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Tonight hadn't gone as smoothly as Ivan had intended. His organization had received word that an opposing faction was to obtain a large and expensive shipment of weapons. The gang in question was a recent…obstacle for Ivan, who'd settled into the city's ports almost a decade prior and did not appreciate upstarts muscling in on his turf.
Their leader had eluded him until this evening. Rumors circulating about their youth and notoriety as an ex-con artist wasn't enough to identify them. They obviously understood the business of anonymity, never getting their hands dirty enough to leave a trail. But the size and importance of the delivery had required their specific involvement. Ivan eagerly wanted to return the favor for all those interruptions to his deals. Personally, in fact.
It'd been careless of Ivan to believe it would be so easy. From the beginning, the entire night was a setup to lure him out in the open. The sole weapons contract to greet him and his associates was an equally armed and deadly group intending to finish them. For all his scheming, Ivan had only bruises and a fairly-sized limp to show off as he returned to his residence, alone, after eluding the officers that'd cracked down on all parties involved partway through the confrontation.
The house – a mansion, really – appeared unoccupied as Ivan made his slow trek along the stone pathway. A respectable forty acres consisting of nothing other than short-cut grass encircled the property. This was the reason for its appeal to him while real-estate shopping. Privacy was one criteria Ivan wouldn't negotiate on when it came to the new residence he intended to share.
Alfred agreed on the buy under the condition he had the most sway in the design of their home. His obvious excitement at the prospect had Ivan all too delighted to acquiesce to this request. Their respective jobs lay in the city, but here Alfred built them a cottage away from all the stresses of urban life. The exterior walls consisted of pieced together white stone that was hauled from a quarry three states over. Two columns made from three meter thick tree trunks framed the front entrance.
He paused at the double doors; they were already ajar. A single, undisturbed drop of blood had settled on the threshold. For a long time Ivan stared down at it, spurred into action when his injured limb threatened to lock up if he didn't exercise it. Placing his palms flat against the green barn-style doors, he pushed inward. The hinges didn't creak. There was just the softest rustling of air, but Ivan knew better than to assume his presence wasn't felt, nonetheless.
Ivan's limp made it impossible to disguise his footsteps. No overhead lights were switched on, but the entirety of the east and west walls were made of floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the moonlight. His vision was accustomed to the dark, also, so Ivan maneuvered past the living room furniture without tripping.
He needn't explore far – he spotted the trail of red, which was almost black, that led to the master bedroom. The suite took up the whole back of the house. Preferring the openness of vaulted ceilings, Alfred had been adamant against the installation of stairs. No arguments were forthcoming from Ivan, as he felt marginally safer residing in a single-floor house. The open layout lent itself to quicker getaways in case of an emergency.
Musing on that thought, perhaps Alfred had been preparing for that very same outcome, too.
He turned the corner and stopped. At the opposite end of the hallway a splatter of liquid hit the tile floor and brought Ivan's attention to Alfred's arm. He'd tied a makeshift bandage, using his once pristine pocket square as secured by his tie, around the laceration on his arm. Either the injury had worsened or it wasn't tight enough because the flow of blood was still coming. The fabric was saturated with it and now dripping everywhere. The rest of his suit mirrored Ivan's own attire: it was rumpled, dirtied, and torn in places. Neither of their drycleaners would be able to salvage them.
Ivan's gaze transferred to the shotgun – his shotgun – in Alfred's hands. There were more guns strapped to his shoulder holster and one on his back. Then his eyes trailed farther up to meet the man's face. Alfred's smile resembled that of an involuntary twitch in the muscles rather than an amused grin. The expression remained plastered in this perpetual state of furious since they'd met hours earlier when it was revealed who, exactly, each of them were.
"Welcome back, honey," Alfred said. He pumped the shotgun once. "Guess what I found."
Ivan backpedaled in time to avoid getting his head blown off. The twinge in his leg made rolling difficult, but momentum carried him through to the sofa. He flipped it forward not to serve as a protective shield, but to access the spare handguns underneath. His knives were all he'd had left on him after retreating from the altercation before.
"I can't believe you had a cache of guns in our bedroom. Our bedroom, Ivan," he said, and stormed down the hallway to catch up with him. "We made love in there, you colossal, insensitive—"
With the broad side of his shoulder, Ivan shoved the piece of furniture. It slid into the other man's path and nearly bowled him over. He wasn't deterred; the surprise just elicited several curses from Alfred. Ivan cocked his gun and emptied the clip, firing a path that followed to the wall Alfred slid behind, saying, "And yet, that rifle on your back, it is not mine."
Alfred peeked around the corner and returned fire. The floor plan was open, and the living space led into the dining room and kitchen. A massive island made of solid granite and copper-plated accents made for ample makeshift cover. Bottles of bourbon and vodka exploded off their shelves in the liquor cabinet as Ivan ran past to duck into the kitchen to avoid the spray of bullets.
"Fuck you! All those times you left halfway through our dinner dates—" Ivan identified the scrape of bullet cartridges as Alfred reloaded, "and those interrupting phone calls and cancelled plans—" He pumped the shotgun again, "and supposed late night meetings where you were making a nuisance of yourself!" Another round was fired, and the bullet removed a large chunk off the countertop. Dust and bits of rubble fell into Ivan's hair.
"You speak to me of lies?" he asked. He disposed of his spent weapon to free up one hand, keeping hold of the other handgun. "You, who claimed to my face that you are a Yale man with degrees in business management? How you were an up-and-coming office consultant and financial expert?" He didn't intend to, but Ivan had to know- "Is anything about you true? Are you even from New York?"
"Oh, sweetheart. I never lied about that," Alfred said. His smug tone of voice made Ivan's lip curl. "I did come from Queens before I met you. Rikers Island, that is."
Alfred was becoming impatient. He heard him push aside the sofa and knock over a table, shattering something. If it was what Ivan thought it was then he understood the action couldn't be anything but intentional. That porcelain rendition of a traditional Matryoshka doll was one of his favorites and had cost him a fortune. It'd taken him months to convince Alfred to allow it in the space despite how he claimed it clashed too much with the 'rustic theme' of their house.
Ivan retaliated. Shooting in his direction, he hoped to slow the other man's progress. If a few rounds just so happened to end up in Alfred's monstrosity of a flat screen television over the fireplace, then it was certain to aid Ivan in distracting him.
"Besides, you do not get to be mad at me! You put a hit out on my second-in-command on our anniversary," Alfred shouted. He was still coming closer. Ivan would need to find a new defensive position or disable him soon.
"He was an easy target. It is no fault of mine that you surround yourself with incompetence." Ivan spent his last bullet and reached inside his jacket for one of his knives. "And you! You align yourself with Yakuza to oppose us? Poor choice in allies, Alik."
"Yeah, well," Alfred started, his voice eerily calm after hearing that nickname, "not like the Bratva gave me much choice."
The distinct sound of a bullet jamming held both their focus. Alfred cussed and tossed the shotgun away. He was reaching for the rifle when Ivan leapt out from his cover. Ivan made a long arc, aiming for Alfred's weak arm. The man flinched and foolishly made to block with his hands, the blade slicing through one of Alfred's palms. Flipping the knife and adjusting his grip, Ivan caught his shirt sleeve and tore it off on the backswing. They both stumbled and fell onto the glass coffee table.
Ivan landed on top and watched as Alfred's head smashed through the surface and into the floor. There was more blood as the glass cut something, causing him to groan. At this angle Alfred couldn't reach his guns, but in the scuffle Ivan had kept his grip on the blade. When his disorientation faded he brought it down, intending to pin the other man by the shoulder, but Alfred shrugged out of the way and the sharp, metal point skidded uselessly against the floor.
They resorted to grappling, not as bosses of this area's top two opposing syndicates, but more like school children on the playground. Their bodies rolled into chairs and overturned lamps. Ivan pulled on Alfred's hair, eliciting a hiss that Alfred cut off himself as he sunk his teeth into the exposed area of throat just under Ivan's ear. He wasn't finished. Lifting a leg, he brought the heel down on the back of Ivan's injured knee. Forced to lose his grip, Alfred gained enough leeway to flip their positions. Ivan was now below, and Alfred perched on his stomach.
Taking Ivan by the scarf, he used it to haul him up and into Alfred's fist. His leather gloves didn't soften the blow across his cheekbone during the first instance, nor the second, nor the third. By the fourth, Alfred said, "What? Don't tell me you're giving up! Two years of your relentless interceptions of my arms deals, and blowing up my airplanes, and…and fighting me over the stupid paint color in here…" His punch landed next to Ivan's nose, crushing shards of glass against the tile. Alfred's breath hitched.
Slowly, Ivan inclined his head and looked at him. Alfred was covered all over in blood – Ivan's and his own. His dress shirt was in tatters, and at some point he'd lost his glasses. The lights remained off, but he could tell Alfred's eyelashes were wet by how the moonlight reflected off of them.
He reached out an arm with strength enough for this. Ivan wrapped it around Alfred's waist. The man started at the faintest touch and refused to budge, not until he realized Ivan's intention of simply pulling him into a hug. He collapsed, his forehead bumping into Ivan's chest. His fingers rubbed a path along Alfred's back, feeling the cuts made into the silk of his vest.
"You were supposed to be the one good thing in my life. The second chance I never thought I'd…" Alfred didn't say anymore into his throat, just under where he'd bitten him. Ivan could feel warmth seeping into his skin, unsure if he would find comfort in it being blood or tears instead.
"And you, you were mine." Alfred keened, with Ivan unable to do more than hold him.