#aphrarepairsweek2018

Alfred takes his hand in his, standing with one quick push and pulling Ludwig up with him. The blood rushes towards his head, heat flaming in his cheeks, but before he can protest, Alfred is tugging him past the next container.

He crouches out of instinct, too aware of the myriad of dangers around them. He’s running numbers faster than he can see them, simulations and scenarios bouncing past his scrolling eyes. He knows already that they won’t both make it out alive, and he suspects that Alfred knows as well. His hand has not been released. Alfred is still close, puffing warm air against his cheek. Never does he stay this close. Never does he squeeze Ludwig’s hand gently by their thighs. Ludwig hates goodbyes, but he almost hopes that this is Alfred’s. He almost hopes that this is his way of saying he cares, he cared, he will care when Ludwig is inevitably blown to wire and dust.

Because that is what will occur. It’s obvious which of them must die- if you could call it that for a thing like him- for the other’s sake. Ludwig frowns into the dusk.

“This way.” He murmurs, guiding Alfred up, their hands still linked between them.

They hurry between the stacked boxes. Another explosion flares, red heat and black smoke. It’s closer. They’re closer.

Alfred wrenches his hand from Ludwig’s and claps his hands over his ears, wincing, and Ludwig prods him on. He’s scanning for the easiest exit. They’ll be watching, but if he stalls them, if he lets them shoot him down, maybe Alfred will have the chance to escape.

Behind him Alfred coughs, beaten red dust thrown up around them and into Alfred’s lungs. The dry heat is pushing his cooling system into overdrive, and his processor is overloading with rapid fire calculations of their abysmal situation. Alfred swipes his hand across his face, streaked with sweat and grime, and leaves a stripe of dirt where his palm hits his forehead. He’s bruised, a panging reminder of his mortality, and grimacing, the steady fire of drive burning hot behind his eyes. He still looks like the sun, like he always does. Too much, too bright, too generous to a cold, heartless galaxy and too kind to an inhuman hunk of wires and code; to Ludwig.

It hurts too much to look. Ludwig presses on.

“Lud. Lud, we can’t go this way. We’ll be cornered. We’ll die.” Alfred’s voice is taut, drawn downwards like his brows.

Ludwig doesn’t stop. He swallows down the lump in his throat. He walks, one foot in front of the other, and takes Alfred forward by the hand. A barrage of shots cut through the chaos. Someone screams, and Ludwig keeps his eyes trained ahead. Dust, rust, sweeping red wasteland- He pretends the next cry doesn’t cut through whatever thing in him is calling up this empathy when he shouldn’t, by any law of nature, be capable of any.

Alfred pulls back on his hand, gripping tight. “Lud. Ludwig. Stop. We can’t go that way. We have to try something else. That’s just- that’s fucking suicide.”

“We have to.” Ludwig’s voice breaks, and he curses himself internally. Defective. Defective rings through his head. He cannot be afraid. That isn’t his right.

“No, we have to.” He asserts and pulls Alfred on. “This is the only way to a ship.”

“They’ll be on us in seconds.” Alfred’s voice hops up.

Stress, Ludwig’s processor supplies. He’s experiencing stress. Ludwig’s chest contracts at the reading, and he shakes his head. No help; it’s no help. Ludwig knows this already, knows what the pressed lips mean, knows what the wracking coughs imply, knows every goddamn effect this hellish planet has on Alfred’s painfully human physiology.

“Ludwig, listen to me! There won’t be enough time to escape, and the escape pod in there only fits one fucking guy! One small guy!” Alfred yanks back on his hand.

And it hurts. Not the hand, but his voice. It sounds like thinly veiled panic, like a try for strong when your chances burn to wire and dust before your eyes. And it hurts. His words. Of course, Alfred expects them both to live. Of course, he expects them to fly victorious to their ship and leave this system’s hell for at least a day. (But he’d return. It’s what Alfred does: fights the impossible with reckless hope.) It’d be too easy for Alfred to expect Ludwig to simply do his job. It’d be too simple, too kind of fate.

“I have a plan. It will work, I promise.” Ludwig frowns, stopped and staring Alfred straight in the eyes. They’re blue, warm blue, beautiful and gripping, and he wants this to be the last thing he sees before he joins oblivion because he doubts there’s any salvation for androids. Ludwig curses. Not now.

Alfred hesitates. He stands stock-still in the shadow of a crate, the desert sun casting him and the dust in shades of blue. Another cry goes up, and the sound of shouting rises above the din. Ludwig freezes. They’re running short on time.

“Fine. It better not be some risky shit for you.” Alfred nods, quirking briefly in a smile. His expression falls determined, and he hurries out towards the home of their pod. Ludwig stumbles after him, a new lump in his throat.

The barn stands beaten by the wind. It’s rickety wood, nailed here and there, and the door swings in and out on rusted hinges. It should be simple to reach. It can’t be more than a hundred meters. Only there aren’t any boxes or scrubby bushes or crates to hide behind, and the shouts are growing nearer.

“We have to run.” Ludwig manages. His voice sounds as dry as he feels. “We have to run as fast as we can.”

“I trust you.” Alfred murmurs.

Before Ludwig can process, they’ve taken off towards the barn. A cacophony of voices erupts behind them, and if Ludwig tilts his head just right, he can hear the sounds of reloading guns. He wants to look back, wants to see how close they are, but every second is precious. He doesn't look back. He keeps right behind Alfred even though he knows he could go faster and prays to whatever higher powers there may be that they’ll shoot him, not Alfred.

The first shot grazes his cheek, whizzes by his skin and cuts cold, silver coolant welling up from the cut. The wetness comes seconds before the pain, but it’s not much, just stinging, and Ludwig knows it’s the program simulating adrenaline working magic through his wires. He can hear the bullets, see them slice the dust-laden air if he slows his processing down long enough to watch, but no others hit him, and they scramble into the building.

Alfred stops, turns. He stares at him, wild-eyed, until he spots the cut on his cheek. He reaches out to touch it, but Ludwig is faster than Alfred at reading situations, at reading him, and as much as he wants Alfred to cup his cheek and ask him if it hurts, Ludwig knows they have no time.

He pushes his hand down. He can still hear the guns going off in the distance. “I’m fine. Hurry, Alfred.”

“Shit. Yeah.”

Alfred sprints towards the pod. He’s in within seconds, mashing buttons and murmuring sequences beneath his breath. Ludwig can’t see him behind the wood stacked thick in front of the pod, but he doesn’t need to see to know. He can hear, and he can guess. He looks out the door, squinting into the sunlight. He can make out the men rushing forward, guns loaded and cocked. He reaches forward, slamming closed the door and pushing in the lock. If he was human, his heart would be racing.

“Ludwig, get over here! I just-” Alfred stops. Something begins whirring in the engine.

Ludwig hurries over. They have a little time yet.

“Slide in. I think-” Alfred presses up against the side, gesturing to a space clearly too small for the both of them. “-I think we can fit.”

“We can’t.” Ludwig states. He sounds robotic, calm and detached, and it’s funny. He was programmed to be not, to be human, and it worked, but almost too well.

Alfred groans, standing with his legs still in the pod, and tugs Ludwig forward by his shoulders. “Don’t be a dick. Come on, Lud. Once this warms up, we’re good to go.”

He still sounds strained, and Ludwig hates it.

Ludwig can hear their voices. Gunshots have begun to pepper the walls. It’s sharp and loud, and he’s wondering if it’s hurting Alfred’s ears. He scans the boards piled up in front of the pod, brows pulling down as he evaluates the structural integrity. The sunlight filters in through the holes in the ceiling, cracked wood and heavy beams, and the boards are alright. It’s alright. It’ll hold long enough. They’re shielded for now.

Alfred’s hands stay planted on Ludwig’s shoulders as he frowns in the dimmed light. The sunlight cuts in shafts across his light brown skin, and though his brow is crinkled and dirt is smudged across his face, he’s still handsome. Ludwig only wishes he would smile, and though it’s selfish, Ludwig doesn’t wish to die with the memory of Alfred’s frown.

The gunshots have bored holes in the barn. Bullets hit the panels to their front, hiding them from the door, and the screaming becomes coherent. Curses, insults, unfounded accusations- they’re the voices of mad men, but Ludwig is so, so far away. He’s left the dirt floor, the sunlight, the carnage and terror and blood, blocked off the deafening uproar because there is them.

And there is Alfred.

And Ludwig is irrevocably in love.

He swallows, still held beneath Alfred’s grip. Near death is commonplace enough for them that this situation is more numbing than freezing fear, but Alfred is verging into panic, and Ludwig can feel it. This time is different. Worse.

Alfred starts with a noise of frustration, hands gripping at his shirt and his light eyes narrowed in the sunlight. “Lud, what are you thinking? God, I fucking swear if you-”

He never finishes.

Because Ludwig kisses him.

Alfred’s lips are chapped. He tastes like dust and salt. His arm is burning where Ludwig’s hand has reached for him and found him. It’s overloading Ludwig’s sensors, a mix of desperate, hopeful and sad, but above all, Alfred’s warm, and it’s odd. He’s grounding and bright and so very him in his scent and his skin and his wide-blown eyes, but he’s warm and so human, and it’s odd, and Ludwig has forgotten which way he’d meant to think. One thing clicks. Alfred does not react, so Ludwig pulls away, his hand falling with him.

Alfred is wide-eyed, jaw hanging and fingers fidgeting where they’ve dropped to his sides. It hurts. Some. But it’s what he expected and still more than what he deserves. It’s death in his face making him crazy. Or maybe it’s just Alfred.

He wants to take him up in his arms, hold him tight to his chest and say sorry a thousand times for ruining the last moments they have together. But he can’t. The men are close, and his projections never lie.

Alfred swallows, touching his lips. He looks like he wants to speak, but Ludwig knows he won’t be able to bear it. He shakes his head.

“Please. Leave now,” he says.

And then he runs, the image of Alfred standing slack-jawed and tense burned forever in his mind.

The door flings wide open. Men stand armed, shots fired in the direction of the pod and towards him but miraculously they don’t hit. Someone yells. Gunshots ricochet. There is fire, and there is sunlight, and just as he’d guessed, there’s a little black ball rolling straight towards the pod and Alfred.

It rips from his lips in a desperate last plea. “GO NOW!”

Bomb is the only thing he thinks as he lands atop it, and the world bursts red.

Alfred forces up the wheel. He bursts through the roof, home free, but the sunset is lost to his tear-filled eyes. His ears are ringing, filled still with the gunshots and the screams and the last frantic cry. He takes one look back to the dark, little barn and accelerates hard.

A voice came from the other side of the door, “Just a moment.” There was the sound of shuffling on the other side of the door, and then the door opened to reveal Portugal, who looked completely awake, though not yet composed. His shirt was only halfway buttoned, and his hair was still loose. 

Portugal said, “You’re just in time.” England stepped into the door and greeted his partner with a smile, “You look handsome already.” 

Then he leaned in a pressed his lips against his partner’s. These light kisses had become so routine between them that it would have felt wrong to see each other and not at least exchange a peck on the cheek. 

After they separated, Portugal closed the door behind him and said, “Don’t flatter me, Arthur. I am still a mess.” His tone could not have been more playful, and England knew that Portugal knew perfectly well that he was handsome. He was even handsome when he had done a hard day’s work and his hair was tangled with salt water, and his skin was even more tanned from the sun. Even unrefined, he was beautiful. That was a feat that England had never been able to achieve himself. He looked best when he had the time to groom himself as a gentleman should.

 ngland walked the rest of the way into the room, and was hardly surprised that all of Portugal’s things were in meticulous order. He had always been the kind of person to keep things in the tidiest state possible.

England placed his own garment bag on the bed and opened it to reveal his own suit. He said, looking back at his partner, “You look better than I do.”

He got a warm smile in response, and a brief shake of the head. Portugal was running a brush through his hair, leaving the brown waves soft and beautiful. It looked so silky that England had the urge to run his fingers through it. 

As he worked his way through his hair, Portugal said, “I appreciate you inviting me as your plus one.” England started to unbutton his pants so that he could change into his slacks. He laughed, “Lilibet didn’t quite put it in those terms.” One of Portugal’s eyebrows arched, “Oh?” 

After that, Portugal swept his hair into a ponytail at the nape of his neck and secured it. England liked seeing Portugal’s hair down, but he wasn’t going to dictate what his partner did with his own hair. And it didn’t matter; Portugal was handsome either way. With his hair swept back, it did not distract from the handsome lines of his face. And it did look more formal for him to tie it back.

England had managed to strip off his pants before he said, “She asked if my husband was coming.”

Portugal laughed so loudly that the sound echoed off the walls until he put a hand over his own mouth in an attempt to silence himself. England couldn’t help but smile back and let out a little laugh of his own. He knew that it would not be quite so amusing if it didn’t ring so true. 

Portugal took several deep breaths before he was finally able to say, “She clearly knows us too well.”

He was beaming proudly, and it made England’s own smile widen. England pulled on his slacks. He tucked his shirt in and buttoned the pants before finally saying, “She has been queen for a very long time, and we have never been subtle.” 

England knew perfectly well that he had never hesitated to kiss his partner where the Queen probably saw it. Nor had he ever attempted to hide the fact that they held hands when they walked side by side. 

Portugal replied, “And we’ve been together at more than one royal wedding.” He was right, and England remembered all of them well. He had always insisted on taking Portugal to every possible royal event that he could. It always gave him a chance to have someone to talk to through an event that might become boring otherwise, and it gave him an opportunity to get dressed up and spend a day with a partner.

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise to him that the Queen had figured out his relationship with Portugal. But the jest, which had barely sounded like a jest, made him realize how much she had seen and how it had appeared to her. It was an honest appraisal of their public image, and England felt no shame at it. England had needed to stifle his own laughter when she had said it, and had replied with a wide smile and glowing pride.

 He took his tie out of the bag and began to form the knot. He said, “I told her that I was planning on inviting you.” 

Portugal glanced at him and smiled and stepped towards him. He then said, “Your tie isn’t straight, Arthur.” England stood conspicuously still as his partner stepped towards him. He didn’t need to even glance down to trust that his tie wasn’t straight. Portugal took it firmly in hand and straightened it. He was so close that England could smell the subtle scent of the sea that seemed to cling to Portugal’s hair no matter what he did. 

Portugal glanced back up at England and said, “I wouldn’t mind being your husband.” England felt himself blushing, though it wasn’t the first time they had discussed the subject. They had done it many times when they spoke of the luxuries humans had that they could not. 

He said, “If we were mortal men, we could have been.” Portugal finished straightening England’s tie and turned to find his own tie. He said, his voice muffled as he leaned into the closet to find his tie, “We can’t change that. But, I will gladly take the title of your husband if Elizabeth wants to give it to me.” 

He eventually pulled it out of the closet and began to work on tying a knot. England let himself dwell on the thought for a moment. Even if countries could marry, he and Portugal could never have made it work on a political level. But, he had no doubt now, after hundreds of years of friendship, and centuries of being lovers, that there was no one else he would want to spend his life with. 

He eventually remembered that he should be continuing to get dressed, not contemplating impossible notions of matrimony. The queen had allowed him the luxury of not being at the palace for the last minute preparations. But he would feel her wrath if he was not in the right place at the right time. 

These events were always very carefully choreographed, and being the personification of the country did not excuse him from knowing the schedule. It had become even more meticulous since royal events had started to be televised. It made the monarchy more familiar to the populace, and England recognized the importance of that. But, television cameras were highlight any mistake, if it was made. 

England reached for his vest and pulled it over his shirt, and began to button it. For this occasion, he had chosen a three piece suit in deep emerald green. In past years, he might have chosen a military uniform. But, it was a different time and now England preferred to be a civilian instead of decorating himself in pomp and all the medals of the empire. The empire was gone, and it felt better to just be a civilian.

He looked over to see that Portugal had finished with his own tie and was now pulling on his own vest. The dark blue that he had chosen made him look so handsome.

There was silence growing in the room, and England preferred not to leave it like that. He said, “Are you looking forward to this?” He suspected that even if Portugal found the pomp boring, he would have agreed to come anyway.

Portugal pulled on his jacket, effectively finishing getting dressed. The jacket fit snugly around his shoulders and reminded England of how muscular Portugal really was. Portugal replied, “I am looking forward to the reception more. The ceremony will be long and somber.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “I do love seeing true love though.” 

England understood completely. Part of Portugal’s love of the ocean was the desire to be unfettered, and sitting through ceremony had never been easy for him. There would be little to do during the ceremony except watch, whereas the reception would have food and dancing. That was the kind of frivolity that Portugal had preferred the whole time that England had known him.

 Portugal slipped a small black box from the pocket of his jacket and added, “Dear, would you help me with these?” England pulled on his own jacket and walked over. 

He nodded and extended his hand for the jewelry case. He opened it to see a set of cufflinks in the shape of an armillary sphere, like the one on his flag. They were one of the few things that Portugal consistently wore to formal occasions, and they were meant as a tribute to the era of exploration.

England said, as he affixed the cufflinks, “The ceremony won’t be that long.” It was a white lie, qualified only in comparison to royal weddings of the past. 

Portugal said, “You don’t have to lie to me. I remember how intricate it all is. That is one thing I do not miss about the monarchy.” 

England finished with his the other’s cufflinks and looked up into Portugal’s green eyes. He smiled and tried to be look coy, “I promise the reception will be good.” The other smiled and said, “I’m sure it will be. I hope you will save me a dance.”

 England laughed. He brought one of the other’s hands to his lips and kissed it like a gentleman should. Then he said, “I will save you every dance.” Portugal laughed, and his cheeks even turned a little red. England counted that as a success. 

If only he could dawdle here and make his partner blush again, he would be perfectly content. But, the schedule was sacred, so he said, “If you’re ready, we should go.” 

Ivan was nervous; he grabbed his scarf in an attempt to calm down, and took a deep breath, once, twice, three times.

He felt like an idiot for being there in that bar, waiting for someone whose face he had never seen.

It was Alfred's fault – and, if he thought about it, his own luck. He shouldn't have done that fucking bet with Alfred's bastard. "Damn" was the perfect word for that situation. What a pity for himself, his self that day, having already had a few more vodka glasses, he had decided to place a bet on something he didn't remember well – damn it!

And now he had to meet a friend of his.

He knew almost nothing about him: his name was Jett, he was an Australian and they were the same age. Alfred had said that he had a dressing on his nose – he hadn't said the source of the wound. He should have asked more about the young man, but there with the glasses (and that secret desire to have a partner, be it in friendship or love) didn't remember. Too bad now he didn't know whether or not he was in that room. Until he looked for someone who fit the given description, that is, with a dressing on his nose, but nothing. No one.

He reached for his scarf again; Oh, if Alfred fooled me..., he thought bitterly. He looked at his glass – with vodka, obviously – and wondered how many more glasses he would need to forget that night.

"Ah! Sorry for being late!"

He heard behind him and, hopefully, turned to the person who had just spoken.

"You're Ivan, right?"

"Yes…"

He looked at him, at that big, self-contained smile. It imparted an air of confidence.

And he was beautiful.

Very pretty.

Ivan blushed, not knowing what to say. Jett reached out for the Russian to squeeze as he sat down. He was corresponded, half-way.

"I'm Alfred's friend. My name is Jett, as you should know. "

"I know…"

Jett asked for a beer and started talking about himself, everything Ivan secretly wanted to know. He spoke of his work as a wildlife reporter, of how a giant crocodile had scarred the Australian's face – that surprised Ivan.

"Aren't you afraid that will happen again?"

"No!" He took a sip of beer. "We don’t know what can happen in the future, but that doesn't stop us from continuing. The way to fight is fate – to make our own destiny. "

Ivan was stunned; the convictions of the other were very different from his – the Russian was a pessimist of the worst kind: one who doesn't show discontent, hidden by a false smile. It was the destruction of himself.

He would like to be influenced by it.

It wasn't just Jett who had opened up. Ivan had also talked about himself, about his concerns and certainties about life – that could be overthrown at any moment.