Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or it's characters.

I wrote this story around two years ago, when I was bored, I just recently decided to upload it onto Fanfiction.

Congratulations

Inspired by Hamilton song Congratulations.

Canada confronts Russia in 1992 after the annulment of his marriage to America.

Involves NyoCanada and mentions of NyoAmerica.

Brief appearance of Prussia, not really relevant to the story.

PastRusAme, Slight RusCan (if you squint).

Very OOC

Random as Hell. Not related to anything.

~×8×~

He didn't know what to do. Wandering around his empty house, the silence was deafening. He just knew he wanted to get away. Away from the silence, away from the memories.

He didn't know how it happened, but he was standing in his room. The room he used to share with her. He wondered when it had become so dull. Stepping forward he leaned against the post of the bed staring down at the too-tidy sheets. Memories of a blushing blonde with blue eyes tangled in those sheets filled his head. Vaguely he wondered how they had become so tidy.

Looking back he recognised the work to be Gilbert's doing. The man insisted on keeping everything in perfect condition. He would have to talk to him about that.

He turned away from the bed and left the room, closing the door behind him. The room brought back memories that he wanted desperately to forget.

He knew what he did was wrong but he couldn't bring himself to care. He was hollow. His mind and body numb to his actions. The Cold War. That's what people called it. The battle of America and the USSR, the war that made the world freeze over. He snorted, that was an exaggerated version of how he viewed it.

To him, it was a simple dispute between a husband and wife that ended with a divorce.

No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he was actually glad it was over. He could finally stop pretending. Because, if he was honest, he had never really loved her. Well, not the way the rest of the world thought he did anyway. His feelings towards her were of the platonic kind. He wasn't in love with her, he wasn't even attracted to her. Not that she was unattractive in any way, quite the opposite actually, she was a beauty amongst their kind and many had taken a shrine to her.

He just didn't feel for her that way. And it had only taken her a few decades to figure out. She had figured it out and when he tried to deny it she exploded... He shook that memory from his head, he didn't like remembering that day, or the months that followed it.

He did regret leading her on. He had played with her feelings and used her, he used her and her country. He was a selfish, heartless, bastard, he knew that as well.

Involuntarily, his hand went up to his chest, reaching beneath the folds of his coat and placing his hand on his chest... Silence. Even his heart refused to acknowledge him.

Sighing he shook his head, violet eyes dark, and continued down the hall. He could hear hushed voices drifting from the foyer. One of them he could easily make out, the heavy German accent and arrogant pitch, belonging to his on-and-off living companion, Gilbert Beilschmidt, otherwise acknowledged as Prussia, or, only when here, Kaliningrad Oblast. The other was a mystery.

Driven by curiosity he made his way towards the foyer. The hush voices were speaking in English and he felt his blood freeze. English was a well-known language around the world. But there weren't very many Nations who could speak it fluently. Hell, even he had some trouble with it sometimes. Out of all the Nations in the World, those who spoke English were very, very bad news.

Standing at the top of the staircase, his entire body tensed. He knew this would be bad but the woman standing below him was one of the worst. Seriously, he would rather deal with a raging Denmark than this. This was the product of his deepest fears.

The pair stopped talking having registered another presence in the room. Her eyes, what he had always known as a beautiful sparkling violet, turned towards him and he could see the way they turned cold, hard, like the arctic ice she was made of.

Gilbert looked up as well, noticing the change in her demeanour, and paled. He was obviously aware of what was going in between them. It was clear he was deciding on who he should side with. The Nation he half depended on, or the Nation who was sister to one of his best friends.

He didn't care who he chose to support, it was going to be ugly either way.

Gilbert, having made up his mind, hauled the bags he was holding over his shoulder. "I'll, um, take these outside for you..." He said awkwardly.

Neither of the Nations acknowledged him as he fled from the scene.

Russia steeled his nerves descending the stairs, taking one step at a time and moving as slow as he could get away with. No way in Hell was he going to look like a coward, he had too much pride for that.

"Madeline." He greeted, trying, and failing, to sound like he didn't want to cower at the woman's feet.

Canada stared back, her expression blank, her eyes cold. Her voice flat as she replied, "Russia."

He forced himself not to wince at the name. Even though she spoke in a flat tone the look in her eyes hurt him. The way she said it like it didn't matter like he was nothing but dirt to him. She probably thought of him that way as well.

"Congratulations," She said suddenly, her voice still flat.

Russia threw her a quizzical gaze. What on Earth was she congratulating him for? He hadn't done anything that was worthy of praise recently. In fact, over the past few years, he had only been making his life, and a whole lot of other peoples lives, hell.

He tried to read the expression in her eyes but it was unfathomable. He paused on the stairs, his instincts screaming at him.

"You have invented a new kind of stupid," She continued, remaining motionless and monotone, "A record stupid, I'd say. A damage you can never undo kind of stupid." Her eyes narrowed in a hateful glare.

Russia averted his eyes, he was beginning to wonder if it was too late for him to run away and get drunk in the cellar. Taking a glance at her face he knew, if he ran away she would only make this a hundred times worse.

"Did you even think this through?" At his lack of response she sneered, Russia could practically feel the hate she was emitting. "Oh, how stupid." She spat.

"Canada..." He tried to intervene still not looking at her.

She wouldn't have it. "Why did you do it? You knew what you were doing. You knew it was going to hurt her and yet you still did it. Did you think that I wasn't going to find out?! Did you think I'd let you get away with breaking my little sister's heart?! Tell me, Russia! What made you think that you could possibly get away with hurting her?! Did you think that she wouldn't come to me for help?!"

Her voice had risen, and this time he cringed at the anger she was displaying. Moving his gaze back to her he saw how angry she really was. Her face had twisted into a spiteful sneer, her fists clenched in her skirt.

He felt his own anger rising, he would not be treated like a lesser in his own home, his own country. He was Russia, he was not weak.

"You know why I did it. I didn't love her, I never did." He didn't see the shock that flashed in her eyes, "My duty is to my Nation and my Nation alone. I had an empire to build and a name to make for myself. A marriage to America would have been beneficial to both myself and my bosses... It was an act of National Sacrifice!" He practically shouted, he was now standing at the bottom of the stairs, his arms thrown wide and his violet eyes dark with resolve. He would not back down.

Canada's expression had blanched, her features turning from the tension. He saw several emotions flash through her violet eyes as he stared at him, no longer cold but swirling with shock, dismay, confusion, and disappointment. He thought he saw a flash of hurt but before he could register it she looked away.

"Sacrifice..." She repeated quietly, her voice sounding small and weak compared to how it did a few minutes earlier. "What happened to make it like this, Russia?" She looked up at him again, moments of silence passing as she held his gaze with her own sorrowful gaze. He tried not to avert his gaze.

"I look at you and think 'Gods, what have we done with our lives, for our people, and where did it get us?'... But that doesn't wipe tears or the years away..." Her eyes glistened as her mind was flooded with painful memories. The thickness of her voice displaying the pain she felt as she remembered.

He was worried, concerned even, he had never known this woman to cry. He didn't want for her to cry. It scared him to be able to witness something like that.

"... Canada? Please, try to understand." He softly pleaded, because truthfully he didn't want her as an enemy. She was a formidable foe.

"You know what I'm here to do..." She whispered, a single tear rolling down her cheek. He looked into her eyes but they were once again clouded with that unfathomable emotion that he could never understand. She smiled, the expression breaking his heart because it was such a fake cover and he knew that even she knew that. But still, she spoke, right through that smile.

"I'm not here for you... I know my sister like I know my own mind, you will never find anyone as trusting or as kind... You know, a million years ago she said to me 'this one's mine' so I stood by... Do you know why..?" Her eyes had hardened to cold, piercing shards.

The temperature in the room dropping and Russia could feel the cold emanating from the woman's aura. He took a fearful step away from her. She followed him, her artic eyes tracking him, hunting him, trapping him.

"I love my sister more than anything in this life! I will choose her happiness over mine every time! Amelia was the best thing in our lives! Don't you ever lose sight of the fact that you had been blessed with the best wife!"

She jabbed her finger at his chest repeatedly, spreading icy pinpricks through his veins as she shouted at him. She pounded on him.

"Congratulations, for the rest of your life!" She stood directly in front of him, her eyes full of vengeance as she glared up at his towering form.

"Listen well, Ivan Braginsky for I will say this only once. Until you can restore what you have stolen, until you can repair what you have broken, until you have redeemed yourself in my eyes, you will never know peace. You will never know love, happiness, comfort. You will live the rest of your life in a shadow of existence. With a heart that never beats and World that hates and fears you."

She placed her hand on his chest her eyes blank as she delivered her words.

He could feel the strain as his body tried to fight the curse. Feeling his heart clench and unclench tightly in his chest, violently fighting as the cold magic flowed into him. His blood freezing. His skin chilling. He felt his emotions shrivel and leave him feeling hollow and empty. Becoming detached in a way that only the dead should feel. He would be terrified if his sense of fear had not already fled his body. He only felt cold.

Canada muttered but he didn't hear her. He felt his body freeze up and gasped right as he was thrown back against the staircase. His vision blurring.

He vaguely noticed the wide, red skirts of Canada's dress hovered beside him. She said something but he couldn't hear her through the ringing in his ears. Everything hurt, the light from the open door hurting his eyes he closed them. Losing consciousness almost instantly, the last thing he felt, aside from the throbbing pain, was the hand on his cheek, and the brush of fingers on his chest.

~×8×~

When he woke up he was on the divan in the drawing room. His head throbbing with pain that he didn't understand. He didn't know how he had gotten there, however, he would later discover that after Canada had issued her curse, Gilbert had returned to the house and cleaned him up. That was two weeks ago and the man was nowhere to be seen.

Russia got up, unable to feel the ache in his stiff, sore bones. He looked around and found that everything was damaged. The wallpaper was peeling off the walls, dust coated various objects, shattered glasses and cracked vases lay around and the chandelier in the centre of the room was hanging dangerously from the ceiling.

Usually, the only time a Nation's Residence was in disarray was when their country's were failing but Russia knew that that was only half the case. This was the work of Canada's curse. If he could still feel for things he would be impressed by the amount of damage she had inflicted upon his home.

Emotionless he wandered through the halls, the same way he had done a week before, noting that the whole house was a wreck.

He stood in the foyer, it had suffered the worse. The wallpaper had been shredded the paintings torn and mutilated beyond recognition. Planks from the stairs were missing, the entire left side bannister torn away. The tiled floor now sported large cracks and the once polished marble was filthy with grime. The chandelier that had once dazzled from the ceiling now lay broken and useless in the centre of the foyer, the pearl beads spread out haphazardly across the floor.

As he took in the scene before him, Russia felt nothing but a detached numbness. A chilly draft, that didn't really bother him, ruffled the broken ornaments, making it sound like a morbid windchime made up of crystal glass. Russia looked over to see the door was thrown wide open and as he moved to close it, noticed a slip of paper taped to the dull wood of the door, dull wood that used to be a glossy shine.

Taking the slip of paper with unshaking hands he unfolded the paper and read the single word that was printed there, in perfect swirling English cursive.

Congratulations

~×8×~