Oh, how Russia loved fear.
The look of terror in people's eyes as they looked at him, their hasty glances away, not eager for his attention, the power he wielded; the fear he projected… Oh, he loved it indeed. He loved seeing them cower in front of him, their hatred of him clear, but their fear of his weapons larger. He especially loved squashing their countries like bugs under his boot the minute they thought they were safe, the blasts weakening them so that he had the time to take over. Oh, what fun it was!
And America… yes, America was even more fun! His bravado, his delusional thoughts of him being a 'hero', oh, it was so fun to fight! To attempt to take down the 'Great' America; full of fools and cowards who thought themselves the strongest country in the world. And then the bitter taste of victory, a fake sense of pride to America, before Russia struck back harder, and they repeated the process again, each side winning equally, fake victories to America as Russia devoted his other time to more important things. But America always returned.
He thought himself a great, peaceful country, but Russia could tell he craved violence just as much as Russia, the rush of adrenaline that came with wars. Russia knew most countries did, it was just a fact of them hiding it, trying to create a false sense of security. Russia didn't bother, at least, not often. And he didn't bother with a world war either, he knew it wouldn't be as fun as these little playtimes with America. And yet, through it all, America thought he was indestructible. Perfect.
But Russia knew he wasn't. No one was – no one but Russia.
And America had proven his foolishness, oh yes, he had. In a stubborn burst of false confidence, he had thrown the world into a harsh result of a foolish action. Russia threw back his head in a quick laugh, a raspy mixture of amusement and anger and triumph.
America had created a world war, despite not knowing it yet. America had done the exact thing that would throw the world into chaos.
America had killed Russia's own boss.
And now, Russia was going to make sure America never forgot it.
Russia knew exactly how to get through to America, how to make him falter, and give Russia the edge he so dearly wanted. He was going to get the one person that America loved, but never showed affection to, the person that he was most guilty about mistreating, the one person who had stayed loyal to him throughout it all.
Russia was going to get Canada on his side.
...
Canada was worried.
America had come home a few nights prior with his hands soaked in blood, a disbelieving expression on his face as he slammed the door shut behind him, stepping in with his hands outstretched in front of him, the blood dripping on the wooden floor.
Canada had been in the living room, reading, and had walked out. A million thoughts running through his mind. "A-Alfred?" He had stammered, as America stood there, staring at his hands. "What happened? W-who's - what's blood is that?" Canada had gone to the kitchen then to get a towel and the first aid kits, in case America was hurt, more questions running out of his mouth but being left unanswered, even as he grabbed Americas hands and cleaned them off to find no wounds.
"Alfred, you're scaring me," Canada said quietly, and America muttered something about a rabid dog and ran off to his room, ignoring Canada as usual. America had been holing himself up in his room since then, ignoring even the food Canada had been bringing him, his TV always on a news station. Canada never really watched the TV, so he had no clue what was so special about the station, but was curious about why America was obsessed with it, and had the urge to check, but when he quietly told America he was going to watch it with him, in an attempt to ask his permission, so as not to be rude, America answered with a desperate yet strong "NO!", his voice raspy from not talking for three days.
And that was when Canada felt it. The pain.
(A/N: Sorry for the extremely short prologue! More shall be up soon!)