Work Text:
He dreams of a field of sunflowers and a cloudless, bright blue sky. The sun smiles down at him from above, but he cannot feel its warmth on his skin. He is so, so cold. The sunflowers scorn him by waving their yellow, happy petals at him as a gentle breeze washes over them. The sky shines with light but it is a harsh, rushing, intense light that he cannot look directly at. He is so cold.
There is a pond. He walks toward it, away from the taunting, teasing flowers and the brightness. He looks down at his own reflection. He is so cold. His hair looks frozen, white and sharp and icy. His violet eyes turn steel grey in the water. His skin is pale, lifeless. In the lake, clouds cover the sky, but when he looks up again, all he can see is bright blue. He touches his wrist and feels nothing. No pulse, no blood, no warmth. Nothing.
He awakens slowly. It was all just a dream. Well, mostly all. The cold is still there, biting away at his flesh as the curtains flap from rough winds coming in through the open window. The room is almost soothing in its darkness. No rushing light, no taunting sunflowers. It's still cold though. And lonely. He walks to the window and closes it without looking out. There's no use in looking. No use in hoping.
He tries to go back to sleep, but it won't work. It never does. The cold is always there, seared into his very being by bitter snow and winds and harsh sunlight bouncing off the frozen white landscape. Nothing but white. Maybe that's why darkness soothes him. He thinks about it, then shrugs. He was never really the type to think about psychology. Eventually he falls back into slumber, haunted still by the sunflowers and the sun, mentally tossing and turning but physically sleeping as still and cold as a corpse itself.
~
He was never really the type to think about psychology, but he thinks he knows what the dreams mean. He's afraid of getting what he wants, sunshine and happiness and spring and growth and sunflowers. He's afraid of getting what he wants, and still being cold and lonely. It's a terrifying thought. It's true. He's afraid of that. He's afraid. He sleeps and fears the flowers.
~
In the Allies, Arthur and Alfred and Francis sit and bicker all day. But the way they look at each other, Ivan can tell they don't really mean it. There's a rivalry there, but there's also a friendship. He's never had anything like that before. Even though they're so chatty, he sits at the corner of the table, alone, excluded from their conversations and lighthearted arguments. Even the other one, the one that kind of appears and disappears, who Ivan cannot for the life of him remember his name, is chatted up by Francis, and Alfred swings an arm over his shoulders, and he blushes, shy.
And Ivan is so alone.
They don't need him. They're all together, all family and friends and lovers, and they don't need him. He's nothing in the shadow of them. Alfred is a leader and Arthur has his magic (which never works on Ivan, thankfully), and Francis is a good cook and... the other one has something he doesn't have, he's sure. They all have something he doesn't have. That's why he's never included. He knows.
But then at the next meeting there's a new person, and he seems familiar, but Ivan can't remember why. His name is Yao and he smiles and offers fried sweets to everyone and bows when he enters the room and raises his hand politely when he wants to speak but his expression seems empty and his smile never really seems to meet his eyes.
Ivan thinks he might be in love.
~
He cuts. It doesn't hurt. It never does. The cold is numbing and brutal and he feels dead. He cuts to remind himself he's alive. Blood drips into the sink. He can't feel his pulse, but it's reassuring to know he at least has blood. He washes the knife. Sometimes he wants to feel pain. He wants to know what feeling feels like. However, he reasons it might be better to have a nice feeling as his first feeling, rather than pain and hurt. But then he realizes good feelings will never come to him. Broken, shattered, frozen Ivan.
He cuts. It doesn't hurt. It never does.
~
Yao is kind to him. He talks to him and is friendly and inviting and everything Ivan has ever wanted. He doesn't seem so... wary of him as the rest of the countries are. He instead seems curious, soothing. Like the darkness. Yao is the darkness. He tries to keep up with the genial talk. Yao pours him a cup of tea, and he sips it. It's steaming but he can't feel a thing, face heating up but not melting the ice. Yao watches him and he stares into his cup.
Yao likes this animal called a panda. It sounds silly to him. Yao shows him a stuffed version of one. It looks like a bear, maybe, and has black and white spots. The beady eyes stare glossy into nothingness. It's soft and furry and has little paws and ears. He holds it in his arms and feels something stir in him. It feels... almost nice. Yao tells him he can keep it and a genuine smile breaks out onto his face. Alfred and Arthur and Francis, who had been arguing again during the 'meeting' run out screaming, Alfred dragging the other one behind him, but Yao stays, a small smile of his own on his face. He walks Ivan home and says goodbye through subtle gestures and flashes of dark chocolate eyes behind long lashes.
Ivan knows he's in love.
~
He sleeps with the stuffed panda. He still dreams of sunflowers and blue skies and searing light and loneliness, but the cold is not always as intense as it could have been, and with the window closed, sometimes he feels just the tiniest amount warmer in his bed.
~
Yao stares across the table at the cuts lining Ivan's arm. He looks concerned. No one has ever really been concerned about him before. No one cared. Ivan feels almost guilty, but the cold and snow wash it away.
"Why do you hurt yourself?" Yao asks in his calm, careful, soothing way, and Ivan doesn't reply. He looks into his cup of steaming tea as if expecting to find answers to Yao's question, but mostly to avoid his chocolate gaze. Yao reaches out and hooks a finger under his chin, pulls up, searches his eyes. Ivan inhales sharply. They've never touched before. Yao is so, so warm.
Gentle. Yes. Yao leans forward and kisses him. The ice melts. It feels weird, different. It feels. Yao's hand cups his jaw and he leans into it, hesitantly, because it would KILL him if Yao left now. But Yao seems to understand and accommodates accordingly. The cup of tea in Ivan's hand drops and he feels the burning warmth. It hurts but he can feel it. Finally.
Yao jumps and rushes to the sink, gets a cool cloth and wraps Ivan's hand in it, soothes the burn. Yao is soothing. He is beautiful. Ivan gets out a soft thank you between lips that have just begun to feel and Yao kisses his hand, kisses his cheek in response.
It feels different between them now. Ivan feels complete.
~
He dreams of a field of sunflowers and a cloudless, bright blue sky. He's warm and happy and free and can finally feel now. But it's not the sky or the sun or the warmth or the flowers that make him smile. It's the person sitting in the middle of the field, looking up at the sky. He holds a stuffed panda in his arms and his long black hair waves in the gentle breeze.
Ivan doesn't fear the flowers anymore. Because Yao is there, and he won't be cold and lonely ever again.