~*oOo*~

They didn't find America the next day, as Ivan had hoped.

Or the next.

Or the next.

Ivan was at the forefront of every search, peering into every cave and little burrow a child of America's size could fit. He would have insisted that his men continue to search with lanterns into the night if he weren't afraid of losing precious oil and of depriving his men of much needed sleep. He kept skimming over the area, dispatching men over several different areas; but still no luck. His soldiers were dumbfounded that such a small child could give them such trouble, and they were steadily becoming demoralized as the days went by. Ivan did his best to keep their spirits up, but his own were in rapid recline.

A group of his soldiers had run into a French unit a few miles North of their present location, and were foolish enough to pick a fight. The French were low in numbers but keen in supplies, and so Ivan's men had run back with their tails between their legs. Ivan could have flogged them all for their stupidity, and for the other news they'd brought back: France was nearby, searching for America too. Worst of all, England was very likely skulking in the shadows, waiting to snatch away America when he had the first opportunity.

It was astounding to Ivan how personal this had come to him. Certainly having American colonies would be beneficial for his people, having a new land where they could flock to and prosper out of the chill—but Ivan just desperately wanted to find the boy, apologize for frightening him, make him see that Ivan wasn't truly nasty.

It was bad enough that the few human friends Ivan had all died in what felt like seconds to the ancient nation, and that so few nations besides his sisters looked kindly to him. But he was determined that little America not hate him, not fear him. The idea was intolerable, and kept Ivan wading through swamps even when he shook with exhaustion.

~*oOo*~

One morning, when Ivan had gotten up early again to scout the new terrain, he was immediately taken aback by two voices clucking furiously at each other like a pair of angry hens. Bewildered, he immediately had hidden behind an oak, and peeked outwardly, frowning.

He very nearly smacked his forehead, not sure whether to laugh or bury his face in his hands. Of course. The two opposing countries had found each other and decided to resolve their differences by screaming in each other's faces. If Peter had these morons in office, he would have surely killed them by now. Ivan fingered the hilt of his blade, not certain if he should lunge out in a surprise attack, or simply enjoy the show.

"—foppish frog, now Russia's arrived, if you'd just gone home when I'd told you to, my little brother wouldn't be threatened—"

Francis had let out a dark chuckle as the two circled each other, Arthur glowering at him as though he could make him burst into flames just by doing so.

"—your little brother? Hon hon hon, that is hilarious! I care too much for my little brother to expose him to a strictly charcoal diet in your pitiful hands, bookworm! Leave the poor cheri alone and let him come home to France, oui? There I can teach him useful things—"

"What, like drinking, eating cheese and fondling up little boys, you barmpot?"

"You are a hypocrite, you tea-drinking Fur-licker! What about that king of yours, who gives his ladies the chop-chop whenever he wearies of them, oui? You are frightening mon poor petit frère!"

"You mean MY brother, you wanker! Your country is governed by prostitutes!"

"And you, monsieur England, are a great, big—"

Ivan pulled away, coloring slightly as Francis' colorful choice of words broke over the forest. Uggh, how revolting.

There was no point in going after either of them on his own, Ivan reasoned as he headed back to camp. As much as they hated each other, they would far prefer to be left alone to tear each other to bits on their own terms. No wonder poor little America kept running away from them.

Head aching, Ivan decided that he wanted to be alone someplace quiet where he could gather his thoughts. He walked deeper into the wood until the sounds of England and France saying rude things about the other's mother finally disappeared, and the stillness gave way only to the sound of birds chirping overhead and the nearly inaudible thud of his footsteps.

Taking off his hat, Ivan settled upon an old stump and raised his head upward, delighting in the calm when a rustle from the bushes startled him.

Tensing inwardly, but outwardly betraying no sign that he had noticed anything, Russia's eyes slowly floated over his shoulder, where a great many bushes waited behind him. Great. There was very likely a wild beast or an ambush waiting for him behind those shrubs. He hoped it wasn't the latter—he didn't particularly feel like getting blood all over his scarf—though he supposed a fight might help him vent out his frustrations.

"Come out," he said calmly. "I will not hurt you."

Of course, if it were any enemy soldier, Russia didn't mean it in the slightest. But the words would at least startle the spy, and perhaps prompt him to attack. Russia fingered one of his daggers inside of his pocket. Perhaps they would have news on the little country…?

A pause. The hairs on Russia's neck stood on end, or they would have been, had they not been tapered by his scarf. Then, the bushes startled to rustle again, and ever so slowly, like a meek bunny, a little yellow head popped out of the greenery, like a sunflower in bloom.

Ivan's breath hitched and he resisted the urge to move his hand from his weapon as though it were a hot coal. But he definitely didn't want to frighten away the boy again, so he slowly planted his arm at his side for a moment, making no sudden moves. The child looked anxious, but not unduly frightened. Ivan gave an uncertain nod in his direction, and America awkwardly returned it.

Russia smiled. He could call for his men later when he was certain he held at least a grain of the little one's trust. "P-Privet," he said smoothly, feeling his palms prickle with sweat underneath his gloves. Damn it all, why was he so nervous talking to a child? "I am glad to see you. I am sorry for startling you in the sunflower parch-it truly wasn't my intention to scare you. Thought you were a soldier lying in wait or some wild beast about to attack. I...I hope you are well?"

His voice was unnaturally high, and he inwardly slapped himself, feeling like an idiot. Why oh why did Peter send this oafish, scary man to reason with a baby?

America warily considered him for a moment, eyes lingering on his sword, and then passing over Ivan's dark uniform with the gold cuffs and medals and embroidered shoulders.

"Y-you're not France or Engwand," he said at last, staying in the safety of the bushes. Ivan smiled, though he was panicking. Was the little one accusing him?

"Nyet, I am not. I am new here. My name is Russia. What is yours, little one?" Probably better not to freak the child out by letting him know just how much Russia already knew about him...

Looking slightly assured, America slowly inched out of the bushes, like a shy puppy offered a treat.

"'m Am'rica," he said proudly, puffing out his little chest. "It is nice meeting you."

"Your English is very good," said Russia slowly, feeling pain blossom behind his ribs. Had he already decided to live with England?

"Thank you," said America happily. "Speak France's words too. Can because all his friends are here lookin' for me." The happiness seemed to evaporate out of his words. "France's words fancy."

"Could you speak to me in Russian?" asked the man, and was astonished when the little boy softly returned "Da." This was amazing. Absolutely amazing. "Used to be able to say things in Finnish and Swedish, but harder now."

Astonished, Russia just gave him a weak smile, twiddling his fingers. Where did he go from here, where did he go from here?

"I heard France and England somewhere nearby. They seemed awfully set on finding you."

He immediately regretted his words; America looked pained, and the little boy plopped down on the grass, unhappily poking at a stray wildflower. Russia sighed.

"Do you like having them here, fighting over you all the time?"

"No," the child said sadly. "When they first came, they were both very nice. Engwand and France come to play, new friends. France brought me yummy things, and Engwand took me on his knee and told me stories. Good stories," he breathed, blue eyes twinkling. "And Engwand tells them good. I see them with his voice."

To his surprise, Ivan felt a sharp stab of jealousy in his heart, and immediately decided he would test out his own story-telling skills sometime. Surely he could find a lovely Russian fairytale that would make the sweet little boy wriggle with glee. The thought sent a warmth throughout his body which radiated all the way to his toes.

Ivan's attention was recaptured by America's voice. "Engwand told me if I just went with him on his big, big bird that has white wings and swims across the sea, I would get all the 'tories I ever wanted. I was about to say yes when France showed up." America shivered, the memory clearly striking an unpleasant chord within him. "And he was mad. Very mad. He said some things to Engwand. I don't know what they mean, but Engwand said that if I wanted to be a…a…what do you call a man who is gentle?"

"A gentleman, America."

"Oh. Well, he said if I wanted to be a gentleman like him, I wasn't supposed to repeat France's words, or think them. Ever. France got mad and told Engwand that he was taking his little brother away, and he gave me something very, very good!" America's face lit up. "It did not taste like honey, but it was sweeter! Sweeter than honey!" he seemed alarmed at such a concept. "It were very sweet and good, and France told me I could have all the very sweet things I wanted if I would go with him on HIS big bird with white wings across the sea!"

He paused in his narrative, and visibly began to droop, like a sunflower nearing Autumn. Ivan resisted the urge to take him by the shoulders and comfort him, lest he scare away the little country again.

"They started to scream at each other," the child said miserably, shaking his head at the memory. "They brought out their pointy sticks and waved them at each other. I thought they were playing. They weren't."

To Ivan's horror, America's voice sounded like it was dawning close to tears. He tried to reach out for the country and pull him close, but America skittered away like a spooked horse, and Russia respectfully withdrew, though not without regret.

And anger as well, though it wasn't directed at America. What the hell had France and England done to the child to make him so wary of touch, of affection?

"Tried to play too, but I got scared by all the loud noises they were making and ran off," said America quietly, picking up a handful of grass and dropping it back on his lap. "Then they found me again, and they chased me! They both said I had to come with them if I wanted to be their fwiend. I asked them if we could all be fwiends. They laughed and said no and chased me again."

America wearily rocked back and forth, back and forth. For the first time, Russia recognized the shadows underneath his eyes.

"Hide in cave with bears," he said resignedly, shrugging as if it were the smallest thing in the world. Russia's jaw dropped. The boy could not be serious.

"B-Bears?" he asked, dumbfounded. The boy nodded.

"Bears warm. Bears sleep in winter. I stay by bears in winter when gets too cold." America rubbed his hands together and blew on them. "Or I walk and walk and walk and find people walking to very warm places, so I go with them and they let me ride with them. They're very nice. Their food is better 'en Engwand's."

Russia just stared at him, remembered his mouth was hanging open, and shut it, blushing slightly. America must be talking about the Native peoples here. But…

"…bears?" he asked again weakly, feeling sick. If a bear came within 100 yards of America, he'd have his men shoot it on sight. America smiled absentmindedly.

"Bears friendly if you don't step on 'em when you are going outside and they are s'eepin'," he said thoughtfully, and Russia prayed America did not know this by firsthand experience. "Warm and fuzzy. Yell lots less then France and Engwand," he said dryly, and a smile appeared on Russia's anxious face in spite of himself. "But bears gone to get fish before they start s'eepin' when very cold! Hide in caves from Engwand and France's men, but too dark and scary all alone. Hide in bunny homes when I can fit, but they find me and they take me to their camps and bring Engwand and France. They both tell me that I don't hafta be alone no more, but I gotta choose 'em and I gotta choose 'em now."

Tears formed in the corners of America's eyes, and Russia knelt to offer the child his handkerchief. America fearfully eyed the man in his uniform, sizing him up. Ivan smiled sadly.

"Nyet. You do not owe me anything for this. I just hate to see such a sweet face in tears."

America made a face as he gratefully accepted the lacy handkerchief, wiping his nose with it. "Not sweet. 'm strong," he insisted. "France keeps pinching my face all day long and tells me that it is sweet and nice. I do not like that, but I like his sweet things." America licked his lips again, and Russia swallowed, suddenly feeling very nervous.

"O-oh. Did you know that my country makes sweet things, too? I hope you would like to try them," he murmured, hating himself for stooping so low, but eager to keep America's mind from wandering too much to the tantalizing prospect of French cuisine. Fond as he was of the little one, he still needed to take him back home to Russia so Peter could formally annex America as a dependent state of Russia, and he would much rather have the child go willingly.

Russia put his hand in his pocket, but only found a dry biscuit left over from this morning. Frowning, he took it out and offered it to the child, who eyed it curiously. "Sorry it is not much, but are you hungry?"

America stared at him suspiciously. "Does it taste like Engwand's food?" he asked cautiously, making another face. "Engwand gave me food once. He called it 'bread.' It did not taste good at all. Very hard and not like France's food and not good like berries or honey or fish. Very, very bad food. Gave it to raccoon when Engwand wasn't looking. The raccoon didn't like it either."

Russia chuckled. "Well, it is simple, but should not be horrible." He offered the biscuit again, and this time, America hesitatingly took it with a soft word of thanks. He nibbled on it cheerfully, licking the crumbs from his fingers as he finished it up. "Not like France's, but good."

Russia smiled, and let out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.

"I'm glad…America, are you eventually going to choose to leave with France or England?"

America looked down at his little hands. "I…I dunno. I keep running, but they keep chasing. Everywhere. Scary," he admitted, curling up in a ball, and flopping down on his back. "Want all us be friends, but no good. I don't know."

Russia bit his lip and sighed again, looking away. The boy was so innocent, so pure, so naïve. The idea of someone being treacherous or dishonest simply confused him; it was an abstract concept.

"The world is an unkind place," said Ivan gently, daring to ruffle the child's hair, thrilling inwardly when the child allowed him. America did not look happy.

"Would be nice, not be alone," he said, looking up at the fluffy clouds drifting overhead. "I just don't want 'em take me away. Want to go with and be with someone like me because they want me. But…"

The tears started racing down America's face again, and before the child could scramble away, Russia pulled the boy into his arms. "They want me for my land so theirs is bigger. No want me. No want me." He sounded distressed. "No one want me."

Although encouraging such thinking might work in Ivan's behavior, the burly country found that he could not bear it. He squeezed America in a tight embrace, feeling hot tears land on his jacket.

"Nyet," he said firmly. "They want you to be their little brother because you are like sunshine. Sunshine makes everyone happy. England and France want to take sun to their own countries because they want the people to see you and be happy. You are beautiful and good boy, and they do not see that they are hurting you."

He paused, feeling the wind brush over his silver hair, and squeezed America reassuringly. The country had buried his face into Russia's shoulder.

"I do not want you to be afraid," he said gently. "I do not want you to listen to shouting. Even if you were not America, I should like very much to be your friend."

America hesitated, then withdrew his swollen, tearstained face.

"Really?"

"Da," said Russia with a smile, pressing his forehead against America's. But his tone abruptly became more serious. "If they are making you hurt, America, I should like very much to make them go away," he said, brushing aside a lock of America's hair and tucking it behind a sunkissed ear. America hiccuped.

"H-how?"

Ivan smiled hopefully. "If you would come to my camp and agree to become one with my country, I can—"

What happened next, he did not anticipate. With a cry, America jumped free of his arms and leapt onto the ground with surprising agility, whipping around to face the stunned man. His teary eyes looked angry. They looked hurt.

"Thought you wanted to be friend," said America sadly, rubbing at his sad eyes with his fists. "But you just like them. Don't want me. Just want land for country. No, no. Not my friend."

Ivan's heart swelled against his ribcage painfully out of sheer dread. He swallowed, and took a step forward, arms opened entreatingly.

"Nyet. D-Didn't you hear what I just said? I want to be your friend. I want to protect you. I—"

America clapped his hands over his ears and frantically shook his head; Russia grabbed hold of him and wrestled him close, while America strained desperately against Ivan's arms for freedom.

"Shhh. Shhh, America, I am sorry, but I must have you come with me. We will be very good friends, da?" Ivan sucked a deep breath through gritted teeth when he saw America was weeping again. "Oh, my little America, do not cry, I—"

BANG!

A gunshot roared out from behind Russia, and the startled man dropped America before he whipped around, grasping for his sword, swearing under his breath. To his disgust, he saw England lower a smoking rifle, green eyes flashing at him from across the wood.

"Russia, England has no ill will toward your country," he said threateningly, raising the heavy musket again with some difficulty. "But if you continue to attempt to take my little brother away, I will see it as an act of war! You and your men have three days to retreat from English territory with a warning! Retreat this instant!"

Russia smiled gently, imagining England thrashing like an eel as Russia held him underneath the river until his flailing died away to a resigned twitching. But before Russia could make throttle the Brit, another voice rang out in the clearing:

"Oui! That is right! But you are mistaken, England! This territory belongs to the God-loved country of the French!"

England angrily turned his gaze to his nemesis, letting out a series of swear words most unfit for a gentleman and much more appropriate for a pirate. "Back off, you knave! I just rescued my little brother, and now he and I will return home! Isn't that right, America?"

There was no answer. Russia turned around again with a cry, only to be met with…nothing.

America had run off again.

England dropped his musket with a roar. "NOW you fools have done it! You've scared my poor baby brother again, and now the lad's lost! He could get hurt in this savage wilderness, and all you care about is arguing!"

"Oh, that is rich! When you talk so savagely, the boy must think you a terrifying beast! Let me take him home to a gentler race, where he will not be sorely persecuted by the likes of you!"

Russia ran away from them both while they were arguing, desperate to find the little boy again before it got dark. He had to hear that the boy forgave him, had to know the boy was safe.

He heard an audible plop, froze, and looked down with a groan. There, shining dully in the grass, was his heart.

Check that, he had to press that painful thing back inside.


Hey guys. For those of you who don't know, Russia's heart sometimes comes out of his body, but he doesn't die or anything. (?) Check out the Hetalia strips!