Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this strange, stilted story so far! Apologies for any spelling/grammar errors.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers.
Ivan gets out of bed, takes a shower, brushes his teeth and gets dressed as if functioning on autopilot. His emotions have been crashing about inside his head for so long that they have become worn down, muted, and all that is left is an indistinct blankness. He makes himself a cup of tea, carefully avoiding the coffee machine, and puts some bread into the toaster. The sounds of traffic and people filter in from outside, a constant, pressing reminder that he is immersed in society, that he cannot just crawl under the covers and bury himself away. That he has a part to play. The toast pops up, and he carries it over to the island counter without even a plate.
And there, sitting inoffensively on the chrome surface, is the case for Alfred's glasses. Ivan swallows his mouthful of dry toast. He's not really hungry, but he feels as though he should eat something. He can't take his eyes away from the case, abandoned so carelessly last night. Empty. Purposeless.
Ivan dumps the rest of the toast in the bin and leaves for work half an hour earlier than usual. The flat is heavy with Alfred's absence, his influence draped over every piece of love-worn furniture and drawer of ironed clothes, and Ivan can't stand it any longer.
"I think my boyfriend is going to leave me," he says at lunchtime. Toris stops picking at his napkin and stares at him. His eyes are an indistinct green-brown colour, not bright enough to be pretty.
"Oh," he murmurs, and there's nothing that Ivan can say to that. He shovels a mouthful of pasta into his mouth – unlike Toris he appreciates variety, although today he must admit that the spinach linguini tastes like cardboard – mostly to push down the lump in his throat. "Why?" Toris asks a few seconds later.
Ivan thinks about another pair of green eyes, a more intense, more attractive pair. "I think he is sleeping with someone else." That isn't right, though, not really. He wouldn't care if Alfred were sleeping with someone else. He thinks that Alfred is fucking someone else. However, he can't swear during a conversation with Toris. He'd probably have a heart attack.
"Oh gosh," Toris says, his eyes wide and creased at the edges. Ivan doesn't want to discuss his tripping, blundering, crippled relationship with his colleague, but (although it pains him to admit it) he doesn't have many other friends. He doubts that Toris will have any useful advice, but he had a strange notion that admitting his problems to someone else would be therapeutic. As it is, Ivan doesn't feel any different. "Are you sure?" Toris says.
"No," Ivan admits. They sit in silence for a couple of minutes. Toris sips at his weak tea, clutching at the paper cup with both hands.
"Well," Toris says slowly, "Maybe you should talk to him about it before you make any decisions. It might be some kind of misunderstanding…" Ivan nods shortly, because he knows that Toris is trying to help.
At that moment his phone rings, and he offers a silent thanks. Although he initiated the conversation, he is grateful of an opportunity to leave it. "Sorry," he mutters at Toris, who shrugs and returns to his tattered napkin.
Ivan presses the phone against his ear. "Hello?" There is a rustling sort of noise, and he wonders if he has been pocket-dialled. But then-
"Hello, Vanya!"
Ivan shifts in his seat, angling his body away from Toris. "Ah. Katyusha. How are you?" His sister's voice is bright, cheerful, but a little wearier than usual.
"I'm okay. Just tired. We went on a trip to the farm yesterday, and I'm still recovering." Katyusha is a primary school teacher, which she insists is a fun, exciting and rewarding career, and which Ivan still believes is a lot like hell. "Anyway, I am calling because Natalya and her new boyfriend are coming for dinner on Saturday, and I wondered if you and Alfred would like to join us."
You and Alfred. How can Ivan possibly say that he doesn't even know if there is a 'you and Alfred' any more? "Natalya has a new boyfriend?" he blurts out instead.
"Mm," Katyusha murmurs, "A medical student, apparently." Well, Ivan thinks, if she inflicts bodily harm on this one at least he'll be able to patch himself up afterwards. "You must come," Kat continues, "You are her elder brother. You must make sure he's not unsuitable."
"I think Natalya is the unsuitable one," he says, and she laughs. He can't remember the last time he made anyone laugh.
"Come and warn him, then," she says, "It has been too long since we've all been together." She's right, and yet the thought makes Ivan's heart sink. He can't avoid it. He shouldn't avoid it.
"Okay," he relents, "I will come." He thinks he's being subtle, but Katyusha immediately picks up on his slight alteration.
"And Alfred?" If Ivan were a cartoon character, he would wince. As it is, he swallows and moves his arm so that the phone is against his left ear.
"I am not sure." There's a pause. Ivan clears his throat. He feels as though Kat is dissecting that statement, seeing right through him, pitying him, and he hates it.
"Are things okay between you two?" Her voice is softer, kinder, and it makes him want to end the phone call immediately.
"Yes." It is so much easier to lie. "He is just busy with work. He may not be able to take the time off."
"Oh." Ivan seems to inspire this reaction in people. "That must be difficult." Ivan makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat, because he doesn't trust himself to speak. "The kids will be back from lunch in a minute," Kat tells him, "But I hope to see you – both of you – on Saturday. At seven."
"Yes, sister," Ivan says. Across the table, Toris crumples his napkin and shoves it into the pocket of his neatly pressed trousers.
"Ivan…" Katyusha sounds unsure, suddenly, "Take care of yourself." Ivan could laugh. He wants to tell her that he can take care of himself perfectly well, that it's Alfred he should have been taking care of, because if he had – well, they wouldn't be in this situation now.
"Yes," he promises. They say their goodbyes, and Kat ends the call. Ivan puts the phone back in his pocket. Toris blinks at him, clearly anticipating an explanation. "My sister," he says. Toris doesn't say anything. His mild, unwavering stare is beginning to make Ivan's skin crawl. The Russian man pushes his chair away from the table.
"I have to go," he says, although his next class doesn't start for almost an hour.
Toris nods. "I hope you work things out with Alfred." So much hope, Ivan thinks, and so little stability.
When he finishes his afternoon lecture – a gruelling analysis of Nekrasov's 'A Knight for an Hour' – there is a message on his mobile. When he sees that it's from Alfred his stomach ties itself into a complicated knot, and he opens it immediately.
What time will you get back? It says, We should talk. There are no kisses, no endearments, and he hasn't referred to their apartment as home, but still Ivan finds it encouraging. Alfred wants to see him, wants to converse with him, and that (he is almost certain) is an improvement on their current state, suspended in silence.
"Mr Braginski?" says an unfamiliar male voice, and Ivan's finger hovers over the reply button.
"What?" he snaps, more harshly than intended, and turns his head. One of his students is standing there, fidgeting. Ivan can't remember his name.
"I was just wondering if I could talk to you about the assignment," he says softly. Raivis, Ivan remembers abruptly; his name is Raivis. Raivis Gallant, or something like that. He's a quiet boy, almost subdued, and he's never spoken directly to Ivan before. Right now, though, Ivan wishes he would just go away.
"It's not a good time," he tells the boy. Raivis nods, and mumbles an apology, and Ivan feels guilty. He shouldn't neglect his work because of personal issues. Good teachers don't do that, and he wants to be a good teacher. "But if you're really concerned, you can come talk to me tomorrow."
"When?" Raivis asks at once, and then he flushes, as though his enthusiasm embarrasses him.
"Uh, lunchtime," Ivan tells him, but his eyes are already wandering back to his phone, to the unanswered message. "If you come here, I'll discuss it with you."
"Okay," says Raivis. Ivan gives him a blank smile and walks away a few steps, just enough to indicate that their conversation is over, and he doesn't think about Raivis Galante (for that is his name, as Ivan discovers later) for another twenty hours.
When he gets home Alfred is waiting for him. He's sitting in their good recliner, the one with the brown leather upper, wearing a clean T-shirt and jeans. His hair is still damp from his shower, and the heat has turned the skin of his neck pink. Ivan can't help but think that if he kissed him there it would warm his lips.
"Hi," Alfred says, but it sounds guarded and odd. Ivan shrugs off his coat, flings it over the arm of the sofa, and sits down.
"Hello," he says. They don't look at each other. Just sitting like this, in silence, is strange. Ivan wants to get up, to make a cup of coffee, to turn on the television, just to make things more normal. The atmosphere is unbearably tense. "Where did you stay last night?" he asks, unable to keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice.
"At a friend's house." Alfred is too calm. Ivan gets the impression that he has been sitting in that chair, planning this conversation, for a long time.
"A friend called Arthur?" He doesn't mean to say it, but his mouth seems to work independently of his brain. Alfred crosses one leg over the other.
"That's none of your business." His chin juts out a little. When they met, Alfred wasn't a proud man, but a lot of things have changed since then. "I've been doing some thinking," Alfred says, and it's then that Ivan knows, for definite, that he's going to break up with him. "I think we should be apart for a while."
I think we should be apart for a while. What a weak, vague, gutless statement. "Why?" Ivan demands. He knows that he's being difficult, but Alfred – Alfred is the only man he has ever loved, and he's not just going to let him slip away.
Alfred sighs. "You know why. We're too different." He won't meet his eyes. Ivan's never known him to be a coward before.
"I haven't changed," he says. That, finally, gets a reaction. The American exhales angrily through his nose.
"That's the problem," he snaps, "You just stay the same, no matter what happens. But I don't want to. I'm growing up. I'm bettering myself." Ivan liked him before he was better. When he was unpredictable, and fun, and carefree. "I need someone who can change with me."
Doesn't he know that Ivan would do anything for him? That if he just told him how, he would change any aspect of his life, to be with him? "I love you," he says. Alfred stares at him with a mixture of pity and anger.
"That's not my fault, is it?!" Oh but it is, Ivan thinks. It's entirely Alfred's fault. Alfred, with his bright eyes and easy laugh and long legs. Alfred, the irrepressible. He pushes himself out of the recliner and turns towards the television. "I've packed some of my stuff," he mutters, "I'm not going to pay the rent next month."
Ivan won't, either, because he can't afford to without Alfred. He'll have to find a new place. He'll have to move out. He'll have to live alone again.
"I'm sorry, Ivan," Alfred says, and walks away. Ivan sits there on the sofa, his hands clenched in his lap, feeling hollow and blank and shocked. How can a relationship, a love, be pulled apart with just a few sentences? How can the end be so sudden, when the beginning took so long? It doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem fair.
He sits there until he hears the door close, until Koshka starts whining to be fed, until the sky turns dark. Then he takes his phone out of his pocket and calls his sister, to tell her that Alfred won't be joining them for dinner.
It had to be done. Please review and let me know what you think, even if it's just a few words.