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He liked visiting Arthur. This much was true. He liked cooking with Ludwig and the three of them going out somewhere. There were lots of things Ivan liked about the house too. But this room wasn’t one of them.
He would never say that of course. He didn’t want to be sent to the only other available spare rooms a whole floor apart from the two men he was sharing this house with, even if they both slept in a separate room. He didn’t mind that, really, that they chose to sleep together and him be in a room by himself. They had looked a little guilty, but who was he to get in between them? It was their relationship he was stepping on. It wasn’t his place to demand to share their bed when there was a perfectly good one right here, on the same floor.
Only, it wasn’t perfectly good, not at all, it was hardly adequate. There was nothing wrong with the bed itself, it was soft and warm and the sheets were new and clean. Like laying on a cloud and cuddling up to sheep. It wasn’t the bed.
It was what was over the bed that ruined it. Something he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
A mirror.
Ivan would never belittle Arthur’s interior decorating, or the room decor that looked something straight out of the 80s, but he would certainly judge that mirror above this bed. Apparently it had been a joke when Francis had visited, something on his vanity, and it just stayed there. But now it was Ivan looking into it, and he wanted nothing more than to smash it above him.
Yet he didn’t look away. He lay there on his back, splayed out with his scarf placed on his chest, still in his hands from when he had pulled it off of his neck to look at the angry red scar that circled it. However long he had had it, this scar had never left it’s raw state, and he wondered often if it would ever change, ever heal. Sometimes he hoped it wouldn’t, just to remind himself of that box at home that waited for his return, the one he didn’t have the strength to open.
The box that held his first head.
Memories flashed before him as he stared into that mirror, remembering when he had found it, staring at the fear in his own dull, dead eyes, how tightly he hugged it close to him, and wondering just which one was the real him?
He remembered everything leading up to that point, he remembered the guillotine coming down on him, even the moments before his brain had cut off. And then nothing. Nothing until his body writhed its way out of the shallow grave, fighting through the other corpses. There was something poetic about finding his old head, and at the same time, something truly snapped in him that night. And so the scar had never healed.
That head, his first head, now sat in a box in his office, locked up tight and out of anyone’s reach. People knew of his scar, and what it might show - Francis had his own after all. Only his was white by now. Simply a sliver of silver around his neck. He had gotten his first head back before the new one grew. He looked at Ivan like he understood, but nothing was comparable to looking at your own expression on your face and wondering if you were a whole new you. If you changed.
In the gloom of the dark, it almost felt like he was looking into those eyes again. They had frozen him there, locking him down to the bed with fear and apathy. He was scared to move in case his reflection wouldn’t move with it, and yet filled with such despair that he didn’t want to move anyway.
His hand slowly moved up, slightly grazing the raised line over his throat. Just as sore as the day he crawled out of that hole. It hurt to touch, mentally and physically - though, even if the pain wasn’t there, the memories would make it sting just as much. The mind is such a fickle thing.
But then, he felt himself smile - just a little bit, a slight tilt at the corners of his mouth.
The first person he had let see these scars was Arthur. Loosely of course. Other people had seen them in passing, Ukraine had expressed so much worry that he had taken to keeping them bandaged up around her, and Lithuania.. Well. a different story all together. But, Arthur was the first he willingly showed. Back when they were young, the 19th century. When Ivan was still naive and scared. How Arthur hand cradled his face so gently, kissed his head and told him it would be okay.
It was now that Ivan realised, he didn’t have to lay there and yearn for that care again, that he could get out of this bed and leap into Arthur’s bed, once again becoming that young childish thing he was. But would it mean showing Ludwig too?
He and Ludwig didn’t have many positive historical memories, and most of them he knew Ludwig worked very hard to forget and overcome. It wasn’t any sort of distrust, Ivan didn’t fear that someone like him would take this information and use it against him. These days, Ludwig was far too soft to do such a thing. But the simple act of them being known, the expectation of explanation - just like Ukraine had reacted. He didn’t want them brought up for fear of more memories and the ultimate of losing control.
The time he had spent with Ludwig now was better, they had even held hands under the dinner table once. Such subtlety was in his nature, and in some way, it comforted Ivan to know this large German man was far too awkward to cause a scene about his scars, not when he had some of his own. Maybe one day, they could share them with each other, when they had the strength.
Slowly, Ivan managed to slide himself off of the bed, not leaving eye contact with his reflection until it was out of sight, and he threw his legs over the side. It was like jumping into a pool of ice water - or more, coming out of it after being in there for such a long time. He couldn’t stop himself from shivering slightly, realising how much he had sweat in the time he lay there.
He wrapped his scarf around his neck again and stood, making his way to the hall to come face to face with Arthur’s bedroom door, where he expected the couple slept peacefully, unaware as to what Ivan had just put himself through. He fiddled with the ends of his scarf, not knowing if he should knock or just enter. The doorknob shouldn’t feel this cold under his hand, and yet it was ice under his nervous fingertips.
The door opened as gently as it could, Ivan didn’t want to wake them. What did he want to do then? Slither between them without anyone noticing? He was far too big for that, his presence was already known before he got near the bed, heavy feet making the floorboards creak underneath him. It was Ludwig who sat up first, quickly as if prepared for a threat. Perhaps they were already awake, and Ivan had just interrupted them.
“I was cold.” He spoke quietly, but quickly in his defence.
Arthur sat up slowly, switching on the lamp next to him so he could see while rubbing the sleep from his eye, “Cold…?” He blinked a little, looking Ivan over, eyes locking on the scarf. Ludwig looked with some interest, but looked to his partner for guidance.
“Maybe I should get some more blankets-” Ivan begun, already turning to leave,
“Oh, you poor thing.” Arthur’s cooing voice made him stop and turn back to him, “You’re so cold you’ve had to put a scarf on. Come here.” He beckoned him with open arms, shifting to make a space between him and his partner, “Close the door and get between us, we’ll keep you warm.”
Ivan couldn’t fight the little smile on his face as he moved over, something so childlike in his mind, he wanted to be that again, when everything was far less complicated. He climbed between them, his large stature ruining the feeling. He couldn’t be small again.
The pair pulled the covers over him, as silent as Ludwig was, he still helped, his hand warm on Ivan’s shoulder. Arthur tucked his scarf around his neck a little more, planting a kiss in his hair,
“There. You get snuggled up.”
“Thank you…” He felt his eyes close, though still restless as Arthur got the three of them comfortable.
Ludwig settled behind him, wrapping a warm arm over his shoulder to hold his hand, burying his nose in the Russian’s hair at the nape of his neck, guided to avoid his scarf. He wasn’t as big as Ivan, but he held on tight in a way that allowed Ivan to curl up, where he found himself against Arthur’s chest. The Brit had his hand in his hair, cradling his head under his chin, with his other arm curling around, resting on Ludwig. His fingers stroked lightly, and he gave another kiss.
“Is that warmer?”
“Yes, very… thank you.” He returned the kiss with one of his own, planted lazily onto Arthur’s neck as he squeezed the hand he held, feeling it squeeze back affectionately. And for the first time in a while, Ivan slept soundly through the night, no nightmares plaguing his head, just warmth and the two men that held him with no signs of letting go.