A/N: I have no idea how to convey to you how impossibly hard it was to finish this chapter. I had most of it done by the time Chapter Four was posted, but I just couldn't FINISH it! Chapter Seven has all of one line written, though, so I'm super sorry but I don't think there will be much more very soon. The ending is done, though, so if will finish, promise! It'll just take some time. Also, WARNING! The rating in the chapter ESCALATES, so please take that into consideration. And if this story is somehow removed, you can find me on AO3, where most of my Hetalia fanfic is posted, under the same pseudonym, EmeraldSage (no space though). Enjoy!

Chapter 6:

When he woke the next morning, the flowers in the vase next to his bedside had changed. Clove scented sharply in the room, so he knew they were amongst the bouquet. There were pale yellow tansies amongst blood red tulip – I'm declaring war on your heart – and he nearly leapt up from his bed in response to their sudden appearance. How had Ivan gotten into his bedroom while he'd been sleeping?!

That day, he threaded foxglove through his braid crown, and tucked a hydrangea behind his ear. The scandalized looks some of the court gave him made him smirk, but the way violet eyes darkened at the response made his day.

He ventured out of the palace that day, to meet up with some of his friends in the inner city area for lunch. He hadn't seen them since the equinox, and despite the speed of the rumors within the palace, he was sure that they didn't know about the…uh…recent developments. Two of them – if he was remembering right – had been approached by suitors during the Presentation, and dawned a sash with either their family colors, or their suitor's, wound tight around their waist. Elizabeta caught everyone's attention when she saw the sash at his waist and squealed so loud she nearly shattered the glassware.

Half the restaurant jumped half a mile, whirling around to see what had caused the ruckus, and the other half ignored them with practiced ease. Still, as he walked into the eatery, he could feel the eyes on him. This was the first time he'd been outside the palace since the courtship had begun, and even though word had spread quickly through the city, the actual sight of him walking around with the sash draped around his waist stopped people in their tracks. The flowers on his head – for those that knew what they meant – had people running into each other, staring at him as he'd walked past.

"Has everyone already ordered?" he asked, pulling up a chair and pouting a bit at the series of nods he received. Kiku – Elizabeta's partner in crime – smiled a bit at his pout.

"We can always share," he pointed out gently, "or you could order once the waitress returns. I'm sure they wouldn't mind the last-minute addition." His face lit up.

"No need for an order," their waitress called out when she made her way over, having overheard the last bits of the conversation, and they stared at her in confusion. Brown eyes brightened when they caught sight of Alfred, and she gave him a half bow before presenting one of the trays of food to him. "For you, my Prince."

Curious, he pulled the silver covering from the platter and nearly gaped. His friends leaned in closer, and their eyes went wide. On the tray was his favorite food, the one even his father didn't know he liked! He'd tried a cheeseburger when he'd snuck off to the human realm one day, and had fallen in love with the meaty, greasy fast-food, especially when it was well made. And there, sitting innocently on the silver platter, was a professionally made cheeseburger – with all his favorite toppings, from what he could see – and a steaming mug of coffee (which his father hated keeping in the palace, so he never got to drink it), made just the way he liked it – with diabetic inducing sweetness, but black as sin. He swallowed, suddenly feeling like everyone was watching him (which wasn't too far off of the mark – at least half the restaurant was) as he studied the meal he'd been presented with. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of just staring at his food, he turned to the waitress in question.

"A man dropped by earlier this morning and requested a meal for you, sire," she said in response, "he claimed it was part of your courtship gift." He glanced back to the plate, astounded, before jerking his head back up to study the suddenly nervous waitress with a little more focus.

"Part of my gift, he said?" he inquired, and she nodded excitedly while withdrawing a small, square, velvet jewelry box from within her apron skirt. The area around him suddenly quieted with the box's appearance. His friends were practically vibrating in glee. He received the red velvet box – about the size of his palm – with a good deal of hesitation, and settled it on the table, next to his meal. Carefully, well aware of all eyes on him, he tugged the top off of the box and stared. Distantly, he heard the gasps of his friends, and the stunned reaction of half of the nearby watchers, but all he was focused on was the intricate bracelet he was holding that was practically saturated with the Fallen King's magic.

If he put that thing on, it was as good as an acceptance claim.

He pulled it from the box, studying it as he held it, trying to ignore the magic trying to wrap around his own. It was a golden chain link bracelet, with runic engravings on every link. The links themselves were dainty, not bulky, and some of them shined with an almost sapphire glow. It was very obviously hand crafted by custom order, and very, very expensive.

Damn you, you bastard! His favorite food – professionally made and custom to his preferences – proved his suitor knew who he was as a person, more so than anyone else could claim, considering not even his family knew of his preferences. The golden bracelet – elegant, classic, but custom crafted and enchanted for his wellbeing – proved that his suitor could provide for his wellbeing and cater to any of his needs and whims. His suitor was perfectly capable of courting a prince – he certainly had the wealth that necessitated, and he'd showcased that here.

"Enjoy your meal, my Prince," the waitress said, breaking his increasingly frantic train of thought, and distributed the rest of his friends' meals, bowing once more, before heading away to take other orders.

There was silence for a brief moment, and then his friends erupted.

"That's a hand carved piece, Alfred," the brunette angel gaped at him when she noted his distinct lack of reaction, "How can you thread foxglove through your hair when the man is willing to spend so much at the beginning of your courtship?!"

"How much a man is willing to spend on a bride is not a measure of his sincerity," the teen prince quoted, eyeing his disappointed friends. He wore the bracelet nonetheless, knowing it would be spectacularly poor form to reject a gift presented so publically. He cursed inwardly, feeling the other's magic practically drip off of the golden chain links of the bracelet, wrapping around his own magic possessively.

Sometimes, being aura sensitive was a real pain.

Elizabeta spent much of their lunch gushing over how well his suitor seemed to know him – how romantic the other seemed to be – while the others added a token statement here and there, but mostly content with allowing the brunette angel to do all the talking. Kiku gave him a sympathetic glance, obviously having caught on to how against this suitor Alfred was, but said nothing to intervene. His mood – high from the earlier victory against the violet-eyed monarch in their courting game – slowly dampened, even as he put on a brave face and smile for his friends.

The way violet eyes lit up triumphantly as the caught sight of him storming through the palace later on, bracelet adorning his wrist, soured his already sore mood even more.

The next few weeks were an exercise in patience, not just for the sky prince, but for most of the castle's residents as well.

Every morning the young prince was greeted with a new bouquet of flowers at his bedside table. Every morning, despite the prince's attempts to avoid the inevitable reminder that his former tormentor and current suitor was able to find his way into his private bedchamber ever single night. One night, the sky-eyed teen had been so desperate that he'd slept in Matthew's room, while Gilbert was out of the city on business. He'd woken face-to-face with a bouquet of Amaryllis, Aster and Apples. His shriek had startled Matthew right off the other side of the bed, and the sunset-eyed angel had stared at the bouquet in quiet astonishment before rubbing his eyes in frustration.

Ludwig, when he'd heard, had taken every single guard in charge of guarding the royal wing and run them into the ground during a surprise training boot camp. Being able to get into Alfred's room repeatedly was one thing; being able to get into both of their rooms without anyone detecting him…the guards were in big trouble.

Everywhere Alfred went outside the palace – whether it was a café, a restaurant, or simply a nearby park – he was met with random people presenting him with gifts from his suitor that the man had cunningly dispersed before he'd arrived. He'd have lunch delivered to him wherever he went – always one of his favorites – and small gifts often accompanied the deliveries. Even when Alfred had fled to the cloud canyon outside the city on a whim, someone had found him and given him a full Russian breakfast fare – something he knew Ivan favored given the sheer number of times he'd seen the other eat it during his captivity (and something he was secretly fond of, due to repeated exposure he told himself) – and a bundle of freshly made senbon straight from Japan's best weapons maker.

Not even his father knew he'd incorporated senbon in his fighting style, given how sneaky they often ended up being. He was such a frontline fighter – in your face, in your space – that ranged attacks were something he rarely practiced in front of others. He only ever used them in spars against Gilbert, who kept his confidence for more than just being his brother-in-law, not wanting to lose a potential advantage.

It seemed that – at long last – the stubborn, sky-eyed prince had found his match. Only the truly determined could out-stubborn the stubborn angel, and, well…if this wasn't considered as such, the entire palace staff would turn in their collective resignations.

Talk ran rampant throughout the halls. The topics varied, but they were fairly well related as well. Curious and excited servants gossiped about wedding planning: the most auspicious location for a royal ceremony, how well the royal house blues and golds might go with the suitor's own house colors, the style of attire that the prince might wear, the flowers they would use, the gems used for the engagement rings and the bonding cuffs, and so on. Guards lamented about all the furniture they'd have to move, and debated about how tight security might turn out to be. Guests and courtiers were a little more aware about how reluctant the teen prince was being about this suitor, but knew that – at some point – the King was going to put his foot down. The fact that the King hadn't contested the courtship was as good as an official seal of approval.

And on top of his suitor's relentless efforts, all of the stress was slowly driving Alfred just shy of insane. Which led to his current situation.

He knew he shouldn't be out so late at night, especially not with Ivan and his ilk walking around. It was dark, draped in shadows and grayscale as he walked through the outer streets and towards the open sky fields near the gates of the city. The gates would be closed, but that was okay. He didn't need to pass through them; he didn't think they'd let him out anyways. He just needed some peace of mind. He needed somewhere that Ivan would not find him, and no one was watching him; a haven where he could finally clear his mind and think about the situation he was embroiled in.

The whole realm was watching his courtship with bated breath, waiting anxiously to finally see the one who was courting the prince with such startling persistence. At this point, he was sure anyone who didn't know what he'd been through at the monarch's hand would accept him. They wanted to see him happy.

He wondered if he could ever be happy the way they wished him to be.

There was a soft rustling noise coming from behind him that interrupted his thoughts, and he froze. The rustling, from what he could tell, was coming from the small, grey shaded cloud bushes that he'd been walking past. He turned, slowly, to face the squirming shrubs, and for a second, everything went still. He felt his body tense.

A squirrel went flying out of the shrubbery, dashing towards the tree on the other side of the street, chattering madly. He felt his shoulders slump with the release of tension and mentally chastised himself; the curfew his father had recently set for him must've really been getting to his imagination for him to start hallucinating imaginary footsteps…

"Alfred?" came the inquiring voice from behind him, and he yelped, whirling around, his hand almost going towards his hidden throwing knives before his mind placed the mystery voice, and evident source of the footsteps.

Francis, his father's not-so-secret love and the head of the Royal Guard, was standing behind him, arms crossed in front of him, emulating his father's patented look of parental disapproval with just a hint of amusement and understanding lining that gaze.

At least it hadn't been either of the monarchs, out for a late night stroll, or even his brother and Gilbert, exploring the city night. Francis, in comparison, was a far better person to have been caught by.

He knew that well; he had experience with it after all.

"Having a late night walk, are we?" the elder angel asked, a brow rising, but Alfred could see the amusement twisting his lips into a smile he didn't even try to bite back.

"Just needed space to think," he returned, just as bluntly, and Francis smiled. He sidled closer and slung a protective arm around the younger, but slightly taller angel.

He hummed as he begun steering them both back towards the palace, "Would you like a sounding board?" Alfred's brow rose at the human terminology that wasn't often brought into the Royal City, and felt his lips quirk. He shrugged, and Francis beamed, evident even in the early night's moonlight.

"It's just Dad," he said softly, almost not saying anything at all. He thought of the conversation they'd had earlier that very day, where he'd confronted his father on what was going on. "I don't understand what he's doing, Francis," he said, upset, as they crossed the nearby park, "He knows what that bastard did! Why's he doing this?"

"Arthur, hmm," Francis mused softly, and they stopped near the edges of the palace patrol, just out of sight. Alfred glanced up to meet blue eyes – like his own, but not – and Francis smiled, "Do not be so harsh on your father, cher. He loves you dearly. He wants to see you happy beyond all possible measures."

"But he refuses to listen to me," he protested, feeling the ache hit him deeply when he thought of the other conversations he'd had with his father in private since the violet-eyed monarch arrived in their realm. "He's encouraging me to bond." Blue eyes glared back into blue desperately. "It's like he's totally changed his mind!"

Francis felt his heart pang with sadness as he studied the young man he thought of as his own child. His love had really done a number on the young prince in his stubbornness. Alfred was not unintelligent, but he was emotional, and sometimes that drove him more than his brain. The monarch knew this, yet he persisted in driving his son insane by refusing to give his reasons for encouraging the courtship.

"He has his reasons, cher," he said softly, sadly, as he knew his words were no reassurance for the younger angel, "I know you don't understand it, and I wish I could explain it to you more, but…" he trailed off, wordless, and very unlike himself. He wished he could explain the depth of the bond that had grown between the angelic prince and the Fallen monarch, though he doubted he could ever understand it more than Alfred himself did. He wished he could speak of love – though he doubted there could ever be that deep a relationship between the captor and his former captive – but Alfred would either not understand or misunderstand. And with the damned monarch prowling around the palace, just waiting for the closest opportunity to make a decisive move in his suit, it was not a state he wanted to place the young prince in.

So he wrapped an arm around the tired, weary young prince, with eyes older than any angel his age had the right to be, and tried to bring up his usual sly smile, "Now, let's see how we're going to get back into the castle without your father finding out you've broken your curfew, hmm?"

The world was spinning. He closed his eyes to try and center himself – though lord knew what it would do for him – and took in his surroundings. The soft silk sheets at his back was a nice change from the cold, hard concrete he'd been subject to, and his aches sang in brief, blissful relief. He could feel the heavy collar around his neck and the weighted cuffs on his wrists and ankles, cutting off access to his magic reserves and energy, but it was the normal weight, not torturously heavy. The room pulsed with aura, but there was no one within that he could sense, which set him at ease almost as much as it frayed his nerves.

His captor was not easily sensed, not even by the aura sensitive, like him.

He bit back a sigh as his senses relaxed almost against his will, shifting to a more accommodating position for his body to begin its nightly healing process. Gilbert had been harder on him today than usual, and an odd part of his brain wondered what had been bothering the usually humorous war general. Most of his mind, however, was currently focused on the hand that had appeared on his thigh and was spreading his legs apart with gentility usually unknown to demon kind.

His eyes blinked open tiredly, meeting the violet ones of his captor, who was watching him with an inscrutable expression on his face. There was a silence as both of them observed the other.

A moment later, he was flipped roughly onto his front, forced to his knees and spread apart. He bit back a scream as he felt the burn in his entrance get worse with the other prodding around with ruthless efficiency. But he slid his eyes shut and bore the pain, knowing even if he tried to resist, the other would pry screams from him almost effortlessly.

There was another brief pause in the other's actions, and a hand came up, almost gently, to trace one of the markings – one of many bite marks and claims the other had inflicted upon his body – around his hip. For the faintest heartbeat, he could swear he felt the gentle pulse of reassurance – of you're okayand I'll take care of you – come through the bond that had formed early on in his captivity (a bond he didn't really want to think on). But then the moment passed and the hand caressing his hip moved to grip his hair, and bared his throat forcefully to the being holding him down.

And the pain began again.

He bolted through the gardens, as if a monster were on his heels, chased – in truth – by the memories he thought he'd long forsaken. They'd wrenched him from his bed forced him in search of reprieve. Reprieve he could only find in one place…

There, he noted, feeling the relief coursing through his body. The conversations he'd had in the days past had taken their toll on him and his psyche. He knew what his father would prefer him to do, but he just needed him…just once….

"Ludwig!" he called out hoarsely, catching sight of the other angel about to take off from the center garden – probably to concentrate a patrol in another area – when the other caught sight of him.

"Alfred," he said, eyes widening in their surprise as he neared, taking in his worn constitution and his determined gaze, "is there something wrong? Is there anything I should do? Should I get someone…" he froze.

"Wait," he said as he caught Ludwig by his wrist, whirling them together so Ludwig had wrapped his arms snugly around his waist, a hand on each hip. With a meager height difference, they were staring at each other, at eye level, and he saw Ludwig's eyes widen briefly. "Once," he asked, pleaded, "only once, before I cannot." And Ludwig understood, because Ludwig had known him since his fledgling days and if he hadn't been caught, Ludwig would've been his husband…

Without further adieu, he leant up and pressed his lips against the others.

The kiss wasn't gentle, like their first. It was filled with passion, longing, and grief. They hadn't once exchanged a truly intimate touch since Alfred had returned from captivity and realized that their magic was no longer compatible, but it seemed as if the final dam had burst and every emotion they'd ever bottled up rose to the surface. Ludwig whirled them around, pressing the prince against the hedge wall as he deepened the kiss almost desperately, and Alfred responded in kind.

Finally, they parted, panting heavily, still refusing to release each other. Until, reluctantly, Alfred looked up to the man crouched over him, and begged, "Stay with me. If not as my husband, as my friend, please." Ludwig pressed his forehead against the younger angel's soft and grieving in a way he'd never show another.

"As long as you'll have me," he said hoarsely, "Always." And they, finally, let go.

Mind racing and heart grieving, he didn't really give much attention towards his surroundings. He'd stormed in, and threw himself on the bed, only making a brief, cursory search of his room with his aura to determine any lingering presences nearby. Curled into a ball, wrapped in his thick quilt – that, really, was a little much for the late-April weather – he didn't notice when the candlelight keeping his chambers lit – however dimly – went out. Moonlight lit up his curled figure until the curtains were drawn. So wrapped in his thoughts and the pain of an emotional parting, he missed the shadows lengthening and the way every exit was slowly cut off.

He didn't miss the way the doors slammed shut of their own accord.

He didn't even pause to let his eyes adjust to the sudden darkness when he dove from the bed, narrowly avoiding whatever was in his room as it made a grab for him. Desperately untangling himself from the sheets, his eyes took in the darkened room and he whirled to the side, feeling something whoosh past him by inches. His keen gaze – sharpened by two years of living in near-constant darkness in the demonic realm – caught a hint of movement by the window, but his ears caught the soft whoosh of cloth…behind him.

He dove into a roll, sending a flurry of senbon behind him; grateful beyond belief that he'd thrown himself onto the bed still fully armed and risked stabbing himself with the pointy needles. They were incredibly useful now.

He rose steadily from his crouch, sensing no movement in his room. His fingers curled around another wave of sharp needles, this time, potion coated, as he glanced around, eyes sharpening as they took in the room.

"Show yourself." He barked into the stillness of his room, wondering where the hell the guard was, even as he forced his breathing to regulate. He rolled on the balls of his feet, even as his eyes stilled from their frantic scanning. There was a brief silence, before a chuckle shattered the stillness. His heart skipped a beat and his breath hitched, but he forced the shock and mild terror down. Later, he though, freak out later.

He knew that voice, after all.

"You know," the deep voice purred, and he ducked the grab from behind, leaping to the side, even though he knew the other wasn't there anymore, "there are rules one follows in different circumstances."

"Oh?" he countered, sharp eyes scanning what he could see, "You're sure breaking a lot of them right now. Not sure you can lecture me on rules." There was a hum of acknowledgement that seemed to come from in front of him, but there was no one there, and he heard the whisper of movement seconds before he dodged to the side, flinging gleaming steel as he did so.

They missed, or so he thought, but the figure in the dark paused for a split-second longer than necessary.

His stalker's next lunge caught the edge of his sash in one hand and sent both of them sprawling. Ever quick, he slipped a dagger into his hand and cut through the soft fabric of the sash, and the other – who'd just thrown his weight behind his grip on the sash – stumbled backwards as he lost his counterweight. Alfred used the split-second of lost balance to pivot and practically danced across the room, eyeing where gleaming steel had pierced through his walls and furniture.

Fingers curled around the blue sash in hand, and Alfred could feel the stare being aimed at him, no matter the fact that he couldn't tell where it was coming from.

"That," he half snarled, "doesn't belong to you." He practically spat the last word, knowing that even though letting him get a hold of the sash had been the better tactical option to gain more ground, it was a personal slight. The other was his suitor – his unwanted suitor – and had no right to the sash he had not personally given him. The only one who ever came close to claiming the courting sash he wore had been Ludwig, and the only reason he hadn't was because Alfred had been captured before he could give it away.

"It will," echoed through the room, and he wondered at the thin line of building anger threaded through the words, "it certainly won't belong to anyone else. Especially," the voice grew stronger, sturdier, angrier, "not your precious Ludwig."

The kiss, he inhaled sharply in realization, and lunged forward a split second too late as he heard movement behind him. He was hauled backwards by his collar, the other neatly maneuvering around the daggers he stabbed behind him until his wrist was sealed in a vice grip, incapacitated. His other hand tried to pry away the breath stealing grip the other had on his throat, but the other adjusted the lock he had on his throat and moved to pin both arms behind him.

Shoved from behind, he was made to kneel on his bed, arms pinned to the small of his back, before – finally – his captor deigned to show his face. A hand gripped his chin firmly, forcing his eyes up to meet murderous violet. He could feel the cold chill of icy magic flare around the elder's grip, and shivered.

"If you think manhandling me is going to make me forgive you," he growled, "you've lost your fucking mind." The smirk on his captor's face scared the shit out of him, but he'd be damned if he let the man have that satisfaction in his own home.

"Your father thinks forgiving me will allow you to be happy," he cooed to the angel he'd pinned on the bed, smile completely at odds with the vicious, possessive glint in his eyes, "He lets me court you despite his utter hatred of me. And you," the monarch let his magic flow around them, and entwine with the other's. Alfred swallowed a curse and a moan when he felt his body go limp, his entire soul purring at the attention it was receiving, and his head slumped back, exposing his neck to the wickedly smirking monarch holding him down, "you cannot resist me, when it comes down to it."

"Bastard," he half choked, half swore, trying to pull himself together as much as he could. Five years it had been since his last direct exposure to the aura of the King himself, and obviously those five years hadn't been nearly enough. "You're not gonna get away with this bullshit" he hissed, viciously, "I swear, I'll deny you in front of the entire realm. You'll never have me again."

The monarch laughed, "I'm sure you'll try," he said, amused, eyes gleaming, a smirk curling on his lips. "But darling, I have months, still, to court you. You could probably say no, at the end, if you truly wanted to. But," and here, the smirk turned wicked, "your body craves me, your soul and magic yearn for mine, and even your mind betrays you, whispering that I could never, ever do what I once did to you, not with everyone watching me…now could I?" He released the angel from the pin, and watched the younger scatter backwards, away from him, eyes defiant but concealing the hint of fear that he knew confirmed everything that he'd said.

These were all things he'd known about himself – had hated to admit to, but knew -, and still, Alfred felt like he'd been hit with a sledgehammer. And the monarch wasn't done.

"All I have left to win is your heart," the declaration was as deafening as one of war, "and that which I truly want, I have never failed to acquire." Violet eyes pierced him unnervingly, as the other reached into his pocket and withdrew a slim package, the other tucking away the sash he'd stolen from the prince's waist.

Alfred caught the package he'd been tossed out of reflex and glared at the other. "I need my sash," he growled. The other smirked.

"You need a sash," he corrected, "and you have one. Good evening, little prince." And the monarch disappeared into the shadows of his room – neatly avoiding the wave of gleaming steel that followed him – the doors opening automatically as the magic forcing them shut dissipated. The curtains drew themselves open and the candles relit themselves, bathing the room in moonlight and the dim light of the candles.

He leapt from the bed, grabbing at the bed's frame to keep his knees from shaking, and eyed the doors wearily. His grip tightened around the parcel that he'd been tossed, and he bit his lip as he steadied himself. He glanced at the package, before, reluctantly, tearing it open. Shimmering silver lined fabric gleamed at him from under the candlelight, and the violet of the cloth seemed to sink into the shadows around him.

"Remember Alfred," his mother had said, "a sash won by trickery, though somewhat looked down upon in society, is as good as one won by honor and choice. And once you're wearing their sash around your waist, they've won half the battle. Even your father loses his ability to interfere from then on."

He threw himself on his bed and swore. His father was going to kill him.