acatwhowrites: (writer coffee)
A Cat Who Writes ([personal profile] acatwhowrites) wrote2010-09-12 10:20 am

[Fanfic] Drunk Off Desires

Title: Drunk Off Desires
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: general, love, angst
Rating: PG
Warning(s): alcohol
Axis Powers Hetalia and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.

This was a Secret Santa request for a community I cannot remember anymore...I still technically haven't finished it, and I really need to. I just haven't had the motivation or something.
Drunk Off Desires

Toris entered the big, cold house after his knock went unanswered. Standing out in the brisk wind, his knocking had been muffled by thick gloves, but in spite of that, the nation who dwelt in the frozen tundra should have heard him.

Flipping down his hood, the Baltic nation pulled the knit hat from his head and nervously smoothed his brown hair, combing it to some hopefully-decent look with his fingers. “Ivan?” he called. No one answered. The entire house was quiet inside, but Toris thought he could hear a heater thunking in the basement. At least it's on, he thought to himself. Many years ago, when he and his brothers had lived with Ivan, they had to huddle together in order to stand the bitter cold. It never appeared to bother Ivan, but, then again, he always wore a long coat, boots, and thick clothing underneath it all. It was no surprise he was so pale; his skin rarely even felt the open air.

Toris hung up his coat and scarf by the door, pausing to look at the small table beneath a painting of bright sunflowers. It was sepia-toned, and faded with age, but the image was still decipherable. He still has this. It's been nearly a hundred years. The photo showed a smiling girl with curly hair and light eyes, taken the year before her untimely death during the Russian Revolution and overthrow of Czar Nicholas. He really does have a heart.

“Ivan? Are you home? It's Toris.” There was still no answer, and by now the big man would have found him and probably either threatened him to join him or asked him to stay the night. Depending on interpretation, either option meant the same thing, but the brown-haired nation kept his mind focused and ignored his mind's photo montage of past sleepovers with Ivan Braginski.

He walked passed extending halls, closed doors, open doors, sitting rooms, bathrooms, studies, room upon room of empty, cold space that seemed to have lost its colour. Things seem to have taken on a blue-grey tone, donning a coat of dust in attempts to keep warm. Toris glanced in the rooms as he walked by, but seeing the blonde in none of them, he kept going.

At the far end of the house was a living room. It was spacious and homey, with a motif of bright, warm colours and dark wood. Sunflowers decorated the walls as paintings, iron candle holders, and photographs. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, getting low to the logs and ash from neglect. A high-backed sofa sat in front of the fireplace, flanked by matching armchairs. The chairs were vacant, but Toris saw the booted foot and blonde head on either arm of the sofa and sighed. He must've fallen asleep and didn't hear me.

“Ivan...” He walked up to the Russian's head, touching his hair. The man didn't stir. “Ivan?” Toris crouched before him, touching his face. It was ice-cold. His chest was barely rising and falling in his deep slumber. Using his thumb, Toris lifted an eyelid and saw only white with vibrant red veins. “Dammit, Ivan, what've you done?” He shook Ivan's shoulder only to receive no response or acknowledgement.

Toris was beginning to feel cold. His chest was tightening, and his heartbeat had quickened, leaping into his throat as if striving to climb clear out of his mouth. Forcing himself to swallow and breathe deeply, he calmed down enough to grab the blankets from the neighbouring armchairs and drape them over the man's large frame. While tucking the blankets behind his legs, Toris felt the hard shape of a bottle. It was empty and smelled of alcohol. “Vodka.” He pulled out five more empty bottles and found more that had rolled under furniture. “You...you stupid old man!”

Toris piled the bottles in a far corner and picked up the telephone from the side table that held a statue of sunflowers. He dialled from memory, bouncing from foot-to-foot as he impatiently counted rings. Three...four...c'mon, Feliks, I know you're there...

“Hello?”

“Feliks! Finally! It's Toris. I need your help; I dunno what to do. I came to Ivan's, but he didn't answer, and I couldn't find him, but I did find him, only he's not awake, but he's not dead, he's just sleeping or in a coma or something and won't move or anything and I dunno what to do, because he's too big to move by myself, and I dunno if I should call a doctor, or his sisters, or—”

“Whoa! Whoawhoawhoa,” Feliks cut Toris off. He'd been rambling without noticing. “Like, slow down, Toris. I didn't understand, like, a word of what you just said.”

Toris sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “It's Ivan. I don't know what to do, because he's passed out on the sofa right now.”

“...he's just drunk; what's the big deal?”

“No!” Oops. He'd yelled at his friend. “I mean, no, Feliks; he's not just drunk. I think he's passed out from poisoning.”

“Alcohol poisoning?” It was no secret the Russian liked his booze. It was even less of a secret how well he could handle it, though, so it was rare he even got intoxicated, much more rare to be so drunk he passed out.

“I think so.” He frowned, fighting to keep his voice under control. “I think he might've tried to kill himself.”

“After all he's done to you, you really wanna help him?”

Toris sighed, and his voice broke with emotion. “Feliks, please; if not for Ivan, then do it for me.”

“...”

Feliks finally huffed a frustrated sigh. “Okay, fine. I'll help, but, like, call an ambulance for him so he doesn't die sooner.”

“But we're not human, how can—”

“Hey. You asked for my help! Like, oh my God, Liet, just call them. They at least have some idea of what to do.” He was getting impatient with his friend's timid indecisiveness. Sometimes it was cute, but times like now it was downright annoying.

Toris drew in a ragged breath, trying to calm his wild heart. He nodded and pressed the arm cradle down, disconnecting the call. After so long, Ivan still had old telephones. Everything seemed to be old in his house, untouched by time but slowly gathering dust and snow.


Toris sang softly to himself, sitting in the uncomfortable arm chair beside the Russian's bed until he felt something against his arm; Ivan was awake, and it was the back of his hand brushing the Lithuanian's shirtsleeve. “Hey. Why do you sing Russian lullaby? I'm not sleeping.”

“It was just something to do until you woke up.”

“So why a lullaby if you want to wake me up?”

“It-It's the only Russian song I know!” The tips of his ears turned pink as he got flustered.

Ivan touched the back of his hand to Toris' face. “Then you could sing in Lithuanian; you have lovely voice.”

“I'm just happy you're awake,” Toris responded. He knelt on the edge of the hospital bed, leaning over to kiss Ivan's mouth. He tasted like vodka, bitter and strong. There was a sweeter after taste, though, and that's what made it dangerous. One only knew they were addicted until it was too late.

Just like Toris with Ivan.

“I can see you're feeling better.” Ivan and Toris looked to the door to the room. Alfred F. Jones, hero of the world and head of the self-proclaimed 'world police', leaned against the door frame, a small smile on his face. “I was rather upset when I heard you nearly died,” he put his hands in his bomber jacket pockets and approached the men. “We were sad you didn't die! It would've saved us all a lot of time and effort, not to mention money.”

“And you,” the Russian interjected “would be the only super power in the world.”
Alfred's smile widened. “You got it, man.”

“Alfred, please...” Toris said softly. He didn't like the light talk of anyone dying. So many people already died each year.

The big nation waved his hand dismissively, shrugging. “It's just talk, Toris. You know it takes a lot more than a little booze to make this beast keel over!” he laughed. Toris grimaced, looking down at his knees. He felt Ivan's hand at his thigh, just a touch letting him know his feelings were acknowledged and appreciated. “Well,” Alfred raised a hand in closing “I've gotta be in Moscow for a meeting in a bit; I just thought I'd drop by to make sure you weren't dead yet. Life'd be way too boring without you, Braginski.”

“But my life would be more peaceful without you, Jones,” Ivan joked, a tinge of seriousness in his violet eyes. The American flipped him the bird, smiling.

“Love you, too, man. Toris; take care of him, okay?”

“Uh, sure...” Alfred left, and Toris breathed easier. The American and Russian were on better terms than they used to be, but there was still tension when both were in the room.

“Thank you, Toris.” He returned his attention to Ivan, whose hand had never left Toris'. It was strange how comforting the hand was, even though it was very cool and rough. There was a feeling of solidity whenever Ivan was nearby, a force felt just with his presence in a room.

“You don't have to thank me; I was just worried—so worried you were going...going to die,” his voice whispered. Downcast eyes and trembling fingers traced creases into the crisp hospital bedsheets.

Ivan chuckled. “It takes more than vodka to kill me.”

“I'm glad for that.” Ivan frowned, looking worried and sad. He touched Toris' face with his palm, feeling the heat from his cheek. “It's so sad how I want to see everyone smiling, but they never smile at me. I want to see them happy, but I love to see them distressed even more. Right now, I love your distressed face, Toris.” Toris grabbed his hand in both of his, ignoring his wildly beating heart.

“Ivan, I'll smile for you, I'll cry for you, I'll do whatever if you promise not to disappear without telling me.” He squeezed Ivan's fingers. “I can help you; I want to.”

“And if you make him cry I'll make your capital Warsaw.” Feliks flounced into the room, grudgingly holding out a bouquet of carefully cut sunflowers. “From France,” he said. He set his fist on his hip, glaring at the man with a pouty frown. “And if you want to die, make it quick and quiet so Toris doesn't have to, like, totally freak out and worry.”

Ivan accepted the flowers, relaxing into his pillows and touching the soft petals dreamily. “I do apologize for all this; just think it as minor tantrum. It won't happen again.”

“God, it'd better not!” The skinny blonde flipped his hair off his face and took Toris' shoulder. “Doc says to let him sleep; a nurse'll be in to give him medicine.”

“But I can't just—”

Feliks tugged him to his feet, pushing his back so he walked to the door. “Um, yes you can. He's a big boy, he can totally handle taking a little medicine without you holding his hand.” The brown-haired nation cast one last worried look at Ivan; he smiled and waved his flowers. Toris stopped resisting Feliks' persistence and walked properly, slowly calming his thumping heart when Ivan didn't throw and threats or curses. Feliks chattered animatedly in annoyance with how inconvenient and cold Russia was; Toris didn't bother paying attention.

He stopped to talk to the doctor, agreeing that a little rest for himself was a good idea. Tomorrow, he told himself, I'll come back with Alenka candy. That should cheer him up a little...



TBC

(deleted comment)

[identity profile] knjiga-od-caj.livejournal.com 2010-12-02 04:36 am (UTC)(link)
;u; I'm glad you enjoyed it. Fluffy stuff isn't what I usually write, since when I do write it characters seem to get rather out of character...but this story's really fun. The fluff makes the depression easier to sit through. cB

Does that mean I'm successful in communicating emotion so far? :'D

=^..^=~