A/N: So, yeah. I have NO idea what this is or where it came from. I think it's terrible, personally, but I was listening to something and the higher powers of writing just said "YOU HAVE TO WRITE THIS NOW." So I did. It was a lot longer than I thought and I had imagined something totally different. Ugh. :\ So, first time I'm writing something like this, it's nothing like the characters, what the hell did I do.
Enjoy?
If even one person feels something after reading this story I'll feel accomplished. xD See bottom for Russian dialogue notes.
The sun had set over the beautiful Moscow skyline, St. Basil's Cathedral lit up in brilliant colors. People were still shuffling around; night-life in Russia was good when you knew where to go, but America and Russia didn't care about any of that. Snow fell in on-and-off flurries, America getting closer to Russia to keep warm. He hated the cold, but loved seeing Moscow. It was as beautiful as New York, only America couldn't understand 98% of what the people were saying.
"I-Ivan," America said, stumbling over his human name. His boss had told him the man's name a few times, but because of their work, they usually referred to each other by country name. 'Ivan Braginski,' the man was called. The name felt weird on his tongue. It felt as strange to pronounce as it did to read on paper.
It wasn't until the last time Alfred had visited Russia that he worked up the courage to call him by name. They had a whole train car to themselves. Ivan was taking Alfred to see one of the many cities he still couldn't pronounce. Ivan was looking out the window in silence for most of the ride; Alfred stole glances at the tall Russian whenever he was sure he wasn't looking. He was just so fascinating... Especially that silver hair of his. Why did someone so close in age to him have that color hair already? Ivan. He couldn't get that name out of his head no matter what he thought of. The American didn't even realize that said man had turned toward him, a puzzled look on his face.
"Да, Alfred? You have been saying my name for the past several minutes. Is there something you wanted to ask me?"
Alfred laughed loudly—he did that when he was nervous—and looked away. "No, no. I was just making sure, uh, I could actually say your name! Yeah! Russian names are really hard to pronounce, you know."
"Moscow is so cool."
Russia turned his violet gaze to him and smiled. "Да. Она очень красивая." America loved when he spoke Russian; it sounded much better than his English. "Where do you want to go next, Alfred?"
Alfred ran ahead several feet, chuckling. "I think we should get something to eat!" He had been to Moscow several times already; enough to remember where the most basic things were. On his first visit, Ivan had told him that if he ever got lost, to seek out the towers of the cathedral in Red Square. They were some of the highest buildings around and everybody knew where they were. Ivan would always be able to find him. He taught him how to ask for directions in Russian and couldn't help but laugh at the American as he tried to pronounce the words for the first time.
"Как дойти до Красной Площади?" Ivan said flawlessly.
Alfred's eyes widened slightly. "K-kak doyi—do— This is hard!" Ivan smiled; it was cute when the American was flustered.
"All the great heroes can speak Russian, Alfred," Ivan teased, playing on the American's love for heroes.
"I think you mean 'all the great heroes can speak American', Ivan!" Alfred laughed.
"Да, I think I know exactly where you want to go." Ivan had taken Alfred to one of his favorite little cafes some time ago, who instantly fell in love with it. They made the best coffee—outside of New York, of course—and the food was amazing. Russian cuisine never ceased to amaze him. As Alfred continued on, Ivan stopped in his tracks. Something had been bothering him for a while now. He couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. A harsh gaze bore a hole through his back. Someone was watching them. He had to protect Alfred from whatever it was.
He could hear the faint sound of snow crunching from behind. "Alfred, stop!" he shouted. The American paused, whipping around to face him. Three men burst from the shadows as Ivan raced over to Alfred. The scarf he always wore flared up, giving off the illusion that Ivan ran at super speed. "Stay behind me." It was an order.
Three guns were trained on them as their attackers moved closer. Ivan was both furious and worried. What if Alfred got hurt? He had to keep a level head lest he end up injuring Alfred. He was starting to see red. If these men tried anything, would he be able to stop himself from lunging at them? If only he had his trusty water pipe...
The tallest man stepped forward, brushing the snow off his dark bangs. The gun in his left hand never faltered. He spoke in Russian to Alfred, demanding him to come forward quietly. Ivan's eyes narrowed dangerously. These men were notorious bandits in Moscow. Their rap sheets were miles long: robbery, murder, kidnapping, human trafficking, etc. Their speaking to Alfred could only mean one thing; they wanted the beautiful blonde boy to fetch them a pretty penny.
"Он не знает русский язык. Говорите по-английски или говорите мне."
Alfred just stared at Ivan. They were talking about him, he knew it. And something about Russian. Ivan's hand curled up into a ball instinctively, and Alfred could feel the dark aura surrounding the man. Alfred had seen on several occasions how scary the Russian could really be.
"Хорошо," the man answered slowly. "Hand over the American and you can leave with your life." The man's accent was much thicker than Ivan's.
"Нет," Ivan spat. "You will not lay a finger on him."
The dark-haired man got in Ivan's face, grabbing the worn scarf. He laughed, cursing at Ivan in hushed Russian. Ivan must have said something the other man didn't want to hear; he was getting mad.
"Leave him alone," Alfred said, stepping closer to the man. "I don't know who you think you are, but I don't do anything I don't want to do."
"Нет, Alfred. You do not know these men. They are a gang of criminals who get what they want through whatever means."
"I love when the prey fights back," said the Russian, cocking his gun. Ivan hissed as the cold metal touched his neck. "But what will it be, little American? Risk the life of your comrade or come willingly?"
Ivan focused his gaze on Alfred. He knew all too well what he was thinking. Alfred's greatest weakness was his desire to save everyone. He often got in over his head, pursuing this grand notion of justice. Alfred's ocean eyes focused on nothing; a clear sign of him being deep in though. He always did well in fights—he got in a lot of them when he was younger—and he could take care of himself. Alfred wanted to be the one coming to others' aid. Why should this time be any different, right? It was just another fight.
Ivan wasn't going to give him the time to think about it. He swept the man's feet out from under him, sending him tumbling into the snow. Ivan pulled back to deliver the finishing blow to the man's neck, but he rolled to safety at the last second, Ivan's fist instead connecting with the soft powder beneath his feet. This man was faster than he looked. It was safe to assume he had a few other tricks up his sleeve.
Alfred, following suit, delivered a sharp kick to the second man's stomach which knocked the wind from his lungs. The man sunk to the ground, gasping for air. Ivan took his eyes off the dark-haired man, shouting something to Alfred. It took a minute for the American to register Ivan's voice calling to him, but he finally turned around.
"Behind you!"
But it was too late. The dark-haired man was already lunging at Ivan, sending the two of them crashing to the ground. The unsettled snow was whisked away by the intensifying wind, creating their own personal snow cyclone. The other Russian had Ivan pinned under his legs, laughing at the futile struggles of the large man. Ivan could usually overpower anyone he came into contact with easily. A helpful advantage of his size. How the hell was this man so strong? Ivan didn't like the feeling of helplessness creeping up on him. The gun was once again trained on him. "Ivan!" Alfred shouted, racing toward him.
"Get out of here, Alfred!"
"You're going to run while dear Ivan's life is in my hands?" The stubborn American refused. Despite the odds stacked against them, Alfred wasn't one to run away from a fight. Ivan was going to have to punish him for that when everything was all over.
"Максим! Сергей! Сейчас!"
The smallest of the three men, a blonde, tackled Alfred to the ground. They wrestled around in the snow for what seemed like forever to Ivan. Time slowed around them and he nearly forgot about the man on top of him. Ivan watched helplessly as Alfred threw a punch that connected to the blonde's stomach. But instead of making him double over like Alfred intended, the blonde responded with a left hook to Alfred's jaw. He cried out in pain. Not wasting even a second, the blonde landed another punch, this time connecting with Alfred's right eye.
"Such a shame," said the dark-haired man. "I didn't want to damage such a beautiful face. He'll be sold rather quickly; I know plenty of people who want a nice American boy like that. But you..." He grabbed Ivan's jaw, examining his face. He ran his finger across his chin, surprised to feel just how smooth his skin was. "You're quite a looker too. Знаешь, девушки любят седые волосы. И твои необыкновенные фиолетовые глаза очень красивые. Я знаю девушку из Америки которая бы хотела с тобой познакомиться. "
Ivan was revolted by the thought. He shook the man's hand away, his heart racing. There was Alfred, his Alfred, broken and bloody. One of Alfred's ocean blue eyes was swollen and black, his lip bleeding. The blonde landed one, two more hits. Alfred was strong—stronger than anyone else he had met—but even he couldn't stand up to the sheer power of the blows. Somehow he was still conscious. Alfred must have been suffering, Ivan thought; he must be in pain. Ivan's blood was boiling; they would all pay.
Ivan headbutted the man. The sickening crack of the bones in his nose echoed through the darkness. The gun went off, a bullet lodging deep in Ivan's right shoulder. Ivan screamed. Everything around him went white for several seconds. When the world returned, his body felt numb, save for his burning shoulder. "Алексей!" So that was his name. Alexei's hands flew to his nose, trying to quell the river of blood flowing down his face. Now was as good a chance as any. Ivan forced his body to move, his shoulder screaming with every step. Max and Sergei ran toward their partner, shouting strings of curses to the sky.
Alfred wasn't moving. Ivan didn't dare call out to him for fear of drawing attention to himself. Most of his uniform was stained with blood, but he didn't care. There were thousands of uniforms in the world, but there was only one Alfred Jones.
Alfred blinked back the darkness creeping in around him. He kicked himself mentally for being so pathetic. He hadn't lost a fight since he was young; why now? Could it have been...? Focus, focus, he thought. ...Ivan! Ivan was hurt. He heard the gunshot. Get up, get up! Alfred willed his body to move and slowly, but surely, it did.
"They will pay!" The angry voice could belong only to Alexei. "You two have no more worth to us alive... До свидания!"
"Alfred!"
Three shots rang out. In those few seconds, Ivan moved faster than he ever had in his life. Time stopped for Alfred. He turned in time to see Ivan, barely two feet away from him now, falling to the ground. There was blood everywhere. The Russian hit the ground hard, taking slow, shallow breaths. Alfred dropped to his knees, disturbing more of the powdery snow. Alfred's mind was racing miles in just seconds. All this, and now... There was no time to even see what happened.
"Alfred," Ivan groaned. Alfred had put Ivan's head on his lap. The pain tearing through his body was well worth it to see the American okay. All three bullets were now buried deep into Ivan's body, bringing his total injury count to four. The pain was excruciating; Ivan just wanted it to be over. He could barely focus on Alfred's features. All he wanted was to sleep. Yes, that sounded very good right now. "You...are okay...да?"
"Ivan, you... You can't talk! You'll be fine, I promise." He ran his fingers through Ivan's soft silver hair. This was supposed to be a great night for the two of them. "It's all my fault! If I... If..." Alfred was going to take Ivan to that cafe they loved and he was finally going to say it! He had worked up the courage and practiced and practiced...
"Нет... Do not..." Ivan raised a gloved hand to his mouth and coughed violently. Blood. Alfred's eyes widened. It was then that he realized that most of the snow surrounding them had adopted the dark red color of blood. Even the pure snow falling from the sky was tinted red, each flake trying to steal bits and pieces of Ivan for their own.
The world was spinning violently for Ivan now. Each passing second shifted things further and further out of focus; he could no longer make out the features of the man hovering mere inches above him. Alfred seemed to be saying something, but the words were just too far. Everything was so cold now... It was finally time to embrace the world of darkness, the unknown. Ivan wasn't sad. Alfred Jones was going to live another day.
"Ivan, no! Stay awake! Help is... Help is on the way!"
"...Спасибо большое, Альфрэд. Я...л..."
"No!" Alfred screamed. "Wake up! You have to! You can't! The Hero is supposed to protect the ones he loves!" Alfred slammed his fist into the ground repeatedly. Where the hell was he?! Ivan was... Ivan is... Alfred lay down in the snow next to his fallen comrade and closed his eyes, welcoming the blanket of snow.
Warmth.
That was the first thing he felt. And something soft. He was...comfortable. Was this what the other side was like? It was bright, but still dark. He couldn't quite understand. He took what he imagined to be several steps forward and paused. Everything started shifting at once-turning, fading, changing colors-until he was standing in a yellow-orange room with sunlight coming from who-knew-where. In the distance stood a figure watching him but never moving.
"Кто там?" No answer. The figure just kept staring at him. Maybe he was too far away. He decided to get closer. Or maybe the figure didn't speak Russian. "Who is there?" he tried again, hoping to prompt an answer from this mystery entity.
"Ivan," a voice echoed. Violet eyes searched for the source of the voice. Was it that figure standing over there? It started to look more like a person the closer he got. "Ivan."
"Да, that is me. And who are you? You are friend, да? Or foe?"
That figure was starting to look strangely familiar. He'd know that stubborn cowlick and that brown jacket anywhere.
Alfred Jones was staring him down.
Ivan's heart sank. So that meant all he had done was...
"You have to wake up, Ivan. Wake up! Please!"
Alfred, if that was even Alfred, disappeared into nothingness and the bright sunny color of the strange room went with him.
"Do you think he can hear me, Matt?"
"I know he can. Look."
Ivan's eyes fluttered open. He blinked back the darkness, then several more times to bring everything to focus. There were two Alfreds staring down at him. No, that was Alfred's twin brother Matthew. Canada. Looking around, he could tell he was in a hospital. Alfred had the biggest smile on his face. It was funny. Alfred never thought he could fall for the person who made his job so difficult for so many years, yet here he was.
"Привет, подсолнечник."
Alfred beamed.
"Hello, sunflower."
Ahaha, before I forget, I wrote some significant parts of the dialogue in Russian. Now, while I could tell you to use Google Translate or something, it blows. xD So I'll write it out for you down here. Now, be aware: I'm still studying Russian, so everything might not be 100% correct.
Да. Она очень красивая. - Yes. She is very beautiful.
Как дойти до Красной Площади? - How do I get to Red Square?
Он не знает русский язык. Говорите по-английски или говорите мне. - He doesn't know Russian. Speak in English or speak to me.
Хорошо - Okay
Максим! Сергей! Сейчас! - Max! Sergei! Now!
Знаешь, девушки любят седые волосы. И твои необыкновенные фиолетовые глаза очень красивые. Я знаю девушку из Америки которая бы хотела с тобой познакомиться. - You know, girls love silver/gray hair. And your uncommon violet eyes are very beautiful. I know a girl from America that would love to meet you. (And not the good, "she might be cute, let's go on a date" kind of meet, if you get me.)
...Спасибо большое, Альфрэд. Я...л... - Thank you very much, Alfred. (I'll leave those last two little letters to you guys.)