Once again, warnings for violence and gore, and sexual content. Hints of FRussia and FrUk.

-:- -:- -:-

He'd gotten clearance, though from what source he could scarcely remember at the moment. He supposed the government would allow clearance easily now, seeing as it was no longer diplomatic (America just assumed that some other freakishly-tall guy with silver hair and white-as-fuck skin had taken Russsia-Ivan's place) and he'd made up some bullshit excuse about this prisoner being a distant relative, a cousin, and since neither of their birth records officially existed (what was birth anyway?) they were easily manipulable.

Who was going to say 'nyet' to someone backed by the United States government?

They - he. Alfred. America - had won the war, and now Moscow was the shying away from a sun that America bathed - basked - in, because he had saved the world from the communist menace.

Even now the snow caking his boots still melted against the tiles of the world forgotten by the sun. The Psychiatric Center was almost as cold as the temperature outside, so America only did the politeness of unbuttoning the first button on his coat. He could remember Ivan's home in St. Petersburg still, hot as he imagined hell itself to be, and America wore t-shirts beneath his two jackets to keep himself comfortable in one of the two extremes. This was the opposite of Russia's home, and he wondered how the two men escorting him could be wearing nothing beyond their paper thin lab coat.

He had lost count of the number of passcodes and gates they'd passed through, but he knew that they were in the right place once prison bars turned into heavy, white-painted doors with rectangular windows the length of America's hand span and width of his thumb. Occasionally he caught pairs of eyes peering through them, but were gone soon as their gazes locked, as if such an act were taboo inside the institution.

Along the hallway, when the number of doors had reduced to one every thirty strides, he caught sight of the only door awaiting at the very end of it, alone and almost forgotten, or even looked over at the men who worked there. Twenty-five paces from the door, the men stopped. Without a word, they passed America the access card needed to enter and turned back the way they came with what America could have easily mistaken for pity, or even fear.

He was dangerous. But who knew that better than America did?

But even America caught his footsteps down the hallway going at a slower pace. It wasn't from fear, he reminded himself, but because he wanted this moment to drawl out

(like the moans he knew would be coming down his hallway-)

But perhaps long as America took to reach the door, nothing seemed longer than the moment between the inserting of the card and the tiny green light that allowed his access. He imagined that his hand hesitated on the door knob about as long as France's did before he left, but perhaps this moment of truth would be a little less climatic than the words that had left France's mouth.

Because when America had opened the door, he had seen nothing but an empty room.

-:- -:- -:-

"What do you mean they're putting the poor boy in a psychiatric ward?"

"You mustn't blame them."

"Maybe 'e 'as a few 'loose screws', but that is no proper judgement for that kind of- of execution!"

"Oh, listen to yourself, you old sod. You are making a big deal out of nothing."

France settled back in his chair, frowning the instant he was met face-to-face with the front page of London's very own The Telegraph. France's fingers nervously carded through the hair free from the hold of his ponytail and skimmed over the first line of the main article. He knew what rotten moods England got in when his team lost a shot at the title in the World Cup, but France observed the difference in their moods even though he, too, had lost his chance. More importantly, there were more pressing matters at hand- and England was the only ear who would (albiet, unwittingly) listen. He nervously counted the tempo of England's foot as it the heel tapped against the leg of his chair.

"It is not nothing," France muttered solemnly, and that single note of sadness in his voice is what caught England's attention. England knew of the perpetuating difficulties of his relationship with Russia, and how it could never amount to whatever odd, protectionist stance France took upon himself with the nation. England likened it to his relationship with America when he felt particularly empathetic, but today was not one of those days, and not one tear on France's chiny-chin-chin could change that.

"Well, then to put it simply, it is not the end of the world." England replied evenly as he licked his fingertip and flipped to the next page of his paper. He had stopped actually reading half an hour ago, but simply decided to keep up the facade.

"It is for 'im-"

"-And I suppose the thousands who die every minute mean nothing to you in comparison-?"

"-'is people-"

"-are none of your bloody concern. It is between Russ- Ivan - and his government. If they decide that he's best in a mental hospital, than so be it." England's fingers tightened around the edges of the newspaper until the center of it collapsed and France was graced with his austere portraiture once again. "Frankly, I believe that they should have put him there a long time ago."

England reached for the paper cup on the table between them, a slight twitch on his lips as the tea burned him, but too refined in his last statement to allow his posture to crumble like a house of cards, he endured it. Putting the teacup back, England caught the sadness swimming in his companion's eyes. Sighing, he folded up his newspaper, perfectly placed it on the coffee table between them, and stood. He paced around the table, and carefully took the Parisian's face into his hands.

"France- Francis," he corrected, knowing full-well how to get his companion to properly listen. And he did. France looked up, eyes locked on the intense jade of Arthur's. His voice was hushed, almost comforting (if one, like France, could distinguish between England's eleven tonal shades of 'irritated'), "You can't have a nation wandering alone in the streets after that amount of trauma... sure, his memory might never return, but how could you be sure of that? What if the memories do come back? Would you want that kind of anger and betrayal and hurt on the streets of London? or Paris?"

-:- -:- -:-

Before America could get a proper scan of the tiny room that fit perfectly into his peripheral vision - a bed, sheets sewed to the mattress to keep him from strangling himself (could Ivan still not die?), night table nailed to the floor with a copy of Dostoyevsky's Brothers Karamazov haphazardly half on it, and a large window with boards nailed across it to allow only enough light from the snowy landscape to assure the room kept its white ambiance - he was welcomed by a galaxy of stars dancing before his eyes, then had his face pressed against the unnaturally clean white tile of the floor (he expected padded flooring). Groaning, he got to his feet to find a shadow still standing in the corner, half-blocked by the opened door, wielding a metal tray stained with the remains of last night's supper.

As the heavy door succumbed to the door frame, more and more of the shadow emerged from the corner. America righted himself, stars still twinkling in the corners of his eyes, and looked the figure up and down when his eyes began adjusting to the light again. The figure was tall, his head towering a few feel shy of the ceiling; his too-loose clothing, practically clinging to his protruding hip bones like a climber on a cliff-face, white as the room around them; and he wore an expression of what America imagined to be the picture for the wikipedia definition of 'terror'. As America rose to his feet again, he took note of how the man had raised the metal tray at the same pace so it was always a few inches above the height of America's head, ready to strike again should he intend any harm.

America could tell from the look of shock behind the whites of the man's eyes that he had expected America to die from that blow. And the man- he was Russia, the past tense used quite literally, because Ivan- the placeholder- only looked like him in the slightest of senses. His hair was long, drifting well beyond his earlobes, unkempt and flyaway as a mockery of the Russia who obsessed over his appearance. And his eyes, still containing every ounce of the loneliness America remembered - but a loneliness Ivan could not comprehend feeling (what did he miss exactly?) - and in a shade of grey that America knew was as unique to his new eyes that lavender was when he could see the color. He could remember it: the blue freckles sprouting from the edges of his irises and the red flares near his pupils. It was that shade of red that made America shiver, and more than anything now, more than he wanted to see the red stripes of his flag outside his apartment, he wanted to see that red.

(And distantly he wondered what blood drawn from another looked like when looked on by eyes with deuteranopia).

"Russia-" the American spoke with an air of incredulity, swallowing his breath in large gulps. The addressed figure said little to combat a name he did not understand, but America could see Ivan's tongue working along the bottom of his lip in unease.

"Hey," all at once the American's thin mouth bloomed into a smile as awry as his the glasses still unsteadily perched on the edge of his nose. "Long time no see."

Ivan fixed his eyebrows together, knitting his face into an expression of confusion as if he'd never experienced any emotion but fear- and that was still very much present in his eyes. He shook his head as if it were a yes or no question. America frowned.

"Don't give me that shit. Stop with the charade," Ivan reacted to America closing the distance between them by raising the metal tray another inch higher. As the expanse between them narrowed to a distance measurable on a ruler, Ivan had no choice but to swing-

And he was dangerous- but America was more dangerous. With an expert precision, America ducked beneath the tray just with enough time to feel the object come in contact with his cowlick, then charged forward to slam his elbow into the Russian's stomach and the Russian into the corner again. His ear canals sang with sounds of both the metal clang of the tray hitting the floor and Ivan's untimely unwarranted scream.

America brought his mouth close enough to Ivan's ear to feel the cool skin brush under his lips as he spoke. "Come on, Russki. I know you better than that. You've gotten soft." There was a hitch in his breath; Ivan was shaking worse than a bare man in a snowstorm. "You hesitated."

Still no response. America's temper flared deep in his stomach and he pressed his elbow hard enough against Ivan's throat to elicit another cry. "Stop playing dumb! I know you can understand me! I know you speak English!" He shouted, digging his heel into the tile floor for leverage as he applied more pressure.

"St-stop, please-!"

"Fuckin' knew it."

A victorious, brief smile snaked onto America's lips before he pulled back, after giving a press for good measure (Ivan choked), to release the Russian. Breath rushing back into his lungs like a tidal wave, Ivan collapsed onto the floor with his hand massaging his throat. "Who are you?" He coughed out.

"What kind of question is that? You know exactly who I am."

"The nightmare." His voice went up in pitch as he pinched his vocal chords to test them.

"Excuse me?" America raised an eyebrow.

"You are in my nightmares," Ivan muttered. America carded a hand through his hair; suddenly Ivan's unprompted attack on him made sense (though he still distantly wondered if Ivan planned on attacking the first person who came into his cell, and Alfred became an unfortunate victim of his meal tray.) He caught Ivan's movement in the corner of his eyes when the Russian retrieved his tray and crossed the room to place it atop Dostoevsky. His tongue moved along the roof of his mouth in memory of the meal once on it; licking his finger, Ivan pressed the moistened tip against a crumb, bringing it to his lips and hiding it under his tongue.

Alfred caught his own tongue wetting his lips at the sight of it. "What nightmares?"

Ivan's mouth twitched into a ghost or a memory of smile, as if he weren't aware of his own expression. "Bombs," he says simply, the suddenness of such a powerful word leaving his mouth like a bullet and embedding into America's stomach. "I see Moscow, only it is not Moscow; the city is gone, turned to rubble. All I see and feel is a pain so great that I cannot fathom what it is like... to feel it, and then- I see you. You are standing opposite of me, and- and... laughing."

America flinched, the nightmare a picturesque fantasy flashing in all color behind his eyelids. There was once a time when he would consider this to be a dream-

(A daydream, watching the red blood spill from the older nation's open wounds, knowing that the pool settling around Russia would be the only expanse of his dirty, red communist ideals after America was through with him.)

-I won, I won, IwonIwonIwon. Ivan's voice was quiet as he tore himself away from visions of his reoccurring nightmares, "Do you have anything to eat?"

America met his eyes with a look like Ivan had just personally insulted him. His fingers fished blindly through the pockets of his bomber jacket, eyes still locked on Ivan in distrust. He thought it was a trick. "Just a stick of gum," he plucked the tinfoil-wrapped package and presented to the Russian. Ivan's eyes lit up with a light brighter than the lighting of the cell was dull. Without question, the American tossed the candy onto Ivan's bed pillow where he made instant work of removing the wrapper and shoving into his mouth.

"Dude, what is your problem? You act like you haven't eaten anything in days." Which clearly Ivan had eaten recently, because he had a bump forming on the back of his head to prove it.

Ivan looked up, meeting America's eyes ashamedly. "I get fed very sparingly. They put me here, in this cell at the end of the row so it is easy to forget about me. They think I am crazy, and the doctors here say I suffer from disillusions, and that I think I am someone different than who I am. How can that be based off of just 'think'? They 'think' I am crazy, 'think' I am dangerous, yet they know that I must be forgotten and left to die here. Alone."

For the first time since seeing Ivan, Alfred felt pity crawling up the back of his throat, and as Ivan chewed thoughtfully on the peppermint gum, he noticed that hint of emotion on America's face. A sad smile formed between his chewing and he enjoyed the taste of the minty juices flowing down the back of his throat. "I do not want your pity, Alfred."

"How do you know my name?"

"It is strange, I think, but maybe I knew you in another lifetime. Sometimes my nightmares assign names, and I think I decided to call you Alfred. I am right, da? You reacted to it, so I must be." The silence of incredulity that America occupied was filled with the sounds of Ivan's incessant chewing and he instantly regretted giving the Russian that gum.

"Da," America said, simply, mockingly, like a joke shared between the two of them. Ivan grinned from ear to ear. He was enjoying this game.

"I have not had such interesting conversations with someone since Francis used to visit."

America caught the hesitation before the word 'visit' and knew exactly what that implied. "How many times have you two fucked?" The response was so offhanded that Ivan ceased chewing in order to frown.

"He told me about you, Alfred. He said you intended to harm me when you came here-" America noted the 'when' where there should have been an 'if' "-so you must not blame me for hitting you when you came in. It was out of self-defense."

The nation scoffed at this. "Ignore him, I didn't come here for that." Ignoring the fact that he had probably left a bruise across Ivan's throat.

"Then why did you come here Alfred?"

To fuck your brains out until there's nothing left for you to remember about me.

"I had to see you for myself." He replied smoothly. Awesome, the Russian wouldn't suspect a thing.

Ivan's lips spread into a grin until every tooth was exposed. "You are lying."

(Alone and forgotten at the end of the hallway, Ivan's moans would not be heard.)

America returned the shark-like smile twofold, more venom put into it. "So what if I am lying?"

"I want to know how badly you want me," Ivan purred, "Because I want you."

-:- -:- -:-

"How does it feel, Russia?"

The other nation groans in response, too many sensations at once rushing through his body. His head is spinning, America's voice a distant buzzing in his ears through too many sounds overwhelming him at once. America runs his tongue along his bottom lip to mop up what remained of their deed.

"Do you like it, Russia? Does it feel good?" The gold-blond nation lets out a breathy laugh, noting how Russia's arms shake from weakness, from being spent. "Because I'm really fucking enjoying this." And the sound of that voice- Russia struggles to keep himself from collapsing, thrashing, moaning-

- from pain -

-and America laughs. "You lost, Russia. There's no point in fighting it. Give up, or I will force you to."

The other nation coughs, feeling wetness spill over his bottom lip; he tastes the copper of blood as his tongue mops up his chin with the back of his hand. A bead of crimson drips from his slightly agape mouth and lands in the snow around him, hardly recognizable from what he's already lost from the gunshot.

"Tell me I won." America demands.

"Fuck you," Russia bites out wetly.

"It has been a while, hasn't it?" America coos, closing the distance between them with a slow pace in his step. Ashes and snow swirl beneath his feet. The ends of Russia's scarf snatch at it, and Russia looks up, the red freckles in his eyes retreated in the lavender to give into the somber blues of exhaustion. He is tired, his body hurts in places he had never been aware of until now, and America's foot clamps down on the hand resting in the snow.

"Tell me I won, Russia," America coos while he leans down to retrieve the hand caught beneath his boot.

"No." Russia spits out, raindrops of blood landing on America's boots. Without much thought to his consequences, he barely registers America bending his finger back until he hears the bones crack. The Moscow winds carry away Russia's scream.

"Tell me."

"Nyet."

Crack- "A-argh!"

"Tell me!"

"N-nooo..."

"This is hurting me more than it's hurting you, sweetheart."

But by the time France finds Russia lying in the snow, his skin is covered with frost, his eyelashes frozen together, and his breathing only apparent from the clouds rising from between his partially parted lips. His fingers hurt and he's too weak, but he still finds the strength enough to grasp onto France's sleeves as the Parisian carries him away.

-:- -:- -:-

At the very least America had hoped that Ivan would remember somethingwhile he twisted and writhed beneath him. Relying on something that wasn't America's faulty eyes brought a familiarity unspeakable and unseeing, only experienced though touch. Ivan was comfortable enough, his knuckles turning white as the fucking color scheme of the room when they grasped the bed frame - tensing when America moved, relaxing when he slowed.

But America thought that maybe the victory more delicious than seeing Russia collapse before him all those years ago was the knowing that he didn't have to fightIvan to get him to suck him off.

And Ivan still the same goddamn temper as Russia did- (but did America really expect that much of a personality change?) -and ordered the American out of the room.

"You have overstayed your welcome, I think," the Russian observed.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. I've tried hard enough; no point in trying to bring back what can't be brought back." America had no choice but to oblige, he told himself, as he walked down the hallway, chewing the gum once in Ivan's mouth, and knowing that he had something Ivan didn't- the ability to leave.

But Ivan knew that Alfred would never escape being trapped.

And he laughed, he laughed loudly, because alone and abandoned at the end of the hallway, no one would come. No one would listen. No one would tell him to quiet down as he twirled America's tiny little grey hair between his fingers.

"Of course, America, because memories never come back, do they? But they can't come back... if they never left in the first place."