Hey guys! It's been awhile for this fic, hasn't it? I finally decided to finish the chapter and upload it today!

Ivan finally enters the scene~

Enjoy guys!

Alfred jolts and almost hits his head on the rim of the toilet. He scrambles on the wet floor, trying to pull back away from the large man now filling the stall's opening.

"What are you doing here?" He practically screams, some part of him hoping it will scare away the huge nation, though he knows its practically impossible.

Alfred hates the feeling of Ivan's eyes on him, as if they're appraising him, sizing him up like a piece of meat, noticing all of the faults and rolls of fat that he knows that everyone else sees—

"Alfred? What is going on?"

Part of him hates Ivan and wants him to go away, and part of him wants to the Russian close, to just hold him and comfort him and tell him he's beautiful, that he loves him.

"N-nothing. Go away."

But Ivan is too stubborn, damn it, something he must've learned from spending so much time around Alfred.

"You were vomiting."

"No."

"Da, you were. I heard you."

"S-so what?"

Ivan kneels on the wet and filthy bathroom floor, uncaring of the suit and shoes that were sure to be dirtied. He reaches out a put a hand to the side of Alfred's face.

"Fredka, are you sick?"

Alfred pulls back from the touch, almost hitting his neck on the toilet again.

"Why do you care?" He voice comes out for more venomous than he intended. But it makes Ivan retract his hand, so Alfred doesn't care.

"Such question," Ivan mumbles, "I don't know why you ask that."

Alfred looks down.

"I care very much for you, do you not understand that?" Ivan's face creases in a frown, "I thought I've made that very clear."

Ivan sighs, a little sadly, perhaps. Alfred's chest pangs a little, he doesn't want Ivan to be like that, doesn't want him to think that it's his fault, he just wants him to go away. Alfred rubs his eyes, pulling one knee up to his chest to try to hide the trembles in his torso.

"I-I know, Ivan, damn it, I know that but things-things are hard and I'm-well, there's just some stupid things but I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine." He falters off, turning his head to stare at the floor.

"Alfred," Ivan starts, but his voice peters out. Instead of speaking he reaches forward again, gently touching the side of the American's head.

"What is going on?" He cards his fingers through Alfred's hair, frowning.

"Nothing!" Alfred tries to shout, but his voice falters and falls back into that tearful tone. His shoulders begin to shake, his entire body shaking as he brings his arm up to his eyes and tries to stop the tears from coming up. Ivan lowers his hand a little, palming on of Alfred's cheeks and gently tilting the young nation's chin up. Ivan's eyes are focused and hard but not uncaring.

"You are sick."

And Alfred just nods at that. Let Ivan think that this is some kind of stomach flu. That's okay. That's better than the truth.

Alfred almost wishes that he was sick. Sick people don't get fat. God—he remembers the epidemics of cholera back in the eighteenth and nineteenth century, when his body was thin enough to see and feel the ribs poking through. Alfred never thought he would have ever wanted that back again. But anything was better than being like this—being this fat.

Fuck, he's crying again. He looks up at Ivan once, who looks shocked at the tears pouring from Alfred's eyes, and then downturns his gaze again.

"It's okay," Ivan pats him on the shoulder, worrying his lip in his teeth before letting out a tiny, half-hearted laugh, "Why is Fredka so sad over just being sick?"

The laugh makes Alfred's chest sting, and he keeps his eyes on the pools of water and limp toilet paper clinging to the bathroom floor.

"Alfred?"

When the American speaks, he has more venom in his voice than he intends.

"What? What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?"

"I don't want anything from you. I just need for you to be all right, my little sun."

"B-but—" But I'm not all right. I'm not.

"Can you let me help you?"

"I-I don't—"

Big arms instantly hug him, Ivan's coated body enveloping him and for a brief shining moment Alfred feels safe before he remembers the horror and the lies.

"I love you. I love you. Do you understand?"

Alfred nodded into Ivan's soft shoulder. He knew that Ivan loved him.

But he didn't know if Ivan loved his body.

His breath hitches further and he shuts his eyes. He hates how Ivan's hands feel like hot iron on his skin, like two serpents searching for that disgusting fat—

Ivan kisses him lightly on the neck, and Alfred shudders.

The Russian pulls back a little and tilts Alfred's head up, looking into his lover's eyes and giving him a small smile.

"Do not worry about the rest of the meeting."

Alfred's mouth opens, flash of panic showing through his eyes.

"What? No, I—"

Ivan places a finger to his lips.

"Do not worry. I am going to take you home. If the other's question it, I will make them understand that you are unwell."

Frustrated, Alfred jerks back from Ivan's finger and tries to push his arm away.

"Ivan, I'm not some kind of—"

Ivan's digit follows, silencing Alfred once more.

"I am knowing. But if you do not rest than it will simply get worse. That is end of conversation."

Ivan presses this finger harder against Alfred's mouth when he tries to protest again. Ivan's eyes are determined.

"I will call for us a car to take you home. Do not worry. There is nothing to be worried about."

Ivan took Alfred's face into both of his hands, tilting it up and meeting Alfred's gaze with a sad, worried but indefinably fond expression.

"I miss it when you smile, solynyska."

Alfred forces it, a little, for Ivan's sake, but at the end is quivers and a little sob slips past his lips. It's too fake to even try. Russian kisses him on his forehead and his muscles clench and it hurts.

Ivan gets up and calls for the car and makes sure nobody else comes into the bathroom, shooting a desperate looking Yong Soo a death glare when he barged into the room, sending the man running off in search of another toilet.

Alfred is still on the floor, and Ivan isn't sure how to deal with this. He's not had too much experience with taking care of people. And never did he think he'd have to take care of Alfred like this. Alfred was always very strong, very self confident, to the point of arrogance. He looked so sad right now, though Ivan had chalked it only up to sickness.

After all, what else could it be?

Ivan puts his hands around Alfred's waist and before the American can yell at him or struggle away Ivan has lifted him up and placed him on shaky legs.

He holds Alfred's hand all the way to the car, stuffing their entwined fingers into Ivan's coat pocket, because Alfred look a little cold and Ivan swears that he's shivering.

The he opens the door and helps Alfred into the vehicle even as the America snorts and tells him that he's fine and Russia's brows crease in worry.

Because he is obviously not fine.