Chapter Text
The walk back to Ivan’s room is quiet - but not the suffocating kind of quiet Ivan has always known. Not the quiet of frozen fields and empty horizons, where silence means isolation and fear. This quiet has footsteps in it, a hand around his, warm breath in the hallway’s cold air.
When they reach his door, Alfred lets go only long enough to unlock it - then his palm returns to Ivan’s shoulder in a steadying gesture. Just enough contact to say: You’re not alone.
Ivan exhales shakily, relief rushing through him when the door closes behind them. The world shrinks back down to walls and carpet and soft lamplight instead of cavernous meeting halls and staring eyes.
Alfred doesn’t hover anxiously, but he is… there. Solid. Present.
“You did awesome today,” Alfred says, voice soft but sure. “Seriously.”
Ivan shakes his head, uncertainty tightening his chest again. “Was not… strong.” His English stumbles, slipping like ice beneath his feet. “Was… scared.”
“Hey.” Alfred steps closer. “Being strong isn’t the same as pretending you’re never scared.”
Ivan looks up - startled by that idea.
Alfred gestures toward the bed. “Mind if we get you cozy again? You look wiped.”
Ivan hesitates, then nods. He is tired - in that deep, bone-heavy way that comes after fighting a battle no one else sees.
Alfred guides him to sit, then pulls the thick comforter up around him again. His movements are calm, gentle. No rush. No judgment. Just kindness.
Ivan watches, bewildered that someone would do all this for him.
A knock interrupts them - a hotel staff member at the door with a tray. Alfred thanks him and carries it in: a pot of steaming chamomile, a bowl of borscht, and dark bread with butter. Someone must have alerted the kitchen.
He takes the spoon Alfred offers and tries a small sip of broth. Warmth spreads instantly, softening the fear lodged beneath his ribs.
Alfred pulls a chair closer and sips his own tea. “Can I… ask something?” he says carefully.
Ivan tenses - but nods.
“Yesterday, when the room got cold… you looked like you were somewhere else. Like, a long time ago.”
Ivan swallows hard. The spoon trembles slightly in his fingers.
“Да,” he whispers. “Very long ago.”
He puts the spoon down - the words are too heavy to speak and eat at the same time.
“When I was young, winter was my enemy,” he says quietly. “General Winter… he owned everything. Took everything.”
His hands clench in the blanket.
“I had no warm buildings. No protection. I was a nation, but… still a child. Alone in the snow. No one should be alone in the snow.”
Alfred listens - no interrupting, no pitying looks. Just listening.
Ivan forces himself onward.
“When it gets cold like that again… I feel like little Ivan. The one before power. The one before borders. Just… a child freezing in the dark.”
There’s a long pause - not awkward, not empty. A moment where the truth settles into the room, real and known.
Alfred sets his tea down and shifts onto the bed beside him.
“Hey,” he says softly, “come here.”
Ivan blinks. “Come… where?”
Alfred spreads his arms a little, face honest, open. “Just… here. If you want to.”
Ivan has always been the big one. The one others feared. The idea of being held - really held - feels like a memory from centuries before.
He moves slowly, almost afraid the offer will disappear if he hesitates. But Alfred waits. And when Ivan leans in, Alfred wraps his arms around him with careful strength - enough to support all of Ivan’s weight without making him feel trapped.
Ivan stiffens at first - a flinch from old instincts - but Alfred’s chest rises steadily against his cheek, and the warmth sinks in.
“You’re safe,” Alfred murmurs. “I got you.”
Ivan lets himself relax - inch by inch - until his forehead rests against Alfred’s collarbone and his breath falls into sync with the calm heartbeat beneath his ear.
They talk - soft, unhurried murmurs. Alfred peppering in small, silly stories to break up the heavy ones. Ivan occasionally offering a quiet hum or a faint smile.
When the tea is gone and Ivan starts blinking slower and slower, Alfred eases them backward until they’re reclining against the pillows - Ivan curled comfortably in his lap, the comforter wrapped around both of them.
Alfred doesn’t tease him. Doesn’t make a joke of it. He just… holds him.
Ivan drifts. Sleep tickles the edges of his consciousness. He feels small, but not afraid. For once, small feels safe.
Just as he’s about to slip under completely, Alfred whispers, “You’re doing so good, big guy. I’m proud of you.”
The words hit something fragile and hidden. Ivan’s eyes burn - but there are no tears, only the warmth of being seen.
He falls asleep like that, held tight.
Later - hours, maybe - voices hum again. Alfred’s voice. Low, amused, affectionate.
Ivan stirs, eyes bleary. He’s still curled on Alfred’s chest, comforter piled over them both. The room’s cold has been chased away by shared heat.
Alfred notices him waking, brushing his thumb across Ivan’s arm.
“Hey there,” Alfred whispers. “Rise and shine just a little.”
Ivan yawns - a tiny, involuntary gesture that makes Alfred smile wider. “It’s okay,” Alfred says. “You can go back to sleep. I just… gotta take this call real quick.”
Ivan lifts his head a bit, confused. Alfred taps his phone’s screen - a FaceTime video is already going. On it: Canada’s concerned face.
“Russia?” Matthew squeaks, startled. “He’s- with you?!”
“Yep!” Alfred beams proudly. “Right here. Kinda conked out, though.”
He angles the camera down.
Ivan freezes - then half hides in Alfred’s shirt, shy and uncertain. But Alfred rubs his shoulder. Encouraging. Safe.
And Ivan lifts one hand for a small, sleepy wave.
Matthew’s expression softens immediately. “Hey, Russia,” he says kindly. “It’s good to see you.”
Ivan makes a soft noise that might count as greeting, then hides again with a faint blush. Alfred chuckles.
“He’s doing great,” Alfred says pointedly, making sure Ivan hears. “We’re just taking it easy tonight.”
They talk - mostly the brothers. But Alfred keeps including Ivan.
“Right, big guy?”
“You like the blankets, huh?”
“You want more tea later?”
Each time, Ivan manages a short nod or a tiny word. And each time, Alfred praises him like success is something he’s allowed to feel.
Matthew, perceptive as always, eventually says, “If he’s overwhelmed, I can hang up. I don’t want to stress him.”
Ivan shakes his head quickly, surprising himself. “Not stress.” He grips a bit of Alfred’s sleeve. “Just… shy.”
That earns him a soft laugh from both brothers - warm, not mocking. Alfred hugs him a little closer without thinking about it.
Matthew’s smile becomes gentle. “I’m glad he’s with you, Al. Just… keep him safe, okay? He doesn’t deserve more pain.”
“I know,” Alfred replies quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Alfred places his phone aside and turns back to Ivan.
“How’re you holding up?” he asks.
Ivan considers. Searches for the right words.
“Tired,” he whispers. “But… safe.”
The second word comes easier than the first.
Alfred cards his fingers once through Ivan’s hair - slow, gentle. “Good,” he murmurs. “You just sleep now. I’m right here.”
Ivan burrows closer, breath warming Alfred’s shirt.
Before dreams take him again, he murmurs, barely audible:
“Please stay.”
Alfred replies without hesitation:
“Always.”