i am going to make it through this year;

[wingborne]

Summary: And the past.



Arthur cleared his throat dramatically, crossing his arms over his chest to try and hide the flush that was spreading rapidly across his face. Stupid Alfred and his stupid stupidity. He fumbled with the gift bag in his hands before hiding it behind his back when Alfred turned around on his swivel chair, chomping on his eternal hamburger.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“D-Don’t sound so disappointed already!” Arthur shuddered, trying to still himself.

Besides, he was the one who had been disappointed that he hadn’t been invited to Alfred’s Fourth of July celebration--Alfred’s own birthday, no less, and he had found the perfect gift two months ago and that night he hadn’t even gotten any sleep trying to figure out if he should go or not because he was uninvited and in the end he found himself with a bloody hangover and somehow in his room even though all his clothes were soaked from the rain and covered in mud from falling into a ditch.

“How . . . How was your birthday.” Arthur coughed again.

“Oh, it was really great! I had lots of fun! And almost everybody came, too. Man, we had the biggest cheeseburger in the world, and we played lots of games, and I got lots of free gifts.” Alfred held up his new cell phone. “Look what Kiku gave me! Isn’t it great? It comes equipped with lots of these applications and there’s even a McDonald’s one--”

“Why would there even be a McDonald’s application?” Arthur flushed and tried not to let the hurt show on his face. While he had been sitting alone in his cold, dark house, Alfred had been having tons of fun, and didn’t even miss him.

But then again, he thought bitterly, that was Alfred for you. He had the type of personality that made him irritating--but impossible to hate.

“A-anyway, that’s not what I came here for,” he said, wrapping his finger around the gift ribbon. “I just came to--drop something off for you. But I didn’t do it for your sake!”

“Then who did you do it for?”

“M-my own sake!” He began to rustle the gift bag to pull it out from behind his back.

“Ehh, what is it? One of those crummy snow globes or something? Or your really bad cooking?” Alfred pursed his lips in disgust. “I don’t think I really want it--”

Arthur flushed in defense of his scones, but his flesh had started to hurt from being pressed along the ropes of the bag. It was a cruel thing to say, and he knew that Alfred didn’t mean it--oh, maybe he did, but never in the cruelest way, which is what made it even crueler--and he couldn’t have known how much the gift had meant to him. But he still felt bitter and embarrassed over the entire trip, and he couldn’t help the sudden swelling that rose in the back of his throat.

“S-stupid Alfred!” he said, dropping the gift and hurriedly turning away, so he could try to clench his tears in. He made sure to slam the door behind him so the house would rattle, and then he used his sleeve to try and wipe his face before he went back outside.

His hand groped for the stairs as he scrubbed at his eyes, though his hand never quite reached its goal, and instead of the hardwood floor, his foot seemed to lunge into only air, and he opened his eyes just in time to see the stairs reaching out for him.

--

His head ached when he woke up, groggy and heavy. He tried to lift his hand, but there seemed to be miles stretching before him. But when he tried to lift his right arm, he winced sharply. Tingling sensations of pain raced down from his shoulders to the tip of his fingers. The room was otherwise dark, though judging by the bright artwork on the walls, this was still Alfred’s house.

There was a small figure shuffling by his side, but with a significantly familiar feeling, and he tried to turn his head to get a good look. But he let loose a small gasp, his hand flying up with surprising speed to prop his neck back into its former position. The sharp pain still resounded in his head as the figure leaned over to him.

“You’re awake,” the small boy said. No, he could almost place the voice--his head was groggy, but he managed to move his hand instinctively over the boy’s head, threading his rough fingers over the soft locks.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “What hap--” He stopped, and then drew back his hand sharply. Ignoring the pain in his neck, he tried to sit up again, propping himself against the pillows halfway. He had acted too familiar, for some reason--this was probably some child of Alfred’s boss, or something of the sort.

“I don’t know.”

“No?” He lowered his voice from years of practice. No need to scare the poor child. “That’s all right. Where’s Alfred?”

The child made a motion that he couldn’t quite catch, since he couldn’t turn his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to turn painfully. “Could you show me aga--ah!” He grabbed his neck, the sharp pain unendurable. But small hands found him.

“You should lie down,” the boy said, and the light caught his reflection and Arthur felt his jaw slacken considerably. The bright blue eyes, innocent and kind--the baby fat clinging onto his face--the soft skin--the unruly hair--

“Alfred?”

The boy looked at him softly. And then nodded, almost shyly.

No, this couldn’t be happening. “Alfred?” he called out to the empty house. He struggled to get up, despite the boy’s cries. He limped erratically towards the door. “Alfred! You bastard! This isn’t funny! Show yourself, right now!” He didn’t make it far before his legs nearly gave out beneath him, and he felt a sinking feeling, that the boy in front of him, in the overlarge shirt, could only have been--

“Alfred,” he whispered, staring down at the figure. He was so small, he thought dumbly, his hands already reaching for the boy. He knelt down, staring face-to-face with Alfred numbly. He noticed that Alfred was only wearing his dress shirt with the loose tie, and even the jacket barely hung across his small frame. He was already fixing the clothes the best he could before he yanked himself back, wincing at the tingling in his fingers.

“. . . Are you okay?” Alfred whispered.

“What? Oh, yes, fine,” he said absently, the throb of his shoulder already forgotten. He swallowed nervously. “Alfred, do you remember anything?”

Alfred shook his head.

“Just your name?”

Alfred nodded.

“Do you know who I am?”

Alfred hesitated. “You were in the bed,” he admitted shyly.

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed. And a guilty pleasure slowly rose within him, because if Alfred didn’t remember, then that meant nothing had happened yet, not the separation, not the isolation, not the fear, and he was still Arthur’s little boy. But he stuffed down his feelings quickly. This was not the time to drag himself through the closet of his past.

“I’m going to be someone who will take care of you,” he said. “I’m going to protect you, no matter what. So you don’t have to be afraid.” He took Alfred’s hands in his own, and saw how small they were against his palm.

You used to be so big.

No, Alfred, not at all. Alfred had merely been so small.

“. . . What should I call you?” Alfred asked.

He swallowed. “. . . England. England will be just fine.”

“Okay,” Alfred said complacently, “Engwand.” With his small fingers, he reached and patted Arthur’s face, smoothing down over his cheeks and looking at him with an almost frank curiosity.

Arthur allowed himself a moment of weakness as he suddenly gripped the little boy in his arms, feeling the smoothness of the cloth, smelling the old smell that had disappeared under the fragrance of hamburgers, but instead it was just the wilderness and trust and he loved him.

“You’re back,” he whispered, choked in sudden waterfalls of tears. “You’ve finally come back to me.”

--

“Mon cher,” Francis said, clucking his tongue impatiently, “You’ve gotten yourself in quite a state.”

“It wasn’t my fault that Alfred would go and--and change like that!”

“Yes, that is one thing,” Francis said. “But these wounds are something else entirely. Your shoulder--” And he prodded Arthur’s shoulder abruptly with the roll of bandages. Arthur winced.

“Look, never mind all that for now,” he said. “Are you sure America--the country--is doing fine right now?”

“No signs of regression at all,” Francis said. “In fact, advancing quite nicely.”

“Then the cause of all this--”

“Unknown.” Francis’s gaze drifted to the small Alfred who sat on the floor, toddling along with the blocks he had been given. Arthur sighed. “But it is good that I saw you on the street. Such a pathetic sight, twaddling with that sort of shoulder and wrist--”

“I’ll take care of Alfred for now,” he said gruffly, “until we figure out what’s going on.”

“What a terrible idea.” Francis cocked his eyebrow. “If it’s contagious, then you may very well be the next one Ah! Ah, wait, it will work out to my benefit! Seeing delicious--”

“Don‘t finish that sentence.” Arthur jumped off the couch, grabbing his jacket and wrapped it loosely around his shoulders. The room swam for a little bit, but he couldn’t stay long, not in this sort of house. “And it’ll be fine.”

“Or are you reliving the past?” Francis smirked when Arthur gave him a flushed, dirty look. “Ah, ah, so that is it? Mon cher, the past is the past.”

“We’re countries,” Arthur grunted. “And we decide what to do with our past.” He took his belt and clasped it shut, before reaching out to Alfred with his good hand.

“Wait, your wounds--”

“They’ll be fine,” he said angrily. He had already dragged up a white nightgown that had once belonged to Alfred long ago, and though it seemed old-fashioned, it still fit the small Alfred. He felt both comforted and bitter about that.

Before he left, he eyed the pile of toys, in case Francis had slipped an inappropriate toy in there, before tugging for Alfred to follow him out the door.

“I will drop by later,” Francis called from the door. “I, too, am curious about Alfred--”

“Oh, fuck off!” Arthur clutched the small hand a little tighter, and his pace equally picked up. He knew he was the one coming to Francis’s door, but he had been a fool. He couldn’t trust that bastard, anyway, he knew that.

“. . . Wait,” Alfred said, panting. “Engwand, I’m tired.”

“What? Oh.” Arthur suddenly felt ashamed. He’d been too busy with his inner dialogue to pay attention. He hesitated, looking around for a bench, or perhaps an ice cream shop where he could buy a sweet for Alfred.

“Is it cold?” The nightgown was rather threadbare, and though Alfred hadn’t said anything, his hand felt still as ice. He propped Alfred upwards under his hands, holding him under the armpits until he deposited him on the bench. He began to take off his jacket, flinching briefly at his aching shoulder.

“It’s not,” Alfred blurted. “Not that cold.” He blushed.

It really wasn’t like Alfred. If it was Alfred, he’d probably reject the jacket outright, saying it smelled or it was terrible or it was ugly. But little Alfred was different. He gently stroked Alfred’s cheek, almost unable to see what was in front of his own eyes.

“Just bear with it, love,” he said, draping his jacket around Alfred’s small shoulders before swooping up the entire small body in his arms. The weight was heavy, but it was a good weight, steady, real. He took a deep inhale of Alfred’s dewy scent.

“Why does Engwand take care of me?” Alfred asked quietly, his small fists already gripping handfuls of shirt on the back. Arthur absently rubbed the small of Alfred’s back. He still hadn’t lost those parenting skills, from so many years ago--

“Because I love you,” he said.

“But you don’t know me,” Alfred said, confused. “I don’t know you.”

He considered explaining it for a moment. To explain his past--his future--his present state--in words that even a child could understand. No, words that only a child would understand. Would Alfred forgive him for his love? Would he condemn him for his affection?

“I love you,” he repeated into Alfred’s ear. “I will always, always love you.”

--

“This is where you’ll be living for a little while.” He opened the door to his house nervously. There was a certain antiquity and distinction to the solemn walls, but they could be frightening to a poor child. How could he have possibly missed the ornate, sharp furniture? Dangerous, this house was altogether too dangerous, for all its expensive cost.

“Is that all right?” he asked Alfred, who had timidly slipped behind his legs, sucking his knuckles as he peered around the house.

“Sit on the couch,” he urged, “Make yourself comfortable. Do you, er, want anything?” He lacked the sugary sweets that children liked. His own tastes were too bitter for the small Alfred, though.

“I’m fine,” Alfred said.

“R-really? Maybe a cup of--” He stopped himself in time. “Water,” he said firmly, and moved to his kitchen, all while keeping a close eye on Alfred.

“So how do you like it?” he asked nervously.

“It’s a very big house,” Alfred said solemnly.

“I-isn’t it?” He splashed water over himself as his shoulder gave a slight twinge. No, that was wrong. His hand was already shaking with excitement, and the glass clanked against the table a few times before he managed to balance it in front of Alfred.

“Do… Do you need anything? I’m afraid I don’t have many toys for children,” he said, “Except old ones, but you wouldn’t be interested in those. Just carved out of wood.” He sat next to Alfred, watching him sip the water gingerly. He could still remember carving the toys on the boat ride to the colonies, persevering through the stench.

Alfred said he had tossed his away, later, because termites had gotten into them. But Arthur had always kept a few unfinished ones, though he doubted he would ever sit down to complete them. He had gotten cuts all over his hands, but it had been worth it, worth every drop of blood shed.

Little wooden soldiers all painted in red and blue.

“Are you all right?” Alfred asked quietly. “You look sad.”

Arthur started to attention. “Oh! Oh, yes. Uh, wait here.” He rustled through his drawers, tossing away important papers on his desk as if they were trash. He was pleased when he finally found a few colorful pens and blank sheets of paper, spreading them out on the table.

“Here,” he said, “I’ll be a bit busy tidying up the house. Why don’t you draw for now?”

Alfred accepted the pens quietly and set to work. Arthur found himself ducking in too often to watch the content form as he busily taped down the sharp corners, throwing open the guest room and spreading out the pillows and the sheets, and running to the attic for some old clothes of Alfred’s, that he had never thrown out.

When he returned to the room, Alfred had finished with a few sheets, busy doodling on another.

“I’m done,” he said nervously. “But you should still be careful.” Curiously, he peered over Alfred’s shoulder for the paintings.

“I drew,” Alfred said, with a shy tinge of pride in his voice. Arthur viewed him proudly. Oh, he was much cuter than the modern Alfred who would shout and crow for even drawing a line.

“May I see?”

Alfred held up a few for him.

“That’s a bird,” Alfred said, pointing to a blob of blue pen amassed into a gritty web. “And that’s a tree.” The tree in particular looked gloomy and gnarly under the furious swipes of a black pen, looking more like a hand raising from a wobbly line.

“They’re beautiful,” Arthur said honestly. “I’ll hang them on the refrigerator.”

Alfred beamed. Then he shyly extracted the final one, which, surprisingly, did not result from the scribbles of sharp pen. The lines this time seemed more cleanly pressed, though Arthur still couldn’t not figure out what it was.

“And what’s this?” he asked kindly, leaning close,

“That’s you,” Alfred said, “and that’s me.” He fiddled around for a moment with the nightgown. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Arthur breathed, finding that he had lost his voice suddenly. Raising his good hand, he touched the picture with a trembling hand. Then he caught himself in time. “Brilliant,” he said. “It’s brilliant.”

Alfred beamed up innocently at him.

--

“A child! A child!” the fairies chanted from the window, glittering and shimmering in and out of sight. Arthur made a disgruntled sound, one eye always kept on Alfred, though the magic circle drawn in salt should keep him safe. Some fairies could be dangerous, and steal the little ones. But that wouldn’t happen to Alfred. He wouldn’t let it.

“That used to be the adult,” he said. “The one who couldn’t see you. Smelled like hamburgers. Did any of you have a hand in this?”

The fairies formed a circle, murmuring in a low voice, before separating again, glowing green against the hardwood wall.

“Is magic,” one fairy said. “’twis nothing more, twixt nothing less.”

“Not alien technology?” He cleared his throat.

“Is magic,” the fairies insisted loudly. “But not fairy magic.”

“I see.” He turned away. “Then that will be all for today.” He felt them disappear behind him, and approached Alfred in his salt circle. He sat on the floor, cross-legged, watching Alfred tug at the nearest stuffed toy.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Er--” He flushed and fidgeted uncomfortably with a bright yellow elephant, coughing into his hand to hide his sheepishness. “Oh, you know. M-Myself.”

Alfred looked at him with intelligent eyes. “You were talking to someone,” he repeated stubbornly.

“Well,” he said hastily, “I’m getting on my age, and these things happen.” Even his cheeks felt hot, s if he could roast marshmallows over them.

“Tell me, Engwand,” Alfred said, placing his hands on his knees solemnly.

“No!” His outburst was too loud and Alfred reeled back, eyes widening. Arthur instinctively reached out, clutching his wrists tightly.

“No,” he repeated softer. Shaking slightly, Alfred allowed himself to be pulled in. Oh, how could he have ever forgotten the small size, the heavy weight, the softness of his hair. Arthur allowed himself a deep breath, hands adjusted well on his hips.

“They’re fairies,” he said into Alfred’s ear. “I--I can see fairies. And they’re real! They’re really real!”

“I believe you,” Alfred said simply.

“And they exist! And I see them--what?” He coughed slightly. “Err, excuse me?”

“I wish I could see them too.” Alfred rested his head against Arthur’s chest tiredly. He yawned, already ready for his afternoon nap.

“You… You believe me.” Arthur ran his fingers through his own hair. “And you’re not making fun of me. You’re… You’re finally acknowledging me! Ahahahaha! Ahahahahahaha!” Glowing triumphantly, he began to tickle little Alfred’s sides.

Alfred wiggled and gasped with his choking laughter, squirming in his arms.

“Stay like this forever,” he begged into Alfred’s hair. “Be mine forever.”

--

Alfred looked doubtful at their dinner, but it had passed quietly enough. Arthur beamed and fidgeted as Alfred ate the blackened food and said it was good. Fortunately, he had enough for seconds, though he barely touched his own plate.

He cleared the table and watched as Alfred sleepily rubbed his eyes on the threadbare green couch.

“Tired?” he asked, reaching for another plate. The twinge on his arm only seemed to worsen, but blast it, he refused to go back to that perverted Francis and allow Alfred to be near him--

A sharp pain suddenly ran down from his neck to his fingers, and he dropped the plate in the kitchen. It clattered and broke into pieces, some nearly cutting into his sandals. Cursing, he quickly dropped down to his knees and began to pick up the larger pieces, a slow process for one hand.

“Stay back,” he ordered Alfred, who worriedly loomed nearby. He swept the remaining pieces into the trash, and then sighed, putting the back of his hand to his forehead.

“It’s all right now,” he assured Alfred, who looked terrified. He pitched his voice lower, remembering those years where he had to take care of Alfred before--so long ago. “See? All cleaned up.”

Alfred, with a shaking finger, pointed to the blood that had poured down from Arthur’s hand. He hadn’t even noticed until then, and then swore before he rushed to the kitchen sink, turning on the faucet and wincing as the cold water splashed his face.

“I-It’s all right now!” he said loudly, before laughing nervously. “Isn’t--Isn’t it?”

Alfred was too short to see above the counter, but there was a slightly frustrated look on his face edging over his concern. “I want to help,” he said.

“Well, you’re a little too short for now,” Arthur said, drying his hand. “But thank you for the thought, my boy.”

“I want to grow taller,” Alfred blurted. “Then I can help you.”

Arthur watched as the room swam over him again. “. . . No,” he said. When his little Alfred grew up, it wasn’t him that he would be helping. But he coughed to cover his sudden spurt of sorrow, and smiled down at Alfred., who was looking at him in confusion

“Now, let’s get you situated. You must tired. Ah, bath--”

“I don’t want to take a bath,” Alfred said stubbornly.

“You must,” Arthur said firmly, escorting the boy to the bathroom. He picked a suitable nightgown and began to fill up the lion-footed tub, even as Alfred squirmed in his lap. His arm had started to feel better, enough so that he could swing his finger in the water, testing the heat. When he deemed it suitable enough, he tucked the fussy Alfred into his lap and began to efficiently undress him.

“Hold still,” he scolded.

“I don’t want to,” Alfred pouted, fighting him. “I’m clean enough!”

“Not by far,” he said, “Look at this dirt behind your ears. It’s horrendous!” He finished removing Alfred’s clothes, and then firmly supported the squirming boy into the tub. Alfred splashed around a bit, but like Arthur had always remembered, obediently blew bubbles in the water, quickly forgetting his own arguments against the bath.

“Look at this dirt,” Arthur said, “it’s like you’ve been crawling around on the ground.”

“This is like an ocean,” Alfred said, not paying attention to his scolding. He splashed around the hot water, and some got onto Arthur’s uniform. But he only sighed and reached for the shampoo. At least it was better than the old days, when all he had was a tin pan of cold water and a fussing boy.

“Indeed,” he said. “A small one. But you can be a great sailor, if you’d like.”

“Can… Can I have a boat?” Alfred suggested shyly, hands making ripples in the deep water.

“Close your eyes now.” With that, he began to scrub the shampoo into Alfred’s hair. “And if you’d like. I have many ships, you know.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He ran the water over Alfred’s hair, careful not to allow the suds to get into his eyes, though Alfred made small sounds of disapproval. “I control the seas.”

“Are they big?”

“Very big. But if you have ships, the ocean is your pond.” He paused, hands still thick in Alfred’s clean hair. “Though dangerous,” he concluded, “still dangerous.”

“Will you take me to see other places?”

“If you’d like.” Arthur began to scrub vigorously behind Alfred’s ears. “I’d give you everything if you wanted it.”

“That’s a lot.” Alfred seemed mildly impressed as he splashed more water out of the tub.

“All for you.” He lifted the boy from the tub and wrapped in the warm fuzzy towels, drying him thoroughly with small tsking sounds as Alfred wiggled around. When he was done, he expertly equipped the new nightgown on Alfred, before turning to drain the tub.

“Time to brush your teeth.”

“I don’t want to,” Alfred said.

“Now, now.” But for all of Alfred’s half-hearted complaints, he was surprisingly obedient as Arthur opened his mouth and gently brushed his teeth. He wondered if the new obedience came from the shocking new environment. It was only understandable. After he had finished washing Alfred’s face, he lead him to his new guest room, which was quiet and cold, even after he turned on the lights. In fact, the lights cast a septic, clean glow over the bare room.

“This is where you’ll sleep for tonight,” he said. “Here, up you go. Feeling tired yet?”

Alfred, squirming and barely containing a yawn, shook his head vigorously. Then, hesitating, he shyly offered, “Story?”

“A champion idea. I still kept a few old storybooks around--” His hand paused over the bookshelf. It seemed half his house was dedicated to preserve those olden days. He never managed to hide these sorts of things from older Alfred, though Alfred had always seemed miffed and unhappy about it.

Were their time together so putrid to Alfred?

“How about this one?” He pulled down a thick book, wrapped in a threadbare red cover, before settling down next to Alfred, who eagerly drew closer to see the pictures. The familiar warmth in his side quickly spread to his heart, but he managed his flush well, and began the story gruffly.

By the time he had finished, Alfred was sound asleep in the bed, and Arthur only had to tuck the sheets up to Alfred’s neck, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, planted a chaste kiss on his forehead. He could remember the days when Alfred had demanded at least three books to satisfy him. But it had been quite a tiring day--and their relationship wasn’t nearly so intimate now.

He clicked off the lights and shut the door after him, happening to catch a glimpse of his mirror for the first time. A large bruise spread over his face, and when he lifted his good hand to touch it gingerly, the cut on his hand only seemed to have swelled in the last few hours. He treated the wound with antiseptic in the bathroom, before collapsing on his own bed, and falling asleep before his head hit the pillow.

--

He had an anxiety-filled dream, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure. The memories misted together. There was the stark memory of little Alfred back in the colonial days, but then his dream drifted over to even mistier parts, and he could see older Alfred’s defiant face, but saw something startle him, and finally he turned away, seeming to give in. Arthur wanted to say something, but he had lost his words. But just when he nearly found him, he was jerked awake by someone squirming into the bed beside him, heavy and tilting the bed towards the other side.

Arthur rolled over only to catch sight of Alfred’s frightened and guilty face as he wrapped himself in the blanket.

“I… I had a nightmare,” Alfred said in a small voice. “Can I sleep here tonight?”

Sleepily, he passed his hand over Alfred’s hair. “Of course.” The red numbers on his clock read out some obscene time of night, so he merely yawned and settled towards the kind sleep, one arm curled comfortably around Alfred’s shoulders.

“What was the nightmare about?” he murmured. The storybook hadn’t contained anything particularly malicious. If he recalled correctly, it was about fuzzy bunnies hopping through a forest.

“You,” Alfred said.

“Ahahahahahahaha!” Even his desperate laugh sounded weak to him.

“Are you crying?” Alfred peered upwards.

“Of course I’m not crying! Why would I cry!” He used his sleeve to try and wipe away his tears before Alfred saw. He hadn’t realized--the poor boy must be terrified of him--or was it innate in Alfred--

“I had a nightmare that you didn’t like me anymore.” Alfred curled up closer to him, strong small hands firmly planted on Arthur’s arm. “Do you like me?”

“Oh,” he said, stunned. Then, fighting a triumphant yell, he allowed the quieter sentiment to seep through, though his face glowed red in embarrassment. “I love you, my boy. I will always love you. I said that, didn’t I?”

Alfred nodded, a motion that he could only feel in the dark. “Say it again,” he insisted, in a small voice.

“I love you.” Though Alfred seemed to have quieted down, Arthur began to hum a song he had always used to sing to Alfred when he was even still younger, a baby who couldn’t stop crying. It had always worked like a charm, and it worked now, as Alfred’s breathing leveled out and grew steadier and slower. With another gentle pat to his head, Arthur settled down to sleep as well.

--

It must have been mid-early morning when he woke up again, for the room was still and dark and damp. He was trembling, he noticed, though his head couldn’t clear identify why. In fact, his head seemed stuffy and clogged up, and his tongue heavy in his mouth. He found it almost difficult to breathe, and it was so hot--he was sweating, he thought numbly.

Doing his best not to wake Alfred, he swung his legs over the bed and stumbled to his dresser. Perhaps he had some medicine, and he tried to quietly rummage through the drawer. He briefly glanced up to the mirror, but his gaze stayed there, even when his hand had enclosed around a small white bottle.

He barely looked like himself anymore, covered in an unhealthy sheen of sweat, his skin as pale as a sheet. The bruise on his temple seemed to have gotten worse, decorated in deep colors of purple and green. When he looked down to his wrist, he found it had nearly swollen up as well, painful under any pressure.

“Engwand?” Alfred sleepily sat up, rubbing his eyes.

“Go--” His lips were dry. “Go back to sleep,” he whispered hoarsely. “There’s nothing to worry about.” He had suffered through worse, and these symptoms seemed relatively easy in comparison. But he had never seen his wounds get worse in such a state when his own country was doing well enough--and he could feel that it was.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” He had intended to call in to the office to inform them he was not coming--a mistake he had made with little Alfred was not spending enough time with him, never enough time--but now it seemed he had even more authentic reason. He reached for his cell phone in the corner before stumbling and colliding loudly with the dresser.

“Engwand!”

“No,” he barked, “Stay back.” But his vision swam over him and he found his own carpet was rather comfortable for a short, quick nap.

--

He woke up in his own bed again, though this time with bandages tightly and neatly wrapped around his wrist and hand and shoulder and, when he felt upwards, head. Though he felt far from better, he tried to get up from the bed before having to put a hand on his bedpost to steady himself.

He heard voices from the kitchen, and he pulled himself forward, slowly but surely. Where was Alfred? He wasn’t so sentimental to think Alfred would sit beside him anymore, but a little boy, alone in his house, seemed dangerous. He hoped the boy had kept safe.

The kitchen swam with smells of delicious food, and he was stunned to see Francis with Alfred, putting out the plates on his table.

“So you’re awake,” Francis said, with an arrogant smirk. “It is a good thing that I decided to drop by. You left the poor boy in such a flurry!”

Alfred blushed. “Are you okay?” he added, in a small voice.

“I feel much better,” he lied, then impatiently turned towards Francis. “How’d you get in my house?”

“He let me in, of course. I wouldn’t want to set foot in your dirty room in particular--oh, but to see the sight of your fallen figure, was delicious.” Francis smirked.

“I see.” He sat down on a chair gingerly, combing through his hair with his fingers.

“You were in a terrible state,” Francis said with a certain glee, but his voice lowered as he approached him with a plate of food. “And I think Alfred had a hand in this.”

“What?” Arthur was indignant. “Alfred’s just a boy--”

“Then how do you explain your pathetic state, mon cher?” Francis looked impatient. “Your sorry wounds were treated and you were sent home--but come back even worse than before. It must be connected--”

“I don’t have time for this.” He pulled himself upward on his chair, noting that Alfred did not seem to be paying attention to them anymore, gulping down his food like he was drowning.

“I’ll go and change,” he said. “No--maybe take a nap. Don’t do anything and watch Alfred.” He eyed Francis once more before turning out of the room, nearly stumbling into another dresser. Though he felt exhausted, he had more important matters to go through. Slamming the door behind him, he opened his closet abruptly and found his uniform. Dressing was a messy affair, but he was finished, he looked almost normal.

When he investigated closely in the mirror, he could still see that he was too pale and breathing a little too heavily for such a minor task.

He pulled out his cell phone and delivered the curt message to the Prime Minister before pushing the phone to the back of his dresser. Though he disliked to admit it, Francis had made a point--and a fairly shrewd one, at that. If his health really was connected to Alfred’s state, then they would be one step forward in solving the mystery.

With one hand on the doorknob, he had to consider deeply for a moment, at that inching dark feeling in his heart, that stated that he didn’t want the mystery solved.

Shaking his head gruffly, he opened his door and strode into the hallway, fixing his tie, before he entered the living room.

Francis was sitting on the couch, making small eager sounds, as he undressed Alfred, who peered up at him with curious eyes.

“What--” He could barely choke out the words before he sprang forward, lifted Francis from the couch, and smashed his fist into Francis’s jaw. He had forgotten about his wounds, and a firework of pain shot up his arm, but he ignored it in favor of tossing Francis some distance away, watching a table collapse under the sudden projectile.

“What are you doing?!” he snapped, and quickly pulled together Alfred’s outfit. “Are you hurt?” he asked urgently. “Did he touch you?”

Alfred looked slightly scared, shaking his head slightly. Swallowing his queasiness, Arthur pushed his hand into Alfred’s, and pulled him forward.

“I thought you were better than this,” Arthur hissed. He felt indignation and hurt and anger swelling in him, and he couldn’t look Francis directly in the eye. As if to pour salt over his wounds, Francis merely looked put-off, and glanced away.

“It’s not like you think--”

Arthur found his foot next to Francis’s head before he even knew what he was doing. Hand trembling with anger, he leaned forward to grip Francis’s shirt collar, allowing the blood to trickle down into the shirt. His fist had caught him at a good angle, and his nose seemed to be slightly ajar, blood running down his lips and chin.

“If I ever see you do that again,” he said hoarsely, “I will kill you. Because this isn‘t--isn‘t just anybody. This is Alfred, and I‘m not letting you do anything to him.” And he meant it, with every raw nerve of intention in him, and he knew his face must have been screwed up to something grotesque and raw and angry, for even Francis looked away. He shoved him backwards and stood up, wiping the sweat from his forehead. With his good hand, he gripped Alfred’s hand and shoved open the door, leaving his own house in tatters and barely standing from the bang of his exit.

“Are you all right?” he asked Alfred anxiously, picking up the heavy weight despite the signs of his arm. “How… How are you feeling?”

Alfred clutched at the back, clenching handful of shirts. “Thank you,” he mumbled.

“You can’t trust strangers,” he said gruffly, to hide his own thumping heart. “Do you hear me? Don’t trust them at all. It was--It was my fault, for leaving you alone--” His head was mixed up as he loaded himself into his car, fumbling it was the ignition.

“Shouldn’t--won’t do that--again--where’s the blasted key!” He flipped out his pocket until the keys landed on the floor of his car. Cursing, he reached for the keys, but found a small hand on the keys.

“It’s going to be okay,” Alfred said quietly, and there was real concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

He let out a horse laugh, putting his forehead to the steering wheel. Finally, he tilted his head, watching Alfred looking at him. He extended a hand and gently patted his head.

“Yes,” he said. “Everything will be all right.”

--

He found himself in Alfred’s house, because he hadn’t known what to do next. Like always, the key was underneath the rug, and the large house, not nearly as ornate, with a gaudiness that made Arthur wrinkle his nose.

“Do you know where the bandages are?” he asked the boy, but he only shook his head and continued to gaze at the paintings with a languid fascination.

“Does he even keep them around? Heroes need to keep bandages for their poor victims--” He opened a half-obscure drawer, blocked by a chair. He was pleased to find the bandages, but his hand brushed against a small statue. Curious, he picked up the figure and held it to the light.

His face flushed with delight when he saw that it was a unicorn, delicately created with fine details in its mane and tail. As he ran his finger down the smoothness and beauty of the whiteness, and touching the sharp horn delicately, feeling the every wave of the grass, he couldn’t help but feel pleased, and a growing attachment to the figurine.

“What’s that?”

“A unicorn,” he said, bending down to gently place the statue on the table, glowing brightly. “It looks remarkably like one I used to know--the color and everything! Though the shape of its face is slightly off--oh, but it’s beautiful.” He hummed to himself as he turned the figurine around and around, touching it lightly on all sides.

“You like it?”

“I love it,” he said. “Look at this craftsmanship. And the colors are exactly right! Amazing, this is absolutely--amazing.” He checked the bottom of the figurine, but no more information was engraved on the bottom.

“Perhaps Yao made it for Alfred,” he mused. “Another birthday present unwanted?” He turned the figurine reluctantly over in his hands again, before placing it back on the shelf. Though the figurine was beautiful enough to steal, he still had his pride.

“This is your house,” he explained to Alfred.

“Have I always lived here?”

“You’ve spent a lot of time here.” He picked at an aging picture on the shelf, featuring Alfred giving a thumbs-up at the camera with his arm loosely wrapped around Toris. He ran his finger down the length of the frame, and placed it back where it belonged.

“Was the unicorn one of my birthday presents?” Alfred asked.

“I would think so,” he said. “Do you like it, too?”

Alfred thought for a moment, rolling languidly on the balls of his feet.

“It’s okay,” he said, “but I think you like it more, so you can have it.”

He chuckled, lifting the boy from the floor and nestling him in the crook of his arm. “Really?” he asked, rubbing Alfred’s cheek. “What a kind boy.”

“Are you hurt because of me?”

“What? No, of course not. In fact,” he added quickly, “I’m happy to have you with me. It relieves the pain.”

Alfred looked unconvinced, but did not press the issue. He explored the house quietly as Arthur followed, watching from some distance away. It was charming to see the toddler wander around the house, though their time was quickly cut short when there was a clang of the doorbell.

“Stay here,” he told Alfred, who had found the television in one of the rooms and watched with absurd fascination. He trotted towards the door, peering through the keyhole, only to see that nobody was waiting in front of the door. Curious, he opened the door and peeked outside, but there was still no one.

“Kids these days,” he muttered darkly, shutting the door and locking it angrily. “Doorbell dashers--or whatever they’re calling them--”

“Little comrade should not call grown countries as children,” said a blissful voice behind him. He spun around, only to see Ivan standing on the carpet, the same blank smile on his face. Alfred was nearby, looking up at him almost curiously.

“H-How did you get in here?”

“America does not keep keys in creative places.” Ivan patted Alfred’s head. “Thinking is not strong point for little comrade.”

“Don’t touch him.” Arthur wearily leaned against the wall, crossing his arms defensively. “What do you want, Ivan?”

“Word travels fast among countries. Heard of little America’s state. Only wished to help.” There was always something about Ivan that was frightening. There was an emptiness behind his actions, a childish reasoning resulting in bloody results. Arthur made himself stand still in Ivan’s presence, though all his instincts screamed to grab Alfred and run away.

“Well, you can clearly see we don’t need help. Thanks for dropping by, next time just send a card.” He opened the door expectantly.

“Is good time,” said Ivan. “Is good time for little comrade to finally become one.”

“What?” Arthur leaned forward. “He’s a little kid. Don’t you dare--”

“Little? Is little boy. But has hundred of years of country. Still America.” Ivan suddenly smiled, as if a pleasant thought had suddenly occurred to him. “But not for long, not called America for long.”

“He’s not becoming one with you!”

“Am not the only one who wants to take advantage of situation. Little America is still America.” Ivan’s hand curled against Alfred’s back, and Arthur suddenly realized he had made a strategic mistake. Ivan clearly had control over Alfred, while he was still standing like an idiot against an open door.

“Give him back,” he warned.

“He will become one with me,” Ivan said mirthfully.

“No, he won’t. Not him.” Arthur stretched out his hand for Alfred to take, but when the boy toddled a few steps over, Ivan’s water pipe snatched at the boy’s collar.

“Or does good older brother wish to become one instead?” Arthur started at the suggestion, and grimaced. It was difficult to tell when Ivan was joking, or if he had weapons to back up his intentions.

He hesitated a little too long before he answered in a voice that was too level to be natural. “Give Alfred back.”

“What will you give me in return?” Ivan chuckled, his voice rumbling. He leaned forward and touched Arthur’s chin with his gloved hand. “That is the right question. And when you took little America under care again, then you surely knew the consequences.”

“I’m not going to trade with you,” he said in a strained tone, trying to appear dignified. “Not in Alfred’s own house. Give him back, now.”

“Is not joke.” Ivan was close to his ear now, voice dropping to little more than a whisper. Every hot breath tickled the pinkness of his ear, but he kept a stiff face, staring at the far wall. “What do you have in return?”

“Stop this--”

“Ah-ah-ah--” Ivan’s hand was suddenly crawling on his shoulder, creeping closer to his neck, though Arthur still stared at the ugly wallpaper. “Is not offer I am hear--”

Arthur was assured that a threat would quickly follow that sentence, but Ivan never managed to finish that sentence. Instead, he was suddenly thrown into the spacious lawn, landing heavily into the grass and rolling for a few meters after. Arthur numbly glanced down at Alfred, whose face seemed to screw up in half-thought, half-anger.

“Er,” Arthur said. Suddenly lacking dignity, he managed to pull shut the door instead, and stared down at Alfred.

“Was he bothering you?” Alfred asked, looking up. “You shouldn’t talk to him too often, Engwand. He’s a stranger, and he didn’t seem very nice.”

“Oh,” Arthur said. “Oh, yes.” He fumbled with a handkerchief to his forehead and neck, sweating heavily under the stress. He slid onto the sofa, and sighed heavily.

“I want to grow up,” Alfred said piteously, sitting on the sofa. “Then I can protect you better.”

“No,” Arthur said, eyes closed. “No, don’t grow up, Alfred.”

“. . . But I’m not very good at protecting now.” When he opened his eyes, he could see that Alfred was slightly pouting, playing with the red ribbon of his nightgown. He swung his small legs back and forth over the steep cliff of the sofa.

“. . . I see.” Arthur loosened his tie. “Do you want to go play now, Alfred? We can--play, for a bit.” There was a bit of pleading in his tone, which Alfred’s shrewd eyes said he caught, but Alfred refused to budge.

“Why do some people know me as older?” Alfred looked up with trusting eyes. Arthur hesitated, and the lie was on the tip of his tongue, something believable, innocent, like that people were mistaken, or that he looked like someone who was older, or that he had a brother. But he knew that Alfred wanted nothing but the truth, and he had already made a mistake once in his past.

“Because you are older,” he said. “You were an older person--but then you shrank back to a child. But we were--are--brothers--so I’ll take care of you.”

“Until I grow up again?”

Again. Would he have to deal with that same heartbreak again? His eyes softened as he touched a wild tendril from Alfred’s hair. “I was hoping you would stay a child a little longer.”

“But why?” Alfred persisted. “When I’m older, I can protect you.”

“I don’t need protection.”

“Then neither do I.”

“Alfred--” He sighed. “It’s not like that. It’s just--when you’re older--you no longer love me.”

To his surprise, the boy suddenly sat still at the statement, eyes heavy with suspicion. “No,” he said in a small voice, “I would never stop.”

“But you do, love.” Arthur found himself stretching on the sofa, resting his hand on Alfred’s hair for strength. “I missed the you who loved me as much as I loved you.”

“Did you stop loving me, too?”

“No,” he said. “Never. I thought--you were just going through a period--and then you grew up so fast--and before I knew it, you were gone.” He chuckled darkly, eyes slowly closing. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Alfred. I’m old, and--perhaps--used to be--bigger.” The words tasted bitter on his throat.

Alfred only watched in silence.

“But you weren’t a mistake. Even when you’re strong--and independent--I had hoped--that you would remember me a bit--” He fought back a yawn, but it defeated him at last. He rolled his head slightly, trying to get a better position on the couch headrest.

“If I don’t love you,” Alfred said in a small voice, “then I don’t want to grow up.”

“. . . They were all right,” he mumbled. “I was just trying to relive the past. Listen, Alfred, keep safe--I’m going to take a little nap--” There was a heaviness on his body. “--but I might not wake up--for a long while--”

He fell asleep contentedly, with Alfred’s head firmly under his palm.

--

He woke up in short spurts, sitting up only long enough to drink some soup, before collapsing back into the bed. There were many different times of the day, and Alfred always sat on the same chair, watching anxiously.

Finally, he woke up groggily, but no food was provided for him. Instead, Yao was sitting on the chair, Alfred in his lap asleep.

“What’re you doing here?” Arthur yawned and rubbed his eyes.

“You look terrible, aru,” Yao said smartly.

“. . . Thanks.”

“No,” he insisted, “Really really terrible! And I think I know why!”

“Eh?” Arthur waited impatiently with some sarcastic comment. He hoped it wouldn’t be the eyebrows.

“Britannica Angel!”

Arthur stared blankly at him, and waited impatiently for the ensuing eyebrow crack. However, Yao seemed disappointed by the lack of response, pouting and waving his arms around even more vigorously, as if it would convey the message better.

“You came! And turned my little brother into a child,” Yao pouted. “So that must be it!”

“Look,” Arthur said patiently, “Even if I believe you--”

“It’s you but other you! And you wished for this!” Yao held up Alfred in reminiscence of a famous American movie over African plains. Arthur looked extremely doubtful. Sighing, Yao lowered Alfred and glanced over him with a pitying look.

“It’s magic,” he said simply. “We even have some proof, aru! The spell isn’t supposed to last so long, so it’s taken a burden on your body, aru!”

“Th-that’s not I! It’s just that I’m tired, that’s all!” But he hesitated all the same. Magic had done stranger things, and they were countries, at that. And he was forced to acknowledge his own wishes inside of him--for time to turn back, back to the time when Alfred loved him--

“Well, fine,” he said unhappily. “So now the question is, how do we turn him back?”

“You have to wish for him to turn back,” Yao said, lifting Alfred again. “But you don’t want him to yet, aru?”

“Th-that’s not true! It would make my life a lot easier if this hamburger-eating fool turned back to his own age! M-making me take care of him again is--” He flushed indignantly. “S-so, I wish he’d turn back! There!”

Alfred yawned and curled up tighter, one fist against his mouth as he sucked his knuckles.

“Well, it is up to you, aru. Though it’s causing a lot of problems now, aru.” Yao gently placed Alfred into the chair without waking him up, before stretching considerably.

“Hmph.” Arthur’s face burned with the thought that Yao was somehow smirking at him. So what if he wanted to keep Alfred for a little longer? He’d turn back eventually.

They all left him eventually.

“Say,” he said, “Did you give Arthur that unicorn statuette for his birthday?”

Yao cocked his head curiously. “I gave him a panda for his birthday, aru,” he said. “He seemed happy with it--aru, he had to run off in the middle of his party, though, so I’m not sure if he liked it.”

“Ran off?”

“You don’t know, aru?” Yao suddenly laughed, putting his sleeve to his mouth mirthfully. “Oh, I see. He ran off because he heard you were drunk at some bar, aru, and had stumbled out on your own and hadn’t come back yet.”

“What? I did?” He could faintly recall sitting on his regular seat, telling the bartender something that he could not say, before growing angry at some comment and stumbling outside into the rain.

“He searched for you for an hour and found you in a ditch, aru. We even thought you had to go to a hospital, but he insisted on taking you back home first, aru,” Yao said, smirking. He ran a finger through his loose hair before stepping out of the room.

If he rubbed his forehead hard enough, he could almost remember a fall into a muddy path, and not being able to get up for a while--and, perhaps, even a voice--

“Engwand?”

“E-eh?” He started. “Oh, Alfred, you’re awake.” The small boy sat up, rubbing his eyes with his small fist, biting back a cavernous yawn.

“. . . Engwand,” Alfred said, serious, though still groggy. “I want to grow up.”

“Y-you can’t!” The violent reaction in him even surprised himself.

“But I don’t like seeing you like this,” Alfred insisted, pushing his fists into his nightgown. “And--I don’t think I’ll stop loving Engwand, even if I’m grown up.”

“Just stay like this a little longer,” Arthur begged, petting the small head. A sharp pain suddenly radiated from his lungs, and he coughed violently in a dry hack.

“Not like this,” Alfred insisted. “I’ll grow up--and show you that I still love you--”

With trembling arms, he lifted Alfred into his lap. Resting his chin on Alfred’s head, he allowed himself a moment of peacefulness. He was old, he knew that. He was hung up on a past, rather than looking forward to a future. He knew that as well.

But he still worried.

He could do nothing but worry, and wonder, and wish. He had wished for the smaller Alfred, not because he had loved the child more, but because the adult had loved him less. And even if the child in his lap was only a fragment of a memory, he still wanted it to last longer--so much longer--spend the entirety of his life dedicated to a child.

“Sleep,” Alfred suddenly ordered. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

But--the same Alfred who supported him--stayed on the same side as him--the same Alfred who abandoned his own party to rescue him from a ditch--the Alfred who was a hero--

As he fell asleep, he thought that that type of Alfred wasn’t so bad, after all.

--

“Arthur? Are you still asleep?” asked a loud voice.

He jerked awake, only to bash his head into somebody else’s skull. The ringing in his head immediately started again, and he tried to clench his head into his hands to reduce the pain.

“Wh-why are you yelling? Stop that!” He rubbed his temples furiously until he saw Alfred sitting on the chair, rubbing his head as well. With a slight jump of his heart--though he was unable to tell if it was from joy or disappointment--he noticed that it was the grown-up Alfred now, tall and strong, muscular and--pouting.

“Don’t wake me up! I was having a perfectly good sleep.”

“Ehh . . . And I was almost worried about you, too, when you fell down the stairs. Geez, how clumsy can you get?”

“What? That was days ago--” He stopped, and hesitated. Had it all been a dream? A nostalgic dream, a strange dream, but--it had been sweet. Befuddled, he rubbed his head again.

“Hey,” he started, and then stopped. The question forming on the tip of his tongue sounded stupid, even to him. Instead, he flushed and shook his head. “Anyway,” he said gruffly, “I should--go back home now.”

“Already? Weren’t you going to give me a present?”

“Eh?” He blinked a few times vapidly. “Err… I must have dropped it in your room.”

“I know. But you have to be there when I open it, or else it won’t be fun to see your hurt face when I don’t like it!” Alfred held up the giftbag with surprising cheerfulness of such a malicious phrase.

“Y-you!”

Alfred ripped open the present with surprising efficiency. The gift bag lay scattered on the floor and Arthur flushed when he saw the present again. It had always been something small--a paperweight, really, a useless trinket that would soon be lost in the waves of Alfred. But it was in the shape of a bunny, the smooth edges melding easily into each other.

“A rabbit?”

“Sh-shut up!” Arthur knew that he wouldn’t have liked it--what was he thinking--he flushed and fiddled with the edges of the blanket. “You used to--always be accompanied by one, that’s all.”

“Ehh… really?” Alfred looked surprisingly fascinated with the paperweight, playing with it in his hands.

“You’re just going to lose that after a while, anyway,” Arthur said loudly, pushing himself away from the bed. His foot hit something on the floor, and he bent to pick it up.

“Probably!” Alfred agreed cheerfully. “I usually lose what you give me, or throw them away.”

“Really, now.”

“Hey, what are you looking at? Show me, show me.” Alfred peered over his shoulder, and then suddenly flushed. He grabbed the toy soldier out of Arthur’s hands and gripped it tightly.

“T-Toris must have left it out,” he said, blushing. “When he was--cleaning--from the dumpster--where I threw it away--”

“It’s in good shape,” Arthur said, face feeling aflame. He was sure that his entire face had grown red and the tip of his ears as well, but he couldn’t stop the feeling from welling up in him. He was happy, he thought, as he struggled the manage the smile off his face.

“M-must be a fluke. I wouldn’t keep anything of yours.” Alfred sat on the chair and fumbled with his thumbs.

“I see.” Arthur cleared his throat, straightening his tie. “Well, if that’s all--”

“Hey, wait!” Alfred stood up, face flushed. He ran out of the room, and Arthur could hear clattering in the other rooms. Curiously, he stood still, though he yearned to peek out the door. Instead, he played with the rabbit paperweight.

Alfred came back in with a familiar unicorn figurine, nearly out of breath.

“Y-Yao gave this to me,” he said, pushing the figurine into Arthur’s hands. “And it sounded like that illusion you were talking about--I know I shouldn’t give this to you to encourage you, but I don’t really like stuff like that in the house--”

“Yao did?” Arthur felt along the bottom, but again, there was no engraving. Was it a dream? Had it all been dream? He hesitated, and drew the unicorn closer to himself, fondly petting the detailed mane. He looked up quickly, quick enough to see Alfred gazing on him with a fond look, though he started and looked away, laughing loudly.

“You look a little bit stupid when you’re happy,” he said.

“Really.” Arthur petted the unicorn again.

“Hey, Arthur.” Alfred peered at him. “Who do you like better? Me as a little kid, or me as I am now?”

“Wh-why would you ask?”

“Just asking.”

“… Eh.” He looked down at the unicorn, and then chuckled warmly. “You’ve grown into a fine man.” He reached up and patted Alfred on the head, weaving his fingers into the blond hair.

Alfred looked surprised, then turned slightly red around his ears.

“I’m not a child anymore,” he muttered.

“I know. Anyway, I have some work here and there,” he said loudly, swinging his jacket over his shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, top and early.” He managed to stagger out of the room before flushing and allowing his face to relax into a vapid, but happy, grin.

Alfred--Alfred--Alfred--

He still loved him.

Though it was rather curious, he pondered, that there was an Ivan-shaped hole in Alfred’s backyard.