He moves out on July 4th, three days after his eighteenth birthday. He would've moved out three days earlier, but this, this is when old sweaters from aunts and uncles, sloppy handmade cards from "friends" who couldn't be bothered to check the date, tattered clothing and games missing a die or two, this is when they always (finally) arrived. Sometimes, before, he would pretend that the fireworks other houses set off (not them, never them; for all they are American his papa is French and his father is English, and Matthew is Matthew, somehow not quite American. Quieter, perhaps) were for him, and he would think, this is mine, this is mine, this is mine, but he wouldn't really believe it, not really, couldn't force himself because it wasn't true.

He does not look back. He is tempted, certainly, perhaps to thumb his nose, to make a rude gesture, to force them to realize just how much he always hurt, but it would not work and it's cleaner, somehow, not to look back. They can't make him stay. They can't do anything, now. He never has to see them again.

(And it hurts, a little, that even now they won't even notice, that even now he means nothing to them, that in all this time they never once cared)

But he's leaving, now. Leaving, forever. Not looking back.

The relief is unexpected.

He joins the army; it seems the sensible solution for a boy like him. He's never really been much good at anything, beyond science and athletics, and at least here he'll be doing something. Perhaps he'll even be useful. Besides, Francis and Arthur (not his parents, not anymore had they known (had they cared), would've probably disapproved. So that's worth something, at least.

He enjoys the military. True, the drill sergeants treat him like the scum on the bottom of their shoes, but that is simply their job; there's no malice behind it. And at least they care enough to yell if he doesn't do things right. His squadron is something like nice; they don't ignore him, at least, although he doubts they really like him, either.

Almost a year has passed, and he thinks of his birthday only fleetingly. Birthdays, still, are a sign of days long past, and there is no point at all in looking back. It's notable more because it's his first year in the army than because it's another year in his life.

And so by the time his birthday rolls around – his real one, July 1st – he isn't even really thinking about it at all, spares it only one brief thought and forgets the matter entirely until lunch.

Because during lunch, though Alfred takes his accustomed spot, Ivan most certainly does not.

Ivan Braginski is from Russia. He is large, and intimidating, and he lurks as near the back as he can manage and he never says a word. The rumors about him are idle, for of course he rarely changes, and so there is only the occasionally whispered tales of his murders, of his insanity. Alfred has never thought much about him. He could've been a rival, perhaps, if things had been different, but as it stands Ivan is unprovokable and Alfred ignores him.

But usually he sits alone.

Today he slides into the seat beside Alfred, and, quite shyly, slides a sandwich of some sort in front of him. Alfred merely glances at him, confused.

"I..." Ivan's voice is surprisingly childish, surprisingly high-pitched. "I. Heard it was your birthday, and, well, I just." He looks down suddenly. "I didn't. Umm. Sorry."

Alfred just breathes for a moment. He can't quite think.

Because... he's never told anyone what his birthday was, except long, long ago, and it isn't even really July 1st anymore. Everything is wrong and somehow a man he's never even talked to, a man he's never spared the least thought, somehow, somehow he knows Alfred's birthday and the world is too large and too small at the same time and he can't.

"...How?" He breathes, the cafeteria loud beyond the absolute still chaos of his thoughts. "How did you..."

Ivan blushes, white skin going brilliant red. "I... I have a friend, from Estonia, and he. Umm. He hacks, and I was just, well, you don't really talk to anyone that much, and so I. I thought it'd be nice to get you something? But then it was too late and so I couldn't but I felt bad so..."

Alfred can't himself from staring, staring at this wonderful human being who, somehow, impossibly, cares about him. He cares enough to... and he can barely even think it, because maybe it's just a sandwich but this is the only person who has ever given him a gift on his birthday.

"I... Thank you. Thank you, Ivan. Thank you."

And Ivan fidgets and Alfred stares and the other troops point and whistle and it doesn't matter at all.

(Later Ivan will tell him it's peanut butter, and Alfred will say he's allergic, and the conversation – such as it is – will stall, but that's alright. Because it's his birthday, change be damned, and nothing is wrong with the world, not today.)

(And years after, when the military is but a distant dream and they can barely imagine the world without each other, any more, Alfred will give Ivan a peanut butter sandwich, epipen in hand, and they will kiss and laugh and reminisce, Alfred wearing the antique bomber jacket Ivan bought him for their first anniversary, Ivan wearing the slightly lopsided pink scarf Alfred knitted him that Christmas.)

Alfred has a husband and a house and a whole universe. Maybe, just maybe, he's someone after all.

Okay so I really have no idea how the military actually works, and I really didn't feel like research. There are multiple areas that are potentially way, way, off. I'm sorry.

And yay for unexpected second chapters! Hope you all enjoy it!