Title: My Heart In Your Hands
Author: Mipp
Characters: Russia, America
Rating: M for Mature themes
Warnings: Apocalyptic imagery, power abuse issues
Summary: America finds Russia's heart, and learns his real name, putting Russia under his spell for a brief period of time.
When he walked through the door, there stood America, holding his heart in his hands. Russia's eyes flickered from his heart, then to America's face. He reflexively tapped at his own chest.
Hollow. Hollow as an oil drum.
"Good evening, Commie," America said, his smile growing ever-wider while Russia's slipped. He turned the heart over so that two words, written in neat Cyrillic letters, could be seen burnt into the side of Russia's heart. Иван Брагинский.
Russia tried to recover, hoping that America didn't notice the shaky intake of his breath. "I'll be taking my leave, comra-"
"I don't think so, Ivan Braginsky." Behind his glasses, America's eyes were blue and guileless. "I don't want you to go anywhere."
Russia's feet were rooted to the spot. How could he have been so careless as to lose his heart again! He noticed a small book on America's desk, a Russian grammar. A few minutes with an alphabet chart of Russian could decode his name. He swallowed his dread and pasted on his most innocent smile. "Ah, but comrade America is not the police dog of this world, not yet, da? I am free to go as I please-"
"Not now you're not," America sharply cut him off, holding up his heart. "England told me all about how knowing a nation's real name can give you power over him. Power as in they have to do anything you tell them for a certain period of time-" he glanced pointedly at the clock. "And it looks like I still have a half hour left! Ain't that just something?"
Russia steeled himself for America's worst, reminding himself that America didn't have the soul or the imagination of a sadist. All he knew how to do was build endless roads of asphalt and towers of concrete and steel. Russia had weathered worse than America's worst, he felt certain of it. He couldn't help saying bitterly, "So quick to abuse your new found power, da? So eager to gloat. You have what was mine and is now yours, and as soon as it's in your hands you lord your power over me. Such a noble hero."
"Shut up!" snapped America, and for a moment he looked like France at his most rabid. Russia's jaw snapped shut automatically, but he kept his uneasy smile.
"Just shut up!" America went on, brandishing Russia's heart like a weapon. "All you ever do is talk, talk, talk and wave around that stupid pipe. I'm so tired of listening to your bullshit. Right now, I'm going to talk and you're going to do what I say. And drop that pipe."
Obediently, Russia let it clatter to the floor.
America cocked his head to the side, looking thoughtful. "Stand on one foot," he ordered him. "And - sing my national anthem!"
One foot freed from the floor, Russia launched into singing the Star-Spangled Banner, all the while keeping one eye on the second hand ticking away on the clock. If this little humiliations could keep America occupied for another 15 minutes, he'd be free - and he'd take his heart back from America and keep it frozen inside his chest forever.
When Russia reached "On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep" America cut him off.
"No one sings the second stanza," he told Russia curtly. Then America's lips quirked into a half-smile, and he gave Russia a sly look. "How many nation's real names do you know?"
"Five," answered Russia, not naming them. He couldn't lie to America, but he could not add additional information.
Almost despite himself, America looked impressed. "Have you ever told anyone your real name, willingly?"
"My sisters," Russia said. Long, long ago. "It is a sign of trust among loved ones."
"Why didn't you ever tell me your real name?" America asked. "You know, back when we were friends."
Russia inhaled deeply, setting his lips in a grim line. "Because I didn't trust you."
Something flickered across America's expression that was very like hurt. Seizing his chance before America could make another demand, Russia slipped in a question of his own. "Why didn't you tell me yours?"
"You never asked," said America softly, but then he seemed to remember who was in control here and forged ahead. "What are your plans? What evil scheme do you have up your sleeve? Are you gonna invade someone, or send your missiles somewhere..."
"Dying," Russia answered. "The nuclear shock wave peeling the flesh from both our bones and turning our blood into vapor." He shrugged. "But I've thought that for a long time now."
America's smile had faded entirely. "Are you afraid of me?"
"I am afraid of what you can do."
"No," America said, shaking his head. "Are you afraid of me. What I represent, my ideals, not my nuclear arsenal."
"I am afraid of what you can do," Russia repeated, more slowly this time. "I am afraid of an overgrown child who stumbled onto weapons that can boil the oceans. I am afraid of your G.I.s raining down grenades and napalm on my cities. I am afraid that I have found my greatest challenge, and all it turned out to be was you."
That was evidently not the answer America had been wanting. He leaned against his desk and gripped it so hard with his hands that Russia could hear the polished wood groaning and cracking. "I could break your neck, right now," America said, baring his teeth. "I have eight minutes left. I still could."
"You could," Russia conceded. "But you won't."
"Why wouldn't I?" America gritted out the words.
"Because you need me," Russia explained. "You need me to reflect you, to provide you with a - counterpart. You know everyone else talks about you behind your back and cowers to your face. Who would you have if not for me? England? That blustery little pirate?" He linked his fingers together and leaned back on his heels, relishing the dark look in America's blue, blue eyes. "That pervert France? All the rest of those criminals mourning their long-gone glory days? Let them cling to their last pitiful colonies and sate themselves with opium. This world revolves with you and I as its counterweights."
"It sounds like you love that idea," America said. "It sounds like you'd love nothing better than for it to be me and you, forever. Tell me, when did you start hating me?"
Russia made a valiant attempt to choke his own traitorous vocal cords. "I - d-don't. Hate. You."
America snapped upright, obviously caught unawares. "What?" Remembering his last couple of minutes on the clock, he stammered out, "You never hated me? You don't now?"
"No," Russia's head sagged as the words poured out of him. "There is a word in Russian - you translate it as 'terrible', but it also means 'awesome' or 'magnificent'. That is what you are to me."
America seemed to consider this for a moment, looking unsure how to take such a strange confession. "Do you have nightmares, Ivan? You act like such a monster, sometimes I wonder if you ever have nightmares of your own."
"Da."
"What do you dream about?"
Russia bit his inner lip. "Executioners wearing masks of human skin. Barbed wire sawing at my throat. Subzero tundras under a sky of hydrofluoric acid."
"Do you dream about us?" America stormed across the room to him, kicking his metal pipe aside and standing right in front of him. "I need to know. Do you dream about you and me?"
Russia gnawed his tongue until it was bloody. "I dream - about the look in your eyes right now. I dream that you will decide that you don't - don't need me after all. That I have met my greatest challenge, and it was you. And that I failed."
America shifted closer so that his warm breath ghosted across Russia's skin. Russia studied his stubborn cowlick, exactly as it had been many years ago when America had worn cowboy hats, and his glasses (long ago, when they had been friends, Russia had gently taken them off America, who had fallen asleep at his desk, and laid them by his side). "My time's up," America told him. They both glanced over at the clock. "It was up two minutes ago."
Russia clenched his fists and pushed past America, reaching for his pipe. As he stood, America barred the door, one hand against Russia's chest.
Russia swung his pipe up and laid it against his shoulder, a silent threat. "I am leaving now, comrade."
"This belongs to you," America said, and he held out his other hand, returning Russia's heart to him. He accepted it silently.
But as he stepped for the door once again, America called out behind him. "If you had asked for it, I would've given it to you," he told Russia.
Russia left, but he wasn't sure if America meant his name, or his heart. Or both.