A/N: This A/N is sort of kind of long. You may scroll.

RoyalPear had to help me remember what the cat's name was. That's how long it's been.

Well, fuck. Guys, I worked all summer and completely forgot about writing. I left you all hanging. You have permission to murder me. School started Wednesday and I'm actually failing a class right now. SO. This is fun. I really encourage you to listen to the title song—which is by Baths—while reading this chapter. I feel like maybe it will kind of show you the mood, maybe? Pay attention to the lyrics and maybe things will make sense.

While lying in bed approximately 20 minutes ago, I realized this fic is TERRIBLY written. Honest to god, there's no plot what so ever. Seeing as this is the case, I'm going to go ahead and try to wrap this up. I am very grateful to everyone who has stuck with me on this and read this plot-less thing. It'll probably end soon (another 2-5 chapters), and hopefully with a good ending.

My intention was not to promote anorexia. I can tell you from firsthand experience that not eating is a horrible thing, and when you pass out at work, people know something's wrong. Please guys, take care of yourselves.

Alfred sat in the living room of the small apartment, fingers running over the fabric of the couch to the point of blistering, and still he continued to do it. His gaze remained locked on the window, eyes glassily staring into the rain that fell and nourished the earth. The house was silent. He hadn't expected to be pushed away when Ivan came back home, but now that it was a reality he wasn't sure what to do.

The tips of Alfred's index and middle fingers were numb, and he could no longer feel the pain of the blisters. He certainly wasn't complaining, though they would hurt later on.

He felt bad for Ivan. He'd lost his sister, the only person who'd been there for him in his childhood. He'd stopped eating and now only stayed in bed facing away from the door. Today, the window in the bedroom was open and Ivan's indifferent eyes drank in the weather only to think nothing of it. It dampened the window sill with tiny drops and pooled together to run off the edge of the sill and land in a small lake on the floor.

What was the reason for getting up? Ivan's eyes became glassy as he thought. I'm only going to fall back down again. He sighed. The quiet of the house was unusual, but welcomed in his mind.

Alfred grimaced. He wished Ivan would tell him what bothered him whenever he looked at Alfred. Why did he look away? Other than losing his older sister, what had happened to make Ivan avoid Alfred?

Alfred pulled his knees up to his chest, one arm wrapping around them while his other hang continued to run along the grains of the couch. He shivered. They hadn't bothered with the thermostat since they'd gotten home, and the rain outside made it cold and damp, even inside.

He sighed. There honestly wasn't much he could do at this point in time, other than bring Ivan his meals daily. The Russian had begun eating again, but remained silent and kept his gaze on the ground or the bed or the window. In short, he just never looked at Alfred.

The blond stood from the couch, looking back down at the spot where his fingers had made good acquaintance with the fabric. It was slightly lighter than the rest of the couch now. He made to grab a sweatshirt and a pair of running shoes from the bedroom, but decided against it. He instead went to the kitchen to grab a water bottle. He leaned against the counter and opened it, taking a few drinks before twisting the cap back on and setting it on the counter next to him.

He stared out the window as he had when sitting on the couch, eyes distant as he watched the sheets of rain pour down. There was a young girl waiting for the bus in the rain without an umbrella and he felt bad for her. Alfred looked down at his watch. Frowning, he decided he ought to do something with his day.

Alfred never gave much thought to it, but now he realized that we all waste our lives, and we do it so casually that it seems normal. Yet, we all know that we ought to be doing something with our talents and our life that's been breathed into us and that we inhale in every few seconds. He was guilty of wasting his life. He went through school, but was lazy. He never gave much thought or effort to things, and had he, he could have been studious and he could have gone places. But instead he just started working.

There was nothing wrong with that, of course. Working was making money and making money was a necessity. He'd settled down with his boyfriend. Things were good. Maybe not most presently, but they had been good, and he hoped that they would return to the way they had been before Ivan's family ordeal.

Alfred picked up the water bottle and grabbed his iPod from the counter. He threw on some shoes, shoving one bud into his ear and pressing play. He unlocked the door and opened it, catching the cord of the earphones on the handle. The moment of silence opened and he heard the sheets on the bed shifting, then footsteps that came from the bedroom.

He didn't move, ears alert as he listened to the footsteps that came up behind him. "Where are you going?" The deadpan voice was far closer to his ear than he'd expected, and he imagined Ivan standing close behind him. It wasn't loving or remotely curious.

"I figured I'd head to work. I've got nothing better to do." Silence. Alfred dropped his hand from the handle and sighed softly. He turned around to look at Ivan.

His lavender eyes were dark and held no emotion, unlike before when they'd been bright and cheery. The dark circles under his eyes made it apparent that sleep no longer came easily to him. His pale lips were set in a hard line, and Alfred wanted to reach out and just hold him and let him know that it was okay. He yearned for Ivan's touch and his love, and yet neither came. He looked at the ground.

"I guess I'll be back later." Alfred turned slowly and started to walk out the door, hoping that a warm hand would catch his wrist and stop and him spin him around and Ivan would beg him to stay there with him, but as he kept walking nothing happened. The door shut behind him and drowned all hope of his fantasy becoming true.

He trudged down the stairs slick with the footsteps from the other occupants of the apartment complex and walked out into the rain, feet sloshing about in the half inch of water that stood on the sidewalk, each droplet making ripples in what seemed like a lake.

Alfred turned his gaze to the tops of the buildings, appreciating how high up they were. I wonder how it would feel to jump. Alfred shoved the thought from his mind and tried to think of other things. The flowers at the shop would surely cheer him up, he hoped.

-ooo -

Ivan watched Alfred walked out the door. He walked slowly, but never once looked back. He didn't care. Why should he care? He shouldn't. Ivan walked back to the bedroom and laid back down, burying himself in the cream coloured sheets.

He felt horrible. He knew he was pushing Alfred away, but it was for his own good. Ivan was nothing but horrible for him. He was depressed, and only made Alfred worry. His mind put insults on loop and played them through constantly as he lay there.

In the back of his mind the nightmare loomed. He tried not to think about it, tried not to think about how many times he'd seen Alfred die. He diverted his thoughts from spilled blood and tried to focus on the crumpled piece of paper that always fell out of his pocket at the very end of the dream. He knew what it was, in fact he had given it to him.

Ivan was touched that Alfred carried Ivan's hastily scribbled phone number with him. The innocence of it almost made him want to cry. He knew he didn't carry it for reasons of forgetting it, because the number was programmed in his phone in the contacts. He kept thinking that, yes, perhaps Alfred missed him and wanted him still and that he loved him. His heart swelled with the concept that maybe, after everything, Alfred still loved him as much as Ivan loved him. His brain scoffed at the thought and pointed out that it he was simply installing false hope within himself.

He couldn't bear to look at Alfred. The expression that seemed to be permanently affixed to his features carried so much sorrow and worry around him, and it was like taking a blow to the chest each time he looked up. He occasionally gave him a fleeting glance when he came in to grab something, because then his expression was soft.

Ivan thought back to when Alfred would sleep in his arms. His expression would be relaxed and his hair tousled adorably, mouth slack, sheets showing how his chest moved with his slow, shallow breathing. He missed it. He missed Alfred's warmth, and he missed the smile that was reserved only for him, and used when they sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and reading in the morning and when they baked treats together, and as he said his last words of the night before drifting off into sleep.

Ivan ran his hands angrily over his face, groaning softly. He was going to try to get better for Alfred. He had to. And he decided to start by getting out of bed and facing the day. He showered and dressed with an extra sweatshirt albeit slowly and ate a poptart on his way to work. He wouldn't let the rain wash away his determination. This time, he wouldn't let Alfred down, and he wouldn't let himself slip away from Alfred again.

Notes: Hey so yes this is a short chapter and I apologize and fuck guys, I'm so sorry. I just. I got caught up in other things and I had a rough summer. I've started school again and I'm hoping to get back on a normal writing schedule. I'm not sure how much I'll be putting out, but my profile will have all the schedules on it that I will not follow probably absolutely follow.

Thanks for your patience guys.