A/N: Hello everyone! I'm AbbyGreenEyes and this is my second Hetalia Fanfiction. It's much darker and more serious than my first fic Kryptonite which is mainly humor and fluff so for any of my regular reviewers from there I understand if it's not your kind of story! I know i'm posting this a bit early since Kryptonite isn't technically over yet but it's so close I thought it'd be safe to start putting this up.
Title: The Rival North
Full Summary: The story begins in late June of 1963. Canada & America have been conducting a secret relationship for decades. The Cuban missile crisis has recently been resolved in October of 1962 and the Partial Nuclear Test Ban Treaty is being discussed and will be ratified in September in spite of these moments of cooperation Cold War tensions are still running high between the Soviet Union and the United States and it's allies. When Russia, working without his government's knowledge, kidnaps America in an attempt to manipulate politics through personal coercion it will be up to his allies and particularly his brother to see him through.
Themes of action, espionage, magic, twin ESP, tragedy, and romance.
Both human and country names used.
General warnings: violence, explicit sex (consensual), drug use (recreational and otherwise), sensitive material.
Specific Trigger Warning for Rape. There will be no graphic depictions of the rape itself (no lemons) but it is a part of the plot and their will be references to it later in the story. So please proceed with caution.
A note on Russia's characterization: this is a Cold War story and essentially and Action/Espionage fic at it's core and as such it deals with themes of violence, kidnapping, and the lot. However, I do want Russia (or as he is here, The RSFSR and head of the Soviet Union) to be a reasonable antagonist.
If you think he is slipping into RapeTruck!Russia territory please let me know.
ConCrit in general is not only welcomed but loved because that's how I improve as a writer.
Thank you for sitting through that giant note! Here's chapter one!
…...
Chapter one: Something Borrowed
June 28th , 1963, 6:30pm, New York City
Matthew straightened the strap of his overnight bag and reached for the doorknob. Predictably, a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around his waist in protest and a head of golden hair buried itself against his neck.
"Why do you have to go?" Alfred complained. "It's almost our birthdays. Just skip work! You deserve it!"
"Al," Matt smiled and turned around into his brother's embrace. "You know I can't do that."
"Come on," Al grinned and lowered his voice "I'll make it worth your while."
Matthew blushed and pushed back against Alfred's chest even though he knew from experience it wouldn't do him any good. "Geez you're impossible. You're going to see me in a couple days for Canada Day. Can't you wait that long?"
"Baby you know I can't. I missed you while I was in Berlin."
The year was 1963, at the height of the cold war, and Alfred had just returned from West Berlin where he had been with his boss delivering their support to those resisting the soviet bloc.
Matthew had taken away from work just long enough to meet Alfred and spend a few days together on his return from Europe but things were too stressful at home for him to stay long. There had been bombings by the Quebec Liberation Front in April, the perpetrators of the attack having only just been sentenced at the beginning of the month. Matthew was needed at home but Alfred had promised he would make it to Canada Day this year.
The high demands that were placed on them as countries and the secrecy their relationship required made it difficult for the lovers to be together, even being so close geographically, but they made time when and where they could.
"Work has to come first, love." Matthew reminded him. "What would your people think if they knew you were wasting time giving me puppy dog eyes when you should be reading your briefings?"
Alfred sighed and released his northern brother. "I know I just wish you could stay one more night."
Matthew leaned in and caught Alfred's lips in a kiss. "I do too but I have a plane to catch."
Alfred walked Matthew down the stairs of his apartment building and saw him safely to the taxi waiting take him to the airport.
Neither of the two blonds was aware that while they exchanged a chaste fraternal hug of goodbye they were being watched.
Across the street, seven stories up, in an old apartment building that was being refurbished to be a new hotel , there stood a man whose violet eyes never wavered from the scene before him.
The tall Russian's heart beat a rapid rhythm within his chest while he stood calm, cool, and composed.
He had tracked the American from Berlin. He had planned to take him there. It would've been so much easier to snatch him across the border and into the lands that he controlled.
Alas, his young adversary had unwittingly evaded him. America's gregarious nature made him a difficult target. He was always in search of people, of talk, and well lit rooms. He never stayed long in the shadows or the silence.
Russia, Ivan, knew this was because he couldn't stand to be alone.
Ivan had made the dangerous journey into enemy territory under the presumption that Alfred would take a day of rest after his travels in Berlin. He could find him at his home and catch him when he gave in to his fatigue.
He had not expected that Canada would already be there waiting with open arms for his American lover.
Oh yes, that had certainly been an interesting discovery but it was of little consequence to Ivan.
Ivan knew that Alfred was a heavy sleeper but he was well guarded when traveled with his government to foreign lands. Especially now, Ivan indulged in a small private smile, when they knew he was under threat.
At his home he was alone presumably no one but those he trusted should be able to find him there. Obviously he was not as secure as he thought he was.
Canada, being cautious and alert, less sure of himself, was a light sleeper. At the slightest sound from Russia entering the apartment he would've been awake.
Ivan was confident in his ability to neutralize any threat the Canadian posed but he knew that hubris paved the way to defeat. Ivan would be patient. He would wait until Matthew left that way there would be no chance that he might escape and raise the alarm.
Ivan was vulnerable here alone on American soil. Not even his own government knew that he was here and on what errand he had come for his motherland. The success of his entire endeavor relied on stealth and expediency.
He would get in, get him, and get out. He would be gone before the Americans had a chance to rouse themselves and realize what he had taken from them taken and hidden where it could not be retrieved.
He was Russia, standing nearly eternal on the shores of time, pagan roots stretching back before the dawn of Christ, independent and indomitable.
No country so young and so untested, however strong, however powerful, could defy him.
America was strong but he had not yet proven his endurance.
Left to the rule of his own will Ivan imagined he would rise and fall like so many great nations and empires that Russia had seen in his time; That was of no import to Ivan, however, as he did not intend to allow Alfred Jones the privilege of watching his glory grow and fade as guided by his own hand.
No, Ivan intended to guide his hand for him.
He would consume Alfred's strength, his youth, and his bounty and he would control them.
He intended to reach out one large hand and snatch him into the fold of his family where he would be a jewel within his house and one who would pave the way for others to come.
Ivan had seen the feats they had both accomplished when spurred by their competition.
Now he would see what feats America's spirit and America's resources could accomplish to lend glory to the Soviet Union.
If he would not acknowledge communism for the good of his people, he would be made to acknowledge it under Russia's rule.
He watched Alfred turn and re-enter his apartment building. The American had stood for a long time on the street watching until the taxi carrying his brother had disappeared over the horizon.
Ivan slunk away from the window letting the stained curtain fall from his grasp.
He would act tonight.
Russia slumped against the wall of the dark, dusty room and fingered his scarf. The heat in June was sweltering even here in New York one of the northern most points of the United States.
He missed the cool summer air of Moscow.
The longing for home turned his thoughts farther inward. His government did not need to know what he was here doing. He would tell them in time when he was certain of his success. He did not need to be told what was best for Russia by any one of the power hungry puppets he had called his boss over the years. Ivan had been there since the beginning, Ivan was Russia, he knew what was best for Russia.
For centuries he had watched his people both struggle and thrive, carving out a life from the beautiful and often harsh land he called his own. His people knew how to survive. They had the beet and their red wheat but still famines were far too common. He had resources from Ukraine and Georgia and many of the others who now united under the red flag but if he could bring America under that same banner he would never have to worry over such things again.
Vast fields of wheat, pasture for grazing cattle, fertile soil for orchards along the coasts, all these things would be his.
He had not even begun to think of his personal needs. The needs he had as Ivan and not as Russia. His need for somewhere warm, somewhere bright, and his insatiable thirst for companionship. His house was full but it was not enough, it was never enough.
…
Back in his apartment Alfred finished cleaning the dishes he and Matthew had used for an early dinner before Matthew had left to catch his plane. The sun was just setting and Alfred wished Matthew could've taken a morning flight. He knew his Canadian had put off leaving as long as he could, he knew he had work in the morning and needed to get home tonight, but Alfred was still filled with loneliness when faced with his all too quiet apartment.
He retrieved a bottle of coke from his fridge, put on a vinyl record (He wouldn't tell Arthur but he was very into some of the new bands coming out of England right now) and flipped through the newest release from Marvel Comic's Tales of Suspense. He knew he was just killing time and avoiding thinking about all the things he would face at work tomorrow.
He stayed up for a few more hours, watching the evening news and a few variety shows on the TV before finally accepting that he had to go to bed alone tonight.
He showered, folded up his clothes and slipped into a fresh pair of boxers. It was really too hot to sleep in anything else. He'd come up to New York in hopes of avoiding the D.C heat but they'd gotten up to a record high today and it lingered into the night.
He threw the blanket off his bed onto the floor and cracked his bedroom window. He curled up under his thin sheet and hugged the pillow Matthew had used the night before close to him. He could still smell traces of him on it and when he closed his eyes it helped him to pretend Matthew was still laying there next to him.
...
All along Ivan had waited patiently as the hours of the night slipped away. Finally he judged it late enough that Alfred would've had time to fall into a deep sleep.
He had staked out the apartment building and knew that there was a night watchman who guarded the entry way after sundown. He'd determined the easiest way to gain access would be by climbing the fire escape. Alfred only lived on his building's fourth floor so it wouldn't take Ivan long to climb which would significantly reduce his chances of being spotted. He knew that Alfred's apartment had a balcony around the back foolishly built close enough to the fire escape that a tall enough man with long enough legs could easily cross from one to the other, from there it was only a matter of popping the lock on Alfred's door.
He checked the pockets of his coat. In the right he felt the all important vile of liquid wrapped up in his handkerchief. In the left he felt the tools he would use to silently unlock the door. He'd carefully wrapped them tightly in a second handkerchief to ensure they wouldn't rattle and alert anyone who might be listening. Next to the tools was a small but strong tightly would rope and a scrap of dirty fabric he'd torn from the curtains of the building he had been squatting in.
He smiled his small smile and tucked his scarf safely away in his jacket where it couldn't become tangled and inhibit his movement or be used against him if, as he certainly would, Alfred put up much of a fight.
Ivan was looking forward to it. The struggle would make his inevitable conquest all the sweeter.
He slipped through the shadows and followed the back alleys until he found himself behind Alfred's apartment building. With surprising grace for a man his size he silently mounted the fire escape.
He could do nothing for the soft gentle thud of his leather boots against the wrought iron stairway.
Slowly he counted the steps up to the fourth floor. There was no time for anxiety, no time for fear, this was the time for action. Those were all emotions meant for prey the only thing reserved for a hunter was to be cool and calculating.
He stopped at the fourth floor, pressed himself against the brick wall and peeked around slowly into Alfred's bedroom window to see if he could make out whether or not Alfred was inside and fast asleep. That was when Ivan noticed the lower half of the window had been pushed open. The curtains fluttered softly in the breeze.
'Oh Amerika,' He thought splitting into a grin 'You are still so naïve.'
No matter. Ivan would soon teach him the value of vigilance.
It would be a tight fit with his broad shoulders but it would be quicker and quieter than making the leap to the back terrace.
He slipped one shoulder in a time, entering at an angle, and in an instant he was standing there in Alfred's dark bedroom, a silhouette against the white curtains, illuminated for a moment by the lights of the city and then he moved to the side and was suddenly indistinguishable from shadow.
He felt his breath hitch and his pulse race not from fear but excitement.
He was so close. Alfred was laying before him with white sheets curled messily around his body. He slept on his side with his back turned to Ivan. A quick survey of the room showed Ivan the gun that was left on Alfred's nightstand.
He crept forward, his eyes never leaving Alfred's back and the nest of golden hair resting on his pillow.
He took the gun and slipped it casually into his inner coat pocket.
He paused for a moment and then reached his hand out for the pair of recognizable square framed glasses. He slipped them carefully into another of his coat's many pockets.
Finally, it was time.
He pulled the bottle of chloroform from his pocket and doused the handkerchief, then he crept ever so gently into bed behind Alfred.
He noticed the small opening between Alfred's neck and his pillow. He would have to act quickly and hope that Alfred was as deep a sleeper as he expected.
He pushed his arm underneath Alfred's head.
The blond stirred and groggily asked "Mattie?"
"Nyet." Ivan whispered "I am not your little Matvey."
Then it was the instant to act the moment America stiffened and began "Rus-!"
was the minute the arm Ivan had curled underneath him snapped around his throat and began to crush his windpipe leaving America gasping for air. The blond was pulled fast against Ivan's chest, his legs thrashed about, hands reaching in vain for a gun on the nightstand that he wouldn't find. Realizing his gun was missing he jabbed his elbow as sharply against the ribs of the man holding him as possible, but Russia's unseasonably thick coat protected him. Finally Ivan began to release him, to allow him to breath only to intercept those first, beautiful, deep, cleansing breaths with the chemical soaked rag.
America knew what was happening to him the minute he felt the cloth touch his face but he couldn't stop himself. His lungs were burning with need for air thanks to Russia's choke-hold.
He breathed in and his world went black.
When Alfred's body went limp Ivan pulled away and pocketed the rag. He considered briefly leaving it for Canada to find when the other nation inevitably came looking for his lover. As fun as it would've been to torment him with the knowledge of exactly how he had taken America Ivan listened to his reason and decided it was best not to leave a trace at all.
"My Amerika," Ivan cooed against Alfred's neck. "I like you so much better this way."
He took a moment to run his hands over Alfred's unconscious body before pulling the American's arms behind him and securing them with the rope.
Of course, with his strength Alfred could tear right through them but Ivan had a plan for that.
He tied his arms behind his back and his legs together. Next he pulled the dirty strip of cloth from his pocket. He shoved two fingers in Alfred's mouth prying it gently apart and fitting him for a tight gag.
The next part of Ivan's plan required speed and courage. All he had to do now was to get Alfred down the fire escape and across the street to the car he had parked in the alley there.
The car had been procured for him by trustworthy contacts in the U.S who knew better than to ask questions. It wasn't stolen and Ivan had no fear of it being reported. Once he had Alfred in the car and they were on the open road it would take just a little more than a day of straight driving until he reached the southernmost point of Florida where he had arranged for a boat to meet him and carry him and his cargo to Cuba where a plane would be waiting to take them home to Russia.
Cuba had owed him a favor and even if he hadn't he would've been only too happy to oblige.
Ivan knew the drive would be tiring but he could rest once they had safely left American soil.
He would be among comrades then and Alfred's chances of escape would be severely reduced.
'Even if he did find a way around the poison.' Ivan smiled as he stood up, carrying Alfred bridal style with him. 'Which he won't.'
The streets were completely quiet and no-one noticed the large, pale-haired man cross the street with the limp body in his arms.
Soon Ivan was sliding Alfred to the side to support him in one strong arm as he popped the trunk of the inconspicuous black car.
Let it not be said that he wasn't thoughtful, Ivan mused, he had made certain his contacts sent a vehicle with a spacious trunk.
Ivan lay Alfred carefully inside the trunk turning him so his back was facing the door and his inner forearms were exposed.
Ivan stepped away momentarily to retrieve a special package from the glove box. From this package he produced a syringe full of carefully dosed Coniine, one of many such syringes contained there in, and produced from Hemlock enough to paralyze but not to kill.
Well, perhaps enough to kill a human being, but naturally it would take a little more than your average dose to subdue America.
Ivan frowned. He so wished Alfred could be alert for this. If only he could see the undoubtedly horrified look on his face and watch him as the paralysis set in and robbed him of his beloved strength.
Unfortunately, if America was conscious America could fight back and that was more trouble than it was worth.
Ivan checked his watch. It was just a little after 5 am. The poison would begin to wear off in 12 hours and require the second dose of the day to keep it active.
He'd be sure to stop in the afternoon to re-administer the poison. He couldn't have Alfred regaining his strength and kicking open the trunk to roll off down the highway.
He carefully sought a vein in Alfred's forearm and injected him.
Moments later smiling to himself he slammed the lid of the trunk and took his place behind the wheel.
The hours couldn't pass soon enough. He was too eager to see Alfred's face when he opened the trunk next.
...
The first thing Alfred noticed when he awoke was the pain in his throat. He knew his neck must be a garden of bruises. Second came the burning in his nose from the harsh chemicals he had inhaled. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and a throbbing pain in his head.
'Chloroform.' He thought 'I knew it.'
Then, slowly, he acknowledged the jolting of his stomach and pitch black that surrounded him.
It didn't take him long to register that he must be in the trunk of a moving car.
The next thing he noticed as his eyes tried to adjust in the dark was the absence of Texas from his face.
Well, that only made sense he thought it wasn't like Russia was going to be bothered about whether or not he had his glasses when he'd taken him in his sleep. It was just a slight handicap, he assured himself, nothing major.
He felt ropes around his wrists and ankles and scoffed at them. The chloroform was a coward's move but if Russia thought that a few petty ropes and a locked trunk could hold him he had another thing coming. He'd just separate his legs and split the rope in half with the force of the movement.
Only, when he commanded his legs to move, they didn't obey.
Suddenly panic set in. His heart rate accelerated or, more correctly, it tried to. Instead of the rapid tattoo he expected there were painful, plodding thuds in his chest.
He concentrated, he tried harder and harder, but his legs wouldn't budge. They wouldn't move even an inch.
Paralyzed. Russia had paralyzed him.
The first horrified question that came to his mind was 'Is it permanent?'
He had no way of knowing so he tried to calm himself and move on.
He tried his arms. They were heavy and weak but he could wiggle them very slightly which he took to be a good sign.
His breathing was labored and slow and his heart rate refused to respond to his panic, these clues tipped him off that whatever Russia had done to him it must have been some kind of drug or poison.
He had no idea what it was or how long it would last but he tried to calm himself and think clearly.
He couldn't have been out that long. He knew he'd been knocked out with chloroform, which would last a maximum of 2 hours with a very heavy dose, so unless Russia had used some other drug to sedate him then they must still be in America.
If they were still in America then he still had time.
Surely someone would notice a gigantic Russian driving around without proper paperwork.
There was nothing he could do at the moment but wait for the drug to wear off or for new information to present itself.
He tried to relax in the darkness. He was filled with dread that when the lid of the trunk opened he would find himself looking out on a foreign landscape.
'Please,' he silently prayed 'let us still be in America.'
He didn't spare any time for silly questions about why Russia had taken him or what he would do with him.
He knew why he had taken him and as for what he would do with him Alfred assumed the worst.
He was confident in his abilities to take on Russia head to head but this drug had really done a number on his confidence.
Russia wasn't going to fight fair. He supposed with the way things had been going back and forth between them the last few decades that wasn't really surprising.
America was used to being able to rely on his strength but with that taken from him he was at a loss.
What would he do now?
'Just relax.' he reassured himself. 'Stay calm. Don't despair.'
It took a lot to kill a country. It wasn't something Russia could do over night just by taking him out to the woods and shooting him in the head. Hell, last he'd heard Prussia was still hanging on.
So whatever the Ruski threw at him, he could handle it.
The hours seemed to drag on in the dark trunk with nothing to distract him but the bumps and curves of the road and vain attempts at moving his limbs.
Just as he was starting to feel the heaviness in his arms lifting (the weight in his legs persisted) he felt the car pull to a stop.
Alfred didn't know whether to feel relief or fear.
He tried to roll himself to face the door of the trunk, but only succeeded in twisting enough so that he could look over his shoulder.
He held still and listened hard.
He could hear the sound of the car door opening, he could feel the car shake as it slammed closed, he could hear the crunching of boots outside.
The sound of the key turning in the lock was his cue to turn his expression to one of defiance.
He tried but he found his face numb and his lips difficult to move and his brow impossible to furrow.
It seemed the only look he could manage was a blank stupor.
The trunk was lifted and Alfred instinctively closed his eyes against the sudden intrusion of light.
When he opened them it was to see that they were parked along some rural highway off the road and shaded by trees.
Russia stood over him smiling and casting a shadow across his body.
"Privyet Amerika." He sing-songed "How are you feeling? The ride has not been too rough, I hope?"
"Zthe fuck d'you zhink?" Alfred slurred through numb tingling lips.
"Allow me to make you more comfortable my friend." Ivan leaned over and untied the ropes around his wrists and feet. "I do not think we will be needing those anymore. It was just a precaution if you woke up early." He tossed them to the side of the road.
When Ivan reached out to reposition him, Alfred tried to draw away even though he knew he would be unsuccessful. With an extreme force of will he swung one of his arms at Russia. It lifted a few inches from his body and fell back with a thud, leaving him thoroughly exhausted and panting for breath.
"Be careful." Ivan giggled. "We would not want you to hurt yourself."
He placed large hands on America's shoulders and turned him so he was laying flat on his back in the spacious trunk.
He casually reached for the glasses he'd kept in his pocket and slipped them back on America's face.
Ivan stroked Alfred's face privately rejoicing in how it must make the other nation feel to be unable to express his anger.
"Zthe fuck are you doing?" It came out weak, as if his tongue was sluggishly tripping over his words.
"Ssh Amerika," Ivan brushed the sweat drenched golden strands of hair off of Alfred's forehead. "It is time for your medicine."
Alfred could do nothing to repress the feelings that twisted in his gut when he saw Ivan draw the syringe from a box in his pocket. A surge of white, burning fear washed over him with nowhere to go and no way to be expressed when he saw the gleam of the sun on the needles. There were so many of them perfectly prepared with their contents excruciatingly measured.
Ivan was going to keep him like this and Alfred honestly did not know what he would do if these injections continued.
He could get by without his strength if he had to perhaps not to fight but at least to escape. However, if Russia had the means to keep him in this paralyzed state then he had no idea how he could regain the upper hand.
With difficulty, he turned his head and refused to watch as Ivan's cool fingers graced his forearm and the needle penetrated his vein. He wouldn't give the Russian the satisfaction of seeing any emotion in his eyes.
He felt Ivan's fingers on his chin turning him to face him. He had a flask held in his other hand and he pressed it to Alfred's lips.
Alfred refused to drink and Ivan made a disapproving noise from low in his throat.
"Drink. I know it is hot."
Alfred felt nauseated with disgust when Ivan's fingers violated his mouth and pried his lips apart to force the tip of the flask past his defenses and to trickle the cold water down his throat.
'Well, at least it's not Vodka.' Alfred tried to make the best of it.
"Well as much as I would love to spend more time with you , Amerika." Ivan smiled. "I am afraid we have a boat to catch."
With that he closed the lid of the trunk and plunged Alfred back into darkness.
June 29th, 1963, 5:00 pm, Ottawa
Miles away in Ottawa Ontario Matthew Williams was just heading home from a long day at the office.
He smiled into the summer sunlight. This year's Canada Day preparations were enough to cheer him up even with the continuing tension from Quebec.
His government had been busy working on a commission on bilingualism and biculturalism that they hoped would help them address the situation and quiet fears of inequality between the Anglophone and Francophone populations. Matthew himself was advising in favor of official bilingualism but of course reforms take time.
He was also excited to let Alfred know that he had been excused from work for the entire first week of July and so would be able to return to the States with him in order to celebrate his birthday on the 4th.
When Matthew arrived home he put on a pot of tea and settled down with a good book.
Alfred should be on his way home from work by now and Matthew was expecting a phone call to let him know what time he would be arriving in Ottawa tomorrow so he could arrange to pick him up from the airport.
As Matthew turned the pages of his book the minutes ticked by. His third (or was it fourth?) cup of tea went cold. His stomach began to nag him for dinner.
He glanced at the clock above his fireplace.
Mon Dieu, was it 8 o'clock already?
Why hadn't Alfred called?
Matthew knew his brother often had to work late.
Perhaps he would call him in the morning and explain his delay and tell him what time he'd be getting in?
Of course, if Alfred had to cancel, which he often did, Matthew wouldn't be surprised.
Alfred frequently missed Canada Day but he always called if he couldn't make it.
He reassured himself of this but still Matthew couldn't shake the sudden feeling that something was wrong. He felt that this was a phone call that should have come.
Maybe Alfred had just forgotten to call him?
He'd been under a lot of stress lately at home and abroad. Maybe it had just slipped his mind that he was meant to call his brother.
He stood up and put away his book. He gave Kumajiro a pat on his way to the kitchen.
He found the phone where it was mounted to the wall and dialed his brother.
He let it ring until the line went flat a mounting sense of dread filling him.
He chided himself that he was being silly. He told himself to put it from his mind, to eat dinner, and to get some sleep.
He tried to obey his rational thoughts but his instincts overwhelmed him and he spent a restless night in bed flickering between worried dreams and waking thoughts of Alfred.
He would call him tomorrow, surely, he would call him tomorrow.