Sinking Feeling [Alfred + Sven]

[Alfred F. Jones]

Alfred awoke that morning with a soft groan and the greeting of a sharp pain in his back. He sat up to touch his shoulder and roll his neck, wincing as the pain only seemed to insist itself at that. He almost regretted telling Mary he was fine the night before, but still didn’t. He felt horrible asking her to do the healing constantly, especially if it was for him. Be that as it may, he doubted that she could do anything about this kind of pain even if he did indeed ask her.

The blond knew very well that the pain was radiating from the scars ripping in almost parallel slants down his back, received during his very first ‘team effort’ Dark Hour. They always seemed to ache in the radius of Shadows, mostly so when he was injured by them, regardless of where on his body the injury was. In truth, while he felt guilty asking if there was anything anyone could do about it, he was just as much, if not more, scared to ask about it. It seemed to Alfred to be the same thing as telling your parent you had a sore throat, a fever and a cough, only to be sent away to the doctor’s where you would have a popsicle stick stuffed down your throat and potentially a shot. He shuddered at the thought.

It was then that he was shaken from his shudder worthy thoughts by a brief shuffling at his side. He glanced down to find his brother fast asleep beside him. This was a more than welcome sight, especially considering everything that had happened the other day. Smiling, he brushed a stray lock of hair out of the Canadian’s face before carefully swinging his legs over the bed and pulling himself to his feet, so as not to disturb him. He ignored the now dull pain pulsing throughout him, namely in his back and limbs, and quietly closed Matt’s door behind him. He continued on to wander down the quiet hall, pausing just before he started on his way down the stairs. Glancing back to the end of the hall, he arched his eyebrows.

Sven hadn’t come back with the group the other night, and there it was, still eating at his nerves. Not that he could help but worry so much about it. After all, Natalia vanishing not too long ago was what caused all of the horror and confusion the other night, the horror and confusion that was still hovering over everyone today, that he was sure of. Alfred knew Sven was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, probably more so than most of the dorm’s residents, but considering how easily things tend to turn upside down in less than a second’s notice lately, he didn’t want to take chances.

Struggling not to convince himself he was simply worrying over nothing—something he found himself doing frequently—he forced himself away from the stairs and backtracked. It wasn’t long before he was standing before the Swede’s door, biting his lip and nervously eying the knob with clear hesitation and a little bit of something else, because there was definitely more than just hesitation to it. Maybe it was fear; he didn’t want to knock on the door only for him not to answer, but he shoved that fear aside and knocked.

A spike of panic rose inside him when he was gratified with no kind of response, but he quickly assured himself that the other just didn’t hear it. He brought his fist up a second time, knocking a bit more loudly than the first.

“S-Sven?” Alfred called, nervousness clear in his somewhat shaky tone. “Yo, dude, you in there?”

It was something like a ten second period that the blond awaited a response, any kind of response, before he realized yet again that he wasn’t receiving one. Praying that Sven was simply in the lounge, the kitchen, maybe even the bathroom, he resumed on his way downstairs, though this time at a jogging pace. Alfred glanced about, his heart further rising into his throat each time he searched in a different area and simply couldn’t find him.

Before he could even grasp why he was doing it, he was swallowing it back down, pulling on his jacket and rushing out the door.

[Berwald "Sven" Oxenstierna]

They were gone.

Gone, just like that, after that hellish night.

All of that for nothing.

Berwald ran a hand through his hair, leaning back against the tree he was under, glasses on the grass next to him. He shouldn't have been surprised. Natalia was dangerous enough outside of Tartarus in her unhinged state -- seven scars on his back were tribute enough to that fact -- so it stood to reason it would be all the worse when the Shadows had taken her mental insides and twisted them further. And so far they had been lucky. Too lucky. Everyone's time came sooner or later, and they had a dangerous job to do.

But why...why did it have to be Matthew? Why did it have to be the person he loved, someone so good and gentle and kind, someone who did nothing but give and give to the point where he'd wasted himself away? And Natalia, the one they'd gone in to save, taken before they could do so? Vain, vain, all of it in vain. He'd lost them. He hadn't been strong enough to protect them, smart enough to find them before it was too late, and now he was paying for it. All of them, surely, were paying for it.

His thoughts wandered to Alfred, wondering how he was right now, having lost his nearly-literal other half. Berwald mentally kicked himself. He shouldn't have left. He shouldn't have run, should have stayed and helped, but...gods, he couldn't bear it. He couldn't look at either of them. Couldn't have seen their faces and not thrown himself on his own sword. He'd have to go back soon. Couldn't stay here forever.

But, he thought as he wrapped his arms around his knees and buried his face in them, he just didn't have the strength to go now.

[Alfred F. Jones]

Nearly stumbling into a trash can, Alfred hurried along down the street, likely receiving strange looks for wearing nothing other than his UFO pajamas and bomber jacket, but he couldn’t bring himself to consider this, let alone care. All he could bother with at the moment was finding Sven.

As he sped around the neighborhood, it continued to become apparent to him that he could just be overreacting. Sven could be on a morning walk, maybe a jog. Perhaps he went out to get breakfast, or he could have even had work. Alfred never did ask anybody about their schedules, and was sort of regretting it at the moment. He was also regretting not waking anybody up to search with him, though this could be attributed to him trying to believe he was indeed overreacting. He kept trying to convince himself that he would run into the unharmed Swede at any moment and be questioned about why he was wearing pajamas, his jacket and no shoes, but he found this to be impossible. How could he not worry?

As hard as he looked and as fast as he ran, his efforts were seeming to prove themselves all the more fruitless. The American felt as if he was going to begin to cry, because no, no, no, he didn’t want this to happen again. Not to Sven, too. What would he tell Matt?

He halted at a stop sign, gripping it tightly as he caught his breath, panting softly for a few brief moments. The tears were just beginning to well up in his eyes as he slowly observed the area around him. To anyone watching him, he might have looked like a lost child, but no. He wasn’t the one who was lost. Right as he was thinking he’d have to go on yet another expedition through Tartarus later that night, as if on cue, he caught sight of what he wasn’t sure was Sven at first. After another moment’s observation of him, having been necessary because he was crouched and hiding his face, Alfred was sure.

“Sven!” He shouted out, relief washing over his features, but there was still a twinge of worry he couldn’t dispose of just yet; not until he spoke with him. He began running towards him, darting off of the sidewalk and out onto the grass.

[Berwald "Sven" Oxenstierna]

The Swede didn't look up at whoever was approaching. Many others had come up to him that morning, but his ignoring them had, for the most part, driven them off. After a moment, it occurred to him that the person coming up to him was none other than Alfred. Speak of the devil. Or think of him, as the case may have been.

Maybe if he thought of...no. No more thoughts of him. At this rate he'd end up just as mad as...nngh. Don't think of her either, you fool.

Half a sob escaped his lips, sounding more like a huff than anything else, but Alfred was likely to know better. Berwald thought he'd finished crying for the night, but apparently he was wrong. Alfred had that effect on folk, bringing out their emotions; bright and shining and safe, he was. He made everyone around him comfortable without even trying.

Comfortable was the last thing Berwald wanted to be right now. The last thing he deserved to be, when he'd failed everyone so devastatingly.

[Alfred F. Jones]

As he came closer to Sven, it sounded like he let out something caught between a sob and a sigh. At that, Alfred stopped where he was, wondering if he’d heard right. After a moment’s hesitation, he continued on towards him, now walking slowly, as if he was trying not to scare a bird away. When he reached the other, he stared down at him, unsure, before kneeling down to his level.

He almost reached out to touch his shoulder, but he stopped himself. It seemed to him like he’d break upon contact, as strange as that seemed, so instead, he settled down on the grass, crossing his legs and eying him worriedly. Alfred couldn’t help but wonder what exactly happened when he and Arthur got separated from him during the Dark Hour, or if that even tied into why he looked so miserable.

“Sven?” He said, at last. “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you come back with us last night?”

[Berwald "Sven" Oxenstierna]

Inwardly, Berwald was grateful that Alfred hadn't touched him. He probably would have broken. He was too close to breaking now. How could he ask that, after what happened?

"Y'know why, Al," he said hoarsely. Hell, he'd seen it up close, been with them all night...how could he still be on his feet? How was it possible for him to bounce back so fast after such a loss? Natalya had been his friend too. And Arthur had to be utterly beside himself, if he hadn't shut himself off completely.

Damnit, another reason he shouldn't have run. He was supposed to look after Arthur, to be by his side. Especially now, when their doomed little family had just been cut in half. Gods damnit, he was such an idiot...! He sat up, looking at the sky and swallowing the lump in his throat, told himself that the skies were blurry because his glasses were in the dirt and knowing that wasn't at all true. He probably looked like Hel herself had trampled him.

[Alfred F. Jones]

Upon seeing his eyes, teary, Alfred realized that he was right before. Sven did look like as if he was going to break, if he hadn’t already. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and pull him into a hug—his usual reaction upon seeing people in such a state—but for once, he wasn’t sure if he should. Something screamed to him not to. Instinct? Some form of telepathy? He wasn’t sure.

“I.. do?” He murmured, confused. Then it came to him; was it Natalia? “Sven, she’s going to be okay. I know she’s not completely gone. I just know it. We’ll find a way to wake her up.” He assured him, offering the most confident smile he could muster in hopes that the Swede’s torn expression would brighten to some degree, even in the slightest. “Somehow. We will.”

In truth, the blond wasn’t sure how to even begin going about waking her. The Shadow seeming to be responsible had said something prior to its disappearance, something about Nyx having her, whatever Nyx was. Even so, Alfred knew that there had to be a way to restore her back to how she was. There’s always a way. There had to be. If there wasn’t, he’d storm up to this ‘Nyx’ and give whatever it was hell until he had his friend back. They would get Natalia back.

[Berwald "Sven" Oxenstierna]

...what in Hel's name was he going on about?

Brow furrowing, the Swede turned his eyes on the American at last, struggling to keep his emotions in check. Optimism he could take, but this? She was gone. She was dead. He'd heard the creature himself, just as all of them had. Why would he lie to himself like that...?

"That isn' funny." He had never heard his own voice so broken before. Suddenly, Berwald didn't want to talk about any of this at all. It had just barely happened. The wounds, both physical and spiritual, were still fresh. He could still hear Matthew screaming. Could still see the ghost-Natalia's face as she left him to die.

And she had, hadn't she. Not just in the tower but in the backyard. Why should he want her to come back, especially when there was no way to bring Matthew back with her? For that matter, why was Alfred asking him about Natalia at all when his brother was...

[Alfred F. Jones]

Alfred could only frown at the other’s response, his former confusion returning, perhaps doubling to be twice as much confusion before. He had to wonder if his optimistic words were doing nothing to assure him, but he wasn’t one to quit so easily. After all, it was times like these when he saw people at their lowest that inspired him so much.

Times like these made him want to help people.

“Sven, I..” The blond muttered, looking down, his expression unsure for a brief, flickering moment before he looked back up to face him. He couldn’t remember a time he’d looked so directly into the Swede’s eyes. “If there’s even the slightest chance that she can be brought back, I’m not going to pass it up.” He spoke, clearly, boldly, his determination flaring at its finest. “And there’s more than just a slight chance. I know the other night was crazy. Too crazy for a lot of us to handle. I think.. most of all for Matt and Natalia.” He continued on, directing his sharp gaze to the ground before focusing back on Sven. “But it’s gonna’ be okay. It really will be.”

Alfred took a brief few seconds to avert his eyes and glance to what he thought might’ve been a butterfly hovering above the grass a short distance away. In a way, it somehow reassured him.

After his bout of silence, as short as it was, he flashed a small smile. “I’m not pressuring you or anything, dude. Believe me. But everyone’s gonna’ worry about you if you don’t come back before breakfast.”

[Berwald "Sven" Oxenstierna]

Gods, he'd known the kid was dense, but this was just getting offensive. They were dead, damnit, and not a single one of them, not even that witch upstairs, had any power to bring them back.

"I said that isn't funny," he replied sharply, anger slipping through at last. "There isn't any point in me going back." He won't be there waiting for me.

Berwald sighed, looking away again and covering his face with a hand before the tears welled up again. He wasn't there. Natalia...Natalia, he would miss, despite her difficulties, despite her madness. Natalia, though, he would get over. It was his mate's death that he couldn't face. He couldn't go back there to an empty room and a little dog who would no doubt have questions in her eyes as to where her master had gone, why wasn't he there anymore. Couldn't look Francis in the eye again, face the why didn't you save hims, the I trusted you to look after hims. Gods help him if any of the ones he didn't know so well extended sympathy. It was all just too much, and to face it alone even more so.

Taking a shaky breath, faintly hoping it would steady him a little, Berwald rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. "'ve done enough damage, Al. They're not g'nna miss me."

[Alfred F. Jones]

Alfred was frowning once again, a brief flicker of guilt flashing across his features when the other seemed to be angered by his words. He watched as Sven began to tear up once again, unsure of what else to say or do to pull him out of his deep sadness, his heart break. He wasn’t sure if it was even possible for him to do so, looking at him like this. He wondered if he should go get his brother, but who’s to say he wouldn’t up and move elsewhere while he was gone? It didn’t seem as if he would want to move, or rather, if he would ever want move again, but Alfred discarded that thought with a small wince. He didn’t want to think about that and didn’t really feel like taking the risk, regardless.

“What the heck are you talking about? There isn’t any point? Matt’ll be wondering where you are when you don’t come back. He’ll get worried.” He assured, his voice somewhat pleading now. “So will Arthur. And everyone. I’d be worried about you, too.” After yet another of his many pauses, he took on a more sturdy tone. “I’m not going back to the dorm unless you come with me.”

He only hoped he could live up to that. If he didn’t look so fragile to him, he would try simply taking hold of one of his arms and pulling him along back. With everything that’s happened, Alfred really didn’t want to see a worried and questioning expression on his brother’s face when he arrived home. He didn’t want to have to explain to him how broken his boyfriend was and that he was God knows where at the moment, if he actually did move elsewhere.

He didn’t want to think about that, either.

“Sven, we just have to be together right now.” Alfred continued to plead. “We have to be. We have to make it through this. Together.”

[Berwald "Sven" Oxenstierna]

It took him a long moment to collect himself again enough to speak, but in that space of time Alfred's words sank in just a bit. He couldn't possibly be this dumb. The thought crossed his mind, not in the spiteful tone it had before, but in a manner that barely whispered of hope. The most precious of what ifs made its way through the black feeling in Berwald's chest, peeking out and murmuring quietly into his ear.

"Al, what're you talkin' about?" he asked finally, looking up at the younger boy with a light sniffle, meeting his eye and finding determination and solidity, things Berwald was distinctly lacking in that moment. "How c'n he worry about anything? He's..."

...and then he looked away again. He couldn't say it, not after Al so vehemently kept objecting. Not after he'd offered that hope. Berwald had been so sure not two minutes ago that his mate wasn't waiting for him, but now...

[Alfred F. Jones]

Alfred waited patiently, hoping his words would sink in or at the very least make Sven question what he was doing and where he was, or rather, what he could be doing and where he could be. Sulking around and moping never did anything, did it? After all, there was still hope. He just had to convince him of that.

“Like I said, dude, what are you talkin’ about?” came Alfred’s reply, along with a short lived snicker.

As the other looked away, he closed his mouth, a flicker of a worry passing through his mind that he’d maybe said something wrong again. When the other didn’t say anything more, he swallowed and dared to speak again himself.

“He’s.. ?” He repeated, urging the Swede to continue, somewhat squinting out of confusion. “I slept with him last night, y’ know. Like old times. I’m telling you, man, he’ll probably be in the kitchen whipping up a batch of his awesome pancakes by the time we get in.”

[Berwald "Sven" Oxenstierna]

Was he alive? Could he even hope that...

Berwald closed his eyes again, running a hand over his face and plucking his glasses out of the grass. There was only one way he could find out, for better or worse. Yes, he was afraid. Afraid the other blond might just be delusional, or worse, was telling the truth, only Matthew was a ghost. Knowing all the other supernatural things that happened around this damned place, he wouldn't be surprised if that was the case -- and if it was so, Berwald knew for certain he'd never see or hear his mate again.

But if he was alive...

"Show me," he said quietly, putting his glasses on and slowly, painfully, getting up. He'd been sitting in that position almost all night, and that coupled with the battle wounds made him all manner of stuff and achy. Once he knew for sure, one way or the other, Berwald would be heading straight to sleep.

[Alfred F. Jones]

Alfred felt an immense amount of relief rush through him as the other reached for his discarded glasses, and though he was relieved, he had to stare blankly for a moment at Sven’s oddly worded request. It was as if he believed everyone had been wiped off the face of the Earth, and the American was some sort of discreditable illusion before him.

“Show—” He almost asked, then clamped his mouth shut before he had a chance to demolish any of what he’d accomplished. It could have been considered minor, but the blond managed to get the other to pick himself up, after all. He seemed to be willing to at least go along with him now. That had to count for something, right? Taking a small breath beforehand, he nodded. “Uh, alrighty. Let’s go.”

Not quite turning all the way, he began to walk, eying the Swede as he did so. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in Sven to follow him, it was more, despite his hopeful demeanor, he doubted that he himself had managed to convince him of a reason to follow him.

[Berwald "Sven" Oxenstierna]

The Swede winced in pain as he carefully leaned back to crack his spine, running a hand through his hair as he looked at his friend before following him. He hadn't been paying a great deal of attention before to the American's state of dress, but it was...peculiar, to say the very least, even for Alfred. Rubbing his eyes more out of exhaustion than anything, Berwald passed his friend a somewhat confused look.

"What're you wearin'?" he asked, more than a little baffled. He wasn't even wearing shoes. The chill of morning was still in the air, too, so the other was bound to be cold in those thin pajamas, jacket or no jacket. A small part of him couldn't help but be a little amused at the thought of Al having had enough sense to bring a coat but not slip anything on his feet. Guilt pricked at him then; Al must have been in a righteous hurry to find him if he'd stooped to this level of not thinking.

[Alfred F. Jones]

Noticing the other’s wince, he flashed him a small grin out of sympathy.

“Trees aren’t all that great for naps or anything, are they?” He thought out loud, though, it wasn’t as if he was sure that the Swede had slept a wink to begin with. Pondering for a moment, he couldn’t help but remember all the times he’d fall asleep outside himself, purposely or not. On warm days especially, he never could resist curling up under a large oak, spreading out onto the grass and allowing the wind and sun to carry him off. After he tuckered himself out by playing to his heart’s content, of course. “The grass is a whole lot more comfy. You shouldn’t torture your back like that next time.”

Though he really prayed there wouldn’t be a next time.

At Sven’s inquisition, the American paused, eyes widening just slightly. His expression turned dumbfounded when he actually looked down and took a gander at himself. That was right, he didn’t even begin to think to get dressed before he left. His haste and concern had gotten the better of him—with good reason, of course. Even so, he wasn’t one bit surprised at himself for throwing on his jacket, of all things. It was then that he laughed, reaching to scratch at the back of his blond head.

“My pjs. Aren’t they sweet?” He joked, continuing to walk.