at him the same now. He was going to think he was a total freak, or a horn-dog. Alfred wasn't too fond of either option.

But there was no denying it. The bubbles were nearly gone now, and surely Arthur had noticed.

"Oh…well we don't need the hospital for that then, thank goodness," Arthur said crisply. Alfred's eyes bugged out in shock when, quite suddenly, (and for the first time ever) a hand other than his own was touching his cock. Well, technically it was a rag, but said rag was held by his roommate, who despite admittedly having a thing for him, was acting as though this was a totally casual incident.

"Guh," was all Alfred managed to choke out as Arthur calmly and confidently pumped him in the warm water. The smooth motion of his hand made little splashing noises that slipped into Alfred's ears and made him grow even harder. He lost the ability to think, his entire body flushed with color, and he arched his hips weakly once, then again, before he came. Arthur extracted his hand from the water with complete casualty—he wasn't even blushing, for God's sake!—and let the water drain.

"I'll get you a towel. Just a moment," Arthur said. Gradually, the ability to think returned to Alfred and he blinked stupidly, staring vacantly at the tile mosaic in front of him. His first coherent thought was, 'This can't be real. I'm dreaming.'

The realization he was dreaming made everything suddenly shift strangely, as if his body and his surroundings were merely playing cards, and some unseen hand had just shuffled them.

"Alfred?" Arthur was asking. He blinked—when had he closed his eyes?—and Arthur was peering at him with a light blush on his face.

"Arthur?" he asked dumbly. His roommate gave him a concerned look.

"You nodded off as I was washing your back. I…err…didn't realize you'd fallen asleep, but…" and then the reason for his nervous 'but' was apparent as it swirled incriminatingly down the drain. Alfred woozily cursed.

"I fell asleep?" he asked confusedly. "But it felt so real," he protested. Arthur, still blushing, bit at his lip and looked everywhere except at Alfred's face.

"I don't think I want to even ask what…err…felt real. Judging by what happened…I think I get the gist of it."

"I'm so sorry," Alfred moaned. The water was nearly all gone now, his wet dream (ironic that it was called that, as he'd been literally wet this time) became obvious for what it was—he'd nodded off seamlessly in the tub and while the real Arthur had innocently scrubbed his back, naughty dream Arthur had jerked him off.

Breaking the awkwardness by laughing at him, Arthur dropped a towel over Alfred's dripping head, and rubbed his hair gently.

"Even with the flu, you have such a one track mind, Alfred. Maybe your body just thinks every time you get in the tub now you're supposed to cum?" Arthur suggested with barely concealed mirth. Alfred's already vibrant blush darkened even more. He thought he'd been discrete! He hadn't made any noise!

Clearly sensing his confusion, Arthur clued him in. "You sing in the shower, Alfred. Horribly, I might add. When you're…err…you know…you don't sing."

"Just let me die here, please," Alfred croaked weakly. Arthur laughed, peeking at him under the towel. His green eyes were sparkling in amusement.

"I'm sorry. You're sick and I'm giving you a terrible time of it. I promise not to tease you anymore till you have your pants back on."

"Arrrthuurrr!" Alfred whined, so embarrassed by this point that anything the Brit said made him want to curl up in a deep, dark little hole. Arthur just laughed, and once again looped Alfred's arm over his shoulders.

"Come on, up with you…though a certain part of you should most certainly stay down, if you please…" Arthur said, grinning wickedly.

"You said you'd leave me alone 'till I had pants!" Alfred retorted hotly, not even realizing how ridiculous he sounded saying such a thing in a babyish, whining voice. Arthur just laughed.

"So I lied. I think I'm entitled to my teasing considering how you've been using our shared shower," Arthur retorted. Whatever Alfred might have tried replying was drowned out in a large string of hacking coughs. Despite the awkwardness, Arthur hauled him straight back to bed nude, and settled him under the warm blankets, taking the damp towel off his head and shoulders.

"Take another dose of medicine while I get you some clean clothes to wear," Arthur said.

Sinking into the cacoon of covers (and never wanting to re-emerge) Alfred listlessly reached for the medicine and emptied two tablets into his hand. He swallowed them dry.

Arthur returned to the bed with a clean pair of sweatpants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and some thick socks. Alfred didn't comment on the lack of boxers, and (to complete his humiliation) he was forced to let Arthur help him get dressed. His energy was completely gone, and he felt himself slipping off into the land of sleep once again, his cheeks still burning.

Alfred sat nearby, merely watching him, a wicked little grin on his face. While Alfred's unexpected wet dream might have caused his memory of events to become muddled, Arthur had a clear understanding of what had just happened. While he certainly hadn't stroked little Alfred, he had very deliberately washed Alfred's inner thighs and he knew, good and well, that Alfred had desperately wanted him to keep his hand right where it had been.

'You can claim you don't want me 'till you're blue in the face, Alfred F. Jones, but your body tells the truth you can't handle yet,' Arthur mused tauntingly. Delighted with his new game of torturously teasing his roommate in every way he could think of, Arthur used the rest of the time he had before Patrick arrived to scheme.

USUK

The hospital in Beijing was a blur. He barely understood Chinese on a good day, and he had no fucking clue what everyone was saying around him in his current state. His rational mind told him he was in shock, due to the fact that he couldn't actually feel the pain of the bullet wound on his thigh. It didn't feel like it had hit a bone, and they seemed to be containing the bleeding easily enough, so he hoped that meant it hadn't nicked an artery either. It had been his uncle that had brought him and Yao to the hospital—Yao had been whisked off one way and he'd been taken off in a totally different direction. He knew Zakhar was somewhere close by, but he was currently alone with the hospital staff. He'd been given a pain killer intravenously, and he assumed that was why he felt like he was floating.

Of course, there wasn't a translator for Russian available, but in about an hour a doctor came to his small room and spoke to him in English.

"Can you understand me?" he asked.

"Da…yes," Ivan replied, having trouble focusing on him. He estimated it had been an hour and a half since he'd been brought in. His wound had been cleaned and stitched, his leg bandaged, and all the while the good stuff pumped steadily through his veins. He noticed Zakhar enter his room, silent and stone-faced. This was how Ivan knew he was furious at the situation—the angrier his uncle was, the blanker his expression became. Ivan had seen him break a man's fingers one by one without so much as twitching his mouth.

Ivan wondered where his scarf was, and then he remembered he'd tied it around Yao's wound. The doctor was still speaking to him, though he seemed to be struggling to find the words.

"The bullet did not hit bone—soft tissue only. Understand?" he asked. Ivan's confused look must have stretched across the language barrier, because the doctor tried a different approach. "Crutches, two weeks. Then rehabilitation exercise. Antibiotics by mouth. You need to fill out paperwork when they come. Understand?"

This time, Ivan nodded. The doctor left, and his uncle approached his bed side.

"They will pay in blood," he said simply. Ivan closed his eyes wearily, not particularly caring at the moment. Due to his quick thinking, he and Yao had survived both the wreck and the gang member who had tracked them afterwards. He had killed for the first time. He felt like he should feel something, but he felt nothing at all—blank like a sheet of pristine, white paper. His uncle cupped his shoulder, and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Yao?" Ivan asked. Zakhar nodded.

"He is alive and well—a little shook up. I escorted him back home without any trouble. You killed for him…and for yourself. You are a man now," Zakhar said quietly. Ivan nodded, no longer able to resist the pull of the painkillers. He slipped quietly out of consciousness.

When he awoke again, several hours had passed. A pair of crutches had been brought to his room (adjusted to their maximum height, he noticed) and a nurse was removing his painkiller drip. Zakhar was still there, and now Yao's father was present as well. Though he had neither been friendly nor rude to Ivan, now he warmly shook his hand, eyes shining with gratitude.

"You have saved my son's life. I cannot thank you enough," he said emotionally. Ivan just nodded, a little disoriented by everything that was happening. The petite nurse and his uncle helped him to stand. He felt woozy, but his leg did not hurt as much as he anticipated. It felt numb, and only a throbbing pressure let him know that anything was different at all. He stood, but mostly his uncle lifted him, and he was lowered back down into a wheelchair. Yao's father held his crutches, and they took him out of the room.

"I'm being released?" Ivan asked in Russian.

"As best I can figure out. Your wound only hit soft tissue. You were very lucky, Ivan," his uncle said.

"And my shot?" Ivan asked. Zakhar flashed a chilling, bloodthirsty smile.

"Straight through the heart," Zakhar replied. The words sounded beautiful in Russian, and Ivan smiled a bit dreamily. It was good to know all his years of practice had not been in vain. When it had really counted, his aim had been true while his enemy's had not been—that was why he was going home, and his enemy was likely being stripped of his fingerprints and dumped somewhere, courtesy of the Russian mafia.

Zakhar signed some paperwork where Yao's father indicated, and they exited the hospital with little fuss. Outside, a slick black car was waiting for them. Once again, Zakhar easily lifted him into the backseat and the wheelchair was returned to the hospital. His new crutches went on the floorboards at his feet. Ivan stared at them with a sad little frown.

"Your leg will heal quickly. You will be healthy in no time," Zakhar promised. "I cannot say the same for those Triad corpses. They will fill the dumpsters."

Ivan sighed, knowing the act of aggression against not only Yao, but one of their own members would incite a feud that would not abate anytime soon. That was always how these things went. Someone was killed, or hurt, and revenge spurned more revenge, until nobody was left.

There was a saying Ivan had heard while learning English that he'd always liked—an eye for an eye makes everyone blind. He idly wondered how Yao would feel about what had happened, and what Alfred would say when he returned to school with a gunshot wound. Would his life be the same now that he had killed a man? He didn't feel any different, aside from the throbbing in his leg and the slight headache annoying him.

The car pulled away, and Ivan remembered the crash, the horrible crunch of metal, the sight of the driver crumpled against the airbag bleeding from the head. He curled forward and vomited onto the upholstery. Zakhar cursed in Russian and the car pulled over on Yao's father's insistence.

"Is he okay?" the businessman asked. Ivan held his head between his knees, smelling the metallic tang of blood on his bandages, and the bitter stink of his puke. Zakhar pulled him up, looking into his pale eyes. Ivan didn't know what he was checking for, but he seemed to be satisfied when he didn't find it.

"You are just carsick," he said in Russian. "Toughen up," he added as an afterthought, releasing him. So much for being a man. Nervously, Yao's father told the driver to continue on. They pulled back out into traffic and a towel was found somewhere and passed back. Zakhar tossed it carelessly on his mess, still eyeing Ivan cautiously. They made it to Yao's home without further incident. Completely ignoring the dirtied crutches, Zakhar lifted him out once again and carried him bridal style into the house, up the stairs, and into the guest bedroom. Yao had appeared instantly, hovering at Zakhar's side. Once Ivan had been placed on the bed, Yao crawled up beside him.

"Are you okay? You were shot. I thought you were going to die," Yao whispered. His English was shaky, and some words sounded more like Chinese, but Ivan got the gist of it. He gently cupped Yao's milky white jaw and sunk his fingers into the Asian boy's satiny hair. Aware of Zakhar's eyes on him, he gave Yao's cheek a gentle pat and let his hand fall away.

"I am fine, but sleep would be good. Get some rest, Yao," Ivan said. Yao nodded, but before he left, he pulled the covers up over Ivan's large frame and tucked him in carefully. Having no excuse to linger, Yao left reluctantly, all the while under the watchful eye of Zakhar, who seemed quite unwilling to let his nephew out of his sight.

Once Yao was gone, Ivan cracked his eyes open once more.

"Phone?" he asked in Russian. His uncle stepped forward instantly, fishing Ivan's phone out of his pocket and handing it over. With smooth familiarity, Ivan opened the device and composed a simple text message to Alfred.

Just got out of the hospital—gunshot wound. Yao is safe.

He hit send and then allowed himself to truly drift off again.

A/N: Kind of a boring chapter, I suppose, but necessary to tie up all the drama that began last chapter. So Ivan is okay, and Alfred is still horny as hell, and Francis and Matthew are back together? Maybe? Who freaking knows with those two. Yay for updates in the middle of the week, and thank you SO much to everyone who reviewed. You only have this chapter because I got a super awesome review that made me want to write immediately, lol. Oh, and I'm sorry for the dream scene. I hate when you're all into some smut and then it's like "Psych! That was a dream." Buuuuut…I figured Alfred is such a horndog that he'd totally have a wet dream about Arthur. :P