Hi! Hikou no Kokoro here again! It seems like I'm finally up and running, which is really good. Anyway, here's another one-shot thing (God knows that I can only do one-shots properly). Unfortunately, I didn't have Kit-chan look over this (probably the worst decision I have ever made in my life), because, well, it was just a small idea that I have been having for quite some time, and just wanted to get it out.

So here it is! Trust Nobody is Your Ally!

And this is not meant to be FRussia. It can hint at that. But that's not what it really is meant to be. Well, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Axis Powers: Hetalia, or the characters I used.

Trust Nobody is Your Ally

"You may be deceived if you trust too much,
But you will live in torment unless you trust enough."
—Frank Crane

"'I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it,'" France quoted, crossing his legs underneath the table. Leaning against his fist, he reached over and pointed the feathery end of his quill at the parchment. "Do you remember who that's usually attributed to?"

"That's easy!" the Russian on the other end of the table claimed, a big grin crossing his face. "Montesquieu—" France's blue eyes narrowed, and his smile stretched into a thinner line. Immediately, Russia's grin disappeared and he waved his hands around. "No, wait! Voltaire! I meant Voltaire!"

"Nope! You said Montesquieu first! You got it wrong!" France sang. He tickled Russia's overly-large nose with his quill and Russia sneezed. Then, France drew yet another vertical line underneath his name on a piece of paper. Beside his name was Russia's name, which only had one line underneath. "That means I won this round. Again."

Russia puffed out his cheeks and kicked his legs and pounded his chubby, little fists against the table. "This is no fair! You always win because you're only quizzing me on your French philosophes! You have the clear advantage!"

"Well then, do you have any famous philosophes that you want to quiz me on?" France challenged. Russia opened his mouth. "And who's not Shcherbatov." Russia closed his mouth.

The child pouted, glaring at France. His purple eyes were narrowed into slits, and a strange clacking noise could have been heard underneath his breath. France arched an eyebrow and chuckled. Then, he reached over, and played with the hair around Russia's ears. "You are simply too adorable. I still do not understand why Prussia and his boss are so scared of you."

"Kol. Kol. Kol." Russia's expression turned darker, while still retaining his smile.

"'Kol'?" France repeated, his wide grin shrinking. "Is that some sort of new Russian phrase?" he asked. But, his smile widened again, forcing his eyes closed. His gloved hands continued to play with the Russian's ears. "Isn't that a cute little phrase? A cute little phrase for a cute little Russian! So fitting, no?"

"Kol. Kol…"

France chuckled, retracting his hands to run his fingers through his slick hair. "Well, I guess that means you want a break from your studies, then?" He uncrossed his legs and stood up. "Shall we go outside then?"

The frightening expression on Russia's face immediately disappeared. "Huh? Outside?" he repeated. He peered out the window to the side. A frown stretched over his face. Outside? Who would want to go outside in the winter of Russia? It was much too cold in Russia. And the snow was much too plain. The whiteness was boring. "Why outside?" Russia asked, furrowing his brow and looking at France.

"Because outside is nice," France replied.

Russia stumbled into the courtyard after France. Russia peered up at France, frowning. Russia was just so bewildered on why France was wearing so little out in the snow. He himself was wearing so much that even his scarf was wearing a scarf and his hat had another hat on. His heavy coat covered two layers of wool vests, and his boots were stuffed with cloth. He had two layers of pants on. Although he wore so much, he was still shivering. On the other hand, France just wore a blue coat over his outfit, a borrowed scarf, and one of Russia's many hats. It was a wonder how France seemed so much happier than Russia.

"Come, Russia! The snow is so nice and beautiful!" France exclaimed, twirling around in the snow like a little girl. He fell backwards and kicked up some snow.

Russia waddled up to France and peered down. He spoke through his scarf. "Aren't you cold?"

"No way!" France laughed and sat up. "This is such nice weather!" He gestured widely around him. "The silence, the cleanliness, the simplicity, everything!" He sighed. "It's simply wonderful, is it not?"

Russia frowned and looked around. He couldn't see this "beauty" that France had seen. Everything was covered with heavy snow. Nothing was alive. No plants; no people; no sounds. Everything was covered, strangled by a white death. The palace behind them was covered, and even its exquisite architecture was dying under the snow's weight. And out there, there was nothing, even the flat line of the horizon was gone. It was hidden by the white of the fog and clouds and the snow. Russia couldn't see the beauty in this white abyss of plainness.

France smiled. He grabbed Russia's mitten-covered hands. "Why so glum, my cute little Russian?" he asked.

Russia looked down at France, at the bright smiling face that glowed like a blue sky. France was a bright blue. He was the blue on the greyscale landscape.

"The snow is lonely," Russia replied.

France chortled. He gave Russia a big hug. "You're so silly!" He fell backwards and dragged Russia along. "The snow can't be lonely! It doesn't have feelings."

"It's lonely. The sky is white."

France snuggled his chin into Russia's hat. "The sky isn't white." One hand pointed upwards. "It's blue. See?"

Russia couldn't see the sky. France's arm was still wrapped around Russia, but Russia didn't mind so much, so he didn't move to look up. Instead, he just stared at the chest of France's coat. That was blue. "That why is it not lonely?"

France let out an airy laugh. He took his gloves and Russia's hat off. Then the French man started to run his fingers through platinum blond hair. "It's because… It's because being alone doesn't necessarily mean loneliness." One hand pointed up to the sky. "Do you see that bird?"

Russia couldn't see the bird. He was still too busy looking at the blue. "Yes."

"Don't you want to shoot it down? And put it onto your dinner plate?"

"Yes."

"And isn't that what everybody else wants? Doesn't everybody else want to shoot that bird down and put it on their dinner plate?"

"Yes."

France's hand returned back down onto Russia's head. "That, my dear Russia, is real loneliness."

Russia fell silent. That really did sound lonely. He was glad that he wasn't that lonely bird up in the sky, the one that everybody wanted to shoot down. He sighed and closed his eyes. His hands balled up into fists. He hoped that he would never become like that lonely bird. After centuries in isolation and being alone, becoming lonely sounded devastating. But, Russia, for some odd reason, felt like that would never happen. Well, as long as France was still Russia's friend.

"I will have to go back to my country soon."

Russia perked up. "Wait, why?"

France's lips were pressed into a thin line. He was still staring up at the supposedly blue sky. "There's… a lot of chaos going on there." He sighed and stopped patting Russia's head. "It's getting dangerous there. People are dying. I have to be back to take care of everything."

Russia pulled at his scarf. He didn't want France to leave.

"You understand, right, Russia?"

The smaller male sighed. Yes, he understood. But he didn't want to leave France's side. "I will follow you," Russia suggested.

France chuckled. It was a clucky, slow sound. "Sorry, but I prefer that you stay here. People of my land are moving out to escape. Even the great Voltaire ran away to Prussia and his boss. It's just that dangerous."

Russia tugged his scarf up again. This time, it was higher: over his nose and right under his eyes. The edges of his scarf were becoming wet. For a moment, he didn't say anything, and his arms slowly started to wrap themselves around France. He didn't want France to leave. France was one of the first to welcome Russia into Europe—into the whole world. And it seemed that, without France, the world would reject Russia. He didn't want that to happen.

Russia's hands clenched. "Then you promise you'll come back?"

France started to pet Russia's head again. "Of course." France looked down at Russia and grinned widely. "I'll bring all the latest philosophy works. And you better be fluent in French when I come back."

Russia's eyes lit up. "Of course!"

France rubbed his face into Russia's hair. "Heh, you're so cute and little, my cute, little Russia."

Much time had passed. Russia had been waiting months upon months for France to visit once more. During the time, he had studied hard, so he could finally beat France in his own philosophy game. He even became proficient in French; that way, he and France could talk in that beautiful Romance language, instead of that strange, ugly language that Russia originally spoke. Russia was completely prepared for France's return, waiting and hoping for a special visit each time Russia glanced out at the snowy plain on the other side of the windows.

Finally, France came to visit. But he seemed different from before. He had come on a simple horse, rather than a carriage, and his clothes had holes in them; they were so damaged that France was forced to borrow clothes from Russia's wardrobe. France had lost all his regality. But that wasn't what Russia was concerned about.

France was always so tired. And he was gaunt too; his hands were more gnarly bone than flesh. His blond hair was greasy, and it lacked the bouncy waves of before. His gaze drooped, focusing on the cold ground rather than the sky. And more, he would always fall asleep at a table, unable to read his own language. His stomach would always growl, but when at the dinner table, he would only eat a bit of bread and never touch anything fancier that Russia had lain before him. France's voice became a mere monotone. His laugh was rare, and it only came out as soft and sad. France's flamboyant personality was gone; his bright spirit seemed to have been crushed by an avalanche of snow.

And that worried Russia the most.

"Are you all right, France?" Russia reached over the table and lightly tapped France's bowed head. But there was no response. Furrowing his brows, Russia started patting France's head.

"Huh?" France looked up, blinking with a confused expression. "Oh, Russia. Sorry; I seem to have fallen asleep." He rubbed his eyes and smiled a thin smile. "Uh… where were we?"

"You were supposed to know whom the quote, 'I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it,' is attributed to."

"Oh, it's… it's…" France rubbed his temple, eyelids drooping. "Uh… Montesquieu? Robespierre? Somebody? I seem to have forgotten."

"It's Voltaire."

"Who?"

"The one who went to Prussia and was Frederick the Great's favourite philosophe."

"Oh… him…" France nodded slowly, and his gaze drifted down to the table and one hand wrapped around his stomach. "Yes, him, the one who…" He paused, rubbing his stomach as if it hurt. "Did stuff."

Russia's lips pressed together. He looked at the scoreboard beside him, and gave himself another point. He was winning—sixty points to zero. Russia turned back to France. "Are you all right?"

France looked up again. "Oh, of course, I'm quite fine. Thank you for the concern."

No. Russia wouldn't take that answer. "Are you tired?"

France's fingers ran through his hair. "You can say that."

"Then would you like to sleep?" Russia stood up. "You may sleep in my bed; there are more pillows and it's much warmer than the bed in the guests' room."

"That's sweet. But it's not necessary."

Russia frowned. "Then are you hungry?" He moved around the table. "You hardly ate anything through your visit. I'll go get some chefs to make you something delicious; we can make some French cuisine of you would like." Russia grabbed France's arm to pull the tired man out of the seat. Russia couldn't possibly leave France to suffer during his stay.

But France slapped Russia.

And everything seemed to stop. Russia's hands had been slapped away, and then they looked like they were waiting for a hug. Russia was simply so surprised that he just stood there, staring at France. The older male glared back. Blue eyes flashed with some sort of dark emotion. Russia didn't know what was going on, but his heart seemed to have frozen over. With what, Russia didn't know.

Tentatively, Russia's hands reached over again. His eyebrows inched together. "F-France," he stammered, "are you all right?"

The other rushed to get on his feet, knocking papers and books to the ground. Neither he nor Russia heard the books hit the floor though.

"Stay away!" France stumbled back, running his hand against the edge of the table and stepping on the books. He was hyperventilating, and his blue eyes were wild. "S-stay away from me!"

The words stung at Russia's heart. He reached out again, but he stopped when France stumbled further away. "What's wrong, France? You can tell me." Russia stepped one step forward, and France stepped three back. "W-we're friends, right?"

"No!" France screamed. He knocked all the books before Russia's feet. Ink was splattered all over the papers, and the words were drowned and covered. "We're not friends! I don't trust you!"

Russia became desperate. "But we are!"

"No!" France knocked down the table between him and Russia. "We're not friends! I have no friends!"

The words hurt. They felt cold, ever so cold, running through Russia's head. His purple eyes began to water. "But why?" His voice was cracking.

France reached over and grabbed Russia's collar. He shook the smaller male, staring at Russia with angry blue eyes. They didn't seem to reflect the sky anymore. They were too stormy; or was the sky just like that? "Listen, Russia," France hissed and spat in Russia's face. "You better listen hard. This is the only philosophy that you should know."

Russia was shaken again. Slowly, he nodded.

"Trust nobody in this world. Keep everybody away. Kill them, torture them, make them scream; that's the only way to trust."

France shook Russia again. The younger male cried out, his head wrenching back and forth. "You got that?" France asked.

Russia nodded and sniffled.

"Make everybody suffer; that's how you will trust them. Remember that!"

"Y-yes!"

The grip started to loosen. There was something underneath France's stormy, unclear eyes. They seemed to have frozen there. Was the snow outside too cold? "But… remember to value everybody's life as well. They are all as valuable as yours."

Russia sniffled. Water streamed down his face. He was suffering; he was sad. But France seemed to be hurting more. So, Russia reached up and touched France's face.

Suddenly, the grip hardened. France threw Russia to the ground. "You're not my friend," France repeated, his breath heaving. His hand went up to his forehead and he shook his head. "You're not my friend." Then he stepped over the table and raced to the door.

Russia gasped and reached after France. Something clenched deep inside his heart, and it hurt. "You're always welcome back!" he desperately called out. But there was no response. The only sound that followed was the slamming of the door.

Russia sighed as he looked out at his borders. He had grown quite a bit for the past years. He had claimed much territory, and he finally obtained shores at the Baltic and Black Seas. And he could fight; he fought in the Seven Years War like everybody else. He studied a lot too. All the educated people in his country spoke French—it was the language of conversation. And he was also updated on all the latest philosophies and theories. If France ever looked at Russia and his progress, France would be surprised and proud. But only if France would stop suffering.

At least they were still allies. France would help Russia, and Russia would readily help back. But whenever they spoke to each other, Russia would always feel like France wasn't looking at him or talking to him. It was as if France saw something else, and it wasn't Russia. And Russia knew it was because France was hurting. France even attacked the Ottoman Empire, whom he had made an alliance with for almost two centuries. Two centuries was a long time. And only somebody who was hurting inside would do such a thing.

But Russia knew that France would do nothing to harm the alliance. After all, they were friends, and they supported each other. France wouldn't hurt his friend. But the blocks on trade were making Russia quite antsy. Russia had obtained ports to trade, and he was planning to use them as such. However, that trade competition between Britain and France was hindering Russia's trading. But Russia didn't want to hurt France. If Russia couldn't trade before, then what would the difference be if he just waited for a bit longer—long enough for France to recover? It was a small price to pay.

"Sir!" a voice called behind him. Russia turned around and regarded the panting man coldly. "Get the army! Soldiers! France is here!"

Russia's face lit up. France was here? Was he coming over for a visit? Russia sure hoped so. If France came over for just a small visit, then that meant France was better again, and Russia could show how much he had grown. Or, if it wasn't that, then France would at least be visiting to talk to Russia. The northern country already missed France from the previous meeting. However, Russia's excitement fell and so did his expression. "Why would we need the army?" he asked.

The man gasped. "It's an attack! We must defend the borders!"

That statement outraged Russia. "How dare you accuse France of that! He can't be attacking!" he spat. "He's an ally! He's my friend!"

"No, you don't understand!" The man's eyes were wide with fear. "He's here with Napoleon!"

"So? Napoleon is France's boss. Why wouldn't they be together?"

"You don't understand! Napoleon has an army! They have an army behind them! There are soldiers! And they have guns! They have weapons. They're going to—"

And the man fell before him.

Russia's eyes widened and stared. There was a broken man at his feet. Blood started to stain the white snow red. There was a small gurgle until the man just stayed there, motionless. Dead. A tip of a sword swung and splattered more red on the white canvas on the ground.

"It seems like we meet again, Russia."

With a trembling gaze, Russia looked up from the corpse. France stood there straight with a sword in his hand. He was wearing clean and sharp clothes—an army uniform. His blond hair was tied back with a mere string for practical purposes; if it had been for beauty, Russia knew that France would have used a ribbon instead. There was no smile on France's face. And France's bright blue eyes seemed to shine and glow. But they sparkled in a bad way. They were like ice reflecting the frozen light of a winter sun. They were cold, distant, blue skies.

France stepped forward and swung his sword. Russia stepped back. The blade barely missed his nose. So France tried again.

"W-what are you doing?" Russia squeaked.

The snow crunched beneath feet and the sword made a swishing sound. That was all he could hear. France said nothing.

"F-France! What's wrong? Please stop!" Russia stumbled back and tripped on his feet. He fell backwards. The bloody blade whisked over his head. With wide eyes, Russia looked up. France appeared so much scarier and colder from the ground. The sun shone behind France and a shadow fell over his face. He looked like an angel, a dark angel with a tainted sword in his hands. Was this what it felt like to be at somebody's feet?

France swung his sword down at Russia. With a terrified squeak, Russia rolled out of the way. He scrambled to his feet. Then he just ran. He ran as fast and as far as he could through the snow. He ran past people; he ran out of the town; he left his borders far behind. But he didn't dare look back. He could already imagine France staring at his retreating back, and that was frightening. Russia could feel it. The gaze was like the black stare of an eagle. And it felt so much colder than drowning in a frozen lake.

Boom.

The ground shook. Russia tripped but quickly regained his footing. Immediately, the smell of smoke assailed his nose, and the sound of screaming rung out into the air. He quickly whipped around. The sight shocked him even more.

The town was up in flames. In the daylight, the light of the flames wasn't eerie, but it did taint his sight red and orange. Smoke curled into the sky like black clouds. There was screaming. He could hear orders and shouts in both Russian and French, but he could not make out what anybody was saying; he was much too far away. He needed to get back into the town, and quickly. There were people in those flames. And France was still there. Russia had to save them. He had to save every one of them.

Russia stepped forward, but a cold hand touched his shoulder.

"Do not go there," a raspy voice ordered. Icy air swirled around Russia, and the hand trailed from one shoulder to the next. "It is all according to plan."

"W-what?" Russia stammered. "What is?"

The voice drifted close to Russia's ear. "The plan to protect Russia, of course." The voice chuckled. "We shall retreat, and then burn everything in our path. The French army can never survive such conditions. They and Napoleon will be forced to retreat back to their little homes."

Russia sucked in a breath, eyes wide. The plan was insane! Of course it would drive out the French, especially if they didn't have any of the supplies to survive battles. But was that what Russia truly wanted? To hurt France? And how about all the people? There were civilians to consider as well! What sort of inhuman being would suggest such strategies? "Who are you?"

"Who I am?" An airy chuckle brushed over Russia's hair. "I am your protector." Two hands ran down either sides of his face. "I am your guardian." The air became colder. "I am the one who shields you from everyone who will harm you." Snow blew from the ground and hit Russia's face.

"I am General Winter."

A face appeared before Russia. He screamed and stumbled back. Before him was a ghost-like being. The ghost had feet, arms, torso and military garb, but the images of a body-less head came in and out through the snow. The head had a metal hat, and wrinkles adorned the ghost's hardened expression. There was a thick moustache covering the mouth. And squinty eyes peered from under the metal hat, glowing bright red.

General Winter smiled. The tips of his mouth showed, and the moustache arched up. Crows' Feet appeared underneath his eyes. The smile almost resembled a grandfather's smile. But it wasn't anything like that. There was no warmth.

"Do you hear me, my dear, dear, cute, little Russia?" A ghost hand ran over Russia's cheek. Russia shivered, eyes still widening. "I have watched over you for years, protecting you from all who harms you. You shall never suffer." The ghost drifted from in front of Russia to behind him. "I am the guardian who will keep everyone away."

Russia tried to brush the ghost away, but his hand only went through the apparition. "How can I trust you?" Russia asked, turning his head to glare.

General Winter chuckled. It was slow and clucky. It was resembled France's laugh for the past few years. "Do you remember Sweden? During the Great Northern War?"

"Yes."

"I was the one who protected you." Strange fingers began to run through Russia's hair. "I have shielded you on many occasions as well, but I didn't show my face, until now. But, I will continue protecting you. The world will learn to fear Russia."

"But why would I want that?" Russia asked.

It was that laugh again. "You see France over there?"

Russia looked back at the burning landscape. The fire looked cold in the distance. "Yes."

"Wasn't he your closest friend? The one whom you would sacrifice things for? The one who taught you everything? The one you thought would stay beside you, as a trusted friend?"

"Yes." Russia's hands clenched.

A beefy finger pointed at the fire. "But look at him now. He's attacking you. He wants to invade. He wants you dead. Do you think you can trust him anymore?"

The back of Russia's eyes began to prick. "No."

"Exactly." General Winter began to wrap his arms around the Russian, but pulled away before the action became a hug. Instead, the ghost simply placed his hands on Russia's shoulders. "He's just one of many. Others will come and attack you; they will pretend to be your friend, but they will always turn around and attack you. You cannot trust anybody."

Russia could feel something wet trail down his cheeks. But it froze. "Trust nobody in this world. Keep everybody away. Kill them, torture them, make them scream; that's the only way to trust."

"You are quite wise. But don't worry. I will make sure everybody will stay away. You can trust me. I will make France regret everything he did to you."

Russia breathed in and closed his eyes, pausing. The snow seemed so much colder. Was it still lonely? Was the sky blue? Or was it white? Well it didn't matter anymore. Russia just knew that France had lied; the sky presently overhead was white. Russia should have never believed in that silly Frenchman anyway.

"You will make France suffer, won't you?"

"Of course. That is my purpose," General Winter replied.

"Then kill him."

"Of course." The hands on Russia's shoulders left.

"But bring me his head."

"Oh, that certainly is intriguing. What will you do to it?" The wind blew to the right. "Will you encase it like a trophy?" The wind blew left. "Or will you hang it on a wall?" The wind blew forward, and General Winter's face appeared before Russia once more. "What will you do to it, my dear?"

Russia's hands trembled at his sides. "None of that. I want none of that."

"Then what is it?" General Winter's smile disappeared.

"I want to place it at my bedside."