AKS: I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia because I am American, and therefore I don't know my geography enough to be able to write something so global
Chapter One: Snow Falling
"Oi, wake up. We're closed."
Voices and light mixed and swam together. Shapes and colors bounced through his vision like he was watching a cartoon through a kaleidoscope. Reality blurred into a dizzy fog.
Ivan was drunk.
No, not drunk.
Ivan was smashed.
The Russian peeled his face off the sticky bar counter and blinked sleepily at the bartender. The man had enormous eyebrows and the scowl of an old woman.
A few minutes passed before Ivan's delirious mind could register what was said and translate it. When he did the Russian smiled innocently and ordered another drink.
"I told you, we're closed," seethed the Brit. "Now kindly get out of my pub and go home. You pub and go, now go!"
The caterpillars over his eyebrows furled with anger.
Ivan hiccupped and smiled again when he stood from the bar stool, staggering only the slightest. He left a few coins on the counter and stumbled out of the empty bar - into the cold night air. Technically it was early morning, before sunrise, two-A.M cold air but Ivan wasn't sober enough to know what a technicality was. This was saying quite a lot, Ivan was a heavy drinker and it took a near fatal amount of alcohol to get the large Russian so drunk.
Why did he drink so much?
He couldn't remember. His mind was foggy.
He . . . He was trying to forget something.
What was it . . .?
Ivan shrugged and skipped down the street in search of his apartment. If he had drunken so much to forget (as he now believed) it would be a waste to try and remember. It was better not to squander his efforts.
The behemoth of a man swerved severely as he skipped, falling onto the side of the wall and into the street with equal frequency. He lumbered down the paved road, swinging his large arms as he slid over the icy street. Ivan was unafraid; he was used to snow and ice from living in Russia most of his life and was too drunk to understand its danger.
He kept smiling, singing folksongs with a strong, slurring voice.
Ivan was on top of the world!
He jumped with a high skip and raised his arms like he was on a rollercoaster. The massive Russian skidded over a patch of ice. Ivan swung his arms out to catch himself but found nothing in the empty sidewalk to hold onto.
With a bone jarring crack Ivan smacked the back of his head against the pavement.
The colors stopped dancing as pain shot through Ivan's nerves like hot coals. He cried and swore loudly, though none of the sounds even he made could be heard to his suddenly deaf ears. Ivan staggered and clung to the side of the curb, trying to understand the world around himself. His vision was black and he was unable to hear anything but the blood coursing through his ears.
This was bad.
This was really bad.
The disoriented Russian tried to stand but found his legs unresponsive - like they were made of lead. He could crawl though, and pulled himself along with his arms.
Little by little his vision came back in blotchy patches, but this only made him all the more nauseous.
He wretched on the side of the curb and tried to roll away from it - unintentionally laying flat in the middle of the street.
The world swam again and Ivan's body shook sickly.
There was a bright light that made the Russian groan loudly and cover his eyes. The muffled, exaggerated honk of a car's horn was barley registered.
The car swerved and almost hit a lamp-pole.
"Oh my God, what the hell?! There better be a good reason for you to be playing chicken at frakin' at two-in-the-morning!"
The voice was loud and obnoxious to Ivan's frazzled mind. In fact, it hurt. Ivan actually winced when the American spoke again.
"What the hell?! Did you even hear me?"
Ivan groaned again and laid his head on the pavement.
So many noises! Everything hurt!
". . . Hey, are you okay?"
Ivan shook his head, ignoring the throbbing pain.
His vision was still black but the next thing the Russian could understand was that he was being carried; an impressive feat for who ever was carrying him since Ivan was so dense. He closed his eyes as he heard sound of a seat belt being buckled.
"Stay awake!" hissed the American, tying a cloth torn from his own shirt around Ivan's head. He guided the Russian's enormous hands to the now damp tourniquet to stop the bleeding.
Ivan was barley able to comply.
The American buckled into his own seat, driving quickly enough for Ivan to get sick again.
"Hey, keep it on your side," chided the American in alarm.
Ivan pressed his face against the side of the glass.
His body ached for sleep and he drifted off.
"I said say awake!" the American shouted, shaking Ivan's shoulder. The taller man whined like a child.
"Come on, open your eyes!" If he wasn't so delirious Ivan would have heard the agitation in the Americans voice. Slowly, sleepily, Ivan blinked.
"I've never seen that color before. Did you get it from your mom or dad?"
Conversation.
Why was this American so talkative?
Couldn't he tell Ivan just wanted to sleep?
"Talk to me! Open your eyes!"
Ivan groaned when they turned a sharp corner.
"Grandfather," he finally answered, voice weak.
"Alright, progress," cheered the American, rolling down the windows to clear out the smell of vomit. After it was gone he blasted the heater. Although trying to sooth Ivan the quick change in temperature just made him ill.
"What's your name?"
They passed over a pothole that jarred the car violently enough for the distressed Russian to cry out.
"My name is Alfred F. Jones."
"Ivan." He gagged dryly. "Ivan Braginski."
"That means your Russian, right?" Then as an afterthought, "That explains your crazy accent."
Ivan was too tired to comment on the American's lack of tact and made a noise Alfred had to assume meant yes. He closed his eyes again.
"Ivan, wake up! We're almost there! Come on man, what's your favorite color?"
Color?
God, how stupid was this American?
Why did he want to know something like that?
…What was his favorite color? His head felt terrible! How was he supposed to remember something as trivial as his favorite color?
"Red," he answered weakly, recalling. "Red."
"Awesome, my favorite is blue." They turned another corner. "What's your favorite season."
"Summer," Ivan replied instantly. Alfred chuckled.
"See, we have more in common than you'd think. What's your favorite time of the day?"
Ivan groaned and closed his eyes, only to be shaken awake again.
"Come on Ivan, tell me your favorite time` of the day."
"I don't know," the Russian replied sickly. He blinked furiously. He could only just make out the outline of his rescuer/kidnapper. "Morning, if I have to choose, yes."
"Personally I like lazy afternoons but mornings are alright."
If Ivan could see clearly he would have seen Alfred's worried expression.
"How long have you been in the US?"
The Russian made a noise of agitation as he tried to remember. "I don't know - five, maybe six months."
"Ah, a noob," Alfred smiled as he pulled into the driveway to the Hospital. "Welcome to America, Ivan Braginski."
~O~O~O~O~
It had been several hours later before Ivan was allowed to sleep. Alfred told the guard at the parking lot what was wrong with the Russian and within a few minutes an emergency crew and a stretcher were sent. The American was given a torough scolding about moving a patient (since this could aggravate or cause worse injury) and that he should have just called an ambulance.
Ivan smirked through his daze.
It was like watching a childhood bully get what they deserved.
Although this was the first time Ivan had felt the emotion - he was usually the bully.
The next few hours were spent with constant prodding, an MRI, questioning, and being stuck with various I.V.s. They would have pumped his stomach if it weren't for the fact that Ivan had already puked twice. It was almost noon by the time the Russian was allowed to sleep, and even then he was woken after four short hours.
Dr. Honda was a small, modest Japanese man, young in both age and carrier; but when it came to his patients he was above and beyond anyone else.
He woke Ivan, ignoring the Russian's complaints.
"Mr. Braginski, we have to go over a few things," said Dr. Honda sternly, taking a seat by Ivan's bed. The small male had very dark gray eyes, virtually no light passed through them. Ivan went about his best to ignore the doctor, playing with the nurse call button. The last time the haggard nurse came in he just smiled at her sweetly and said that he forgot why he called her (which was a lie - he had only called to mess with her). "Mr. Jones said that he would be willing to pay for all of your hospital bills so you don't need to worry about that for now, but we checked with your contact numbers and we found. . . troubling complications."
"Complications?" wondered Ivan, sitting up in the stiff hospital bed.
~O~O~O~O~
An Eviction notice.
An eviction notice was posted on the door to his apartment - to the door of his locked apartment.
So that's why he was drinking so much.
Ivan swore loudly in his mother language and sat on his former porch. It creaked metallically and some of the green paint chipped off. Ivan huffed aggressively and shoved his hands into his pockets. His head still throbbed from both the concussion and the numbing hangover from binging the night before. He'd spent the last of his money on said binging, had no friends to rely on, and his only family was half a world away.
He was out of a house, out of a job, and out money.
The only thing he had to his name were the clothes on his back and the spare change in his pockets.
. . . and a card.
Ivan quirked an eyebrow and pulled a small business card out of his pocket. The front side had an American flag and the back side said "New Hope Homeless-Shelter", along with Alfred's full name, contact numbers and address.
Do you believe in miracles!
Ivan stared at the card and blinked.
What. The. Hell.
So the man who rescued him ran a homeless-shelter? What were the odds of that?
He wrinkled his nose and wished he had more vodka.
~O~O~O~O~
Luckily for Ivan the New Hope Homeless-Shelter was not terribly far from his Ex-apartment. Still, it was a long walk for the recently hospitalized man. By the time he got to the front steps the sun had already set. The light left behind was a temporary twilight that was already fading.
The Shelter was a large, welcoming building with a fresh coat of paint and a very happy looking sign. There were blue-frosted flower beds all around the shelter that were crumpled underneath places where there had been obvious repainting.
Must have been to cover up graffiti, Ivan mused, walking through the front door.
Instantly warmth enveloped him. His cheeks and nose stung numbly with the sudden heat, and Ivan could feel his fingertips tingling in their gloves. He smiled gently at the feeling and continued in the direction he assumed was to the front desk.
The linolieum tiled floor was incredibly shiny and the walls were off white, yellowed with age. There were plastic plants in the corners and the building made its own muffled echo like the inside of an empty bottle. The sound of the heater hummed overhead.
Despite all these things, Ivan liked the place. It felt like home. . . in a weird, phony way.
"Can I help you, sir?" asked a kind, if tiny voice, getting his attention. The Russian turned and saw the owner to the voice, a sweet looking girl (in her late teens) with long dark brown hair pulled into two flowing pigtails. Her tanned skin seemed out of place in the cold city but her kind smile fit the mood of the homeless-shelter.
Ivan returned her smile with a small, child-like one, and approached the front desk.
The woman looked a little afraid of him (which was a normal response) but managed to keep a polite grin.
"Welcome to New Hope Homeless-Shelter, is there something I can help you with sir?" Her voice had an African accent.
"I found this in my pocket, yes," replied Ivan, pulling out the card he found earlier. The girl took it and made an expression Ivan couldn't quite place. She stared at the Russian with big wide eyes.
"By any chance is your name Ivan?"
The Russian smiled and nodded. This had been a good idea. Americans were nicer than most made them out to be.
"Were you run over yesterday?" the girl asked, voice in all seriousness.
Ivan blinked.
What was it with this country and losing your sense of tact?
"I was not," he answered, feeling a little uncomfortable.
"Oh! I am sorry!" the girl blushed brightly, horror replacing her curious expression. "My boss wouldn't stop talking about this Russian he apparently rescued last night and I was worried that he might have accidentally run over the man and just skipped on that detail! You see, he's not exactly the best driver in the world."
The two stared at each other, the girl extremely embarrassed and the large man wondering if it would have been better just to sleep on the streets.
Luckily before either had a chance to say anything else none other than Alfred F. Jones strode into the room, bursting through the front double-doors like he was in a heroic action movie.
"I'm here to kick ass and be a Hero and I'm all out of ass!" he exclaimed proudly, taking a superhero pose.
Luckily for the girl, what Alfred proclaimed was awkward enough for Ivan to forgive anything she had said.
The three said nothing and stared at each other, the sunny American quickly losing him confidence. His bright smile slipped as his glasses slid off his nose. Alfred pushed them back into place and stared at the Russian, his smile brightening again.
"Ivan?" he wondered aloud, pulling his face into exaggerated curiosity. "Is that you?"
Author Ramble: Whoo! This was fun to write! Thanks for reading this everyone, let's hope it just get's better from here. . .
What Alfred said when he came into the homeless shelter is from what Seto Kaiba says in the original Yu-Gi-Oh series: "I'm here to kick ass and chew gum, and I'm all out of gum" The Yu-Gi-Oh Abridged series changed it to "I'm here to kick ass and play card games, and I'm all out of ass" - I think Alfred would be familiar with this phrase 'cause he's a spazzy American
"Do you believe in miracles" is what an announcer said when the American Olympic hockey team beet USSR's hockey team in 1980, Lack Placid. I was watching a special on it at the time and felt that the quote fit.
One more thing….I like Kiku as the doctor…."Paging Dr. Honda, Paging Dr. Honda - Dr. Honda to the emergency room - stat!" Lol, he'd be cute in the uniform.
Important!!! Never, under any circumstances, move someone if they have fallen (unless to move them out of they way of immediate danger). You never know what kind of injury a person might have or how you might accidentally make it worse. Don't let the person move until medical help arrives, even if they say they can move. At my school a girl was moved when he fell down a flight of stairs and because they moved her she had broken ribs and was almost paralyzed. Do Not Move Anyone ( except with words :D )
OHMEHGODZ I'll shut up now!