More simple writings. I just pick a simple thought and just type type type till I get tired. Haha, so this is actually terrible. :(

But please read and tell me what you think. I'd love to do more. :) I have some ideas for more, but if you guys have some, then tell me! I wanna hear from yall.

Alfred has a problem, and like all his problems, he would mentally file it in a vanilla folder and shove it in a drawer for later completion, but this problem is more than just a problem. He thinks maybe it's actually a condition or an ordeal, or even maybe the end of the world, but it's easier to just say 'it's a problem,' so he does, and goes on with life.

This folder read "Ivan Braginsky", and the edges were weathered and worn after being ripped out of the cabinet and flipped through hurriedly, pages of once neat notes crossed out with reds and written over and over and over, and sometimes, doodles were drawn beside the chicken scratch words, drawings of a hero with a flowing cape and a villain that had eyes like bleeding violets, and if one stared closely, they could notice tear stains over the completely blackened out words that look a little like 'I love you.'

But Alfred just sees a ruined folder jammed next to "Economy" and "Illegal Immigration" and even though he's been working on this problem for what feels like centuries, and though each time he files it away he swears he will never open it again because it is a failed case, he always finds himself picking it back up, and thumbing through the ravished pages, and each time his excuse for it is weak, and he reminds himself that he too is weak, but that doesn't matter.

He also has a folder with a neat title, "Family", which is thick and heavy in his memories with yells of "No, stop!" and "Yes, oh God, YES!" coming from his parents' bedroom. On days he would call 'good days', Alfred would wake up to Arthur smiling and setting the table, Francis' face alight with a grin that read of dirty thoughts and eyes that could cut through clothes as he reached underneath Arthur's apron, and Canada would laugh and Alfred would sit at the table and everything was right with the world. But the 'good days' came less and less, and soon, the night was filled with yelling yelling yelling, and Alfred wondered why Arthur's eyes were red, and why Francis' cheek was red, and Matthew once said he heard Francis say that he had regretted the whole marriage, and Alfred had to hold Arthur as he cried cried cried the night that Francis left. Al remembered that Arthur's tears were crystal like and looked hot against his heated face, and his lips were trembling as if words were being whispered on them but America never heard a thing, just the horror and the heart break and the despair of a divorce.

And sometimes, when he pulled out the folder, he wondered why it was marked "Family" and not "Misery" or "People" or other six letter words that fit the subject better. But he never got around to it, and he wondered if it was because he'd rather remember the 'good days' and when "Family" meant smiling and love and home or if it was easier to just leave the name because that's what his family consisted of, but each time his excuse was weak, and he reminds himself that he too is weak, but that doesn't matter.

And beside Family, he has a folder that is slim and very seldom ever looked back upon unless he has a new entry to put in, and it's labeled "Love". Everything is simply written, and no extra comments are made, and in its typed perfection, it looks very stone set as if that was just that, and nothing had a purpose, and there was no ill will at all. But it's bitter, and Alfred maybe hates this folder the most because it is all so simple, but it the process of filing it, there is indecision and hate and pulsating hormones and the feel that whatever they are doing is 'too much' or 'not enough.'

The first page is about a young Japanese man who had almond eyes and jet black hair (and Alfred was hesitant to write 'jet black' because he'd never seen a black jet, but it was the only way he could describe it) and his name was Honda Kiku, but Alfred called him "Babe" and "Baby" and he did so because it always made the other boy blush as if Alfred had pulled off his shirt and touched him like he did in the back seat of his car and inside the boy's locker room. And even though Alfred kissed him a way that could be thought as a little rough, it was only because that was Al's first ever boyfriend, and his first kiss, and he had all these thoughts and wants and dreams that made him itch to touch and grab and keep Kiku close, closer, closest, but in the end he caught Kiku talking to that Greek exchange student who was America's lab partner, and those two were inseparable, and Alfred would kiss even harder because he was nervous that Kiku wanted kisses from his lab partner, and after he saw Hercules take Kiku into his car and kiss him slow and smooth, Alfred cried cried cried into Arthur's chest and he could only think of how love hurt, and Arthur understood with down cast emerald eyes.

On the second page, he had written down a story about a girl nicknamed "Kat" because she was Ukranian, and he couldn't remember her full name, and he called her "luv" and "Kitten" because she was soft and gentle, and she had eyes that were watered down sapphires and a body that was all curves and feathers. Alfred loved her because she was hard working and comforting in dark times, like a shy little star that blinked and smiled in the velvet night. She had calloused hands, but Alfred liked their scratch, and he would let her in his room too look around, and as she marveled at his comic book collections and instinctively began to clean up, he would look up to from his lounging upside down on the bed and wonder how she was so nice to him, and in the back of his mind he was picturing her bent over his bed, but those were ungentlemanly thoughts so he'd blow them away and give his heroic smile to her when their eyes met. On rainy days when she cried, Alfred would grab her by those delicious love handles and pull her close beside him, and wrap a blanket around the two of them, and he'd make up stories about a knight in shiny armor and a princess locked in a tower and she's laugh like the sun and his heart would melt, but he couldn't stop thinking of how her breasts bounced a little when she giggled, and he hate hate hated himself when he broke his promise and kissed her until her lips were red like wine and his hands had been awkward and fast and pushing at her as he tried to do something, and his body said "GO!" and his brain yelled "STOP!". She left that day with stars of sadness in her eyes, because he was supposed to make her forget about men who treated her like a sex object, and the way he had kissed her was not like the little hero she had come to love. At graduation, she had pecked him on the cheek and whispered that she had once cherished him, but she was afraid, and his heart broke even more when she started dating his brother, but the lies of "It's ok," finally turned into stone cold truth, and he stopped messing with girls altogether because of that.

There were other pages, telling of German flings that ended in riding crop marks that dried cherry red, and Spanish affairs that consisted of him racking his brain the entire night to remember the Spanish 1 and 2 lessons he was taught in high school so he could understand what was being said by the man that had blindfolded him, and a Swiss ordeal that included an officer fetish and loaded guns that put Alfred on edge the entire night, and a Chinese man that had tattoos of dragons and symbols that Alfred liked to trace with his tongue, and he could vaguely remember late night stands buzzing with the scent of alcohol. But on the last page, was written the words, "see Ivan Braginsky", and he shuttered with the thought of there being an entire file on that one adventure. But he never opens this file because it's all in the past, and you can't change it so why dwell on it? Or at least that was his excuse, and each time his excuses for it is weak, and he reminds himself that he too is weak, but that doesn't matter.

-VV-

It was a late Friday night, and his problems all were laid out on a figmentle table, and Alfred had a shot of whiskey in his hand, and he was pinching the bridge of his nose with the other, and he was going over them all so he could put these to rest at last.

But as he reached for the one on top, he saw that "Ivan Braginsky" was no longer a problem, but a situation, and he loathed whatever they had become, because he remembered nights that smelled of Jasmine and incense, and his skin felt absolutely white hot and on fire with those kisses, and he wondered if it was ok to yell out this loud, and at one point he could have sworn he heard the Russian moan when he whispered his name against the shell of his ear. And he remembered nights when he felt as if he was just fighting to stay alive, and there was sweat and panting, and the air was sticky, except when the fall air blew in like angel's breath, and his head was filled with leaves, and snow, and Ivan, Ivan, Ivan as he was pushed to the edge and dragged back, and the war was more like tension, which was just sex, and hate was love in sheep's clothing, and Alfred smiled like a million dollars because all was right with the world, and blood was something that could be replaced, and he always thought scars were kinda sexy anyway.

At the same time, when Ivan was back in Russia chest deep in snow, Alfred would miss him like Satan misses his heaven, and he would recite lyrics that made his eyes water with frustration, and reality was so fucking clear that it hurt his chest and made him hallow.

"Love is not some victory march. It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."

And he wondered if Ivan was missing him, and wondered what tears looked like sitting against those amethyst eyes, and what prayers of liberation sounded on his lips, and even wondered if that cold heart was melting back in Russia with dreams of him.

So with shaky, drunken thoughts, Alfred put "Ivan Braginsky" into the "Situation" pile and went to bed with him on his mind, and woke up with the thought still on his mind, and he cursed that Russia would always be on his mind, only because they had known each other for so long, and they were tangled together like DNA, or something like that. At least that was his excuse, and each time his excuses for it is weak, and he reminds himself that he too is weak, but now it really does matter, because that was what made Ivan leave in the first place.

There you go, I kinda like this couple. :) ALOT. haha.

Any songs you guys want me to make a fic about? Then tell me the song, and the couple, and I'll see what I can do. Just no USUK, because its like pedophilia! I hate the thought, I'm sorry! D: But I'll ship anyone else.

R and R lovely peeps. :)

Sincerly,

Suga Bee.