Story 1: Competition

If there was one thing that America learned after years and years of history, it's that he never liked competitions.

(He was a very competitive nation, but he was not entirely a competitive man)

"Have you ever been jealous of Russia? Of the power he holds?"

No. He has not.

"He is as strong as you. He might destroy you some day."

What do any of them know.

"He has lived longer than you. Experienced worse things. He knows more than you ever will."

And that was exactly why he always hated being contrasted with his counterpart. To even think that their individual history was something to be competed over is too cruel.

Because no matter how much greater America was, no matter how tough his military forces, his economy, his own defences - he will never know of the burden that Russia had to carry.

He does not know of the pain and torture that the cold nation experienced.

He does not understand the gravity of Russia's words when he first told him that people don't like children who can't play nice.

(Sometimes he wonders if it is partly his fault, but then he remembers those dreadful years, and it is the only answer that he needs to know.)

There came a time when greatness and power became a competition. The memories were always as clear and fresh as they had been years ago. It was the time when they had both been pushed to their limit, forced to hate someone they've known and familiarized with for so long. The time when America had to force in the bile in his throat, reminding himself over and over again that "you hate him. He's hurt your friends and even yourself. You are in no way alike at all."

(What had not been competition were the wars mapped out on their skin and the vivid memories of their suffering.)

They both endured, but Russia endured more, and America knows.

He's seen it. He remembers them all too well.

He's seen the lashes all over his back, remembers all the cuts on his wrists; he sees the deep scars on the flesh of his neck, often covered by soft scarves that meant more than anything in the world.

(There are certain nights when Alfred would take his time upon encountering each scar. He touches them with gentle hands, loving how Ivan shivers just the slightest bit underneath him. He kisses them as if he's kissing stars.)

He's seen dark lines and deep tired eyes - bloodshot, expressionless, empty, as if pieces of who he was had already been scattered all throughout the pages of history and there was nothing left for the him who was here now. These are the eyes of a nation who's cried for years and years - and at the very same time, the eyes of a man who could no longer cry; not because he forgot how to, but rather because he no longer can.

And the truth is that Russia never tells him about any of this. He rarely mentions his own history and the things they do to him when no one is looking, or rather, when no one wants to look. He doesn't tell America where all these come from, when they appeared, and why he's had more scars than what the history books say.

(What he does tell America, however, is that "Ivan Braginski is a very happy man who has learned how to love" and for Alfred Jones, it's more than enough.)

So in return, he does not ask, nor does he tell.

He doesn't tell the Russian nation that seeing the truth marred on his flesh had always disturbed his thoughts. He doesn't remind him that he knows how it feels to be hurt and forced into committing acts he never wanted to.

He never wishes that he could bear the pain with him, because he knows that he never could. He will never understand because despite everything else they are just too different.

Their own pain had never been a competition.

(When will everyone understand that?)

That's why, in the coldest and stormiest of nights- nights like these that bring back memories of their bitter history, Alfred embraces Ivan tighter, more desperately, limbs tangled under thick sheets and bodies flush against each other, their breaths and the ticking of the clock the only sound in the room.

(He embraces him as if he were an insane man who craved for the earth and the seas. As if Ivan was the last string of hope - the last candle in this cold, cold world whose flames remained alive.

(Flickering, he thinks, but alive.)

"Ivan," he whispers into the dark as thousands of words and images to life in his mind - and suddenly, they stop, and his thoughts settle with one certain phrase.

"Vanya," he hears the sheets beside him rustle. A small groan lets him know that he's disturbed his lover from his peaceful slumber, but Al is unsatisfied with the response.

"Ivan." Alfred repeats, firmer.

"Mmmh."

"Ya tebya lyublyu."

For a second, he hears nothing. And then,

"...I love you, too...moya... solnishka," Ivan mumbles, pulling Alfred closer to him. " Try... sleep, Alfryet. It's... late..."

The older nation is fast asleep once more, and Alfred decides that he too should rest. He relaxes himself, nestling his head on Ivan's chest.

He listens to the sound... or rather the lack of sound of his heart. It's ironic, really, how something like this was what had always given Alfred a kind of warmth he has always wanted.

(He decides that if Ivan's heart had beat louder, then its rhythm would have matched with his own.)

Finally, he closes his eyes.

There are secrets hidden deep within Ivan's mind. Ones that he will never tell. Ones that Alfred doesn't need to know, because what matters the most is that they are here, and they are together.

(He falls asleep with a smile on his face, content.)

Translations:

Vanya- Russian diminutive for "Ivan"
Ya tebya lyublyu- I love you
Moya solnishka- My little sun

Author's Notes:

If you've made it this far, then I'd like to thank you so much for reading (or maybe skipping through parts of) this story! I hope this starting fic has earned me a place in the Hetalia fanfiction side of the fandom though. I really hope to write a lot more stories here.

I also want to apologise if the writing style's kinda messy, or if there were some errors.

Thanks again for reading! Leave a review/ favourite/ follow if you liked it! Constructive criticisms are most definitely welcome.