stupid me. i forgot to add a note: this story is not told in chronological order, but in the order that Alfred remembers things. There is also no obvious distinction made between present events and past events because he struggles to differentiate between the two. In this way, you could say that Alfred is kind of an unreliable narrator. i keep forgetting ao3 and ffn are a little different.

Lightning streaks fast across the night sky in a sharp, jagged bolt; there one second and gone the next. It is a bright, blinding blur in Alfred's eyes, splitting everything above in half to pull down the rain heavier, quicker than before. The highway soaks in the flash, revealing its surroundings for the briefest of moments, but the downpour tears into his vision, rendering him near sightless.

The asphalt beneath him is slippery and hard with tiny bits of gravel that embed themselves into his bare skin. Tires, only mere inches away from crushing him, skid cautiously along the road, kicking up sediment and disturbing growing puddles that spit out a harsh spray.

Car horns blare noisily, but no one stops. They zoom by without hesitation, perhaps thinking him a drunk. And maybe he is drunk. His body feels weightless, he can't bring himself to walk, the world appears to be off its axis—spinning, spinning, tottering.

Thirsty. He is thirsty. The rain battering his face reminds him of this fact. In streams, it cascades over the hills of his cheeks, nose, lips. Throat parched, Alfred pries open his mouth, allowing his tongue to loll out. The miniscule beads of water that do not miss are like a teeny taste of heaven, though it is less like a sip of water and more like a light spritz of moisture. A small trickle that travels down the hatch without hydrating.

Don't do that, Alfred. You'll get sick. His mother's voice echoes in his head. A pleasant sound that stands strong alongside throbbing pain.

Nuh-unh, replies a defiant child—Alfred, when he was younger, less broken. I won't get sick. I'm invisible.

A bitter laugh traps itself at the base of his throat. He had been so stupid. Just like they all said. Stupid. Invincible, he wants to say in correction. He knows that now. He is not that now.

One, two, three, four— Alfred hazily takes count of the seconds between each strike of lightning and its consequential boom of thunder. Numbers, patterns, things that can be disputed—his tether to consciousness. Another blaze of lightning, bright enough to imprint its existence into his closed eyelids, refusing to be ignored. One, two, three — It's not the quake of thunder that interrupts.

A car door slams shut. Footsteps travel toward his weakened body. Alfred peers upward, staring into nothingness, blinking away sheets of rain, the stabbing rays of shining headlights.

Another voice fills his ears; one that lacks the distinct dreamlike familiarity of the first. Although, this time it is washed away by the tittering sound of a torrential downpour. Words break down into odd syllables, half inaudible, half discernible yet not at all capable of being fully deciphered.

Not that it matters any when Alfred cannot bring himself to move his lips and tongue in unison to respond.

What would he say if he had the ability to do so?

Would he— should he call for help?

Help. The simple word that earned him a clenched fist to the temple and a rough hand clamped tightly against his mouth the last time he used it. Was it days or hours ago?

The flavor of salt, sweat licked from the clammy skin of a man, remains imprinted on his taste buds. The smell, however, is lost. Buried deep beneath an urgency to draw breath through his crushed nostrils.

Just like that, Alfred is back there. There is… where? Where.

Something presses into the skin just below the corner of his jaw, presumably searching for the subtle throb of a pulse. Pain erupts along his side and he rolls over, drawing his knees into his chest, leaving his back exposed. Pain shoots through his spine next, causing him to arch his back inward uncomfortably.

"...kay?"

"K" what?

"...me, sir… are...kay?"

K. Is he okay? Mustering the last bit of energy he has, Alfred slowly shakes his head. Right, then left.

Then he is floating. Has he finally died? Is his soul leaving his body? No, that can't be right because he can still feel. A forearm fits firmly behind his knees, his neck falls into the crook of an elbow, the entire left side of his body is hefted against something solid. Moving, he is being carried somewhere. Transported.

Alfred opens his eyes; when had he closed them? The headlights of the car bob up and down, drawing closer and closer until they disappear behind the hulking form of his savior. Each step they take is clunky and slow, albeit never staggering. Past the front of the car and to the back where he is transferred from the brief safety of strong arms to the dry leather of the backseat.

The door closes behind his feet. A door opens, a door closes. The rain is a lot quieter shielded within the walls of the vehicle. It pitter-patters against the windows, creating a soft melody, combined with the low rumble of the car's engine, that almost lulls Alfred to sleep immediately. But here, his thoughts are louder. Here, he can finally think clearly. Here, he can make out full sentences. Questions. Like the one that is asked the very moment the car slides back onto the road.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?"

An intense fear quickens the pace of Alfred's heart. The hospital. A whirlwind of doctor and nurses prodding and poking and questioning, pestering. A lonely white room drenched in the potent stench of cleansers and sterilized equipment. Sickness in the air, death lurking in the shadows. They'll have to phone his mother. She'll be distraught. As will his brother. He does not want that, nor does he want them to see him in this state. This traumatized, weakened state of confusion.

"N—" the sound drags its way out of his throat, scratchy and hoarse. He clears his throat several times before trying again, increasing the volume of his voice to be heard without doubt or room for discussion. "N-No."

He does not want to go.

"Where is your home?"

"C-Can't re-remember." His answer is made choppy by the twinge of shivers. The cold is ready to make itself known, pricking goosebumps into his arms and legs. Alfred curls into himself once more, cringing at the way the smooth material of the car's seats seems to suction to wet skin.

It's a lie, of course. He remembers well. He remembers everything. But this, this man, whom Alfred catches a brief glimpse of in the rearview mirror, does not know that. Regardless of the way in which their eyes lock in the tiny pane of glass, like violets standing tall, faces turned up toward the sun, under a cloudless blue sky. Harsh and scrutinizing irises that speak wholly of knowledge.

Behind the narrowed eyelids and pinched lips, Alfred can tell that the man is full of unspoken inquiries. None of them come. And for that, he is grateful.

He turns away, switching his focus to the ceiling instead of those overwhelming eyes that possess the ability to see through him. Through his poorly constructed lies.

The drive to nowhere continues on in silence.

"Wake up."

Alfred has no clue how many hours, miles have passed when he is awakened by a rough shove to the shoulders.

The car is no longer purring, the engine is dead. The consistent rat-a-tat of the rain has also ceased; replaced by the chirps of hidden crickets.

"Can you walk?" the man asks, intently inspecting every move Alfred makes from the frame of the car door.

"Yes." Alfred replies. It is much easier this time. And a lot less strained.

True to his word, he peels himself off the leather seats, drags himself to the edge and plants his feet onto solid ground. Grass. Grass covered in miniscule beads of rain. Luscious green grass sprouting from dirt made muddy by the previous showers. He squeezes the soft blades between his toes, savoring the feeling of being able to stand upright.

The man—he has not been offered a name as of yet—steps to the side and closes the car door once Alfred is out of the way.

"This way," he says, ambling deeper into the forest that surrounds them.

Trees, dozens and dozens of trees in every which direction. Tall, too; thick, strong bark that rises on forever. The night sky is barely visible beyond the crosshatching of leaves. It's difficult to follow behind the man with his feet bare and his glasses gone. Dense foliage covers the forest floor in scattered patches. Alfred battles low-hanging branches and invisible prickles to keep up.

It isn't long until the trees break into an open clearing. A large, old-fashioned wooden cabin stands in the center. The style is rustic, obviously constructed for efficiency and not luxury.

A dated cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Alfred's mind quickly surfs through his memories, throwing out the most gruesome, horrifying scenes from every hack-and-slash film he has ever watched. Glinting axes, large machetes, even blunt shovels; all weapons used to tear apart unsuspecting humans who had come to rest in a cabin in a barely known or unknown section of the woods.

His companion, though broad-shouldered and stone-faced, does not reflect the image of a killer. At the very least, not a psychopathic, brutal killer but someone who might lose control due to a short fuse. Not exactly scary, but not something to dismiss either.

The stairs leading to the porch groan under the weight of their footsteps, the wood so swollen with water that the middle caves slightly inward. Alfred considers asking whether the foundation of this home is stable, then thinks better of it. Short fuse , he reminds himself.

There is no need for a key to enter the man's home. With no signs of society for miles, agonizing over turning the locks every day seems to be a useless endeavor.

Inside, the cabin is much more modern. Homely, even. The floorboards do not creak and moan, the walls are nicely polished wooden panels and the furnishings are that what would be found in any ordinary home in the city. Plush area rugs, glass coffee tables, a wall adorned with expensive-looking abstract art that has probably been mass-produced for much cheaper.

Through the living room and down a thin hall, Alfred is led to the bathroom. He spends a moment alone, glancing around the alarmingly small space. There isn't much to see. Just a shower, a sink, a mirror above that, and a toilet. All crammed together. Here, the decor is kept to a minimum: a small rug to catch water from a person's feet after showering, a ceramic soap dish, a plastic rod meant to hold towels and rags.

"Wash. Change."

And a neatly folded pile of clothes topped with a faded blue washcloth plopped onto the sink, is all Alfred gets when the other returns, only to disappear a second later.

Combating a man of few words, Alfred is left to figure out the unmarked knobs for different temperatures of water himself. He quickly slips out of the only item of clothing he has, his underwear, and pushes back the frosted glass of the shower. When he reaches back to grab the washcloth, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The rain, though heavy, hadn't completely cleared his body of dirt. He is filthy. Disgusting. His expression is doe-eyed, yet haunted. Traumatized.

He pulls the shower door closed a tad harder than needed and cringes from the loud clang resounding throughout the tiny bathroom. Naked, he waits tensely for something to happen. He's not sure what but nothing comes, so he reverts his attention back to the task at hand.

There are two identical knobs on the wall. One for hot water, one for cold. Alfred decides to put his faith into the one on the right. The steel is slippery and takes quite a bit of effort to be turned. It fights the process, squealing loudly with each twist until it finally gives in. The shower-head above sputters for a moment before dousing him in a shallow spray of frigid water that's cool enough to make him shout.

A knock comes almost immediately after.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," calls Alfred over the sound of water, fumbling with the knobs until the temperature is just right. Then, in explanation, "Yes, I'm okay. Thank you. I accidentally hit the cold water. It's fine."

"Sorry."

Heavy footfalls signal the man's departure and that is the end of that.

By then, the water is hot enough to be scalding, a relentless torrent that causes Alfred to hiss through clenched teeth. The pain is familiar, welcome, even. A momentary distraction. He leans his head forward, drooping between his shoulders and pulling vertebrae uncomfortably taut. Water rolls down into the channels of his ears, distorting all sense of sound, dredging up memories of dirt and digging.

He slams his palm into the wall, anchoring himself. Softened dirt smears along the once spotless tiles, painting a blurred image of a hand with splayed fingers. The edges bleed. He is bleeding. Bleeding pebbles from asphalt, twigs and leaves from the forests, fat lobs of soil alive with worms. Tears. Most of it clogs the drain.

The process of washing is a tedious project. No matter how hard he scrubs, it is never enough. So Alfred scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs again, with a ferocity that leaves his already mottled skin an irritated pink—a pink that skirts the edges of sickening blues and ugly purples. Until it hurts, like he has rubbed away a layer. But one is nothing. His pain and trauma runs deep beneath the rivulets of mud and soap suds that stream down his body.

When the water runs cold and shivers rack his body, he still does not feel clean. Nevertheless, staying in the shower is not an option, lest he wishes to entice sickness.

With no towel, Alfred hastily shimmies into the clothing provided for him: a large black shirt, a baggy pair of gray sweatpants. The cotton fabric sticks to the beads of water still on his skin, soaking in the moisture and leaving an unpleasant dampness.

He exits the bathroom without inspecting his appearance in the mirror. He doesn't need a glimpse of his reflection to know that his eyes are tinged red from silent bawling and his skin is about as pink as a newborn's from the ruthless drag of the washcloth. Contrary to this, Alfred adopts an award-winning smile anyway—just for show.

The bash and clang of cookware greets him in the narrow hallway, a siren's call for the hungry. The delicious aroma of foreign spices fills the air and a rumble deep in the abdomen joins the fray of pots and pans.

When was the last time he'd eaten?

Lingering in the entryway of the kitchen, Alfred peeks his head in, fingers curling around the wooden frame. There's a large pot simmering on the stove, clouds of steam curling from beneath the lid. On the counter a mere two feet away, various vegetables wait their turn to meet the sharp side of a chef's knife. The silver gives a deadly glimmer as it rises in quick strokes, up and down, that speak of practiced ease. Potatoes, turnips, carrots; all perfectly quartered in a rhythm that does not falter, even when Alfred gathers the courage to speak up.

"Um," he begins, unsure. "Thank you for letting me shower and for giving me clothes."

The chop, chop, chop of the knife against the cutting board is the only reply. Still, Alfred does not give up.

"Well, for everything, really. I appreciate it. You may have saved my life."

That much is true. Good. A healthy dosage of sincerity before the inevitable heaping of lies to be told.

"You are welcome," the man answers, laying down the knife.

He does not seem to be interested in either giving or receiving identification, but Alfred takes the break in strained conversation to add on, "Alfred. My name is Alfred."

A rattling sounds from the stove, the lid to the large pot quaking until it is removed, releasing a mushroom of steam. In the vegetables go, plop, plop, plop. A spoon dips in for a few swirls, then the lid is replaced to let everything simmer. The man strides over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands, setting the knife and cutting board aside. He's drying, a towel wrapped in his fingers, having not yet turned to face Alfred when he whispers softly, "Ivan."

Dinner is composed of a hearty stew and buttery, round rolls. Of each, Alfred is given a generous helping, which he devours with unrestrained gusto. Ivan, on the other hand, is without hurry. Whilst Alfred proceeds to shovel food into his mouth, he bows his head, seemingly in intense concentration, and mutters what Alfred can only assume is grace.

Alfred considers joining in, but thoughts of where he's been, what he's done, what's been done to him. He does not wish to be blasphemous.

Silverware clinks quietly; spoons scraping out the circumference of bowls, knives slicing and spreading butter across bread. The silence hangs over their heads like a ten ton anvil.

There is not much of importance to discuss between two highly cautious strangers with thousands of secrets to hide. When the quiet becomes too much to withstand, Alfred leads them into a trying bout of small talk. Together, they stagger through all the casual points: the weather, local happenings broadcast by the news, sports (of which neither of them has very much knowledge) and everything in between that shies away from anything personal.

It is during another painful lull in conversation that Alfred daringly pushes the limits, compelled by something unknown.

"Don't you worry out here? You know, being in the middle of nowhere and all." And, because he does not get an immediate response, he continues warily, "Wouldn't that make you particularly vulnerable to robbery or something?"

Ivan snorts humorlessly into his soup, swirling the spoon through a maze of thick chunks of vegetables and tender beef. "No. I have a gun."

Alfred freezes, his own spoon full of stock-soaked potato halfway between his lips. He is forced to gulp down a mouthful of uncertainty before he can continue to eat. Suddenly, the savory taste of the stew is gone. Everything is bland. If Ivan notices this hesitation, he does not speak on it.

It is a rather long moment before Alfred finds the strength to talk again, tone meek, "What if someone gets to it before you?"

At this, Ivan lifts his head, cold eyes blazing with flames blue enough to rival even the darkest indigoes. And though his bowl is not completely empty, he rises abruptly from the table with an ear-piercing shriek from the chair as it drags across the floor, and drops it into the sink with a clatter.

"Then it would not matter. I can assure you that if someone were to get to it before me, I would surely already be dead."

He bids Alfred goodnight and retires to his room. In the kitchen, the atmosphere remains somber. Alfred finishes his meal alone and in silence. He has his answer, at the very least. All that's left is the matter of what to do with it. Perhaps it'll come to him over a bowl full of seconds.

I have a gun. I have a gun… a gun.

Ivan's words echo without end in Alfred's head.

A gun. A weapon used to kill. Here—in this very house. At his disposal.

Is it meant to be? Has destiny led Ivan to save him, to bring him home and take care of him so that he may retrieve it? After all, where will he get a firearm of his own? But he hasn't yet decided how to recover from his… incident. The intended result had been death, right? So of course, in the name of justice, it is only right for him to return the favor, is it not?

Lying prone on his back, Alfred mindlessly studies the ceiling, counting and recounting the wooden panels. In the darkness, without his glasses, it is a difficult task, but the needed focus keeps his thoughts from reeling.

The crickets are quieter now, singing in hushed whispers that glide into the room on a light breeze that filters through the open window. Hidden within the grass, they share Alfred's paranoia. They do not want to disturb the stillness of the night. Alfred follows their lead, slipping out of bed without so much as a sound.

The trees, however, are not nearly as kind. Their branches shudder with the force of the wind, sending the leaves in a chattering uproar that fills the darkness with pure noise; a boon that disguises the occasional creak of his tip-toed footsteps and a curse that destroys his ability to detect the movements of others. So he waits, going about his mission in odd increments that flow with each inhale and exhale of the air.

Inhale; he stops by the door to the guest bedroom where he is meant to be lying asleep.

Exhale; he pushes it open, mutely praying that the squeak of the hinges cannot be heard over the rustling leaves, and creeps out into the empty hall. There is but one window to allow in the skimpiest rays of cloaked moonlight, and it is located at the very end, at the start of the wraparound that leads into the living room area. The opposite of where he plans to go.

Inhale, exhale; it is a game of stop and go until he reaches the door to the master bedroom. Again, he hears those words. I have a gun, Ivan whispers into his ear, though with his other pressed against the door, Alfred can pick up on the huffing sighs of the man snoring. This knowledge, however, does nothing to lessen his fear. Around the brass knob of the door, his fingers tremble. There is no excuse he can provide for sneaking into Ivan's room late at night, therefore, he cannot afford to be caught.

What do you have to lose, Alfred thinks in attempt of a weak mental pep talk. But it works.

On the next exhale of the wind, he pushes the door open slightly and slips through the tiny crack of space. It is a squeeze made easy by his concave body from a sucked in breath that he never seems to let go of. Not even when he is over the threshold and feet away from Ivan's sleeping form. He looks utterly exhausted, asleep on his side, yet tensely straight.

In here the moonlight that pours through the open window with the curtains drawn neatly at both sides is oddly brighter. Like there is a break in the trees outside, less leaves to obscure the sky. A haunting glow cast over Ivan's face. His expression is not relaxed and Alfred wonders if the moon disturbs his rest. Will it wake him?

There is no time to think about it. Get in and get out, is the plan.

Two identical nightstands, adorned with identical lamps, are pushed against either side of the large king-sized bed. They each have a drawer for storage, and an open shelf area below that filled with books. Behind the door is a tall dresser with antique style drawer pulls. A closet is to the far right of that. All places where one might store a weapon.

Alfred starts with the dresser, going out of his way to always have Ivan directly within his vision. He slides the top drawer open as quietly as possible to reveal an assortment of folded shirts, digs beneath and between them. Nothing. As goes the same for the rest of the compartments. The only thing that changes is the type of clothing found in each; shirts, pants, loungewear, socks (two pairs go into his pocket).

Next, he tries the nightstand to Ivan's back. Just as he pulls it open, the other snorts, shifting to roll over. Alfred cannot breathe, struggles to keep from bolting. Out of fear, he closes his eyes, if only for a split second. The rapid movement behind Ivan's eyelids can be a good or a bad thing. Once more, he reminds himself that he does not have time to think.

The drawer to the nightstand is hard to open. A jerking movement is needed, but it pulls from the frame with a jarring squeal and Alfred is too frightened to chance opening it fully. Half way through the process, he gives up and shoves a hand into the dark space to feel around. His fingertips jab into what feel likes metal. A box? Around the edges and to the front something dangles off. A lock?

This has to be it!

It takes a bit of shifting and wiggling, banging and jangling, but the item is eventually drawn from depths of the drawer and clutched in Alfred's arms. He doesn't examine it before putting things back as they were and sneaking across the room is long strides. A chance glance back toward the bed shows that Ivan has not moved and Alfred's heart finally ceases its skittering beat when the door is closed.

No longer concerned about stealth, be scurries down the hall past the guest bedroom and into the living room. There, he inspects his bounty. It is, indeed, a locked box. A heavy but flimsy looking thing of a relatively moderate size. The lock does not appear to be much sturdier, tiny with a hole at the bottom that requires a key—nothing a heavy rock cannot disable. He shakes it, not sure what it is he is listening for, and it gives a rattle.

Whether it is what he wants or not, Alfred does not have the time to find out. Time, he finds, is something he has long since run out of. He is a dead man walking.

One second, he is standing in Ivan's home, barefoot with guilt written all over his face. The next, he is racing through the trees under the watchful gaze of the moonlight. Branches grab for him, trying to drag him back, snagging on his clothes and skin. Dead leaves crunch beneath his feet, weighed down by boots much too big and filled with socks to compensate. Alfred runs until his lungs burn and pain seeps into his ribs.

He does not know where he is going. He does not know what he will do. For now, he is not thinking of the gun he will fire three times, the three bullets he will shoot into an unsuspecting victim, the ticking bomb he will become.

That all will come later.