My first AU, yo. Normally I don't like them/write them, but I've been wanting to do mafia!Russia for a while now. Of course, I came up with this mess….

I don't intend to offend anyone with my description of small town America: all I know is that meth has become a problem in some small towns. And that's all the basis I have for this story. So please forgive this California girl if I'm off base.

This was originally a long oneshot but I decided to split it up into two chapters. And it's dark. Holy crap, is it dark. It's not even a true RusAme story! And the title sucks bad. I only used it cause the song "Semi Charmed Life" is about crystal meth addiction. sigh...

It's also badly OOC. I mean, I suppose it is an AU but….ugh. Ivan's character…I butchered it so bad, I'm sorry.

Ivan Braginski stood, leaning up against the wooden post of the fence half surrounding the cracked, vacant lot. It was summertime, the warm wind tugging at the black coat that set him apart from many of the other young men in the small, Midwestern town. Indeed, Ivan Braginski was a different breed from the all-American, lower middle class Joes that were his— ahem— "clients."

Firstly, Ivan Braginski was no slouch when it came to the seamier side of the life, the brutality and violence and underhand deals. He had grown up with it all his life.

Secondly, Ivan Braginski was Russian born. His accent, along with an imposing frame, tended to isolate him from anyone whom he could not intimidate. The way people looked at him whenever he spoke, or whenever he accidentally slipped into Russian, made him wonder if this town was not aware that the Soviet Union had fell and were still living under the shadowy fear of the Red.

But Ivan Braginski had been a normal child up until his early teens in one respect: he had had a mother. Ivan Braginski had a father too, but it was that man's fault that Ivan was nothing like the other children.

But when Ivan was thirteen something happened that made him completely different from many of the others his age.

Not all thirteen-year-old children came home from school one day to find their mothers shot dead in the foyer.

And not all thirteen-year-old children knew exactly why such a thing had happened. Not all thirteen-year-old children knew that it happened because of who his father was.

His father. Ivan hated his father.

There were only two things that Ivan's father had done right in his life, two things that seemed diametrically opposite to each other. One was that he allowed Ivan to go to America, away from the danger and bloodshed he would experience as the son of the Братва. The second thing, was that, by the age of thirteen, his father had ingrained in Ivan all the chilling knowhow to succeed in a brutal and violent world.

Ivan knew his mother had never been happy with his father's want to train Ivan in the ways of the family business. She had tried to keep Ivan softened, tried to instill in him that little bit of childish innocence. When his father had taught him to load a handgun his mother had let him sit on her lap while she knitted him the long, flowing scarf that he wore even in the dry heat of the Midwest. When his father had dragged him to poker games and cocktails parties his mother had scooped him up in her arms after a bad dream and rocked him to sleep.

But then on that day both of these sides met and ended with a puddle of blood on the floor of Ivan's home and a bullet in his mother's head. That day Ivan discovered it had been his mother's wish for him to escape the danger of life in Russia and go to the States, to live with her parents.

So Ivan decided to honor her wish, once it became clear that his father no longer wanted anything to do with him. Once his father had decided that Ivan had become too soft to succeed him in the business. So Ivan left Russia, thinking to leave the life his father had wanted for him behind.

But after a few months of living in the States Ivan realized something. He realized that even by escaping Russia and his father, he could never escape what his father had ingrained in him. The instinct, that cutting edge, killer instinct, had been instilled in him, had become a part of him.

So Ivan began to build himself up in the small town. It wasn't at all like the high class and urban environment that he had grown up in, but that made it easier for a boy barely fourteen years of age.

Deciding that trade in weapons was still out of his league, and less than useful in a small town with no amount of faction violence, Ivan turned to what he soon discovered the classmates in the local schools craved.

Drugs. It was painfully simple.

Over the years, Ivan prospered in his trade, aided by the fact that there were no familial or parental checks on him. His grandparents never bothered him. In recent years, they had grown more and more out of it, uninvolved in his life, growing steadily more senile and bedridden. Ivan could have had an entire drug lab of his own in his basement. Of course, he had no need, he left all of the science of the process up to an impressionable computer geek, Eduard, who in turn had roped in his two younger brothers. Anything else Ivan needed wasn't difficult to get. Despite now being just shy of twenty, he could network and intimidate brilliantly, with all the skill and finesse that his father had ingrained within him.

Thus, in a few years, Ivan became well known amidst the youth of the town, and had set up his own comfortable little ring. It was never too difficult to cater to the people's needs. Being a small town that eschewed anything "city-like" or "urban," they weren't in need of any of the higher grade stuff that Ivan couldn't bring in.

He knew the regulars who bought from him, some were friends, or as close to a "friend" as you could be with someone like Ivan Braginski.

There was the spaced out Canadian boy who would drag his tall, equally oblivious friend to buy weed off of him. Ivan always had a hard time figuring out where the other boy came from, eventually assuming that he was from someplace in Europe.

There was the French exchange student who bought speed, touting it as the ultimate drug when it came to stimulating one's sex drive.

There were the German brothers who bummed XTC of him and took weekend trips to the underground raves in the nearby cities. Oftentimes, a dark haired boy with a similar accent would buy some 2CB and tag along.

Ivan found himself selling liquor too, some made in Eduard's basement as well, in order to cover all of the bases. Thus, he often catered to a burnt out British boy who looked as if he peaked in middle school, and several others who were already well on their way to becoming full- fledged alcoholics.

However, despite the variety of clients, for this town, the youth's drug of choice was an obvious one: meth.

Out of all of his buyers, Ivan found the meth users to be the worst. Though, perhaps, most of this animosity was because of one individual.

An annoying, jittery, nineteen year old meth head by the name of Alfred Jones.

Normally, Ivan would have nothing to do with an obnoxious, over confident drug addict aside from selling his wares to him.

Ivan wouldn't have paid the likes of Alfred Jones any notice if it was not for his mother.

Ms. Jones was a nice, beautiful widow who had taught Ivan when he had still been in high school. Though she was an older woman, she had not lost any youthful radiance, with her bright blue eyes and blonde hair that matched the golden cross she wore about her neck. Ms. Jones had been the only teacher that Ivan had ever admired, the only person in that wasteland of education that truly connected with him, that truly took the time to listen to him. She was fascinated with his Russian origin, asking about the nature and culture of his homeland, and together they would discuss the literature and books that Ivan had grown up with, and those authors that he admired: Tolstoy, Nabokov, Pushkin, and Chekhov. He would recommend books for her and she in turn would introduce him to some of her favorite American writers and recommend their best works. It soon became ritual for him, and Ivan even found himself heaping more responsibilities on Eduard and Toris in order to be able to talk to Ms. Jones.

It was through Ms. Jones that Ivan had learned about Alfred. He had seen the exuberant, obnoxious and popular young man around— he had bought drugs off of Ivan several times, but his existence had seemed insignificant until Ms. Jones revealed that Alfred was her son.

Subsequently, whenever she mentioned Alfred, Ivan would feel a coil of heat brew in his stomach, clenching his insides.

Oftentimes, the things Ms. Jones said about Alfred were less than positive. She would bemoan to Ivan about how she wished her own son was more like him, more sophisticated and polite. She complained to Ivan about how Alfred would stay out late at night, even during weekdays, and was hardly ever at home. She would tell Ivan that, when Alfred was home, they would get into arguments and Alfred would storm off and she wouldn't see him for days, all the while fearing that something terrible had happened to him, as mothers do. However, after saying something negative, she would quickly retract and say that she loved Alfred regardless, because he was all she had, and that he truly was not a bad child, just "misdirected," or just "going through a phase." But Ivan knew how Alfred was— he had seen him at his worse, desperately begging and buying speed and crack off of him.

Gradually, his frustration with Alfred grew and grew.

One day in particular had stood out to Ivan. It had been his mother's birthday, the day his annoyance with Alfred turned into something darker.

Before, Ivan would have simply skipped school on this day, leaving any deals or anything business related up to Eduard and his brothers. But on that particular day, that year, Ivan found he could not bear missing school if it meant not speaking to Ms. Jones. If there was ever a day he needed a pair of comforting arms, it would be the first of June.

That day Ivan was in math class, the only class that he shared with Alfred and the only class in which he elected to sit in the back, which, coincidentally, was straight behind the loudmouthed boy. Ivan had been absentmindedly punching holes in his paper with his pencil, when he heard Alfred begin to talk in a stage whisper to the boy next to him. Ivan listened intently, and with growing anger as he heard Alfred's plans to throw a large party at his house next weekend

Alfred then said that he would have no problem coming up with any extra "fun" and turned slightly to give Ivan a wink that turned the Russian boy's blood into streams of icy rage.

When the other boy expressed concern over Alfred mother possibly catching them, he merely snorted.

"Oh, don't worry about that, my mom's so fucking stupid— "

It was then that Ivan raised up his balled fist and slammed it onto his desk with a resounding crack, at the same time crushing his pencil into dust. The entire class started, Alfred whipping his head around so fast that his glasses almost fell off his face. The teacher gaped, dry erase marker dropping from his hand. Ivan merely stared at his desk, which now had a long crack running through it.

After that he had been ordered to the administrator's office, where he had managed to wedge his large frame into one of the small plastic chairs in the waiting room. At that point, Ivan was grateful that no one else was present, as the frustration and stress of the day took his toll on him and his eyes began to wet from tears.

Suddenly, at the sound of the door clicking, Ivan raised his head, fear clutching at him over the fact that someone would see him like this—

But his fear melted the instant he saw blonde hair and surprised blue eyes as Ms. Jones entered with a stack of papers in hand.

"I-Ivan?" She then noticed his tears, and her surprise softened a little. "Dear, what's wrong?"

Ivan had simply looked at her, tears continuing to roll down his face. Without another word, Ms. Jones had set down the papers and walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, shushing him quietly and rocking him back and forth as his tears grew into shaking, audible sobs.

Ivan had clung to her tightly and just cried, wanting so badly for this to be everyday, everyday to go home and be greeted by a soft hug and a waiting ear.

And yet, everyday Ms. Jones would go home to that pig, that idiotic son who had absolutely no respect for her, had no idea what a beautiful and intelligent and loving woman she was. What a wonderful mother she was.

He remembered talking to Ms. Jones on the day of his graduation and hearing her hopes for Alfred to mellow out after high school. She said that he was looking for local jobs, in hope to raise enough money to go off to college.

But Ivan knew that things had instead turned for the worse. Alfred's drug use had been nonexistent in high school next to what he was doing now.

It had been more than a year since he had last seen Ms. Jones, but Alfred frequented him several times a week. Ivan recalled the first time that Alfred had bought meth off him, and how Ivan had been hesitant. He'd seen it take a toll on the other kids that he had sold to, as well as their families. But his killer business instinct could not refuse a sale, and thus he had given Alfred the poison.

Ivan had watched Alfred degenerate slowly ever since that day, though he had yet to exhibit the physical symptoms of addiction, and could only imagine the living hell that the boy put his mother through every day.

Though, Ivan had seen some evidence of it. Once, Alfred had tried to pawn off jewelry onto Ivan, gold inlaid women's jewelry, peppered with cheap stones. Once it had been a little golden cross, and the sight of that boy handing it over to him as if it was nothing but quick change for a high made his heart clench with anger.

So gradually, Ivan had come to hate Alfred.

Ms. Jones isn't supposed to be anyone really, Alfred just needed a mom. I hope that no one thinks Ivan is in love with her…it's just supposed to be like he wants a mom, and he doesn't feel like Alfred deserves her.

Why the individual drugs for the nations? They're kind of just random things I've picked up from other stories/people's headcanons. I mean, obviously Canada/Netherlands are weed, and Germany&Prussia would be ecstasy because of the German rave/club scene. Austria's I just remember reading somewhere. France is definitely amphetamines though, since it increases your sex drive….And even though most of the time I'd rather think of American using coke or heroin, meth fit his personality better in this case…

What am I even on. I swear this will be the last drug related story for a long time. I will be writing something fluffy.