Abducted

30

When he opened his eyes, he could see light. The red light that was filtered through the sheets hanging around the bed. The light from the window that had been left open through the night. The glossy light on the floors. The fluffier light on the bed. The jagged light that fell onto Ivan.

His chest rose and fell. He was still asleep. Alfred slumped down beside him, a familiar feeling welling up in his gut. Alfred reached out with a tender palm and found his cheek, before moving to his lips.

When he found them, he leaned forward.

Ivan woke up almost immediately, a hand wrapping around his neck, knotting into his hair. Alfred let out a sigh, pecking him again before rolling onto his back. Ivan caught the memo and moved on top of him, pressing against his body experimentally.

"Good morning," Ivan whispered in his ear, before nibbling on it. Alfred shifted, wrapping his arms around the others neck and rubbing the back of his head.

"Good morning to you too," he sounded a lot less groggy than Ivan. He looked up into his eyes and saw the way the light danced on his skin, pressing a kiss just below his eye. Ivan ran his hands down his sides.

"Are you sure about this?" Ivan mumbled pressing a kiss just below his other ear, "You're still so injured, I don't want to make anything worse."

"I'll be fine," Alfred whispered, his head dipping back into his pillow as he felt Ivan on his neck, licking and nipping everywhere sensitive with precision. This just proved something else to Alfred- not long ago they had an intimate relationship. Then something happened, maybe it was when he was kidnapped, or something, and they stopped.

Ivan muttered something in Russian against his skin, and he went into a flashback. First, it was a situation similar to this, but the lightness in his body and the shaking in his hands told him that he was much younger when this scene took place. He could see Ivan, but only in his mind. If you showed him a picture he wouldn't recognize him.

What time had this been? Sometime in the 1800s?

He hadn't thought that the Russian would take up his offer, but the adoration in his eyes said that he always would. He could feel the kisses against his throat, the little whispers that told him he was okay, that he wouldn't be hurt anymore, ever again. Hurt again?

England. England was green-eyed as well, almost the same as the ones who haunted him in his dreams, who made him weak and used him and tried to make him docile because he was afraid.

Ivan had taken care of him. Ivan had been the one in his bed, telling him it was alright as he told him his nightmares. He had always looked so tired back then, even before. He remembered that thick scar that ran across his neck, one he had kissed because it was all he could do. He remembered at dusk that Ivan left, back to his own country, and then was back again in twelve hours.

Wait.

What?

How had that been managed?

Magic. Alfred knew how to do teleportation magic. And if Alfred wasn't around, Zaltana would do it.

The second was Ivan glaring at him, brandishing his pipe like it was a weapon. He heard his words somewhere deep in his chest, and they practically caused him to flinch.

"You and thirteen other countries," Ivan sounded so hurt, "why would you invade me?! Baby, I love you, but it's only change."

His fingers knotted deeper into his hair, and he pressed a kiss to the top of his head. He didn't know exactly when that had taken place, but he remembered it vividly. That was the day that he and Ivan had broken up. He didn't know how long it had been since then.