We were both very young, very foolish. Sometimes I wonder, though, who was the greater fool- he for starting the relationship, or me for expecting it to last.

"Что? A-Alfred-"

"Don't use my human name. Never call me that again, you communist bastard."

"But-"

"No buts. I don't want to hear your lies." Purple eyes widen as Alf- America turns on one booted heel and leaves.

Alone.

Alone.

Alonealonealonealonealone-

The one person he's trusted in the last two centuries has left him alone. The one person he's truthfully called 'friend,' the one he never thought would betray him. The one who taught him the meaning of 'love,' and now 'heartbreak.' He's gone, and all because Ivan can't control his people, his ruler. All because the children have turned to socialism, have abandoned the American's teachings. All because the Europeans have fed that innocent boy lies, deceitful whisperings of nonexistent stockpiles and unplanned attacks.

All for nothing.

And so he cries-

Cries-

Cries and cries and cries, even after he has no tears left. Cries behind locked doors, face pressed into sheets that still smell of him. Cries until an idea hits him. All he needs now is a knife and enough courage.

When his masterpiece is finished, he takes a picture and sends it to his new enemy. Bruises and bright blood and pale skin, all so carefully planned and designed down to the smallest detail so that his arms look like the flags of the man he could once call so much more than friend.

Довольны ли вы теперь, дорогие?

Are you happy now, dearest?

Alfred curses, throwing the letter and its gruesome contents into the fire. He tosses back another beer, letting the flames hypnotize him.

"Why the hell'd I be happy, you bastard?" he asks the empty night.

The stars glitter coldly in response, not so different from the Russian skies. He curses at them. If he's still thinking about Russia, he hasn't had enough booze. Off comes the top of yet another bottle; somehow the old one seems to have emptied itself.

How could he be happy? How would that be possible when everything, everything still reminds him of that bastard, even things that should be completely unrelated? The muggy Virginia summer is noted only because Ivan would enjoy the warmth; the starry skies are oh-so-reminiscent of his wide, shining eyes...and now he's even tainted the flag. He's made a mockery of Old Glory, a disgusting reproduction in bruises, blood, and snow-white skin.

Somehow, the image is touching. Gruesome, yes, but so totally typical of Ivan. The Russian has a twisted sense of humor, and probably didn't think twice about branding himself if he thought it would bring Alfred back.

"Well, fuck that," the blond snarls at no one. "Like Hell I'll go back to that backstabbing fuck. He lies to Hell and back, he cheats like the Devil, he was gonna blow me the fuck up!" The amount of curses in his sentences seems directly proportional to the amount of alcohol in his blood. Steadily the nation's voice rises, until he is practically yelling at the sky. "I don't need him!"

But why...

Why won't the memories go away?

Alfred shakes his head and slams back another beer, tossing the empty among the other broken shards around the fire. Eventually, he thinks through the fog of alcohol, he will be able to drown out that childish laugh and those starry purple eyes.

Author's Notes:

WELL. This certainly wasn't what I expected to be writing upon my return. I normally don't even like RussAmerica. But... well... when the characters speak, I write. I'm just glad to have some sort of muse back, even if it happens to be depressing.

Ugh.

In any case, I don't own Hetalia.