Hetalia - Axis Powers 1. A Labouring Time

From the Hetalia Kink Meme. Decided to whore it out as there needs to be more Russia/England. Edited to make it more friendly (the other was a little bit more naughty ohohohoho).

Alfred put down the smooth receiver of the phone back into its cradle with shaking fingers and sat down uneasily into the plush cold comfort of his plump office chair. Ten minuets passed in silence and stillness with Alfred trying desperately to banish the foreboding thoughts of conspiracies and betrayal taking root and budding in his brain. However despite the comfort of the chair and his vain attempt to quell the flurry of thoughts no comfort came to him, just a deep biting unsettlement stemming from the fact that England was now of Labour Government once again. Tapping his fingers wearily against the desk he stared intensely at the phone, innocent in its inanimateness, the ever present confident grin fading from his face replaced with one of concentration and restlessness. Whilst a Labour Government in England was not a problem within and of itself, the rumours that trailed behind such a move whispered darkly of Labour's sympathy towards Soviet Russia and communism were. With the feeling of tension from his boss and citizens that England could be collaborating with Russia against America, and the idea that Arthur could be collaborating with Ivan against himself, gnawed harshly at Alfred's stomach and he ran a still shaking hand through his golden hair.

The various unisons between Arthur and Ivan throughout the ages, such as the their alliances during the War of the Austrian Succession, the French revolution, Napoleonic Wars, the Greek Wars of Independence, the Anglo-Russian Entente in 1907 (or Triple Entente), and of course during World War Two (in which he was himself allied with Russia, and France, and China, and dear Arthur) were not new news to him at all. Neither were the trading or political relationships between the two countries, including the important bonds between Arthur's beloved, however grudgingly at times, Royalty and Ivan's Tsars.

When Alfred had confronted Arthur with these troublesome thoughts in the past Arthur had just rolled his eyes irritably and had maintained, rather viciously with flying scolding hot teapots and sharp words, that these links were just loose bonds, that he thought Ivan was a deranged and power mad, creepy purpled eyed bastard (who probably ate people), and that he wouldn't touch him with a barge pole unless it was absolutely, univocally needed and justified. In days gone by Alfred would have been comforted by these words, but now like his office chair Arthur's words seemed hollow. Dimly Alfred ran an unsteady hand through his golden locks and thought back to the 1920's when Labour had first been voted in.

It had been just an average everyday day when he had come to visit Arthur and congratulate him on his new government, prepared with cake, whiskey and celebratory burgers as a present. He had strode up to the door with purpose, glee and a true hero's attitude, which had been promptly deflated by the coy look of perverse innocence and terrible pleasure on Ivan's face when he opened Arthur's door, instead of Arthur himself, at Alfred's repeated knocking.

'Comrade Alfred! How nice to see you', he had said, voice joyous and thick with his Russian accent, 'I was just, what is the term…..celebrating with perhaps, no ahh…. wishing Comrade Arthur well with his new government, a socialist party. Very progressive of him, reminded me of myself. Did you want to come in?'

Alfred had frozen to the spot, mind blank, and had stared horrified at Ivan and his seemingly innocent face until Arthur had finally appeared from the depths of his house, a little worse for wear with the glint of perspiration on his brow, and stiffly told Ivan to have a pleasant afternoon and to get the sod off his property.

Arthur had been even more unbearable than normal that day, with terse words and ready to snap at anything Alfred said, especially when he asked questions relating to why Ivan was there, what happened and if he was okay. Alfred had often wondered with a heavy heart if he had interrupted something that day, or missed something important, but by the time the Second World War reared its ugly head these idle thoughts were placed away and near forgotten, lulled asleep by the fact that Arthur worked willingly and almost happily with Alfred like they used to during the Colonial years. Yet now with the Cold War full in swing that little box had been unconsciously reopened and all the unpleasant thoughts spilled out. A Pandora's box of sickening images and mockeries of their friendship.

Arthur pushed forcefully up against the wall of his office, sweater-shirt combo long discarded on the floor, his body beckoning, encouraging, and moaning under the large cold hands roaming freely over the valleys and hills of his fragile skin. Of lazy Russian words praising into Arthur's ear, his lips kissing Arthur's neck as his smaller hands scrabble impatiently to loosen Ivan's thick coat and scarf to reach and caress the ever winter under neither. Of English words murmuring promises of warmth, satisfaction, and unity which turned into foul obscenities as trousers and pants are pulled away, until both of them are naked and hard and needy, teeth sinking into Ivan's neck unforgivably as Ivan invades Arthur easily one slick finger at a time.

Alfred's hands fisted up upon the table, knuckles turning white from the pressure, nails digging unrelentingly into his skin and drawing blood, but it wasn't enough to turn him away from this as his mind reached further into the boxes poisoned depths.

Arthur is now panting, begging and demanding sharply for something more, something bigger and better if Ivan is man enough, green eyes half closed in ecstasy. Ivan laughs at this and tells him he is happy to do so '_Comrade_' and Alfred punches the desk as he complies, causing Arthur breath to hitch and dig his nails into Ivan's back. Ivan pushes in and pulls away slowly, and Arthur grinds as best as he can from his position against the wall trying to top from the bottom and get more, trying to become a conqueror again. Alfred wishes this wasn't so, wishes that Arthur wasn't reciprocating to this betrayal of their friendship of their alliance, but was rather forced into it. Ivan laughs again, nuzzles Arthur and angles himself differently all the time whispering Russian, making Arthur emit a guttural primeval sound which makes Alfred feel all sorts of angry and hurt at the same time…..

The phone rings snapping Alfred out of his dark reverie. He stares dumbly at the calling creature until its cries quieten.

'I'm being stupid,' Alfred stated to the empty room, 'He has sided with me, not that damn commie bastard.' He stood from his chair and moved slowly to the door, away from the phone all the while wiping the ghastly red blood off of his knuckles.

'It's not his fault he's now a Labour government anyway, its democracy what the people want not him, like myself a good democratic country, not a Communist. These are just stupid rumours anyway, and Arthur,' the name stuck uncomfortably in his throat 'hates him anyway. I am being silly, he won't betray me'.

Still these little justifications did little to quell the ghostly sounds of imagined conspiracies and Alfred decided that he should keep a closer eye on Arthur just in case that Ivan tried anything, or the other way round.


	2. Headaches

Arthur pinched his nose in a desperate bid to stop the headache clawing its way into his consciousness, pinching hard enough to make the tips of his fingers white and his nose red sore. The dull throb had been an ever present pest since the beginning of the Cold War, getting gradually worse as time and the war went on. It was no surprise really, what with all the concentration and focus being laid on him from both the West and East, so such a migraine was only to be expected. However it was a big pain in his arse.

Alfred was calling him up with frustrating frequency, either to tell him about the new breakthroughs they were having on the hydrogen bomb, any battle plans that would involve and require England, what England was doing about the Communist threat and to tell him that it was a fact that Communism would be ground into the dirt and buried. Arthur took most of this in his stride, agreeing when necessary and spiting insults about Communism when Alfred sounded unsure, however he couldn't quite shake the feeling that most of this talk sounded like a desperate plead and warning that he would stay on Alfred's side, that America was powerful enough to win and that anyone who sided with Russia and Communism would burn in the end.

In all reality he didn't blame Alfred for his constant pestering and insecurity, hating it but needing it at the same time to ground him, to stop him from listening to the whispers coming from Russia. From Ivan.

Arthur had felt Ivan watching him with a dogged intensity since the re-election of the Labour Government, watching him and waiting patiently to see if England's officials would contact his. It was much to Arthur's horror and annoyance when he found out that the Labour Government had decided to renew its ties with Russia, and it pissed him off to no end when they allowed Ivan's officials into the country, even promoting those with Communist views within his own government. Now Communism was becoming a bigger and more personal problem for Arthur, not just because America hated it and that he was on America's side, but because he felt himself being drawn towards it, towards Russia, towards Communism and towards Ivan. He could feel Ivan's ghostly fingers grip from within England at him, could distantly hear his Russian tongue lull and soften his people towards Communism, forcing him to remember and acknowledge the bonds he had with Ivan.

Arthur released the iron grip on his nose, sighed and reached for his cooling cup of tea. However he stopped short of the tea and hovered warily over the cup before reaching for the whisky and tumbler in the cabinet behind him. Tea would never help him steal himself against the oncoming day, a day he hoped to put off for at least forever. It was 1956 and Nikita Khrushchev was to arrive in England today. It was 1956 during the Cold War and a bloody Communist official was coming to his shores to have dinner with his Labour Government. A Communist official who had more than likely been escorted to his shores by Ivan.

Arthur's headache increased tenfold.


	3. The Dinner Party

By 6.30pm the dinner party was in full flow. Soft music played through the entertaining rooms as the waiters, all dressed in smart tuxedoes, served ice cold glasses of champagne and tasty titbits on silver platters to whomever crossed their paths. Ivan stood tall among the menagerie of Englishmen, trussed up in his best military uniform, smiling politely at each suited Labour man who came to eagerly converse with Nikita Khrushchev and the Soviet Premier Nikolai Bulganin, who Ivan had cohered into coming last minuet, insisting that he too should come and see his English comrades (and help spread Communist propaganda- the more the merrier).

By 7.00pm Ivan was getting bored, tuning in and out of conversations restlessly. He had half hoped Arthur would have made an appearance or at least welcome him on arrival. However half an hour in and there was no sign of Arthur, not physically at least. His gut instinct insisted that Arthur was there. Shutting his eyes he concentrated…..feeling for him. A smashing sound and curse from his left snapped him out again. Purple eyes searched the room fervently passing from one nameless face to another until a shock of blond hair, immaculate suit and glance of green eyes caught his attention from within the sea of people before it disappeared hastily back into the depths. Ivan grinned, excused himself from the dull conversation and strode into the mass on the hunt for a blond rabbit.

He found Arthur skulking around the liquor cabinet.

'Arthur! There you are I've been looking for you. Were you hiding from me?' Ivan asked innocently to Arthur's turned back.

Arthur jumped. He had been desperately trying to dodge Ivan all night, constantly spying out the corner of his eyes and keeping close tabs on him. Each duck and dive a pathetic attempt to avoid the all too real bulk of Russia on English soil, so pathetic in fact that he had ended up walking into a waiter and knocked his platter off onto some poor man's head. In all the kafuffle he hadn't realised Ivan had found him, not until he heard that familiar childish voice and felt his looming presence at his back. As if to recover some dignity Arthur ignored Ivan and pouring himself a large measure of thick amber liquid, portraying the very image of nonchalant.

'Arthur?' Ivan questioned, this time resting his hands on Arthur's small but wiry shoulders as his statement.

It still ceased to amaze him that such a tiny nation once held half the globe mercilessly under his foot. A half remembered image of Arthur covered in enemy blood, expression fierce and body unyielding, crept into his mind. Whether it was a memory from one of their battles against each other or a battle they had both shared against a common enemy Ivan couldn't remember, and in all honesty didn't care. Arthur was spectacular either way and was welcomed as both ally and opponent; the Great Games had been a great game after all. But here today Ivan wanted nothing more that for Arthur to acknowledge him, to turn towards him and greet him as a friend, not as a rival. Arthur however would still not turn and acknowledge him, preferring to return the used bottle to its proper place within the cabinet and look around for some ice. Let the bugger wait, he thought sourly.

'Such a cold greeting Arthur, no joyous embrace or warm welcomes? How rude of you. You invited me here after all,' Ivan admonished half heartedly in his ear, causing him to shudder and pull away. 'Come now we are friends, no?'

Arthur just took a long drink from his glass, cool and aloof, back still turned.

'I did not invite you, they did.' He shook his head violently towards the men cooing over Khrushchev and Bulganin distastefully. 'And for your information I was not hiding. Now get off me,' he ordered, slapping irritably at Ivan's hands wanting them off and as far away from him as possible.

Ivan laughed. 'So you don't deny friendship then? Very good! That makes me ever so happy'. He pulled Arthur into a heartfelt embrace, made awkward by Arthur's indignant sputtering and attempted side jabs with his bony elbows. He endured the squirming and bony onslaught until Arthur managed to prize himself and took a swing at him. Ivan barely dodged his fast incoming fist.

'The hell you playing at!' Arthur fumed, mortified by the embrace and the feel of the Ivan's great girth against his slight frame. It was like safety and fear all at once….like Ivan could swallow him whole and he would let him. 'D…don't touch me' he stuttered, adding a 'bloody bastard' for good measure.

'Now, now Comrade, no way to treat a guest especially after they bring presents, no?' Ivan placated. He reached into his coat and fished about it, fingers diligently rummaging through each outer and inner pocket, frowning when he could not find what he had expected to.

'If it's a star and sickle or unification document you can keep it and shove it, honoured guest,' Arthur shot back snidely. However despite his comments his interest had been piqued. Ivan had given him a delicately crafted Fabergé egg once, which had pleased Arthur to no end. It was beautiful, unique, a real treasure to behold and Arthur had guarded it jealously, more so than many of the other treasures he had acquired during Queen Elizabeth the First's reign. Vodka wasn't the only thing Russia produced.

A delighted 'ah!' broke his musings and enticed him back into the present world, which he found much to his delight and embarrassment was filled with actual presents. In Ivan's left hand sat a very dubious looking bottle of vodka (so much for vodka wasn't the only thing Russia produced) whilst the other cradled a carefully wrapped present, encased in yellow and green paper. That caught Arthur's attention.

'For you Arthur, both hand crafted by me'. Ivan held them out for Arthur to take, eyes expectant, pleased by the red of embarrassment kissing Arthur's cheeks.

'Er, thank you,' coughed Arthur remembering his manners at last. He reached for the vodka first, sticking it carelessly under one arm, then the package nestling bright in Ivan's pale palm. He placed it carefully into his pocket and shuffled his feet on the floor. 'I didn't get you anything, I didn't think we were exchanging gifts….' he flustered, the shame at not buying Ivan one in return burning the back of his throat.

'Your hospitality is more than enough for me Arthur,' Ivan's voice was soft. 'For the moment at least'. Arthur's eyes narrowed, aggravation and hostility once again resurfacing. 'For example a drink of some fine Vodka and a chat away from all this,' Ivan flipped his hand towards the forgotten crowd, 'wouldn't go amiss,' he joked clumsily, cutting off the tempest threatening to explode from Arthur.

Arthur grunted and with a short 'hmpf, this way' disappeared amongst the sea of suits, Ivan trailing contently behind.


	4. Dinner Conversations

The room was blissfully empty and lavishly decorated with the painted portraits of England's past Prime Ministers all haloed in golden frames. Slipping himself languidly into the decidedly decadent chair Arthur had offered him, Ivan sighed a sweet relief. He was glad to be finally away from the hustle bustle of the ongoing party that had been interrupting the precious time that he could have spent with Arthur alone and unwatched. Well almost unwatched, he pondered. The acrylic eyes of all but the currently appointed Anthony Eden judged Ivan with aversion.

Arthur of course felt differently about the situation. He was ill at ease at being in alone with Ivan afraid that Alfred would get the wrong impression, equally afraid that Alfred would get the right one…. Instinctively he drifted towards the painting of Churchill, seeking safety from the reflection of a man who had pulled him through the war and kept him going, before remembering his guest and sensibilities.

'Khrushchev was rather tense when we past him,' he commented nervously, busying himself with preparing Ivan's drink from across the other side of the room. Again he felt the pierce of Ivan's gaze upon his person.

'Maybe a reaction to the cold reception we got when arriving,' Ivan stated pointedly. 'He had been expecting a warmer welcome from your Englishmen but it seems that they have forgotten their manners since the last war. Even Nikolai was heartbroken. He was looking forward to meeting his fellow English comrades.'

'Yes well….. I have no control over that, what the public feel is up to them. And stop calling us, Comrade. We may be Socialist but we are not Communist, and never will be'.

His normally nimble fingers struggled to find purchase on the bottle.

'Never? If I remember correctly, _Comrade_, you once said you'd never forgive Germany for World War Two, that you wouldn't forgive Ludwig and Gilbert for all the pain they caused. The bombings, the murders….how they both left you to rot and burn alone. If never truly meant never you wouldn't be currently arming its west against me, but you are aren't you…..' it wasn't a question. 'What is that if not forgiveness?' He pressed on his voice turning bitterer by the word.

The following 'What is that of never, Arthur?' however came more softy, almost hopeful.

'It's not the same…' Arthur replied firm acutely aware that this conversion was turning dangerous. 'Do you want this drink or not?'

'I helped you Arthur, held you close and beat back the German boots ready to tread down and lay waste to your green fields. Yet now you give me nothing and them everything. Why is this? Is Communism so bad? Do you hate me?' Ivan turned cold again.

The temperature in the room plummeted as an oncoming warning, yet Arthur wasn't going to leave this comment unchecked and foolhardily argued back.

'You turned because the allies were winning and for no other reason, no matter how you romanticise it now. And I haven't forgotten what they did, but what you are doing out there is wrong, maybe not as bad as they did, but still wrong. And this whole fucking disagreement between you and….is wrong.' He purposefully left out the names Alfred and America from his sentence, unwilling to add a fuse to an already ticking bomb. 'Its not even a war, just two children arguing over semantics'.

'Wrong?' Ivan was now standing and moving towards Arthur. 'No, Capitalism is wrong, it hurts its people and allows evil to prevail, and this is more than arguing over definitions. You know this to be true Arthur I have seen it, know how happy you were the first day you turned Socialist….'

'Socialist doesn't mean Communist. I am not your ally' Arthur declared again with less vigour. Ivan was a hairbreadth away from him now. It almost seemed like Ivan's larger body was sapping away Arthur's energy and stealing his gravity. 'I am not your ally…'

Cold fingers brushed at Arthur's cheek palming his jaw, adapting to the contours of his face when Arthur subconsciously leaned into it. Lifting his chin, Ivan peered deep into his emerald orbs, deciphering all the things being left unsaid. Arthur had always spoken in circles, saying one thing and meaning another, yet meaning the opposite of that as well. An enigmatical gift that hadn't quite reached his eyes though.

'Not my ally… but not my enemy either, yes?'

Arthur's mouth had gone dry.

'Russia wants England on its side and England wants Russia, despite its outward protests. This is why we are here, why England let us in. But you won't let me in will you'.

'No'. Arthur had found his voice again but it was weak, scarcely above a whisper. 'I can't'.

'No,' Ivan agreed. 'But you will'.

The bottle of vodka remained unopened in testament.


	5. Morning Call

'So I heard Ivan came over for lunch yesterday. What was that all that about?'

The last person Arthur wanted to hear this early in the morning was Alfred, but here he was phone in hand, talking to the last person he wanted to hear. Well that wasn't precisely the truth; Ivan was also holding that position as well. Last night hadn't exactly ended well.

With a long suffered sigh Arthur wondered who he pissed off to deserve this.

'Nothing Alfred. Labour invited him over and I played the polite guest. Nothing more and nothing less,' he answered shortly.

'Not what I heard,' replied Alfred cynically.

'What do you mean '_not what I heard_'? You should know better than to listen to the papers by now, especially not the Russian ones'.

'Papers? Papers don't talk Arthur' the voice responded confusedly. 'Well maybe yours do, what with all the crazy shit you seem to see'. It seemed to ponder on this for a second. 'Any way I said heard not read'.

'Some times I wonder if you can read….,' Arthur replied sardonically then realisation kicked in, 'wait, what? Are you watching me? If you have people spying on me Alfred I swear to God I'll bloody….,' the threat stood hotly in the air, hot but ultimately empty like a balloon.

'I'm not spying!' Alfred insisted. 'Much,' he added. 'It's for your protection anyway'.

'The fuck it is!' Arthur snapped ferociously, willing his anger to melt Alfred's side of the phone and burn his meddling hands. 'I can take care of myself you arrogant little…..'

'Now now Arthur, it's for your own good! Like the cold medicine you used to force down my neck. I won't let this Communist disease infect you…' Alfred reasoned as to a child, before slipping into a long lecture about the dangers of the 'stars and sickle' disease. 'Burgers help fight infections right? Maybe I should post you some….'

Arthur had finally had enough.

'Just no, stop.' Another long suffered sigh escaped his lips. 'It's four in the morning Alfred, so please for heavens sake and my own sanity bugger off.' And with that Arthur slammed down the phone.

Instead of rolling over and back to sleep Arthur kept a firm grip on the receiver wishing hard that it was Alfred's neck he was ringing not lifeless bakelite. It unsettled and angered him that Alfred was spying him, that he still didn't trust him. But then again if his ally was eating at the table with the enemy he supposed he would be distrustful.

A small bright package on his bedside cabinet drew Arthur's attention away from the abused plastic scapegoat, urging him to relinquish the blessedly silent creature and use his hands to unwrap something more worthwhile. Weighing up his options Arthur chose the package and set about opening it. Tentatively Arthur peeled back the layers until the object was at last naked and free from its paper prison.

It was a Matryoshka doll, but not a traditional one. Instead of a hooded lady with rosy cheeks and a motherly smile a small characterised image of Ivan looked back at him, complete with scarf, violet eyes, enigmatic smile and pipe. Natalya and Katyusha were painted on the back of Ivan, smaller but no less important. It was the U.S.S.R.

Arthur blinked once, then twice, turning the doll over in his hands. It was a well crafted piece, carved expertly and painted with care. '_Egotist_', Arthur thought to himself. Twisting the little U.S.S.R doll in two he opened it up to see the second doll, but there wasn't one just a small note and black emptiness.

Curiously Arthur unfurled the note, reading the poorly scrawled English staining the paper, before throwing it to the ground as if it were a hot potato. Exhausted and shaken Arthur flopped back onto his bed and rolled himself into the safety of its crisp white sheets.

_You may not be with me yet_, _but I am within you. See you around Comrade_, the note promised silently from the floor.


	6. 1961

1961…..

Since 1956 Arthur had been subjected to many irritating trials concerning America and expanding Russian threat, now digging harder into Germany and spreading rampantly towards Cuba. The ever growing Communist rash, calling itself the Communist Party of Great Britain and contaminating England's political system, was also scratching at his mind and lying heavy in his heart. Arthur was now drinking twice as much and suffered such painful migraines that sometimes he thought it would be better to just give up and let Ivan in or let Alfred bomb the bastard. Both sounded equally appealing as much as they sounded equally repulsive.

Comfort came with the knowledge that this particular party had no real political power and no seats in his Parliament. Labour were also taking little notice of them, still recovering from their encounter with Khrushchev five years ago. It was a cold comfort but comfort none the less. Arthur had also received three more bright packages, their Russian stamps gaudy and annoying, a statement to show that Ivan had not forgotten him or his promise.

The second package found its way to England in 1957, the unassuming brown paper hiding another carved Matryoshka doll. This time the familiar visage of Yao, wearing his red robe and clutching a panda, stared up from Arthur's hold. Arthur assumed that these dolls were going to represent the different nations Ivan knew and liked, or maybe the ones that Arthur knew and liked. It could go either way with both nations having long complicated histories with China and each other. Friendly as these dolls seemed Arthur wondered if he was missing something important, but put them on his shelf anyway and thought nothing more of them. At least not until 1959.

This particular brought another Matryoshka doll, this time the less familiar personifications of Korea and Vietnam painted purposely on the wood, one on the front and one on the back. Arthur couldn't remember their names as he had dealt little with them….. Alfred on the other hand had and had told him many a time of the troubles out there. By then the penny had dropped and Arthur realised that Ivan was sending him dolls of the Communist nations, Yao fell in 1949 and the others 1950 and 1954 respectively. All three Asian dolls fit snugly, almost obscenely, inside the bigger Ivan doll.

Why Ivan was sending him these dolls he couldn't fathom. Maybe he was gloating telling him how strong his influence was, or maybe it was an innocent gesture and they were just dolls. Who knew when it came to Ivan and his actions. Yet despite the presents and occasional letter from Ivan, Arthur remained silent towards him. Instead of caving in to Ivan's suggestions he spent more with Alfred, trying to prove to both himself and Ivan that he would never betray Alfred or associate himself again with the enemy. Arthur also poured more help into Germany, even going over there himself to give whatever he could to Ludwig and Gilbert. He remembered that particular letter clearly, riled by the scathing accusations and snide remarks about his weakness towards 'old lovers'. Still his stiff upper lip remained and his resolve kept steeled through exchanging harsh words about him to Alfred and by burning the letters, rather than putting pen to paper and writing back.

However by 1961 things went dramatically down hill and any preconceptions of the dolls being just 'innocent gestures' were all but shattered. 1961 brought the finest doll so far; a doll so carefully moulded and painted it could have been beautiful. But despite the care it was made with, it was filled with such hatred and malevolence that a deathly coldness radiated from its very core. A tiny Gilbert looked torn and fearful through painted red eyes, his depicted body riddled with barbed wires and bayonets, Arthur's own guns lying broken at his feet.

1961 brought the Berlin Wall and Alfred's finger just that much closer to the nuclear launch button.

His mind made up by the disturbing doll Arthur made two hasty phone calls, one to Ivan's house, the other to Alfred's, to clarify his next movement. A quick packing spree later and Arthur was out the door and on his way to the airport. Enough was enough, he was going to break his vows and visit Ivan to give him a piece of his mind.


	7. Berlin

_Firstly I'd like to thank everyone who was reviewed! You guys and gals are too nice to me haha __. _

_Secondly sorry for the delay, real life has been an incessant pain recently. Anywho onwards! _

The greyness of the vast Berlin sky was matched by the grim expression on Ludwig's ashen face. Dejectedly he rested his head against the cold brick barrier, attempting vainly to get closer to his brother locked up eastside. Yet despite all his pushing and wishing the wall stayed strong and Gilbert far away, hidden from him. Inwardly he cursed Ivan and Russia, as well as his own sort sightedness. He should have known this was coming; should have known Russia would pull a stunt like this and that Ivan would take full advantage. He was such a fool.

Russia had held a grudge against Germany after Hitler had decided to invade them, then their ally, during the Second World War. Often he wondered if it was this grudge and deep hatred of Germany's betrayal that kept the Russian's fighting against all odds, pouring endless numbers of men and women into the war only to die. Russia's death toll was the highest of all the allies, a fact that Ivan held close to his heart, and since then Ivan had made it his duty to make Ludwig's and Gilbert's life a misery and Russia's Germany's. The Berlin wall was a solid brick demonstration of this, a stony verification of hatred and power. The fact that England had tired to help them probably didn't help matters in reality, not with Ivan's more that usual obsession with the small nation.

Arthur, Ludwig mused, liebes klein Arthur. If Gilbert wasn't involved in this mess he supposed he'd feel sorry for him, a nation caught between two powers and having no real power of its own to speak of, but Arthur was never one to pity and Gilbert was a more urgent matter to him. So what did Ludwig feel for the nation now? The dullness of a once present ache maybe, even satisfaction that Arthur was finally suffering and falling, even if it was by another's hand. He knew it was self-indulgent to think like that, but two wars with a man you once loved would do that.

In this war Arthur would have to sit in America's shadow, working behind the scenes to stop Alfred doing something very stupid like pressing a big red button saying 'the end of the world' as well as keeping Ivan in check and doing his duty towards the non Soviet states. In truth Arthur was almost powerless in this war a feeling Ludwig knew Arthur hated above anything else, even his self inflicted loneliness. What Ludwig couldn't work out is why all of a sudden the crabby tempered Brit was on his mind.

'Ludwig', a voice called from behind him, the familiar British brogue cutting though his thoughts and despair. And like that Arthur emerged almost as if he crept out of Ludwig's mind and into reality, dressed in a thick green coat, the collar pulled up to his nose. It was almost comical if not so depressing.

'Herr Kirkland…,' Ludwig addressed stiffly. 'What do I owe for the pleasure of this surprise visit?'

'Nothing, I'm not here to see you. I need passage into the East and this way is just as good as any, easier even. The more the East has the happier it is. Strange that this wall business hasn't changed that.'

It was a nasty reply, the words stinging unforgivably at Ludwig, but he hadn't expected any comfort from the older man.

'No, but this time it is Russia that gets all the spoils that wander into the East not my brother. What business do you have there? You finally handing yourself over to the Communists?'

'My business is none of your business kraut' Arthur sniffed angrily, bringing out a delicate handkerchief to wipe at his nose. All the recent shock of cold weather, bottles of whisky and chronic stress were playing havoc with his immune system. Being in Germany also dug up unwanted memories of Queen Victoria's reign and World war Two, creating conflicting feelings, feelings he didn't want to deal with. As always he swallowed the bitterness and pushed past Ludwig.

'You _are_ going to Russia then' Ludwig called after him.

Arthur was now at the checking station, showing his papers to two very confused West German soldiers, obviously baffled as to why anyone would want to escape _into_ the East.

'Yes' Arthur replied 'to reason with him'.

'And Gilbert….?' the question slipped out from Ludwig, a lump forming around the name.

Arthur stopped but did not look round. 'I will see what I can do for him.'

A second later and Arthur had disappeared betwixt the mine and wire filled walls, leaving Ludwig westward and conflicted.


	8. Vodka cures all

Ivan was sitting in his makeshift workshop, which he had thrown haphazardly together in one of the many rooms of his house, busy carving a new doll when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. Putting down his tool reverently he strolled towards the door and out into the expansive corridor. The door bell rang again impatiently. Smiling to himself Ivan wondered who it was that was so desperate to see him. Opening the door he smiled benevolently at his unknown guest.

'How may I help you,' asked Ivan charmingly. He squinted his eyes at the covered figure, presently shivering under a thick coat, long scarf and ushanka, all of which covered any recognisable features, standing at his door.

'You could let me in for a start, its bloody freezing,' said a male voice from behind the scarf, irritable and British.

'Arthur!' Ivan explained happily, 'I didn't realise you were coming so soon! Come in you look freezing'.

With pleasantries done with Arthur pushed his way past Ivan into the warmness of the house. 'Yes I had forgotten how cold Russia can get'. Gloved hands wrung together for friction and warmth. It had been many years since his last visit to Russia and Arthur had truly forgotten how biting Russia was this time of year. Hastily he took of his coat, scarf and hat, glad to rid of the snow ridden things.

'It has been a while since your last visit hasn't it, too long.' Ivan parodied Arthur's thoughts, taking his discarded outwear and putting them up to dry. Idly he noticed that the usual red and gold badge had been torn off the hat, but that did little to discourage his good mood. Arthur was here in the flesh…. and by the looks of it still freezing. Arthur's shirt, also wet with the troublesome snow, was causing the smaller man to shiver. 'How rude of me, I will get you a spare set of clothes. Would you like to go through to the entertaining room, it is warmer. You do remember how to get there yes? Down the corridor, fourth…..'

'Yes, yes I remember' Arthur cut in. 'Thank you'.

Wearisome from his long journey to Russia Arthur made his way absentmindedly towards the entertaining room (or lounge as he would have preferred to call it), subconsciously remembering each corner and inch of the house, using his memories as a map.

In all these years the house hadn't changed much keeping its fine Imperialist décor and feel. However despite its grandeur and familiarity Arthur couldn't help but notice a few radical changes. Stalin's portrait now stood proudly in each room plaguing every spare surface, some photographs lovely decorated with the communist flag. Many of the old trinkets and dolls had also been removed from their shelves, replaced with weaponry, photographs of the Soviet states and Soviet propaganda. Finally Arthur reached his destination and flopped boneless into the fraying couch.

A gentle hand at his shoulder startled him. Ivan stood next to him jumper in hand, soft expression on his face. Arthur blushed embarrassedly. Had he been asleep? How long had he been asleep? And more importantly how long had Ivan been standing there watching him sleep?

'Here', Ivan said offering Arthur the jumper. 'Maybe I should get Ravis to make up the spare guest room, you look tired'.

Taking the jumper Arthur shook his head, there was no way he spending the night. 'I'm only here to reason with you Ivan, not stay'.

Ivan's expression dropped a little. 'Reason with me? What have I done?' he asked taken aback, eyes wide and puppy like.

'Don't play games Ivan; you know exactly what you have done' Arthur snapped not fooled by the look of innocence adorning Ivan's strong features. 'And can you turn your back I can't change with you staring at me like that….' An almost sheepish expression past Arthur's face.

Ivan did so without fuss but looked back secretly when Arthur's head was lost in the beige woollen jumper and to his shock he noticed Arthur had lost a lot of weight, his ribs protruding unsightly from under his skin casting famished valleys, forgetting to turn away again when Arthur's head resurfaced.

Arthur sniffed crossly but didn't say anything. Subconsciously he pulled at the jumper. 'Didn't you have anything smaller?'

But Ivan hadn't heard, too busy examining Arthur and the changes five years had brought. The customary attitude problem did little to hide the real state Arthur was in, failed to masked his sallowing skin and the incessant shake of his hands, or soften the dark circles bruising the underside his eyes. The big jumper only accentuated each ghastly point rather than giving Arthur the cute-in-a-big-baggy-jumper look.

'You look terrible,' he said quietly, worry lacing his voice. 'Are you sick?'

'Too right I'm fucking sick,' exploded Arthur, cheeks reddening in a parody of health. 'I'm sick of this mockery of a war, sick of all the bloody tension between you and Alfred, and fucking pissed off with this Berlin wall business! Are you trying to get the whole world killed!'

Ivan's eyes darkened at the mention of Alfred and the Berlin wall. 'The Berlin wall is none of your business. The West is mine and rightfully Communist'. His voice hardened.

'And Gilbert?' Arthur asked more boldly than he felt.

'None of your business and why should it be? Why be concerned about an abolished nation, a nobody, no….a creature less than a nobody'. Ivan was pacing now frustrated. 'Why do you insist on helping them? They left you Arthur and didn't care'.

The room was getting colder and the air thick with animosity. Arthur let out a hacking cough and swayed under the oppressive atmosphere. Ivan was at his side, calm and kneeling.

'I would never leave you, not for a second. But I need you to let me in, need you to listen to me, give in to me, only then can I protect you from the world.' He raised his hand to Arthur forehead, cold palms heated by blazing skin. 'You _are_ sick'.

Arthur's moaned as the cold hit his head which was currently spinning and pounding, and gripped at Ivan's forearm to steady himself. 'It's just a cold', he insisted 'and maybe fatigue, its been a long journey'.

'No Comrade, not just a cold but fever. Looks like you are staying after all. Can't have you wandering about and catching your death. That would be no good at all'. With that Ivan pulled Arthur up from the sofa and directed him through a maze of blurring halls and endless stairs towards one of the empty bed rooms, of which there wasn't many nowadays. Once in the room Ivan manoeuvred a more passive Arthur, exhausted by the transition, onto the bed and removed his shoes tenderly. Arthur had always hated shoes on the bed.

'Stay, I will get medicine', Ivan ordered before disappearing again. However in Arthur's quickly deteriorating state hadn't realised that Ivan had gone and come back again until he felt those rough palms sliding up his borrowed jumper.

'Wha….what are you doing? Geroff…' he muttered weakly, tugging the jumper down again fighting Ivan's exposure of his skin, but ultimate loosing against the larger nation.

'Turn over I need you on your front for this to work'. Firm hands steadied Arthur's sides, thumbs and fingers itching to get at skin.

'You need what….?' Arthur babbled scandalized, once again squirming and pulling at the jumper.

'Vodka rub.' Ivan interrupted frankly, knocking away his frantic hands and flipping him tenderly onto his front. 'Good for colds'.

'Vodka rub…..' Arthur parroted back incredulously, images of Alfred and his burger-on-the-head cold cure swimming about his eyes. Now on his front Arthur could do little to stop Ivan from pushing his jumper all the way up past his shoulders and off over his head. 'What nonsense….umpf!'

Calloused hands were at once at his back, marking and soothing him with wet heat, strong fingers pushing and kneading away at the incorrigible knots that had formed unchecked throughout the Cold War, shutting up any further comments. Confident digits trailed across his spine, placating palms pushed at his shoulders and sturdy thumbs caressed the acres of skin before them, finding soft skin and hard bone in their wake. Ivan's voice sighed behind him concernedly as they found those valley shadowed ribs.

'This is no good Arthur, you are missing meals. Missing meals make you sick, Leningrad taught us that much. Must you be so irresponsible for your own health?'

'I'm not missing meals' came a sulky muffled reply, the previously acidic tongue mollified by each sweep of Ivan's hands and surprised by the warmth of the vodka against his skin.

Ivan grunted a noncommittal sound and delicately poured more vodka into his hands, careful not to spill any of the precious liquid, before meticulously rubbing it into every inch of Arthur he could reach. 'You need more meat on you, maybe I should ask Katyusha to make you some good Russian food, yes? Make you stronger, healthy'.

Again Ivan poured vodka onto his hands and set to work. With each top up of vodka his hands trailed southwards towards once more familiar ground, familiar but uncharted- last time he touched Arthur like this they were in a dug out, clothed and jig-sawed together to retain heat. Daringly Ivan's fingers moved to excavate the skin of Arthur's lower back and hips, reading these new pages by Braille and memorising them. Ivan smiled, despite the fond memory of Arthur being so close to him back at the foxhole skin would always win over scratchy uniforms.

Dipping into the hollows of Arthur's hips Ivan explored this territory slow and calm, savouring the smoothness there, conquering….. That thought startled him, pleased him even but almost broke his resolution. Reluctantly Ivan drew his hands away from the expanse of skin and slowed down his breathing, trying to keep his less comradely thoughts in check. All this warm and vulnerable skin lay out and open under him was almost too much to handle and made him want more, more skin, more contact, more Arthur. But he wouldn't, not until Arthur surrendered himself willingly to him. Despondently he rested his forehead against Arthur's back.

'Better?' he murmured into the alcohol drenched skin, his own deep Russian vowels reverberating back onto his lips, the taste of sweet vodka and Arthur almost kissing them.

His question was answered by a groggy 'hmmmmm' and the subconscious push of Arthur's buttocks against his chest as he tried to bury himself into the bed.

Ivan stayed like that, mouth against Arthur's back, until Arthur's breathing slowed (which in all reality didn't take more than a minuet) and fell into a dead like sleep, only then did Ivan leave.


	9. The Room

The worn out sofa, its cushions fraying at the edges and once holly green covers covered in a grey film, stood like a bold statement in the otherwise empty room. He had seen this sofa before, recognised its contours, but couldn't place it or remember why this piece of furniture was so familiar and yet so distant in his memories. Slowly he walked towards it, leaving foot prints upon the grimy ground, and ran his curious fingers over the seats. Dust…..the film covering the sofa was dust like a big grainy blanket, and it was everywhere. It clung to his fingers as he left snail like trails on the grey green before him, the particles shooting violently into the air angry at the disturbance, clogging his airway as he took a sharp intake of breath. It covered the peeling walls and caked the cracking floor like an ominous shroud. The air was thick with it.

Dazed he brought his dusty finger to his lips and wiped them over his mouth, licked at them nervously and tasted vodka and musty decay. It felt wrong, this room felt wrong and he felt wrong. The vague feeling that something bad had happened here crept into his mind, but for the life of him he couldn't remember what had happened, or what was about to. As he tired to dig through his memories voices welled up from behind two doors that were not there before, one demanding and the other pleading. Both voices were at once familiar and disguised, giving him the conclusion that the dust must somehow be messing with his judgement. It was in this moment he knew he had to leave right now, needed to get away or else he'd be swallowed up by this dusty room forever. But which door to take? He looked at both of the doors facing on opposite walls from each other. Left or right…? He couldn't decide.

Then almost as soon as they came both voices stopped, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind to accompany him in this dying room, before the silence turned to low whine, and the whine into a deafening roar. Arthur screamed as the room shattered into a million bright slithers and burnt his flesh away.


	10. Bad Morning

Arthur awoke with a start and a yelp, throwing his arms protectively across his face and startled an already on edge Ravis, who was in the process of drawing back the curtains.

'S..sorry Mr. Kirkland!' Ravis stuttered, the tray in his free arm rattling from shock, its china contents clinking together in alarm. 'Ivan sent me up here to offer you breakfast,' he hastily added, the need to explain himself ingrained into his bones.

'Braginski…? Ivan…?' Arthur murmured confusedly before the memory of last night hit him like a tonne of bricks to the face. 'Ahhhhhh…. I am in Russia aren't I?'

'Yes…..on a visit to Ivan. You got sick and stayed over.' Ravis knitted his eyes together worriedly. Ivan had mentioned to him that Mr. Kirkland had been ill last night, but the fact that Arthur had forgotten where he was made him more uneasy than ever. Ivan would not be pleased. Awkwardly he made his way to the bed and offered Arthur (who was in the process of sitting up and looking bewildered) a tray laden with hot tea, a bowl of Kasha and a plate of sweet Syrniki.

'Thank you Ravis,' Arthur replied still a little baffled about the situation, before taking the tray stiffly and placing it upon his lap. 'This is quiet a feast…..' Looking up at Ravis Arthur gave him an awkward but kind smile, to ease Ravis' skittish behaviour. It had gotten worse over the years under Ivan's control and Arthur felt guilty for England's poor reaction towards Latvia's occupancy by Russia back in 1940. Yet another failure on his behalf, just like Gilbert and Ludwig….

'Yes, Mr. Braginski said you were sick, so Katyusha cooked you a big breakfast to make you strong again. How are you feeling?'

'Better thank you. I suppose I have to eat all of it?' Arthur asked despite knowing the answer and poured himself a cup of tea. The smell of orange spiced tea invaded his nostrils and was pleasantly received. There was nothing quiet like a hot cup of tea in the morning, especially this tea. He had tried to make it himself at home before, but it hadn't tasted right, downright awful actually (not that he would admit it of course). This however was pure heaven, the sweet spices erasing the bazaar decay taste that had logged itself unexplainably in his tongue.

Ravis just nodded dumbly in reply to his question before sitting in a small arm chair opposite him, watching him eat expectantly, making the situation feel a more like an inquisition than breakfast. It had been years since they had last talked, with Ivan cutting their ties forcibly after World War Two, so he was happy to see Arthur, he truly was. Yet seeing him here, sitting and breathing under Ivan's roof, also made him nervous. Ivan had been talking about Arthur increasingly since the start of the Cold War, innocent stories of their history together becoming more obsessive as the war dragged on. Ivan wanted Arthur to become 'one with him', with them, which would mean England falling to Russia. Ravis remembered what had happened after Ludwig and Gilbert tried to cohere Arthur (and England) into 'becoming one' with Germany….World War One and subsequently World War Two. Joining with Russia would also anger America, which at the going rate could cause the end of the world.

After a tense few minutes spent in silence Arthur cleared his throat and made for polite conversation to break the forming ice. 'So how are you? Ivan treating you well?'

Not the best question in hindsight.

Ravis flustered and stuttered, his mind whirring to make a suitable answer which wouldn't end with Ivan's empty smile and harsh hand. 'It would be nice not to have Ivan pushing down on me all the time, but it is how it is.' It was a good enough answer.

'I'm sorry we couldn't help, England that is.'

'Not your fault and as I said, it is how it is.' For a nation in a boy's body, Ravis was a wise old man, learning that acceptance was the only way to survive. It was rather cruel really and Arthur felt even more wretched. Did he do this to his colonies? He couldn't bare thinking about it. Forcing down the last of his breakfast Arthur started to look around the floor for his clothes from the modesty of the bed, attempting to dispel those unruly thoughts of conscience.

'I don't suppose you have seen a shirt have you, or any items of clothing for that matter…. I seem to be missing mine' Arthur asked mortified as he discovered that his clothes were no where to be seen. He didn't remember anything untoward happening last night… Ivan was being rather civilised actually.

'Yes, of course, I will fetch you some. Wait here please.' Ravis replied, Arthur's dilemma unnoticed, before taking the emptied tray from Arthur and leaving him.

Once alone Arthur pulled back the covers, swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Unfortunately for him his button and fly were undone, causing his trousers to fall to the floor in a heap around his ankles and trip him. With an ungracious 'haoomf' he fell face forward and landed hard on the ground, skin slapping against the wood. Swearing and squirming around on the floor he hurriedly he bent over to retrieve his trousers and pull them back up but stopped as he noticed a few small fingernail shaped welts on the skin of his stomach and pelvis. Suddenly the feeling of Ivan's fingers on his skin resurfaced and how they rubbed themselves deep into his knots and bruises, marking him with invisible words written in vodka stating _Ivan was here_…. Arthur's fists clenched as he beat away the thought that almost followed…..the thought threatening to say that he would be there again… whilst totally missing the fact that Katyusha had walked into the room to investigate the bang and was presently staring at him half naked, trousers round his ankles, bent double, squirming about the floor like an eel out of water and frustrated in all senses of the word.

It all went to hell when Ravis entered the room arms full of clothes causing the door to swing shut with a loud thud, causing Arthur to become horrifically aware that he was not alone in the room and that he must look like a total tit.


	11. To Bite the Banya Bullet

_Thanks again to all of you who have reviewed! It means a lot to me and I am glad so many people are reading this haha. Sorry about the lack of updates, life has been super hectic and I am a really slow author. I will try my best to finish this story, but it may take awhile. _

Now clothed, washed as best as he could in the small sink of the bathroom, and feeling as if he had regained at least some of his damaged dignity Arthur sat at the kitchen table, watching Katyusha making a borsch luncheon for later. He had offered to help but was promptly turned down with a, 'You are a guest Mr. Kirkland,' and was offered another cup of soothing tea to occupy himself with.

Looking over at Arthur's serious expression, his eyes boring imaginary holes into his cup, Katyusha couldn't help but smile. She thought the whole incident was rather funny and endearing, promising not to tell any one else what had happened after Arthur came down scarlet faced and clumsily tried to explain the situation, ever the Gentleman. It was strange seeing Arthur like that, vulnerable and human. She remembered the stories Ivan used to tell her of how strong Arthur was and how many colonies England had captured, remembered the time Ivan told her voice with glee that they were at war against each other and how Russia had called out for England's aid before turning to anyone else during the Second World War when Germany betrayed them. He would be a good man for Ivan to become one with, to balance him- be the fire to his ice, and England would be a great asset to Russia and thus to them.

Ravis on the other hand had been mortified on Arthur's behalf, and at the time of the incident threw the freshly acquired clothes on top of Arthur to hide his shame, asked politely for Katyusha to leave and hid for the rest of the day with Toris and Eduard. To Arthur's credit he didn't swear or get angry, not until Katyusha left anyway, and firmly blamed Ivan for the whole mess.

'Thank you for the breakfast earlier on and sorry about all that erm nonsense….' Arthur lamely stated for the sixth time that morning wanting nothing more than to crawl under a rock and hide for a few hundred years but instead resolved to save face and man up. He could really do with a drink right now. That and a bath as he still reeked of alcohol and the smell was making his cravings even worse.

Curiously, at the precise moment of Arthur wishing for a bath, Ivan chose to bound his way into the room loudly, slamming the door against the adjacent wall and effectively cutting off all forms of conversation between Arthur and Katyusha.

'Arthur you are up, wonderful!' Ivan beamed with alarming pleasantness, his hands grasping a rather strange handful of what looked like old dried twigs. 'And you eaten too, very good timing'. Ivan's smile turned to Katyusha, who gave him a polite nod in return.

Puzzled, Arthur let out or rather slow 'Yes', his mind ticking away furiously to decode this strange new behaviour. It unnerved him and annoyed him.

'The only thing left', Ivan carried on enigmatically, 'is a trip to the banya as I am sure you would like to wash away that vodka smell, no?'

There was that smile again, directed at Arthur like a white hot pin point, a smile that was pleasant on the outside but calculating on the inside, a parallel of the man himself. Hesitantly Arthur weighed up his options of avoiding the banya and thus smell like an alcoholic for the rest of the day but safe from Ivan's hidden calculations, or to bite the bullet, have a wash and take anything thrown at him head on.

In the end he chose to bite the bullet and followed Ivan out into the cold air.

Ivan led him quickly and silently to the back of the house where the small wooden shack of the banya stood, and motioned him to get inside with a nod of his head. Arthur had been in one before along time ago, when he had first visited Russia and was keen to learn its culture and in return teach Russia England's. However this had been over a hundred years ago and Arthur couldn't remember the banya etiquette, so hovered uncertainly about the door way before a strong hand guided him firmly through it.

'So nervous Arthur, it is not like you have not seen one before.' Ivan taunted and followed him through the wooden frame into the buildings minimal depths.

The entrance had benches to sit upon and clothes pegs on the wall to hang clothes on, which were already being utilised by Ivan who had already got his shirt and trousers off whilst Arthur was busy coming back with a retort, venomous words lodging themselves deep in his throat at seeing Ivan's half naked muscled mammoth of a body. Ah yes, bathing meant being naked Arthur recalled heatedly, cheeks already turning red as Ivan pulled off the last of his clothes unashamedly, his bottom pushed out and open whilst getting of his boxers. Quickly Arthur pulled his eyes away and focused on anything that wasn't Ivan, fiddling with the buttons of his borrowed shirt.

'You need help with that, _comrade_?' Ivan asked voice playful and knowing, naked body closing in and towering over Arthur, filling up his view again with Ivan, Ivan, Ivan.

'No,' Arthur spat back, turned away and pulled the shirt off over his head before tackling his trousers with an air of forced defiance. Once free of all clothing he turned to Ivan and glared, covering his genitals with his hands as Ivan's gaze dropped a little below the comfort zone. 'Well?' Arthur asked briskly and nodded his head towards the next room.

The next room was the wash room, and whilst Arthur busied himself with washing his body with cold water from the tap Ivan poured water into the rock chamber, which hissed and sizzled away, before washing himself as well. A little while later the sauna compartment was thick with steam and both men entered its enveloping heat. Much to Arthur's horror there were only two pale wooden benches in the room, both facing each other, making it impossible to hide his body and any unfortunate bodily reactions from Ivan. Resigned he sat on the nearest bench, the heat of the bench scolding his bottom painfully and placed his hands firmly in his lap. Ivan sat on the opposite bench lucidly, hands hanging down beside him, showing Arthur everything front wise and moaned appreciatively. Arthur swallowed hard.


End file.
