A/N: Alright, so, a while ago (back when the dinosaurs roamed the earth, I'm sure -_-) I read 'The Trumpeter's Lullaby' written by whitetyger123 and schoolgirl-cheesesculpture and it hit me for a six. It was the first fanfiction on this site that managed to bring me to tears. It was extremely poignant, and it pretty much begged me to write an (unofficial) epilogue just for some closure as the ending of the fic itself is rather ambiguous. Seriously, if you're in the mood to read something heartbreaking, go take a look.

Basically to understand the first half of this little oneshot (ha! little...), you'll need to know what happened in Trumpeter's. So here's a basic rundown of the story (if you aren't planning on reading it or haven't read it yet):

Alfred is a busker in New Orleans and he plays the trumpet (I guess you probably got that from the title of the fic...) and Ivan, having come over from Russia, hears him playing and he's enchanted by Alfred and his skills. [SPOILERS AHEAD] at first, the reader is led to believe that Ivan's just a lonely soul and needs some TLC. Despite some sinister undertones, the reader can accept Ivan's quiet and somewhat possessive nature because he's lonely. Until Ivan snaps, that is. He defiles the "angel" that he sees in Alfred and the reader is shown Ivan's insanity. It all falls apart and it ends when Ivan leaves after Alfred refuses to kill him.

I guess what I found so tragic about it was the fact that such a precious relationship had been built up between the two only to be brutally torn apart, and I truly thought that it was going to have the fabled happy ending that most stories have. [/spoiler]. I'm not promising that you'll cry, so don't sue me if you don't! I may have been a tad emotional and sensitive that evening, but it truly is a very depressing fic. But for what it is, it is quite beautiful.

This oneshot has two parts: an "ending" to Trumpeter's, and a very short exploration of a second chance through reincarnation. Yes yes yes I know – its a little cliché but so? I hadn't planned on writing it that far, and you don't have to read it, it's not essential and it has nothing to do with the first part of the oneshot, but I wanted the Alfred and Ivan from Trumpeter's to have a really happy ending. And I think that given how great and charming Alfred was in Trumpeter's, I wanted him to have a second chance. I wanted Ivan to have a second chance, too. The second part is set in another alternate world, but the characters are more representative of America and Russia in Hetalia (i.e. sans Orleans-accent!Alfred).

A few warnings:

Sensitive/mature subjects (an act of suicide and sex)

Cheese. Melt-y, gooey cheese. [/author's notes turned mini essay]

Enjoy!

...

I don't own Hetalia, Trumpeter's Lullaby or Mumford and Son's' Thistle and Weeds

...

Spare me your judgments and spare me your dreams
'Cause recently mine have been tearing my seams
I sit alone in this winter clarity that clouds my mind

Alone in the wind and the rain you left me
It's getting dark, darling, too dark to see
And I'm on my knees, and your faith in shreds, it seems...

Spare Me

Part I: One Year after Ivan...

-o-

Just for one day, Alfred would have liked to escape the hell that he faced with each passing day.

Just for one day, he would have liked to wake up with a smile on his face, with a mind clouded only by the falling fogginess of sleep.

Just for one day, he would have liked to admit that he had a friend. A special, close friend that he could trust with his whole life.

But what had happened was real, burned into his skin and his mind forever. Alfred couldn't escape the hell he faced with each passing day because everywhere he looked (which, most of the time, happened to be within the limits of what his bedroom and kitchen windows would allow him to see) he would see the people he used to play for, dancing and singing and living to a different tune. His heart yearned for a time when he could play for them once more – a time that he knew would never really come.

And it was all Ivan's fault.

Alfred never woke up with a mind clouded only by the falling fogginess of sleep because those violet eyes, treacherous like the ocean's tide, were on his mind before he went to bed, woven through his dreams, present when woke with a start after another nightmare. He'd tried to put an end to it once or twice by hitting his head as hard as he could over and over again, hoping to black out and wake up with no memory of those eyes or that thick Russian accent that would often haunt the breezes that blew past his ears.

How could he have not known? There were so many signs that he was just too fucking blind to see, just because he was happy. The way he watched him, the way he watched the other people who'd come over to hear him play. Oh, the blissful cruelty of hindsight...

Alfred remembered the last time he had been so truly happy was when he and his little brother had run away from home because their father had yelled at them, and they spent the day together down by the small lake not a hundred yards from their backyard. They talked and laughed and played and by the time soft afternoon sun was just peaking up from the horizon, ready to disappear for the night, they'd forgotten their troubles and were ready to go back home for supper.

This was a week before the accident that took his brother and his parents away from him.

Alfred told himself he would never ever forget his little brother, and despite what he'd gone through, his innocent smiling face stayed locked away safely in his most special, secret memories, reserved for the times where he was lost and it seemed as though there was no way out. His brother's memory was like a beacon, guiding him back home, back to the memory of true happiness and love, just in case he ever forgot what they felt like.

And then there was Ivan. Although awkward and introverted, he reminded Alfred that he could be happy again, that he didn't have to be alone forever. He was special, they were close, and he'd trusted him with his whole life. The Russian brought him money, made him feel as though the music he was making was worth something for once, that it wasn't just a few notes thrown together to entertain people. Of course Alfred had never thought of music that way, but he hadn't believed that the music he made with his beloved instrument was worth all that much.

But Ivan had ripped all of that away from him without reason or rhyme. Alfred shown him all the kindness in the world, all that he had to offer and more. Hours after it happened, as he was lying there, a trembling mess, feeling himself bleeding still, he wondered whether something had happened to make the Russian snap. Surely nobody could be so naturally cruel? His rational, realistic side chastised him for being so naive.

He was a creep from the beginning and I just ignored it. I mistook his quietness for shyness and loneliness. I should have seen that something was seriously wrong...

The fighter, the resilient believer within him, was willing to reason that there was more to it.

But I was lonely too...

It was only in the past month that the American had started going out and playing his trumpet again. The first time he'd picked it up after he'd been so brutally used, he could only picture Ivan watching him, being moved by each rich brass note. He promptly put the instrument down and was sick.

But Alfred was determined not to let what Ivan had done to him ruin his life forever. He loved playing his trumpet more than anything else in the whole world. It was loud and expressive like he was, and he was only really able to express his true self through playing music, so there was no way in hell he'd be able to give it up and never play again. So he took it one day at a time, slowly, until he was able to play as boldly and as confidently as he had in the past.

Alfred knew it would be a long time before he could play beneath that tree or on that moonlit street corner again. There had been a recent boom and many small clubs, bars and cafes had opened, so Alfred picked up a few gigs here and there, making more than enough money to live comfortably. The vibrancy of the crowds, the scent of cigar smoke, the bright lights and laughter; all of it allowed him to live again.

-o-

The blond fixed his hat in the mirror and grinned at his reflection. He had the best line up for tonight's gig – he'd been practicing all day. The muscles around his mouth were still a little worn out but it wouldn't matter once he was up on that stage – he would only feel the pulse of the adrenaline flowing through his veins as he played his heart out for his audience.

As he played, drinking in the mesmerised gazes from the audience watching him there on the stage, he spotted a couple seated at one of the back tables. Two men, one petite with large cinnamon coloured eyes and a dreamy smile on his face; the other was much larger, blond, stern and scary looking. Alfred's stomach lurched slightly. That larger guy looked menacing as he put his arm around the smaller man and the American wondered how he managed to make it to the end of the piece. His mind was just screaming victim...

The audience whistled and applauded enthusiastically, but it was like white noise in Alfred's ears as he watched the couple put down their money on the table and leave. Alfred hastily left the stage so he could pack up and follow the two. He didn't know them, they were perfect strangers, but somehow...god, he just knew...

Alfred spotted the couple beneath a large tree, the silver moonlight revealing their figures. The blond had his smaller partner up against the sturdy truck, attacking his lips with his own. The brunette's hands grasped at those muscular forearms.

Before he could comprehend what he was doing, Alfred had lunged at the taller male and pushed him to the ground. He started to hit him as hard as he could, ignoring the other's frantic protests.

"It's people like you," he hissed through grit teeth and bitter tears. "It's sick, ugly people like you...!"

"Please—!"

The world spun for a few seconds as Alfred was hit forcefully in the stomach and pushed to the ground.

"Ludwig, don't hurt him!"

Alfred scooted backwards, heels digging into the grass, breathing heavily. The blond in front of him touched a hand to his bleeding lip and shot him a glare.

"What the hell do you think you were doing?" His accent was thick and quite harsh.

Alfred shuddered. "I was saving him from you."

"I didn't need saving," the cinnamon-eyed man said softly, his voice touched with a hint of incredulous, humourless laughter. He knelt down beside the blond and pulled out a handkerchief, holding it up to his mouth, hushing and soothing him softly in another language. Italian, perhaps? "Ludwig wasn't hurting me, sir. We love one another and he would only ever protect me. I know he looks scary but he's really just a big softie!"

There was something in those soft eyes that Alfred was terrified of. When they met his, it was as if he could see inside of him, as if he was uncovering all of his secrets, all of his ugly, shameful scars...

The American gasped and scrambled to his feet and didn't stop running until he reached his home. He was choking on his tears and it was so painful that it felt as though he couldn't breathe at all.

It had been the naivety and willingness to trust, the raw honesty and love in the Italian's eyes that shook Alfred right through to the core. He could admit that he loved another man, and that other man loved him, and Alfred realised that was something he would probably never have.

And it was all Ivan's fault.

Alfred let out a pained, angry shout and buried his face into his hands. Would he always be so haunted by that face?

Was it true that Ivan really wanted love from him? And that's why he had been so irrational and so upset?

No, Alfred couldn't believe that. And he wouldn't, not for a second. The want for love would never drive somebody to act in the way that Ivan had. What Ivan had done was debauched and evil and it was not out of love. Love was beautiful and pure.

And love was obviously not meant for people like Alfred F. Jones.

-o-

Twenty Years After Letting Go...

Alfred and Ivan passed one another on the docks. Alfred didn't look up and his face was obscured by his scarf and the high collar of his coat, so Ivan couldn't have been certain that it was him.

Yet...he was still wearing that hat. It had to be him.

Ivan had been working there since he left Alfred's home almost twenty-one years ago. Even though he was only forty-two (Alfred would be thirty-nine – and to think they'd met when the American was only nineteen. So young, so fragile...) he felt so much older. Whenever he caught his reflection after that day, he always looked so grey, so pale and so tired.

Alfred had started working there over a month ago, and Ivan swore that he had died and gone to Hell and it was the devil's work, torturing him with the vision of the angel he so recklessly and selfishly defiled. From that day, the Russian avoided being within a one-hundred yard radius of the blond. He'd taught himself to feel nothing at all – he was like a machine, lifting, refuelling, shutting down, starting up, driving other machines. But now that reality had presented itself to him and returned the bitter emotions that swirled so effortlessly inside his head and his heart; he had to feel. He had to remember.

Ivan didn't think he looked so different from the last time they'd been together. He wasn't trembling or bleeding or broken, but he didn't look as beautiful as he once had. He supposed that that was his fault – he severed the angel's perfect wings from his perfect back and spat on his halo.

When Ivan passed Alfred, it was the closest he had been to the other for almost twenty-four years. He stopped after he'd taken another few steps and murmured a name. His name. "Alfred. Ангел."

Ivan wasn't sure that Alfred had heard him. He hadn't really intended for him to hear, or maybe he had, he wasn't quite sure, but the American didn't stop. His step only faltered a little, but he didn't stop.

In a perfect world, Alfred would have stopped. They may have exchanged words; they may have shared an awkward silence. Alfred would hesitantly ask him where he was at, and Ivan would momentarily forget and reply with a confused "...here?" And then they would laugh together in reminiscence, only it wouldn't last. A dark cloud would hover over them once again. That time and that place were untouchable, a distant dream. Alfred would tell him quietly that he still played the trumpet from time to time. Ivan would tell him that he couldn't quite remember what his playing sounded like. Together, they would avoid that sensitive subject, that event that hurt them both so much more than either one of them truly realised. Alfred would, perhaps, gently touch his arm and tell him that he was willing to forgive him – life was too short. Ivan would, perhaps, tell Alfred that an angel's forgiveness was something he was not worthy of. Alfred would, perhaps, ask why. Ivan wouldn't be able to give him an answer. And then they would remain silent. Silent, but together.

But it wasn't a perfect world. Alfred kept walking and Ivan kept his eyes on his retreating figure until he disappeared behind a building and didn't come back again. The Russian felt strange, like a jolt had just passed through his legs, as if anticipating him to break into a run. But he remained still. He had no right to chase after Alfred.

And Ivan Braginski knew that that was the last time he would see his angel.

The sky grew darker and the grey clouds seemed as though they were closing in all around him. He watched the ships surge forward, afloat the icy water that looked almost black. He watched as his fellow workers went inside the sheds to take a break for a while. He felt his heart throb inside his chest in fright as he went to the edge of the port.

In a perfect world the water would have been warm and welcoming. The currents would have caressed hi skin, whispered sweet soothing lullabies into his ears. He would have closed his eyes and he would have been at peace.

But it wasn't a perfect world. The water was so icy, so deathly freezing, that he swore his skull splintered from being surrounded by such an extreme temperature. He wrapped his arms and legs around the wooden structure keeping the dock stable to stop himself from floating back up to the surface. He couldn't close his eyes – he couldn't stop watching the darkness edged with deadly green and blue. He felt his lungs constrict under the pressure and slowly he let out the breath he'd been holding, unable to see the bubbles as they swam past his face and to the surface. In frozen agony, Ivan felt himself lose consciousness. Just as he was beginning to feel numb, to fade, he opened his mouth and sucked in as much water as possible and welcomed the feeling of its iciness scold his windpipe and lungs as it poured into his body, despite the screaming adrenaline racing through his system, begging him to stay alive. Stay alive, stay breathing...

Help me, angel...

-o-

Sixty Years After Letting Go...

Alfred lay back on the crisp, sterile pillow, his breath rattling up from his lungs and into the oxygen mask. His vision was already becoming blurred, his body numb, his soul ready to escape and fade away.

At eighty-two years of age, he knew. He'd lived long enough, and he started to think of Death as his long lost friend. He would have Death and he wouldn't have to fear the thought of being lonely anymore.

As the last candle of life burned out, Alfred closed his eyes and clenched his hands, perhaps in uncertainty, perhaps in anticipation. The distance touch of scrunched up piece of newspaper in his palm was the last memory he had of his life on earth.

-o-

December 31

In the early hours of the morning, Eduard von Bock pulled a body from the water, calling out for help. The man had drowned, and had been dead for at least eight hours. There were no signs of violence, so it is a possibility he fell into the water and was unable to save himself, or he intended to end his life.

Bock confirmed that the man was one of his co-workers, Ivan Braginski. He had been an American citizen for just over twenty years with no family to speak of.

His co-workers say he was a quiet individual who mostly kept to himself, but he was hard working and dedicated to his job. He never caused trouble, though reluctant to socialise with others.

'The only time I ever saw him show any form of emotion was when I asked him if he had a wife or other family tucked away somewhere. His mood darkened and his eyes became glassy, like he was trying hard not to cry. He said that he had no one, he was alone, and he didn't deserve the love of a family. He refused to say anything else,' Bock reports. 'I suppose he was just a very lonely man...'

Part II: A Loophole In Eternity...

Alfred lit his third cigarette. He rarely smoked; it was just something he felt the need to do every once in a while, just for that soothing suffocation that couldn't be delivered to him in any other form. It was like a secret. He could mouth the words he could no longer hope to contain anymore into the white cylinder and it would be let out into the world in a translucent puff of grey; others could see it, could make what they wanted of it, yet in the end they'd never know what had truly been said.

The American poured the secret of last night into the air and stubbed the rest of the cigarette onto the cold metal railing he'd been leaning on. Of late, his thoughts had been consumed by death. It was weird; he wasn't a morbid person in the least. But he couldn't undo the path his thoughts went down, he couldn't un-think the words or the images. There was a time and place he visited often in his dreams, and each detail was so vivid that Alfred had a hard time believing it was all those horror movies and gory video games that had anything to do with what he dreamt about. He would wake up in a cold sweat with the word stop on his lips, his pulse rapidly pounding, the distant ache of heartbreak...

So in actuality, it was a nightmare.

Trucks roaring past brought Alfred back to reality. He would have to get going; he didn't want him to worry too much...

On most days, he had no childhood to look back upon. On most days, there was only an empty, infinite darkness and he would see himself reach into it, only to disappear completely. It was sending him absolutely mad and he knew that he needed to have his head fixed. He even wondered at times whether his brain was really actually his brain, or even a brain at all. It could've been just some creature dwelling inside his skull, waiting for the opportune moment—

"Alfred? What are you doing?" A voice asked from behind him. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

Alfred turned his head to look over his shoulder, feeling himself relax and a warm smile play on his lips. "S'up?" It was insanely difficult to look away from those violet eyes that pierced straight into his very soul.

"Are you alright? You look troubled."

Alfred turned around fully and rested his elbows up on the railing. "I'm perfectly fine, Ivan. Don't you go worrying about me so much. You look tired," the blond said quietly, walking up to Ivan and wrapping his arms around his solid middle.

"Nyet. No, I'm not tired." His thick Russian accent sent chills down Alfred's spine; the kiss he planted on top of his head made his skin tingle with pleasant warmth. "How did practice go today?"

"I think we'll be ready for the gig tomorrow night. You're comin', right?"

"Of course."

Alfred snuck his hands beneath Ivan's heavy coat and ran his hands down his sides, relishing in the feel of every round curve of his waist, hips and stomach. Why would anyone want hard rigid muscle when they could have something soft to cuddle up to at night? He looked up and poked his tongue out teasingly. "Good – 'cause I'm the best there is. Wouldn't want you to miss out on my awesomeness."

Ivan chuckled and leant down to plant a gentle kiss on the tip of the American's nose. "You are still the same as you were when I met you."

Alfred ran his hands up Ivan's chest and tangled his fingers into those feathery greyish tresses before gently pulling his head down so he could kiss him. Their lips moved slowly and sensually against one another, caressing, mouths opening to allow their tongues to touch. A car flashed their high beams at them and the horn blared, but Alfred didn't give a shit about what people thought. He flipped them off and pressed himself harder into Ivan, wanting to feel him and his warmth. The first day they met was one Alfred knew he would never forget...

As usual, Alfred was late again. Never mind that he had a huge gig at Friedman's that evening and the director from the best music academy in the States would be there, either.

At least he still had his talent. If there was one thing that Alfred Johnson was good at, it was being late. Seriously, it was a skill; one he'd been perfecting since the age of ten, and he pretty much had it down to a fine art by the age of sixteen. He was also good at making embarrassingly big entrances wherever he went (it wasn't that he was clumsy or anything, no; stuff just happened to be in front of the door or in his way whenever he walked in, that's all). Oh and he rocked the tenor sax, too.

He ran down the flight of stairs from his apartment building and out onto the street where he raced along the pavement towards the studio for a practice/jam session, yelling a few hasty apologies as he almost took out a few little old ladies with his saxophone case as he went. Perhaps when he made enough money he would get one of those fancy cases that he could strap to his back then he would be safe and set.

As he rounded the corner onto Orleans Avenue, he collided with something – a rather large something that let out an "oomph" when he ran into it – and the force caused him to fall backwards onto his backside. He hastily turned his case this way and that, inspecting for any damage. Luckily he hadn't dropped his sax on impact.

"You should really watch where you're going," a thickly accented voice murmured, which startled Alfred into looking up.

"Oh, uh...hi!" He blurted out when he saw what, or more appropriately, whom, he'd run into. A man (holy cow – a really tall huge guy who could pound him into the pavement) with silverish-blond hair and violet eyes was staring down at him with a slightly bewildered and confused look on his face. "Aw geez, sorry 'bout that! I was in a rush and didn't see where I was going..." he trailed off with a sheepish chuckle, flashing the tall stranger a grin.

"I see."

"Hold up a sec," Alfred got to his feet, brushed off his jeans and held out his hand. "Alfred Johnson. I didn't hurt ya did I? I really am sorry."

The stranger held up his hands and smiled slightly. "No, I am fine." He looked at Alfred's hand a little warily.

"Great. Good. Uh...you can shake my hand, you know. I won't throw you to the ground or anything, not that I think I could 'cause you're so much bigger than I am. Not that that's a bad thing or anything!"

"Ah, ok..." The violet-eyed man took his hand and shook it warmly.

"That's quite a grip ya got there. Aw shit, I'm sorry – I'm really late for a sesh so I gotta get going but," he held up his finger, gesturing for the other to wait a moment, and fished around in his pockets before taking out a crumpled piece of paper. "You can have this. Here, take it. It's a free pass to the show tonight at Friedman's. Heard of it? Yeah, I don't need it 'cause I'm gonna be one of the musicians playing there anyway and I think you should come along. I mean, I'd like you to come see me play. I'll buy you a drink after the show and we'll call it even. How's that sound?"

"Thank you," the stranger murmured, turning the pass over in his hands, his whole demeanour seemingly reluctant.

"Not at all – see ya there then." He made to keep on his way before abruptly turning around again. The stranger was still standing there, reading the paper, a subtle hint of a smile on his face. "You didn't tell me your name!"

He started slightly before looking back up in Alfred's direction. "Ivan Borodinskii."

The American grinned. "Russian, huh? I was trying to place your accent. Well, see ya tonight big guy. Take care!"

It had been a year since that day where he'd ran into Ivan on the street and told him to come along to the show at Friedman's. He hadn't even thought that Ivan would show up, but he had and he watched him play, intent on keeping those eyes on Alfred and only Alfred for the entire night. They hadn't really spent a day apart since.

After some time thinking about their chance meeting, Alfred figured that from the moment he had laid eyes upon the Russian, he just knew that he had to get to know him. Looking back, picturing those eyes in his head, there was something about Ivan that silently screamed, begged, for help and warmth and friendship. Somewhere within his heart, Alfred knew that it was up to him to give Ivan the help and warmth and friendship that he needed.

And Alfred hadn't regretted his decision to do just that since. Not even when he found out about Ivan's depression or his psychotic sister did he regret the choice he made to become the Russian's friend.

It had been a year since that day, and their friendship had grown and flourished and the American found that his heart was so full it could burst. His care for Ivan deepened considerably as time went by and he found that whenever Ivan went away, he would miss him. It was like a part of him would die down until he could no longer feel it there and only would he then be complete when Ivan returned to him. The urge to touch him became greater, the desire to kiss him and tell him the senseless musings of his heart became harder to suppress.

Alfred did feel somewhat guilty for feeling the way he did though. Pity and concern for his wellbeing drove his emotions a little, and he knew that if Ivan knew that it would only serve to push them apart. But he genuinely did care about him and he had always accepted him despite his illness and background.

He loved him.

"Come on, it's freezin' out here. You wanna come back to my place?" Alfred asked a little suggestively, and in no time they were hand in hand, walking back to Alfred's small flat in comfortable, anticipating silence.

"I was thinking we should get away for a while. I dunno where to, but it doesn't matter. Just as long as we go together." Alfred was saying as he unlocked the front door and took off his jacket. It was a classic bomber jacket with the fur collar and all. His friend Arthur said he was a complete dick for buying something like that, but it had character just like Alfred, so therefore he believed his purchase was justified.

"Why do you want to get away, Alfred?" There was something in Ivan's voice and it sounded like he was quietly dreading something but trying hard not to show it.

"I want to know what the world's like, and I know I'm not gonna get anywhere by staying here." He crawled beneath the covers and kicked off his pants, throwing them out onto the floor. He'd always had an issue with undressing in front of people, but he couldn't quite put his finger on why. He did let Ivan undress him from time to time but that just made him nervous, but he put on his best grin and teased Ivan about being so gentle. "And I wanna take you to see the Eiffel Tower. I wanna walk with you over the Great Wall of China and I don't know... we could always go to Canada and get married or something."

"You're a sentimental fool," Ivan said lightly as he climbed into bed beside the American, lying on his back and opening his arms in an invitation. "This bed is really uncomfortable."

"That's why I use you as a pillow," Alfred said, poking Ivan's stomach. "But at least it's a bed, right? And hey, if you're so rich and famous, why aren't you off staying in a classy apartment with king sized mattresses and breakfast in bed instead of staying here with me?"

"A very good question, Alfred."

Ivan was a sought after interior designer (Alfred almost had a heart attack when he said he would be redecorating the President's office), whilst he was just a musician, hoping that one day somebody worthwhile would want to give him a proper job or the opportunity to record something. They were both creative but Ivan was on a whole other level and was much too good for Alfred. What was he even doing there with him anyway? When he looked into those violet eyes, he expected to see mild humour but only saw sadness instead. They felt exactly the same – the idea of them being separated or leaving one another was unbearable.

"I was kidding, big guy. I wouldn't want you to be anywhere else," Alfred kissed the Russian's milky shoulder and put on his best brave face.

"Neither would I." After several quiet moments passed Ivan said that he was more tired than he thought. Their chaste goodnight kiss deepened quickly as their hands began roaming, familiarising themselves again with each dip and curve of muscle, each inch of heated skin. Alfred placed his hand between Ivan's legs and grinned devilishly.

"Are you too tired for this?"

They fell into a rhythm almost immediately, Alfred's arms wrapped tightly around Ivan, his finger nails dragging against his sweat-slicked back. Ivan was so big it was a wonder how he fit, but Alfred craved the friction and the pleasurable burn that came with being stretched and filled completely with each thrust. The blond's moans and gasps grew in volume and frequency when the Russian's strong hand worked its way between their bodies to stroke his aching erection and as his hard hip bones ground hard into his inner thighs as his thrusts became more desperate as he sought the relief of release.

But every time, hidden beneath the intense pleasure, the heat of their bodies, the sounds that escape their lips, Alfred could feel the distant call of fear. He loved how Ivan held him and handled him but he was so strong and sometimes not even aware of just how much. He would never hurt Alfred, and a lot of the time he always asked him whether he would like to be on top just so he could be in control, so he could stop whenever he wanted to just in case he was hurting or was getting tired.

Alfred didn't want things to change – everything was perfect. Ivan was perfect, so painfully perfect it almost was too much to look at him and love him on some days. He just didn't want it to be ripped away from him, and he was afraid that every time he closed his eyes, every time he was swept away by the blinding pleasure of his climax, that he would open his eyes again and have nothing.

"I love you," Ivan murmured breathlessly into his ear when they'd fallen away from one another and the fire had died down into smouldering embers in their veins.

"I love you, too," Alfred replied with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He never wanted things to change. He wanted to stay where he was forever.

In the distance, the sound of brass melancholy from a solo trumpet rose above the glittering concrete nightlife of the city, singing them a lullaby as they fell asleep in each other's arms.

Fin.

Thank you all for reading and thank you to whitetyger123 for allowing me to write this ^^

Ангел - Angel in Russian

Until next time...