Thanks go to Limelavender, for giving this story it's first review, and to Cassius, for not berating me. This is where the real action begins! Apologies for spelling/grammar errors, and I should warn you that this chapter does contain some swearing, and an offensive word from someone who really should know better. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.
The only advantage to passing out on the sofa is that when Alfred stumbles through the lounge at some ungodly hour in the morning it wakes Ivan up, which means he gets more than a glimpse of his boyfriend before he dashes off to the competitive, high-powered, brilliant job that's making his partner miserable.
Alfred's already dressed, in one of the sharp grey suits that he bought as a congratulatory gift to himself when he got the post at Smith, Smith and Boston's. His tie is red, covered in a muted paisley pattern, and looks like silk. Ivan doesn't recognise it.
"Morning," he says, plonking himself down onto one of the bar stools and rubbing at his head, which feels as though a family of field mice have taken up residence inside and are doing extensive renovations. Alfred grins at him, but his eyes are already sliding away, towards the coffee machine and the toaster and the stack of files next to the fridge. Ivan wants to pour himself a glass of orange juice, but the mere thought of getting up makes him nauseous. Drinking an entire bottle of vodka on the day that you bought it does have certain repercussions.
"How did you sleep?" Ivan asks somewhat bitterly, thinking about their comfortable mattress and the awkward position that he passed out in, which left him with a painful crick in his neck. If Alfred had woken him up when he got back last night they could have gone to bed together, and cuddled or maybe done something stronger – actually, Al would probably have been too tired after working late, so perhaps not – and there wouldn't currently be a sharp pain shooting up Ivan's back.
"Fine," Alfred says. Either he didn't understand the passive aggression behind that question, or he's choosing to ignore it. Ivan would put money on it being the former, though. Alfred has always been terrible at reading the atmosphere, which was initially adorable but quickly became frustrating. Funny how things can change.
Al's hair is washed but not yet combed, and there's a piece sticking up at the front. Ivan wants to reach out and pat it down, but his boyfriend is standing too far away. "What time do we need to leave tonight?" he says, mostly just as a feeble attempt to get Alfred to look away from yesterday's issue of the Financial times, which he's scanning through as he gulps down his coffee. It doesn't work; Alfred replies without so much as a glance at him.
"It starts at seven, so we should leave at half five." The Himbleton Hotel, where the ceremony is being held, is only thirty minutes' drive away. Alfred likes everything to be perfect, though. Tardiness is not an endearing quality in an attorney.
Al finishes his coffee, dumps the cup in the sink, tosses the newspaper onto the counter and gathers the files into the crook of his elbow. With his free hand he reaches out to pick up his wire-rimmed glasses, but Ivan takes advantage of his lean, of their sudden proximity, to wrap an arm around his waist and kiss him. He's aiming for his cheek, but Al twists his head away and Ivan's mouth ends up pressed against his ear. Al makes a frustrated noise, pulls out of his boyfriend's grip, snatches up the glasses and says, "Your breath smells gross."
Ivan scowls at him. "Don't I even get a kiss in the morning?" He sounds like a petulant child, and Alfred apparently thinks so too, because he rolls his eyes. He used to be the immature one.
"I don't have time," he says, "I have an early meeting, and I need to revise the Fielding proposal before my boss gives it to someone else." Ivan has no idea what the Fielding proposal is, but it doesn't sound like something he can argue with. Alfred jams his glasses onto his nose and rushes away towards the bathroom, leaving Ivan alone to nurse his headache. It's an hour earlier than he usually wakes up – his first lecture isn't until ten. This is the perfect opportunity to get those papers marked. And yet… and yet, he doesn't. He can't. It's too much. He presses his fingers into his eye sockets, and exhales, and tells himself that (contrary to appearances) this is everything he ever wished for.
Less than five minutes later Ivan hears Alfred open and close their shoe cupboard, and there's a rustling sound, which is probably him sliding into his new trench coat. When a click indicates that the front door has been opened, Ivan realises that his boyfriend isn't going to come in and say goodbye to him.
"I love you," he calls out. His voice is strange, strained, as though he's said it too often for it to be believable.
"Yeah," Alfred replies, and then the door closes and he's gone.
Ivan doesn't mean to take it out on his students, but when a red-haired kid suggests that Nabokov's Pnin is actually a metaphor for animal abuse he shouts at him so fiercely that the boy actually whimpers. This incident does little to alter Ivan's reputation around the University for being completely, objectively, shit-in-your-pants terrifying.
It all stems from a huge misunderstanding on his first day as a lecturer, when he was overheard in the corridor during a call to his older sister. Katyusha had owned a scabby, unhealthy rabbit that eventually caught some kind of virus that made all its fur fall out and red boils appear on its face, and Ivan had been telling her that he thought it would have to be put to sleep. The rather overdramatic student who had been listening in, though, somehow got the impression that he was talking about a person, and that he was therefore a crazed, psychopathic murderer. It wasn't a great first impression.
The whole thing blew over, and they even joke about it in the staff room now, but Ivan still gets the impression that many of his students are kind of unnerved by him. It makes him wonder whether he's made the right career choice.
At lunchtime he goes to Bernard's café, as usual, and sits with Toris, the mild-mannered Geology professor whose anxiety problems keep him on an intense cocktail of prescription medication. Ivan orders a chicken salad sandwich and strong black coffee, the way he used to drink it before Alfred came along. Alfred, with his milk and cream and sixteen sugars. Toris has peppermint tea and an egg mayonnaise baguette, which he peers at suspiciously, as if at any moment it might sprout legs and scurry away.
"Do you have your tuxedo ready?" Toris says, and Ivan stares at him blankly for a moment before he realises that he must have told him about the awards ceremony.
"Yes," he replies shortly. He doesn't dislike Toris, but he's not in any kind of mood for meaningless chitchat.
"I wish I had the chance to go to something like that," Toris says, and sighs to himself, "My plans for tonight involve a tub of frozen yoghurt and the Holby City box set." He gives a hollow, humourless little laugh, "Just like every night, really." Ivan takes a bite of his sandwich, feeling discomfort creep through his chest. Toris' obvious, open loneliness unsettles him. If it weren't for Alfred, would he be like that?
"It's not so great, really," he says, because he feels like he has to, "There are a lot of long, tedious speeches." Toris nods as though he understands.
"Is Alfred likely to win anything?" Ivan wonders if Toris has a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or anyone of his own to share this with. He's never mentioned anything about his romantic life. He suspects it might be pretty much non-existent. Perhaps that's why he always seems so interested in Ivan's.
"No," he says, then feels guilty for it, because Alfred really is a terrific lawyer (he must be, with all the hours he puts in), "I don't think so, anyway. It is very prestigious." When they attended the ceremony last year there were hundreds of people there, and only a handful of them were actually given awards. Alfred wasn't even nominated for one, but he seemed quite cheerful about the whole thing. As they were leaving he stole a bottle of champagne and drank it all in the cab home, then crawled onto Ivan's lap and didn't let go of him until the next morning.
"Well, maybe he'll get lucky," Toris says, and Ivan can't help but think that he hasn't gotten lucky in over a fortnight. Maybe tonight will change that.
When Ivan gets out of the shower Alfred is already dressed, right down to his shiny new Italian leather shoes. The cut of his tuxedo highlights his strong jaw and the muscles in his arms, and Ivan's torn between never wanting him to take it off and a strong urge to rip it away immediately. His boyfriend's face, though, is sour.
"Hurry up," he snaps, "We're going to be late." It's not even five o'clock yet, so Ivan highly doubts that, but he moves towards the wardrobe a little faster anyway. As he tugs on a fresh pair of boxers and his shirt he can see Alfred fiddling with his cufflinks through the mirror on the wardrobe door. He looks nervous. When Ivan turns around to face him, though, his expression becomes carefully blank. "Remember to wear a belt," he says, and pushes himself to his feet. Ivan watches him leave the room, thinking that he has been wearing trousers for almost thirty years now, so he must be capable enough at it to not require any advice.
Ivan finishes dressing and combs his hair, then looks at his reflection for a while. His nose is too big, and his large hands and feet make him awkward, ungainly, but tonight he thinks that he looks good. He straightens his bow tie, checks that his socks don't have any holes in, and slips on the watch that Alfred bought him for Christmas two years ago. It has a leather strap and a gold rim, and although it makes his wrist itch Alfred is always pleased when he wears it.
He goes out to the lounge, trying to ignore the way Al's eyes slide up and down his form as though assessing him, and sits down in the armchair that he brought over from his parents house when they first moved in. It's the only piece of furniture that Ivan can confidently say is his.
There's something different about Alfred today, but it takes a few minutes for him to realise what it is. "Is that a new cologne?" he asks, although he already knows the answer.
"No," Alfred says, but his ears turn pink, a sure sign that he's lying. In this case Ivan would know even without that indicator; Alfred's usual cologne has a woody scent, like pine trees, but tonight he smells sharply of citrus. Ivan wrinkles his nose, but doesn't say anything. It's not worth an argument.
In the car Alfred flicks restlessly between radio stations, resting for a couple of minutes on a country song before switching to heavy metal and then to some rock classic that Ivan vaguely recognises. He sits silently in the passenger seat, watching commuters whiz past and telling himself that if Al wanted to share whatever it is that he's so anxious about, he would.
They enter the underground car park at five minutes past six, which Ivan still thinks is absurdly early. Al steers the Lexus into a space between a Rolls Royce and a Hummer, then turns off the engine and rests his forehead against the steering wheel for a couple of seconds. When he brings his head up his eyes look almost the same as they used to, when they first got together. Bright, expectant, enthusiastic. Then he says in a dry voice, "Don't fuck this up, okay?" and the illusion is shattered.
The Himbleton is an opulent place, an extravagant place, an expensive place, but not a particularly nice place. The man behind the desk seems to sneer at them when Alfred asks which room the ceremony is being held in, and Ivan wishes he hadn't chosen reindeer-patterned underwear. There are a few other people milling about who are probably lawyers, or lawyers plus ones, in tuxedos and ball gowns and jewellery. He needs the toilet.
Alfred goes off to the ballroom, and Ivan goes off for a piss. The restroom is large and gleaming and obnoxiously bright, and under the glaring neon lights he comes down with a sudden attack of nerves. It's almost five minutes before he can go.
Once finished, he follows a likely looking couple towards the ballroom, which is enormous and luxurious but makes him feel acutely uncomfortable. He'd be much happier back at the flat, or at the university, than surrounded by so much wealth. He spots Alfred at a table some twenty metres away, speaking animatedly to the blonde-haired man sitting next to him, and hurries over.
He pauses behind Alfred for several moments before either of them notice him. "Uh, hello," he says, and Al finally turns round.
"Oh. Ivan. You're back." It's not exactly the effusive greeting that Ivan was hoping for. "This is Arthur Kirkland, my boss. Arthur, this is Ivan." He should feel slighted at not being introduced as a boyfriend, or partner, but he's too distracted by the strange expression on Arthur Kirkland's face. It's somewhere between surprise and annoyance, which he thinks is an odd reaction towards a complete stranger. Perhaps the conversation that he interrupted was just extremely interesting.
"Nice to meet you," he says, and Arthur Kirkland murmurs, "Likewise." He has the most clipped, precise English accent Ivan has ever heard. He slips into the seat on Alfred's other side and looks up at the stage at the far end of the room, where there's a PowerPoint playing and a podium set up. He turns to ask Al which company is sponsoring this event, but his boyfriend is talking to Arthur again, and he doesn't feel like he can intrude.
Dinner is lobster, with risotto as a starter and something brown for dessert. It has a very long, complicated French name, but it looks and tastes like chocolate mousse. Ivan notices that Arthur Kirkland barely picks at his shellfish, and doesn't even try the pudding. Perhaps he's watching his figure, but Ivan suspects that he's just peculiarly fussy.
Alfred doesn't seem to mind, though, because he remains locked in furtive conversation with his boss right up until the lights begin to dim. Ivan attempts to join in a couple of times, but they're discussing concepts he's never heard of and people he's never met, so he just ends up embarrassing himself. Several more times during the evening he catches Arthur Kirkland giving him that odd look, as though he's astonished and irritated by his presence. Somehow, Ivan doesn't think that they're going to be good friends.
The awards themselves are presided over by a man with the most enormous moustache Ivan has ever seen, and are for the most part extremely dull. He keeps his eyes on the stage and his hands in his lap, trying not to fidget. He feels like a schoolboy sitting through a particularly tedious assembly. Just when he's beginning to think they will never end, that he'll be here forever, clapping until the skin of his palms wears away, there's a final exuberant round of applause and the lights go up again.
He turns to Alfred, and finds that his face is flushed and his lips are pressed into a thin line. Arthur Kirkland stands up almost immediately, muttering his goodbyes and making a speedy exit, and Ivan is left with a boyfriend who appears to be holding back a tirade of rage.
"What's the matter?" he asks. Alfred's clear blue eyes flick up to focus on his face, and narrow dangerously.
"What's the matter?" he hisses, "The matter is that I've worked my ass of over the past three years, and I wasn't even nominated for a single fucking award! God, do you even understand how other people's emotions work?"
Ivan knows that he doesn't mean it, that he's just disappointed and angry, but it still stings.
"You didn't care last year," he says. Alfred exhales shortly, and pushes himself out of his chair.
"Of course I cared last year," he snaps, "Why do you think we fucked so roughly that night? I was livid." Ivan never thought of it as rough. Passionate, certainly, but rough? With all the connotations that word brings?
"Don't take it out on me." He's beginning to get irritated himself now. Alfred moves off, pushing through the crowd to get to the doors, and Ivan hurries after him.
"Why shouldn't I take it out on you?" he says through gritted teeth once they're back in the foyer, "You don't exactly help."
"How am I supposed to help?" Ivan's too hot, and his throat's dry, and the stiff collar of his shirt scratches his neck every time he moves. And Alfred- Alfred is inexplicable.
"You have no idea how hard it is for me," he spits, and runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair, "I wouldn't see a single client if they knew that I was a-"
"A what?" Ivan growls, his eyebrows tugging together. It's never been like this before.
"A fag," Alfred snarls.
"Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt," a sharp English voice interrupts. If that were true, Ivan thinks, you wouldn't have done it. He turns his head to glare at Arthur Kirkland. When they were seated, he didn't realise how short he is.
"You're not, Arthur," Alfred sighs. He sounds so much softer, so much quieter – deflated, even. When he glances at Ivan, though, his eyes are still full of fire.
"I just wondered whether you'd care to join me for a drink. I know a rather lovely bar a few streets away." Say no, Ivan pleads. Say no, and we can go home, and sort this out, and have some wine, and go to bed together, and wake up in each other's arms. The way it should be.
"Yeah. Yeah, sure," Alfred says.
"Should I-" Ivan begins, because he has to try.
"Look, Ivan – I just need some alone time, okay?"
It's not okay. It's the opposite of okay, but there's nothing he can do about it. Alfred pats him on the shoulder, the way an old-fashioned father might comfort his son, and somehow it's a hundred times worse than simply leaving.
The next morning, Ivan wakes up with a warm body beside him. He smiles to himself, his eyes still unopened, and reaches over. When his fingers brush against fur, he yelps and scrambles out of bed, terrified. Koshka blinks at him from where she's curled up on top of the duvet.
The rest of the flat is empty.
I would really appreciate a review, especially because this is the first time I've posted this kind of a story. Let me know what you think. The next chapter should arrive fairly soon.