AN:
Right, so first off, I cannot begin without giving a short bibliography. My best friend and I were sitting in her room and being silly as we told each other some the fan fictions and ideas we wrote. Basically we were squealing and spazzing all over the place about Hetalia. We then decided that we've never actually come up with something /together/ before. So guess what we ended up doing? Yup, you guessed it. Deciding on a fan-fiction to write together. My friend came up with so many wonderful ideas and suggestions and I thank her so much for that! I did the writing and she did a heck of a lot of the plotting. Everyone thank my wonderful friend for that! –clapclapclap-! I'd also like to give a thank you to my roleplay buddy, Alex! Once we wrote down the plan sheet I came home and told Alex about it, and she decided to roleplay it out with me so I could get a better feel for the characters and their emotions before I actually wrote the fan-fiction. It helped tremendously! So thank you to Alex, and my friend(I dunno if she wants me to put her name on here) for making this how awesome it is! 333; Oh and thanks to my editor who is my sister.
EN:
She actually didn't edit it this time. ;A; "Too busy" apparently.
Disclaimer:
I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia
Warning:
Yaoi(Don't worry, only fluff)
Blood, violence, abuse and angst(lots of it)
Barack Obama is in the story. WE HAVE NOTHING AGAINST OBAMA AND THIS DID NOT REALLY HAPPEN. HE IS ONLY THERE TO ADD DRAMATIC EFFECT AND IN REAL LIFE, WE'RE QUITE SURE HE WOULD NOT ACT THIS WAY!!!
Character Death. w;;
Pairing:
LithuaniaxAmerica
Enough rambling….Shall we proceed?
It was merely a typical evening in Moscow, impenetrable winter snow blanketing every mountain and hill, the streets paved over in a gaunt layer of ice while not a single blade of grass was perceivable within miles.
On such a conventional evening, only one profoundly misfortunate American was to be seen hammering his cadaverous, frigid fists fervently on a Russian's front door, the sub-zero wind whipping stridently against his dusty brown bomber jacket which he held snugly to his body, savoring the slight warmth that radiated from it as his teeth clattered violently in his mouth.
The pitiable man resented this form of weather. He was accustomed to bikinis and beaches, not Eskimos or whatever the hell inhabited Russia!
The only explanation as to why he was here was the fact that he and Russia's bosses had been cooperating better recently and after much discussion, had agreed on forming an alliance.
America couldn't straightforwardly say that he was exactly ecstatic about this resolution due to his grudge against the Cold War, but hey, if it was going to help his country prevail and maintain its status as the world's greatest power, then it was at least worth a try, right?
Well….that wasn't the solitary reason why America had agreed to come there that evening…to tell you the truth, his surreptitious crush, (although America thought of the word "crush" as an underestimation and girly word) Lithuania, was to be there.
Ever since Lithuania had begun to work for America, not too exceedingly elongated before the Great Depression, America had become conscious about what he cherished about the other male.
He couldn't cease from noticing his awe-inspiring olive eyes that made you desire to gaze into them for hours on end, examining every meticulous speck that imitated the succulent fields of grass back home, not a single blemish or disturbance interfering with that infinite sea of green.
Alfred adored the way he would cock his head cutely to the side, his undulating, mid-length chestnut locks bouncing along with the movement as a guiltless smile grazed his lips, a soft giggle parting his mouth. It was innocence so pure that it could only belong to the one and only Toris Lorinaitis.
"Toris," Alfred mumbled out loud, his eyes glazed over in contemplation as he recited his name. It felt fastidious on his tongue, like it belonged.
Unfortunately though, during the Great Depression, America was left with no other remorse than to return Lithuania to Russia, for Alfred had become so poor that he'd have to make it by with merely mince meat on contrast to the sporadic top-quality hamburger.
Finally, just as the American was just about to affirm that his bum was going to acquire frostbite, the colossal mahogany door to Russia's palace swung open, revealing the oversized, bulky man, his attire consisting of a past-knee length trench coat and a thick wool scarf, flawlessly corresponding with the Russian stereotype.
"Ah, America-kun, love to see that you're enjoying your time in Moscow, da?" the Russian greeted with a diminutive chuckle, a jovial beam adjourning his round features.
Alfred confidentially scoffed but restrained his austere clarifications as he proceeded into the palace, his blue eyes widening beneath his spectacles as he marveled at the décor of Ivan's abode.
It was utterly stunning, and you'd have to be blind not to confess that much. The main entrance hall led into a considerable open area, both outer walls meeting two curved staircases, a crimson rug rolling down the steps. Pictures of assorted historically famous leaders lined the walls including…Stalin and Marx. America shuddered but continued gawking at the rest of the marvelous features.
Throughout this, America ceased to catch the tedious glare Ivan shot into the kitchen where Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania were preparing dinner, warning the three Baltic states that tonight was his night and if any of them were to screw this up in any way shape or form, punishment would be indulged accordingly.
The Russian then draped a toned arm securely around Alfred's shoulders and steered him into the dining space where an exquisite display of candles were arranged along a crimson tablecloth, indistinguishable to the carpet seen previously.
Ivan motioned him to take a seat on the side adjacent to himself with a swift gesture of his hand, and the American promptly obliged, eager to get the "show on the road."
For the first half hour everything was going along so faultlessly; the two effortlessly discussed the existing troubles and solutions that the two nations had in mind. They were even able to manage to fit in some classic Soviet Russian jokes, although they weren't exactly the American's absolute favorite topic of choice, for he'd much rather chatter about sports or something awesome like that.
At some point in time, the Estonian by the name of Eduard strode into the dining room where the two more authoritative nations sat, the teenager wearing a stained apron around his waist as he stopped next to Ivan, remaining hushed as if the Russian had to give him permission to merely speak.
Ivan craned his neck around to face the Estonian, his expression sour and distastefully annoyed as if saying, "What is it you want now?"
Eduard perceptibly pretended not to discern that compulsive stare, but instead fixed his attention on his aged and worn shoes whilst mumbling in Russian, "Dinner shall be ready soon…" His Russian obviously needed practicing because it sounded rickety and irresolute, somewhat incoherent on some of the words even.
Wait…why was Estonia speaking Russian anyways? Had Ivan forbid them of speaking their own native tongue? That was both controlling and unwarranted, but America knew by rumors that Russia was in fact manipulative towards the nations living beneath his roof.
The Russian then unexpectedly clasped his hands together and grinned animatedly, thus snapping the American from his thoughts.
"Perfect, da!" he chortled picking up his silverware, the American catching on and doing the same only a few moments later.
Gripping his fork and knife intolerantly, he had to restrain himself from banging his fists immaturely on the table and demanding the food.
He had no idea what had been cooked, but the aroma that wafted in from the kitchen smelled steamy and delectable, only making him crave it even more.
As the two licked their lips and waited for the meal in silence, an abrupt crash echoed throughout the palace, causing the Russian to scurry from the room and into the route that Alfred knew to be the kitchen.
Alfred raised an eyebrow and pivoted around in his seat to face the Estonian who's expression was lit up with a controlled panic, like he knew what was happening but by experience had learned long ago not to scamper to the scene of the commotion.
"What was—" The American's voice was cut off by a muffled shout coming from the kitchen, clearly belonging to the Russian who's thick accent gave away his identity.
"Trying to ruin my night, da?!" he heard him bellow, soon followed by a high-pitched yelp.
Wait…America knew that yelp. He'd heard one precisely like it back whenever Lithuania used to work for him…he'd been scrubbing down a shower when he had slipped and unintentionally stubbed his toe, releasing a yelp identical to the one he'd just heard.
"Liet!" Alfred shrieked, an old nickname slipping out by mistake as he dropped his silverware which clattered to the empty plate harshly and threw himself out of the dining room chair, sprinting as fast as he could into the kitchen, only to gasp vociferously at what he saw.
Lithuania was sprawled vulnerably on the stone floor next to a shattered platter of food, his hands thrown up in front of his face as he attempted to defend himself from the infuriated Russian who was pummeling the poor man, his fists brought up above his pallid skin as he prepared to throw another punch.
Not if the hero couldn't stop him.