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Ten weeks; ten times.
In the last ten weeks Alfred had died ten times. All he could do now was lay on his bed - not defeated, but thinking. He knew this was the only place that bastard couldn’t reach him. Not because he couldn’t, but because he’d get caught doing so. Only he could break in, none of his stupid little goons or pawns that he loved to toss at Alfred.
They’ve played this back and forth before - for forever. Or at least what felt like forever at this point. Even when the two nations worked together, that bastard always got his own ‘Special Assignments’ that revolved around ‘taking down the enemy-ally’s strongest weapon.’ And that bastard did exactly that. He killed his ally. Over and over again. And then he always showed right back up to the international nation-person meetings with the same sweet little smile plastered onto his sweet little innocent face as if he’d done nothing wrong. Even if they were enemies now, that still didn’t change the fact that the slimy bastard would get rid of anyone - anyone - he was told to.
“‘I just want friends’ my ass! The fucker gets off on doing this shit to me!” Alfred compulsively started biting his nails again, it being the only form of entertainment that he had in the dark room. His apartment was small, a studio. Even if he did miss those nice expensive pent houses and condos, or even the classic old-timey houses, the less space he had to live in meant the less space for that bastard to hide. The less risk of an invasion. If he’d been living somewhere bigger that bastard would’ve made it twenty instead of ten.
“How the hell do I stop this. . . .” The government was reluctant to aid him. Was a foreign assassin constantly killing the immortal-physically-superior-in-every-way being that is a manifestation of the country a bad thing? Sure. But was he their ‘strongest weapon’ still? Hell no. It was cheaper and more efficient to just let the two duke it out endlessly and cover up the scene afterwards so that it wouldn’t get publicized. Shutting witnesses up, deleting camera footage, removing the mess left over and all that good stuff, “Because I’m just a nuisance to them now.”
He suddenly tasted blood. “Damn,” was the first thing he said aloud all day, done in reaction to biting on his nail too much. “Really broke it there, didn’t I?” He paused a brief moment after the words left him. Then repeated, “I.”
His southern accent was creeping into his voice again.
It happened every once in a while. Changes in accents were normal, most of the time it was different variants of the classic urban-city-American accent, with differences so subtle only those with a very keen ear could notice. Even the other city accents, like Boston or New York, were usually no trouble and only really came out on certain words. But southern? Hard-core country? It took him over like a beast. It’d always slowly make its way in, with just a southern drawl coming out at first. But, without fail, in a week’s time he’ll sound like he was born, raised, and was to die in bumpkin-country South.
Then a memory was brought forth in his mind subconsciously with that realization. “I find that this accent suits you the most, Mr. Jones,” The bastard said it in the most teasing voice he’d ever heard - completely devoid of any taunt. He had replied, “Well I ain’t ever hear you with a different accent, Comrade Braginsky.” Alfred had internally cringed (and still did so when the events replayed in his mind) at the use of “ain’t,” the stupid word infected his vocabulary with the accent switch. He got a laugh in reply, followed by, “Ah, well you would be unable to tell, being that all remotely Slavic accents sound the same to you, yes?” And then before he could respond it all went black. A sniper from behind, most definitely.
Just thinking about it pissed him off to his boiling point. He wanted to punch something or thrash around, but he contained himself, trying to be mature. “That’s just what he wants to see,” he thought, “Me all riled up over his ‘antics’ - his ‘game.’”
“I need a drink.” He sighed and slapped his forehead, suddenly calming himself down completely. “Or McDonald's. . . . A burger.” The image of a delectable (generic) burger made his mouth start to water. Then he resolved to get himself a burger. “I’ll be damned if I let that bastard control me! I’ll be damned if he kills me again, too. . . .” Alfred jerked up from laying to sitting on his bed, a smile appearing on his face. He let out an over-the-top laugh, before shouting, “I kno-o-ow you’re listening! Come meet me, why don’t ‘cha? Let’s settle this like real gentlemen!” While getting up and making himself presentable he continued, “Or, y’know. . . . you could just kill me again, yeah? That’d be real fun, yeah?”
It only took him a few moments to get to a I-don’t-look-homeless level of present-ability, which was the level he was going for. Just a white T-shirt, his brown jacket, some (epic!) brown gloves, and pants. All of it a bit (very) worn down. After taking a look at himself in his vanity’s mirror Alfred waltzed around the room silently, cupping his right ear dramatically.
“Found you, you little bug!” He fished out the listening device that was hidden under a hole carved into the bottom of the leg of his shoe rack using an uncurled paperclip. “Well, if you do come,” this time as he spoke he made sure to lean into the southern drawl, “bring ye’r cash, alright? I wanna be wined ‘n dined before we start’ta tango.” And with that he crushed the little bug.
“Damn, dude! That totally sounded rehearsed!” Alfred cracked up at his own performance. “Sure hope he just buys me a burger and a drink instead’a killin’ me.”
~~~
“If you didn’t want it in there, then why let me plant it in the first place?”
Ivan was dressed wonderfully, as if he just left a major business meeting. Only his stupid scarf looked out of place, not matching the beautiful dark beige, slightly rustic flocked leather suit top and undoubtedly overpriced slacks. Unlike the new clothes, he wore that same old sweet little smile he always wore. Alfred would much prefer the damn bastard never change his clothes again than have to constantly look at that eerie mask.
Alfred ignored the question, preferring to sit across the booth from him. “Why a booth? Usually we go to the bar.” The detail was noted after he glanced over at the bar area only to find it completely vacant. So, what was the deal? “Bastards planning something.” He cleared his throat before jumping right into it: “So. . . . You gonna pay for me, bro?” An airy chuckle soon clogged his ears up - and he hadn’t even had a sip of anything. It was an infectious sound that’d draw anyone with proper ears in; cause them to lean a little closer, listen a little more eagerly. And so that’s just what Alfred did. He crossed his arms on the table and leaned forward a little. Though he mostly did it for show it did help in hearing the stupid bastard speak, being that the bar favored putting music and sports broadcasting on blast. The combination of sounds creating an odd static buzz. “Yes, yes, Mr. Alfred. I will be paying. After all, it is me who invited you here in the first place.”
“Damn right!” came out without a thought to check up on if it was appropriate or not. After a solid two seconds, the blond figured that there was no harm in his words - other than the painfully loud volume they came out in as opposed to Ivan’s quiet, almost soothing, voice. A waitress came by, but not to take their orders. She already had a tray with two drinks, a bottle of some type of liquor, and a fat juicy cheeseburger on it. “Now,” Ivan began while she was placing them down, paying no mind to her, “I am on a bit of a budget, so we may only enjoy these and this.” He pointed at the glasses first, filled with a golden liquid, most likely whisky, and then to the bottle of what was probably vodka. Though the label was written in Cyrillic letters (probably either Russian or Ukrainian, Alfred didn’t know the difference). “That’s. . . .” he began, purposely trailing off to see if the bastard could finish for him. Just as he wished, Ivan seamlessly tagged on, “Vodka, yes.” Alfred let out a hum of acknowledgement and took a sip from his glass. Looking up from it he said, “Oh, so Comrade Braginsky remembers what his enemies like to drink? I see, I see.” Another laugh flowed out of the other's mouth and right into the blond’s head. It almost tasted better than the cheeseburger he was now shamelessly tearing into. “But of course I would remember my closest friend’s favorites.”
Without caring that his mouth was stuffed with burger, Alfred began talking a bit more liberally, “Y’know what Comrade Com, (“Please do not call me that, Mr. Jones,” was simultaneously heard and ignored in the background) this cheeseburger is so damn good it almost makes m’forget ‘bout you pissing me off for the past ‘en weeks.” He swallowed, banging on his chest with one fist for a moment when it felt like it was getting stuck. After another sip or two from his glass he continued, “But we know that I ain’t gonna- shit, uh- I’m not gonna let that slide, now don't we? Bro y’know me! Come on, we don't just play ‘big bear shits all over the beautiful eagles wings’ - the eagle’s gotta peck the bear’s eyes out every once and a while! Maybe shit on it too just for good measure, ha-ha!” He was acting tipsy, but only acting. Both of them knew the other was acutely aware of the facade. Ivan still enjoyed watching the other man pretend to be a bit ‘loose’ regardless of that.
The bastard took one sip, or more properly, one gulp from his glass, barely any was left at the bottom after-which. He calmly replied, voice smooth as ever, “Ah, well, you know how this goes, right? Even during periods of our nation’s ‘getting-along’ I still must abide by my orders,” there was a brief pause while he got rid of the last few drops he left behind, “And I do intend to abide, Sir. Regardless of our friendship.” That last word was punctuated by the sound of glass clinking onto the wooden tabletop. Practiced behavior. “I’m no bear, Mr. Jones. I may be big like one (he sat up straighter to reach for the bottle of vodka) but I am no bear.” Ivan flawlessly poured himself another glass, stopping the liquid the moment it would have overflowed. They both knew he would not be finishing that glass, if he even touched it at all. It was all for show. Performative.
Alfred mumbled something under his breath at that thought. “So sorry, what was that?” Ivan asked, entirely sincere. “I said, Mr. Comrade Com, that it's too damn bad I ain’t no good at actin’!" His accent fully enveloped his words now, sounding almost cartoonishly exaggerated. “I’d-a much rather-a, uh. . . . woah. . . .” Suddenly he heard that high pitched buzzing a lot louder than before. Almost like it was shrieking now. “The hell is that?” The grey haired gentleman sat relaxed, but not casually, in front of him asked, “Pardon?”
“Th- The. . . . The noise?”
“Noise?” Ivan sounded completely genuine.
“Aw, come’n now don’t go play’n dumb with me, Braginsky!”
“Mr. Jones, did you consume any substances before your arrival here?”
“The hell? Hell no! You’er listen’n! You know just as much as I do I didn’t do none of that!”
“Ah, I see,” the bastard has the gull to ease out of his mouth sounds so flawless, “Alfred have you slept at all in the past fourteen to twenty one days?”
Alfred. He said Alfred instead of Mr. Jones, Alfred noticed. That, this booth, the order being made beforehand, and Alfred. Ivan was acting strange. “Mm, I got some, I reckon. ‘Ere and there. . . . After I’m done ‘ealing. If- If anything it's yer fault, Braginsky! Killi’n me ‘n shit for ten fuck’n weeks. . . . The hell is wrong with you!” Alfred was also acting strange, Alfred noticed. He felt so clear headed at home, like he could conquer the world if he’d only thought up the plan to do it. But now that he left outside and allowed the first thing he consumed in three weeks to be alcohol and a greasy cheeseburger he wasn’t feeling too hot. Actually, he was feeling extremely hot all of a sudden. As if he were burning up; feverish. “Hey, Rus, uh. . . . I feel like I need’ta take a cold one.”
Ivan took a moment to respond, wholeheartedly in shock at the fact that he was just called “Rus” for the first time in a thousand lifetimes. “Would,” he immediately stopped to clear his throat, becoming embarrassed with what he was about to say, “Would you like me to do that to you? This time you may wake up in your own bed with quick recovery time.”
The look that Alfred gave him was out of it, the man’s eyes sunken and droopy but somehow still completely aware of his surroundings. “Bro,” he tossed the word out, “the hell d’you just call me?”
That stupid bastard looked at him with faux (very real) concern. “Pardon?”
“Bro, d’you just call me a fucking fa- Oh shit, uh. . . .”
Suddenly he lost all control of his body and flopped over, head banging onto the table.
“Listen, Alfred, I’m talking to you as a friend: Do you want me to do it?”
“I’d rather you go on ‘n kill me again than do anything with you, bro! Dude, like, why would I do that wi’a damn commie bastard? You,” he pointed at the bastard in question without picking himself up off the table, “Ugh, bro. . . . ‘M tired as hell.” His arm flopped down.
Though Ivan very much wanted to slap his palm onto his forehead and then slap the stupid American right after, he remained composed. “Yes, that is it. I don’t intend to do anything nefarious, Mr. Jones.”
“Huh? The hell am I so tired for, bro? Ugh. . . . dude. . . .” Alfred continued to ramble on nonsense while ignoring the man that was trying to help him out. Nations were generally much superior to regular humans, but they still needed the basic care required for survival. Including sleep. Going even two weeks without an ounce of it could cause any regular nation to become delirious, as most knew well from their times at war, but almost a month? Ivan knew that was undoubtedly out of the question, bad for the dumb blond before him. It’d been about twenty five days at this point, not the twenty one he’d asked about. Even if his mission was to mentally destroy the stupid American, as anyone would be best in a fight with his unnaturally powerful build - even for the non-human nations - he hadn’t expected him to get this bad. Perhaps he also wasn't eating? Alfred had gone a month and a half before without sleep just to prove to Arthur he could, but he ate like Armageddon was right around the corner. “So that’s probably why. . . .” Ivan became more confident in this assumption. “And he’s so confused because he knows he can last longer than this.”
“Well then, what do you say we go back to your place, yes?” The only response he was given was a tired grunt. The smallest twinge of guilt bloomed in Ivan for putting the other man into such a desperate state. Alfred probably hadn’t even heard what was being said, only that there was some noise directed at him. Still, Ivan took that as a yes and managed to help the stupid American walk home by practically carrying his entire body weight on himself. It’d be more practical to just pick him up but doing so would draw too much unwanted attention to them, even at night. Just one little glance by a random passer by questioning what was going on between the two men would be no good. Or rather, embarrassing. Other than that inconvenience, getting to the apartment was no problem. Once inside Ivan simply tossed the other onto the bed. He thought about killing him, as he was supposed to in order to “Drain his confidence in life - make him feel like he is in an eternal purgatory of death and revival,” but they were relatively safe from Russian surveillance in this space. The only one who ever monitored where the American lived was Ivan, as if he got caught and died (which Alfred would surely make the fate of anyone who broke into his little home) it would be no problem. He wouldn’t need a replacement, only a short recovery time.
Leaving the little bedroom, making sure to lock and close the door, he made his way to the barely-the-size-of-a-closet kitchen. It was literally just a fridge, small stove and oven combo, and an itty bitty cabinet over top. There was a small portion of counter space to the left of the stove that Alfred had put a microwave on, but it was so small that it really couldn’t be used for anything but the microwave. “And I thought I was poor,” he joked to himself knowing that this apartment really wasn’t that bad for someone like Alfred. It had all the man needed to live, and the size was no issue due to his constant moving around the country and the world. In fact, it being so tiny probably made him feel safer. “Safer from me.” The thought brought a smile - a real smile. The kind Alfred probably wanted to see. That satisfaction was rewarded with another twinge of guilt.
After standing in the kitchen still and silently like a weirdo for a solid three minutes, Ivan finally hid the bottle of vodka away, the reason why he was in the kitchen in the first place. He wasn’t supposed to take the whole thing, but didn’t mind ignoring that fact. After he made his way over to the couch and figured it’d be best if he too got some sleep. It’d show Alfred that he had no intention of any sort of confrontation once he woke up. And so, that's exactly what he did. He quite liked the soft, almost cloud-like cushions on the couch. It was a pity he could only sleep in a sitting position, but it was much safer than lying down in case the dumb American woke up wanting to pick a fight in order to prove to everyone else that “I’m the hero who saved my nation from the heartless, evil Russia!”
~~~
Ten and a half weeks; ten times.
This was odd. For the past ten weeks Alfred was systematically murdered ten times. But not last night? Why? That bastard has the perfect chance to end him without a second thought. Hell, he’d been so weak that he probably wouldn’t have even bothered fighting back! (Though, he most definitely still would have fought back.) It was so odd.
Then the smell of well seasoned beef being tenderly cooked hit him.
Grilling. How’d that bastard know that he’d bought an over-the-stove griller? And why in the hell was he using it? “Damn you Mr. Com,” he whispered as he balled up the sheets in his fists, “Make’n shit that smells so damn good.” Food was his one (or one of his many, rather) weakness. Alfred held strong though, and vowed not to move a muscle until that bastard ate his fill and left for good. And then he’d search for whatever listening device he was probably also planting at the moment.
But Alfred was terrible at keeping promises - including ones made to himself. Without registering it he’d already made his way to the bedroom door and opened it up. The sight he was greeted with felt rather goofy to him, with Ivan calmly cooking after first putting on the American’s star-spangled apron. He knew that the bastard preferred aprons while cooking for cleanliness as opposed to Alfred just finding that particular one amusing, hence it being the only one he owned and the only one available for use.
“Yo dude, that’s kinda tight on you,” Alfred said thoughtlessly, his groggy tone contradicting his goofy message. Ignoring the other man, Ivan began plating the food nicely. Apparently he had made fries too, though he didn’t recall having any left in the fridge. After waiting for a few moments Alfred’s existence was finally acknowledged by that bastard who thought it was cool to cook in other people's homes. “You need to eat. You’ve been asleep for two and a half days.”
“Two. . . . And a half!? There’s no way in hell!” He stared slack-jawed at the other man. “Two and a half days!? No way in hell!”
"I’m afraid so. Though, I’m sure your superiors will not question that. You seem to be,” he looked at the blond, “Rather anti-punctual.”
“What? I am not! And anyway, why would I listen- damn dude when did you learn how to cook so good?”
Ivan chuckled a bit at that. “You haven’t even tried it yet.” He motioned to Alfred while picking the fully plated meal up, “Come.” The other followed but not without complaining. The two fit comfortably on the little couch, even if their legs only had about two inches of space between them when they made a conscious effort not to let them touch. When the plate was handed over to Alfred the man did not hesitate in grabbing it and immediately shoving a few fries into his mouth. “So dude, where the hell did’ou get these fries from?” He was answered with a simple, “I made them.” Not bothering to finish chewing the new set of fires he was munching on Alfred followed that up with, “What made you wanna put that stupid apron on this time? It’s, like, way too tight on you bro. You know you’re huge compared to me!”
“You seem much happier with me than you were two and a half nights ago.”
“Huh?” was quickly followed by, “Huh!? Well of course I was upset, bro! You fuck’n killed me a shit ton of times and then took me out to dinner like it wasn’t noth’n!”
“Mr. Jones, you are the one who suggested I take you out for dinner.”
“Ah, now don’t go’n using my own ‘words’ (he did air quotations while simultaneously holding onto fries) against me! Bro, you don’t know a damn thing about me. Fuck you, bro!”
“I’d advise that you not use so much foul language Mr. Jones. It sounds out of place coming from you.”
“Out of. . . . Out of place!? How? Now y’er gett’n me all- Ah whatever bro!” He waived off the other man, almost smacking him in the face due to their close proximity to each other. Rather than rambling about how wrong the damned bastard was about needing to stop using “so much foul language” he instead took his first bite of the burger. “Oh dude,” his tone changed considerably, “you got fucking bacon!” Ivan looked at him with disappointment, “Swearing, Mr. Jones. Please watch yourself.” Alfred suddenly jerked his body to Ivan's and pointed accusingly, “You didn’t use my money to buy this, right?” Ivan shook his head no and for good measure also said, “No.” He then added, “And if I did would it really be so bad? Your salary is enough to feed half of the homeless in your nation.” Alfred gave a scowl, “Ah, y’damn commie bastard! Try to give them a compliment and they wanna collective!” He was met with a confused stare, though it didn’t seem to bother him much as he continued to eat carelessly.
“That. . . . That did not make much sense.”
“Eh, whatever bro!” Alfred waved him off once more. “Anyway, how many times did’ou kill me while I was sleep’n?”
“Zero.”
“Zero?”
"Zero.”
“Really? Zero? Zero. Really?”
“Yes. Zero.”
Ivan was acting so strange lately. Well, it wasn’t exactly strange. The two had been friends before, but ever since 1917 the U.S. government put pressure on Alfred to quit being so friendly to the ashen-blond giant. Truly, Alfred had nothing against Ivan as a person. But they weren’t people, and the Russian acted not on his human instincts but on his duty as a nation. A duty that got in the way of their potential friendship outside of international diplomacy. He committed actions on the basis of an order that sullied his relationship with the other nation-people as well as his own humanity. That’s why the damn bastard couldn’t help but murder America’s personification ten times. He was told to. He must do what he is told. Unlike Alfred, Ivan was granted no leniency by his government for slip-ups, and both men understood that fact. They understood that when he got back home his immortality would be used against him for refusing correspondence for nearly three days. So then, Alfred felt compelled to ask, “Why zero?”
“Well, Alfred, I am quite tired too, you see. I was originally going to ignore your manic request, but considering that I felt as though you were manic I was compelled to show up.”
“So you felt bad for me?” The question was an attempt at being snarky, poking fun at the possibility of such a stone-cold man being sympathetic for someone else. But Ivan answered honestly with a simple, “Yes.”
“Oh,” he cleared his throat, “Is that so?”
“Why are you so surprised, Alfred? We’ve met like this before. In fact, I am quite afraid of possible removal from assignments concerning you. My higher-ups have begun to notice my “strange pattern of behavior” on such missions.”
Another, “Oh,” was choked out of the dumbfounded blond. What Ivan said was true, the two had met like this quite a few times before. In this intimate, familiar way - completely contrasting their other meetings filled with violent blows and oftentimes one of the two dead on the ground, or bed, or in a pool, or field, or what have you.
“Bed? Him on a bed. . . .” Suddenly the memories of when they fought in Ivan’s hotel room during an international nation-person meeting popped into Alfred’s head. He’d quite liked the feel of thrashing around on a soft mattress with the lager man under him. Even when he’d been overpowered (definitely not on purpose just to see what it would feel like) and laid below Ivan he still felt that same twinge of unique excitement - that is, of course, before his neck was promptly snapped and he awoke in his original hotel room bloody and rank.
“Here, let me take that.” Without allowing for a response Ivan grabbed the empty plate, which looked almost clean from how well the American had eaten, and took it to the kitchen. “Why the hell was I so mad at this guy again?” He couldn’t help but ponder the thought while watching the other walk away. Of course, he was well aware of his ever-fluctuating feelings for Ivan Braginsky. Sometimes he wished that those feelings were allowed to be stable.
“Hey, bro!” He shouted, “Did you keep the drink?” The memory was faint, but he swore that there had been a bottle of something at the table. “Ah, I’m surprised you remembered that! Yes, I did,” the response held a hint of mischievous intent in it, “But I’m afraid you’re too lacking in sleep right now to have any.”
“What? Bro how!? I literally slept for ten days! You said it yourself.” He got up and made his way to the kitchen behind Ivan, who had begun to wash the dishes. “You really don’t have to do that, you know. . . .” The words came out almost unconsciously as he watched the other man calmly scrubbing away as if it was a completely normal thing to do. To be washing dishes in the guy's house he was supposed to be getting rid of. Wearing such a tight apron that accentuated his larger build, even from the back. Especially his lower back. His lower, lower back.
“Ivan, I could really use a drink right now.” He intentionally pronounced the Russian’s name ‘eye-van’ knowing that he’d be corrected. Which he promptly was when Ivan calmly noted that his name is, “‘Ee-vann,’ not ‘eye-van,’ Alfred.”
Finishing with the dishes, as there were very few of them, Ivan turned around to face the rather disheveled looking man behind him. He hadn’t noticed how unkempt Alfred’s hair was before, though there was still that one distinct strand that stubbornly insisted on sticking up no matter what his hair looked like. The stupid tacky apron he was wearing began to actually feel tight now. Alfred really wasn’t lying about it being a size or two too small for him. The man before him opened his mouth to (most definitely) ask where the vodka was again, but Ivan began before he could get anything out, “I’m surprised with how much you seem to like vodka. Does your government know?” He began to untie the apron, letting out a small chuckle. “Huh? Why the hell would they care? It’s just alcohol.” As Ivan began pulling the neck strap over his head Alfred seemed to perk up a bit. “Hm. Is that so? I mean,” he set the apron down on the counter, “They are quite petty - at least from my experiences.”
“You’re quite petty - at least from my experiences.”
“Oh, is that so Alfred? But did you not just call me Ivan? That’s rather petty just to get some alcohol, you know.”
“Damn you, you commie. . . .”
The anger from a few days earlier bubbled back up suddenly. This pompous man thought he was so clever, so cool-headed compared to Alfred. Compared to the personification of the United States of America. He embodied the great power of the innovative, capitalist, democratic west, yet Ivan thought he could stand toe-to-toe with him? Preposterous! Entirely so, Alfred felt. He made no effort to conceal how his expression soured or to restrain the force of each heavy step he took towards the other man, the floor groaning each time he moved forward (he made sure not to break the floor - the repair costs almost killed him last time, not to mention having to explain how that happened to his landlord). As he walked he began to talk to Ivan in a rather threatening tone, leaning into the southern accent that had infected his speech, “Y’just think y’can go ‘round doin’ whatever you want.” Ivan simply stood, allowing Alfred to come right up in front of him. The two said nothing as the American - or rather, America - raised his hands up and gently wrapped his fingers around the taller man’s neck. He didn’t use any pressure yet, only wanting to hold onto the other’s neck. Ivan smiled, cupping Alfred's wrists without removing his hands. “Ah, so you are petty. I cannot blame you, after all I did kill you-”
Alfred pushed the ashen-blond’s jaw up with one hand before slamming his head down onto the counter's edge with the other in one swift motion. “Kill me? How ‘bout I kill you!?” He felt a bit goofy after saying those words, but continued his assault on Ivan, picking him up by the shoulders and kneeing him in the lower gut a few times. Half-leaning Ivan’s body on the counter once again, forcing him to hold into the edge for stability, Alfred punched him square on the nose with enough force to hear an audible crack. Just to be extra petty he went to kick the other man’s lower, lower area, but a hand caught his foot before he could succeed in hitting the target.
“Do I get to hit back now?”
“Have I killed’ya yet?”
“Hm. . . . I appear to still be alive, so no. No you have not.”
He flashed another simile, this time showing his teeth. The blood from his nose and (somehow) busted lip filled the cracks between his teeth and dripped down his chin. His eyes were lit up with an unusual excitement, accentuating the eerie purple that filled his irises. And how that deranged look on such a disheveled man brought up an excitement in Alfred completely opposite of the fiery anger currently burning in him. Indeed, a new flame began to kindle its own burning sensation. A much more illogical, though not unfamiliar, sensation: Desire.
He had been going in for another punch but this realization caused him to freeze, eyes widening in shock at himself. The idea of asking Ivan to kiss was absurd but it still crossed his mind. Alfred seemed to be stuck debating on what to do, fist still midair while he became lost in decision.
“You want to kiss me, yes?” Ivan gently grabbed Alfred’s wrist, “You may if you wish.”
“H. . . . How the hell did y’know?” The blond was absolutely flabbergasted.
Ivan’s smile grew wider. “Come on America, we’ve done this a few times already,” he took the hand that was balled up in a fist and placed it back onto his throat, “We can go as far as you’d like to go.” The words went straight down Alfred’s abdomen. Getting called by his actual name, not the pretend human name given to him by the government, did wonders at subduing the anger in favor of desire. He didn’t have to be told twice, immediately slamming himself onto the man before him with an animalistic vigor, not caring how their teeth clacked together almost painfully. Ivan seemed to take great pleasure in this treatment, as he happily allowed Alfred to tug on his hair harshly and bite the already bleeding cut on his lip. The taste of iron filled his mouth driving him further into want. But he couldn’t find it in himself to let the other’s crimes go. Ivan seemed to pick up on the subtle way Alfred moved his hands to the sides of his head, gripping rather hard. Harder than he normally would have.
“Well, it appears this is our goodbye for now, then,” the bloodied man whispered out slyly, “can’t wait to do it nine times over.”
With one swift motion Ivan’s body fell limp onto Alfred. Clarity hit the blond like a bolt of lightning when he realized what he had done. “Ah shit, now I gotta clean this up,” he mumbled to himself while shoving Ivan off of him, allowing his body to fall to the floor with a loud thump. “At least I killed him this time. Damned bastard.”
~~~
The next international nation-person meeting was particularly awkward for the two, though the vodka that had been hidden away for Alfred made it well worth it.