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Chapter Text

If there was anything even Alfred F. Jones wasn't crazy enough to do, it was challenging Ivan Braginsky to a fight. So why did he find himself standing before his rival, ready to fight him?

Alfred stood in the local park, facing Ivan Braginsky. The air was tense, and the usual surroundings blurred into an indistinct haze. Ivan's eyes were like chips of ice, his posture radiating a calm menace that made Alfred’s stomach twist with a mix of fear and something he couldn't quite name.

"You're not backing down now, are you, Jones?" Ivan's voice was a low, dangerous murmur, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Not a chance," Alfred shot back, though his voice wavered slightly. He clenched his fists, feeling the familiar surge of determination, and lunging first, aiming a punch at Ivan's jaw. Ivan dodged effortlessly, his movements fluid and precise. He countered with a swift jab that Alfred barely managed to block. The impact reverberated through Alfred's arm, reminding him just how strong his rival truly was.

As they exchanged blows, Alfred couldn't help but notice the small details about Ivan that his subconscious seemed to amplify. The way his silver hair caught the light, the intensity in his violet eyes, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed with every movement. But, despite that, Ivan was arrogant, cold, and insufferably perfect.

With a swift kick, Ivan knocked Alfred off balance. He landed hard on the ground, the breath knocked out of him. Ivan loomed over him, his smirk widening. "Is that all you've got, Jones?"

Alfred gritted his teeth and scrambled to his feet, refusing to back down. He charged at Ivan again, their bodies colliding in a flurry of punches and kicks. Despite his best efforts, Ivan seemed to anticipate his every move, countering with an ease that infuriated Alfred.

Finally, Ivan landed a solid punch to Alfred's gut, sending him sprawling to the ground once more. This time, he couldn't get up. He lay there, gasping for breath, as Ivan knelt beside him.

"You never learn, do you?" he whispered, his voice dripping with condescension.

Before Alfred could respond, Ivan's lips brushed against his. Alfred's eyes widened in shock, his heart pounding in his chest. The world tilted and...

He woke in a cold sweat, his heart racing.

"Alfred! Get up! Unless you want me to unleash Hero on you!""

Alfred blinked, disoriented, and looked toward the door. Matthew, his twin brother, was standing there, already dressed and ready. Alfred shook off the remnants of the dream, nodding as he climbed out of bed. "Yeah, yeah, I'm up," he muttered as his cat, Hero jumped onto his bed. "Hey, girl, good morning to you too," he smiled as he pet his cat affectionately on the head.

He went to his closet and pulled out his school uniform, trying to ignore the lingering thoughts of Ivan. As he changed, he couldn't help but replay the dream. The fight, Ivan's smirk, the kiss. He shuddered, shaking his head to clear it.

In the bathroom, Alfred brushed his teeth and ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, trying to tame it into something presentable as he glanced down at his forearms, the recent scars stark against his skin. Sighing, he grabbed a roll of bandages and started to wrap them up.

"Alfred, you coming?" Matthew called from downstairs.

"Yeah, just a sec!" Alfred replied, tightening the bandages.

Downstairs, the smell of breakfast greeted him. Matthew was at the table, sipping orange juice. "Ready for the first day, genius?" Matthew teased, a grin spreading across his face.

Alfred rolled his eyes as he set out bowls for Hero and Canada's dog, Kumajiro, whenever he decided to wake up. "Yeah, yeah. How about you, mister, 'still doesn't have the guts to talk to Gilbert'?"

Matthew's cheeks turned pink. "Shut up, Alfred."

Alfred chuckled but then noticed Matthew's gaze flicker to his bandaged arms; his brother's expression softened with concern. "Did you disinfect those? The bandages look off."

Alfred sighed. "No, I just... forgot."

Matthew stood up, his resolve firm. "Come on, let's fix that." He led Alfred to the bathroom, grabbing the first aid kit, his touch gentle but precise as he carefully disinfected and rebandaged Alfred's cuts.

"Why don't you go into medicine if you care for people so much?" Alfred asked, wincing slightly as the antiseptic stung.

Matthew shrugged, focused on his task. "I'm not smart enough for that. Besides, I just know the basics. I help when I can, that's all."

"You're super smart, Mattie don't say that! But what do you want to do?" Alfred pressed.

Matthew paused, his eyes reflecting uncertainty. "I don't know yet. I'm not a prodigy like you guys. I'm just... me."

Alfred didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded. They finished up and left the bathroom to find their father, Francis, sitting in the kitchen, a rare sight.

"Papa!" Matthew exclaimed, surprise evident in his voice.

Francis smiled warmly. "Couldn't miss my boys' first day of high school, now could I?"

"Where's Dad?" Alfred asked

"At the office. Emergency meeting," Francis explained. "But I'm here."

The twins exchanged a look of pleasant surprise. "Thanks, Papa," Alfred said, feeling a little better about the day ahead.

As they finished their breakfast, Francis offered to drive them to school. Alfred sat in the passenger seat while Matthew sat in the back, nervously fidgeting with his backpack. The car ride was filled with chatter and laughter, easing the tension of the first day of school.

As they pulled up to the school gates, Alfred spotted Gilbert standing near the entrance, his white hair unmistakable even from a distance. Excitement bubbled in Alfred's chest as he unbuckled his seatbelt.

"Hey, there's Gilbert!" Alfred exclaimed, turning to Matthew with a mischievous grin.

Matthew felt his face flush as he saw Gilbert, his long-time crush, organizing his locker. He tried to compose himself, but his heart raced with nervousness.

Alfred hopped out of the car and walked over to Gilbert, greeting him with a casual wave. "Hey, Gil! Long time no see."

Matthew followed behind his brother, feeling like his feet were made of lead. His heart pounded in his chest, threatening to leap out of his throat as they neared Gilbert and his friends. Gilbert spotted them, and his face lit up with a bright smile.

"Alfred! Matthew!" Gilbert exclaimed, patting Alfred on the shoulder before turning to Matthew. "Hey, Mattie. How've you been?"

Matthew could barely get the words out as he stuttered, "H-Hey, Gilbert. Good, good. How about you?"

Gilbert raised an eyebrow at Matthew's nervousness but didn't comment. Instead, he continued the conversation with Alfred, asking about their summer and sharing some stories from his own.

“Yeah, so I was in Germany with Ludwig and my Mama and Papa visiting all these cool castles," Gilbert recounted with excitement, his hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke.

Alfred listened intently, hanging on Gilbert's every word. Meanwhile, Matthew stood by awkwardly, feeling like a third wheel but unable to tear his gaze away from Gilbert.

"Hey, Mattie. You seem a bit quiet today. Everything okay?" Gilbert asked, his voice gentle and concerned.

Matthew's heart skipped a beat at the genuine concern in Gilbert's eyes. He felt a rush of emotions swirling inside him, unsure whether to spill the truth or keep his feelings hidden. Taking a deep breath, he mustered up the courage to reply.

"I... I'm just nervous about starting high school," Matthew admitted his voice barely above a whisper.

Gilbert's expression softened even more, his hand squeezing Matthew's shoulder reassuringly. "Hey, it's okay; you're awesome, and you're going to do great. And if you ever need someone to talk to or hang out with during lunch, I'm here for you, alright?"

A wave of gratitude washed over Matthew at Gilbert's kindness. He managed a small smile and nodded in response. "Th-thanks, Gilbert. I appreciate it... a lot."

Gilbert returned the smile, his red eyes sparkling warmly. "Anytime, Mattie. Now go ace those classes! I'll see you around."

Alfred smirked as he gave Gilbert a fist bump, staring at Matthew as Gilbert pulled him into a hug. The hug lasted a little longer than expected, Matthew reveling in the warmth and comfort of Gilbert's embrace. Time seemed to slow down as he breathed in Gilbert's familiar scent, his heart beating in sync with Gilbert's steady heartbeat.

But all too soon, the moment ended as they both pulled away, their gazes lingering briefly before Gilbert flashed a friendly smile and headed off to his first class.

Alfred clapped Matthew on the back, a knowing grin on his face. "Oh my God, I can’t believe he did that! Maybe there's hope for you yet."

Matthew blushed furiously, swatting Alfred away playfully as they made their way towards their respective classes. As they walked through the bustling halls of the school, Alfred caught sight of his best friend Kiku up ahead, a serene expression on his face as he meticulously organized his books.

"Hey, Kiku!" Alfred called out, picking up his pace to catch up with him.

Kiku turned around, his black eyes lighting up at the sight of Alfred, although they flickered with concern as he caught sight of the bandages. "Alfred! It's good to see you. How was your summer? Are you..doing alright?

Alfred paused at Kiku's unexpected question before regaining his composure. “It was great! We went to this amazing beach house my parents rented for the whole family, but it was mostly just Mattie and I. The sunsets there were unreal," Alfred said, a wide grin spreading across his face. "And yeah, I'm fine, Kiku; don't worry about me."

Kiku's eyes sparkled with interest as he listened, a soft smile playing on his lips as he recognized Alfred's request to drop the topic. "That sounds lovely, Alfred. I spent most of my summer in Japan with my grandparents. They needed help with the business.”

Alfred nodded, genuinely intrigued by Kiku's dedication to his family business. “Wow, that sounds amazing! So, are you thinking about any internships this year- shoot, there’s my class - gotta go!”

Kiku sighed in amusement before waving goodbye to his friend as he rushed into the math classroom.

As Alfred rushed into the classroom, grabbing an empty seat near the front, Mr. Janssens stood at the front of the room, a stack of papers in hand as he prepared to distribute the syllabus.

"Welcome, everyone, to AP Calculus BC," Mr. Janssens began, his voice carrying authority yet warmth. "Please take a syllabus from the front desk and pass the rest back," Mr. Janssens instructed, his sharp eyes scanning the room.

Mr. Janssens then proceeded to give a brief introduction of himself, detailing his passion for calculus and his high expectations for the class. He made it clear that AP Calculus BC was one of the most challenging courses offered at the school, meant to push students to their limits and beyond.

Without wasting any time, Mr. Janssens dove straight into the lesson, writing complex equations on the board and challenging the students to solve them. The room buzzed with concentrated energy as pencils scratched against paper and brains worked at full capacity.

Suddenly, Mr. Janssens turned to Alfred, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Alfred, care to solve this one for us?" he inquired, pointing to a seemingly impossible equation on the board.

Alfred's heart raced with excitement as Mr. Janssens singled him out for the challenging task. Unfazed by the complexity of the equation, Alfred leaned forward, his mind already working at lightning speed to dissect the problem.

In a matter of moments, Alfred saw the pattern hidden within the equation, a smile playing on his lips as he effortlessly unraveled the math before him. With precise calculations and elegant strokes of his pen, he flawlessly navigated through the derivatives and limits, arriving at the solution with a sense of ease that left his classmates in awe.

As the final answer materialized on his paper, Alfred glanced up to meet Mr. Janssens' gaze, finding a look of astonishment and respect in the teacher's eyes. The rest of the class was silent, their attention fully captivated by Alfred's prowess in solving a graduate-level question as if it were child's play.

Mr. Janssens stood there for a moment, his usual air of unshakeable composure momentarily disrupted by an expression of genuine surprise etched upon his features. Slowly, a faint yet perceptible nod of approval escaped him, a rare acknowledgment that spoke volumes in the hushed reverence of the classroom.

"Remarkable, Alfred," Mr. Janssens finally spoke, his voice carrying a faint note of admiration that echoed throughout the room. "Consider me…impressed.”

The other students in the room turned to stare at Alfred, their eyes wide with disbelief at Mr. Janssens' unprecedented praise. The renowned calculus teacher was infamous for his unyielding standards and stoic demeanor, rarely ever showing approval or admiration for any student, let alone on the very first day of class. Alfred could feel the weight of the moment settle upon him, a mixture of pride and astonishment coursing through his veins.

As the class continued, Mr. Janssens seamlessly transitioned back into his role as an unyielding taskmaster, challenging the students with more intricate problems and delving into the depths of calculus theory with unwavering intensity. However, there was a subtle shift in his interactions with Alfred, a thread of respect woven into his tone whenever he addressed the young prodigy.

At the end of the lesson, just before dismissing the class, Mr. Janssens dropped a bombshell that sent ripples of excitement through the room. "I have an announcement to make," he began, his eyes scanning the faces before him. "There is an internship opportunity available for one, or maybe even two, exceptional students in this class—a chance to work alongside Dr. Edelstein, a world-renowned mathematician and professor at Princeton University."

Alfred's pulse quickened with a mixture of thrill and trepidation at the mention of Dr. Edelstein's name. The renowned mathematician was a legend in academic circles, his groundbreaking research and innovative theories shaping the very landscape of modern mathematics. Every math nerd knew who Dr. Edelstein was, and to have the opportunity to work alongside him was nothing short of a dream come true.

As Mr. Janssens continued, his gaze settled on Alfred with a knowing glint in his eyes. "But," he added, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "there is a catch. Dr. Edelstein only accepts two interns per year out of tens of thousands, and to even be considered, you must have a recommendation from an AP-level math teacher."

The renowned calculus teacher continued, his gaze piercing the sea of expectant faces. "However, I only give two recommendations per year for this internship opportunity. Two out of the 150 students I teach and tutor," he announced, his voice unwavering yet tinged with a sense of gravitas. "And those recommendations are reserved for the best of the best—those who have mastered the art of mathematics and shown exceptional dedication, passion, and potential."

Alfred's heart sank as he realized the challenge's enormity. The odds seemed insurmountable, like trying to grasp infinity within a finite equation's confines.

As the final bell rang, signaling the end of the class, Alfred found himself lingering behind, his usual air of unshakeable composure momentarily disrupted by a flicker of uncertainty.

"Mr. Janssens," Alfred began tentatively, his voice betraying a rare hint of vulnerability as he addressed the esteemed teacher. "I...I have a few questions about this internship opportunity if you don't mind."

Mr. Janssens regarded Alfred with a keen gaze, his expression inscrutable yet not devoid of warmth. "Of course, Alfred," he replied, gesturing for the young prodigy to take a seat. "Ask away."

Alfred hesitated for a moment, his mind racing with a multitude of questions and doubts. Finally, he gathered his thoughts and spoke with a tinge of nervousness in his voice, "What’s it like to work with Dr. Edelstein?”

Mr. Janssens leaned back in his chair, his eyes taking on a distant look as he began to paint a vivid picture of the prestigious internship opportunity. "It’s…incredible - I worked alongside him during university, and he’s truly a prodigy," he explained, his words resonating with a sense of awe and reverence. "Dr. Edelstein has a way of pushing his interns to their limits, challenging them to think outside the box and explore the uncharted territories of mathematics. It's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to learn from a master of the field."

Alfred listened intently, his eyes alight with a newfound determination. The prospect of working alongside Dr. Edelstein was both exhilarating and intimidating, but he knew deep down that it was an opportunity he couldn't afford to pass up. “And what does he look for in his interns?”

Mr. Janssens' gaze softened as he regarded Alfred, a glimmer of pride flickering in his eyes. "Dr. Edelstein looks for passion, Alfred," he explained, his voice tinged with reverence. "He values dedication and curiosity in the field of mathematics. But above all, he looks for your potential to succeed.”

"Thank you, Mr. Janssens," Alfred said earnestly, gratitude shining in his eyes as he rose from his seat. "I'll do anything to earn that recommendation."

Mr. Janssens nodded in approval, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I have no doubt about that, Alfred. You have a gift—a rare talent that few possess. Don’t let that gift go to waste."

“I won’t, thank you, Mr. Janssens.”

With that, Alfred left the classroom with a renewed sense of purpose, his mind already racing with plans and strategies to secure the coveted internship with Dr. Edelstein. As he hurried through the bustling hallways towards his next class, English, a sense of dread began to creep over him.

When he arrived at the English classroom, he was met with the curious gazes of his classmates and the disapproving frown of Mrs. Vargas, their strict English teacher. Without missing a beat, she motioned for Alfred to take the only available seat left in the front row next to Ivan Braginsky.

Alfred felt a wave of discomfort wash over him as he settled into his seat beside Ivan, who regarded him with a cool detachment that sent a shiver down Alfred's spine.

“Late again, Jones?” Ivan inquired, his violet eyes piercing into his soul as he brushed a strand of his ashen blonde hair from his face.

"I prefer to think of it as fashionably late, Braginsky," Alfred replied with a smug grin, his voice laced with a hint of defiance.

Ivan raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips as he leaned closer to Alfred. "Well, well, always the charmer, aren't we?" Ivan said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I hope your sense of style makes up for your lack of punctuality."

Alfred bristled at the remark but quickly composed himself, refusing to let Ivan get under his skin.

“Nice to see you've still got that winning personality," Alfred retorted, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "I guess something has to compensate for your lack of fashion sense."

Ivan's smirk faltered momentarily before he regained his composure, his icy violet eyes narrowing slightly. "At least I prioritize intellect," he shot back smoothly. "You might want to try it sometime."

Mrs. Vargas cleared her throat, her no-nonsense expression daring the two boys to continue their banter. Sensing the tension in the air, she briskly changed the subject. "Enough chit-chat, gentlemen. Let's get started."

She approached her desk and picked up a stack of worn leather journals, each adorned with intricate designs hinting at the creativity stored within. She handed a journal to each student with a smile before addressing the class.

"Today, we begin our journey of self-discovery through writing," Mrs. Vargas announced, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "Your first prompt is to reflect on your summer—its best and worst parts."

Excitement buzzed through the classroom as students eagerly flipped open their journals and began to jot down their memories. Alfred, however, felt his heart sink like a stone in his chest. The thought of pouring his innermost thoughts onto the page for all to see made his hands tremble with anxiety.

As the minutes ticked by, Alfred squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to block out the thoughts, the feelings of inadequacy, and the uneven pattern of his breathing.

Mrs. Vargas noticed Alfred's struggle and paused in her pacing across the room. With a gentle smile, she whispered, "Why aren’t you writing, Alfred?”

“I…um, I just…I just need a moment, Mrs. Vargas," Alfred stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. The blank page before him seemed to mock his insecurities, taunting him with its vast emptiness.

Mrs. Vargas' gaze softened as she knelt down beside Alfred's desk, her presence a comforting anchor in the sea of his turmoil. "Writing is a journey, Alfred," she said softly, her voice carrying a wealth of understanding. "It's okay to feel overwhelmed—it's all part of the process."

Alfred nodded gratefully, but there was still just…nothing. He saw the images in his mind, the days on the beach and the laughter with friends, but the words refused to materialize on the page. Frustration gnawed at him as he struggled to articulate his thoughts, the turmoil threatening to consume him whole.

Alfred's mind raced as he stared at the blank page before him, feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on his shoulders. He could hear the scratching of pens and pencils around him, a reminder of his own inability to put pen to paper. The memories of his summer seemed distant and unattainable, shrouded in a fog that refused to lift.

Just as his panic threatened to consume him, Mrs. Vargas stopped the class, drawing three names from a hat to read their writing. The room held its breath as she called out the chosen students: Ivan, Matthew, and Ludwig.

As he walked to the front of the classroom, Ivan couldn't resist shooting Alfred a smug look as he began to read aloud, his voice strong and sure. Each word flowed effortlessly from his lips, painting a vivid picture of his summer, writing his book and traveling to Europe. However, Alfred couldn't help but notice a few missed details. For example, Ivan claimed that he went to Spain but then mentioned the Belém Tower in Portugal. Despite that, Alfred watched in awe at how Ivan brought his memories to life on the page, making Alfred feel like he was right there with him. However, his admiration for Ivan's storytelling quickly morphed into resentment, a bitter taste settling in his mouth as he listened to the effortless flow of words that seemed to elude him.

As Ivan recounted his summer, the classroom erupted into applause, Mrs. Vargas' approving smile warming the room. Meanwhile, Alfred felt a knot tighten in his stomach, a potent mix of jealousy and self-doubt coiling within him.

When class ended, Ivan turned to Alfred as they were packing up their belongings, a smug grin playing on his lips. "Not feeling so inspired today, huh?" he taunted, his voice laced with a hint of superiority.

Alfred's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tensing as he struggled to contain the surge of anger bubbling within him. "It's none of your business, Braginsky," he shot back, his tone sharp with irritation.

"Oh, it's definitely my business when you can't even string a few words together," Ivan sneered, his eyes flashing with challenge.

"I would rather struggle with my words than fabricate stories like you do," Alfred retorted, his voice sharp with accusation. His words cut through the air like a knife, carrying with them the weight of all the pent-up frustration and envy he had been harboring.

Ivan's smirk faltered momentarily before being replaced by a flash of anger. "Fabricate? My stories are as real as they come, unlike your feeble attempts at creativity," he shot back, his own temper flaring in response to Alfred's accusation. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m already late for my advisory."

With one final scowl, Ivan shouldered his bag and stormed out of the classroom, leaving Alfred seething with mixed emotions. His heart pounded in his chest as he gathered his things, trying to shake off the lingering tension from the confrontation. As he made his way through the crowded hallways towards his advisory, Alfred's mind raced, replaying the heated exchange with Ivan over and over again.

Upon reaching the door marked with his advisory number, Alfred took a deep breath and pushed it open. The room was filled with clusters of students chatting animatedly, their voices blending into a low hum that filled the air.

His advisor approached him as he entered the room, his gaze sharp as it settled on Alfred. “Hello, Mr…”

“Oh, um, Jones! Alfred Jones.”

"Alfred Jones…I won’t mark you as late this time, but please remember to be punctual. I’m Mr. Zwingli, and I’ll be your advisor and potentially your history teacher for this year," Mr. Zwingli explained, his tone carefully neutral as he gestured for Alfred to take a seat.

Alfred nodded as he scanned the room; his eyes widened in disbelief when they landed on the face of another student sitting across the room - Ivan Braginsky.

Ivan met Alfred's gaze with a mixture of surprise and something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

“Oh hell no,” Alfred muttered as he settled in the furthest seat he could find from Ivan, next to another student who seemed just as terrifying, sighing as he did so.

This was going to be a long year.

Chapter Text

Ivan looked up from his desk, his thoughts momentarily disrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. His gaze met Alfred's as the American entered the classroom. Ivan noted the determined set of Alfred's jaw and the faint crease of concern between his brows.

"Jones," Ivan acknowledged with a nod, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity. He observed Alfred's movements with a practiced eye, noting the slight tensing of his shoulders and the way his hand briefly brushed over the bandages on his forearm.

"Braginsky," Alfred nodded back to him before taking a seat across the room from Ivan himself next to a student Ivan recognized as Ludwig from his English class.

"Alright, I know this isn't an official class, but I suppose we should get started," Mr. Zwingli stood at the front of the room, tapping a stack of papers against his desk to get everyone's attention. "If you didn't hear me the first time, my name is Mr. Zwingli, and I'll be your advisor this year. If you're new here, advisory is a time to catch up on work, seek advice, and discuss any issues or concerns. It's a space meant to help you succeed, so make good use of it."

Ivan's attention drifted back to Alfred. He couldn't help but notice how the usually confident American seemed slightly subdued today. Ivan's curiosity was piqued; he had always found Alfred's resilience and determination intriguing, even if their interactions were often contentious.

"Now, I want you all to take a few minutes to introduce yourselves to someone new. Find a partner and share something interesting about yourself," Mr. Zwingli instructed, breaking Ivan's reverie.

Ivan glanced around the room, noting how some students eagerly paired up while others, like himself, hesitated. He watched as Alfred turned to Ludwig, initiating a conversation with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Before Ivan could decide whether to approach Alfred or wait for someone to come to him, a voice interrupted his thoughts. "Hi, my name's Yao."

Ivan sighed as a small smile appeared on his lips. "Ah, yes, Yao. My name's Ivan. I've certainly never met you before."

As Mr. Zwingli returned to his desk, Yao couldn't hold back his laughter any longer. "You really couldn't find someone new to talk to?"

Yao's playful teasing brought a smirk to Ivan's face, and he shook his head slightly. "I suppose I could've made a bit more effort," Ivan admitted, his tone light as he glanced around the room. "But then again, I could say the same for you."

Yao's laughter echoed softly in the classroom, drawing a few curious glances from nearby students. Ivan leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms thoughtfully.

"You're right," Ivan conceded with a chuckle. "Perhaps I'm too used to seeing the same faces around here.

However, just as he said that, someone approached their table. "Hey, do you mind if I sit here? I'm Carlos."

Yao exchanged a surprised glance with Ivan before nodding, scooting his seat to make room for Carlos. “Not at all, Carlos. I’m Yao, and this is my friend, Ivan.”

Carlos smiled at Yao’s gesture, his dark brown eyes scanning both boys’ faces as if to commit them to his memory. “Nice to meet you guys!”

Ivan nodded politely, though his expression remained guarded. “You as well, Carlos. What brings you here - we don’t accept many… newcomers.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow at Ivan’s skeptical gaze before responding. “Well, I’m originally from Cuba - Havana, actually - but I had to move here for my dad’s work.”

"Interesting," Ivan replied, his tone still wary. "And what does your dad do?"

"He’s a diplomat," Carlos said, a bit defensively. "He got posted here recently."

Ivan didn’t respond immediately, his mind turning over Carlos’ words. Something about the newcomer made him uneasy, but he couldn’t quite place it.

Before Ivan could probe further, Matthew approached their table, his presence instantly lightening the mood. "Hey, mind if I join you guys?" he asked, his friendly smile putting everyone at ease.

"Not at all," Yao said, pulling up an extra chair for Matthew. "We were just getting to know Carlos here."

Matthew turned his attention to Carlos, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Nice to meet you, Carlos. I’m Matthew."

Carlos nodded, a small smile quirking his lips. "Nice to meet you too, Matthew! Wait...do I know you?"

Matthew shook his head. "I don't believe you do. Maybe you met my twin?"

"You have a twin?"

Matthew nodded, smiling. "Yeah, Alfred. He's over there talking to Ludwig."

Carlos raised an eyebrow, glancing at Alfred before looking back at Matthew. "Oh, that explains it. Your brother is quite... loud."

Matthew laughed softly. "Yeah, he's a bit much sometimes. But he's a good guy. So, how are you finding the school so far?"

Carlos shrugged. "It's different. The people here are... interesting."

Matthew nodded, understanding the sentiment. "It can be overwhelming at first, but you'll get used to it."

Ivan watched as Matthew easily settled into their group, but his gaze lingered on Alfred across the room. Alfred was still deep in conversation with Ludwig, yet something about him caught his attention.

"I'll catch up with you later," Ivan said to Yao and Carlos, giving them a nod before heading towards Alfred and Ludwig.

As Ivan approached Alfred and Ludwig, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Alfred's usual vibrant energy seemed muted, his voice carrying an edge that Ivan recognized all too well.

"Jones," Ivan greeted, his tone guarded yet curious. "Ludwig." He nodded politely at both of them.

Alfred glanced up at Ivan, his jaw tightening slightly before he replied. "Hey,"

There was a hint of tension in his voice, a subtle shift in demeanor that Ivan immediately picked up on.

“So, what brings you over here?" Alfred asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Ivan.

"I was just curious," Ivan replied evenly, though his expression betrayed a hint of skepticism.

Alfred glanced at Ludwig, then back at Ivan, his jaw clenched. "Fine," he muttered, clearly irritated. "What do you want to know, Braginsky?"

Ivan studied Alfred for a moment, sensing the underlying tension but choosing not to push further. "Nothing in particular," he replied evenly. "Just making conversation."

"Right," Alfred responded, his tone curt and clipped.

The atmosphere between them remained strained, each word feeling like a veiled challenge. Ivan shifted uncomfortably, realizing that perhaps approaching Alfred directly wasn't the best idea. He glanced around the room, noticing other students engaged in conversations or working quietly.

"Braginsky," Alfred's voice cut through his thoughts, drawing his attention back. "If you're just here to snoop around, maybe you should find someone else to bother."

Ivan's eyes narrowed, his initial curiosity turning into irritation. "I'm not snooping, Jones. Just trying to be... friendly."

"Well, don't," Alfred snapped, his tone sharper than intended.

Ludwig, sensing the escalating tension, interjected cautiously, "Guys, maybe we should—"

"No, Ludwig," Alfred interrupted, his gaze still fixed on Ivan. "Braginsky here clearly has something to say."

Ivan sighed inwardly, realizing the futility of the situation. "Forget it," he muttered, stepping back. "I didn't mean to intrude on your... enlightening conversation here," he muttered as he walked away, his tone laced with sarcasm.

After advisory, Ivan headed to Algebra 1. Still, as he entered the classroom, he felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him as he noticed that everyone around him seemed younger and smarter. The classroom was adorned with brightly colored posters that seemed to suffocate him as he attempted to find a seat.

"Hey, do you mind if I sit here?" a voice interrupted his thoughts.

Ivan turned to see a timid-looking boy standing beside him, terrified by his presence. "Sure," Ivan replied, gesturing to the empty seat next to him. "I'm Ivan."

The boy hesitated for a moment before sitting down. "I'm Eduard," he said quietly, adjusting his glasses. "So, why are you-"

"Quiet down, class, let's get started!" Mr. Bondevik's voice cut through the room, drawing Ivan's attention away from Eduard's uncertain introduction. "My name is Mr. Bondevik, and I'll be your teacher this year. Now, I'll hand out the syllabus so you can review it later tonight, but for now, let's do some Pre-Algebra review."

As Mr. Bondevik distributed worksheets, Ivan immediately felt out of his depth as he struggled through the basic problems. However, he sighed as he glanced at Eduard, who seemed to grasp the concepts effortlessly.

"Hey, Eduard. Do you know how to solve a system of equations?”

Eduard looked at Ivan with surprise and mild panic, not expecting to be called upon so suddenly. "Um, sure," he stammered, flipping through his worksheet to find a suitable example. “So I learned two main methods, substitution and elimination…”

As Eduard explained the process step by step, Ivan tried his best to follow along, but his mind felt like it was swimming in a sea of numbers and variables. Each explanation Eduard offered seemed to slip through his grasp like sand, leaving him more confused than before.

Mr. Bondevik, noticing Ivan's struggle, decided to call on him to solve an equation on the board. "Ivan, why don't you come up here and give this one a shot?"

Ivan's heart sank as he made his way to the front of the classroom, the eyes of his classmates following his every move. He picked up the marker, staring blankly at the equation on the board as if it were written in a foreign language.

‘3/2y =-4x + 7 and 9x = 7/3y -2. Solve for x and y using a system of equations.’

Ivan felt a bead of sweat form on his forehead as he tried to recall the steps Eduard had just explained. His mind raced, but the numbers seemed to dance around, refusing to align in a logical manner.

“Umm, well, the first thing you could do is um…substitute y into the other equation,” Ivan stammered, his voice trembling as he attempted to demonstrate his understanding of the process. The marker squeaked against the whiteboard as he wrote down his substitution, his handwriting messy and uncertain.

Ivan hesitated momentarily before trying to solve the equations simultaneously, but his calculations quickly went awry. Numbers seemed to blur together, and he couldn't make sense of the variables as he tried to isolate x and y.

After a few minutes of fumbling through the problem, Ivan finally arrived at an answer he wasn't even sure of. "Uh, x = -1... and y = 2?" he said tentatively, looking to Mr. Bondevik for validation.

The classroom fell silent as Mr. Bondevik studied Ivan's work on the board. With a small nod, he replied, "Not quite, Ivan, the solution would be x = 80/137 and y = 426/137. Can anyone else explain this answer?”

Eduard raised his hand, eager to showcase his understanding of the problem. “Well, first you have to…” As he confidently walked up to the board and explained the correct solution, Ivan felt a mix of embarrassment and frustration. It seemed like no matter how hard he tried; math always found a way to slip through his fingers like fine sand.

As the bell rang and the students began to pack up their belongings, Ivan lingered in his seat, staring blankly at the unfinished worksheet before him. He could hear Eduard chatting with their classmates, and a pang of jealousy shot through Ivan as he realized how far behind he was compared to his peers.

"Ivan, is everything okay?" Mr. Bondevik's voice interrupted his thoughts, bringing him back to reality.

Ivan looked up to see his teacher standing beside his desk, a look of concern on his face. "I noticed you were struggling a bit today. Remember, math takes time. It's okay not to get everything right away."

Ivan managed a weak smile, grateful for Mr. Bondevik's words of encouragement, but the knot of frustration in his chest refused to unravel. As he gathered his things and trudged out of the classroom, he couldn't shake off the feeling of inadequacy that clung to him like a shadow.

Lunchtime offered no respite from his turbulent thoughts. Ivan mechanically went through the motions of getting his food and finding a table. Yao and Carlos chatted amiably next to him, their voices a distant buzz in Ivan's ears as he stared down at his tray, appetite forgotten. However, Ivan's attention was forcibly drawn back to the present when Matthew and Gilbert approached their table.

“Oh, Gilbert, this is Carlos - he’s a new kid in my advisory!”

Matthew beamed at Carlos, his violet eyes sparkling with excitement. Gilbert, on the other hand, smiled slightly at Matthew’s antics, extending a hand towards Carlos, who shook it with a friendly smile.

"Nice to meet you, Carlos. I'm Gilbert. Welcome to Pangea Academy," he introduced himself, his voice warm and welcoming, leaving Ivan with a twinge of envy. How could Gilbert connect with others so effortlessly?

“Hey, Matthew, Gilbert,” Ivan acknowledged with a polite nod. “Are you two staying?”

Gilbert grinned, plopping down on the bench beside Ivan. "Yep! We thought we'd hang out with you for lunch today. Hope you don't mind."

“Not at all…”

Matthew, always the observant one, noticed the tension in the air. With a knowing glance at Ivan, he spoke up. "Ivan, is everything okay? You seem a bit... off today."

Ivan hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal to Matthew, even though they had known each other for years. "I just had a rough time in math class," he confessed, his voice tinged with frustration. "I feel like everyone else gets it except for me."

Matthew's face softened with empathy as he listened intently. "Hey, it's normal to struggle with something, but at least you’re good at writing - you have something to hold onto.”

Ivan managed a small smile at Matthew's attempt to uplift his spirits. "Thanks, Matthew.”

Yao, who had been listening quietly, suddenly interjected, his tone laced with a hint of mischief. "You know, Ivan, if you need any help in math, I'm actually pretty good at it."

“Yeah, and you’re an awful tutor,” Ivan quipped, earning a chuckle from the group.

"Well, I might take you up on that offer, Yao. I barely made it into Geometry," Gilbert replied with a hint of playfulness in his voice.

Laughter bubbled up among the group, breaking the tension that had settled around Ivan. As they joked and chatted, Ivan felt a weight lift off his shoulders until Matthew leaned in and spoke quieter than usual. “Oh yeah, Ivan, guess who had a dream about you last night?”

Ivan raised an eyebrow in disbelief, unsure if he had heard Matthew correctly. "Wait, what? A dream about me?"

Matthew nodded eagerly, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Yeah, Alfred kept muttering something about you all night. I thought it was…a little unusual, but if you’re interested…”

Ivan felt his cheeks flush with heat as he processed Matthew's words. Alfred, the same Alfred who never missed an opportunity to belittle him, had supposedly dreamt about him?

"I think you must be mistaken, Matthew," Ivan replied, trying to brush off the comment with a nervous chuckle. "Alfred Jones dreaming about me? That's just... ridiculous."

But Matthew was persistent, his eyes dancing with amusement. "No, I'm serious! I went to go wake him up and he was punching the air and mumbling something about you.”

The rest of the group burst into laughter at the image of Alfred dreaming about Ivan, finding it both hilarious and unbelievable.

As the laughter began to die down, a mischievous glint appeared in Gilbert's eyes. "Well, well, well, Ivan. Looks like you've got a secret admirer," he teased, nudging Ivan playfully.

Ivan felt a mix of embarrassment and confusion coursing through him. “Shut up. There’s no way!”

"Maybe he's finally coming to terms with his hidden affection for you,” Carlos added, despite knowing nothing about the situation.

Ivan retorted, his cheeks burning with a mixture of embarrassment and disbelief. "Come on, guys, don't be ridiculous.”

As the bell rang, the group stood up with their lunch trays, going to put them away before Gilbert turned to the group. “Hey, I don’t have much to study during the study block, so do you guys just want to hang out?”

The group agreed to Gilbert's suggestion and made their way to the library for the study block. Ivan found it difficult to focus on his math, with the conversation from lunch still lingering in his mind. Alfred dreaming about him seemed like a far-fetched idea, but the thought wouldn't leave him alone.

Lost in his thoughts, Ivan didn't realize that Gilbert had been waving a hand in front of his face until Yao nudged him sharply. "Ivan! Earth to Ivan! Are you even listening?"

Ivan snapped out of his trance, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he realized the whole group was staring at him. "Sorry, what were we talking about?"

Gilbert chuckled, shaking his head. "We were discussing our plans for debate this year. I was going to do BP, but Mattie here wants to try Worlds.”

Ivan nodded, trying to focus on the conversation at hand, but his mind kept drifting back to the absurd idea of Alfred having a dream about him. The more he thought about it, the more unsettling and strangely flattering it seemed. He couldn't shake the image of Alfred muttering his name in his sleep, a sight he never imagined witnessing.

However, just as he was about to comment on what he was planning for debate class, Alfred walked into the library, his expression a mix of shock and anger as his gaze settled on the group, his eyes burning with intensity as he marched over to their table.

"What the hell is going on here?" Alfred demanded, his voice sharp and accusatory. His eyes locked onto Ivan, who felt a shiver run down his spine under Alfred's piercing gaze.

Ivan swallowed nervously, trying to keep his composure despite the sudden tension in the room.

“Well…we were just…”

Chapter Text

Alfred walked into the courtyard, his eyes scanning for his brother for what seemed like the 100th time during lunch. However, his expression darkened when he finally spotted his twin brother with no other than Carlos, Yao, Gilbert, and Ivan - especially Ivan.

"What the hell is going on here?" Alfred snapped, gaining the group's attention as he approached the bench.

Matthew turned to face Alfred, caught off guard by his intensity. "Al, calm down. We're just hanging out," he started to explain, but Alfred didn't want to hear it. He grabbed Matthew's arm, practically dragging him away from the group.

Once they were at a distance, near a clearing isolated by a few large oak trees, Matthew pulled his arm free. "What was that for?" he demanded, his voice tinged with frustration.

Alfred's voice was sharp with concern. "Ivan is dangerous, Mattie. You shouldn't be hanging out with him. And Carlos— I don't trust him either."

Matthew's brows furrowed in disbelief. "You don't even know Carlos. And Ivan— he's not like you think."

Alfred shook his head vehemently. "I know enough to know that you should be more careful. Don't get involved with them."

"You don't know anything, Alfred!" Matthew's voice rose, matching Alfred's intensity. "You just want to control everything. They're my friends and they actually remember and care about me! Unlike you sometimes."

With that, Matthew stormed off, leaving Alfred standing alone in the clearing, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and fear.

"Hey, Mr. Adnan, sorry I'm late!" Alfred called out, slightly out of breath as he rushed into his last class of the day, Debate.

Mr. Adnan, a tall man with a perpetually calm demeanor, nodded in acknowledgment. "Just take your seat, Alfred. We're about to start."

Alfred took his place at the desk, his mind still reeling from the confrontation earlier.

"Alright, class, today we'll be doing an impromptu drill. You guys will prep in random teams for 30 minutes and then debate with the speech times cut in half. The motion is: This house supports the rise of language-generating AI. Check the board for your pairings and good luck. Debate starts at 3:30.”

Alfred headed to the board, scanning the names.

'Side Proposition:
Alfred Jones
Feliks Łukasiewicz
Emil Steilsson’

Alfred nodded as he read through the list and made his way to the side room to meet his teammates, although he felt his stomach turning at the thought of competing with upperclassmen.

Feliks, a senior with a confident air, greeted him with a grin. "Hey, you’re Alfred, right?”

"Yeah," Alfred replied, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Are you Feliks?”

"Yup, that's me," Feliks said, then pointed to the taller, more reserved boy beside him. "And this is Emil."

Emil gave a small nod in acknowledgment.

Feliks clapped his hands together. "Alright, so, since you're new, Alfred, we'll let you take the first speech. It's the easiest, just setting up our arguments."

Alfred's stomach dropped. "Uh, could I maybe take a different speech? I'm not great with reading off a script."

Feliks and Emil exchanged glances. "Don't worry, man," Feliks said. "You'll do fine. It's the easiest part."

Alfred swallowed hard but didn't argue further. “Uh…sure, okay.”

The preparation session began, and Alfred found himself struggling to keep up. Feliks and Emil were quick with their ideas and arguments, jotting down points effortlessly. Alfred, on the other hand, struggled to organize his thoughts coherently on paper. His handwriting, always messy, was nearly illegible when he rushed.

As the thirty minutes passed, Alfred felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as Feliks passed him the papers with the first two arguments. Alfred scanned the papers, panicking as the jam-packed words swam around the page.

The classroom settled as Mr. Adnan announced the start of the debates. "I call this debate to order and invite the first speaker from the proposition to give a speech not exceeding 8..no, 4 minutes.”

Alfred stood up, his heart pounding louder than his voice as he attempted to read from the paper. The words seemed to dance and blur on the page, refusing to make sense despite his desperate efforts.

“Because we support pushing the human race to new heights, I’ve never been prouder to propose. On framing, we characterize language generating AI as…as…ummm…”

Alfred's voice faltered, and the classroom fell silent. His mind raced, but the words wouldn't cooperate. His classmates watched, some with sympathetic glances, others with curiosity.

“…a type of AI that can…”

Tears pricked at the edges of his eyes as Alfred struggled to make sense of the words on the page, his speech crumbling before him.

He stumbled over his words, feeling the weight of embarrassment settle heavily upon him. And as his speech ended, Alfred rushed out of the classroom, ignoring Mr. Adnan's calls after him.

Outside, Alfred paced anxiously, his mind a whirlwind of self-doubt and frustration. He pulled out his phone and dialed Gilbert, his hands trembling.

"Hey, Gil,” Alfred's voice cracked slightly over the phone.

"What's up, Alfred? You okay?" Gilbert's voice was immediately concerned.

"I—I'm skipping practice today," Alfred said quickly, his words tumbling out. "Tell Coach I'm not coming. I…I just need to be alone."

Gilbert's voice turned urgent. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

Alfred hesitated, his emotions raw. "It's everything, Gil, but…just tell Coach and leave me alone, please.”

Gilbert’s worry spiked hearing the distress in Alfred’s voice, not wasting any time tracking down Alfred’s location. "I'm coming, Alfred. Just wait there."

“Wait, Gil-“

But Gilbert had already hung up.

Alfred sighed at his friend’s determination, sinking down onto the bench where he had confronted his brother earlier.

Within minutes, Gilbert found Alfred in the courtyard, his shoulders slumped and eyes downcast.

“You look like hell,” Gilbert remarked softly, concern etched in his features as he approached.

Alfred managed a weak smile, grateful for Gilbert’s presence. “I know I do. Thanks for coming.”

Gilbert crossed his arms. “So, spill. What happened back there?”

Alfred took a deep breath, the day's events flooding back—the confrontation with Matthew, the overwhelming pressure of the debate prep, and the humiliating breakdown in front of the class.

"I—I got into a fight with Mattie," Alfred began hesitantly, his voice tinged with guilt. "I lost it. Dragged him away like some controlling jerk."

Gilbert listened intently, his expression softening with understanding. "Okay, you were kind of being an asshole, but you were worried about him."

Alfred nodded, the weight of his actions sinking in. "Then…then in Debate, I couldn't…couldn't read my speech. Everything was just…blurred. I felt like such an idiot, Gil."

Gilbert’s eyes softened even more at Alfred’s distress, his heart aching for his friend. “Al, it’s okay. You’re not an idiot. You were just overwhelmed.”

Alfred sighed, his shoulders slumping even further. “I don’t know what to do, Gil. I can’t keep messing up like this.”

Gilbert thought for a moment before a light of realization crossed his face. “Have you talked to the counselor about this?”

Alfred shook his head, a flicker of reluctance in his eyes. “No and I don’t want to.”

Gilbert placed a comforting hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “How about we talk to Ms. Hedervary then? I’m sure she’d be happy to help?”

"I don't know, Gil," Alfred hesitated, his gaze flickering towards the school building where Ms. Hedervary's office was located. "I just...I don't want to be treated like some charity case."

Gilbert's expression softened, his voice gentle. "Al, she's not going to see you that way. She's there to help you and she’s helped you so many times before. She knows you’re a genius.”

Alfred chewed on his bottom lip, considering Gilbert's words. "Okay," he finally relented with a small nod. "Let's go talk to her."

Together, Alfred and Gilbert made their way toward Ms. Hedervary's office, the weight of the day still heavy on Alfred's shoulders. As they entered the office, the familiar scent of lavender and soft classical music greeted them, instantly calming Alfred's nerves.

Ms. Hedervary looked up from her desk, her warm smile instantly putting Alfred at ease. She was a woman with kind eyes and a reassuring presence that made Alfred feel like he could finally breathe.

"Alfred, Gilbert," Ms. Hedervary's voice was gentle, filled with genuine concern. “How are your first days going?”

Alfred hesitated for a moment, the words catching in his throat. Gilbert nudged him encouragingly, giving him the support he needed to speak up.

"It was awful, Ms. Hedervary," Alfred began, his voice wavering slightly.

Ms. Hedervary's brows furrowed in concern as she leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Alfred. "Oh, Alfred, what happened?"

Alfred took a deep breath, the floodgates opening as he poured out all his frustrations and anxieties from the day. “Well, first there was Math, and obviously Math was awesome, but then freaking English happened, and you know that I can’t read or write for that matter, so when we had to write in our journals, I just froze, and it didn’t help that Ivan Fucking Braginsky was mocking me for it!”

Ms. Hedervary nodded as Alfred ranted on and on, not commenting on his choice of language as he took a deep breath and started again.

“Oh, and that wasn’t even the worst part. History was...normal I guess, but then there was lunch and I got into a fight with Matthew and then in Debate…I couldn’t even read my speech!”

Ms. Hedervary listened intently, her expression soft and understanding as Alfred poured out all his frustrations. When he finally fell silent, she reached out and gently squeezed his hand.

"Alfred, I’m sorry that happened all on the first day,” she began, her voice filled with empathy. “But I want you to know that it's okay to have bad days and that it’s okay to struggle sometimes. I know you want to be the best at everything, but it’s okay not to be perfect.”

Alfred looked up at her, his eyes reflecting a mix of relief and uncertainty. He had known Ms. Hedervary for so long and had trusted her with his struggles and fears since he was just a little boy. Yet, he still couldn’t bring himself to admit everything.

“I know, but...it's just hard,” Alfred admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ms. Hedervary leaned back in her chair, her gaze never leaving Alfred's face. “Have you talked to any of your new teachers about your IEP? It'll help you with debate and English."

Alfred shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling a pang of guilt at Ms. Hedervary's question.

"I...I forgot," Alfred confessed, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

Ms. Hedervary's expression softened even more, her eyes full of understanding. "Alfred, it's important to at least mention it to your teachers. They want to help you succeed, but they can only do so if they know how to support you."

Nodding slowly, Alfred felt a sense of relief wash over him. He knew that Ms. Hedervary was right; he couldn't continue struggling in silence and expecting things to get better on their own. “You’re right; I’ll go talk to them tomorrow.”

Ms. Hedervary reached out and patted Alfred's hand reassuringly. "I'll speak to your coach and let him know that you're not in the right state of mind to go practice today, and I’ll let Mr. Adnan know that you stopped by. It's important to take care of yourself first, Alfred," she said softly, her voice a soothing balm to his frazzled nerves.

Alfred felt a weight lift off his shoulders at her words, grateful for her understanding and support. He knew deep down that he needed to prioritize his well-being, even if it meant missing a practice session.

"Thank you, Ms. Hedervary," Alfred replied, his voice filled with gratitude. "I appreciate it, really.”

Ms. Hedervary smiled warmly at him, her kind eyes shining with pride. "You're very welcome, Alfred.”

Alfred and Gilbert walked out of Ms. Hedervary’s office feeling somewhat lighter, the tension that had gripped Alfred slowly easing away. They decided to head back towards the courtyard, where Alfred had left his things.

As Alfred and Gilbert approached the courtyard, they ran into Kiku, who was also on the soccer team with Alfred.

"Hey, Alfred," Kiku greeted him with a concerned look. "I was worried when you didn't show up to practice today. Is everything okay?"

Alfred hesitated momentarily, not wanting to burden Kiku with his problems. “Yeah, Kiku, I just had a rough day, but I don’t really want to talk about it,” Alfred replied vaguely, offering a weak smile.

"Alright, well, if you ever need to talk, I'm here," Kiku said sincerely before excusing himself to head towards his car. “Text me later if you change your mind.”

Alfred watched Kiku leave, grateful for his friend's offer of support. He turned to Gilbert, who was watching him closely.

"You okay, Alfred?" Gilbert asked gently; concern etched on his face.

"Yeah," Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I guess. Thanks for sticking around, Gil."

"Of course," Gilbert replied with a reassuring smile. "Hey, when's your driver coming? Mine couldn’t make it, and I need a ride."

Alfred checked his phone for the time. "He should be here in about half an hour. Matthew's supposed to be with him; he has hockey practice until six.”

Gilbert nodded thoughtfully. "Mind if I tag along then? I can wait with you until your ride shows up."

Alfred smiled gratefully at Gilbert. "Sure, Gil. Does Ludwig need a ride as well?”

Gilbert shook his head. “Nah, you know Ludwig - always too busy for us. I think he’s at school until 8.”

Alfred chuckled and nodded, knowing how serious Ludwig could be about school. “Only Ludwig would try this hard on the first day of school. But, we can hang out at my place until he comes back. Matthew would probably love for you to be there anyways.”

Gilbert blushed slightly at the mention of Matthew. "Yeah, sure. Sounds good.”

Before Alfred could respond, the sound of a car approaching drew their attention. A sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb, and the driver, a middle-aged man with a friendly smile, rolled down the window. "Alfred, Gilbert, ready to go?"

Alfred nodded, picking up his backpack and heading towards the car. Gilbert followed closely behind, giving the driver a polite nod. "Thanks for giving me a ride, Mr. Anderson."

"No trouble at all," Mr. Anderson replied with a smile. "Hop in."

Alfred opened the back door, and they both slid into the back seat. Matthew was already inside, looking tired but content from his hockey practice. He glanced up as they entered, offering a small wave to Gilbert but pointedly ignoring Alfred.

"Hey, Matthew," Gilbert greeted warmly, taking the middle seat between the twins. Alfred couldn't help but notice the slight blush that crept up Matthew's cheeks.

"Hi, Gil," Matthew replied, his voice soft as he settled back against the seat, exhaustion evident in his posture.

As the car started moving, the gentle hum of the engine and the rhythmic passing of streetlights outside created a soothing atmosphere. Matthew, clearly worn out from practice, began to lean against Gilbert's shoulder, his eyes fluttering shut. Gilbert hesitated for a moment, then wrapped an arm around Matthew's shoulders, providing a comforting support.

Alfred smirked, watching the scene unfold. "You two look cozy," he teased, unable to resist.

Gilbert shot him a warning glance but couldn't hide the small smile tugging at his lips. "Shut up, Al," he whispered, his fingers gently running through Matthew's hair as the younger twin started to stir.

Matthew mumbled something incoherent, shifting slightly but not fully waking up. Gilbert continued to stroke his hair soothingly, his touch tender. Alfred's smirk grew wider, finding the situation both amusing and endearing.

As the car continued down the street, the atmosphere inside was warm and peaceful. Alfred watched as Gilbert gently stroked Matthew's hair, his expression soft and caring.

The ride back home felt like a quiet haven, the trio enveloped in a bubble of comfort despite the outside world rushing past. Alfred occasionally glanced out the window, watching the familiar streets blur into one another as they drew closer to their destination.

Finally, Mr. Anderson pulled up in front of the grand mansion that belonged to the Kirkland family. The soft glow of the porch lights welcomed them as they drove up to the house.

"Thanks for the ride, Mr. Anderson," Alfred said gratefully before turning to Gilbert. “Should we wake him up, or…?”

“I’ve got it,” Gilbert interrupted, his voice soft as he gently nudged Matthew awake. "Hey, Mattie. We're home," he whispered, his tone warm and comforting.

Matthew blinked sleepily, confusion momentarily clouding his eyes before he fully registered their surroundings. He sat up, rubbing his eyes before offering a sheepish smile to Gilbert. "Thanks for waking me up," he mumbled, half in a daze.

Gilbert chuckled softly. "No problem, sleepyhead.”

The trio made their way up the mansion's front steps; the imposing architecture, the intricate details of the interior, and the sprawling gardens all spoke of a history that stretched back generations.

As they entered the house, the elegant furnishings, the soft glow of the chandeliers, and the faint scent of flowers all mingled together to create a welcoming atmosphere.

"Welcome back, you three," greeted Mrs. Patterson, their elderly housekeeper, with a warm smile as she bustled about the hallway. "Dinner will be ready shortly.”

Alfred grinned at her. "Thanks, Mrs. Patterson!”

Gilbert rolled his eyes playfully at Alfred's teasing before turning his attention back to Matthew, who had collapsed on the couch, barely registering his surroundings. His dog, Kumajiro, ran up to his owner and pawed at his face until Matthew stirred slightly.

“Hey, Kuma…” Matthew murmured as the dog curled up with him on the couch before falling asleep yet again.

“I guess I should let Mr. Kirkland know I’m here," Gilbert said with a chuckle.

Alfred nodded as his cat, Hero, brushed up against his leg. “Yeah, Papa will be out until late tonight,” he turned his attention to the affectionate American Shorthair. “Hey, Hero,” he smiled as he picked up the cat, who settled down calmly in his arms as he walked over to the study.

Arthur Kirkland, as always, was in his study, engrossed in his work. The room was filled with shelves of books, a large desk cluttered with papers, and the faint smell of tea lingering in the air. When Gilbert knocked on the door and entered, Arthur looked up with a mixture of surprise and slight annoyance at being interrupted.

"Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Kirkland," Gilbert began, knowing how particular Arthur was about not being disturbed during his work hours.

Arthur's expression softened as he saw Gilbert's sheepish grin and Alfred and Hero peeking in from behind him. "Hello, Gilbert. Are you staying for the night?”

Gilbert shook his head. "No, just until Ludwig gets back from school. Mr. Anderson dropped us off,” he explained, trying to sound casual.

Arthur raised an eyebrow but nodded in understanding. "Well, make yourselves at home. I trust you know the rules of the house, Gilbert.”

Yes, sir. Thank you for having me," Gilbert replied politely before excusing himself from the study with Alfred following close behind as he sat down Hero.

As they returned to the living room, Matthew was still fast asleep next to Kumajiro, making Alfred and Gilbert burst out into laughter as Alfred turned to Gilbert, mischief sparkling in his eyes. "So, are you going to wake up your Sleeping Beauty here?”

Gilbert's cheeks turned a light shade of pink at Alfred's teasing. "I think I'll let him rest for now," Gilbert replied, trying to play it cool despite the butterflies in his stomach.

Alfred grinned mischievously, nudging Gilbert playfully. "Oh, come on, Gil! Where's your sense of adventure? This could be your big chance!"

Gilbert rolled his eyes but couldn't hide the small smile tugging at his lips. He leaned close to Matthew, lightly brushing a strand of hair away from his face. "Wake up, Sleeping Beauty," he whispered softly.

Matthew stirred at the touch, fluttering his eyelids open slowly. A soft smile curved his lips as his eyes focused on Gilbert's face hovering above him. "Hey," he murmured sleepily as his dog jumped off the couch, taking an interest in chasing Hero around.

Alfred watched with a grin as Gilbert helped Matthew sit up, their hands brushing lightly as they shared a small moment.

“Alright, lovebirds, I gotta go do my homework. Are you two joining me?” Alfred asked with a playful smirk.

“Homework on the first day of school?” Gilbert asked, his tone incredulous as he slung his arm around Matthew. “What demon do you have as your teacher?”

Alfred shrugged as he took out the crumpled homework sheets from his backpack. “Mr. Janssens isn’t a demon, but BC definitely is.”

Gilbert shook his head. “I don’t understand what possessed you to take BC. It’s hell on Earth.”

Matthew gave a small chuckle to Gilbert’s comment, finally fully awake as he shot a thinly veiled glare at Alfred. “Of course, the math genius can handle it.”

Alfred sighed as he grabbed onto Matthew’s arm, his eyes pleading with his brother. “Come on, Mattie, talk to me. I know you’re mad, but-”

Matthew jerked his arm away from Alfred's grip, a flash of anger in his eyes. "Don't you dare try to play the caring brother now, Alfred! You don't get to just waltz in here and act like nothing happened."

Alfred's expression fell, hurt evident in his features, but that’s when Gilbert stepped in, placing a hand on Matthew's shoulder.

"Mattie, maybe it's time to hear him out. I know he was an asshole, but it's not worth holding onto forever," Gilbert urged, his voice gentle but firm.

Matthew looked torn, his emotions warring within him. Years of resentment and hurt bubbled to the surface, but so did a glimmer of longing for reconciliation. With a heavy sigh, he finally relented.

"Fine. Talk," Matthew said tersely, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Alfred.

Alfred took a deep breath, steeling himself before speaking. "I know I messed up, Mattie. I shouldn’t have dragged you away like that, and I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I was a controlling asshole, and I’m so so sorry.”

Alfred’s words hung in the air, heavy with regret and sincerity. Matthew remained silent, his expression unreadable as he stared at his brother. The tension in the room was palpable, each heartbeat echoing loudly in their ears.

After what felt like an eternity, Matthew finally spoke. “It’s…okay, Al, I’m sorry for ignoring you. But, can you please do something else for me?”

Alfred nodded eagerly, hope flickering in his eyes. “Anything, Mattie. Just name it.”

Matthew’s gaze softened as he met Alfred’s eyes, a silent understanding passing between them. “I want you to promise me you’ll never pull a stunt like that again.”

Alfred’s expression turned serious, the weight of his words sinking in. “I promise, Mattie.”

“And,” Matthew hesitated, his gaze flickering to Gilbert before returning to Alfred. “I want you to apologize to Carlos and Ivan too.”

Alfred’s eyes widened in shock at Matthew’s request.

“No,” Alfred stated firmly, shaking his head. “I’ll apologize to Carlos for your sake, Mattie, but I would never apologize to Ivan.”

Matthew’s expression remained calm, unfazed by Alfred’s protest. With a playful smirk, he nonchalantly replied, “Well, too bad because I already texted Ivan your number, and he’s expecting you.”

Alfred shook his head, a stubborn resolve hardening his features. "I don't care what Ivan's expecting. I'm not going to apologize!"

With that final declaration, he turned on his heel and stormed off to his room.

As he slammed the door shut behind him, his cat, Hero, meowed in protest before scurrying after him. Alfred slumped onto his bed, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. “Hey, Hero,” he muttered, scratching the cat behind her ears absentmindedly. Her faint purring brought a small smile to Alfred’s face, but just as he began to relax, his gaze fell upon his desk, where his math homework lay in disarray.

Sighing heavily, Alfred reached for the scattered papers, trying to gather his thoughts and focus on something other than the tension between him and his twin. The familiar equations and problems on the page provided a strange sense of comfort, grounding him amid the emotional chaos.

With each calculation and solution he worked through, Alfred felt a sense of control returning to him as he entered the place where logic and reasoning ruled above all else. At that moment, he needed clarity, and only numbers could provide it.

However, as he delved deeper into the problems, a soft chime interrupting the silence made him jump. His phone buzzed with a new message, and with a sinking feeling, Alfred picked it up to see who had texted.

Unknown Number: Hey, Alfred, it’s Ivan. I’m sorry about what happened today. Can you call me later?

Alfred slammed his phone against the bed in frustration, making Hero jump and run to the door as his jaw clenched tightly in frustration. The message replayed over and over again as he walked over to the bed to grab his phone and type out a response, anger coursing through his veins.

Alfred: Don't bother. I have nothing to say to you.

Chapter Text

Matthew’s text from earlier replayed over and over in his mind - I think you should talk to Alfred about what happened. Here’s his number:

Ivan stared at the digits on his screen, feeling a mix of apprehension and determination. He had been avoiding this conversation for too long, and now, with Matthew's gentle nudge, he knew he couldn't put it off any longer.

Taking a deep breath, Ivan put the number into his phone and texted.

Ivan:Hey, Alfred, it’s Ivan. I’m sorry for what happened today - can you call me later?

He sent the message and set his phone down, trying to quell the nervous butterflies in his stomach. The response came almost immediately.

Alfred:Don't bother. I have nothing to say to you.

The words felt like a punch to the gut. Ivan stared at his phone, a flood of emotions washing over him. He had hoped for a chance to make things right, to at least explain himself, but Alfred's response left little room for reconciliation.

He typed a reply, his fingers trembling slightly.

Ivan: I understand you're upset, but I just want a chance to explain. Please.

Alfred:Fine. Call me.

Ivan wasted no time, immediately dialing Alfred's number. The phone rang a few times before Alfred picked up, his voice terse and cold.

"Yeah, what do you want?"

"I..." Ivan swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the conversation. "I wanted to apologize. Not for lunch, but-"

"Braginsky, I will hang up in 5 seconds if you don't get to the point!" Alfred snapped, his voice terse. Ivan could hear the protesting meows of his cat as Alfred shifted positions.

Ivan took a deep breath. "I'm sorry for what happened in English. I shouldn't have said what I did."

Alfred was silent for a moment, the tension palpable through the phone as he took a few shaky deep breaths. "Why are you apologizing now?"

Ivan hesitated, his mind racing. He thought about revealing everything, but he instead opted for a half-truth. "For Matthew's sake. If he's going to be my friend now, I should at least try to tolerate his brother. And... I know he'd appreciate it if we tried to get along."

Alfred sighed, the anger in his voice softening slightly. "Fine. I'm sorry for what happened at lunch."

The silence that followed was heavy, neither of them wanting to extend the conversation more than necessary. Finally, Ivan spoke again, his voice quieter. "Thank you. I guess... I'll see you around."

"Yeah," Alfred replied shortly, the tension still lingering. "See you."

Ivan stared at his phone and sighed, rubbing his temples. Just as he was about to return to his homework, a bedroom door creaked open, and his younger sister, Natalia, stepped outside, her bright blue eyes wide with excitement. "Ivan, can you help me with something?"

Ivan turned in his chair, forcing a smile. "Sure, Natalia, what is it?"

She walked in, clutching a stack of papers. "It's my application. I need to make sure everything is perfect."

Ivan's heart sank. He knew how tough it was to get into Pangea Academy, especially on financial aid, but he couldn't bring himself to crush her dreams.

He gestured for her to sit beside him. "Let me take a look."

Ivan's chest tightened. He glanced over her application, scanning through her achievements and essays. "This looks really good, Natalia," he said, his voice gentle.

"Really?" Her eyes sparkled with hope. "Do you think I have a chance?"

Ivan swallowed hard, choosing his words carefully. "I think you've worked really hard, and it shows. You should be proud of yourself, no matter what happens."

Natalia's face fell slightly at her brother's avoidant answer. "But do you think I'll get in?"

Ivan's voice cracked a bit as he tried to choose his words carefully. "Natalia, even if you did get in, it's not the most…supportive environment, and it’s not a guaranteed pass into the Ivies. Most people don’t make it.”

Natalia's eyes widened. "But you made it through, Ivan. You always say how much you've learned there."

Ivan forced a smile, his heart aching at the hope in her eyes. "Yes, but that was different. Ms. Hedervary fought hard to get me in, but I had to prove myself every single day and I put up with a lot. You're smart, but you have to understand that they’re looking for a very specific kind of student."

Natalia's face fell, her disappointment clear. "So, you think I don't have a chance?"

Ivan reached out, gently squeezing her shoulder. "I'm saying it's tough, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try. You've got so much potential, and there are other schools that might be a better fit for you.”

She nodded slowly, clearly trying to hide her tears. "I just wanted to be with you, Ivan. You've always been there for me."

Ivan pulled her into a hug, feeling her small frame shaking slightly. "I know, Natalia. I want the best for you, and sometimes that means finding your own path. I'll always be here for you, no matter where you go."

Natalia sniffled, pulling back to wipe her eyes. "Okay. I'll keep trying, but... it just feels unfair."

“It is unfair,” Ivan agreed, his tone reigned yet determined. “The world’s against us, Natalia, but we just have to keep going - we have to prove them wrong."

Ivan sighed deeply, glancing at the clock. His eyes widened as he realized the time.

"I'm late," he muttered, jumping up from his chair. "Natalia, I have to go. We'll talk more later, okay?"

Natalia nodded, her eyes still a bit teary. "Okay, Ivan. Thanks for your help."

Ivan gave her a quick hug before grabbing his backpack and dashing out of the apartment, barely pausing to grab his bus pass. He ran out the door, sprinting to the bus stop. As he arrived, a wave of relief settled over him as he took a seat while the other passengers weaved on and off. The ride to the grocery store was a blur as Ivan glanced at his watch, a wave of anxiety washing over him.

"Almost there," he muttered to himself as he jumped off the bus, practically sprinting to the employee entrance. The clock inside read 5:59. Barely made it.

Ivan's relief was short-lived as he caught sight of his reflection in the glass door. He had forgotten to change out of his school uniform, and he hadn't so much as brushed his hair.

Steeling himself, Ivan pushed open the door, hoping his boss might overlook his appearance just this once. But as he stepped inside, he found his supervisor, Mr. Popescu, waiting with a disapproving frown.

"Ivan," Mr. Popescu said, crossing his arms over his chest, "what do you call this?"

Ivan swallowed hard, trying to steady his nerves. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Popescu; I forgot to change out of my uniform and clean up after school."

Mr. Popescu shook his head, his expression stern. "We've talked about this before. Presentation is key. The clientele expects a certain standard, and you show up looking like this... it's simply unacceptable."

"I understand," Ivan replied, his voice strained. "It won't happen again. I promise."

Mr. Popescu's eyes narrowed, his frustration evident. "I hope so. Because next time, there won't be another warning," he picked up a spare apron from the hook and threw it to Ivan. "Here, you can take off your blazer and put this over the shirt. Now, get to your station."

Ivan nodded, relieved that he hadn’t received a more severe reprimand. He hurried to his station, trying to focus on his tasks despite the lingering tension. As he restocked shelves and assisted customers, his thoughts kept returning to Alfred and Natalia, their futures uncertain yet intertwined with his own.

Later that evening, a familiar voice called out as Ivan was helping a customer find a particular brand of olive oil.

"Yeah, I think this is it, sir. Have a great d-"

"Ivan! Over here!"

He turned to see his older sister, Katya, striding toward him with urgency. She wore the uniform of one of Francis Bonnefoy’s restaurants, her presence drawing curious glances from customers.

"Katya?" Ivan greeted, surprised to see her in the grocery store. "What are you doing here?"

Katya waved a hand dismissively, her expression a mix of frustration and determination. "I need butter and tomatoes in bulk. It’s for the restaurant, and Chef Bonnefoy is on my case about it."

Ivan glanced around nervously, aware of the store’s upscale clientele. "Katya, you can't just ask for that here. People will think you’re..."

"Crazy?" Katya finished with a wry smile. "Trust me, they'll understand."

Before Ivan could protest further, Katya reached into her pocket and pulled out her work ID, flashing it discreetly. His manager, Mr. Popescu, who had been eyeing the scene with growing concern, approached cautiously.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Mr. Popescu began cautiously, eyeing Katya's ID. "Is there something I can help you with? Or are you just here to distract my workers?"

Katya's smile widened as she held up her ID for him to inspect. "I'm Katya Braginsky and I work for Francis Bonnefoy. We really need supplies for a special event tonight, and I was hoping your store could accommodate us. I can pay whatever it takes, but I need it now."

Mr. Popescu's demeanor shifted from apprehension to recognition as he inspected the ID closely. "Ah, Miss Braginsky, my apologies for the confusion. What do you need and how much?"

Katya wasted no time. "We'll need about ten pounds of butter and twenty pounds of ripe tomatoes, please. And if you have any artisan bread left, a few loaves would be perfect."

Mr. Popescu nodded briskly, his professional demeanor returning. "Right away, Miss Braginsky. Please wait here."

As he hurried off to fulfill her request, Katya turned to Ivan with a grateful smile. "Thanks for not freaking out on me. Chef's been impossible lately, and I couldn't risk any delays."

Ivan chuckled softly, relieved that Katya's quick thinking had diffused what could have been a very awkward situation. "I didn't need to do anything. You always manage to charm your way out of trouble."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "Only because I have a charming younger brother to watch my back."

Their banter was interrupted by Mr. Popescu returning with a cart loaded with precisely what Katya had requested. "Here you are, Miss Braginsky. Is there anything else you need?"

Katya inspected the supplies with a critical eye, nodding in approval. "This is perfect, thank you. How much?"

Mr. Popescu shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Consider it a favor from us. After all, Francis really is an inspiration. I used to..." he cut himself off. "I'm rambling now, but I really do appreciate everything he does. You're very lucky to work for him, Miss. Braginsky."

Katya nodded in surprise, flashing the manager another genuine smile in return. "Thank you so much, sir, I'll pass the message along to Chef Bonnefoy. And please extend our thanks to the store owner for his understanding."

Mr. Popescu smiled warmly. "You're welcome, Miss Braginsky. Please tell Francis that we wish him the best of luck with the event tonight."

With that, Katya and Ivan watched as Mr. Popescu wheeled the cart towards the checkout, ensuring that everything was taken care of smoothly. Katya turned back to Ivan with a grateful smile, squeezing his arm affectionately.

"Ivan, I owe you one. How's everything going with you?"

"Thanks, Katya. Everything's fine," Ivan replied, his voice attempting to sound nonchalant. "How's the restaurant?"

Katya's eyes sparkled. "It's a whirlwind, as usual. Chef has been all over the place with his expectations, but I think I've managed to keep up, and I might even get a raise soon!"

Ivan managed a small smile, feeling a bit lighter in her company. "I'm glad to hear it.”

She glanced around, noticing the curious stares from some customers. "Let's talk outside. I need to get back, and I'm sure you don't want to draw more attention."

Ivan nodded, leading her towards the employee entrance. As they stepped outside, the evening air felt refreshing, a welcome change from the store's bright lights and bustling atmosphere.

Katya paused by her car, loading the supplies into the trunk. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Ivan shifted uneasily, glancing at Katya as she finished loading the supplies into her car. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied, but his voice lacked conviction.

Katya closed the trunk and turned to face him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Ivan, I know when you're not being honest. What's really going on?"

Ivan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "It's just been a tough day, that's all. Work, school, everything feels like it's piling up."

Katya leaned against the car, crossing her arms. "You know you can talk to me, right? I might not have all the answers, but I can listen."

He hesitated, then nodded. "It's just... everything. Alfred, Natalia, this job. I feel like I'm constantly juggling so many things and can't drop any of them."

Katya's expression softened. "Alfred? What happened with him this time?”

Ivan looked away, his jaw tightening. "Well, we got into another fight. It was stupid, really, but it felt like everything came crashing down at once."

Katya reached out, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Fights happen, Ivan, and especially with Alfred. You guys will get over it.”

Ivan sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Thanks, Katya. I needed to hear that."

She smiled warmly. "Anytime, Ivan. Now, I have to head to work, so get back inside before your boss decides to dock your pay for chatting with me."

As Ivan watched his sister leave and re-entered the building, he noticed Mr. Popescu giving him a pointed look.

"Ivan, back to work," Mr. Popescu called out, his tone firm but not unkind. "And make sure to wear your proper uniform tomorrow."

Later that evening, the store was quieter, and the last few customers were trickling in. Ivan was stocking the aisles when he heard the jingle of the door and saw a man rush in, clearly in a hurry.

Ivan watched the man hurry into the store, his movements purposeful yet rushed. He was tall, with a lean build and an air of quiet confidence. Ivan couldn't help but notice the man’s sharp features and intense gaze as he scanned the shelves.

"Excuse me," the man said, approaching Ivan. "Do you have any fresh basil? I need it for a dish I'm preparing."

Ivan nodded, gesturing toward the produce section. "Right this way, sir. We just got a fresh shipment in this morning."

As Ivan led the man to the herbs, he couldn't shake the feeling that he looked familiar. The man picked up a bunch of basil, inspecting it closely before turning back to Ivan.

"Thank you. You seem like you know your way around this place. Do you work here often?"

Ivan nodded, trying to keep his tone professional. "Yes, I do. I've been working here for a while now."

The man smiled a hint of curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "What's your name?"

"Ivan. Ivan Braginsky."

The man extended his hand. "Dr. Rodreich Edelstein. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ivan."

Ivan shook his hand, feeling a slight sense of awe. "It's nice to meet you too, Dr. Edelstein."

Dr. Edelstein studied Ivan for a moment, then asked, "Are you a student?"

"Yes, I'm a freshman at Pangea Academy."

Dr. Edelstein's eyes lit up with recognition. "Pangea Academy? I used to attend there. It's a wonderful school. How are you finding everything?"

Ivan managed a faint smile, his curiosity piqued. “Really? I’ve been having a hard time with math. I mean, I enjoy English, but numbers... they’re not my strong suit.”

Dr. Edelstein’s eyes twinkled with understanding. “Math can be challenging and might seem more...well, practical, but if English is your passion, that’s important too. If you're good at writing, it makes life a lot easier. I learned that the hard way."

Ivan nodded, his face softening with gratitude. “Yeah, I get that, but I just wish I could be better at both.”

Dr. Edelstein chuckled softly, a warm and knowing sound. "Balance is something we all struggle to find, Ivan. But the fact that you're aware of your strengths and weaknesses is a good start."

Ivan felt a surge of respect for Dr. Edelstein. "Thank you. It's just hard to see the point sometimes when everything feels like it's crashing down."

Dr. Edelstein smiled encouragingly. "I’m sure you’ll do great, Ivan, and if you need any help or advice, feel free to reach out. I can give you my email."

Ivan blinked in surprise. "Really? That would be amazing. Thank you."

Dr. Edelstein handed Ivan a small business card. "You're welcome, Ivan. And remember to take it one step at a time. Don't try to solve the whole problem at once."

Ivan took the card, feeling a newfound sense of hope. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Dr. Edelstein."

As Dr. Edelstein walked away, Ivan pocketed the card, feeling a sense of shock and determination welling up inside of him as he continued to work.

The rest of his shift passed by in a blur, Ivan's thoughts racing with possibilities. As he finished his closing duties and stepped out into the cool night air, starting his walk to the bus stop, he couldn’t help but feel a strange calm settle over him as he was finally freed from his responsibilities.

However, Ivan sighed as he boarded the bus and opened his backpack, his math homework on full display and the blue folder seemingly mocking him with its presence. He took out a pencil and started working on the equations, but every problem seemed incomprehensible, every solution eluding him as he tried to grasp onto the concepts.

Ivan eventually gave up on even trying, throwing the folder into his backpack and leaning back in his seat. Finally, he arrived at his stop and rushed back home. The streets seemed to close in on him as he raced back, the already present dangers amplifying every second he stayed outside. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he finally reached his apartment complex, stepping inside and scanning the familiar surroundings before throwing his bag off to the side and collapsing on the pull-out couch without bothering to convert it,

And, as he fell asleep, the memories of the day floated away, word after word, as he lost himself in the world of his imagination yet again.

Chapter Text

The weeks passed in a blur of classes, assignments, and the usual squabbles with Ivan. Despite the constant tension, Alfred somehow managed to maintain his A+ average, thanks largely to Mr. Janssens' guidance and his own relentless determination. However, today brought a harsh reminder that his success was precariously balanced.

Alfred stared at his English essay, the red C glaring up at him like a personal affront. He felt his stomach churn. At Pangea Academy, a C was practically a death sentence, and in his family, it was unforgivable. His father's voice echoed in his mind, sharp and disappointed.

"Alfred, you need to take your studies more seriously."

Ivan's laughter cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present as he stared at that infuriating smirk. "What's that, Jones? Didn't quite make the grade?"

"Shut up, Braginsky," Alfred snapped, shoving the essay into his bag. "It's just one grade."

Ivan's mocking grin only widened as he packed up, flashing the A+ he had gotten on his own essay. "Sure, Jones, just one grade."

With that, Ivan flashed Alfred one final smirk before walking off, leaving him fuming with his fist clenched as he shoved the essay into his backpack.

Concerned, his teacher, Mrs. Vargas, approached him. “Alfred? Is everything alright?”

Alfred took a deep, shaky breath and forced himself to blink back the tears that welled up in his eyes. “Y-Yeah, all good. Just…disappointed.”

Mrs. Vargas gave him a sympathetic smile. "Remember, Alfred, it's about progress, not perfection. If you’d like to discuss how to improve your writing, my door is always open.”

Alfred nodded absently, barely hearing her words. He was too caught up in his own spiraling thoughts. How could he let this happen? His father's disapproving gaze loomed large in his mind as he sat down in advisory.

The rest of the day was all a blur, and even during lunch, Alfred couldn't let it go. He reluctantly went to get some food before joining his table for lunch.

“Hello, Alfred,” Kiku said cautiously, eyeing Alfred’s posture. “Are you alright?”

Alfred slammed his fist on the table, startling the group as he sat down. “No, Kiku, I’m not alright! I got a C - a fucking C - on my essay! How am I supposed to explain that?”

The table fell silent, eyes darting to Alfred with concern. Michelle reached out, placing a calming hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “It’s just one essay - and you’re already a genius!

Feliciano nodded in agreement. "Yeah, I wouldn't have passed math last year without you!"

Alfred shook his head, feeling the weight of his father's expectations pressing down on him. "You don't get it, guys. My dad... he won't understand. He'll just think I'm slacking off."

From the table next to them, Ivan's voice rang out. "What's the matter, Jones? Struggling to keep up with the rest of us?"

Alfred turned around, initially fuming, but then he saw Ivan clutching a math test in his hand, the grade obscured but the tension in Ivan's posture clear. "Struggling? Braginsky, I never struggle. So, how'd you do on the math test?" Alfred asked, trying to sound casual.

Ivan's eyes narrowed. "None of your business."

Alfred caught a glimpse of the grade, smirking as he turned to face Ivan. "How's that D treating you?"

Ivan's face flushed with anger. "You think that's funny? At least I can form a coherent sentence!”

"And I least I got in here on my own merit!" Alfred snapped back, stepping closer to Ivan, their bodies inches apart.

Ivan stepped closer, his voice low and dangerous as he stared down at Alfred. "You don't know anything about me, Jones."

"You don't belong here, Braginsky - you're a liar! I know that much," Alfred spat, although he felt himself shrinking slightly under his rival's scrutinizing gaze.

Before their argument could escalate further, Kiku and Yao intervened. "Enough," Kiku said firmly, pulling Alfred away. "Let's go."

Yao grabbed Ivan's arm. "Come on, Ivan. This isn't worth it."

As they walked away, Alfred fumed. "Can you believe him? Acting all high and mighty when he's barely passing math."

Kiku sighed. "Let it go, Alfred. Focus on your own grades. One bad grade doesn't define you."

"Kiku, you don’t get it. This isn’t just about a grade," Alfred muttered, his voice tight with frustration.

"I know, Alfred," Kiku replied calmly. "But it’s not the end of the world. Let’s focus on solutions, not just problems."

They walked in silence for a while until they reached a quieter corridor. Kiku glanced at Alfred's tense expression and spoke again. "Have you considered talking to Ms. Hedervary about this? Maybe getting a tutor could help."

Alfred shook his head vehemently. "No tutor has ever been able to fix me, Kiku. It’s just… a waste of time."

Kiku’s expression softened with concern. “It's not about fixing you, Alfred; it's about finding someone who can help you. Please, Alfred, at least consider it."

Alfred was taken aback by Kiku’s insistence, a rare display of passion from his best friend, but reluctantly agreed. "Fine," he muttered as they started walking to the office.

As they walked, Kiku’s gaze fell on the bandages peeking from Alfred’s sleeve. “Alfred…you promised me you would stop.”

Alfred looked away, his voice tight as he pulled his sleeves down. “I tried, Kiku, I really tried. It’s just… it’s harder than it seems.”

Kiku nodded, his gaze filled with understanding. "I understand, Alfred, but-"

"Kiku," Alfred cut him off, his tone sharper than intended. "Just drop it, please. I promise, I'll try and stop, happy?"

“Alfred,” Kiku started hesitantly, “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but—”

“Can we just not?” Alfred cut him off again, his voice tight. “I’ve had enough for today.”

Kiku sighed, clearly wanting to say more but respecting Alfred’s wishes. “Alright. But remember, if you ever need to talk... I’m here.”

Alfred nodded, forcing a smile. “Thanks, Kiku.”

Their quiet moment was interrupted when Ivan and Yao emerged from Ms. Hedervary's office. Ivan’s face was a mask of frustration, his usual smirk replaced with a scowl.

“Ivan,” Kiku greeted, trying to sound casual but clearly concerned. “How’d it go?”

Ivan shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “It was... fine. Nothing new.” His tone was clipped, betraying his irritation.

“Good luck,” Alfred muttered, more to himself than to Ivan, as he watched them take a seat on the bench outside.

Kiku gave Alfred a reassuring pat on the back. “Your turn.”

Alfred took a deep breath and walked into the office, where Ms. Hedervary was seated behind her desk, her warm gaze immediately easing some of his tension.

“Alfred, good to see you,” she said, her voice soothing. “What can I help you with today?”

Alfred sank into the chair, feeling the weight of the past few weeks pressing on him. “ I—I don’t know where to start. I got a C on my English essay, and it’s eating me alive. I’ve been trying so hard to keep my grades up, but nothing seems to work.”

Ms. Hedervary’s eyes softened with understanding. “Alfred, you’ve always been a good student, and I know that the grade is disappointing, but it doesn’t define you."

Alfred leaned forward, trying to articulate his confusion and anger. “I know, but I just don’t understand why I’m struggling with this. I’ve done everything I could. I’ve seen every tutor and gone to every study group. Nothing helps; no one can fix me!"

Ms. Hedervary nodded sympathetically. “Alfred, it's not about 'fixing you' - you're not broken. It's about finding the right fit rather than just any help; finding someone who understands you."

Alfred sighed deeply, his frustration still evident. “But what if there’s no one who understands? What if I’m just... failing no matter what?”

Ms. Hedervary leaned forward, her expression serious but gentle. “Alfred, you're not failing. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about finding strategies that work for you. I believe there’s a way to address this, but it might involve working differently than you have before.”

Alfred nodded, though his frustration was still palpable. He looked up as Ms. Hedervary walked over to the door, opened it, and said, "Ivan, you can come back in now."

Ivan stepped into the room, his face a mask of frustration and discomfort. He glanced at Alfred, their eyes meeting briefly before Ivan took a seat on the opposite side of the desk.

Ivan stepped into the room with a barely concealed scowl, his usual bravado replaced by a palpable tension. He glanced at Alfred, who met his gaze with a mixture of irritation and resignation. The two sat down, their chairs scraping softly against the floor.

Ms. Hedervary settled back into her chair, her gaze shifting between the two students. “Alfred and Ivan, I believe it would be beneficial for both of you to work together. You both understand your subjects well, and I think working with someone who shares your struggles could help."

Alfred's eyes widened slightly, his face flushed with embarrassment and indignation. “You want us to work together? That’s... that’s a joke, right?”

Ivan’s jaw tightened as he shot a quick, wary glance at Ms. Hedervary. The brief, almost imperceptible look of discomfort made Alfred’s stomach churn with unease.

Ivan’s lips twitched into a sardonic smile. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of being stuck with Jones.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Same goes for me. Why should I work with you?”

Ms. Hedervary’s voice was gentle but firm. “It’s not about wanting to work with each other; it’s about finding a solution that helps you both succeed. I suggest you give it a try. You might be surprised.”

Ivan’s irritation was palpable as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and Alfred could sense something more to Ivan’s reluctance, a depth of insecurity hidden behind his defiance. But before Alfred could delve further into the mystery, Ms. Hedervary stood up and gestured toward the door.

“Why don’t you two take some time to discuss this? If you can agree to work together, I think it could be a positive step for both of you.”

As they left the office, Alfred felt the weight of the past hour pressing heavily on him. He caught sight of Ivan rubbing his temples, clearly agitated.

"Well," Ivan finally broke the silence, his voice gruff and uneven, "guess we’re stuck with each other now."

Alfred’s jaw tightened as he shot Ivan a sharp glance. "Yeah, apparently. Don’t get too comfortable, Braginsky."

Ivan’s eyes flashed with a hint of something—perhaps frustration or embarrassment—before he turned his gaze away, rubbing his temples with a sigh. “I’ll... text you later. About the study thing.”

“Fine,” Alfred muttered, his irritation still simmering beneath the surface. He glanced at Kiku, who was waiting a few steps away with a concerned expression. “Come on, Kiku. Let’s get out of here.”

As Alfred and Kiku left Ms. Hedervary’s office, the weight of the day seemed to press down on them. Alfred's mind whirred with frustration and confusion, and he couldn't shake the feeling that the world was conspiring against him.

Kiku walked beside him, trying to offer comfort but unsure how best to address Alfred’s mood. “Alfred, are you sure you're alright?"

Alfred’s lips tightened. “I don’t know what to say. I just... feel like everything’s falling apart. My essay was a disaster; my dad's going to lose it, and now I have to work with Braginsky?”

Kiku's gaze softened. “It’s a lot to handle, I know. But you're smart, Alfred, and you're going to get through this."

They rounded a corner, and Michelle caught sight of them, waving with a smile. “Hey, Alfred, Kiku! What’s up? You left so suddenly.”

Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Ms. Hedervary wants me to work with Ivan Braginsky to fix things. It’s just... a mess.”

Michelle’s eyes widened with curiosity. “Working with Ivan? That sounds... interesting.”

“Interesting?” Alfred repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “More like a nightmare.”

Michelle’s expression shifted from concern to curiosity as she took in Alfred’s agitated state. “You know, it could be a good way to learn. Maybe it’ll push you to see things from a different perspective.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Alfred said, though his tone suggested he wasn’t convinced. “But right now, all I see is a headache.”

Kiku glanced at Alfred, then at Michelle. “We should head to class, but Alfred, we can talk more about it if you need to later.”

As they made their way to Alfred's science class, Michelle and Kiku chatted about the upcoming exams and school events, their voices blending with the hum of students in the hallway.

The rest of the school day slipped by in a haze for Alfred. His usually sharp focus in science class wavered, the C on his essay still gnawing at him. His mind wandered, and he struggled to grasp the concept of Newton's Laws his teacher was explaining. Every equation seemed to blur into the next, and Alfred felt his frustration mount with each passing minute.

The bell rang, signaling the end of science class, but Alfred barely registered it. He gathered his things mechanically, his mind still tangled in the mess of his earlier frustrations. He headed to soccer practice, hoping the physical exertion might offer some relief.

But as he took to the field, his usual fluidity seemed to have evaporated. His kicks were sloppy, his passes off-target. The coach's whistle cut through the air, sharp and insistent.

“Jones, get it together!”

Alfred forced himself to focus, but his movements felt mechanical, lacking the fluidity and confidence he usually brought to the field. With each missed goal and misjudged pass, his frustration mounted, and by the end of practice, he was barely holding back the urge to throw his soccer cleats against the wall.

As the final whistle blew, signaling the end of practice, Mr. Anderson was already waiting for him at the edge of the field. He approached the car, hoping the drive home might offer a brief respite from the chaos swirling in his mind.

Matthew was in the car, his phone in his hand, when he noticed Alfred enter, slamming the door behind him.

"Alright, I gotta go...stop calling me 'Birdie!' Okay, I'll come over later, bye!"

With that, Matthew quickly hung up, tucking his phone away with a smile as he turned to face his brother.

“Hey, Alfred. How was practice?” Matthew asked, his voice bright but tinged with concern.

Alfred slumped into the seat, his frustration barely contained. “It was terrible. I was off my game the entire time. I can’t seem to do anything right today," his face suddenly brightened as he stared at Matthew's phone. "But who was calling you 'birdie'?"

Matthew blushed furiously as he instinctively hid his phone. "That's...not important! I was just calling Gilbert!"

Alfred chuckled, the small amusement providing a brief respite from his own troubles. “Well, at least someone’s having a good day. I swear everything I've done today has turned to shit."

Matthew’s eyebrows furrowed with concern. “You’re being too hard on yourself. Everyone has off days. Maybe it’s just... one of those days.”

Alfred sighed, looking out the window as the cityscape passed by. “Yeah, but it feels like more than just an off day. I got a C on my essay, and now Ms. Hedervary wants me to work with Braginsky. I don’t even know how that’s going to help.”

Matthew glanced over, trying to gauge his brother’s mood. “Well, it might be a good opportunity, you know? Working with someone who’s struggling like you could give you a new perspective."

Alfred shot Matthew a sidelong glance. “Oh, great. So, you’re on Team ‘Give Ivan a Chance’ too?”

Matthew shrugged, his tone gentle. “I’m just saying that it might help. You never know until you try.”

As they pulled into the driveway, Alfred’s frustration seemed to settle slightly. However, when he entered the house, Mrs. Patterson was waiting for him.

“Alfred, your father wants to see you in the study,” she said, her tone implying that the discussion wouldn’t be pleasant.

Alfred’s stomach churned. “Thanks, Mrs. Patterson.”

Alfred trudged up the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. The usual sense of dread about facing his father in the study was now magnified as he knocked on the heavy wooden door.

"Come in, Alfred," his father answered, his voice cold and distant.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Alfred pushed open the heavy wooden door to the study. The room was adorned with towering bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes, a testament to his father's intellectual prowess. Arthur Kirkland sat behind the grand mahogany desk, his expression stern as he regarded his son.

Alfred stepped forward, trying to keep his shoulders squared despite the heaviness in his chest. “You wanted to see me, Dad?”

Arthur nodded, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Please, sit down.”

Alfred complied, feeling the weight of the leather chair press down on him.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed slightly as he set aside a stack of papers. “I heard about your grade. Care to explain?”

Alfred’s mouth felt dry as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to find the right words. “I— I know it’s not what I expected. I’ve been working hard, but... it just didn’t turn out as well as I hoped.”

Arthur’s expression didn’t soften. “A ‘C’ is not acceptable, Alfred. Especially not when you’ve been given every advantage.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably under his father's gaze. "I'm trying, Dad. I really am."

"Show me the essay," Arthur demanded, his tone brooking no argument.

Alfred hesitated for a moment before reluctantly pulling the graded essay from his backpack. He handed it to his father, his hands trembling slightly. Arthur took the paper, his eyes scanning the red ink that marked the teacher’s comments and corrections. His expression darkened with each passing second.

"This," Arthur began, "is unacceptable. Your analysis lacks depth, and your arguments are poorly structured. You’re not putting in the effort required to excel in this subject."

Alfred's heart pounded as he stood before his father, feeling smaller with each harsh word. The study's grandeur seemed to dwarf him, making him feel like a child again under his father's scrutinizing gaze.

"Dad, I know it's not my best work," Alfred admitted, struggling to keep his voice steady. "But I am trying. It's just... it's hard to keep up sometimes."

Arthur leaned forward, his gaze intense. “It’s not just about the effort you put in. It’s about results. We’ve always expected excellence from you, and this—” he gestured vaguely at the air, “—this is a failure.”

The words stung more than Alfred had anticipated. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying my best, but it feels like nothing’s ever good enough.”

Arthur’s expression remained stern. “Trying your best isn’t enough if the results don’t meet the standard. You need to find a way to improve, and I expect you to turn this around.”

Alfred clenched his fists in his lap, his frustration bubbling over. “And how am I supposed to do that? It’s not like there’s a magic fix. I’m already doing everything I can!"

Arthur’s tone was cold, and his patience was wearing thin. “You need to find a way. There are resources available to you, and if you’re struggling, you need to utilize them effectively.”

Alfred’s eyes burned with unshed tears. “I’ve done everything, Dad, but nothing seems to work! I can't focus, I can't even read, and no one can help me! Why can’t you see that?”

Arthur’s expression hardened further. “I see someone who isn’t meeting expectations. If you’re struggling, then you need to find a way to overcome it. I don’t want excuses about not being able to do it."

Alfred’s frustration flared, and he shot back, “What’s the point of even trying if I’m always going to be a failure no matter what I do? You don't get it, Dad, you don't get what it's like to try and always fall short!"

Arthur’s eyes flashed with a mixture of frustration and disappointment. “You’re not a failure, Alfred. But you need to prove that you can overcome these challenges. If you can’t, then you’re not living up to your potential.”

With that, Arthur stood up, signaling the end of the conversation. Alfred felt a wave of despair wash over him as he rose from the chair, his heart heavy.

“Fine,” Alfred muttered, his voice barely audible. “I’ll try harder.”

With that, Alfred slammed the study door behind him, the impact reverberating through the quiet house. He stormed down the hall, but the echo of his father's harsh words seemed to chase him, each step making the sting of failure sharper.

In the dim light of the hallway, he found himself face-to-face with Matthew. His twin brother leaned against the wall, a look of concern etched on his face.

“What did Dad say this time?” Matthew asked, his voice soft but steady. He pushed off the wall, stepping closer to Alfred.

Alfred’s eyes were filled with frustration and hurt. “He thinks a C is the end of the world. I can’t do anything right.” His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white with the effort to keep his composure.

Matthew’s gaze softened, and he placed a comforting hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “It’s just one grade. You’re amazing at so many things, Alfred. Dad just...doesn’t always see that.”

Alfred shrugged off Matthew’s hand, the gesture more reflexive than intentional. “Easy for you to say. You didn’t get a lecture about ruining the family name. Anyways, are you still going to Gilbert's? Because I might come with you at this point."

Matthew hesitated, sensing Alfred’s fragile state. “I was planning on it. But you know, you don’t have to come if you’re not up for it. Maybe you should take some time to calm down.”

Alfred shook his head, his frustration simmering just below the surface. “No, I’m coming. I need to get out of here.”

Matthew nodded, though his eyes still held concern. “Alright, but let’s talk more later, okay? I just don’t want you to make things worse for yourself." he hesitated before turning on his phone. "I'm going to text Dad to see if we can go."

As Alfred paced restlessly, Matthew watched him with a mix of sympathy and worry. The silence between them was thick, punctuated only by the soft tapping of Matthew's thumbs on the phone. Finally, a notification chimed in Matthew's hand, and he glanced at it with a hopeful expression.

"He said it's fine," Matthew said, putting his phone away. "But if we come back after dark, we need a ride."

Alfred exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging a little. "That rule is bullshit; his house is literally right there," he took another deep breath before nodding. "But I just need to get out of here. Come on, let's go."

Matthew led the way to the front door, Alfred trailing behind him with a heavy heart. The chill of the evening air greeted them as they stepped outside, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere of their home. The sky was a canvas of twilight hues, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across their path.

They arrived at the gate surrounding the house, and Alfred sighed as he typed in the code to no avail.

"Mattie, what's the-"

Matthew pushed Alfred out of the way and wordlessly typed in the new code. "They changed it again, I got it."

The gate clicked open, and they stepped into the front yard, the lush green lawn a stark contrast to the harsh reality Alfred had left behind. The path led them to the entrance of the house, where the front door swung open, and Gilbert’s familiar face greeted them.

“Hey, you two,” Gilbert called out, his voice cheerful. “Come in!"

Alfred forced a smile as he followed Matthew inside. The grand foyer of the house was adorned with elegant furniture and vibrant artwork.

They settled in the living room, where Gilbert promptly flopped onto a plush couch and patted the spot next to him. Matthew, with a soft smile, took the invitation and snuggled up next to Gilbert.

“Hey, you two look pretty relaxed together,” Alfred teased as he sank into an armchair.

Matthew blushed, and Gilbert chuckled. “I guess you could say that."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, Ludwig, Gilbert’s younger brother, descended the stairs with a casual grace.

“Evening,” Ludwig greeted, settling into a nearby armchair.

“Hey, Ludwig!” Alfred greeted back. “Glad you’re here. I was just getting ready to lose my mind over third-wheeling these two."

Ludwig raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment as he took a seat in a nearby armchair. “Well, it's nice to have you two over. But, Alfred, are you alright? You stormed off during lunch today."

Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I guess. It’s just... it's been rough lately. Dad’s on my case about a C I got on an essay; Ivan's a jerk as always, and now we have to work together!"

Ludwig nodded understandingly. “That sounds tough. But you’re here now, right? Sometimes a change of scenery helps.”

Alfred managed a small smile, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease a bit. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

As they continued to settle in, Matthew leaned closer to Gilbert, who was still running his fingers through his hair, a tender gesture that made Alfred chuckle. “So, how’s the whole relationship thing going?” Alfred teased, glancing at the pair.

Matthew's cheeks flushed again, but he grinned. “We’re just friends, Alfred. Nothing more.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Just friends? Sure, Mattie, keep living in denial."

Gilbert laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, alright, Alfred, we get it. But seriously, what’s the latest drama with you and Ivan?”

Alfred sighed dramatically. “Oh, you know, the usual. We’re supposed to work together now because of this tutoring thing, but he’s been nothing but a jerk about it.”

Gilbert raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Sounds like a classic enemies-to-lovers setup to me. You two are just one dramatic montage away from realizing you’re meant for each other.”

Alfred shot Gilbert a mock glare, though his lips twitched upwards. “Seriously? What’s next, a love triangle with Kiku and that one dramatic soundtrack?”

Matthew snorted, hiding his laughter behind his hand. “I think you’d have to be less of a hot mess for that to work out.”

Ludwig leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Honestly, Alfred, working together might not be as bad as it seems. Sometimes, having someone who understands your struggles can make all the difference.”

“Yeah,” Alfred said, sighing. “I guess. But Ivan’s so stubborn. It’s like talking to a brick wall sometimes.”

Gilbert chuckled, patting Alfred on the back. “Well, you’re both stubborn, so it’ll be like a battle of wills. Could be fun to watch, at least.”

Alfred laughed, shaking his head. “If by fun you mean excruciating, then sure. I’m not exactly looking forward to it, though."

Just as Alfred was beginning to relax fully, his phone buzzed with a new message. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen. The name that appeared made his heart skip a beat—Ivan Braginsky.

Alfred’s fingers hesitated over the screen before he tapped on the notification. The group, sensing the change in his demeanor, gathered around to see what Ivan had sent.

"Well, did he say?" Gilbert probed as Alfred shielded the screen to read the message himself first.

Alfred reluctantly revealed the text, his heart pounding as he did so. "He said..."

Chapter Text

Ivan stared at his phone in the break room, his eyes glued to the screen as he tried to type out a message to Alfred. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed in his ears, blending with the distant sound of a cash register beeping rhythmically on the other side of the wall. He had been staring at the screen for ages, trying to compose a message to Alfred.

'How do I even start?' Ivan wondered, his mind racing as he reread the draft he had typed out, his fingers itching to hit delete.

'Hey, maybe we could meet up during lunch to discuss the tutoring thing?'

Too casual; it almost sounded unnatural.

'We need to figure out a time to meet for our tutoring sessions.'

Too formal and upfront - he sounded like a robot.

'Hey )'

No, that was just strange.

Ivan sighed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. The clock on the wall ticked by, each second feeling like an eternity as his boss glared at him from across the room. He knew he should've been back at the register by now, but this message was important. More important than the grumbling customers waiting in line and more important than his boss’s impatience.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Ivan typed out another message.

'Hey, could we meet during lunch tomorrow to talk about the tutoring schedule? We could also call tonight if that's easier.'

He hesitated for a moment, reading it over one last time before finally hitting send. He released a breath he didn't realize he was holding as he tucked his phone into his pocket.

"Finally, there you are, Ivan!" His boss's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. Mr. Popescu stood in the doorway to the stockroom, arms crossed and an impatient frown on his face. "We've got a huge shipment in the back, and you’re over here taking a break?"

Ivan flinched. "Sorry, I was just—"

"Save it," Mr. Popescu interrupted with a wave of his hand. "Just get back there and help unload. We don't have all night."

Without another word, Ivan trudged back into the stockroom, his thoughts still preoccupied with the text message he had just sent. He tried to shake off his unease, focusing instead on the task at hand, but as he worked, he couldn't help but replay the text message in his mind, over-analyzing every word.

As the day wore on, Ivan’s anxiety didn’t wane. Every time his phone buzzed, his heart leaped, hoping it was Alfred’s reply. However, it wasn’t until late in his shift that he finally received a response.

Alfred: 'Hey, does tomorrow during lunch at the library work?'

Ivan’s tense shoulders finally relaxed.

‘That works,’ he replied quickly, keeping his message brief.

When his shift finally ended, Ivan pulled off his apron and clocked out, his muscles aching from the long hours. The journey home was a blur of dark streets and dimly lit sidewalks as he looked out the bus window, his mind still preoccupied with the day's events.

He quietly unlocked the door, careful not to wake his younger sister, Natalia, who was most likely asleep by now. The apartment was dark and silent, save for the faint sound of Natalia’s steady breathing from the bedroom and Ivan's quiet footsteps as he moved through the cramped living room, making his way to the small kitchen area where he set up his homework.

He cleared a space on the table, shoving aside a stack of bills and an old newspaper before pulling out his textbooks. As he worked through the equations on the worksheet, his mind kept wandering back to the text messages with Alfred. The mere thought of the blonde made his chest tighten with something he couldn't quite name.

He fidgeted with a pencil, tapping it against the table. The worksheet in front of him was a blur of numbers and symbols, and the frustration of it all gnawed at him, making it hard to focus. With a sigh, he shoved the worksheet aside and picked up his phone, unlocking it with a tired swipe.

Yao’s name appeared at the top of his contact list, and Ivan hesitated a moment before dialing. The phone rang twice before Yao answered. “Ivan? It’s late. Everything okay?”

“Hey, Yao,” Ivan said, trying to keep his voice light. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just needed someone to talk to.”

Yao chuckled softly. “I’m guessing this has something to do with Alfred?”

Ivan nodded, even though Yao couldn’t see him. “Yeah, it does. I’m just... not sure how to handle things. I’m nervous about meeting with him tomorrow, and I can't focus on anything but him!"

Yao’s chuckle turned into a laugh. “Ivan, you’re overthinking this. You’re meeting to talk about tutoring, not planning a date.”

Ivan’s cheeks heated at the implication. “I know, I know. It’s just..I feel like I have to be careful around him. I can't fail math, and I can't necessarily afford an actual tutor."

“Ivan, I know damn well you could pass math without a tutor - doing well is a different story. Maybe you’re just worried because you like him?” Yao teased lightly.

Ivan’s stomach flipped, and he quickly shook his head. “No, it's not like that! I just don’t want to mess up and make things worse between us.”

“I’m just teasing, Ivan,” Yao said, his tone more serious now. “But really, just be yourself. Alfred’s just as human as the rest of us, and if you’re honest and straightforward, it’ll work out.”

Ivan sighed, running a hand through his hair again. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Thank you."

“No problem,” Yao replied. “Now, finish your homework and get some sleep. You’ll do fine tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Yao.”

“Goodnight, Ivan.”

Ivan hung up the phone, leaning back against the chair as the soft glow of the overhead lights cast long shadows across the room. His textbooks lay open in front of him, but the words on the page blurred together. He tapped his pencil absently against the edge of the table, the rhythmic sound failing to drown out the anxious thoughts racing through his head.

With a frustrated sigh, Ivan pushed his homework aside and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as he tried to calm the storm inside his mind. The quiet hum of the apartment was the only sound that accompanied his thoughts - the thoughts that reminded him that he couldn’t afford to mess this up—not the tutoring, not his grades, not anything.

Eventually, the exhaustion of the day caught up with him, and Ivan fell into a restless sleep, his dreams filled with half-formed images of Alfred, the ticking clock of the stockroom, and the countless expectations that seemed to loom over him.

The next morning, Ivan woke up groggy, and the usually small apartment felt even smaller as he moved through his morning routine. He dressed quickly, pulling on his worn school uniform and grabbing his backpack, which felt heavier than usual, as he raced out the door, feeling too nauseous to even think about making himself breakfast.

The bus ride to school was a blur of passing scenery, his mind too clouded with anxiety to take in the usual sights. He found himself tapping his foot nervously, counting down the minutes until he would have to face Alfred.

When he finally arrived at school, Ivan moved through the halls in a daze, his thoughts elsewhere as he entered the classroom, taking his seat. The hum of idle chatter and the content of the lesson faded into the background, replaced by the pounding of his own heart.

However, just as he felt himself drifting, his teacher’s voice cut through the fog of his thoughts like a sharp blade.

"Ivan, do you mind telling the class what you're so preoccupied with?" Mr. Bondevik's stern gaze fixed on him, pulling him out of his mental spiral.

Ivan blinked, suddenly aware of the pairs of eyes now trained on him. His throat went dry, and his hands clenched into fists under the desk. He hadn’t even noticed the chalk squeaking to a halt on the blackboard or the fact that Mr. Bondevik had been asking him a question. Ivan was only vaguely aware of the topic, his mind miles away, replaying his upcoming meeting with Alfred over and over.

“Uh, I'm sorry, Mr. Bondevik,” Ivan mumbled, lowering his gaze to avoid the curious stares of his classmates. “I was just…thinking about something else.”

Mr. Bondevik's frown deepened. “That’s obvious. Try to focus on the lesson. You can think about your other concerns later.” His voice was stern but not unkind, and Ivan nodded quickly, his face flushing with embarrassment.

“Right… sorry.” Ivan ducked his head, trying to disappear into his seat as Mr. Bondevik turned back to the board, resuming the lesson. He scribbled down notes half-heartedly, the words blurring together as his thoughts drifted once more.

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. Ivan went through the motions, responding when prompted, but never fully present.

Finally, the lunch bell rang, pulling Ivan out of his reverie. The sound echoed in his chest, each ring like a countdown to something he wasn’t sure he was ready for. He packed up his books slowly, his movements mechanical as his classmates rushed out the door, eager to escape to the cafeteria or the courtyard. Ivan, however, felt a weight in his chest, as if the simple task of walking to the library was suddenly monumental.

*It’s just lunch. Just a conversation,* he told himself, though the mantra did little to calm his nerves.

By the time Ivan reached the library, Alfred was already there, seated at a table near the back. Ivan hesitated at the entrance, his heart thumping erratically in his chest.

Alfred looked up and caught his eye, giving a small wave and a tentative smile that did little to ease the tension coiled in Ivan’s stomach.

“Hey,” Alfred greeted as Ivan approached the table. His voice was casual, but Ivan couldn’t help but notice the slight edge in his tone as if he were just as nervous as Ivan was.

“Hey,” Ivan echoed, taking a seat across from him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching out between them as Ivan’s mind raced with all the possible ways this conversation could go wrong.

“So,” Alfred began, breaking the silence, “I was thinking about our schedules. Lunch and our study block might be the best time to meet up, at least during the week. What do you think?”

Ivan nodded, trying to focus on the conversation at hand. “Yeah, lunch could work. I have sports after school most days and… other stuff.” He hesitated to elaborate any further, hoping Alfred wouldn't push the issue.

Alfred nodded, either not noticing the pause or respecting Ivan's silent wish to let it go. “Same here. I have my stuff after school too and I’m pretty busy on Fridays and Saturdays, so that leaves Sunday afternoons.”

“Sunday afternoon works for me,” Ivan agreed quickly, relief washing over him. "Where should we meet?"

Alfred frowned slightly. “I can’t invite you over because of my parents' rules, but I understand if you can’t either.”

Ivan nodded, his cheeks flushing with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. “Yeah, same here. I’m...not too keen on having guests over. Are you allowed to go out at least?"

Alfred nodded. "Yeah, but my curfew's at 9...sometimes 10 if I get lucky."

Ivan rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the weight of the conversation hanging between them. “Well, that's alright. We could try a library - there's one near the rink."

Alfred perked up at the suggestion. “That could work. I think I know the one you’re talking about. We could meet there around 2 on Sundays and here during lunch during weekdays?"

“That sounds good to me,” Ivan replied, grateful that Alfred had offered a solution. He felt some of the tension in his chest ease as they ironed out the details.

Alfred smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I guess. I know this tutoring thing isn’t exactly what we want to be doing with our time.”

Ivan shook his head quickly. “No, it's -" he cut himself off. "I mean...it's alright, I suppose; I’m just glad we were able to work something out.”

They both stood up, gathering their things. Alfred gave Ivan a rare, friendly smile. “I’ll see you here tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah, see you tomorrow,” Ivan replied with a small smile. As Alfred headed off to his next class, Ivan lingered for a moment, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

The afternoon passed in a blur, and soon enough, Ivan found himself on the ice at the hockey rink, his skates gliding over the cold surface. The familiar sounds of blades scraping against ice and the occasional slap of a hockey puck filled the large space. However, no matter how much Ivan tried to focus on his practice, his thoughts kept wandering back to his conversation with Alfred.

As he took his place on the ice, Ivan noticed a familiar figure skating in the distance—Matthew, who skated beside him during the break, his breath misting in the cold air. "Hey," Matthew greeted, adjusting his helmet with a small smile. "How's everything going?"

Ivan shrugged, unsure of how to respond. "It’s… fine, I guess. Alfred and I are...how do I put this? Figuring things out."

Matthew nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah, Alfred can be a bit... intense. Don’t take it personally if he gets defensive.”

Ivan chuckled softly. "I’m trying not to. It’s just… I don’t want to mess it up."

Matthew’s eyes softened with understanding. "I get it, but-"

Before Ivan could respond, the coach’s whistle pierced the air, signaling the start of the next drill. Matthew gave Ivan a quick nod before skating off, leaving Ivan alone with his thoughts once more.

After practice, Ivan rushed home to change and head to work, his body aching as he raced to catch the bus. The dread of the next day loomed over him, but there was little time to dwell on it as his shift began. By the time he got home, the fatigue hit him like a ton of bricks, and sleep came quickly.

The following day, lunch arrived sooner than expected, and Ivan found himself back at the library, sitting across from Alfred once again. Without bothering with a proper greeting, Alfred pulled out his laptop to open his English essay. “So, uh... I guess we should start with this,” he muttered, pointing at a section of his essay. “It’s a mess. I know.”

Ivan glanced over the essay, feeling the tension already beginning to build in the air. He could see what Alfred meant—his writing was a jumble of sentences that didn't quite flow, but he also knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Still, he forced himself to focus.

"Alright," Ivan began, tapping his pencil against the desk. "Let’s start with your introduction. The hook is passable, but you don't quite have a thesis."

Alfred frowned, squinting at his essay. "I thought I had a thesis. It’s... right there, isn’t it?"

Ivan read the line Alfred pointed to. 'In the Odyssey, the hero’s journey for Odysseus is about self-discovery and overcoming adversity,' he paused for a moment. "Yes, but it’s vague and doesn't make an argument," Ivan replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. "You need to have a claim you can build your analysis off of, or your essay will simply...fall apart."

Alfred groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. "I don’t get this English shit. Why does it have to be so complicated? I’m already doing all this math, and now they want me to be good at this? It's useless!"

"Look, it's just about breaking it down," Ivan said, feeling his patience thin as he tried to explain. "Focus on one thing at a time—like here, you could say something about how Odyseuss' experience with—"

Alfred squinted at the screen, his frustration visibly growing. "Yeah, but I get that already. It’s just—" He groaned again, pushing the laptop away slightly. "It doesn't make sense - there's just...no methodology to it. How am I supposed to know what the teacher wants me to say?"

Ivan clenched his jaw, taking a deep breath before replying. "It’s not about a formula or knowing exactly what to say. It’s about making an argument. You have to—"

"I know what I have to do!" Alfred snapped, cutting Ivan off. His voice rose a little louder than he intended, causing a few heads in the library to turn their way. "I just... I don’t see why any of this matters! I just...don't get it, Braginsky and I never will!"

Ivan’s frustration finally bubbled over, and he felt his patience snap. "It matters because it’s part of your grade, Jones. And maybe if you stopped complaining for two minutes and actually listened, you’d get it!"

Alfred’s eyes widened in shock for a moment, his hands clenching into fists. "Oh, so now it’s my fault, huh? I’m not trying hard enough, is that it?" His voice dropped to a hiss, but the anger was clear.

"That’s not what I’m saying," Ivan said through gritted teeth. "You’re not listening. You’re just—"

"I'm just what?" Alfred’s voice was sharp, his face flushed with frustration. "Just too stupid to get it? Is that what you mean?"

The accusation hit Ivan like a punch to the gut. "No, that’s not what I—"

"You know what?" Alfred interrupted, standing up abruptly and shoving his chair back with a screech that drew even more attention. "Forget it. I don’t need your help, okay? I don’t need anyone’s help!" His voice wavered, anger barely masking the hurt behind his words.

Ivan stood up as well, his own anger flaring. "Fine! If that’s how you feel, then maybe you’re right. Maybe you don’t need help. But don’t come crying to me when you fail this class because you couldn’t be bothered to try!"

Alfred's expression hardened, his blue eyes narrowing. "Screw you, Braginsky." Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his bag and stormed out of the library, leaving Ivan standing there, breathing heavily, his fists clenched at his sides.

For a moment, Ivan just stood there, frozen in place. His heart pounded in his chest, and the echo of Alfred's harsh words rang in his ears. Slowly, he sank back down into his chair, staring at the abandoned laptop on the table that displayed the half-finished essay in front of him. The words seemed to blur together as he tried to process what had just happened.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

This wasn’t supposed to go wrong.

Chapter Text

Alfred slumped against his locker, his hand clutching the strap of his backpack as he tried to push down the unease roiling in his stomach. The hallways buzzed with the usual chatter, the rhythmic thud of footsteps, and the occasional slam of locker doors. Despite the familiar chaos around him, his mind was miles away—stuck on his earlier conversation with Ivan.

Why did I snap like that? he thought, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. The tension had been building all week, and now it had spilled over in the worst possible way. He'd yelled at Ivan in the middle of the library, of all places, over something as dumb as an English essay.

Nothing made sense anymore except for numbers. There was a formula, a logic, something clear to follow. But words? Words were a mess. They twisted in his head, never quite coming out right. And essays? That was a whole other nightmare. Just thinking about it made his skin crawl.

Alfred exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already messy blonde hair. He needed to apologize or at least explain himself, but how? What could he even say that would make sense? "Sorry for being a jerk, it's just that my brain can't handle this crap? You were right; I am too stupid to understand this." 

Just then, a familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Hello, Alfred. Did it go well with Ivan?"

Alfred turned to see Kiku standing nearby, his usual calm expression tinged with curiosity. For a moment, Alfred just stared, his brain taking a second too long to catch up. "Oh, uh... hey, Kiku," he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders. "It was... fine." He tried to play it off, but the way Kiku raised a brow told him he wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Alfred,” Kiku began softly, yet his words needed no elaboration. 

Alfred winced at how easily Kiku saw through him, but his chest felt tight, and his mind raced as he thought back to the fight.

"I just... I screwed up," Alfred admitted, leaning against the locker and sighing heavily. "We were supposed to be going over this English essay, but I couldn’t get my words together, and I freaked out. I kinda... blew up at him." He rubbed his face with his hands, the embarrassment still fresh.

Kiku nodded thoughtfully, his dark eyes studying Alfred's face as they started walking toward the cafeteria. He didn't press, but his mere presence was enough to make Alfred continue talking. It was like a dam breaking—the more Alfred tried to hold back, the more he ended up spilling.

"I know it's stupid," Alfred said, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket, "but I just... I can't stand writing, and he doesn't understand that the words get all jumbled, and then it's like my brain shuts down."

They found a spot near the back of the cafeteria, away from the bustling crowd. Kiku carefully set his tray down, his movements measured and precise. He glanced up at Alfred, who sat heavily across from him, barely touching his own food.

“Ivan’s a patient guy,” Kiku said gently. “I’m sure he understands.”

Alfred scoffed, running a hand through his hair again. “I don’t know, man. I lost it on him. Called him a know-it-all and stormed out like some drama queen. I bet he thinks I’m a total idiot now.”

Kiku’s eyes softened, a subtle concern flickering behind his calm exterior. “I doubt that’s true. Ivan doesn’t seem like the type to hold grudges over something like that. But...” He paused, his gaze lingering on Alfred a moment longer than necessary, “it sounds like this is more about how *you* feel rather than how Ivan might feel.”

Alfred stared at him briefly, then laughed, though it lacked any real humor. “Yeah, maybe.” His voice grew quieter. “It’s just... hard. My dad, he’s... well, really mad at me, but he just doesn't understand what it's like! It's like he wants me to be the next great Arthur Kirkland, but I can’t live up to that.”

Kiku’s brow furrowed slightly, his usually serene expression showing the faintest hint of sympathy. “That sounds... very difficult.”

Alfred shrugged, poking at his food. “Yeah, well. It’s not just that. Even when I try my best, it’s never enough!” His voice cracked a little, and he swallowed hard, trying to push back the wave of frustration that threatened to spill over again.

Kiku stayed quiet for a moment, letting Alfred’s words hang in the air between them. Then, he spoke softly, his tone thoughtful. “You shouldn’t have to feel like you need to be something you're not, Alfred.”

Alfred glanced up, surprised by the sincerity in Kiku’s voice. It wasn’t like Kiku to be this open, this... gentle. His words felt like more than just a casual statement—they carried weight.

“You think so?” Alfred asked, his own voice uncertain, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to hear that.

Kiku nodded, his eyes meeting Alfred’s. “I know so. It’s not about living up to other people’s expectations. What matters is how you see yourself.” He hesitated for just a beat before adding, “And I see someone who’s doing his best. That’s worth a lot.”

“I... thanks, Kiku. I don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes,” Alfred admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I just... I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like everything’s piling up, and I’m just not good enough.”

Kiku’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles, but there was something in his gaze—something soft and almost wistful—that Alfred couldn’t quite place. “You’re good enough, Alfred. You always have been.”

Alfred nodded as he walked out of the cafeteria, his mind racing and body buzzing with unresolved tension. The words, the frustrations, everything was still rattling around inside him, making it hard to focus on anything else. Thankfully, he had practice.

By the time he reached the field, the sounds of squeaking shoes and the distant thud of a ball bouncing on the court helped drown out the noise in his head. He quickly changed into his athletic gear and stepped onto the field.

Today, though, something was different. The anger he was still carrying over from the fight with Ivan somehow translated into laser-sharp focus. Every drill, every pass, every sprint—Alfred crushed them with an intensity that surprised even him.

“Jones! Keep that up, and you’ll be in the starting lineup!” Coach's voice barked from the sidelines as Alfred nailed another perfect shot.

Practice wrapped up, and Alfred wiped the sweat from his brow as he grabbed his water bottle, downing half of it in one go. His friend and team manager, Michelle, jogged over, beaming.

“Alfred! You were on fire today!” she exclaimed, giving him a playful punch on the arm. “Seriously, if you keep that up, there’s no way they’re keeping you on the bench.”

Alfred chuckled, though it came out more like a sigh. “Thanks, Michelle. I dunno, though. I just... needed to get my mind off stuff.”

Michelle raised an eyebrow, clearly picking up on the undercurrent of frustration in his voice. “Trouble with Ivan again?”

He let out a long breath, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, you could say that."

Michelle gave him a sympathetic look. “Ivan’s tough, but he’s not impossible to deal with. And you’re tougher than you think, Al. Maybe this’ll blow over.”

Alfred sighed again, his shoulders slumping. “Maybe. I dunno."

Michelle nodded, giving his shoulder a supportive squeeze. “You’ve got this, Al. You're doing your best, and that's all anyone can ask for."

He smiled weakly, appreciating the pep talk but knowing that the gnawing worry about Ivan and school still lurked in the back of his mind. “Thanks, Michelle. I’ll try.”

As Alfred walked to the parking lot with Gilbert, he was still buzzing from the intensity of practice. Gilbert was already waiting by his car, a grin on his face as he threw an arm around Alfred's shoulders.

"So, I heard you killed it today!" Gilbert laughed, ruffling Alfred’s already disheveled hair.

Alfred chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Thanks, Gil. Just needed to blow off some steam, I guess."

"Let me guess," Gilbert smirked as he unlocked the car, "Ivan-related drama?"

Alfred scoffed as they both climbed in. "More like Ivan-related hell."

Gilbert let out a low whistle. "Damn, sounds rough. But he’s just a tutor, right? Just get through it and move on.

"I’d love to," Alfred grumbled, "but he’s kind of the only tutor that wants to try, and I can't fail English."

Gilbert laughed, starting up the car. "So, play it smart! Be the awesome math genius everyone knows, and forget the reading stuff.  Besides, you're way more interesting than that know-it-all," Gilbert said, smirking as he revved up the engine.

Alfred chuckled, shaking his head. "You think so? Pretty sure the English department would disagree."

Gilbert snorted. "English is overrated. Numbers, man. Numbers are where it's at. But seriously, you’re stressing too much about this Ivan dude. Just... stop giving him so much power over you."

Alfred sighed, slumping further into the seat. "Easier said than done, Gil. I’ve got no backup plan if this thing with him falls apart. All my other tutors gave up on me, and honestly, I don’t blame them."

Gilbert glanced over, his usual grin fading into something softer. "Don’t do that, Al. Don’t talk like you’re some lost cause. You’ve got this—maybe not with essays or whatever, but with everything else. You're smarter than the rest of us...besides maybe Ludwig, and that's gotta count for something."

Alfred gave him a small smile. "Thanks, man. I guess I just needed to hear that."

Gilbert grinned, nudging him playfully. "Anytime. Now, how about we make a pit stop before I drop you off?"

"Where to?" Alfred asked, intrigued.

"You’ll see."

Half an hour later, they were at the park. The sun was setting, casting everything in a golden glow as Gilbert pulled a frisbee from his car trunk with a mischievous grin.

"A frisbee? Really?" Alfred laughed.

"Shut up and catch," Gilbert shot back, tossing it toward Alfred.

For the first time all week, Alfred felt himself relax. They ran around like little kids, dodging, laughing, and occasionally crashing into each other when their throws went wild. Gilbert's loud, carefree energy was infectious, pulling Alfred out of his head and into the moment.

Eventually, they collapsed onto the grass, panting and staring up at the darkening sky.

"You’re such a bad influence," Alfred joked, grinning over at Gilbert.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I’m the bad influence? You’re the one who just yelled at Ivan in the middle of the library. Talk about anger issues."

Alfred laughed, but it turned quieter after a moment. "You’re lucky, though. You’ve got this way of just...not caring. I wish I could be like that."

Gilbert hesitated, his smirk faltering. "Trust me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be."

"What do you mean?" Alfred asked, sitting up.

Gilbert shrugged, lying back with his hands behind his head. "It’s just... when you’re always second-best, you stop trying after a while. I've always been the screw-up. So, I figured, why bother?"

Alfred stretched his arms out on the cool grass, feeling the damp chill settle into his hoodie. Gilbert was still lying beside him, staring up at the stars beginning to peek through the deepening blue sky. Their earlier laughter lingered in the air, but Alfred's mind had drifted. He kept thinking about Gilbert's words, the vulnerability that had slipped through his usual carefree facade.

"Second-best, huh?" Alfred murmured, mostly to himself. He turned his head to glance at Gilbert, who had a wistful smile on his face.

"Yeah, it’s not the worst thing in the world, but it messes with you after a while," Gilbert replied, his voice quieter than usual. "You start thinking that no matter what you do, it’s not good enough. So, you stop trying." He gave a short laugh. "Guess that’s why I’m the 'bad influence,' huh?"

Alfred frowned, sitting up and hugging his knees to his chest. "I never saw you that way. You’re, like... one of the only people who actually gets me, y'know? Even if we don’t have all the same problems, it feels like... I dunno. Like I don’t have to pretend around you."

Gilbert smirked, sitting up and brushing blades of grass off his hoodie. "Yeah, well, you’re the first golden child I’ve met who’s not a pretentious asshole, so there’s that."

Alfred snorted, punching Gilbert lightly on the arm. "Golden child, my ass. If you only knew how much crap I get from my dad for screwing up."

They sat in a comfortable silence for a while, simply staring at the sunset and drowning out the background noise of the park.

“You know,” Gilbert said after a moment, his tone unusually serious, “you’re kinda lucky, Alfred. You’ve got people who actually care about you.”

Alfred laughed dryly. “Yeah, if you call yelling caring.”

Gilbert shrugged. “Still beats silence.”

The comment hung in the air, and Alfred turned to look at him. “You okay, man?”

Gilbert waved it off. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just saying—you’ve got a lot going for you. Don’t let Ivan or school or anything make you forget that.”

Alfred nodded, but as he shifted, his sleeve rode up slightly. Gilbert’s sharp eyes immediately caught the bandages wrapped around his forearm.

“Hey,” Gilbert said, sitting up straight. “What’s that?”

Alfred yanked his sleeve down, his face flushing. “Nothing. Just a scratch.”

Gilbert wasn’t buying it. “That doesn’t look like ‘just a scratch.’ What’s going on?”

“Drop it, Gilbert,” Alfred snapped, his voice harsher than he intended.

Gilbert studied him for a long moment before nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll let it go. But, dude, if you ever need to talk…”

Alfred swallowed hard, his throat tight. “Yeah...I got you. Thanks,” he muttered.

As Gilbert pulled into Alfred’s driveway, he glanced over. "Hey, remember—don’t let that Ivan guy get in your head too much. You’re Alfred freakin’ Jones. You’ve got this."

Alfred grinned despite himself. "Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Gil. See you tomorrow."

Alfred stepped out of the car and stood in his driveway for a moment, letting the cool night air settle around him. Gilbert's words echoed in his mind, and although he wasn’t sure if he believed them, they were the sort of thing he needed to hear. He gave his friend a quick wave before heading inside.

The door swung open, and the familiar warmth of the house greeted him, but that comfort was soon overshadowed by the voice that called from upstairs.

"Alfred! Where the hell have you been?" Arthur’s voice, always firm, carried through the hall.

Alfred winced, the sense of impending doom settling in. He quickly pulled his shoes off, trying to shake off the lingering weight of Gilbert's words as he trudged upstairs.

"Sorry, Dad. I lost track of time." His voice, small and uncertain, hardly made an impact in the vast hallway. He kept his head down, avoiding Arthur’s eyes. The lecture started as soon as he entered the kitchen.

"Don't give me that. I don't care if you think you can handle yourself—you can't always control the situation."

Alfred winced, nodding along in silence. Arthur's brow furrowed with the kind of intensity that made Alfred feel small. A part of him knew his father was just trying to protect him, but sometimes, it felt like he was more of a burden than a son.

"Just...go to your room," Arthur sighed as he returned to his study.

Alfred ran upstairs, letting the door click shut behind him before he slumped into a chair, staring at the floor.

The quiet after Arthur’s words felt deafening, and it wasn’t long before his mind began to race again. He couldn’t stop thinking about Gilbert—he’d always thought of Gilbert as this untouchable, easygoing guy, but now... Now, he couldn’t help but wonder what he had missed in all those years they had known each other.

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, but all the thoughts swirling inside his head only seemed to blur together more. He hadn’t even started his homework. His desk lay untouched, papers scattered in a chaotic mess. His mind wouldn’t cooperate, as if paralyzed by the weight of everything that had happened.

A few hours later, a glance at the clock showed it was already past one in the morning. With a deep sigh, he dropped the phone onto the desk and decided he wasn’t going to get any work done tonight. He needed something—anything—to take his mind off things.

Downstairs, he found the kitchen lights on, and the familiar figure of Francis stood by the stove, humming as he prepared something. Alfred’s stomach growled at the sight, but it wasn’t just the food that comforted him. There was something about Francis’ presence after a long day of work that always made everything feel... right.

Francis turned at the sound of Alfred entering. Without a word, he smiled and opened his arms, pulling Alfred into a warm hug. Alfred closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of the day lift, even if it was just a little.

"You didn’t eat, did you?" Francis asked softly, pulling back to glance at Alfred. "You should’ve told me you were going out. You know I worry."

Alfred simply nodded, the warmth of his father’s embrace calming him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. "I’m sorry, Papa," he mumbled, his voice muffled against Francis’ chest.

Francis didn't press him further. Instead, he began pulling out ingredients for dinner, more than enough for both of them. 

"How was your day?" Alfred asked after a while, trying to focus on something other than his own racing thoughts.

"It was long," Francis replied with a small laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But it's better now that I'm home."

Francis chopped with practiced ease, glancing up every now and then. "So, did anything interesting happen today?"

Alfred hesitated. His mind flickered to Gilbert's words, the lingering sting of Arthur’s lecture, and the gnawing guilt over his half-finished assignments. "Nothing much. Just... school stuff."

Francis raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t push. Instead, he slid the chopped vegetables into a hot pan, the sizzle filling the kitchen. "School stuff, hm? That could mean many things. Any trouble with Ivan?"

Alfred tensed. "No, nothing like that," Alfred said quickly, his voice sharper than he intended.

Francis paused mid-stir, glancing over with a knowing look. "Ah, I see. Something did happen."

"It’s not a big deal," Alfred muttered, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the countertop.

Francis didn’t reply right away. He finished sautéing the vegetables, then cracked a few eggs into the pan, letting the comforting smell of an omelet fill the room. When he finally spoke, his tone was gentle. "Alfred, you know you can talk to me, oui? Even if it feels like a big deal... especially then."

Alfred swallowed hard, the knot in his chest tightening. He wasn’t ready to unravel everything, not tonight. "Thanks, Papa. I just... need to figure it out first."

Francis nodded, sliding a plate of steaming food in front of Alfred. "Fair enough. But don’t take too long. Keeping it all in here"—he tapped Alfred’s temple—"is not good for anyone."

Alfred offered a small smile. "Got it. Thanks for this. Looks great."

They ate in comfortable silence, the clinking of forks against plates and the warmth of the kitchen providing a rare moment of peace. For a while, Alfred let himself relax, savoring the meal and his father’s quiet presence. It wasn’t often that he felt this grounded, and he clung to it, knowing it wouldn’t last.

Later, in his room, Alfred stared at his phone. His fingers hovered over Ivan’s name in his contacts. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But the urge to hear Ivan’s voice was overpowering, even if just for a moment. Maybe Ivan would have something to say...anything that could help him sort through the chaos in his head.

He hesitated, his thumb lingering over the call button before finally tapping it. The phone rang, each tone twisting his stomach tighter. 

"What am I doing?" Alfred whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. He tossed the phone onto his bed like it was burning his hand and buried his face in his palms.

His mind was a mess of emotions: guilt, frustration, confusion. He didn’t know how he’d let things get so tangled. Maybe he was just too afraid to face the truth.

 Or maybe he was just too scared of what Ivan might say.

Chapter Text

Darkness pressed in from all sides, the kind that swallowed sound and smothered air. Ivan was small again, no more than four years old, his legs too short to reach the floor from his perch on the couch. The room smelled of damp wood and cold metal, the sharp tang of fear cutting through the stale air. His mother’s hand clamped over his mouth, her trembling fingers sticky with sweat.

“Not a word, Vanya. Not one sound,” she breathed, her voice cracking as her lips brushed his ear.

They crouched in the corner of the tiny living room, hidden behind the faded armchair, but Ivan could see everything. The lamp flickered overhead, casting long, jagged shadows that twisted like dark specters across the walls.

Across the room stood his father. Tall and still as a statue, he faced the door with an expression Ivan didn’t understand—something between defiance and resignation. His father had always been a man of few words, his presence more commanding than his voice. But tonight, there was something different about him. 

Before Ivan could wonder why, the door burst open with a thunderous crack, slamming so hard against the wall that the sound rattled through Ivan’s chest. Men in dark uniforms stormed in, their boots pounding against the wooden floor with eyes colder than the winter night outside. One of them carried a folder stuffed with papers, the jagged edges poking out like teeth.

His father didn’t flinch.

“Step back,” barked the man with the folder, his Russian clipped and harsh. “You know why we’re here.”

“Do I?” his father replied, his voice calm, steady.

Ivan froze as one of the men raised a flashlight, its beam slicing through the room like a blade. It landed on his mother first, illuminating the lines of fear etched into her face. Then the beam swept toward him and Katya. Katya gasped, pulling Ivan against her chest, her small hands trembling as she tried to shield him.

“Leave them out of this,” his father said sharply, his tone suddenly sharp and cutting through the tense air.

The soldier holding the folder laughed, a short, humorless sound. “You thought you could run forever?”

“I wasn’t running,” his father replied coolly, tilting his head slightly. “But I won’t let you use my family as pawns.”

“Pawns?” The man sneered. “This isn’t chess, Mr. Braginsky. It’s treason.”

Treason. Ivan didn’t know the word, but it felt heavy, as sharp as the icy wind that crept through the cracks of their old apartment. He tried to shrink further into the shadows, but Katya’s grip on him was unyielding, her tears soaking into his hair.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, pulling handcuffs from his belt. Ivan saw his father’s jaw tighten, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Yet he didn’t fight when they grabbed him. He didn’t even speak except to glance at Ivan and Katya, his gaze softening just enough to crack the wall of composure he’d built.

“Papa!” Ivan tried to cry out, but his mother’s hand tightened over his mouth, muffling the sound.

“Take them and go,” his father said quietly, his voice firm but calm. “Now.”

“No!” Their mother’s whisper was fierce, almost a growl. “We stay together.”

The taller soldier sneered. “Touching, yet unnecessary.” He motioned to his men. “Take him.”

The room erupted into chaos. Hands grabbed at his father, yanking him toward the door as he stumbled back, his shoulders colliding with the doorframe. “Katya, take your brother,” their mother hissed, shoving Ivan toward his sister. Katya’s hands trembled as she pulled him close, her tears falling silently onto his hair.

“Go!” his father shouted, his voice echoing through the cramped room. “Go now!”

“Papa!” Ivan screamed again, his small voice piercing the chaos. But the soldiers didn’t flinch, didn’t falter. His father didn’t look back.

Their mother scooped Ivan into her arms, Natalia still cradled against her chest, and pushed Katya ahead of her. They stumbled toward the back door, their footsteps uneven and frantic. The icy air outside hit Ivan like a slap, searing his lungs as they stumbled into the night. Katya’s small hand slipped into his, gripping tightly even as she stumbled on the frozen ground.

“Don’t look back, Vanya,” their mother whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “Don’t ever look back.”

But Ivan did.

The door of their home hung open, swinging on its hinges, and the house stood hollow, stripped of warmth and life. The figures of the soldiers and his father had vanished, leaving only a jagged silence that seemed to stretch into eternity.

And then, like all nightmares, it crumbled.

The shadows, the voices, his father’s face—all of it shattered, leaving Ivan alone, stranded in a darkness so complete that he couldn’t remember how to breathe until...

 His heart thundered in his chest as he blinked against the faint light filtering through the curtains. 

The pounding in Ivan’s chest slowed as he forced himself to take deep breaths. It was just a dream. Just a dream. But the remnants clung to him like frost on glass, each inhale carrying the echoes of his father’s voice and his mother’s trembling hands. He ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to ground himself in the present.

The scratchy fabric of the couch beneath him, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen—these were real. The dim glow from his phone screen on the coffee table was real. Ivan closed his eyes and exhaled. The nightmare had been so vivid, but this was his life now: a quiet living room, not a chaotic apartment in Moscow.

He reached for his notebook, flipping it open to a half-finished math problem. Numbers and symbols blurred together on the page, refusing to make sense. He rubbed his temples, willing himself to focus, but the frustration only grew. The harder he tried, the more the lines seemed to mock him.

'You’re hopeless, Ivan,' a voice whispered in his mind. 

With a sharp sigh, he tossed the pen onto the notebook and leaned back again, closing his eyes. His head throbbed, his exhaustion mixing with the gnawing remnants of his nightmare. He reached for his phone, hoping for some kind of distraction.

The screen lit up with missed notifications. Most were unimportant, but one caught his eye: Missed Call - Alfred Jones (2:14 a.m.)

Ivan frowned. It wasn’t like Alfred to call him, especially not in the middle of the night. At first, he assumed it was a mistake, but the voicemail notification that followed made him pause.

He stared at the phone for a moment, his thumb hovering over the play button. A part of him hesitated, but curiosity and a growing unease won out.

The message began, crackling with static before Alfred's voice cut through, shaky and hesitant. "Ivan... I... I don’t even know why I’m calling. I just... never mind, I don't even know if you’ll hear this. Or if I want you to. Just... forget it. Forget I called."

The voicemail ended abruptly, leaving Ivan staring at the screen, his mind racing.

What the hell was that?

He replayed the message, listening more intently this time. Alfred’s voice, usually so brash and full of life, sounded broken. Vulnerable. 

Ivan’s thumb hovered over Alfred’s name in his contacts, the call icon glaring at him like an accusation. He pressed it anyway, his stomach tightening as the phone rang once... twice... three times before cutting to voicemail.

His jaw clenched as unease twisted in his gut. He wanted to believe it wasn’t a big deal—maybe Alfred had pocket-dialed him, or maybe he’d had too much caffeine and was restless. But that voice in the voicemail... Ivan couldn’t shake it. Alfred sounded fragile - almost as if something was breaking inside him.

“Damn it,” Ivan muttered under his breath, ending the call before the message prompt played. His fingers twitched over the screen, hitting redial.

No answer.

He tried again and again until he lost count. Each time, the voicemail mocked him with its impersonal tone. Frustration and unease churned in his chest as he tossed the phone onto the couch beside him.

What could’ve happened? Why the hell would Alfred call at two in the morning and sound like... that?

Ivan ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the strands as if the ache in his scalp would drown out the anxious thoughts swirling in his head. He hated this—this feeling of helplessness, of knowing something was wrong and being unable to do a damn thing about it.

Ivan stared at the darkened phone screen, his chest tightening as silence pressed down on him. The anxiety gnawed at him, the memory of Alfred’s broken voice looping in his mind. His gaze darted to the clock on the wall—4:27 a.m. The minutes crawled by, each second stretching endlessly.

If only he knew where Alfred lived. He considered calling someone else—maybe Kiku or Matthew. But then what? What would he say? "Alfred left me a cryptic voicemail and won’t answer his phone. Could you check on him?"

They’d probably think he was overreacting. Maybe he was. Maybe Alfred was fine, and he’d show up to school later with his usual cocky grin, ready to crack a joke at Ivan’s expense. 

But what if he wasn’t?

The thought made Ivan restless. He couldn’t sit there doing nothing. He pushed himself up from the couch, pacing the room. His hands clenched into fists as he tried to make sense of the situation, to calm the storm of worry building in his chest.

The sunrise brought no solace. Ivan sat on the edge of his bed, his mind racing. The faint light filtering through his curtains did nothing to dispel the tension knotted in his chest. He had tried calling Alfred again—seven times, by his last count—but there was still no answer.

With a frustrated sigh, Ivan stood and began to get ready for school. His nerves buzzed with restless energy, but he knew there was no other option. He had to wait. And if Alfred was at school, he wasn’t leaving until he got some answers.

Ivan arrived at school the next day, exhaustion etched into his face and the dark circles under his eyes mirroring the storm of worry and frustration that had kept him up all night. He scanned the crowded hallway, his sharp eyes darting between clusters of students. No sign of Alfred yet.

His chest tightened. What if Alfred didn’t show up? What if something had happened? Ivan swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to stay calm, though the buzzing anxiety was nearly unbearable.

The bell rang, signaling the 5 minute warning, but Ivan barely noticed. He leaned against a locker, watching students file into classrooms. Just as the hallway began to empty, a flash of familiar blond hair caught his eye. Ivan straightened, his heart pounding as he spotted Alfred casually strolling in, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

Alfred looked fine. Normal, even. But Ivan’s sharp gaze caught the slight slouch in his shoulders, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a tightness to Alfred’s jaw as if he were holding something back.

Ivan’s relief was fleeting, replaced by a simmering frustration. How could Alfred act so normal after that voicemail? Didn’t he know how worried Ivan had been?

“Jones!” Ivan called out, his voice cutting through the quiet hallway.

Alfred froze, his eyes widening slightly before he turned toward Ivan. “Oh. Hey, Braginsky,” he said, his tone forcedly casual. He shoved his hands into his pockets, clearly trying to play it cool.

“We need to talk,” Ivan said, his voice low and firm. He crossed the hallway in a few long strides, stopping just short of Alfred. His imposing height loomed over Alfred, but Alfred didn’t flinch.

“About what?” Alfred asked, tilting his head with feigned nonchalance. “Got notes you wanna trade or something?”

Ivan’s jaw clenched. “Don’t play dumb. Why did you call me last night?”

Alfred’s expression faltered for a split second before he laughed awkwardly. “Oh, that? Yeah, uh, that was... nothing. Probably an accident. My bad, dude.”

Ivan narrowed his eyes. “It wasn’t nothing. I heard the voicemail.”

Alfred’s smile vanished. His face turned pale, and he shifted uncomfortably. “You weren’t supposed to hear that,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ivan stepped closer, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. “Then why did you call? What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Alfred snapped, taking a step back, his movements tense. “It’s none of your business, okay? Just drop it.”

“No,” Ivan said firmly. His worry from the night before flared into anger, frustration bubbling to the surface. “You don’t get to call me in the middle of the night, leave some cryptic message, and then pretend it’s fine. I know something’s wrong," he grabbed Alfred’s wrist, not tightly, but enough to make him stop retreating. “Don’t do this, Alfred. I know something’s wrong. Just talk to me.”

Alfred froze, his jaw clenching as he quickly pulled his wrist away and raced to cover it. His bright blue eyes flickered with something Ivan couldn’t quite place—fear? Shame? Anger? 

“You don’t get it,” Alfred said, his voice low and tense. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Then make me understand!” Ivan’s voice was sharper than he intended, echoing down the nearly empty hallway. Alfred flinched, his shoulders hunching, and Ivan immediately regretted his tone. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down.

Alfred laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “And what would you do, huh? Fix it? You can’t fix this, Braginsky. Nobody can.”

“Maybe I can’t fix it,” Ivan admitted, his voice steady. “But I can try. Isn’t that better than doing nothing?”

Alfred’s eyes darted to the side, avoiding Ivan’s gaze. He was quiet for a long moment, the tension between them stretching thin like a taut string. Then he let out a sharp breath and looked up, his expression hardening.

“I told you to drop it, Braginsky,” he said coldly. “So drop it.”

Before Ivan could respond, Alfred turned on his heel and walked away, his movements stiff and hurried.

Ivan stood there, rooted to the spot, his hands clenched into fists. His heart ached with a mixture of anger and helplessness. He didn’t know what Alfred was hiding, but he knew one thing for sure: he wasn’t going to let this go.

The bell rang again, signaling the start of first period, but Ivan remained frozen in the hallway, his mind still racing from the conversation he had just tried to have with Alfred. The words they exchanged kept repeating in his head, each one landing heavier than the last.

Alfred was lying—there was no mistaking it. Ivan could tell by the way he avoided his gaze, the way his hands fidgeted in his pockets. That forced, insincere smile only confirmed that Alfred was hiding something. Something that made Ivan feel like he was losing his grip on the situation.

As the students streamed into their classrooms, Ivan reluctantly pushed off from the lockers and headed toward his own class. His mind was elsewhere, though. Even as he took his seat, unpacked his books, and tried to focus on the lesson, his thoughts drifted back to Alfred. The image of him, standing there, brushing Ivan off with a forced laugh, was like a slap in the face. How could Alfred be so dismissive after everything? After the voicemail, after the call that had made Ivan lose sleep?

“Ivan,” Mrs. Vargas called, snapping him out of his reverie. “Would you care to explain a theme you noticed in the 'Tell-Tale Heart?'

Ivan blinked, his mind scrambling to catch up. For the first time, his fingers itched for the paper with his writing to crumple beneath his hand, but he forced himself to stay still. For the first time, he felt like he was falling behind with literature. 

He glanced up at Mrs. Vargas, who was waiting expectantly. Ivan’s gaze flickered to his paper yet again, but the words continued to blur in front of him. He swallowed hard, trying to clear the fog.

'Focus, Ivan, focus...' he thought to himself. 

Mrs. Vargas frowned, but before she could comment, Ivan felt the piercing gaze of a pair of sharp, blue eyes drilling into him from the other side of the room. Alfred had slipped in quietly, and as he took a seat at the back. Ivan’s stomach twisted. 

As the lesson droned on, Ivan couldn’t shake the feeling of Alfred’s presence, even though they hadn’t spoken since that heated exchange in the hallway. The atmosphere between them felt thicker than it ever had before, and Ivan found himself inexplicably drawn to him. He tried to focus on the lesson, to ignore the gnawing sense of frustration that churned in his chest, but it was impossible. All he could hear was Alfred’s voice from the voicemail, raw and vulnerable.

It wasn’t like Ivan to get this worked up over someone. He’d been through too much to let a person’s games get under his skin.

But Alfred wasn’t just anyone. And he wasn't playing a game.

By the time lunch rolled around, Ivan was already standing by the doors to the cafeteria, waiting for Alfred to show up. He couldn’t focus on anything else, his mind still reeling from their argument and the voicemail that wouldn’t leave him alone. His eyes darted to the hallway every time someone walked by, and when he finally spotted Alfred, his heart jumped into his throat.

Alfred walked around the lunchroom like normal, but the way his eyes flickered nervously around the room told Ivan everything he needed to know. Alfred was running, trying to avoid something—someone. And that someone, Ivan realized with a growing sense of dread, was him.

“Alfred!” Ivan’s voice rang out with his rival's first name before he could stop it, sharp and commanding.

Alfred froze for just a moment, his face going still. Then, he turned, his expression a mix of annoyance and something more complicated that Ivan couldn’t quite read.

“What now, Braginsky?” Alfred asked, his tone cold, but Ivan could hear the strain beneath it.

“What now?” Ivan asked, walking toward him, his fists clenching at his sides. “You can’t just... pretend nothing’s wrong. You called me last night. You sounded like—” Ivan paused, trying to find the right words, but his frustration got the better of him. “What the hell happened?”

Alfred looked away, his eyes flicking to the ground, and Ivan saw his jaw tighten.

“Can we not do this right now?” Alfred muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He gave a short, humorless laugh and shifted his weight, clearly trying to escape the conversation. “It was nothing, alright? I told you. Nothing.”

Ivan took another step forward, his patience running out. “It wasn’t nothing, Alfred. You can’t just brush this off like it’s some joke.” His voice lowered, softening as he added, “You don’t understand how worried I was.”

Alfred’s face darkened. His gaze flickered between Ivan and the floor before he finally snapped. “Well, I’m sorry for ruining your night, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get all dramatic over it.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, his shoulders stiffening. "Just go, you're making it worse!"

Ivan’s chest tightened at the words. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he shot back, his voice rising despite himself. “I’m just trying to understand why you called me, why you sounded like you were about to fall apart, and you’re acting like I’m the one making things worse!”

Alfred’s eyes flared with anger. “Maybe I don’t need you to save me,” he hissed, taking a step back. “Maybe I’m fine. Maybe I don’t want you to—” He cut himself off, glaring at Ivan with a mixture of frustration and pain.

The silence that followed was deafening. Ivan felt the weight of the words hanging between them, and it was clear Alfred wasn’t going to explain himself anytime soon.

“I don’t get you, Jones,” Ivan muttered, his voice low and frustrated. “I really don’t.”

“I don’t get you either, Braginsky,” Alfred shot back, his tone sharp. “So maybe we’re even.”

Before Ivan could respond, Alfred turned and walked away, leaving Ivan standing there, his chest heaving with a mixture of anger, confusion, and something else—something he couldn’t quite name.  There was a part of him that wanted to chase after him, to demand answers, but another part of him—one that had learned to protect itself—reminded him that he couldn’t force someone to talk when they weren’t ready.

But that didn’t stop Ivan from trying.

Chapter Text

The sun crept over the horizon, but Alfred barely noticed the golden rays seeping into his bedroom. His head throbbed, his stomach churned, and he couldn’t stop replaying the events of the past two days. 

What had he been thinking?

The previous night played like a broken record in his head. The sound of Ivan’s concerned voice calling back echoed in his ears, and every syllable felt like a dull hammer strike to his chest. For someone who had mastered the art of debating and arguments, Alfred had no idea what he’d hoped to gain from reaching out. A confession? Redemption? The thought alone made him groan, dropping the phone onto the bed.

“Get it together, Al,” he muttered to himself, his voice shaky.

He threw on his baggy hoodie, barely touched the breakfast Francis had left out, and made a beeline for the door. His body moved on autopilot, his mind fixated on his crumbling grip on life.

But Arthur's sharp voice stopped him cold.

“Alfred.”

Alfred stiffened. He knew that tone too well—calm, clipped, and demanding. He tightened his grip on his bag and willed himself not to turn around.

“I’m going to be late,” he replied flatly, pushing the door open.

Arthur’s voice cut through the air again, sharper this time. “You’ve been avoiding me all morning. We need to talk.”

“I don’t have time,” Alfred muttered, his voice low, though the tension was clear in his clenched jaw.

Arthur’s steps were quick and deliberate as he closed the distance. “Don’t walk away from me, Alfred!” His hand shot out, gripping Alfred’s wrist.

The reaction was immediate and visceral. Alfred yanked his arm back as though Arthur’s touch had burned him, spinning around with wide, panicked eyes.

“Don’t touch me!” he screamed, his voice cracking.

Arthur froze, his expression shifting from anger to something softer. “Alfred—”

But Alfred wasn’t listening. He stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him, leaving Arthur standing in stunned silence.

The driver’s voice was calm and professional as he opened the door for Alfred, but Matthew’s anxious expression immediately betrayed the tense air inside the car. Alfred slid into the backseat, pulling his hood over his head to shield himself from any attempt at conversation. Matthew climbed in after him, glancing sideways.
Matthew was already waiting in the car, his expression a mixture of worry and exhaustion. Alfred slid into the back seat, yanked his hood up, and leaned against the window without a word.

“Morning to you too,” Matthew said softly, climbing in beside him. The driver started the engine, and the car began its smooth journey through the streets.

Matthew watched Alfred out of the corner of his eye. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are we doing the silent treatment thing again?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Alfred muttered, pulling his phone out to stare blankly at the screen.

“Bullshit.” Matthew’s voice was firmer now. “You’ve been acting weird since yesterday. And don’t tell me it’s nothing, because I know you, Alfred. Talk to me.”

Alfred’s grip on his phone tightened. “I told you: Nothing's wrong.”

“Don’t give me that,” Matthew pressed. “You’ve been ignoring me all morning, and you barely ate breakfast. Even Dad noticed!”

“Drop it, Mattie,” Alfred snapped, his tone sharp enough to make Matthew flinch. “I’m fine, okay?”

Matthew leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms but keeping his gaze fixed on Alfred. “You’re not fine. You’re avoiding everyone, and I know something happened yesterday. Just... talk to me.”

The car rolled smoothly through the streets, the silence between them becoming almost unbearable. Finally, Alfred sighed heavily, pulling out his phone and pretending to scroll through his notifications, desperate to avoid eye contact.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said firmly, ending the conversation before Matthew could push further.

Matthew bit his lip, his concern evident, but he nodded reluctantly and shifted his gaze out the window.

The silence was suffocating as the car screeched to a halt. Matthew paused to let his brother step out first but Alfred couldn't shake the concerned gaze that seemed to follow him.

As soon as Alfred stepped onto campus, he felt the familiar press of dread settle over him. He ducked his head and quickened his pace, weaving through the crowds of students with practiced ease.

“Alfred!”

The sound of his name made him stop in his tracks. He turned to see Ludwig standing a few feet away, his neat uniform pressed to perfection and his backpack slung squarely over both shoulders.

Ludwig waved at him, his serious expression softening just enough to be approachable. “Good morning,” he said, his tone polite but warm.

Alfred forced a weak smile and nodded in acknowledgment before turning away. But before he could escape, Ludwig called after him again.

“Alfred, wait.”

Alfred sighed, shoulders slumping, but he stopped and turned back around. Ludwig was already walking toward him, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay?” Ludwig asked, his blue eyes scanning Alfred’s face intently.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Alfred mumbled, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.

Ludwig’s frown deepened. “You don’t look fine.”

“It’s nothing,” Alfred insisted, his tone clipped.

But Ludwig didn’t back down. “Alfred, I know we don’t talk much, but I can tell something’s bothering you. And if you don’t want to tell Gilbert or Matthew, you can tell me.”

Alfred blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected offer. “You’re, like, twelve. What would you know about it?”

“Thirteen,” Ludwig corrected, crossing his arms. “And more than you think. So, what’s wrong? You don’t have to tell me everything, but you seem... frustrated."

Alfred hesitated, his defenses wavering under Ludwig’s steady gaze. Finally, he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s just... school stuff. Grades. You wouldn’t get it.”

“Grades?” Ludwig echoed, tilting his head slightly. “Of course I understand grades, Alfred. But you must mean your English grade, right?”

Alfred’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “How do you know that?”

“Gilbert mentioned it once," Ludwig shrugged. , but then added quickly. “He didn't mean it in a bad way! But if it’s bothering you that much, maybe you should get a tutor or something of the sort. I know Gilbert also mentioned that the arrangement with Ivan didn't go...ideally, but it wouldn't hurt to try again."

Alfred scowled. “Yeah, well, Gilbert talks too much.”

“Maybe,” Ludwig said, unbothered by Alfred’s tone. “But he’s right about one thing: You’re not the kind of person to give up. So don’t start now.”

Alfred stared at him, momentarily speechless. Finally, he muttered, “Thanks, Ludwig.”

Ludwig’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Anytime.”

As Alfred walked away, he couldn’t help but feel a little lighter, as though Ludwig’s quiet confidence had rubbed off on him.

The equations blurred together on the whiteboard as Alfred stared, hoping the logical rhythm of math could pull him out of the spiral of his thoughts. Numbers were simple, dependable. They didn’t care if you were dyslexic or if you left a rambling voicemail for your rival at 2 a.m. But today, even math seemed to mock him.

His pen scrawled furiously across the page, equations sharper and darker with each pass. He barely noticed the shuffle of chairs and voices as the bell rang and the class filed out. The only sound that reached him was the quiet clatter of Mr. Janssens tidying up at his desk.

“Alfred?” The teacher’s voice broke through Alfred’s haze. “You’ve been stuck on that problem for ten minutes. Everything okay?”

Alfred blinked, his hand freezing mid-stroke. He glanced down at his notebook; the same equation stared back at him, unchanging. He let out a breathless laugh and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Guess I wanted to get it perfect,” he mumbled.

Mr. Janssens leaned against his desk, folding his arms. “You’re usually faster than this. What’s really on your mind?”

Alfred hesitated, the rhythm of his tapping pen betraying his nerves. His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling his attention. Dread curled in his stomach as he unlocked the screen: Grade posted for English Essay 2.

He already knew the result before he tapped the notification. When the grade appeared, it still hit like a punch to the gut. C. Again.

“Dammit,” he muttered under his breath.

“Bad news?” Mr. Janssens asked, his tone neutral.

Alfred let the words tumble out before he could stop himself. “It’s my English grade. I can’t bring it up. And if I don’t, there goes the internship.”

Mr. Janssens frowned. “Your GPA is strong, Alfred. One grade isn’t going to—”

“It’s not just one grade!” Alfred’s voice cracked, and he sank into his chair, gripping the edge of his desk. “It’s every essay, every assignment. No matter how hard I try, it’s like I’m too stupid to figure it out.” The last word wavered, and he dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shaking. “I don’t even know why I bother anymore.”

“Alfred.” Mr. Janssens’ voice was firm, steady. “You’re not stupid. Everyone struggles with something. What matters is how you handle it.”

Alfred shook his head, bitterness rising in his chest. “Handling it doesn’t change my grade. Handling it doesn’t get me into Edelstein.”

Silence hung between them, thick and heavy. After a moment, Mr. Janssens spoke again, his voice gentler this time. “Have you talked to your English teacher? Asked if there’s anything you can do to improve?”

“Mrs. Vargas?” Alfred barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “She doesn’t exactly love me. No way she’d let me redo anything.”

“You won’t know unless you ask,” Mr. Janssens said simply. “Teachers want their students to succeed. Give her the chance to help you.”

"I will, thank you, Mr. Janssens!" Alfred nodded in determination as he left the classroom, feeling slightly lighter but still uncertain. He was halfway down the hallway when he nearly collided with Matthew.

“There you are,” Matthew said, his voice tinged with relief. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Alfred sighed. “I’m fine, Mattie. Just drop it.”

“No,” Matthew said firmly, stepping in front of him. “You’re not fine. What happened?”

Alfred hesitated, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. Then, in a low voice, he said, “It’s my English grade. I’m not gonna make the cut for the internship.”

Matthew’s face softened. “Have you talked to Mrs. Vargas about a retake?”

Alfred groaned. “You sound just like Mr. Janssens.”

“Because it’s a good idea,” Matthew countered. “Look, you’re not gonna fix this by avoiding it. Go talk to her. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Alfred opened his mouth to argue but closed it again. Matthew had a point.

The sun barely warmed Alfred’s skin as he trudged across campus, his bag slung over one shoulder. His hoodie swallowed him whole, a makeshift armor against the world’s prying eyes and unspoken judgments. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of his thoughts pressing harder on his chest.

Mrs. Vargas’s classroom loomed ahead, a place he normally avoided unless absolutely necessary. He stopped outside her door, staring at the glossy nameplate like it might explode.

You’ve argued your way out of tougher spots. This is no different, he told himself, but his trembling hands betrayed the lie.

Taking a deep breath, Alfred knocked on the door and stepped inside.

Mrs. Vargas was seated at her desk, her signature red pen scratching across a stack of papers. She looked up, her expression curious but guarded. “Alfred? Is everything okay?”

Alfred cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Uh, yeah. Kind of. Well, not really.”

Her pen hovered mid-air, and she gestured to the chair in front of her desk. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

He hesitated, then sat down, his knee bouncing nervously. “So, I got my essay grade back..."

Mrs. Vargas set her pen down and folded her hands. “And?”

“It’s a C. Again,” Alfred admitted, his voice low. "I’ve read the feedback, and I’ve rewritten drafts, but it’s like no matter what I do, I can’t get it right. And if I can’t fix this—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind. I just need to know if there’s any way I can redo it. Or something.”

Her expression softened, but she didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, studying him. “Alfred, you have incredible ideas, but your essays don’t reflect that because your writing lacks... polish. It’s not that you’re not capable—it’s that you struggle with structure and clarity.”

“I know that,” Alfred said, frustration creeping into his tone. “Words aren’t my thing, but I’m trying to make them work. So, if there’s anything I can do—anything at all—please just tell me.”

Mrs. Vargas tapped her pen against her desk, then sighed. “You’re asking for a rewrite.”

“Yes,” Alfred said quickly.

“Fine,” she said, holding up a hand before he could get too excited. “I’ll give you one week. Rewrite the essay, and bring it back to me. But”—her gaze locked with his—“I expect effort, Alfred. Real effort. This isn’t just about meeting a deadline or getting a grade. It’s about showing me you understand how to grow as a writer.”

Alfred nodded, relief washing over him like a wave. “I’ll do my best, Mrs. Vargas. Thanks for the chance.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, picking up her red pen again. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”

As Alfred left her classroom, his steps felt a little lighter, but the knot of anxiety in his stomach remained. One week. He had seven days to turn things around, and while that was better than nothing, he couldn’t ignore the truth gnawing at the back of his mind: he couldn’t do this alone.

He needed help.

He needed Ivan.

Chapter Text

Ivan stared at the paper in front of him, the glaring red D+ circled at the top of the page like a scarlet letter. He felt his stomach sink as he slid the test into his folder, hoping no one around him had noticed as the bell rang and students passed by his desk on the way out.

“Ivan, a moment, please.”

Mr. Bondevik’s soft but firm voice stopped him mid-step. Ivan turned to face his math teacher, forcing a neutral expression as he approached the desk,

“You’ve been struggling,” Mr. Bondevik stated, holding up Ivan’s test as if the grade alone explained everything. “This is the third time you've scored below a C this semester.”

“I wouldn’t say struggling,” Ivan mumbled, crossing his arms. “A D+ is technically passing.”

“Passing doesn’t mean much when you’re on scholarship,” Mr. Bondevik replied, his tone even. 

The words hit Ivan like a punch to the gut as he swallowed hard, looking anywhere but at his teacher. “I’m... I’m just a little off my game lately. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” Mr. Bondevik countered, his gaze unwavering. “You’re one of the most capable students I’ve ever taught, but you can’t keep going like this. Have you considered getting a tutor?”

Ivan stiffened, his fingers curling into fists. “I’ve been managing fine on my own.”

“Clearly, you’re not,” Mr. Bondevik said bluntly, though his tone remained gentle. “If you don’t turn this around, you’re putting everything at risk."

Ivan nodded stiffly, muttered a quick “thanks,” and left the classroom before the conversation could continue. His chest felt like it was caving in as he made his way to the cafeteria.

At lunch, Ivan picked at his food, barely listening to Yao’s rambling about some club project or Carlos complaining about his coach. Their voices blurred into background noise as Ivan replayed Mr. Bondevik’s words in his head. 'You’re putting your scholarship at risk.'

“You’re quiet,” Yao observed, raising an eyebrow at Ivan.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Carlos added, nudging him with his elbow.

Ivan opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a familiar, frantic voice interrupted him.

“Ivan! There you are!”

Ivan looked up, startled, just in time to see none other than Alfred F. Jones barreling toward him with all the subtlety and intensity of a freight train. Before Ivan could protest, Alfred grabbed his wrist and practically yanked him out of his seat.

“What the hell?” Ivan snapped, stumbling as Alfred dragged him toward an empty corner of the cafeteria. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving our collective asses,” Alfred shot back, finally letting go of Ivan’s wrist. His face was flushed—not from embarrassment, but from the fear of whatever was going on in his head. “I need your help.”

Ivan blinked, taken aback. “With what? What could possibly be so important that you couldn't have waited until after I finished my lunch?”

“Well,” Alfred started, running a hand through his hair. “I’m about to fail English. Like, actually fail. None of my tutors have worked, and I’ve got no one else."

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “And you think I can help? You realize the last time we tried this, it ended with both of us yelling at each other in the library.”

“Yeah, well, desperate times call for desperate measures,” Alfred muttered.

Ivan snorted. “You’re desperate, alright.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, fine. But if you’re gonna make fun of me, let's talk about the fact that you’re the one who needs a math tutor.”

The words hit Ivan like a slap. He stared at Alfred, his face heating up. “How did you—”

“I'm not stupid” Alfred cut him off with a stare. “The last time I looked at your math homework you couldn't even solve for a variable."

Ivan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So you’re blackmailing me into tutoring you?”

“Not blackmailing,” Alfred said, grinning. “Think of it more like... mutually assured destruction. We can help each other out: I tutor you in math, you tutor me in English. And if one of us gives up, the other will as well and we'll both fail. Deal?”

Ivan hesitated, his mind flashing back to his disastrous attempts to tutor Alfred before. But as much as he hated to admit it, Alfred had a point. 

“Fine,” Ivan caved in, crossing his arms. “But if this goes wrong again, I’m done.”

“Deal!” Alfred said, grinning as if he’d just won a gold medal. “Library. Tomorrow. During lunch.”

Ivan rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Alfred gave him a thumbs-up before darting back to his table. Ivan sighed and returned to his seat, where Yao and Carlos were both staring at him like he’d just grown a second head.

“What was that about?” Carlos asked, his eyes wide.

“Don’t tell me you’re actually going to tutor him,” Yao said incredulously.

Ivan shrugged, stabbing at his food with his fork. “I’m going to try. No promises.”

“You’re insane,” Yao muttered, shaking his head.

“Maybe,” Ivan admitted, but deep down, a part of him felt like he was making the right call.

The library was quieter than usual, the muffled hum of students studying barely audible under the ticking of the clock on the wall. Alfred sat at one of the long wooden tables, fiddling nervously with the strap of his backpack. He glanced at the door every few seconds, and when Ivan finally walked in, his hulking frame silhouetted by the afternoon light, Alfred couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.

Ivan didn’t look angry, exactly, but his usual guarded expression was drawn tight with exhaustion. He dropped his bag onto the table with a heavy thud and took a seat across from Alfred.

“Alright,” Ivan said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m here. What’s the plan?”

Alfred forced a grin. “Simple. I’m gonna teach you math.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “You? Teaching me? That’s new.”

“Hey, desperate times,” Alfred shot back. “I mean, you’re great at a lot of stuff—creepy good at English and history—but math clearly isn’t one of them.”

Ivan rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Okay, okay,” Alfred said quickly, pulling out his notebook. “Let’s just start with something basic. What part of this unit did you get stuck on?”

Ivan hesitated, his fingers drumming against the table. “All of it,” he admitted finally.

“All of it?” Alfred repeated, stunned. “Even the variables? They're the foundation of everything!”

“That’s the problem,” Ivan muttered, crossing his arms. “I don’t understand how letters and numbers go together. It doesn’t make sense.”

Alfred stared at him, his mind momentarily blank. “Wait, like... you don’t get how to solve for x? You just plug the numbers in and—”

“Stop,” Ivan interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple for me, okay? When I see a letter in a math problem, my brain just... freezes, or...short-circuits, I suppose. Numbers are one thing. Letters are another."

Alfred blinked, his mouth opening and closing as he processed Ivan’s words. “Okay,” he said slowly. “That’s... actually really helpful to know. So it’s not that you’re bad at math, it’s just... how your brain works.”

Ivan shrugged, looking away. “I guess. But it doesn’t change the fact that I can’t figure it out.”

Alfred leaned forward, flipping to a blank page in his notebook. “Alright. Let’s try this a different way. Forget the variables for a second. Let’s focus on the pattern behind the numbers. See, math isn’t just numbers; it’s a language. It’s all about finding patterns and relationships.”

Ivan frowned, watching as Alfred scribbled a series of simple equations on the page. “Relationships,” he repeated, his tone skeptical.

“Yeah! Like, look at this,” Alfred said, pointing to the equations. “If you know two plus two equals four, then you can figure out two times two. It’s just... building on what you already know.”

Ivan stared at the equations, his brow furrowing. “But what happens when you add letters? How am I supposed to build on that when it’s a completely different thing?”

“Well...” Alfred hesitated, tapping his pen against the table. “You don’t think of the letters as letters. Think of them as... placeholders. They’re just standing in for the numbers until you figure out what they are.”

Ivan stared at the page for a long moment, then sighed. “That... somewhat makes sense. But it still feels like there’s a piece missing. I’m seeing the picture, but it’s blurry.”

Alfred scratched the back of his head. “Okay, let’s try it with an example.”

He quickly wrote down a simple algebraic equation:
3x + 2 = 11

“Alright,” Alfred said, sliding the notebook toward Ivan. “What’s the first thing you do?”

Ivan stared at the equation, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment. “I mean, I get that you’re supposed to ‘solve for x,’ but I don’t know where to start.”

“Okay, no worries,” Alfred said, keeping his tone light. “First, you want to isolate the variable. So you get rid of the two by subtracting it from both sides.”

He wrote out the next step, but when he glanced up, Ivan’s expression was still blank.

“Wait,” Ivan said, holding up a hand. “Why are you subtracting it? I thought we were solving for x.”

“Right, but to do that, you have to get x by itself,” Alfred explained.

Ivan shook his head, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “This is what I mean! None of this makes sense. Why does moving numbers around somehow give you the answer?”

Alfred opened his mouth to respond, then stopped, realizing he didn’t have a good answer. “Uh... because that’s how math works?”

Ivan groaned, rubbing his temples. “Great. Really helpful.”

“Okay, okay,” Alfred said, holding up his hands. “Let’s back up. What if we just... think about it logically? If three times something, plus two, equals eleven, what could that ‘something’ be?”

Ivan hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he thought it over. “...Three?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Alfred said, grinning. “See? You’re already getting it!”

Ivan didn’t look convinced, but he nodded slowly. “I guess. But I still don’t understand the process.”

“We’ll get there,” Alfred said, his grin softening into a reassuring smile. “You just need practice. And patience. Lots of patience.”

Ivan gave a small, reluctant chuckle. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Hey, I can be patient!” Alfred protested though the grin on his face gave him away.

“Sure you can,” Ivan said, smirking.

They both laughed and for the first time in a long while, Ivan felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t completely hopeless at this.

The session hadn’t gone perfectly, but it had gone better than either of them expected. Ivan even caught himself feeling hopeful—until Alfred slammed his notebook shut with an air of finality.

“Okay, your turn to help me,” Alfred said, sliding a crumpled essay across the table. “I need to rewrite this thing, and I have no idea where to start.”

Ivan picked up the paper gingerly as if it might bite. The essay was riddled with red marks, the teacher’s comments scrawled in the margins like harsh whispers. Ivan frowned as he scanned the first paragraph.

“Alfred,” he said slowly, “what is this even about?”

“It’s... a literary analysis,” Alfred mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or, like, it’s supposed to be. I think.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“Look, English isn’t my thing, okay?” Alfred snapped, though his defensive tone was more embarrassed than angry. “I tried, but I don’t get what she wants. What does ‘explore the author’s use of metaphorical language’ even mean?”

Ivan sighed, setting the paper down. “It means you’re supposed to analyze how the author uses metaphors to convey their themes or ideas. Did you even read the book?”

“Yeah!” Alfred said, then paused. “Well... most of it. I got the gist.”

Ivan pinched the bridge of his nose. “The gist isn’t enough for an essay. You need specific examples, Alfred. Quotes, context, and an actual argument. Do you not do debate?"

Alfred slumped in his chair, groaning. “I know! But every time I try to write, it’s like my brain just... freezes up.”

Ivan hesitated, his frustration softening into something gentler. He understood that feeling all too well.

“Alright,” he said, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. “Let’s start with your thesis. What’s the main point you’re trying to make?”

“Uh...” Alfred scratched his head. “That... the author uses metaphors to... uh... show how the main character is...trapped by society or something?”

Ivan’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Okay. Not a bad start. Let’s make it stronger.”

They worked through the essay piece by piece, Ivan guiding Alfred through each section with surprising patience. By the time they finished outlining the first two paragraphs, Alfred was grinning like a kid who’d just solved a puzzle.

“Dude,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re way better at this than any of my tutors. Why didn’t we try this sooner?”

“Because the last time we tried, it ended with you throwing a dictionary at my head,” Ivan said dryly.

Alfred snorted. “Fair point.”

But the moment of levity didn’t last. Ivan glanced at the clock on the wall and froze.

5:37.

Panic shot through him like a lightning bolt.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, standing so quickly that his chair scraped against the floor.

Alfred blinked, startled. “Whoa, what’s wrong?”

“I have to go,” Ivan said, shoving his notebook into his bag with hurried, clumsy movements.

“Wait, go where?” Alfred asked, his confusion evident.

“Just... somewhere,” Ivan snapped, his voice sharper than he intended.

Alfred frowned, his brows furrowing in genuine concern. “Somewhere? What’s so urgent all of a sudden?”

Ivan hesitated, his heart pounding. He couldn’t tell Alfred the truth—that he was about to be late for work, that he couldn’t risk losing the job that helped him afford this school. He didn’t want to see that look of pity or worse, judgment, on Alfred’s face.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said finally, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I just have to leave.”

Alfred stood, his expression shifting from concern to something closer to anger. “Ivan, seriously, what’s going on? You can’t just—”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” Ivan snapped, cutting him off. “I have to go.”

Before Alfred could respond, Ivan turned and hurried out of the library, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

But even as he rushed toward the bus stop, his stomach twisted with guilt. He’d seen the look on Alfred’s face before he left—confusion, worry, and just the faintest hint of hurt.

Chapter Text

Alfred sat in the back seat of the sleek black town car, arms crossed, gaze locked on the passing streetlights. The glow from his phone screen cast sharp shadows over his face, but he didn’t bother texting or scrolling. He just stared at it, jaw tight, replaying the last hour in his head.

Ivan’s sudden exit. The way he’d snapped. The way he ran out like Alfred had caught him doing something illegal.

What the hell was that about?

"Sir, we’re almost home," the driver informed him, breaking the silence.

Alfred didn’t answer. He barely registered the car slowing as it pulled through the grand gates of his family’s estate. The moment the car stopped, he shoved the door open and stepped out. The air was cool, but it did nothing to settle the simmering frustration in his chest.

Matthew was waiting for him just inside the front door. "Hey, you’re back late," he greeted. "Dinner’s still warm if you—"

"Not hungry," Alfred muttered, brushing past him.

Matthew frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

A beat of silence. Matthew’s expression flickered with something between concern and exasperation. "Okay," he said slowly. "Well, if you wanna—"

"I don’t," Alfred cut him off, already halfway up the stairs.

He heard Matthew sigh but didn’t look back. Guilt tugged at him for a second, but he shoved it down. He wasn’t in the mood to talk—not to Matthew, not to anyone.

Except…

He pulled out his phone, scrolling down to a name he could always count on.

Alfred: U free? Come over.

The reply came barely a minute later.

Kiku: On my way.

Kiku arrived within the hour, and the butler let him in without question—Arthur had long since vetted him. Alfred was sprawled out on the couch in the lounge when Kiku walked in, a picture of composed elegance as always.

"You look like hell," Kiku noted as he sat down.

"Wow, thanks," Alfred grumbled. "Real uplifting, man."

Kiku tilted his head slightly. "If you wanted comfort, you should have called Matthew."

Alfred scoffed. "Mattie would just give me that whole ‘I’m not mad, I’m disappointed’ speech. Don’t need that right now." He sat up, rubbing his face. "I just… needed someone who actually uses logic to help me figure this out."

Kiku gave him a knowing look. "This is about Ivan, isn’t it?"

Alfred let out a sharp breath. "Dude ran off in the middle of tutoring like his life depended on it. He wouldn’t tell me why, wouldn’t even look at me. And I know it’s something serious, but he just—left."

Kiku hummed thoughtfully. "Did he say anything before he left?"

"Just that he ‘didn’t have time for this.’ And he looked…" Alfred trailed off, trying to find the right words. "Panicked. Like, legit terrified."

Kiku folded his hands in his lap. "And you're worried."

"Of course I’m worried!" Alfred snapped, then immediately sighed. "I mean, yeah, we argue a lot, but I thought we were at least kinda friends now. And he’s been acting weird lately. He failed a math test, and his teacher was giving him shit about it today?"

Silence settled between them for a moment. Kiku was watching him carefully, a slight crease between his brows. "You're quite invested in this," he said after a beat.

Alfred frowned. "Dude, he’s my tutor. If he’s got problems, it affects me too."

Kiku let out a soft hum that almost sounded amused. "Of course...your tutor."

Alfred ignored whatever that meant. "Point is, I need to figure out what’s going on with him. He’s gonna keep dodging if I just ask, so I need another way in."

Kiku considered this, his fingers tapping against the armrest. "Maybe…" He paused, then shook his head. "No, that would be too forward."

Alfred groaned. "Dude, just spit it out."

Kiku exhaled. "You could try offering something in return. He doesn't like feeling as thought he owes you, but if you frame it as an exchange, he might accept your help."

Alfred’s brows lifted. "Like what?"

Kiku’s gaze was steady. "You know what."

Alfred frowned, turning the thought over in his mind. Then it clicked.

"...The math tutoring."

Alfred blinked, then let out a laugh. "So you’re saying I gotta bribe him with my own stupidity?"

Kiku smiled slightly. "Put simply, yes."

Alfred shook his head, but a grin tugged at his lips. "Man, you’re scary when you do that whole psychological analysis thing."

Kiku’s expression didn’t change, but there was a subtle warmth in his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Alfred clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, I’ll give it a shot. Thanks, dude."

Kiku stood, smoothing out his uniform. "Anytime."

As he headed for the door, Alfred leaned back against the couch, mind still turning over the plan. He didn’t notice the way Kiku hesitated at the threshold, his gaze lingering for just a second too long before he finally stepped out.

Alfred didn’t head downstairs right away. Dinner was always at six sharp, but Arthur hadn’t come storming up yet, so he figured he had a few minutes to kill. Or maybe Arthur was in one of his rarely tolerable moods tonight. Still, he hesitated outside Matthew’s room, tapping on the door with the back of his knuckles.

“Mattie?” he called softly.

A rustle of fabric, then the door cracked open. Matthew was in his hoodie and pajama pants already, glasses perched low on his nose. “Hey. What’s up?”

Alfred rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding his brother’s eyes. “Can you… y’know. Help me again?”

Matthew blinked once, then stepped aside to let him in. “Yeah. Sit down. Let me grab the stuff.”

The routine was too practiced. Matthew had the first aid kit on his desk already—had probably noticed the way Alfred had been walking. Or maybe he’d just known. Alfred shrugged off his hoodie and sank into the desk chair, already feeling itchy under his skin.

Matthew knelt beside him, opening the kit with a soft click. He said nothing for a while as he started unwrapping the old bandages, the ones that hadn’t been changed in three days. They peeled off with that familiar tug—dry and sticky and unpleasant.

Then came the silence. That cold, horrible silence as Matthew quietly cleaned the fresh cuts, the ones no one else ever saw.

“You said you were done,” Matthew murmured, his voice almost too soft to hear.

“I was,” Alfred replied, eyes fixed on the window. “But then I wasn’t.”

The antiseptic stung, but not as bad as the way Matt’s voice wavered just a little.

“I thought you were doing better.”

“I was doing better,” Alfred said, sharper than he meant to. “It’s not like I’m trying to—Mattie, I’m not trying to die, okay? I just… I don’t know what else to do sometimes.”

Matthew wrapped gauze around his arm with slow, careful hands. “You could talk to me.”

“I am talking to you.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Matthew said, voice tight. “I mean really talk to me. Not just when it’s already bad.”

Alfred went quiet, staring down at his lap. “It’s not that easy.”

Matthew didn’t press. He never did. But Alfred could feel the ache in the air, the kind that came from watching someone hurt themselves and not knowing how to make it stop. He hated putting that look on Mattie’s face more than anything.

Finally, Matthew finished and gently taped the last of the wrappings down. He didn’t say anything more, just closed the kit and stood up.

They sat in silence for another moment before Alfred muttered, “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Matthew paused at the door. “Come down soon. You know how he gets if we’re late.”

“Yeah.” Alfred pulled his hoodie back on, the motion slow and mechanical. “I’ll be right down.”

The dining room looked like something out of a catalog—high ceilings, chandelier glowing warm gold, long table perfectly set. But it was always cold here, always too quiet. Francis wasn’t home tonight, which meant Arthur was at the head of the table with a glass of wine and a stack of his editing notes beside his plate.

He glanced up when the boys walked in. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” Matthew said automatically, sliding into his seat.

Alfred didn’t say anything as he took his own. He avoided looking at Arthur’s face—he wasn’t in the mood for one of those piercing gazes that saw too much.

The butler brought in their plates without a word. Roasted duck, root vegetables, some delicate French thing Francis had prepped before leaving for New York. Fancy food Alfred didn’t taste anymore.

Arthur cut into his meal with precise, methodical movements. “How were your lessons today?”

“Fine,” Matthew replied, stabbing at his carrots. “I had this math test but I think it went alright."

Arthur nodded. “And you, Alfred?”

Alfred stiffened slightly. “Worked on my English essay.”

A beat.

“With your tutor?” Arthur asked, voice perfectly neutral.

Alfred met his father’s eyes now, guarded. “Yeah. Who told you I had a tutor?"

Another beat of silence, broken only by the scrape of silverware.

“Well,” Arthur said finally, ignoring the question. “As long as he’s actually being useful."

Alfred clenched his jaw. “He is.”

Arthur arched one eyebrow slightly but said nothing more. The message was clear enough.

The conversation shifted to something Matthew brought up about one of his design electives, but Alfred barely heard it. His stomach churned. The bandages beneath his hoodie felt like fire. He stabbed his fork into his food but didn’t eat.

His eyes flicked toward the door. For a second, he wondered where Ivan was—what he was doing, if he’d eaten anything, if he was okay.

Then Arthur spoke again.

“By the way,” he said, not looking up from his notes. “You’ll both be expected at the fundraiser this Saturday."

Alfred pushed his plate away. “I’m not hungry.”

Arthur didn’t even glance at him. “Then don’t eat. But you’ll attend.”

Matthew said nothing, quietly watching his brother out of the corner of his eye.

Alfred stood, chair scraping back. “I’ve got homework.”

“You’re excused,” Arthur said coolly.

Alfred left without another word.

He slammed the door to his room a little harder than he meant to.

He stood there for a second, breathing hard in the quiet, staring at the soft lamplight spilling across his desk. The essay packet Ivan had given him was still lying there, all crisp edges and red pen. Alfred hated the way the comments made sense. Hated how Ivan’s voice still echoed in his head when he read them. “You’re repeating yourself here. Start with your strongest argument. You have one—just say it like you mean it.”

He flopped down at his desk and opened his laptop with a reluctant sigh. The cursor blinked at him on the screen, like it was mocking him. His fingers hovered above the keys.

Then dropped.

He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling.

He should’ve just asked Kiku to help him with this too. At least Kiku would’ve used nice words when explaining how hopeless he sounded on paper.

Alfred scrubbed his hands down his face, then forced himself to sit up straight and open the original draft. Red ink marked every other line. Ivan had gone easy on him—he could tell. But the brutal parts still stuck out.

“This metaphor makes no sense.”

“You already said this—cut it.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Alfred muttered, opening a blank document and setting the old one aside.

He started typing. Slowly. Clunky phrases. Awkward transitions. He hated this part. Writing felt like choking. He couldn’t get the words to behave—he knew what he wanted to say, but when he tried to make it sound smart, it turned to static.

He paused. Backspaced three lines. Tried again. It still sucked.

After twenty minutes of furious typing and deleting, he dropped his forehead onto the keyboard with a groan.

“This is so stupid,” he muttered into the keys.

His phone sat beside the laptop. He glanced at it. No new messages. No texts. No missed calls.

Not that he was expecting anything.

…Okay. Maybe a little.

Alfred sat back again, chewing the inside of his cheek. He thought about how Ivan had looked when he left—jacket half-zipped, papers flying, that frantic look in his eyes like the world was ending.

He thought about how Ivan didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t say why.

Just ran.

And left Alfred alone with a stack of broken sentences and a pit in his chest.

“Whatever,” Alfred muttered, yanking his hoodie tighter around him and clicking back to the essay.

He tried to channel the way Ivan talked about writing. Tried to hear that dry, cutting voice in his head. “You don’t have to sound like a professor. Just sound like you. That’s what makes it good.”

Alfred didn’t think anything about him was “good.” But he could try.

And he did.

Word by word. Paragraph by paragraph. Slowly. Painfully. Until, sometime after midnight, the essay started to look less like a battlefield and more like a second chance.

He hit save.

Then leaned back in his chair again, exhausted.

The stars outside his window were blurry. His shoulders ached. The silence in his room was louder than ever.

He pulled his phone toward him again. Opened a blank message to Ivan.

Typed:

Hey. I worked on the rewrite. You were right about the argument. I think I fixed it. Or tried.

He stared at it.

Backspaced all of it.

Typed again:

Thanks for the notes. Hope you’re okay.

Backspace.

Another message.

You left fast. If something’s wrong just say it next time. I’m not mad.

Still too much. Still too weird.

He sighed and settled on:

Text me when you can. 

Then he turned his phone face-down and pushed it away.

He didn’t sleep that night. But he didn’t bleed either.

And that, somehow, felt like a small victory.

Chapter Text

Ivan hadn’t slept much. Maybe three hours at most, curled up on the couch in his cramped living room with his phone still gripped in his hand.

But he was used to this—school by day, work by night, repeat. He’d learned to run on caffeine and sheer willpower. The moment he stepped onto campus, he straightened his spine, smoothed down his collar, and shoved the fatigue deep beneath his carefully composed expression.

No one could know how exhausted he really was.

He moved through the courtyard, earbuds in but no music playing, using the illusion of noise as a shield. It worked until he reached the main hallway, and a familiar, grating voice cut through the morning chatter.

“I still can’t believe your parents are making you go to that stupid event,” came Feliks Łukasiewicz’s voice, nasal and dramatic as ever.

Ivan glanced over, brows lowering slightly. Alfred was standing just a few feet away, leaned casually against a locker, arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a blazer over a hoodie like he hadn’t decided which dress code to commit to. His hair was perfectly disheveled, like it had been arranged to look natural. Classic.

“Don’t remind me,” Alfred groaned. “If I have to shake hands with one more lawyer who calls me ‘Artie’s boy,’ I’m gonna scream.”

Feliks rolled his eyes. “It’s, like, such a waste of a Saturday. At least I get to wear something fun!" He paused before asking. "But...are you really going alone?”

Alfred hesitated. Not visibly, not noticeably—but just enough that Ivan, watching from the edge of the crowd, caught it. His hands tightened around his backpack strap.

Then Feliks leaned in with a smirk. “Or are you finally putting that ‘plus one’ to use?”

Ivan was already turning away, wanting no part of whatever name-drop nonsense was about to follow, when Alfred’s voice rang out—louder, brighter, a little too rehearsed. 

"Ivan!"

Alfred’s voice cracked like a whip through the crowd, polished and loud enough to make heads turn.

Ivan froze mid-step, jaw tightening.

No.

Absolutely not.

He is not doing this.

But when he turned, Alfred was already smiling—wide and charming, all teeth and dimples, like he hadn't pulled the stunt of the century last night. Like they weren’t in the middle of some barely-holding-together truce built on mutual failure and mutual silence.

And he was striding over, hand outstretched like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“There you are, babe,” Alfred said, grabbing Ivan’s arm with casual confidence and tugging him in like they did this every morning. Like Ivan belonged tucked against his side, one hand slung lazily across his shoulder.

Ivan blinked. “Babe?”

“Don’t be shy,” Alfred said, like Ivan had just forgotten his lines. “Feliks, you know Ivan, right?”

Feliks, to his credit, did not miss a beat. His eyes lit up with pure glee—the kind of delight only chaos could bring. “Oh my god, Ivan?” he said, like he was tasting something forbidden. “I thought you two hated each other!”

Ivan opened his mouth. Closed it. Gave Alfred a side-eye that could shatter concrete. But Alfred just kept smiling, like this was going exactly to plan.

“Ivan and I have been... figuring things out,” Alfred said, voice oozing charm. “Right, babe?”

Ivan looked at Feliks. Then back at Alfred.

He could torch this entire thing in three seconds flat. He could say we're not dating, shove Alfred off, and walk away. He should.

But Alfred was still holding his arm, his grip light but not loose. His fingers were cold. His heart was probably hammering just as fast.

Ivan sighed.

“…Yes,” he said blandly. “We are. Figuring things out.”

Feliks looked like Christmas had come early. “Oh my god, Ivan, you have to come Saturday now. This is going to be everything.” He was already pulling out his phone, no doubt planning to text every other socialite with this news.

“I’m going to be sick,” Ivan muttered under his breath, only for Alfred to nudge his ribs with an elbow.

“Hey,” Alfred said, still smiling, but it faltered just slightly when Feliks bounced away. “Thanks.”

Ivan gave him a look. “I’m not going,” he said flatly.

Alfred blinked. “Huh?”

“To your stupid rich people gala or whatever it is. I’m not going.”

“Come on, dude,” Alfred groaned, throwing his head back like Ivan had just denied him a kidney. “You already said yes!”

“I was ambushed,” Ivan replied. “Emotionally blackmailed. Lied to. Dragged into your little soap opera in front of Feliks. That doesn’t count.”

Alfred made a noise halfway between a laugh and a whine. “Okay, yeah, that was dramatic, but you were great in the role! Everyone totally bought it. You even did the little boyfriend deadpan voice! Look, you're even doing it right now!"

“I always talk like that,” Ivan said.

“Exactly, method acting!” Alfred grinned. “Come on, just one night. I’ll owe you.”

“No,” Ivan said firmly. “I don’t have time. Or a suit. Or the will to live through two hours of champagne and fake smiles.”

Alfred paused at the top of the stairs. He turned, leaned on the railing, and squinted at Ivan. “...You don’t have a suit?”

Ivan crossed his arms. “Do you have seven hundred dollars lying around for one?”

Alfred opened his mouth. Closed it. “Wait... do you not?”

Ivan stared at him.

Alfred scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “I, uh... okay. Look. What if I paid you to go?”

That stopped Ivan mid-eye-roll.

“...What.”

“I mean, not like a bribe—I just mean, you’re doing me a favor, right? And it’s gonna suck for you, so I should compensate you or whatever.”

Ivan narrowed his eyes. “How much?”

Alfred blinked again. “You—wait, seriously?”

Ivan shrugged, trying to look casual, but his brain was already racing. Rent was due in two weeks. His textbooks weren’t paid off. He could fix his broken headphones. Maybe even get groceries that weren’t ramen.

“I’m not dressing up for free,” Ivan said, voice deliberately bored.

“Okay, okay,” Alfred said quickly. “I’ll cover the suit. And dinner. And like—a hundred...two hundred bucks on top. Just come, pretend to like me, let my dad’s coworkers think I’m functional, and we’ll call it a day.”

Ivan looked at him like he was weighing the offer against all his better judgment, which—frankly—he was.

Two hundred dollars. A suit. Dinner.

To pretend to like Alfred for a few hours?

He’d endured worse for less.

He gave a small, thoughtful hum, then said, “Three hundred.”

Alfred nearly choked. “Three hundred?! What happened to playing it cool?!”

“You want a boyfriend who smiles and plays nice in front of people who’ve probably known you since you were in diapers,” Ivan said coolly. “That costs extra.”

Alfred stared at him for a beat, looking like he was doing mental math with a concussion. Then he let out a sigh, shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, and muttered, “Fine. Three hundred. But only if you wear the stupid pocket square my dad insists on.”

“No.”

“Two seventy-five and you pick the pocket square.”

Ivan considered. “Deal.”

They shook on it.

Alfred gave him a lopsided grin. “You really don’t have a suit?”

Ivan just stared.

Alfred blinked again, like this entire conversation was slowly rewiring his brain. “Huh. I always kinda figured you were one of those guys who just... had like, mysterious European money or something.”

Ivan snorted. “Because I’m Russian?”

“Because you’re scary and tall and wear those trench coats. It’s giving Russian mob prince who smokes cloves behind a cathedral.”

Ivan looked entirely unamused. “My mom got that coat for me at a thrift store.”

“...Okay, that’s way less cool. But also—kind of adorable?”

“I will walk.”

“No, no!” Alfred held up his hands. “You're very intimidating, scary trench coat czar. Please don’t leave me to face Feliks and my father alone.”

Ivan rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched at the corners. Just a little.

Alfred caught it—and his grin went soft around the edges.

“So you’ll come?” he asked.

“I’ll show up,” Ivan corrected. “Smile not guaranteed.”

“Yeah, well. I’ll take what I can get.”

They started walking again—side by side now, though Ivan maintained at least a foot of distance.

After a beat, Alfred glanced over. “Hey. Thanks.”

Ivan didn’t look at him.

But he did say, “Three hundred. Cash.”

Alfred laughed.

The library was unusually quiet for a Tuesday.

Ivan sat slouched over a worn wooden desk in the back corner, eyes barely open, pencil moving with sluggish determination across the page. His hair was slightly damp from the earlier drizzle, and his sleeves were pushed up just enough to reveal a fresh bruise from bumping into a shelf at work. Again.

Next to him, Yao was pristine as always, typing with purpose, his earbuds in—but only one. The other dangled loosely, like an open invitation to speak.

Ivan had been silent for the better part of twenty minutes, a record by his standards.

Yao glanced over once, noted the smudge of graphite on Ivan’s temple, and sighed.

“You’re going to stab your eye if you keep falling asleep on your pencil.”

Ivan grunted in reply, face still inches from his notebook.

“You look like death,” Yao added, not unkindly.

Ivan didn't bother denying it. “Didn’t sleep.”

“That’s becoming a pattern.”

“Thanks for noticing.”

Yao tapped a few more keys, then turned toward him, giving the full unimpressed-older-brother glare. “Alright. Spill. I know that look. That’s not ‘midterms’ tired. That’s ‘made a deal with a demon and now regret it’ tired.”

Ivan let out a long sigh and sat back. His chair creaked.

“You know that thing on Saturday?” he said finally. “The... rich people thing?”

“The gala? Yeah I'll be-” Yao blinked. "Wait, you’re going?”

“Alfred told everyone I’m his boyfriend,” Ivan said flatly. “In front of Feliks.”

Yao’s eyebrows climbed halfway to his hairline.

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“Oh my god.”

Ivan didn’t respond. He was too busy glaring at the ceiling like it owed him money.

Yao leaned in. “You hate him.”

“I dislike him,” Ivan corrected. “Mostly.”

“And now you’re playing pretend boyfriends? This is amazing."

Ivan groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “He’s paying me.”

Yao froze. “He’s what?”

“Three hundred bucks,” Ivan muttered. “And covering the suit.”

Yao blinked again. “...Are you escorting now?”

“No,” Ivan said sharply. Then, “Probably.”

Yao opened his mouth. Closed it. Then slowly said, “Okay. Let me just get this straight. Alfred Jones—golden boy, blazer over hoodie, that Alfred—dragged you into his public soap opera, and you... agreed. For money.”

Ivan looked dead into his soul. “I need to buy groceries.”

Yao couldn’t argue with that.

Still, he leaned back, arms crossed. “You’re aware this is going to blow up spectacularly, right?”

“I’m counting on it.”

Yao sighed, massaging his temples. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And broke,” Ivan added.

“You’re going to need a strategy,” Yao said, suddenly shifting gears like a general planning a campaign. “You can’t just show up and wing it. You need a backstory. First date. First kiss. How you met. Something sweet but plausible.”

Ivan looked vaguely horrified. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m thriving,” Yao said. “Now, tell me—what is your first date story?”

Ivan stared at him.

Yao grinned.

Yao tapped his pen against his temple like he was solving world peace. “Okay. So. You and Alfred —the boy who literally broke your calculator in eighth grade—are now dating. We need a story.”

Ivan sighed and dropped his pencil. “We do not need a story. I just need to survive the evening.”

“No. If you show up in a suit and act like you hate everyone, people will assume he hired you. Which… actually isn’t wrong, but still.”

Ivan gave him a deadpan look.

Yao grinned. “So. What’s the lore? Childhood rivals to lovers? A dramatic enemies-to-lovers slow burn?”

Ivan muttered, “More like blood feud turned IRS audit.”

“Even better.” Yao leaned forward, clearly delighted. “You can say you hated each other for years, but then—plot twist—you were paired together for a school project and sparks flew. It’s academic Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed honor roll students.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “That’s not what happened.”

Yao shrugged. “No one cares what actually happened. They care what sounds romantic enough to talk about.”

Before Ivan could respond, the door creaked open.

“Hey, do either of you—” Matthew stopped dead in the doorway, eyes bouncing between them and the mess of scribbled notes and whispered chaos.

Ivan looked up like a deer in headlights.

Yao, without missing a beat, beamed and said, “We’re faking a relationship. Don’t worry about it.”

Matthew blinked. “You’re what?”

Ivan groaned. “It’s for a thing. A stupid gala. Alfred roped me into it.”

Matthew tilted his head. “Wait… you’re going with Alfred? As in, Alfred Alfred? As in ‘my brother who once accidentally lit the curtains on fire at a political fundraiser’ Alfred?”

Ivan just covered his face with his hand.

Yao leaned back smugly. “You see the issue.”

Matthew’s shock melted into amusement. He laughed—genuinely—and dropped his backpack beside them. “Okay, wait. No. This is incredible. This is so much better than I expected my Tuesday to be.”

Ivan groaned louder. “I hate all of you.”

Matthew ignored that completely. “So what’s the plan? Are you wearing a tie? Do you know which fork to use? Can you even fake laugh at boring jokes without sounding like you're choking on dry toast?”

Ivan stared. “I wasn’t planning to fake laugh at all.”

“Oh my God,” Matthew said, already pulling out his phone. “Okay, first things first—we are getting you a crash course in how to survive a room full of CEOs and congressmen. You need posture. You need polish. You need to not look like you were bribed into being someone’s boyfriend.”

“…I was bribed.”

“Yes, but they can’t know that.”

Yao looked delighted. “Can I help?”

“No,” Ivan said firmly.

“Yes,” Matthew said at the same time.

Ivan pinched the bridge of his nose.

Matthew smirked. “You already agreed to pretend-date my brother. You might as well let me give you the makeover montage you clearly need.”

“I don’t need—”

“Have you ever worn cufflinks before?”

Ivan paused. “No.”

“Have you ever tasted champagne that didn’t come in a plastic flute?”

“…No.”

“Have you ever had to make small talk with someone who owns three yachts and still complains about taxes?”

Ivan gave a long, suffering exhale. “…Fine.”

Matthew grinned like a cat who just caught a canary. “Excellent."

Yao raised his hand. “I’d like to be on accessories duty.”

“Please don’t,” Ivan mumbled.

“Oh, we’re doing this right,” Matthew said, already typing furiously. “By Saturday night, you’re going to look like you belong on that red carpet—and you’re going to walk in like Alfred is lucky to have you.”

Ivan slumped back in his chair. “I already regret everything.”

Chapter Text

Alfred Jones could handle pressure.

Pop quizzes? No sweat.
Last-minute presentations? Easy.
Five seconds to come up with a fake relationship to save face in front of the school’s most unrelenting gossip? Done.

But wearing a blazer in April was where he drew the line.

He tugged at the lapels of his jacket, groaning as he flopped dramatically onto his bed. “This is so stupid,” he muttered, glaring at the suit that was already hanging on his closet door like it was mocking him.

The gala was only a few days away.

The same stupid annual fundraiser his parents insisted he attend every year. The same one where rich people pretended to care about educational reform while writing checks for tax breaks. The same one where everyone pulled out the same lines:
“Artie’s boy, aren’t you?”
“You’re Francis’s son? Oh, he catered my wedding!”
“Going to be just like your father, I bet.”

Which one?

Didn’t matter.

He was expected to smile either way.

Alfred sat up, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The blazer slipped off his shoulders as he thought.

Feliks had asked if he was really going alone.

He should’ve just said yes. He could’ve just said yes.

But then that look—just a flicker—crossed Feliks’s face. That smug little pity smirk. Like Alfred wasn’t cool enough, hot enough, interesting enough to even bring a date.

And maybe that shouldn't have bothered him.

But it did.

Because Feliks Łukasiewicz mattered. Not in the sense that he was particularly important, but in the way a canary mattered in a coal mine. Whatever Feliks thought, the rest of the school would know by lunch. His opinions were the kind that stuck. If he thought Alfred was a loser? That stuck too.

And lately… Alfred wasn’t sure who he was winning over anymore.

He used to be “the smart one.” The star student. The golden boy. But now he was slipping. Barely scraping by in English. Failing his essays. Falling behind on scholarship deadlines.

It wasn’t just about the gala.

It was about not looking like a mess in front of the only people who still thought he had it all together.

So yeah, maybe he panicked a little. Maybe he saw Ivan in the hallway and thought he was clean-cut, sharp, he doesn’t even blink when he lies to a teacher, and maybe that was enough.

It wasn't supposed to mean anything.

It was supposed to be easy.

But now Ivan was actually going. And Alfred had offered to pay him. Like a total idiot.

He flopped back on the bed with a groan and stared at the ceiling. “God, I’m the worst fake boyfriend ever.”

The door creaked open. “Did you say something?” came a familiar voice.

Alfred peeked over the edge of his comforter. Matthew leaned against the doorframe with a suspiciously neutral face. “Because Yao texted me like fifteen minutes ago and said something about cufflinks and social climbing.”

Alfred sat up in horror. “Oh my God. What did he say?”

“That you are dragging Ivan into ‘high society cosplay,’ and that he and I have agreed to transform him into someone who looks like he doesn’t threaten to punch every senator he meets.”

Alfred groaned into his hands. “It’s one night. One night, Matthew.”

Matthew walked in, plopped beside him, and gave him a look. “Why him?”

“What?”

“Why Ivan?” Matthew asked. “You could’ve asked anyone. Literally anyone. Feliks would’ve gone just for the photos. So why him?”

Alfred was quiet for a long moment.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “He doesn’t fake it. He doesn’t care if people like him. He doesn’t try to please anyone. I thought… maybe if I had someone like that next to me, people wouldn’t look so close at me.”

Matthew’s expression softened. “You know you don’t have to prove anything to them, right?”

“Tell that to Dad’s coworkers,” Alfred muttered. “To the donors. To the press.”

“You’re not him, Alfie.”

“I know.”

But he didn’t feel like it.

He didn’t feel like he was anything close to Arthur or Francis—at least they were good at what they did. Arthur was brilliant, and terrifying, and wrote like he bled literature. Francis could walk into a room and command it without saying a word.

Alfred?

He was the guy who pretended to have it all together. The one with a shiny smile and paper-thin confidence.

And if Ivan could just stand next to him for one night—make it look like Alfred was winning at something, even if it wasn’t real—maybe he could survive it.

Later that evening, Alfred stood in the doorway to his dad’s study, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, trying to look casual.

Arthur looked up from his laptop. “You need something?”

“Yeah,” Alfred said, clearing his throat. “So, uh. The gala thing’s still on.”

Arthur blinked at him, brow raising. “Yes, I’m aware. Your suit fitting is on Wednesday.”

“Right. Uh.” He shifted his weight. “I might be bringing someone.”

Arthur paused.

Slowly, he closed his laptop.

“Someone?” he repeated. “As in—a plus one?”

“Yeah. Just a friend. No big deal.” Alfred grinned quickly, too quickly. “Totally casual. Not like, you know, a thing.”

Arthur stared.

Alfred felt a drop of sweat crawl down the back of his neck.

“What’s their name?” Arthur asked evenly.

Alfred hesitated. “...Ivan.”

There was a long silence.

Arthur blinked once. “Last name?"

“Braginsky,” Alfred said, still forcing the smile.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "The one from primary school?"

Alfred nodded. "We’re... kinda friends now, I guess. He’s chill.”

Arthur sat back slowly, fingers steepled, his expression flattening into that unreadable, calculating look that meant someone was about to be metaphorically disemboweled.

“That’s the boy who insulted your essay, yes?”

“That was months ago.”

“He called it ‘structurally tragic.’”

“He was right.”

Arthur raised a single, suspicious eyebrow. “You’ve never invited him over before. Why now?”

Alfred shrugged. “He was there. It was convenient.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t make decisions like this based on convenience, Alfred. Not for that event.”

Alfred held up his hands. “Look, it’s not a big deal! Just bringing a friend to act like moral support so I don’t die from awkward lawyer small talk. That’s all.”

Arthur didn’t answer. Instead, he opened his laptop again, fingers flying over the keyboard.

Alfred leaned in. “Wait—are you seriously Googling him right now?”

“No,” Arthur said. “I’m pulling his academic records.”

“WHAT—”

Arthur didn’t even look up. “And cross-referencing with the school disciplinary system. I’ll have Leon check public records for anything suspicious.”

“Dad! You can't just make your secretary-"

Arthur held up his hand to interrupt Alfred. "I can and I will. I’m not going to have some boy I’ve never vetted step foot inside this house,” Arthur said coldly. “You may trust easily, Alfred, but I do not.”

“He’s literally a National Honor Society tutor—”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t secretly a cultist.”

Alfred groaned into his hands. “You are so dramatic.”

Arthur finally looked up, eyes sharp. “And you’re clearly lying to me.”

Alfred froze.

Arthur tilted his head. “You don’t go red in the ears when you’re telling the truth.”

Alfred clapped a hand over his ears. “I’m not hiding anything! We’re just friends!”

Arthur didn’t look convinced.

But after a long pause, he sighed. “Fine. I’ll allow it.”

Alfred blinked. “Wait—really?”

Arthur nodded. “But I expect him for dinner before the event. No arguments.”

Alfred’s stomach dropped. “Dinner?”

“Yes. If you’re going to parade someone around in front of our colleagues, I want to meet him first.”

Alfred tried not to imagine the scene. Ivan. At their dinner table. With Arthur interrogating him like a suspect on the stand.

“Can Papa be there too?”

“If you think Francis will be any more forgiving, you’re deluded.”

Alfred muttered something under his breath.

Arthur didn’t react, already typing away again. “And Alfred?”

“Yeah?”

“If this boy hurts you,” Arthur said, still not looking up, “I will destroy him.”

Alfred blinked. “Good talk.”

Wednesday afternoon

Alfred had never seen Ivan look more uncomfortable than he did standing on the platform in the tailor’s shop, arms slightly out, shirt half-buttoned, while a wiry old man circled him with pins and a notepad like a predator eyeing its next kill.

“You’re slouching,” the tailor barked.

Ivan’s eyebrow twitched. “This is my spine’s natural state.”

The man clicked his tongue like this was a personal offense. “It’s offensive. Stand up.”

Alfred, lounging on the plush couch nearby, grinned over the rim of his iced coffee. “You’re doing great, babe.”

Ivan shot him a look. “I will push you into traffic.”

“Romantic,” Yao added from the corner as he picked out accessories. “You’re already nailing the fake boyfriend thing.”

The tailor turned Ivan slightly by the shoulder and stepped back. “He’s got good bones,” he muttered. “Broad frame. Terrible posture. We’ll fix that.”

Ivan sighed and muttered something in Russian that Alfred was pretty sure wasn’t printable.

“You’ll get through it,” Alfred said, stretching his legs. “Anyway. While we’re here—figured I should tell you. My parents wanna meet you.”

Ivan stiffened.

“...Meet me?”

“Yeah, like. Dinner, before the gala. Don’t worry, they’re super normal.”

“Define normal.”

“You know. Not serial killers.”

Ivan gave him a flat look. “You said your dad runs background checks on your friends.”

“Yeah, but only because he cares.”

“Terrifying.”

“He’s British,” Alfred offered like that explained anything. “It’s their whole personality.”

Ivan groaned, half out of stress, half because the tailor had just stabbed him in the hip with a pin. “Are there… rules? For this dinner?”

Matthew looked up from his position next to Yao and shrugged. “Don’t swear, don’t lie, don’t say you hate rich people.”

“I do hate rich people.”

Matthew sighed. “Then say you hate most rich people. Makes them feel special."

Ivan rolled his eyes, but there was a crack in his armor—nerves, thinly veiled, showing in the way he tugged at the collar of the shirt he was being fitted in. “What if I mess up?”

“You won’t,” Alfred said. “My parents are... a lot. But they’re not cruel. Papa will probably ask if you like wine and talk about cheese. Dad will ask about your GPA, your political opinions, and whether you’ve ever done hard drugs.”

Ivan blinked. “That’s not comforting.”

“You’ll be fine.” Alfred grinned, clapping his hands behind his head. “You’re already leagues above the last guy I brought home.”

Ivan frowned. “Wait—you’ve brought a date home before?”

“Nope.”

Ivan narrowed his eyes. “So I’m the first.”

“I mean, yeah...but I'll just call you a friend so Dad doesn't start digging too deep."

“Why me?”

“You were there,” Alfred said honestly. “And also? You look good in a suit.”

Ivan stared at him.

Yao took a long sip of his drink and smirked. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m going to stab both of you with one of these pins,” Ivan muttered, cheeks pink.

The tailor hummed approvingly and stepped back. “We’ll have it ready by Friday. Just don’t gain or lose ten pounds of muscle by then.”

“I’ll try my best,” Ivan muttered.

As they left the shop, Alfred tossed the empty coffee into the trash and nudged Ivan with his elbow.

“Hey,” he said, almost casual. “Thanks. For doing this.”

Ivan shoved his hands in his coat pockets. “You’re paying me.”

“Still.”

Ivan didn’t answer. But his shoulder bumped Alfred’s, just slightly, and that said enough.

Chapter Text

Ivan had faced many things in life.
A drunken mother.
A government that had arrested his father.
A scholarship interview where the panelists had asked him to recite poetry from memory.

None of that—none of that—prepared him for what stood on the other side of Alfred’s front door.

It opened, and he was hit with the scent of something buttery and herb-laced. Classy. Warm lighting. Soft music in the background.

Then: “Ah, you must be Ivan.”

The man who stepped into view was tall, blond, dressed in cream and gold, and smiling like he knew everything. And he probably did.

“I’m Francis Bonnefoy,” the man said, offering a hand. “Alfred’s papa.”

Ivan stared.

Francis Bonnefoy. The Francis Bonnefoy. Michelin stars. Cookbook empire. That guy.

He shook his hand, suddenly self-conscious of his slightly wrinkled shirt. “It’s an honor.”

Francis smiled like a fox, stepping aside to let him in. “We’re so glad you could join us tonight. Come in—dinner is nearly ready. Don’t worry, Arthur’s just brooding in the hallway like he always does.”

Ivan stepped inside, but he didn’t even get a full three steps before a second voice, dry as winter wind, cut through the air.

“So. You’re the friend.”

Ivan turned. His soul left his body.

Arthur Kirkland stood at the end of the hallway. Rumored recluse. Nobel winner. Ivan’s favorite writer of all time. In person, he was shorter than expected. But his gaze? That made up for it. Piercing green eyes behind narrow glasses, a tailored waistcoat, and the exact energy of someone who’d caught a demon in their home and was about to perform an exorcism.

“I—yes,” Ivan said stupidly. “I’m Ivan.”

“Braginsky,” Arthur confirmed, crossing his arms. “How’s Algebra I? You’re failing it, aren’t you?”

Ivan blinked. “I—what?”

“Alfred mentioned you’ve been struggling.” Arthur turned on his heel without waiting for a response. “Come on. We’re not savages. You’re just in time for drinks.”

Ivan turned to Alfred, who was loitering nearby watching this unfold like it was his favorite comedy special. “You didn’t tell me he was that Arthur Kirkland.”

Alfred had the audacity to shrug. “Thought you knew.”

“Do you not know me at all?”

“I know you look adorable when you panic.”

Ivan opened his mouth. Closed it. Made a strangled noise.

The dining room was absurd. Crystal glasses. Linen napkins. Silver so polished Ivan could see the panic on his face reflected in it.

Matthew was already seated, chatting softly with Gilbert, who was sitting next to him.

“Hey, Ivan!” Matthew waved. “Ready for dinner?"

Ivan nodded. “I...suppose so.”

“Ludwig, sit properly,” said a stern woman further down the table. “You’re slouching.”

Ludwig—tall, blond, painfully upright—immediately adjusted his posture with military precision. “Yes, Mutter.”

Ivan sat where Alfred gestured him. He tried to breathe. Act normal. This was fine.

It was not fine.

Arthur sat directly across from him, glass of wine in hand, gaze like a scalpel.

“So, Ivan,” Arthur began, voice pleasant in the way one might describe a knife as shiny. “Where are you from?”

“Washington, originally. Uh, then Moscow, then back here.”

“Why the move?”

Ivan hesitated. “My father was… in trouble.”

“With the law?” Arthur asked calmly, not blinking.

“Arthur,” Francis warned gently, already reaching for the breadbasket like this was routine.

“No, well, kind of, with a… government. Long story.” Ivan cleared his throat. “He’s...still in Russia. We’re not sure what happened.”

Arthur did not blink. “I see. And your mother?”

“She’s gone, too.”

A beat. Arthur nodded faintly. “Charming.”

Ivan’s hand jerked slightly as he reached for his water glass—and knocked it straight into his lap.

“Oh my God—sorry, I—!”

Alfred lunged with a napkin. Francis didn’t miss a beat, placing a towel in Ivan’s hands while shooting Arthur a look. “Darling, I don’t think our guest needs a third-degree inquisition before the entrée.”

Arthur sipped his wine without expression. “I’m simply making conversation.”

Francis leaned toward Ivan with a warm smile. “Don’t mind him. He likes to pretend he’s more terrifying than he is.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “I’m not pretending.”

Ivan tried to dab at his soaked pants as gracefully as possible, cheeks burning.

“You’ll dry off,” Francis assured him. “The wine pairing will help.”

Dinner was served with surgical elegance—herb-roasted chicken, truffled potatoes, some kind of green vegetable that looked too expensive to name. Ivan barely tasted it.

“So,” Arthur said again, as if he’d never been interrupted. “Your current academic standings. How are your other subjects?”

“I—I’m doing well in most,” Ivan said, glancing at Alfred. “I like writing. I’m better at that than math.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Define ‘better.’”

Ivan swallowed. “I want to write. Journalism, maybe novels. Eventually.”

Arthur paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. The whole table seemed to quiet.

“Interesting,” he said. “What authors do you admire?”

Ivan felt his throat dry up. “Um. Orwell. Didion. Tolstoy. Nabokov. Oh—and—” He hesitated. “You. Sir.”

Arthur didn’t move.

Then: “Me?”

Ivan nodded quickly. “Yes sir. The Hollow Seasons changed my life.”

For a long second, Arthur simply studied him. Like a man trying to determine whether a coin was real or counterfeit. Then—barely—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but something like an acknowledgment.

“Hm,” he said. “Good taste.”

Francis beamed across the table. “There it is,” he said, smug. “That was practically a standing ovation coming from him.”

“Ivan, is this your first time eating something with microgreens?” Matthew asked helpfully, trying to shift the tone.

“Yes,” Ivan admitted.

Francis laughed. “Ah, a man of real beginnings. Don’t worry, dear—Arthur didn’t know what a microgreen was until last year.”

“I still say they’re pretentious,” Arthur muttered, but he didn’t sound angry.

Ivan, emboldened, tried a joke. “I thought they were decorative grass at first.”

That earned a single, sharp laugh from Alfred—and, more surprisingly, a brief puff of amusement from Arthur himself.

“You’re not completely hopeless,” Arthur conceded. “Though you hold your fork like a lumberjack.”

Ivan looked down. Wrong fork. Again.

He groaned. “Alfred, help.”

Alfred leaned in and murmured, “Small one for salad. Medium for meat. Dessert fork’s at the top.”

Ivan grumbled something in Russian under his breath.

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” Alfred whispered.

Later, when dessert came out—some delicate crème thing topped with spun sugar—and the mood relaxed a little, Alfred leaned in again and whispered, “You survived.”

Ivan stared at him. “Your father thinks I’m trying to steal your soul.”

“Only a little. And you’re doing a better job than he expected.”

“Also, I spilled water, said the wrong authors, and dropped a knife.”

“You dropped the knife gracefully,” Alfred said. “Bonus points.”

Francis set down his wine and gave Ivan a wink. “You’re doing beautifully, darling.”

Ivan was unsure if this was sarcasm or genuine encouragement.

Probably both.

"Come on, Ivan, we have to go get ready," Alfred exclaimed suddenly, breaking the lull. He turned to Arthur. "Dad, can we be excused?"

Arthur barely looked up from his plate. "I don't know. Can you?"

Alfred rolled his eyes as he took Ivan's hand and stood up. "Okay, may we be excused, dearest father?"

Arthur sighed but nodded, waving them away. "You may."

As they left, Ivan felt Arthur’s eyes on his back.

It wasn’t approval. Not quite. But it also wasn’t rejection.

It was evaluation.

And that was... something.

Alfred’s bedroom was nothing like Ivan expected.

It was cleaner, for one. Not sterile-clean, but neat in a way that suggested someone had grown up with strict expectations. The walls were painted a soft navy blue, with shelves lined in trophies, books, and baseball memorabilia. A large window let in the last rays of late afternoon sun, casting the room in a warm gold hue.

Ivan stood awkwardly near the door, still mildly traumatized from dinner. Alfred flopped onto his bed like it was instinct, arms behind his head, tie loosened, still grinning like none of it had phased him at all.

“Come on, sit,” Alfred said, patting the space beside him.

Ivan obeyed—tentatively—perching on the edge of the bed like it might bite him.

Alfred snorted. “Dude, you’re not gonna break it," He pulled out an extra pair of pants, tossing them over at him. "Here, these match okay. You can put them on in a sec."

Ivan rolled his eyes but eased back, settling in beside him. For a while, neither of them spoke. It was strangely peaceful, the hush of the house muffled behind thick walls.

“I thought your room would be messier,” Ivan said eventually.

Alfred hummed as he stood up to comb his hair. “It usually is. I cleaned it because I knew Dad would check it before you came over.”

“…You’re kidding," Ivan replied, standing up to quickly go change. As he emerged from the closet, Alfred responded.

“Nope. Background checks and room inspections," Alfred put on a necklace Ivan had never seen him wear before. "He’s insane.”

Ivan laughed softly. “He grilled me like I was a fugitive.”

“He kinda thinks you are.”

“Great. Love that for me.”

Another pause.

Ivan looked over, eyes tracing the edge of a framed photo on the nightstand—Alfred and Matthew, young and grinning, a tall figure just out of frame. He didn’t ask.

Instead, he said, “I used to imagine my room looking like this. Still do sometimes."

Alfred turned his head toward him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ivan ran a hand through his hair. “Somewhere safe. Somewhere with stuff that actually belonged to me.”

Alfred didn’t speak for a moment. Then, quietly: “You can have that now, you know.”

Ivan glanced at him. “What?”

“You deserve it.” Alfred’s voice was low. “Somewhere that feels like yours.”

Ivan’s throat tightened, the words catching on something unspoken.

“You really believe that?” he asked.

Alfred’s eyes met his. Steady. Warm.

“Yeah. I do.”

They didn’t move. The air between them was electric—close, charged, something neither of them wanted to name just yet.

Ivan dropped his gaze. “You’re… nothing like I thought you’d be.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“…I’m still deciding.”

Alfred laughed. “Fair.”

Then, a little softer: “You’re not what I expected either.”

Ivan smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

After a beat, Alfred nudged his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said. “You nervous?”

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “About what? The gala? Or your dad dragging me into his office after?”

“Both.”

Ivan exhaled slowly, then leaned his head back against the headboard. “Yeah. But… not as much as I should be.”

Alfred’s hand brushed against his. Not quite a touch. Just there.

“I’ll be with you,” he whispered, his voice reassuring.

Ivan looked at him.

And this time, Alfred didn’t look away.

Ivan had never been in a limousine before.

It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every breath feel a little too loud, every movement a little too obvious.

He sat stiffly in the back seat, wedged between Alfred and the car door, his new suit still a little stiff and unfamiliar. Across from them sat Matthew—relaxed, glowing, effortlessly beautiful in a dark velvet blazer—and Gilbert, who was sprawled beside him like he owned the vehicle, legs stretched out and grinning like this was the best joke of the century.

Next to Gilbert sat Ludwig, dressed in all black with silver-blond hair and the kind of scowl that could curdle milk. He hadn’t spoken a single word.

“You okay?” Alfred asked under his breath, leaning slightly toward him.

“No,” Ivan replied flatly. “This suit cost more than my arm."

“You look good, though.”

Ivan gave him a look, but it was hard to be annoyed when Alfred was still smiling at him like that—like the evening was some grand adventure and Ivan was the best part of it.

“Okay,” Gilbert said loudly, breaking the silence. “So tell me again—how long have you two actually been fake-dating?”

Ivan blinked. “What?”

Matthew elbowed him. “He figured it out.”

Ivan looked to Alfred, who was suddenly very interested in the window.

“You told him?” Ivan hissed.

“I didn’t say anything! He just… guessed.”

Gilbert snorted. "The last time you and Alfred were in the same room, you almost fist-fought over Shakespeare.”

“That was a private argument,” Ivan muttered.

“You quoted Macbeth at him.”

“He misused iambic pentameter—”

“Anyway!” Matthew cut in, grinning. “We’re not judging. This is adorable. High society lives for drama.”

Gilbert leaned forward. “So what’s your cover story? Childhood rivals-to-lovers? High school enemies who bonded over mutual trauma?”

Ivan hesitated.

Alfred raised an eyebrow. “Wait, do we have a story?”

Matthew gasped. “You didn’t make a story?”

“I didn’t think we’d need one!” Alfred protested. “I panicked! Ivan was right there!”

Ivan buried his face in his hands.

“Unbelievable,” muttered Ludwig, who was sitting next to Gilbert, speaking for the first time.

“Sorry, Ludwig,” Gilbert said cheerfully, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “You’ll thank me when this turns into the best rom com of all time.”

Ludwig sighed like this wasn’t even the worst thing that had happened this week.

“Okay, okay,” Matthew said, turning to Ivan. “We’re going to fix this. You and Alfred need a cute story. Something believable, but dramatic enough to distract from Dad being terrifying.”

Ivan sighed. “Yao and I already started one.”

Gilbert perked up. “Oh? Do tell.”

Ivan straightened slightly. “We’ve known each other since elementary school. Always competed. Grades, sports, everything. Hated each other, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Alfred agreed.

“But then we got stuck together on a group project and had to share a research topic. Spent hours together. Argued over everything. But somewhere in between, we... stopped arguing. Started talking.”

Matthew clapped. “That’s so cute.”

“I still think it’s fake,” Ludwig muttered.

“Luddy, let them have this,” Gilbert said. “It’s called flair.”

The car turned down a narrow drive, the glow of the gala lights visible in the distance.

Ivan adjusted his tie. His hands were cold.

Alfred glanced at him and bumped his knee.

“You got this,” he said softly.

Ivan looked at him.

And for the first time all evening… he almost believed it.

Chapter Text

Alfred had been to a lot of fancy events in his life. The kind with symphonies and silent auctions, where the food looked like art and the napkins probably cost more than someone’s weekly grocery bill.

But nothing, nothing, prepared him for walking into this gala with Ivan Braginsky on his arm.

The second they stepped out of the car, the world changed.

Flashes. Cameras. Voices.

“Is that Alfred Jones?”
“Oh my god, he brought someone—who is that?”
“Wait, Ivan Braginsky? Weren’t they rivals last year?”

Alfred heard it all. He smiled anyway. The way his dad taught him. Straight spine, good posture, polite nods.

Ivan, for his part, looked… terrifyingly perfect. Not in a “he fits in here” kind of way. In a “he could kill a man with a glance and somehow make it look polite” kind of way. His expression was neutral but his violet eyes were sharp, catching everything.

Alfred leaned toward him and whispered, “Smile a little. You look like you’re gonna stab someone.”

Ivan didn’t look at him. “That’s probably because I’m about to.”

Alfred bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “C’mon, play nice. They’ll eat you alive if you flinch.”

“I don’t flinch,” Ivan muttered. “Also, I haven’t forgotten that you didn’t tell me who your dad is.”

Oh. Right.

Alfred glanced at him, guilt curling in his chest. “I meant to tell you. But you got so excited about the charcuterie board and—”

Ivan shot him a look. "There wasn't a charcuterie board."

“Okay, okay,” Alfred sighed. “I didn’t mean to ambush you. But you handled it fine. You even quoted his book back to him.”

Ivan turned away, ears faintly red. “I panicked.”

Alfred smiled. “You panic so academically.”

The ballroom doors opened and the noise inside hit him like a wave. People in tuxes and gowns moved like a tide, glittering under soft chandeliers. A string quartet played near the corner, and servers floated by with trays of tiny food and champagne flutes.

Alfred instinctively looked for familiar faces. Matthew and Gilbert were already chatting with Ludwig’s parents near the entrance. Ludwig stood stiffly beside them, already frowning at someone’s elbow touching him.

Ivan leaned in close. “You owe me.”

“For what?”

“For this,” he said simply, gesturing vaguely at everything.

Alfred rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin. “Yeah, okay. I do.”

They started making their way in. People turned to look—friends, classmates, parents, teachers. Feliks and Toris were at a nearby table, whispering furiously.

Alfred caught Feliks’ eye.

The moment paused.

Feliks blinked. His brows shot up. Then he leaned in and said something to Toris that made him choke on his drink.

Ivan noticed too. “That’s the one you were worried about, right? Pink pants?”

Alfred coughed into his fist to hide his laugh. “Yeah.”

“You’re welcome.”

Alfred looked at him. Ivan’s face was unreadable, but there was the faintest hint of smugness there. Like this was all part of his plan.

He bumped Ivan’s shoulder lightly. “Thanks for doing this.”

Ivan glanced at him sideways. “You still haven’t told me what I’m supposed to do tonight.”

Alfred smiled. “You’re doing great already.”

Alfred didn’t even see him coming.

One moment, he was fixing his jacket and whispering something sarcastic to Ivan about Toris trying to ballroom dance, and the next—

“Alfred F. Jones?”

He turned around. Tall, well-dressed, glasses glinting under the chandelier light—Dr. Rodreich Edelstein. The Dr. Edelstein. Mathematician, economist, writer of a book Alfred once tried to read before realizing half of it was in German and all of it was way above his level. Still, he was a legend. And he was talking to him.

Alfred straightened immediately. “Uh—y-yeah. Yes, sir. That’s me.”

“I’ve heard your name more than a few times,” Edelstein said, adjusting his cufflinks as if this were a perfectly casual encounter and not Alfred’s entire academic life peaking in real-time. “You’re Mr. Kirkland’s son.”

“…Yes.”

“And more importantly, your proofs in the DC Youth Theorem Challenge were… compelling.” Edelstein’s gaze sharpened. “You have a very particular way of thinking.”

“Oh.” Alfred blinked. “Um. Thanks?”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Edelstein replied coolly. “I’d like to hear your thoughts on the conditional logic presented in Stanford’s most recent predictive model. Have you read the paper?”

Alfred hesitated. “I skimmed it?”

Edelstein narrowed his eyes. “Then let’s discuss what you retained.”

And that was it. He was in. The man launched into a full academic conversation, peppered with questions and references to papers Alfred definitely hadn’t finished reading.

At some point, Alfred forgot how to breathe properly. At another point, he started nodding and pretending to understand, hoping he could read everything later and circle back.

He didn’t even notice Ivan slipping away.

Not until he glanced to his side mid-conversation and realized—

“Ivan?” Alfred murmured under his breath, eyes darting around.

No Ivan. Just a sea of designer gowns and black suits. He turned slightly, trying not to be rude, but couldn’t see that pale blond head anywhere.

Crap.

“I’m sorry, were you listening?” Edelstein asked mildly.

“Yes! Yeah. You said—uh—the coefficient was skewed due to the sample bias in the original model.”

Edelstein raised an eyebrow, then gave a slow nod. “Interesting. That’s not what I said, but I agree.”

Alfred gave a panicked smile. “Great. I mean...I can't really...read. I did try to though I didn't like just skim it. I understood the math parts and I thought-"

Edelstein paused. That sharp, analytical gaze stopped scanning the room, stopped dissecting Alfred’s posture or tone or pacing. He just… looked at him.

“You can’t read?”

Alfred’s ears turned red. He winced, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking across the floor like he was suddenly very interested in the parquet pattern. “I mean. I can. Technically. I’m not illiterate or anything. It’s just… slow. Takes a lot of effort. I'm dyslexic, so words get flipped around. I have to really, really focus.”

There was a beat. One second. Two. Three. Long enough for Alfred’s brain to spiral into: 'Oh God why did I say that I should’ve lied why didn’t I just lie?'

Then—

“That’s… fascinating.” Edelstein’s voice had lost its crisp edge. “You grasp abstract algebra with a mind that struggles to process words?”

Alfred looked up slowly. “Uh. I guess?”

The man’s expression softened, just enough to be noticeable. “That’s more impressive than you realize. It takes a very particular kind of intelligence to compensate like that. Did you have help?”

Alfred’s heart thudded. “No. I mean—I have tutors sometimes. But not for math. I just… see it. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You don’t need to,” Edelstein replied. “You already did.”

For a moment, Alfred forgot about the gala. Forgot about Ivan. Forgot about the fact that his tie was crooked and that he’d nearly choked on soup in front of Ludwig’s dad.

All he could think was—
He gets it.

Not in a pity way. Not in a “wow, you’re brave for trying” way. In a this is rare and important way.

“You should write about that experience,” Edelstein added. “The intersection of mathematical intuition and cognitive difference. There’s scholarship in it.”

Alfred made a face. “Yeah, but… writing.”

“Dictate,” Edelstein said simply. “Record it. Let someone else transcribe. The ideas are what matter.”

Alfred nodded slowly. Something warm curled in his chest. Confidence, maybe. Or relief. Or something close to pride.

Then a voice cut through the ballroom:

“Alfred! What the hell!”

Alfred turned around just in time to see Ivan, flustered and visibly done with society, stalking toward him through the crowd.

Edelstein looked amused. “Ah. Is that your...friend?”

Alfred sighed. “Yeah. That’s Ivan.”

“You should go,” Edelstein said, waving him off. “We’ll talk later. I’ll send you an invitation to our spring institute.”

“Wait, seriously?” Alfred blinked.

“You’ve earned it.”

Alfred beamed—and then darted off, weaving through gowns and suits, back toward Ivan.

Alfred slowed when he saw Ivan make a beeline for Dr. Edelstein, who turned with a familiar spark of recognition. Alfred blinked. Wait... they know each other? He squinted, curious—but the moment Ivan extended a hand and Edelstein responded with that polite, vaguely European warmth, Alfred decided he was officially the third wheel.

Cool. Great. This is fine.

“I’m not jealous,” he muttered to himself, tugging awkwardly at his jacket. “He’s allowed to talk to other people.”

Still. It was weird seeing his math idol chatting with his fake boyfriend like they were old pals. Alfred hovered for a second, hands in his pockets, then turned on his heel and melted back into the crowd. If Ivan was busy charming Nobel-level intellects, Alfred might as well go find someone who’d actually be impressed by his shiny blazer and horrible posture.

And that someone was, unfortunately, Feliks Łukasiewicz.

He found Feliks near the dessert table, naturally, wearing some shimmering monstrosity of a blazer with rhinestones on the cuffs and an actual fur collar. His nails were painted hot pink and he was holding court like a minor celebrity—laughing, gesturing dramatically, and eating a chocolate-dipped strawberry like it was a personal performance.

“Feliks,” Alfred called, already regretting it.

Feliks turned, did a dramatic double take, and lit up. “Oh my god, Al?! You look like, weirdly functional! Did someone finally teach you how to iron?”

Alfred rolled his eyes. “Don’t be weird.”

“I’m literally never not weird.” Feliks flipped his hair, then raised a brow. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

Alfred groaned. “He’s not—ugh. He’s talking to Edelstein.”

Feliks gasped. “Oh my god, you let Ivan near your idol? Bold of you. What if they like... bond over books and forget you exist?”

“They already did,” Alfred muttered. “It’s fine. I’m not spiraling.”

“You are spiraling,” Feliks said cheerfully. “This is why I always said you needed a dramatic arc. Honestly, though? You’re doing way better than I thought.”

Alfred frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, you’ve gone from ‘emotionally constipated golden retriever’ to ‘semi-functional teen heartthrob with a tragic secret’ in like a week. That’s impressive!”

Alfred stared. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Sure it was,” Feliks said, popping a macaron in his mouth. “Anyway. I approve. Ivan’s hot in that ‘menacing but soulful’ way. I want him to be my muse.”

“He’s not an aesthetic, he’s a person,” Alfred snapped.

Feliks just grinned wider. “You are into him!”

“I am not—” Alfred stopped, realized how loud he was being, and exhaled hard through his nose. “This is why no one invites you to anything serious.”

“And yet here I am,” Feliks said smugly, holding up his VIP tag. “Being fabulous. Now go get your brooding boy toy and bring him over. I want to grill him about what he sees in you.”

Alfred gave him a deadpan stare. “You’re the worst.”

“Love you too, Al.”

Chapter Text

The last time he’d seen Dr. Edelstein, Ivan had been wearing a grocery store apron and carrying a box of overripe pears.

Now, he was in a tailored black suit—borrowed, technically—with shoes that pinched his toes and a silk pocket square Alfred had folded for him like it was an origami challenge. The lights in the ballroom were golden and dramatic, glinting off chandeliers and crystal wine glasses, and every other person in the room looked like they belonged on the cover of Forbes or Vogue.

Ivan felt like an intruder.

And yet—

"Ah," Dr. Edelstein said with a mild smile as Ivan approached. "We meet again. I knew I recognized you, though I’ll admit I didn’t expect to see you here tonight."

Ivan offered a small, respectful nod. “I didn’t expect to be here either.”

Dr. Edelstein chuckled. “Still working at the store?”

“Sometimes,” Ivan stated, though his hours had been cut after he started tutoring and trying to stay on top of schoolwork. “I was invited as a plus-one.”

“Really?” Dr. Edelstein tilted his head, clearly intrigued. “A friend from school?”

Ivan hesitated. “...Yeah. Alfred Jones.”

Dr. Edelstein’s eyebrows rose just slightly. “The name sounds familiar.”

Ivan gave a tight smile. “It probably does.”

Dr. Edelstein looked at him for a moment longer, eyes sharper now. Not unkind, but curious in that deeply calculating way. “I remember you told me you’re a freshman at Pangea. It’s a difficult place to get into. Especially for students like us.”

Us.

It took Ivan a moment to realize what he meant—first-generation, working class, no legacy donations or prep school records. Ivan nodded slowly.

“I’m on scholarship,” he said. “Academic. Mostly writing.”

“I assumed as much.” Dr. Edelstein sipped his champagne, then lowered the glass. “But how did you end up here tonight? I know these events—they’re selective. Even the plus-ones are usually vetted. You must have made quite the impression.”

Ivan's mouth twitched. He just needed someone who wouldn’t blow his cover.

“I think I was the only one close enough when he panicked,” Ivan said dryly.

Dr. Edelstein gave a soft huff of amusement. “Practical. That checks out.”

There was a brief pause.

“You’re a fascinating case, Ivan,” he said eventually. “I don’t mean that as condescension. It’s rare to meet someone so... grounded. Especially here.”

Ivan shifted awkwardly, unsure if he was being complimented or profiled.

“I’m not sure if I belong here,” he admitted.

Dr. Edelstein studied him again. “Perhaps not yet. But belonging is a flexible thing. And talent finds its way through all sorts of locked doors.”

Ivan tilted his head. “Is that how you made it?”

“No,” Dr. Edelstein said, faint smile playing at his lips. “I broke a few.”

The thought made Ivan laugh—quietly, but genuinely. He liked that. It felt like permission.

As the older man turned his gaze toward the stage, where a string quartet was beginning to tune, Ivan took a small breath and asked, “So... what are you doing here tonight?”

“I’m presenting an award. And schmoozing. It’s exhausting.”

Ivan let out another quiet laugh. “You’re good at it.”

“I’ve had practice.” Dr. Edelstein turned back to him. “If you ever need help again, I meant it when I gave you my card. I don’t give those out often.”

Ivan’s fingers itched toward his pocket where the card still lived, carefully protected in his wallet. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “I might take you up on that.”

“Please do.”

They parted a moment later with a quiet farewell—and Ivan, still stunned by the surrealness of it all, turned to look for Alfred.

Only to realize Alfred was nowhere in sight.

Ivan turned a slow circle, standing awkwardly between the champagne table and a massive ice sculpture shaped like a phoenix. The longer he stood there, the more convinced he became that he’d dreamed the entire conversation with Dr. Edelstein. People here moved like they belonged, like they were born wearing designer suits and sipping mocktails that cost more than his rent.

He started toward the edge of the ballroom, thinking maybe he could find a quiet corner to text Alfred, when—

"Come on, asshole. Stop looking like that—we gotta go talk to people."

Ivan stopped in his tracks.

He didn’t need to turn around. He knew that voice.

Sure enough, a moment later, Alfred popped into view, dramatically tossing back his jacket as he stomped over like someone about to drag their sulky dog into a pet parade. His tie was slightly askew, his hair doing that defiant swoosh, and his expression—exasperated, impatient, determined—was 100% Alfred F. Jones in gala form.

“I was talking to someone,” Ivan deadpanned, eyes narrowing. “Someone important, actually.”

“Yeah? Well, now you’re talking to me.” Alfred grabbed his arm and yanked, turning him toward the crowd. “Let’s go, Braginsky. Time to turn on that weird charm of yours.”

“I have charm?” Ivan asked, bewildered, even as he stumbled after him.

“God, don’t make it weird. Okay, now just—smile,” Alfred muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t look like you’re about to stab someone.”

“I am about to stab someone.”

“Yeah? Make it look hot.”

Before Ivan could answer, a familiar voice gasped behind them.

“Oh. My. God.”

Alfred and Ivan both turned. Standing in a dazzling cream suit, glitter eyeliner perfectly matched to his earrings, was none other than Feliks Łukasiewicz. He was fanning himself with the event program, eyes darting between the two of them like he’d just spotted a unicorn riding a dragon.

“You guys are really doing this?” Feliks said, taking a step closer. “Like... for real? With Ivan Braginsky? You’re dating?”

Alfred tensed. “Yeah, and?”

Feliks tilted his head, biting the inside of his cheek. “And I’m obsessed. I need details. Now.”

Ivan blinked. “There’s not really much to tell—”

“Don’t you dare.” Feliks jabbed a finger at him, eyes wild. “Don’t you dare give me some like, ‘Oh we’re just vibing’ nonsense. You hated each other. You’ve been rivals since, like, the day you learned how to hold pencils.”

Alfred cleared his throat. “Okay first of all, no one hated anyone—”

Feliks turned to him with laser focus. “Shush. I’m not done being shocked. This is the most exciting thing to happen since that time someone brought a ferret to orchestra practice.”

Ivan tried to hide a snort. Alfred nudged him.

“I knew something was off when I saw you together at lunch,” Feliks said, hands now on his hips. “And I’m not mad—just, like, curious-slash-invested. I want the lore. How did this happen? Why now? What’s the vibe? Is this enemies-to-lovers? Forbidden love? Did one of you get cursed by a witch? Be honest.”

Alfred’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Ivan, of all people, was the one who answered.

“I... helped him with his English paper.”

Feliks squinted. “Okay. And?”

Alfred scratched the back of his neck. “And, uh, I guess we just... kept hanging out after that?”

Feliks looked between them again, eyes narrowing.

“You’re being so shady about it, but fine. I’ll let you keep your little secrets—for now.” He pointed at Ivan dramatically. “But you owe me tea. And not, like, lukewarm tea. I want piping hot, scandalous, maybe-even-illegal tea.”

“Is this normal?” Ivan muttered.

“For Feliks?” Alfred said. “Yeah.”

Feliks grinned. “You love it. I can tell.”

He sauntered off, muttering something to himself about “accidentally-on-purpose seating chart adjustments.”

Ivan stared after him.

“Does he always just... appear like that?”

Alfred sighed. “He’s like glitter. You never know where he’s coming from, but once he sticks to you, good luck getting rid of him.”

Ivan looked down at his jacket sleeve, where a bit of Feliks’s shimmer had transferred during the exchange.

“...He’s already winning.”

The air outside was colder than Ivan expected. Sharp. He didn’t know if it was the weather or his nerves, or maybe the way Alfred had just stood there—saying nothing—while some man in a suit talked about him like he was background noise.

“Just a friend,” the man had said. “A scholarship kid, I assume? They let in anyone these days.”

And Alfred had laughed. Not like he meant it. More like he didn’t know what else to do.

Ivan had excused himself after that, barely making it to the side entrance before the pressure in his chest threatened to blow his ribs apart.

Footsteps followed.

“Ivan—”

He whipped around. “Don’t.”

Alfred froze halfway down the steps. “I was just trying to—”

“Trying to what, Alfred?” Ivan’s voice cracked, rage and embarrassment twisted tight in his throat. “Trying to pretend like you don’t know me? Trying to keep me in the corner until you need someone to translate poetry or play arm candy at your stupid rich-people functions?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh, fair? You wanna talk about fair?” Ivan laughed, bitter and loud, echoing across the cold lawn. “Fair would be me going to a school like this because I earned it, and being treated like I belong. Fair would be not having to smile at people who call me ‘that boy’ like I’m some pity project you’re parading around.”

Alfred stepped forward. “That’s not what I—!”

“I live in a one-bedroom apartment, Alfred!” Ivan shouted, voice rising despite himself. “One room! My sisters—they share a bed.  I sleep on the couch because we have to. Because our parents are dead and the only way we keep the lights on is by working double shifts at a grocery store and hoping they don’t notice when I fall asleep in class.”

Alfred’s mouth opened, but Ivan didn’t stop.

“You wanna know why I came to this stupid gala? It wasn’t for you. It wasn’t for the experience. It was because you said it came with a damn stipend and I thought if I dressed up nice and pretended hard enough, I could maybe forget for one night that I can’t afford to breathe the same air as people like you.”

His voice cracked again at the end, ugly and rough. His fists were clenched so tight his fingers ached.

Alfred just stood there, still as a statue, lips parted but silent.

“I’m tired,” Ivan whispered. “Tired of pretending I’m okay with being treated like I’m less. Tired of trying to fit in when no one actually wants me here. So you know what? You can keep your stupid suit. And your stupid gala. And your stupid ‘plus one.’ I don’t want any of it.”

He turned. Started walking fast, no plan, just motion—because if he stood there any longer he’d cry, and he couldn’t do that. Not here.

Behind him, Alfred didn’t follow.

Which somehow hurt worst of all.

Chapter Text

Alfred didn’t follow him.

Not because he didn’t want to.
But because if he did, he’d say something he couldn’t take back.

So instead, he turned around. Pasted on the kind of smile he’d learned from watching his Papa work a room. Shoulders square. Head high. Chin up. Look charming. Look fine.

He wasn’t fine.

He’d lost sight of Ivan. Literally and figuratively. And now he was supposed to entertain some Stanford-bound legacy kids and say things like “Of course, Dr. Edelstein, I’d love to intern with you,” when the only thing screaming in his head was that Ivan just left.

He tried to ignore it. He laughed a little too loud. Grinned a little too wide. Gripped his champagne flute with the kind of death-clutch that made the crystal strain in his hand.

People ate it up anyway.

But Yao didn’t.

“Your smile looks like it’s been held up by duct tape,” Yao muttered, sidling up beside him, arms crossed. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Alfred said too fast.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Alfred’s jaw clenched. He scanned the room, gaze catching on an empty space where Ivan should have been.

“He ran off,” he said eventually. “Outside. During the gala.”

Yao arched a sharp eyebrow. “During?”

Alfred didn’t answer.

Yao’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Let me guess—some pompous ass said something, he internalized all of it, and instead of talking to you, he exploded and fled the scene like it was a soap oprea.”

“Pretty much.”

Yao huffed. “That’s idiotic.”

Alfred didn’t argue. Not because he disagreed—because if he opened his mouth, he might scream.

“He couldn’t have waited?” Yao went on, not unkindly but blunt as ever. “You spent weeks helping him feel welcome. You invited him here. Do you know what your dad did to prepare this dinner just to make sure no one stepped on toes? Arthur vetted him, Alfred. Vetted.”

Alfred snorted, then rubbed at his face. “I know. I know. I didn’t even tell Ivan that was my dad. He didn’t know who he was until he showed up to dinner.”

Yao blinked. “…Are you stupid?”

“Apparently.”

“And now he’s gone?”

“Ran off.”

Yao scoffed. “He could’ve waited. Said something. Anything. Instead, he just unloaded a monologue and left you standing there like a deer in the headlights. You’ve been freaked out all night, and now you're pissed because he never tells you anything. Communication isn't a one-way street.”

Alfred let out a long breath through his nose, jaw tight. “Yeah. I just... I thought we were doing okay. He said he liked this. Us. Whatever this is. And then one bad conversation and it's like—bam—walls up, storm out, end of story.”

Yao was quiet for a second. Then: “Are you going to go after him?”

Alfred stared into his untouched drink. “Not tonight.”

He didn’t know where Ivan went or if he’d even come back. If he wanted to talk or if he even should.

But as he stood there, glittering under the warm chandelier light, surrounded by people who thought he was a golden boy with everything under control, he felt like he’d been left behind. Again.

(Scene 2)
The drive back from the gala felt like an eternity.

The car was full of chatter, of laughter, of people who hadn’t felt the sting of that argument, but Alfred was silent, his eyes locked on the city lights blurring by. His fingers gripped the edge of his seat so tightly, his knuckles were white. His chest felt tight, like the walls were closing in with every mile.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to be fine.

He should’ve been laughing it off, surrounded by friends. But instead, everything felt hollow, a vacuum where Ivan should’ve been. Where there should’ve been a connection, a conversation, a moment to patch things up. But no, it was left to fester, to twist in his gut, leaving him restless and broken.

By the time they made it back to his house, Alfred couldn’t handle it anymore. He didn’t even let anyone walk him inside. He just bolted upstairs, away from the noise, the people, the expectations.

When the door slammed behind him, the house felt like a cavern.

He didn’t even bother to change out of his suit. Alfred stood there for a moment, hands trembling as he pressed them against his face, his mind racing in circles.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He was supposed to be happy. He was supposed to be the one with it all together. The good son, the one who didn’t have breakdowns. The one who could carry his family’s name without falling apart.

But tonight, he couldn’t even carry himself.

His throat burned as he dragged his hands down his face, his eyes stinging with unshed tears. He wanted to scream. To let it all out. To say something, anything. But the words—the real words—had been swallowed. All that came out was a bitter, frustrated sob as he collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe.

His brain screamed at him, a thousand conflicting thoughts colliding. You’re supposed to be fine. You need to fix this with Ivan. You can’t keep screwing this up.

And still, there was that voice in the back of his mind. The one that told him he wasn’t enough. The one that whispered, You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve him.

With trembling hands, Alfred pulled his suit jacket sleeve up, his heart pounding. The familiar, unwanted compulsion gnawed at him. A need to feel something else. Something that wasn’t this empty weight pressing down on him, a reminder of all the things he could never say.

There was something so simple about the feeling of the sharp metal against his skin, a sick release from the swirl of emotions inside him.

Just for a second.

But then, the blood welled up, warm against his skin, and everything seemed to snap back into place. The dull, familiar ache became a sharp, immediate reminder of how lost he felt. The desperation to not feel like a failure, to not feel so weak, tugged at him.

He closed his eyes, letting the sting overwhelm him, and for a few moments, he allowed himself the release. The quiet relief that came with the pain.

But it never lasted.

The tears came afterward. Uncontrolled. Silent. He couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror anymore.There was a knock at the door.

Light. Careful.

Alfred didn’t move. He didn’t want to move. He was curled up now, arm tucked beneath his pillow, the dampness of his tears drying against the cold sheets. He thought maybe if he just stayed quiet, whoever it was would go away.

But the knock came again. Then the door creaked open.

“Al?” Gilbert’s voice was too soft. Way too soft for Gilbert.

Alfred flinched.

He hadn’t locked the damn door. He never locked the door because he thought no one would come up, not tonight. Not when he needed to just be alone.

He felt the shift in air as Gilbert stepped in. The sound of careful footsteps across the carpet.

And then—a light weight landed on the bed.

Soft, familiar paws padded up near his shoulder.

A faint, chirpy meow.

Hero.

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “Not now, girl,” he whispered, voice cracked. But the little cat didn’t listen—of course she didn’t. She never listened when he cried. She just climbed over his pillow, warm and persistent, and nestled herself gently into the curve of his neck. Her purr started low, almost inaudible, then grew steady. Soothing. A reminder: I’m here.

Then—

“…Al, what the hell—”

Gilbert’s voice dropped. Not angry. Not loud. Just wrecked.

Alfred hadn’t even realized his sleeve had slipped up again. But Gilbert saw it. The shallow cut. The bright red.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.

Alfred turned his face away. He couldn’t do this. Not the look. Not the panic. Not the disappointment.

“I didn’t—” Alfred choked. “It wasn’t—”

“Don’t,” Gilbert cut in, gently but firm. “Don’t do that thing where you try to explain it like it’s not a big deal. It is.”

Hero shifted slightly, her tail curling around Alfred’s ear. She blinked up at Gilbert with wide yellow eyes, like she was accusing him of being too loud.

Gilbert exhaled hard, then crouched beside the bed, his fingers shaking as he gently reached for Alfred’s arm again.

“I need to clean it,” he said softly. “Okay? I promise I’ll be careful.”

Alfred didn’t move. Didn’t answer. But he didn’t stop him, either.

Gilbert slipped out for a moment and came back with a first aid kit—the kind Alfred’s parents always kept stashed under the bathroom sink but had probably never imagined being used like this.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out a packet of antiseptic wipes, his hands fumbling slightly.

“Hero, help me out here,” Gilbert murmured, his voice breaking just enough to sting. The cat blinked, then laid her head on Alfred’s chest with a tiny hmph, as if telling them both to pull it together. "Thank God for your cat leading me here - she really is a little lifesaver."

“I’m sorry,” Alfred whispered, not sure if he was talking to Gilbert or Hero or himself.

“I know,” Gilbert said. He brushed the wipe gently over the skin, careful not to press too hard. “But don’t ever do this alone again.”

Alfred winced, but didn’t pull away. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Then next time,” Gilbert said, voice shaking, “you come to me. Or Mattie. Or hell—your cat. Anyone but the razor.”

Hero mewed, as if on cue, and reached out one paw to gently knead Alfred’s shoulder through his shirt.

Gilbert grabbed a soft bandage from the kit and began wrapping Alfred’s arm slowly. Clumsy, not perfect, but careful. Like he was afraid of breaking something that was already cracked.

“…There,” he said, taping it off. “It’s not pretty, but it’s covered.”

Alfred finally opened his eyes. Gilbert was sitting there with Hero purring between them, his own eyes red, his hands still trembling.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Alfred whispered.

“You did,” Gilbert replied. “But I’m still here.”

He reached out and scratched gently behind Hero’s ears. She leaned into it, closing her eyes in approval, before hopping down and curling up at Alfred’s side again, pressed against his ribs like a soft, stubborn anchor.

“…Can you stay?” Alfred asked, voice raw.

Gilbert nodded immediately. “Yeah. I can do that.”

He didn’t leave. Didn’t move.

And Hero didn’t either.

They sat like that in silence. Alfred didn’t need answers. Not right now. Just someone to stay. And Gilbert—true to his word—did.

(End of Scene 2)

The next morning came slow, like molasses in the winter.

Alfred hadn’t really slept. Not deeply. Not peacefully. He’d passed out for a few hours with Gilbert still sitting beside his bed, arms crossed and half-asleep, acting like he hadn’t stayed the whole damn night even though his spine was definitely gonna be sore later. They didn’t talk much after the initial mess. But Gilbert stayed. And that meant more than Alfred could say.

By the time sunlight crept in through the curtains, he was already up—mechanically brushing his teeth, tugging on his uniform, avoiding the mirror.

He didn’t check his phone. Couldn’t.

Instead, he pulled the folded sheets of his rewritten essay from his desk drawer.

It was messy. Kinda weird. Probably not good by normal standards, but for the first time ever, he liked what he’d written. Not in a prideful way. Just… it felt real.

He’d gone with heartbreak.

It wasn’t what Mrs. Vargas had asked for—not exactly. But it was a valid angle on the Odyssey. Heartbreak in Odysseus’ long journey home. The way loss clung to him even after victory. The way he kept pushing forward, desperate to find something familiar, only to realize everything he’d loved had been changed by time, distance, and choice.

And somewhere in between those lines, Alfred had bled a little.

He didn’t even mean to. It just… happened.

That was what made it good, he thought.

But turning it in felt… hollow.

He passed it to Mrs. Vargas with barely a word, the teacher glancing up in brief surprise as Alfred mumbled a "here" and moved to take his seat. There were no jokes. No dumb grin. No casual swagger to show how not-seriously he was taking this.

It wasn’t because he didn’t care.

It was because Ivan wasn’t there.

Ivan, who had spent hours picking apart his garbage rough drafts. Ivan, who pushed him to understand metaphors, who forced him to look deeper, who challenged him and got under his skin and—

Gone.

Alfred stared at the empty desk next to his.

Just one absence.

One empty chair.

And somehow it made the whole classroom feel like it was echoing.

His fists curled on top of the desk. He wasn’t sure if he was proud or just tired because the win didn’t feel like a win. The essay didn’t feel like proof of anything except what he’d lost trying to get there.