Killing. It felt so good. Watching all those soldiers suffer was enjoyable. Seeing the twisted look on their faces almost tasted as sweet as candy. It was tantalizing, yet too much would rot the very inside of his core.
The German soldiers fell, dying one by one as they went up against him, until there was one left. The stupid fool had shot him in the chest, trying to inflict pain, but he felt nothing. His heart was cold- his thoughts were ice- his feelings numb. The soldier had nearly wet himself, surprised that his opponent didn't fall dead. Blood had stained the overcoat the Russian had worn, but he paid no attention to it.
The nation then pulled out his own heart- holding the stone cold organ out as if it was an offering. The soldier collapsed to his knees, close to puking as he saw the nation stand there holding out his own heart- alive and breathing. The nation could have lived his eternal life without his heart, but because it was important to him, he kept it inside of the cold, lifeless shell that was his body.
He nation placed his heart back into his chest, he walked over to the sickly-pale soldier, looking down onto him like a predator with his weak prey. Before the soldier could react, his face collided into the hard metal of the nation's weapon- an old water faucet pipe. Again, his face met with the hard weapon, as it penetrated flesh and cracked bone. The soldier tasted blood and cracked teeth as the swings grew harder and harder, anger and hatred being expressed through the object.
The soldier had enough, his entire body covered with brutal bruises and blisters.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" The soldier looked down into the crimson-red snow, ignoring the Russian. The soldier met with the nation's pipe again- this time not swinging, but instead lifting his chin up to look deep into the intimidating pools of violet.
"Look at me when I am speaking to you." The nation said coldly. "I'll ask again. Do you know who I am?"
The soldier's determined blue eyes met with the evil violet eyes of the nation, still refusing to answer his antagonist. Ignoring the soldier's silent answer, the Russian decided it was time to work with something else.
"Did you actually think you could kill me?" The Russian laughs. "Especially by trying to damage my heart? Let me tell you a story. A sad one, da?"
The cold nation then began telling his short and sorrowful tale. "You see, my heart used to be warm, very warm. It was the time when I lived as an innocent child who had still much to learn about the tough cruelty of the world. Sure, my home was cold and harsh, but the warmth of my heart was what kept me alive. As time would go on though, my heart would grow colder and colder, becoming the numb state it is now. I mean, I couldn't help it. You would be corrupted too if you were bullied, went through wars filled with bloodshed, and nearly be rejected by many for their friendship. You know, all that can really change a person. A normal man like you wouldn't even be able to live a life like that- you'd just kill yourself. As for me, I can't die. I can't just stab myself in the heart and move onto another life. For us countries, it doesn't work that way. Anyway, the more corrupted I became, the colder my heart grew until finally, I couldn't feel its warmth any longer. I could just pitch it, but then I'll miss it too much. After all, it was really the only friend I ever had while growing up. The only friend who stayed around until the very end. So, now I don't feel anything. Along with my whole body, everything to me is cold and numb- even my feelings. So now, I don't feel mercy when I take the lives of pathetic soldiers such as yourself."
As the Russian finished his story, he lifted the faucet pipe over his head, engaging onto the soldier. The soldier cowered in fear- weaponless- ready for the pipe to kill him.
How it felt good to kill people. It always made him smile. He always enjoyed the twisted look on their faces when he took their breath away. From Gilbert of the Teutonic Knights, to the terrified look on the Baltics, he loved it! The looks of soldiers as he decapitated their heads from their spines. The crying of children as their mothers were killed right before their eyes. The way their eyes would look into his, upset that he was the one who was going to take his lives. It was heartbreaking, but he felt nothing. He didn't feel sorry nor did he regret his actions when he killed all the innocent lives that begged for mercy. It was no wonder why anybody didn't want to be around him. It was no wonder why his own heart froze from the cold winter that elevated within him. He was a freak, a psychopath, but he didn't care-for he felt nothing.
"Now let me ask again." The nation said sternly. "Who am I?" The soldier coughed out a bloody tooth before looking up to his antagonist.
"A sick freak, that's what you are!" A dark aura generated around the nation, as he looked down onto the stubborn soldier.
"Wrong answer, comrade. You shouldn't have said that. I was actually going to be generous and let you live, but now I'll have to kill you."
The sound of a crushing skull echoed through the snowy battleground- the pleasuring sound of death ringing through the cruel nation's ears.
Ivan immediately bolted up from his bed, gasping as if he had just emerged from cold water. The gut quenching feeling came over him, nearly forcing Ivan to throw up just as the soldier did in his dream.
Once he realized that it all was a nightmare, he plopped back into his bed, shaking. The events from the nightmare were horrifying, even more for the fact that everything in the nightmare was true. True to the days when he was known as the Soviet Union. How much he wanted to rid of those memories. Those memories when he was an evil being, a monster.
Today, he was better than that. He tried to be friendly, giving off a cheerful smile, but everyone he tried being friendly with only took it as a threat. His days as the Soviet Union had scarred nearly every country in the world, thus giving a bad reputation for the Russian Federation.
Ivan curled up in his bed, trying to return to sleep, but sleep did not come. Fear had flooded into the Russian, fear of falling back into slumber and killing another soldier as the Soviet Union.
About half-an-hour passed since Ivan had abruptly awoken from his nightmare, and he struggled to sleep. He tossed and turned; he fluffed up his pillow; even counting sheep in Russian, but he still did not find sleep.
Finally, he did the last thing possible and dialed a number on his phone lying on his side-table next to him. The phone sang out two long rings until someone had finally answered.
"S'up!" the person greeted on the other line, who was Alfred F. Jones, the happy go-lucky American country. "You're speaking to the hero here! What's happening?"
"Fredka…" Ivan whimpered.
"Yo Vanya, what's wrong?" Worry and concerned had suddenly pitched into the American's voice.
"I had horrible nightmare. It is horrible dream that I don't want to fall asleep to."
"Tell me what happened."
Ivan then told Alfred about his nightmare. About him killing the German soldier during the time when he was the Soviet Union.
During that time, he also held a hate for Alfred. He remembered the days he sneered at the American and his devotion for freedom. It had boiled his blood to think that someone held a love for something so pathetic.
Today though, things had changed between American and Russian and since then, had held a strong relationship for each other.
Now and then, whenever he had dreams about his time as the Soviet Union, he would always talk to Alfred about it.
"Dude, that sounds brutal." Alfred said, as Ivan finished his story almost near to crying.
"It was so terrifying…" Ivan whimpered. "I actually enjoyed killing that solider…It was music to my ears when he screamed for his life…His blood was stained all over my hands…I was a cold-blooded killer…And worse, I felt nothing at all…I had no feelings…No sympathy for the soldier…Alfred…Am I still a cold-blooded killer?"
"No! No you're not, Ivan!... Why would you say something like that? You're not a monster!"
"Then why do people still turn away from me when I try to be friendly? Why do I always have nightmares about me murdering people?! Why is my heart always so cold, like it's not even there?"
"Ivan…You're not cold hearted. If you were, then I wouldn't be your friend."
"How do you know I'm not?"
There was a long moment of silence on the other line, before Alfred had spoken again.
"Because, you're scared about your dreams…Because you're terrified that you killed that soldier…Because it bothered you so much that you had to call me…You had to tell me how you felt during all that…If you did none of these things, then I'd say you were cold blooded. Ivan, ever since the end of the Soviet Union, I've noticed a change in you. Every time you're rejected by one's friendship, you get this sad look in your eyes. Whenever you find something funny, you laugh as if you actually mean it. And when you're angry, you're not afraid to show it. Ivan, whether you like it or not, you have feelings!"
Ivan fell silent for a moment, trying to comprehend what Alfred had told him. He had feelings…If so, then why was it so hard for him to believe it then?
As he thought, a feeling came to him. It was a strange feeling, a warm feeling. A feeling he felt when he was only a young child with the purest of heart. He had realized he felt this warmth before as well, but he never noticed it.
Ivan placed his heart onto his chest, feeling a beating pulse coming from inside of him. How could he not have noticed it? How could he not have noticed that the warmth of his heart had finally returned? No longer was his body a cold, lifeless shell. His one true friend- who disappeared only years ago- had finally returned to him.
"Yo Vanya!" Alfred called from the other line of the phone, curious as to why Ivan had grown silent all of the sudden. "You still there?"
"Da." Ivan answered.
"Listen, I'd like to stay and chat and all, but I've got like a boring meeting to go in a minute here, so you mind calling me back?"
"Okay, Fredka…Spasiba."
"Don't mention it, man! Get some sleep, okay?"
"Okay. Goodnight, Fredka."
"Night, Vanya." And as Ivan lied back down to sleep, a field of sunflowers had envisioned into the Russian's head and standing in the middle of it- holding a bouquet of the golden flowers- was Alfred, smiling the warmest of smiles he had ever seen.
AN: Just a little pairing fic I did of RusAme. I posted this one on Tumblr too, along with Chicken Names, but I changed this one a bit. I hope you enjoyed this one and it wasn't too bad. :)