Bars of light cut through the partially drawn shades of the New York pent house. A suit jacket, dress shoes, and silk tie littered the floor, creating a path from the locked wood door the seemingly young nation curled up on the leather loveseat. Even his cherished aviation jacket lay temporarily forgotten at Alfred Jones' feet. The setting sun cast thick bars of light and shadow on his face and hands as he shakily fought with the top three buttons on the dress shirt. After only successfully undoing the top two, he gave up and pulled his socks off instead. Mindlessly, Alfred pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his knees.
Usually, days like this in the office would send him straight to his favorite bar, but today had been worse than normal. It stuck inside him like a piece of twisted scrap metal in his chest. It buried itself deep inside him; twisting and turning his insides so much it made him want to double over with a bottle of strong whiskey and give up for the rest of the week. Even the knowledge of his ever present stash of moonshine didn't rouse Alfred; he stuck to the loveseat, unmoving.
He pressed a hand to his cheek, and shuddered with surprised when a burning tear landed on his hand. He could still feel it if he tried, his face still stung from where the other nation had struck him. Even under the searing tears, Alfred could feel the strike again and again. He replayed it over and over in his mind, like an old broken film stuck on one part of a black and white film.
The blonde quickly ushered the emotion out of his mind, emptying everything but the burn on his cheek and the pained look in the other nations violet eyes. The way Alfred wordlessly slunk out of the almost empty conference room, leaving the personification of Russia by himself. America had just glanced back quickly enough to catch the smirk on Ivan's face, the triumphant look in his eyes. Alfred had been hit before, plenty of times. But being struck by his lover was different, like a mother striking her child out of pure hatred.
More tears bubbled to the surface as America thought about the last time Ivan and he had been happy together. He let his mind linger over the memory of their kiss on his birthday, sitting watching fireworks. He remembered the taste of the older nation's mouth: ice, always ice. But this time strung with hints of celebratory vodka, and sugar from the cake he had brought him. Alfred painfully let himself relive the way he had shrugged off his jacket, the icy touch of Ivan's fingertips as the brushed his bare skin. The next morning being pure bliss, waking up to the brilliant purple eyes of the other nation.
A sob rattled his chest, and Alfred tucked his head between his knees, wrapping both arms around his knees again. "Why?" he choked out, finally surrendering to the shutters and sobs that racked his entire body. He pulled his tear stained glasses off and deposited them on the empty seat next to him. Empty. The word surrounded him, pulling him under and not letting go. Alone. The word happily paired itself with empty, and Alfred felt like he was drowning, calling for help but no one cared enough to do anything.
His mind wandered carelessly back to the last time Ivan had joined him on the loveseat. Both nations were exhausted after a night out in New York, New York, and they had retired to the roomy pent house. After a long talk, he couldn't remember what about, Ivan had headed out, but not without a playful kiss on the American's forehead. More sobs made him convulse as he remembered the shape of Ivan's lips as he had said "I love you, don't ever forget that.", barely loud enough to hear over the air conditioner before closing the door.
Right now, Alfred struggled to believe those words, they seemed empty and shallow to him. Love seemed like a simple word, tossed around as casually as a football in a park. He clung to that memory, wanting to believe with every ounce of being that what Ivan had said then, and countless other times, to be true. He longed to feel the icy nation's cool breath on his neck, and Russia's fingers entwined in his. But the burning on his cheek didn't let him forget what had happened the utter shock and disbelief in Russia's eyes after the meeting. It was the same eyes he had woken up to what seemed like just yesterday. And it were the same purple eyes that were stuck in his mind as he curled up tighter, giving himself away to dreamless sleep.
Alfred blinked slowly in the harsh bars of sun, trying to figure out what had woken him up. The small clock stationed on a table next to the loveseat flashed 1:24 PM, and he groaned as he realized he had already slept through all of the morning meetings, and half way through lunch by now. He was sure his boss would be furious, but he just forgot the thought and continued to try to figure out what had broken him from his dreamless sleep. Alfred rubbed his eyes slowly, they were red and puffy, and just another vain reason he didn't pick himself up and go to the rest of the New York meeting with Russia and his boss.
There it was again, he realized. Something that stood out from the hum of the air conditioning and street noise below. America absentmindedly rubbed his cheek instead, too lazy to stick the noise to an action. He just groaned and stretched out on the loveseat, his bare feet hanging off the end. The noise came again, and this time he recognized it as a knock on his door. It wasn't the usual half hearted knock of a maid or someone from room service; it was a knock that resonated through the airy pent house; loud and determined. America just groaned again, flipping over to lie on his back, hugging a throw pillow to his aching chest.
"I know you're in there, Amerika." Alfred's breath caught in his throat, instantly recognizing the thick Russian accent that penetrated the locked door.
"Unless you want to buy another door, I suggest you unlock it." Alfred's chest pinched in on itself, and on instinct he curled up on his side, not wanting to face his demons.
"Don't make me break down the door; you don't want to make me do this." The Russian accent drifted through the pent, surrounding the American.
Alfred bit his lip, trying to hold back the hot tears that wanted to bubble up. He felt like a teenager again, with moods that swung like the old rope swing that England had shown him as a child. But what he remembered most was when the rope broke, and sent him flying towards the rocky outcropping on the edge of the creek. That was how he felt now, spiraling towards the rocks.
"Last warning, Alfred." Ivan's sharp call made the blonde bite his lip harder, and he could now taste the metallic hint of his own blood in his mouth.
"Fine, break down the door." Alfred whispered to himself, licking to blood off of his lip.
He didn't want Ivan to see him like this, but he had no choice when the sound of splintering wood filled his ears. He couldn't help but compare it to the sound of a missile head going off. Alfred didn't move, choosing to stare at the partially drawn shades ahead of him and not glance behind him at Ivan.
Alfred heard a sigh, it was frustrated and exhausted. Ivan bent down, gathering the forgotten suit jacket, shoes, and tie; throwing them on a chair before softly padding up behind America.
"Why?" Alfred managed, not looking behind himself yet. "Why did you do that? You know I can't do anything about what my boss does. It's not my fault." He added, trying not to let his voice waver too much. The tall Russian was silent behind him, but Alfred could sense his looming presence.
"Ivan, I don't know what my boss did to you, he doesn't tell me anything anymore." Alfred sucked in a shaky breath, trying to calm himself and talk like a rational human being. Ivan sighed behind him, and Alfred heard the scuff of his boots as he walked in front of him. Alfred squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to meet the taller nation's violet gaze.
"Amerika, I didn't know." Ivan grasped at some form of apology as he knelt down in front of Alfred.
"Ivan, you could have just asked me. You could have talked to me; you didn't have to hit me. I thought you would have talked to me. That hurt, Russia." Alfred spat at the Russian, opening his eyes and staring into the violet ones that looked back at him.
It was so different to look down to Russia; he almost felt that it was wrong to look down on the other nation. He had so much more experience that him, in being a nation, a friend, a lover. But now he had the upper hand and he was going to use it to his full advantage.
"Amerika, please, I didn't know you had no idea. I let my emotions get the best of me. If it was anyone else I wouldn't have looked back, I wouldn't try to right my wrong. You know me, if it were anyone else I would have just walked away." Ivan struggled for words, his English slipping into a deeper accent due to his creeping emotion, and instead reached for America's hand. Alfred let his hand be pulled away from him, and he silently savored the icy touch of Ivan's skin.
"Alfred, I love you. So much." Ivan said slowly, searching for any emotion in Alfred's clear blue eyes. Ivan didn't need an answer when Alfred pulled their hands onto his knees and gently kissed the top of his hand.
"Don't ever, ever scare me like that again, Ivan. I couldn't take it." A rare smile crept across Ivan's face as Alfred pulled him up on the small sofa.
"I love you, too. So much." Alfred mimicked playfully, running his hand through Russia's hair, letting them rest on his ever present scarf. A smile stretched across Ivan's face, he loved how America knew exactly how to touch him. He shook his head, gazing into America's pale blue eyes. Alfred laughed softly, and pressed his mouth against Russia's. Ice, always ice.
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Yay! My very first Hetalia fanfiction for my OTP RusAme. C: So, believe it or not I actually typed this up originally on my phone. Yeah. My thumbs felt broken after this, but it was so worth it. Enjoy!