Warnings: very dark and twisted Alfred, mentions of: insanity, nuclear weapons, war, blood, death, gore, 9/11, the cold war, violence, non-descriptive sexual situation,... that kind of stuff, although NO character deaths in this one!
There was one sentence that rang in Ivan's mind as he watched the superpower across the table. A sentence that he had heard so long ago, in such a different setting. He wasn't eve sure whether he had heard it or read it, he couldn't pinpoint the exact month, even year when he had come to know it. But the words themselves shone clear as day in his mind, his thoughts boiling down to that one sentence as he observed the absent-minded youth.
I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.
So much of the young nation reminded him of Death made human, with eyes so inviting and a smile so bright, with sweetened words and open arms. And yet, there was the hollowness, the empty promise, the lurking nothingness hidden behind those eyes, that smile, those words. If he were to imagine what meeting Death would be like, the figure in his mind would be Alfred.
There was so much about the young superpower. In explaining the nation, he found he never truly could. Every time he had attempted to describe him to a leader, he found that his words sounded dull, superficial, inaccurate. He never could find the words to describe him. Much like an abstract idea, nothing about the nation could be pin-pointed to a single word, ten, or five thousand.
Sitting across from Ivan, he chewed on his standard blue pen. Instead of checking the watch on his hand, his eyes drifted about the room for a clock to look at. Though Ivan couldn't see under the table, he knew that Alfred had one ankle crossed over the other knee, using his foot to twist his chair in one direction, then the other, before switching back again. The lined paper in front of him had a few scribbled words on it, but more likely they were words from his own mind rather than anything said at the conference. He then took the pen out of his mouth, reaching for the lid that was on the table. Going to replace the lid where it belonged on the pen, the blue piece of plastic dropped. Alfred spent the next five minutes looking for it, much to the annoyance of the Englishman next to him. Coming up with the lid, he wore an apologetic smile on his face, shrugging carelessly. The Englishman turned back to the current presentation, and Alfred began fidgeting with the pen in his hand. On occasion, it would hit the table and make a resounding "tic". At this, Ludwig coughed loudly enough for Alfred to take notice, turn his head and wear the same smile he had worn for Arthur.
After that, he fell silent, looking at the presenter for a minute before drawing his chair closer to the table, and reaching for the paper in front of him. He seemed to be more interested in doodling some image that had come to his mind that listening in on world affairs.
Ivan knew nothing was accidental. Nothing was apologetic. Nothing was simple, air-headed or absent-minded about him. He knew every inch of the act the American had created for himself, every little trick he would pull, every bit rehearsed to perfection. He had also seen the act evolve over the years. He had once been more obnoxious, louder, more obvious and noticeable. Though he still seemed all these things, he had quieted down just enough to not seem overboard.
It was like he was on stage, the world was his audience, and he was alone. Every time he smiled, he added another coat of pain to the background of his play. Every time he laughed, it was another stitch perfectionating his costume, his mask. Every time he spoke, he added another line to his act, another perfectly co-ordinated movement. Every time he annoyed another nation, he added another tile to the brick wall he was building around himself. Every time he zoned out of a meeting, he put another step between himself and the audience.
But then again, that was only the character he played, the script he followed, the play he put up.
When the lights went out, and Alfred was left to stand alone on the stage... Ivan had seen the man behind the mask. He had seen the actor before he sunk into his role, after he came up for air - drenched in the false pretense that still clung to him, his clothes, his mind. He had seen the blankness of his gaze, the hard set of his jaw, the stiffness of his body.
And that actor, that person behind the mask, he was the one Ivan woke up next to more often than not. He was the one who was on his phone's speed-dial. And though Ivan trusted no-one, he was the one Ivan could say he might trust someday. And something in him told him that Alfred felt the same way. They were too similar, too understanding of each other for that not to happen.
Ivan would sometimes wake up to Alfred looking at him, his eyes lined by dark rings - tell-tale signs of another sleepless night. He would step into the shower with Alfred, only to stop him from scrubbing his skin raw. He would find Alfred bent over papers and files, so immersed in them that he would not notice Ivan - until Ivan reached for him, and was then faced with the barrel of a gun, before recognition would wash over blue eyes. He would find him staring into a cup of coffee, a confused frown on his features.
And then, sometimes, he would find Alfred humming softly while polishing his gun. He would see him glaring darkly at the back of an offending nation. He would catch him in the midst of an intense military training, his eyes hard, his lips curled almost unnoticeably, his movements fluid, but vicious. He had, on occasions, faced the blazing fury of his eyes when they crossed paths in an undesirable manner. He had seen the calculating look in his gaze when he decided a course of action over another.
But it wasn't to say this was a one-way relationship in any way. No, it was much more than that, much more intertwined, involved than that. Alfred had on many occasions dealt with the dark atmosphere Ivan created on certain days. Alfred had seen the broken violet look in his eyes after a nightmare had torn through his dreams. Alfred had himself stared at the barrel of a gun, held by Ivan, but seemed unfazed. They balanced and mirrored each other, almost perfectly. The only difference was, where Alfred put up an act, Ivan did not.
And yet, if Ivan were to give Death a name, it would be that of the personification of the United States of America - not his own. He had power far greater than anyone else on Earth. Though Ivan did not easily admit it, he had fallen behind in the game quite some time ago. There was a certain simplicity to the concept of Alfred himself that was much like that of Death's - he could end life, he was a kind of absolute in the world. Maybe the only difference there again was, the only absolute to Alfred's world was Death.
He was the embodiment of destruction, the personification of ruin.
With a word, he could set a nation free or shackle them in time. With a look, he could drill a nation into the ground. With a raised eyebrow, he owned them. With a question, he knew all he needed about them. With a shrug, he quieted them. With a smile, he ended them. He truly could have run the world as his own within an hour if he so wished. And yet, Alfred was graceful in his actions, subtle in his act, and had built a wall so thick and high everyone had forgotten the times he had peeked out from behind the mask.
But every time Alfred was left on stage alone, Ivan was backstage, waiting for the actor to come down and take off the costume. And he saw the reality behind the imaginative. He would walk in silence with the younger, hearing all his thoughts. He would see the blank stare in his eyes as he sank into a couch and turned the television on.
And as night fell, he would see the life lighting his eyes, the smile tracing his lips, the tremor in his muscles, as Ivan would draw the American close. He would feel the biting nails dredge lines into his back, he would see how Alfred felt, too, he would hear his true, violent nature as he was pressed into a mattress - whether it be a five-star hotel or a random roadside motel. He would catch the musk scent of the room, he would feel himself bruising, he would feel the adrenaline pulse through his veins. He would taste Alfred's poisoned sighs, see the hurricane in his eyes, he would feel the firepower underneath him.
And he could no longer remember a time when Alfred's breath wasn't poisonous, but tasted of spring and open air. When his words weren't dry, but melodically hummed to the tune of nature. He couldn't remember a time when that dark glint hadn't been in his bright eyes, his hands weren't soaked in blood, his mind working a thousand thoughts a second.
It was no surprise that he was the only one that saw all this, the inner workings of a superpower's mind. By now, most nations no longer cared for what had happened a hundred years ago - when Alfred's mind had been forcibly turned to Japan, and his danger unleashed upon the unwitting country. None of them had seen Alfred during the critical times of the Cold War, when McCarthyism had trickled through his veins, when nuclear threats were at their highest, when his nerves were drawn taut. When they did, his cracked mask was enough to convince other nations that it was merely the stress and hate affecting him. He had seemed merely more anxious than usual, with an occasional bitter edge to his voice. Yet, it was never anything alarming. Only Ivan had so closely observed Alfred that he had seen those moments of increasing insanity, how he neared the edge that he had precariously stood on, a blank stare directed at the abyss beneath.
But surely they had seen the mad mastermind with twisted eyes, who had rushed out, bleeding, from the conference room, in the early morning of September 11th? Surely, they had seen the strategist that had gone teeth bared to hunt down the culprit? The violent mind who had seen no respite until he had absolute assurance their bodies were cold and dead? Who had been at perpetual, incessant war with one country or another ever since that day?
Surely they had noticed the shallowness of his cheeks, betraying innumerable forgotten meals? Surely they had noted how ill-fitting his suits were, his body too lithe and thin for them? How his hair no longer shone golden in sunlight, how his skin paled ever so slightly each year? How dark the circles under his eyes were, exposing the many restless nights spent deciphering the latest urgent message, or deciding a course of action for the latest important?
But they had not. They saw the simple, happy, idiot Alfred wanted them to see. They saw a good-hearted man drawn into the wrong conflicts - unwillingly. They saw a superpower who had the world in his hand, but never seemed to have worked for it. Who had gained everything by smiling and shrugging. Who hid his blood-stained hands behind his back (because no-one wanted to see a superpower's back, for fear of what stood behind that magnificence). Who masqueraded his brutality as patriotism. Whose blood, sweat, tears had gone to build the world he now owned, and had lost his mind along the way.
Ivan knew there were few nations who had ever dreamt of world domination as a reality. And none had ever achieved it. Even though he, himself, had once entertained the idea of the entire world under the same ideology of communism, he had always known it in him that he could not do it. Perhaps he had live too long, seen too much, had been able to maintain that inch of sanity; perhaps he had never had the pure ambition, or never had had the faintest chance of doing so - too weak since the beginning, maybe. But one thing in his mind was certain: even though Alfred was held in both worship and disdain among the nations, even though some refused to accept his meddling, he knew that there was nothing Alfred could not claim as his own.
His eyes had not left the American once, but the other had taken his time to notice the other's watchful eyes. But when he did, it was as if he could read the thoughts like they were plastered onto Ivan's eyes, visible for all the world to see. And he gave Ivan a smile, a terrible, dark smile. A smile that spoke of demise, of fall, of ruin. A smile that spoke of the blackest thoughts of man, the most terrifying power, the most horrible deeds imaginable.
With the nuclear power coursing through him, he could destroy the world ten times over.
Perhaps, that was why he found the sentence so befitting of Alfred. His mind was kindred to that of Death, his power an equivalent, his figure even a ghostly, constant presence.
He really had become Death, merely awaiting to unleash destruction upon the world.
Note: the quote referred to in this fic, "I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds", is by J. Robert Oppenheimer. Kind of. He said the quote came originally from the Bhagavad Gita. However, after doing extensive research, I came across the fact that this may be a mistranslation. While Oppenheimer used "Death", some say that in the actual text the quote would be "I am become time, the destroyer of worlds" - or, better grammatically put, "I am all-powerful Time which destroys all things". I can in no way be certain which translation is the right one, and hence am basing all this on research only. However, about the quote by Oppenheimer, it was used by him when the nuclear bombs were invented in 1945. As such, it became a famous quote, that fits Alfred really well in my opinion.
A/N: Guess who's back, back again, with another dark!America fic - this time, from a whole other point of view! Some variety here for once. And anyway I found it interesting to explore the idea of the superpower from an outside point of view, but not one completely foreign to the inner thoughts of the nation, such as dearest Ivan here. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this, and I would reaaaally appreciate reviews and favourites and follows, whatever suits you! Oh, and as an aside note, I am currently writing the next chapter to Since That Day (I was going to abbreviate it, but then realised it spells out STD... whoops...), and the next chapter to MAD is in planning stages.
Anyway, until next time!