Warning: This story is rated to for shounen-ai/yaoi, sexual content, and mentions of abuse/rape.

Summary: After America's flight back to the States is delayed, Russia insists to house him until the weather lets up. But how long will that take? America really doesn't want to stay with Russia longer than he must, but maybe…Russia isn't all the bad.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or any of the characters (or countries, for that matter).

Kings

Chapter 1: Lapushka

"I am a man with his back to the wall, like a freak of nature. On the earth, with no other reason, I run in circles, I run in circles. I am a man and I consider all the horror of my nature. For my trouble, my punishment, I run in circles, I run in circles.

"You see, I'm not a man. I am the king of illusion. At heart, may I be forgiven. I am the king, the king of fools."

―"Je Suis un Homme"/"I Am a Man" by Zazie [English Translation]

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

Alfred scrolls through Facebook posts and Twitter as the car slowly drives through the heavy snow. Whose idea was it to host the world meeting in December in Russia? And so close to Christmas, too. Whoever it was, Alfred mentally curses him or her with every ounce of his being. Despite having his earbuds in, the silence of the car unnerves him, and not even Luke Bryan singing directly in his ear could distract him from the other gigantic occupant in the back of the taxi.

If only he hadn't decided to go out to eat with Kiku before getting a plane ticket. Then this weather wouldn't have kept him off a plane. Kiku, going in the opposite direction as the storm, just hopped the first available flight to Japan, and everyone else had already left.

A hotel would have been fine. Great. Perfect. But no, Ivan decides that he can't allow such a thing.

"America, I cannot let you stay in a hotel while you are in my country. It would be rude. Come stay with me until the weather clears up, da?"

As much as Arthur, Francis, Matthew…and well, every country would disagree, Alfred is not an idiot. He's spontaneous, doesn't think things through, is easily distracted, and lives in his own little world sometimes, but he's not stupid. And he knows better than to fight with Ivan, at least on small matters. Besides, if he starts the next Cold War while in Russia without his boss's permission, he knows he'll end up listening to a lecture for three hours and have to clean it up himself.

Lost in thought, Alfred stares out the window. The snow covers trees and mountains now rather than buildings. He just hopes that the taxi driver isn't part of some Russian mafia plan to murder him. That in mind, he shifts slightly so that he feels his holster bump against the seat. And if all else fails, he has extra bullets in his left boot and another pistol in the right.

The taxi finally slows to a stop in front of a house. It's not huge, like Alfred expected, but it's not necessarily small either. It's probably the smallest house for a country he's seen though.

Ivan opens his door, and a blast of icy air makes Alfred hunch his shoulders up against his cheeks. The forecast says the snow won't be letting up for nearly a week; maybe he should get used to it.

Before Alfred can take two steps in the mid-calf deep snow, Ivan has already retrieved the American's suitcase from the trunk and is waiting at the steps of the house. Luckily, the overhang of the porch comes out far enough that the steps are only dusted with snow. Alfred thanks the constructor for that because otherwise, he's certain he would have ended up with his face in concrete and a very amused Russian to deal with.

Alfred marches through the snow until he gets to the trail that Ivan made. How could he walk normally through this much snow? Regardless, it made walking much easier for Alfred.

When he gets to the stairs, he snatches his suitcase from Ivan and mutters, "I can carry my own bag."

"If you insist." Ivan walks up the stairs to the door, unlocking it easily despite his gloves and tiny key.

Instead of a blast of warm air like he expected, Alfred walks into a living room that couldn't have been warmer than forty degrees. The room itself looks rather cozy with an unlit fireplace, one of those corner couches that he loves, a few blankets scattered on said couch, a coffee table cluttered with books and notebooks, and two huge windows, one of which is cushioned and set farther into the wall so that there's plenty of space to sit or even lie down.

"Make yourself at home, America. Would you like something to drink?" Ivan asks as he sheds his heavy overcoat and puts it on the stairway railing on the other side of the door. The steps disappear into a dark second floor while a hallway stretches in the same direction on the other side of the railing.

Alfred gawks at Ivan's red sweater, which seems rather thin. "How can you stand wearing that?! It's freaking freezing in here!"

Ivan's violet eyes widen slightly as he glances at Alfred's still bundled form. "Oh, is it cold? I apologize. Um…" He chews on his bottom lip for a moment before he smiles. "Follow me."

That doesn't sound good. Regardless, Alfred follows Ivan down the hallway. In the darkness, they pass the kitchen and dining room and then a little farther down, a small bathroom. There's a sliding glass door at the end of the hallway, and when Ivan opens it, Alfred finally feels the burst of warmth he's been searching for.

The large room has to be a big as the house itself, and it's made of glass. But it's so warm. Florida warm. Alfred quickly hurries inside.

Sunflowers. Everywhere he looks, there are sunflowers. There's a path that cuts through the center of them that leads to a small open area with a black, metal-mesh table and two matching chairs.

"I will turn on the heat, but you may stay in here until the house is to your liking," Ivan says. "I ask that you not bother the sunflowers, but please sit if you wish." With that, he smiles and turns towards the door. "Will seventy be warm enough for you?"

Alfred nods. "Yeah. Uh, thanks."

"Is no problem. And is pirozhki alright for dinner?"

"Pirozhki?"

"It is…like Italian calzone," Ivan says. "Fried dough filled with other foods."

"Yeah, that sounds fine."

"Great."

And with that, Ivan is gone, leaving Alfred rather confused in some sort of sunflower greenhouse.

Shrugging to himself, Alfred walks to the small table and sets his suitcase in one of the chairs before he begins to pull off the thick clothes that now are suffocating him. An overcoat, a sweatshirt, a sweater, and sweatpants under his trousers.

Just as he's sitting down, his cellphone chirps. A text from Matthew.

"Did you not make it home? No one's picking up the house phone."

Alfred types out, "No, there's a big blizzard, so Russia said that I could stay with him until it settles."

"That storm isn't supposed to pass through for almost a week."

"I know. Make sure the States don't go out of control for me."

"I have ten of my own to control; I'm not taking care of yours, too."

"Aw, but they miss Uncle Mattie."

"And Quince still can't pronounce your name correctly and calls you 'Le petit Mathieu'."

"Dude, I don't know French."

"'The Little Matthew'."

"I'm older than you!"

"And smaller, and older doesn't count for twins."

"Shut up. Just tell Dixie that I'll be late coming home."

"Why can't you tell her yourself?"

"Because she would insist on calling, and I think that Russia put me in some sort of sunflower purgatory; there might be cameras."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Am not! Just tell her!"

"Alright, but you better call her sometime between now and tomorrow night."

"I will. Thanks, Mattie."

"You're welcome."

For the next hour, Alfred plays a dinosaur hunting game on his phone. Then Ivan is calling him inside, apparently for dinner, and so Alfred lugs his suitcase and pile of shed clothing into the house, which at this point isn't as warm as he'd like, but it's definitely an improvement. Maybe he'll put the sweatshirt back on; that should keep him warm enough.

Ivan glances up from where he's setting the table, though with three plates. "Oh, I am sorry. I forgot about your luggage. I will show you to the guest bedroom."

Thankful that the Russian didn't try to carry his bag again, Alfred follows Ivan up the stairs to another hallway, this one with three doors. The one on the right seems to be the bathroom, and the one at the end is probably Ivan's room, considering that the taller male walks into the room on the left. He flicks the light on and steps aside for Alfred to come in. "I apologize that it is dusty. This particular room has not been used…in a while."

Alfred sets his luggage at the end of the bed and then drops his clothes on said bed. The room is somewhat large for a guest bedroom. It has a king-size bed, a dresser, desk, and a bookshelf packed with books, both modern and ancient. There's also a large window that overlooks the snowy pine trees, and a skylight directly over the bed, though it's layered with snow.

"Meow."

Alfred jumps nearly a foot in the air at the sound, his cheeks heating slightly when Ivan giggles, "There you are, Lapushka!"

A huge cat wiggles out from under the bed, mewing as it trots to Ivan, who is now crouched down to pick it up. The thing must be more fluff than it is cat, and it's a dark brown in color. When Ivan picks it up, it rubs its muzzle against his nose and cries again. Alfred can hear it purring from where he stands nearly fifteen feet away.

"I am sorry that he startled you," Ivan says, moving his head in different directions to keep his mouth free of cat fur since the animal is apparently determined to nuzzle Ivan's lips as well as his nose. "He tends to hide in various places around the house and surprise me." He giggles again as the cat licks his cheek before it licks too close to his hairline and shakes its head to rid its mouth of ashen blonde hair. "You are not allergic, are you?"

Alfred shakes his head, and though he'll deny it later, he smiles. "What's its name?"

"Lapushka," Ivan says, setting the critter on the floor. Lapushka looks up at Alfred with dark eyes and moves closer until he's in front of the American. He mews and kneads the carpet, his tail swishing. "Means 'little paw'."

Alfred crouches down and reaches out his hand to pet the cat. With a loud purr, Lapushka stands on his back legs to rub his head against Alfred's hand. His fur is soft and thick, and in the back of his mind, Alfred wonders if that means Ivan brushes him regularly.

Lapushka must decide that Ivan is better than Alfred and returns to his owner, hopping into the Russian's arms and settling with his nose in Ivan's scarf.

"We should eat before the food becomes cold," Ivan says, leading Alfred back downstairs.

As they sit down to eat―Lapushka included, as Ivan set out a saucer of milk and filled the extra plate with beef, mushrooms, and whatever else for the cat―Alfred comments, "I never pegged you for a cat person."

Ivan begins to cut into his pirozhki. "Why is that?"

"Just seems like you'd want a dog. You know, because they're trainable and can stay outside more."

"Dogs are naturally loyal and well-behaved, as their better traits are said to be," Ivan says, glancing at Lapushka, who is gnawing on a strip of beef. "But cats are more independent and rather self-centered."

"Yeah, exactly, so why would you want one?" Alfred asks through a mouthful of the pirozhki. Maybe he would stay longer if he could, just for Ivan's cooking. This is better than pizza! Maybe not better than hamburgers, but still really yummy.

Ivan swallows his bite before he answers, grimacing slightly, but Alfred ignores it. He should take it as a compliment, stupid commie! "It is more significant when a cat follows one around. And I enjoy caring for my little kitty king."

Alfred chokes on his food. He can't decide which is more hilarious: "my little kitty king" or Ivan's straight face as he said it.

"Oh, and that reminds me. Do be careful when you shower; Lapushka will follow you. If he does, just put him out in the hall."

Alfred raises an eyebrow at the other, but decides to take a few gulps of Coca-Cola before he replies, "Seriously? What, does he take showers with you or something?"

"Da, every night."

"And he doesn't…you know, kill you?" Alfred looks at the fluffy cat and can only imagine how ugly things would become if Lapushka was soaked. Then again, Ivan might beat the cat with his faucet for all Alfred knows.

Ivan smiles and shakes his head. "No, I have had Lapushka since he was a tiny kitten. I washed him every night then; I wash him every night now. He did not enjoy it when he was young, but he learned to love it."

At this point, Alfred's plate is nearly licked clean. Cutting off half of his pirozhki, Ivan offers it to the American. "Would you like more?"

YES! Alfred hesitates. "Dude, you're kind of huge. You should probably eat more than half."

"No, I always have leftovers." Ivan sets the pirozhki on Alfred's plate before he returns to what remains of his portion. "Is alright."

Alfred doesn't need more of an invitation than that.

When Ivan finishes, he scoots his plate to the side. Lapushka mews and hops into Ivan's lap, his front paws on the Russian's chest as he licks his lips in contentment.

Alfred watches quietly as Ivan and Lapushka rub noses a few times, Ivan murmuring things in Russian and Lapushka's purr closer to a roar than anything. He can't remember a time when Ivan has looked so content and…well, happy. His smile is genuine, and even though he's giggling in that childish way, it isn't creepy. It's almost like his way of purring back to Lapushka.

When Lapushka flops down on his back, Alfred can only see his paws as they bat as Ivan's hand, which is waving just above the cat's reach. When the paws finally connect, they drag the hand down to Lapushka's mouth, where Ivan's fingers become a chewtoy for the teeth residing there. However, Ivan just smiles and wiggles his fingers a little.

"Doesn't that hurt? Even if he's declawed, cats bite hard," Alfred mutters, thinking about Arthur's rather unsociable cat from when he was much younger.

Ivan shakes his head. "He keeps his claws in, and no, he does not bite hard when he plays. Is the equivalent to the teeth of a comb."

"You trained him to do that, too?"

"Da. Cats are very smart. With treats and rewards, one can train them to do anything."

Alfred pushes his plate away, and suddenly, Lapushka is in his lap, batting Nantucket with a paw.

"Hey! Quit that!" Alfred covers Nantucket with a hand, trying to satisfy the cat by rubbing his head, but Lapushka starts trying to eat his hand instead. "Stop!"

"Lapushka, nyet." Ivan follows the statement with something in Russian, and Lapushka looks back at the other with a mew. When Ivan repeats whatever he said, the furball hops down from Alfred's lap and trots into the hallway.

While Ivan gathers up the plates, Alfred asks, "What was that?"

"When I move my plate away, it means playtime. That is all."

"Dude, there is no way you taught your cat to do that," Alfred says, finishing off his Coke. "Cats are smart, but not that smart."

Ivan smiles again, and this time, it's the creepy one. "If I prove otherwise, you must wash the dishes."

"Sure, whatever."

"Lapushka!"

The cat appears in an instant, sitting in the doorway. He makes an odd noise, like a mix between a purr and a meow.

Ivan glances at Alfred. "I will tell him to climb―in Russian, of course―and he will sit on my shoulder, da?"

Alfred rolls his eyes and leans against the counter. "If he does, I'll wash the dishes, sure. Whatever you say, Russia."

Ivan moves to stand beside the table, his right hip pressed to the wood, and taps his left shoulder before he says something in Russian, supposedly "climb". Lapushka lets out that weird noise again. Then to Alfred's astonishment―and irritation―he hops onto the table and then onto Ivan's shoulder, wobbling slightly as he crosses behind the Russian's head to sit on the opposite shoulder, the one Ivan tapped.

With a smile, one that Alfred wants to punch off his face, Ivan says, "Once you have finished drying them, you may stack the dishes on the counter; I will put them away later." He reaches up and pets Lapushka. "Now, if you will excuse us, we are going to shower."

"Commie methods of training cats," Alfred mutters under his breath as he moves to the sink.

"You seem to forget so often, America, but I am no longer communist, and Lapushka is not old enough to know about the USSR."

"A great cat life he must have."

Ivan doesn't reply as he walks out of the kitchen, steadying Lapushka with one hand, but otherwise, the cat stays perfectly balanced on his shoulder.

Author Note: So what do you think? I'm trying to personify Russia in a different way than most authors do, so I hope that everyone likes the way that turns out. If you liked the chapter, please, Please, PLEASE REVIEW!