Disclaimer: I don't own APH or "Fire and Ice"
Warnings: Language, historical inaccuracies, some mature imagery, violence, abuse, dark themes, etc.
Summary: The observations made by several nations of the disastrous relationship between Russia and America.
It's unnerving. Prussia is the first to notice, surprisingly enough.
He watches America and Russia launch into another argument, both nations utterly oblivious to how the other nations sitting near them are slowly inching away from the thickening tension between the two.
The spectacle would usually have the corners of Prussia's mouth curling and shouting risky comments to encourage a brawl, but somehow the amusement seeps out of the situation when his eyes follow their movements. Russia grips America terrifyingly close to the throat, pale face pushed up close to the American's and spitting insults with a dazzling smile. America does not back down; on the contrary, he fists the back of Russia's coat, nearly yanking at the precious scarf in the process, and smiles right back as he verbally undermines the taller man the best he can.
The smile contorts into a semi-snarl. It's not a look that befits the sunny blonde, but the look is there nonetheless.
Prussia wants to butt in between the two, hit them both, scream at them to shut up and look at the mirror to see how twisted they look. America is just a kid with intentions too good and Russia is a monster with a past too bad.
They aren't meant for each other at all, and Prussia wants to go make them realize just that.
Instead, he stops Germany from intervening and shakes his head.
"Give it up, West. They're not stopping."
"But the conference—"
"Hardly matters to either of them right now." Prussia shrugs.
America and Russia are still arguing, voices increasing in volume as they progress into screaming at each other. The other nations seem reluctant to step between the two, but it's an inevitable process.
He thinks that they're all idiots. Don't they see the danger signs?
Then again, Prussia is perhaps the only one in the room who has seen what America and Russia look like on the brink of using drastic measures. He was there to train America for the revolution. He was with Russia during the height of communism. He'd recognize those crazed looks anywhere.
Prussia turns and leaves the room. If either of the two snap, he doesn't want to be there to watch.
With age comes knowledge, and with knowledge comes wisdom. China is not a fool and he has his age to prove it.
Seeing America and Russia in the same room makes him want to break something, because they are clearly nauseating. He found their relationship all wrong the very day the two superpowers had told him that they were in a relationship.
What relationship? China often asked them silently. What relationship must you share that you two seem more eager to kill each other than kiss each other?
Russia has remained as somewhat of a friend to China over the years, and to say that China is worried about him is a severe understatement.
He is terrified.
He can't bring himself to show it. Russia and America would not understand why he is so concerned about them, but China is very sure that he is not the only one to feel like his guts are twisting and ripping every time he watches the two of them interact.
China believes that he knows both nations considerably well, given that he has allied with them before and that he has lived long enough to estimate one's character upon minimum observation. Yet he cannot quite place where this side of them comes from. America is usually a positive, idealistic, exuberant nation. Russia is a naïve, manipulative, calm one. America is warm. Russia is cool. One would figure that opposites attract and count it off as a blessing, but China does not.
America's eyes are cold, frigid in the way they mirror Russia's and gleam with a calculative glare. Russia's eyes heat up with a violet fire, scalding and burning with the intensity they sneer at blue irises.
It distinctly reminds China of the Cold War, but it's so much worse.
The room is stiflingly silent. China is starting to wish his boss to trip down the stairs or something because the man needs a good knock around the head to realize how potentially dangerous it is to invite the two superpowers into his own home to get some work done. The world's financial issues are the last thing at hand here.
Russia moves to grasp America's wrist. The movement is slow, but it startles China anyways.
"Yao," the Russian man says without taking his eyes off America's.
Not trusting himself to vocally respond without triggering some sort of dangerous reaction, Yao just stays very still and hopes Russia will not be angry by the lack of response.
"Could you please get us some painkillers and tea? I'm afraid America has a headache." The American tenses but does not say a word.
After a few seconds of earsplitting silence, China abruptly stands up straight as a ramrod and makes it out of the room as fast as he can without looking like he is sprinting at full speed. As he shuts the door, he sees a hand wrap around America's throat.
America will most definitely have much more than a headache. China feels the urge to open the door, run in, and slap those offending hands away. He wants to tell them to stop being such dimwits and be polite in his household and work on those damn debt issues. He really wants to tell them to break up.
Instead, the urges are buried deep and suffocated to a soundless death. China walks to his kitchen in search of tea bags and the emergency kit.
He has a sinking feeling that America will need more than a few painkillers.
It's Canada who finally decides to confront the couple. He does it individually, because he is sure that talking to both of them at the same time would result in some sort of disaster he is not eager to partake in at all.
"You're not acting like yourself, Al." The words seem to pass right through his twin, who is listlessly sprawled on the sofa.
"Please, can you at least look at me?" The pleading falls on deaf ears.
"Are you even listening?"
When blue eyes finally shift to look at him, Canada feels the weight in his stomach lift. Only a little.
"You're making me worried. And I'm not the only one who thinks something is wrong with you. Francis and Arthur are both worried sick about you. Denmark asked me if you're okay, and Mexico's been complaining that you're being uncooperative with the conferences. Everyone thinks you look like hell."
And he does. America has a nasty cut on his forehead that blends into his hairline. It's healing, but the split lip is a fresh injury. His knuckles are bruised with his left pinky finger is bandaged thickly. The usually fair complexion that he shares with Canada is now sallow compared to the younger nation's skin, and the purpling bruise on his neck does not help matters. Frankly, he does not look anything like Canada at all now.
Violet eyes examine the injuries worriedly, slender fingers drumming against a thigh as Canada wonders if he is venturing into dangerous territory.
Not that it's going to stop him. He can hold his own against his brother, especially since this is all for said brother's sake.
"Gilbert thinks you're losing it."
Despite the blunt quality of the accusation, America hardly seems fazed at all.
When the blonde on the sofa doesn't answer, Canada knows he is going to have to push harder. "Ivan is abusing you, eh?"
There is really not much more that he can add to this unless America gives some sort of response. Feedback. Anything. He doesn't care if America admits the truth or denies it. All he needs is for America to give him some sort of an answer.
After what feels like an eternity, America opens his mouth. "Nah, it's not really abuse if it's consensual."
The words sting a lot more than he anticipated, but Canada steels himself.
"Alfred, China called me saying that you passed out after Ivan choked you during the middle of a fucking conference." Never mind that he is a little pissed that China did nothing to stop it, but he can deal with that later. "You have any idea how much that freaked me out?"
"Not really."
Something about that answer really makes Canada want to beat the other blonde's shitty attitude out with a hockey stick.
"Fuck you, it scared me to hell. I was positive that I was going to start nuclear warfare against Russia." The really frightening thought about that is Canada is not sure which side America would prefer to take in such a scenario.
"Sorry." It is one of the most meaningless apologies Canada has ever heard.
"You don't even mean it."
At least America doesn't confirm the statement.
Canada sighs. "Al, I don't want to see you get hurt."
"Then what do you want me to do, Mattie? Break up with Ivan?"
Yes, Canada's mind screams.
"You know I'd never do that," Alfred says.
No, Canada doesn't know. He cannot understand why his twin puts up with it all. He sees America carry his right arm stiffly, as if he's worried about jostling a bruised rib. He can tell that America is shifting his weight more onto his right foot without really seeming to do so, as if he's nursing a sore ankle or something like that. It's so fucking obvious to Canada that his brother is getting hurt by the shitface he calls his boyfriend, and what pisses him off more is that he knows that America is strong enough to fight back. Why America doesn't is beyond him.
"Then what would you do?" Canada practically snarls.
"…Uh," America finally falters at the pure rage in his twin's voice. "It's fine right now."
"It is not fine," the Canadian spits.
"Mattie…"
"What. Do you like the way he treats you?" Every word drips with venom. "Are you a fucking masochist?"
For the first time in the entire day, America sits upright and glares at Canada. The younger twin is so proud of his small victory that he nearly misses the frustration in sky blue eyes.
"Do you think I like this? Fuck, Mattie, I hate it. I hate it so much."
Canada stares. "But you're still dating him? Is he blackmailing you or something?"
The derisive snort that answers him crosses out the very likely theory. "No."
"Then what?"
America throws up his arms in an agitated groan. "I don't know, Mattie. I don't know. It's not like I haven't tried before; we tried to break up, but we just can't. It's hard to explain, but that's all there is to it. We can't break up."
The information takes a while to sink in. "…So you let him abuse you?"
The bruised knuckles are held up for display. "Mattie, why on earth would you think that I would just sit there and let Ivan beat me up? Just because I don't attack his face doesn't mean he has no broken bones as well."
Canada sits speechless.
His confrontation with Russia is the very next day, even though his head is still reeling from what America has told him, and Canada somehow manages to make it into Russia's house without getting himself killed by any accidents the shock-induced numbness could have led him into.
"Well, Matvey," Russia hums as he leads his guest into the living room, "you wanted to talk to me about Alfred, da?"
Canada resists the temptation to say that he'd much rather beat the shit out of Russia than talk with him and valiantly speaks without raising his voice to an inappropriate level. "More about your relationship with him, actually."
Russia nods in understanding. "I expected that much. Would you like some water?"
"No. So you know that you're abusing my brother, right?"
"Then how about vodka? You do know that everything in our relationship is consensual and you have no right to be nosy about it, da?"
"I'd rather not drink anything. And I do have a right to ask you questions if my brother has bruises on his neck and he's fucking limping. You choked him in China's house."
"It's not much of a deal."
"It is to me." Canada sets his jaw grimly.
The room is suddenly silent as Russia carefully eyes the blonde nation sitting in front of him. Canada wordlessly dares the other to go ahead.
"Very well then." Russia concedes. He slips his scarf off his shoulders and proceeds to unbutton his coat. Canada observes warily, faintly realizing that he is about to see something nobody else has seen. And he is not looking forward to seeing it. "If this makes you feel any better."
The coat slips off and the sweater underneath soon follows the coat onto the floor. Canada's mouth is suddenly dry.
The blue-black skin across Russia's right forearm stretches into purple and yellow. The bruise is ugly and wide, painful to even look at. There are long scratch marks accompanying it as well, Canada discovers after thorough observation. There is gauze taped to Russia's left shoulder, dark stains bleeding through white cotton as if the injury is still fresh. More bruises are scattered along white skin, occasionally punctuated with scratch marks. There's a healing bite mark near Russia's throat that Canada never noticed…the scarf was probably covering it, he realizes.
"He fractured my collarbone a few days ago," Russia chuckles as he traces a particularly dark patch of skin right underneath the bite mark. "He was disappointed he didn't break it."
Canada chokes on whatever he was going to say and immediately falls silent.
"So you see," the towering man chatters amiably as he redresses himself, "your brother is not in a one-sided relationship. Alfred is a very healthy nation with a strong body, so you have nothing to worry about him."
No shit, Canada's mind responds bleakly.
Russia finishes winding the scarf around his neck as he smiles. "He and I are very even, so it is all fine. You feel better now, da?"
No. He feels infinitely worse.
They are fighting again.
Except it's not just punching and kicking and scratching; there's kissing and biting and licking as well, and it's hard to tell whether this is a rough session of lovemaking or an overtly affectionate scuffle in the middle of the hallway.
As America knocks Russia's head against the wall and pulls his fist back to land a punch, Lithuania decides to try clear his throat as loud as he can to alert the two of his presence.
Russia's head snaps sideways to look at him and America's arm freezes as blue eyes take in the sight of an intruder. Lithuania feels trapped in a corner by two pairs of frighteningly vivid eyes, though the entire corridor is empty behind him with only the front door to block him if he needs an escape. He has a key anyways, one that America gave him when he used to work over here. It's the entire reason he was able to intrude without using a doorbell.
"Hey, Toris," America greets him pensively, not quite looking straight at Lithuania.
"Da, welcome." Ivan speaks shortly before turning back to face America. As soon as he does, America lands the punch square across the Russian's jaw. Lithuania swears he hears a crack at the impact.
"Can you get some ice for Ivan?" America requests conversationally as he helps his lover up. Lithuania notices that Russia's shirt is partially ripped and there's a bleeding cut on the back of one hand. America's pants are halfway undone and he has a spectacular bruise darkening rapidly on his left cheekbone.
He just stands there, frozen to the spot until America leans down to pick up Texas from the floor. Then his whole body sets into motion and Lithuania runs to the kitchen with a blush heating his entire face. He's sure that his ears are red as well.
When Lithuania is sure that his face has returned to a somewhat normal color and his hands are filled with an ice bag and a medical kit, he enters the living room to find Russia reclining on the sofa with his jaw in his hands, America sitting beside him trying to prod at the injury and figure out the extent of it. Russia bats off the prodding finger and turns his head slightly to see the ice bag held out to him.
"Thank you," Russia mumbles as he clutches the bag and presses it against his sore jaw.
America hums his thanks as well when Lithuania offers to apply some iodine on a nasty scratch that stretches from beneath the left ear to the base of the neck.
Lithuania thankfully notes that America has buttoned his pants.
"Damn, Ivan. I think you fractured another one of my ribs." America comments as he pokes himself.
"Too bad I didn't break it." Russia shoots back at him.
"You still sore about the collarbone?"
"Da, maybe."
It's a crazy conversation. And it's even crazier trying to patch these people up. Lithuania wishes he were anywhere but here, really. He hates being stuck with two people who seem to think breaking each other's bones is a regular thing.
If he had known Russia was here, he wouldn't have come at all. America is fairly normal when by himself. He is more subdued and calmer than before, but he still laughs and cracks jokes and cares about other people. Russia himself is not that bad when he was on his own. Though he still has a tendency to make others nervous and uncomfortable, Russia is fully capable of acting as his own self from before the disastrous relationship had started.
Yet when the two lovers came together, everything goes off-kilter. America becomes hostile. Russia's smile becomes crooked.
It scares him.
Lithuania has known both nations for some period in his history, and they've both given him homes at one point in time. He cares about them regardless of the past, no matter what a horrifying history it was. If anything, his experiences are what give him the guts to brave through terrifying events today.
Yet this is not something Lithuania can find the courage to face.
He was so sure he knew well enough about these two and how they would interact with each other. He had been confident that they'd either split up immediately or change each other for the better.
How did that backfire?
Canada had called him a few nights ago, asking if he could go make sure if America was taking good care of himself. The North American had been hauled over to a meeting in Asia and was unable to go check for himself. The poor nation had sounded so distressed that Lithuania had assured the other that he would go check up on America.
Well, that is going nicely. Lithuania frowns as he finishes bandaging another cut down America's elbow.
A pout. "Seriously though, you tried stab my eyes. That's cheating, asshole."
Eyes rolling. "You slammed me into the wall when I was trying to go take a shower. It's called self-defense, in case you're too dumb to know."
A scowl."Fuck you, Vanya."
Lewd smile. "We'll see about that after Toris is done."
Lithuania really wishes he hadn't come after all. This is no ordinary lovers' spat. He has seen such quarrels enough times to get the idea of it. This is much more intense, unstable.
"You gotta stop saying those things when the poor guy can actually hear you." America grumbles a little as he thanks the brunette for the medication. Ivan also nods his thanks, ice bag still attached to the jaw.
"I'm sorry if I offended you," Ivan quickly amends.
Lithuania tells them that it's no problem at all, he'll be leaving soon so please stop fighting and just make up (make out, whatever) when he stops speaking and blinks.
America and Russia don't notice. They're bickering again, seemingly ready to fight, both rising and heading upstairs glaring at each other while Lithuania tries to put his frazzled brain back together.
Has America been sensitive about another person's feelings for once?
Has Russia just apologized at the drop of a hat?
Oh my God.
When one's unrequited love interest announces that he has a lover, one is expected to feel heartbroken, frustrated, depressed, infuriated, or even betrayed.
But Belarus feels only perplexed.
She does not see what her brother apparently sees in the blonde America. Of course, she has never taken to the man in any positive way whatsoever, so she cannot see what it so good, so much better about him than she is.
What perplexes Belarus even more is that she is not quite sure what America sees in Russia as well.
To her, Russia is family, history, reliable, and everything that keeps her safe. Yet America is not Russia's family, nor does he have much history with him other than a few wars; he does not seem interested in relying on Russia or even trusting him. She sees him every once in a while in her brother's home, and both nations seem so intent on hurting each other rather than loving each other.
Not that Belarus has anything to judge by; her interests in romance are limited to Russia, and she has never experienced a dating relationship before. Perhaps all relationships are like that?
Ukraine had not agreed. She had cried in the dead of the night and told Belarus that nobody in love should treat their partner like that.
Big sister has more experience with love. Belarus believes her.
Then why do her brother and that other nation stay together? She has seen the bruises and cuts before. Russia dealing blows to others is nothing new. But someone hurting Russia? Leaving marks on him? As much as the prospect angers Belarus, the confusion that comes with the idea is greater.
She does not see why her brother endures his so-called lover. All she sees is grimaces and blood and fists dotted with bruises. It is unsettling to see how similar Russia and America look when they narrow their eyes narrow and lips twist into sneers.
Perhaps they are really changing each other for the better. Lithuania had been foolish enough to suggest such a thing. America and Russia only hurt each other. There was nothing good to come out of this. She would have to somehow convince her brother to escape this relationship, put an end to this mess and stay with her instead. She would never hurt him.
"Dinner is ready," Russia calls from the dining room.
She takes her time to walk down the staircase. The table is set for two, one chair already occupied by smiling violet eyes and pale ash blonde hair. Soundlessly, Belarus slips into the unoccupied seat.
Dinner is a quiet affair for both of them. The sound of forks and knives clinking against plates fill the silence until Belarus decides to initiate conversation.
"Brother, I love you."
It is not what she intended to say when she first opened her mouth, but that is what slips out. Belarus internally winces. She is aware that Russia does not feel comfortable with her straightforward claims of affection and pleas for marriage. Now he will avoid talking to her at all costs. If there had been any hope in talking to him about America, then it is gone.
"I love you too, Natalya."
Or maybe not.
Belarus freezes, unable to comprehend what Russia has just said. He just said…He…He returned her affections? Just like that? So easily? She should ask him to marry her and see if he acquiesces just as smoothly.
Instead, her mouth blurts something else entirely.
"Then what about America?" Belarus is unable to stop herself from bringing up the dreaded topic.
Russia's smile flattens a little, as if he is considering an appropriate answer.
"I love him."
"Then why not me?" Am I not enough?
The smile is back, but as Russia tilts his head and eyes narrow thinly, it is much sadder. It's the smile of the defeated.
"It is a different love, my sister. I cannot marry you. You are family."
It is so strange. She has never had such a solemnly calm conversation with her brother before. They have talked so many times in the past, but never has Russia been so sincere to her. Not about marriage. For the first time she can remember, he looks her in the eyes and answers her honestly.
He has beautiful eyes, she belatedly realizes.
Perhaps they are…
"Alfred is different. I love him, but I hate him as well. It is complicated. You understand, da?"
…really changing each other for the better.
She does, but she is not about to accept that so easily.
"I won't hurt you." She breathes the words so low that she is sure, for one split moment, that Russia has not heard her.
But he has. "You won't. But I will."
The implications of the words suddenly swallow her whole. The flavors on her tongue turn sour as she struggles to deny what he has said. "I can bear it."
"You can't." Russia sips his water. "Alfred can."
She has her answer. I am not enough. The thought alone makes her feel cold.
And then she sees. For the first time, she truly sees why her brother is in love. Why he hates his lover. Why they stay together. Why the bruises and cuts and marks are there. She sees it all and she suddenly wishes she were blind, dumb, oblivious. It hurts to know.
He is enough.
The soup is cold and it tastes like salt.
Despite his young age and infamy for being tactless, South Korea understands the dynamics in relationships better than most people.
Blame it on his beloved TV dramas; the tumultuous relationships and drastic storylines help him see things between people that nobody else seems to notice upon first sight. He can read a couple's love story like a book when he sees how they glance at each other, how they touch each other, how they speak and move and smile.
South Korea has never seen such a disastrous relationship before.
He's seen worse, but that's only in movies or dramas or plays. In real life, the bruises are not the work of cosmetics. The blood is not paint of food coloring. The dents in the wall are not artificial.
"I wish you wouldn't do that in my house." South Korea punctuates the sentence by setting down a cup of coffee a little harshly on the dining table.
"Sorry about that." Picking up the cup, America readily apologizes and sips the bitter drink.
The Asian nation raises an eyebrow. "You two fighting is none of my business, but the last thing I need is the sound of it egging North Korea on to start nuking someone."
Specifically me, is what he wants to add.
"Remind me to never come visit you with Ivan ever again."
"That doesn't sound possible." It really doesn't. America has been taking care of South Korea ever since the old Korea died and the peninsula split up. He is a mentor, guardian, and older brother to the Korean. America visits regularly, and after Russia handed custodial rights of North Korea over to China and gave up communism, the former Soviet Union tends to tag along as well. They are like dysfunctional parents of the Korean twins.
Domestic violence with children present. South Korea thinks wryly.
"Bleh, I agree. I'm the one who took care of you and that son of a bitch thinks him dating me gives him the right to cuddle you." America wrinkles his nose in distaste as he sets the cup down with a resounding clink.
"You two really should break up."
"Tried that, didn't work."
"You both need marital counseling."
"The fuck? We're not married."
"Did you know that Natalya actually admits that you and Ivan need each other?"
The question is so bizarre and non-sequitur that America has to blink a few times before the input is properly instilled in his brain.
"...What, Ivan and I, shit. The hell…Wait, how do you know this?"
"We're poker buddies."
"..Uh-huh."
This conversation is seriously not getting anywhere. South Korea groans and buries his face into long sleeves covering the palms of his hands. He decides to cut straight to the point.
"You two need each other because you two are the only ones who can endure each other's strength. Both of you can unleash whatever pent up stress you have on each other, because violence is the only outlet for both of you. You're now addicted to using violence as a means to relax yourselves, but you two are the strongest nations, thus meaning nobody else can take what you serve."
America stares, dumbfounded. The Korean is far from finished.
"So you guys can't break up, but you guys are sick of hurting each other. And you can't stop hitting each other, either. In short, both of you are stuck in an endless cycle of a doomed relationship. You two keep each other from going insane, but you're stuck forever hurting each other."
America abruptly takes another swallow of coffee and slams the cup back onto the table. South Korea is relieved to notice that the cup and table are both unharmed.
"It's weird to watch, you know. You two scare off most of the other nations whenever you fight, considering all the damage you could do. But then you and Ivan are actually becoming nicer to others. You're both considering others and way more agreeable. Blowing off the steam with each other allows you two to create better relationships with others. Of course, if they're brave enough to come near you these days, that is."
Satisfied with the analysis, South Korea takes a long drink from his own cup of juice.
On the other hand, America seems discouraged by the lengthy speech he has just been delivered by the one kid he never expected to see straight through his entire mess of a relationship he shares with Russia.
The blonde nation moans woefully. "I hate this. I hate Ivan. I hate this relationship. I hate myself for getting stuck in this. Dammit."
"But you love him, don't you?"
"Yeah, I do. Fuck."
South Korea sighs and reaches over the table to pat his friend's arm reassuringly. He gave the entire analysis hoping America would contradict at least part of it, which would give him some leeway to bestow some advice to the blonde. However, the entire theory-turned-truth is now undeniable, and there is nothing he can do to help America out of this.
How does one escape the cycle of night and day?
"Yong Soo, I need help." America admits for the first time since he and Russia started to bruise each other. "I want to get out of this."
Get out of this relationship. Get away from Ivan. Get himself to stop using violence. Stop the adrenaline. Stop the blood. Stop the tears. Stop hurting Ivan.
The boy clicks his tongue in distress. He recognizes the desperation in sky blue irises. He's seen them before in pitch black eyes, identical to his own and equally frantic to America's. He remembers the last time he met his own half in private.
I can't stop myself; I can't stop becoming a monster and it scares me, Yong Soo.
"It's like -273°C." Impossible.
Both cups on the table are empty.
There is nothing left to do but watch and wait. England hates the very idea of being helpless.
But that is exactly what he is right now: helpless.
He watches under furrowed eyebrows as America lounges about on his armchair, blue eyes distracted and unfocused as he tries to solve a problem that has no answer. There is nothing England can do to help. He kicks himself in frustration.
"So Artie, what the hell is -273°C in Fahrenheit? I swear that stupid metric system is retarded."
"Your brain is retarded. -273°C doesn't even exist," England retorts with a scowl.
America freezes. "Really?"
"Yes. -273°C is 0 degrees in Kelvin. A temperature that low is unheard of; it's nonexistent." England pretends to fumble with his embroidery, but it's all an act. He can't do anything but keep watch on America.
There's nothing we can do to stop them. South Korea had called a few days earlier to explain what he had confirmed about America's relationship with Russia.
England's blood had run cold when he heard that.
"Oh." America seems a little shocked. Did England say anything wrong? "I see."
"There used to be a ridiculous saying that -273°C would signal the day the world ended." England remembers, all of the sudden, a rather unimportant urban myth that was abandoned as soon as it was thought out. It left an impression on him because it reminded him of a poem he had taken a peculiar liking to. "Some say the world will end in fire. Some say in ice."
And the cycle will only end when this world dies. England shuts his mouth at the thought.
"From what I've tasted from desire, I hold with those who favor fire." America immediately continues, ignoring the surprised look from England. "But if I had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great and would suffice."
It's strange to hear America speak in the language of poetry. "I'm surprised you know your literature."
"Artie, Robert Frost comes from me," America deadpans.
"So did many other things, such as idiocy and stupidity. You wear them well."
"I thought those came from you?"
"Nonsense." A beat. A change of topic. "So do you prefer fire or ice?"
"Neither. I doubt the world will ever come to and end. I'd save the day anyways!"
England snorts. "More like you'd ruin it."
"Shut up."
The antique clock hung up high on the wall ticks away. Weary eyes hidden behind glasses close and open. They are bright blue.
"If I died though, I'd prefer ice."
It's because of him, isn't it? England wants to accuse, scream, cry, beg. He regrets even asking.
The clock still ticks.
England shrugs and tries to glare at the embroidery again. It doesn't work.
With a sigh, the British nation lowers his handiwork and looks at his former colony fidgeting with the zipper of his jacket. Seeing such an endearing boy stuck in a never-ending loop of disaster is rips his heart apart. America was his son, and still is despite the boy's sputtered denials. Watching his child, oblivious to his impending disastrous end (or maybe he is not so oblivious, England's instinct whispers), sit there so innocently makes the ex-empire want to take the boy and hide him away from Russia.
But it's too late to remedy the situation.
He is fully aware that America is sliding downhill. It is just a matter of time before he hits rock bottom. It is a fate that was decided the moment America discovered the thrill of drawing blood from the very lips he kissed.
Where did it all go wrong?
All England can do is watch as the blue-eyed angel he adopted centuries ago spirals downward.
America can't stand Russia.
They're kissing again, his back hitting the wall and Russia twisting America's arm behind his back with unrestrained force. America wrenches the scarf adorning his lover's neck and practically rips it off to latch his teeth onto white skin, barely healed from last week's wounds.
The scarf drops to the floor as America unbuttons Russia's shirt, the favor being returned in the form of rips and tears until America's shirt is a rag on the floor.
A sickening snap echoes through the house as Russia's fist connects to one of the shorter man's shoulders. The response is quick; a knee comes up and buries itself within Russia's ribs, a dull crack splitting the air.
"Fuck, Ivan." America is panting as Russia licks and nips and bites, stray hands wandering into open pants and fingers delving into intimate places.
"Alfred," Russia hisses as the other man responds heatedly, strong fingers digging into whatever they hold.
They alternate between hitting and kissing, hurting and loving. They can't make up their minds of what they'd rather do, so they try to attempt both as they tangle on the floor, knees banging and fists aching. Blue and violet glare at each other, challenging, pleading, demanding, apologizing. Hands wrap around throats and growls leak out of bleeding mouths.
America faintly feels sick in his stomach.
"Fuck you." He snarls at Russia as he buries his face into shoulders that he has ripped open with bare hands. The words come out in gasps. Screams. Sobs. Whispers.
He hears the sound of another bone giving away, though he's not sure of whether it's his or not. The pain and pleasure are mixing; he can't tell which is which and all he can think of is that he wants more and more and more.
With a gasp America yanks on pale hair, bringing Russia's face close enough to drink in the air his lover breathes out. It tastes like ash.
"I fucking hate you." He spits the words out and the other doesn't even blink.
And then it's all over, nothing left but more bruises and rips and cuts and blood. Their bodies ache all over and they just lie there, on the hard wooden floor with only the bare ceiling to stare at. America is sure he has broken his fifth rib in one month.
Then he hears it. "I love you too."
All he wants to do is choke the asshole to death and stab himself after.
America settles with turning his screaming body over to the side and tenderly putting an arm around shaking shoulders. He breathes in the smell of vodka and sunflowers.
"Vanya." It's all he can say before he starts crying, muffling the sounds in a chest he is sure that's bleeding where its heart used to be.
America can't stand Russia.
But he can't stand living without him either.
/That is the longest oneshot I've ever written, I think. Woot!
I've been alternating between deveral of my ongoing projects, but this plot bunny kept grappling me by the throat. I had to write it.
The story was actually inspired by "Love the Way You Lie." Both parts are super addicting.
Honestly, a fluffy Russia-related story is beyond me. That guy's the black hole of angstfests, in my opinion.
Thank you for reading!
P.S. I'm not making any historical connections or political statements in this fic. I don't need to be told that I need to relearn my history because a) I hate history anyways b) my fics are not supposed to be history lessons, thank you very much. sk, thank you very much for your in-depth review and information (I'm very pleased to know someone caught on to the mutually agreed destruction part). And to chu, if you're looking for where your laughable reviews went, they went down the garbage bin where they belong. I don't need anyone to tell me to never write anything again when they don't even have the guts to de-anon.