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Once Upon a Time –

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There was a boy named Alfred F Jones.

Alfred F Jones lived, rather happily, in a life that was sort of like a fairytale only mostly not.

Admittedly, he did have a stepmother/father. But Francis wasn't horrible. He talked too much and insisted Alfred keep his room clean and wear stupid clothes, but Alfred supposed he wasn't completely horrifying. His actual father was Arthur, but since Arthur was always away on business and only came home to give him a quick hug and make him some bad food and tell him to brush his hair – like that hypocrite could talk, because he's seen that insane blonde mop that Artie likes to call "hair" – and then go fuck Francis in a broom closet somewhere. He also has a step-brother named Mattie, but he is absolutely horrible at being an evil step-brother. Half the time Alfred either doesn't know he exists, and the other half Mattie is making him pancakes, and he supposes the other, other half would be spending time with that stupid Cuban who always tried to kick him in the shin whenever he saw Alfred. The Cuban might make a good evil step-brother.

He also lived in a pretty castle in the middle of nowhere, all crumbling stone walls and creeping vines and glitter. Of course, he's not a prince – even though that would be fucking awesome – it's just that it was handed down in Francis's family, so that's just how that works.

Anyway. One day he, as a typical 17 year old kid with an absent father figure and a stepmother/father, decides that running away would be an absolutely fantastic idea.

So he throws some extra clothes into a pack, and makes Mattie make him some sandwiches, and then he leaves out the front door.

.

"He'll come back, right Francis?"

"Alfred, what – Mathieu? What are you talking about?"

"Alfred. He just left."

"Oh. He's probably just gone to play video games with that Kiku friend of his."

"But he said –"

"Really, Mathieu, you need to worry less. It'll give you wrinkles.

.

After about 15 minutes, he realizes that he is lost in the woods and this might have been a stupid idea.

Also, he ate all of Mattie's sandwiches, and he's hungry.

So he decides to turn around.

And then he walks that way for about 10 minutes.

And then he runs into a wall of skulls.

And then he screams.

"Oh, god, don't scream! You'll wake him up!" The smallest skull mutters.

"Be quiet, Raivis. You'll scare him."

"I think he's already terrified. Um. Sir? Are you all right? Please don't run away!"

And Alfred doesn't run away.

He sprints.

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Somehow the (very terrifying) skulls manage to send tree roots to grab his feet, and there are about two seconds of (also very terrifying) blackness and then he opens his eyes and he is staring at someone's (very shiny)(but also very terrifying) boots.

The boots connect to legs, which connects to an overcoat, which connects to a scarf, which connects to a face.

The face has a big nose.

(That is Alfred's first impression. He is a teenager.)

It also has a smile that isn't very comforting and his hair is very white and his eyes are very purple.

Alfred closes his eyes really tight again and looks back up.

Nope. The smile is still not comforting and the nose is still big.

"You are not a small child."

And he speaks with this wicked Russian accent.

"Um. No?"

"The gate should not have let you in…"

"… It did?"

"I don't enjoy eating young men. They don't taste as good."

"… What?"

"I will have to have a talk with that gate. You – get in the house."

"…What?"

The blonde is pretty sure he's not looking at a house. But then, he's still on the ground and all he can see is some blades of sad looking brown grass and black boots, so perhaps he isn't the one to ask if you wanted a detailed essay on his current surroundings.

"Are you some kind of fucking idiot, da? The one on chicken legs."

Alfred continued to stare blankly as the very tall Russian stormed off and started screaming at the trembling gate.

(He wasn't really listening to whatever he was screaming. Francis always told him he was very good at not listening to things and saying how maybe they should take him to a child psychologist, but Arthur had always just called him a dumbshit, so whatever.)

Then he stands up.

And there is a house. Wooden, a little shaky looking. Three windows. One door.

On chicken legs.

That should weird him out more.

But (and he likes to think of this as his survival instincts kicking in) he ignores that dilemma (how did it move, were chicken legs a good mode of transportation, why not pigeon legs) and made a running jump over the fence.

The next thing Alfred remembered was a lot of black and someone saying "he's stupider than that five year old with the sailor suit."

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This time, when he wakes up, the floor is wooden and he can see the leg of a table and a forgotten hair ribbon and a mysterious red stain on the floor.

And shiny black boots.

So he screams.

"Enough, da?" The Russian says, smiling, pressing a hand to Alfred's mouth to muffle it. "I'm trying to figure out what to do with you and the screaming is just making me want to bash your head in with a pipe."

Alfred stops screaming.

He really doesn't want his head bashed in.

The Russian removes his hand.

"Please don't eat me."

"I don't plan to. Teenagers taste disgusting."

This, for some reason, does not comfort Alfred in the least bit. And he is even more worried about what that mysterious red stain on the ground was, because –

"There is still the problem of what to do with you, of course. It was between making you into a piece of the fence –"

Alfred makes a choking noise, because in the two times he's met the fence he's noticed that it was made out of bones and skulls and other such things that do not naturally come out of his body while he is still alive.

"Or attempting to disguise that disgusting taste with some array of spices and lots of vodka. This Basa-Jaun – Antonio – gave me a set last Christmas and I haven't gotten a chance to use them yet –"

Again, this does not sound like a good option. Alfred would really like to be alive.

"And then I could just throw you out of the house. You'd probably die, but it would be the least amount of trouble. It's actually quite fun – I've done it before. Or you could just be a maid. I've needed a maid, ever since I had to make Toris into part of the fence. Which one do you think would be best, da?"

Dammit.

Alfred really hated cleaning.

Arthur always used to make him clean his room. Like, every day. After his toy volcano had exploded, after he and Mattie had that peanut butter-chili pepper fight, after he made that fort out of his pillows and then attacked it with scissors to make sure it was safe.

He really hated cleaning.

Of course, he was pretty sure he really liked breathing. And, like, being alive.

"Um. Is there a fifth option?"

The Russian gave him a level stare.

"Fine. I'll be a maid."

A smile stretched across the taller man's face – a creepy ass smile – and he handed Alfred a mop.

"Perfect! You can start with the floors. Two rules; call me Ivan and don't touch the jar on the second shelf of the kitchen cabinet. Have fun, da?"

Alfred doesn't even know what da fucking means and he really really hates cleaning and the floor is fucking filthy, anyway.

(Also he sort of wants to open the jar. Like right now.)

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It is roughly two seconds later that Alfred remembers some stupid fairy tale Alfred used to tell him about an old lady who lived in a house on chicken legs and ate children and had a big nose and – oh shit.

"Are you a baga flabba?"

Ivan gives him a look.

"If by that you mean baba yaga, then yes, I am."

"… Why aren't you an old lady?"

Ivan's smile dims, for like two seconds.

"Why aren't you cleaning?"

Alfred doesn't really have an answer to that.

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About five minutes later, Ivan comes over and tells him he is mopping like an idiot.

Yeah. Alfred takes offense to that.

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The jar Ivan was talking about (that Alfred really wants to open) turns out to be a pretty simple black thing with a metal stopper and a white note on it that says something in a language that is not English, so Alfred doesn't really try to read it.

He's about to open it when Ivan comes up behind him, so instead he has to really quick pretend like he was dusting.

(Ivan doesn't really buy it, apparently, because he tells him to go lick the windows clean.)

.

During the first two weeks of working for Baba-Yaga-Fo-Fagga-Bastard-Ivan-Who-Is-Not-An-Old-Lady Alfred learns that he really hates when Alfred talks, always smiles, and has some kind of sixth sense about the damn jar.

He learns, about himself, in some kind of really deep soul-searching, that he really likes annoying Ivan but otherwise hates it here and he really wants to open that jar, also, he still really hates cleaning.

.

"What are you doing now, maid?"

"My name is Alfred, I mean –"

"Don't care so much, da? Okay?"

"Well that's a little bit –"

"Just tell me what exactly you think you're doing."

"… Cleaning the windows. Like you told me to. Like the most fucking perfect maid in existence. Okay?"

Alfred makes sure to drag out the "okay" because after only a few hours – where he's done more work than he's done in like, his lifetime – he's learned that Ivan hates it. Also, possibly, that he doesn't have a life because all he does is go into that room with the black door and come out every few minutes to tell Alfred he's not cleaning right.

"You're leaving streaks. Did your idiotic parents not teach you how to clean?"

"Hey now –"

Ivan throws a book at his head.

"Look up the word clean and redo it."

.

"Clean: free from dirt or impurities; or having clean habits; "clean white shirts," "cats are clean animals."

Alfred rolls his eyes.

He hates dictionaries almost as much as cleaning and he's pretty sure that next to "bastard" there is a picture of Ivan.

.

Really, Ivan was just a giant awful stupid evil terrorist thing and Alfred hated him.

A lot.

.

Also, there were all these rules –

Every single time Alfred found something to make the stupid monotony of wakeup-clean-sleep-don't-open-the-jar bearable, Ivan completely tore it down.

The time he made a drum set out of all the pots and pans – he ended up having to clean every single one, because Ivan said dust might have gotten on them.

(Yeah, dust from the floor Alfred had cleaned, and dammit if he wasn't getting really good at cleaning.)

The time he tried to make burgers out of the stuff Ivan had in his pantry – which seemed limited to vodka, fish, sour milk, cabbage, and mushrooms – and Ivan had come in with some sick smile on his face and broke the last fucking bottle of vodka over Alfred's head.

(And that had fucking hurt. Like a lot. Like he was surprised he hadn't gone unconscious.)

The time he decided to sleep in – Ivan had stormed into his room and dumped a giant bucket of ice cold water onto his bed.

It had taken about three days for it to all dry and Ivan made him clean lint out of all of Ivan's stupid overcoats.

He could go on.

The biggest rule was still probably the jar thing, though.

And Alfred had an issue with not going into things he was not supposed to go into.

For example, the time he'd looked into Francis's "special closet" and found –

Actually, he really didn't want to go into that. Alfred had tried really hard to repress that memory.

That actually probably should have cured his whole issue with not going into things he was not supposed to and he should probably think of having a shorter name for that.

But, really, he just needs to know what's in the jar.

Like, what if it's a bloody hand or the secret to get out of this place or some super awesome cool thing or a deluxe hamburger or a deadly virus or, like, a super cool leather jacket or an eyeball or a moon bounce.

(… It could happen.)

.

It's because of that issue (that he still hasn't thought of a name for) that ends up having this conversation with Ivan:

"Hey man –"

"I've told you not to call me that."

"Yeah, whatever. Anyway. I opened that jar you were going on about, and like, nothing happened."

Something like fear flits across Ivan's face.

"You… opened the jar?"

"Um. Yeah. Seriously. There was some crummy white bow inside, but that's it."

"… Did you close it again?"

"Why would I do that?"

Ivan is seriously starting to freak him out, really, because he's like paler than snow and his eyes are all huge and he's kind of sort of shaking, and for the first time in like forever he doesn't look like a total epic bastard, so Alfred sort of puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder – to make him feel better, just as a decent human being, not because he wants to, because Ivan is still a total bastard and –

It's about that time he is tackled by a skinny girl in a blue dress, holding a very scary looking knife.

(Somewhere, he hears Ivan scream.)

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When Alfred wakes up – and dear god, he has passed out more times in the last month than he has in his entire fucking life before this, it's sort of an insult to his manly pride – there is a (actually kinda sorta pretty) girl leaning over him with a knife.

"He is weak, brother. Weaker than Toris. This is who you choose to replace me?"

"To be fair, Natalia – you never really cleaned."

Ivan's voice is shaky and his eyes are really big and he looks worse than when Alfred told him he opened the jar, which is kind of really bad.

(Also, Alfred is just realizing that the girl looks kind of like Ivan – dishwater blonde hair and violet-blue eyes and pale skin, and if the girl is pretty, then that kind of makes Ivan pretty and that sort of screws with his world view.)

(Then again, so does dying.)

"That's not the point brother. Why won't you let me be your wife?"

"W-wait. Isn't that incest?"

He's ignored, other than the knife pressing into his throat a little bit more.

Ivan looks like Alfred looks when he opened Francis's "special closet."

It's actually kind of adorable. (Not the special closet thing. Dear god, not the special closet thing.) And actually, probably not that Ivan is terrified for his life, but he sort of looks like a scared little kid and Alfred feels the kind of urge to give him a hug.

… Or something.

"… S-sister…" Ivan chokes out. "Please let Alfred go."

"Alfred," The girl whines and the knife digs in deeper and Alfred's pretty sure he can see blood, like fucking real blood, and he hasn't been this scared since Ivan almost ate him, "you're calling him by his name now?"

Alfred really should have been able to think of some super witty thing to say right then, but it's kind of hard to be witty and smart and hero-esque when your throat is fucking bleeding, so instead he just summons every ounce of inner strength he possesses and kicks at her stomach, really hard.

And in some kind of show of pure luck that his life has been severely lacking in recently, she falls into the lit fireplace and disintegrates into ashes, like the kind of witches Artie used to tell him stories about – when the little kids always kicked ass and no one's throat bled and there were no incestuous sisters and dammit he'd better not be crying.

Ivan grips his arm, his eyes betraying this sick kind of desperation.

"Ow." Alfred sort of manages to choke – he's not sure whether it's for his heart or his arm or his neck or maybe because his eyes are sort of tearing up – but Ivan doesn't really let go of his arm, instead just sort of pulls Alfred into some kind of embrace and Alfred maybe almost hugs back.

.

After that, life is… not exactly, "good," but probably better than before. There's no jar that he has to deal with, Ivan lets him sleep in on Saturdays, he only had to mop the floors seven times instead of nine until Ivan called them satisfactory, Ivan didn't throw dishes at him anymore…

Also, Alfred got to lord it over Ivan that he had totally saved his fucking ass and that was always good.

So, yeah.

It's kind of like something has changed, too, like with Ivan (other than the whole slightly less sadistic steak) because sometimes Alfred will look up from whatever mind numbing task he's been working on and Ivan will just be staring at him, and he doesn't even stop when Alfred calls him a "fucking creeper."

But Alfred sort of lives with it because sometimes, when Ivan's looking at him, it doesn't actually feel that horrible, but kind of warm and safe and nice or whatever.

He still hates cleaning.

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About a week after the whole creepy-sister-incest deal, Alfred decides that maybe his family might miss him.

So he asks Ivan for stamps, like a normal, sane person.

(This is a lie. Ivan caught him turning the house upside down searching for them, and after many scary glares and death threats, Alfred told him what he was looking for.)

"For what?"

"To like – write my family."

"… You have a family?"

"Well, yeah, duh. Everyone does. Even you apparently, even though I know we agreed not to think about that, but I was thinking about it with your creepy incestuous sister and all, not that me and Mattie are incestuous or anything, but you know. I mean. I figure they should know where I am."

Ivan stands – very, very still – for a few seconds.

Alfred kind of shuffles his feet a bit and whistles part of some song.

"… So… Stamps?"

Ivan storms out.

.

A few seconds later, he storms back in and throws a roll of stamps right at Alfred's eyes, but then he just storms back out again a few seconds later.

.

Alfred spends about three hours attempting to figure out what to write.

He's got it down to:

Dear Artie, Francis, and Mattie –

He then realizes Ivan isn't back yet, so he puts down the letter for a second to look for him.

.

Ivan isn't in his bedroom, the closet that Alfred sleeps in, the kitchen, the room with all the creepy glass vials, the pantry, hanging outside a window, or hiding in any of the jars that Alfred managed to find.

He crosses out the "dear" on his letter and dusts the fireplace out of boredom.

Then he looks up the chimney, just to make sure Ivan isn't like hiding or something.

.

(He's not.)

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After hour five of Ivan being gone, Alfred starts to wonder if he did something wrong.

.

After hour six and half, the blonde wonders if it was the mention of his sister. Incestuous sisters tended to tick people off.

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After hour eight, there is a sort of shuffling sound as the door is opened.

(Alfred does not jump up immediately and go see who it is. That would be stupid.)

It's Ivan, though.

"Would you leave me, Alfred?"

"Huh?"

Ivan is drunk, Alfred's pretty sure, because he kind of reeks like hell of vodka and ickiness – Alfred likes beer, okay, not stupid other alcohol except maybe tequila – and Alfred gets the feeling that this is not going to be so fun of a day.

(Those three skulls on the gate screaming about death and whips probably aren't helping either.)

But Ivan is just kind of swaying and humming some kind of waltz and his cheeks are kind of pink, like maybe he's blushing.

"If I just left the door open, and left the gate open, and everything – would you leave? You have a family, da? Do you miss them? It's okay if you want to leave. But, da, I think I might love you. And I would be sad if you left. But you hate me, so that doesn't really matter."

As though to make a point, he opens the door wide and gestures and then –

Almost falls.

Alfred, being the kind, super awesome hero not-maid pulls him back from the brink.

And suddenly Ivan's face is really close to Alfred's and his breath fucking reeks, but his eyes are really pretty so Alfred doesn't exactly make the conscious effort to pull away.

It actually takes him about 2 minutes to realize Ivan has fallen asleep with his eyes closed, or passed out, or maybe had some kind of weird Russian voodoo put on him, and it would be pretty damn cruel to leave him in a state like this, so Alfred sends a look (that he tries to make come across as wistful, but he's pretty sure he just looked annoyed) and kicks the door closed.

Then he carries (drags) Ivan to his room and throws some blankets on top of him and lies down on the (clean) floor to think about how much he hates life and cleaning and dictionaries and incest and (maybe) not Ivan.

.

Also, it is possible that Ivan got the idea that Alfred was going to leave or something. Maybe. It's the most logical thing Alfred's managed to come up with.

(Well, either that or that Ivan is suffering from hamburger withdrawal.)

(It's a fucking legit medical concern.)

.

Anyway, in order to prepare for both things, Alfred wakes up, before Ivan for once (even though that might have just been the whole hangover thing), and prepares a hamburger and some kind of speech.

The hamburger is actually mushrooms with ketchup between two slices of wheat bread, and it sickens Alfred to look at it, but it'll have to do.

The speech –

Yeah, he's still working on the speech.

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Ivan is sitting up in bed with a damn scary smile on his face when Alfred walks in.

"What is that, Alfred?"

"Oh – well, it was supposed to be a hamburger but your pantry is shit –"

"Don't insult my pantry, Alfred."

"Hey! You should be nicer to me, I like – I mean. I made this thing and I mean, seriously – do you even remember last night?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about. You have things to clean, da?"

"No, dude. Shut the fuck up. I hate cleaning."

"Then why don't you just leave – isn't that what you want? To leave and go back to whatever idiotic family and leave me alone."

Ivan kind of spits the word out, with this intense scary gleam in his eye.

Alfred sort of wants to punch him in the face, but he doesn't, because he has a point to make and there will be time for punching later.

(There'd better be fucking time for punching later, because Ivan is pissing him off and he's still smiling like some sort of idiot and Alfred hates him except he doesn't.)

"That is what I'm trying to tell you, fucker. So just, like, shut up and listen. I mean. I'm just saying. That. I guess. It's possible. I mean, obviously it's kind of hell here, because I have to clean and dust and you're kind of an asshole with a creepy ass sister, but I mean, even though the skulls are freaky and you don't have hamburgers – I might not completely hate it here and I might not want to leave and I maybe kind of almost love you. Maybe."

In the next second Alfred's feet are no longer touching the ground because Ivan has swept him up in some kind of bear hug and kissed him.

Alfred can't exactly say he hates it.

(But legit – they are going to have to get someone else to clean the house.)

.

Eventually (because mail from houses on giant chicken legs in Russia is not the most reliable) Matthew and Francis and Arthur get a letter.

It's from Alfred.

(At this point, Arthur breaks down into tears and Francis continues reading his book and Matthew is the only one sane enough to actually open the letter.)

Artie, Franny, Mattie –

Have fallen in love with bala-boyoga-fo-falla-mo-jamma named Ivan.

Will visit for Christmas.

Love – Alfred.

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Baba Yaga – Scary Russian witch who lives in a house on chicken legs. I remember her most from this episode of Arthur – the show with the non-aardvark – but that is just me and my childhood nostalgia and all that. She's supposed to kidnap and possibly eat small children. (And be a woman. We can't have everything.)

Basa Juan – A Spanish spirit who plays tricks on humans. Mentioned only because I am a nerd.

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Eff. Crack. I should really be used to it by now.
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