Here's the new chapter. More about the fall of the Soviet Union.

1991- Regrets

Alfred flicks the curtains back and takes a peek out the window. The snow is falling ever so lightly tonight, dusting the peaks of the Kremlin like white feathers. The street lamps, neon signs, and candlelight illuminate the pitch-black sky. But in his ears, he hears nothing but silence, no sounds of bustling civilization or roaring of machines. At the corner of his eye, upon the highest roof of the building, stands a flag post that has just been lowered for the last time. Alfred gives it a mock salute, for all it's worth.

Turning around, he grins at the sorry sight before him.

"Merry Christmas, Ivan."

Ivan pretends not to hear the insult. He is sitting on the floor in the corner of the office with his back against the bookcase.

Whistling himself a tune, Alfred takes out his trusty handgun out of his bomber jacket, clicking it into position. He raises his right arm and aims the weapon at Ivan, his one open eye glaring intently at the shadowy figure, marking his precision.

He only has one shot, and he must make it count.

Ivan still chooses not to respond. He is playing with a little wooden figurine of a soldier in his hands, a souvenir from the Imperial times. Leather gloves fondly caress the splintering wood.

Alfred frowns, a tad disappointed that his enemy doesn't look threatened in the least. "You know," he starts again, more firmly this time, "I can kill you right now, if you'd like. Quick and painless, it'd be over in a second."

Ivan yawns, and rolls his weary, sunken eyes. "Go ahead, I won't stop you." He sets the toy aside, and takes out a book to read instead. But, Ivan's display of nonchalance is quickly ruined by his descending into a coughing fit, making drops of blood splatter onto the yellowing pages. He but wipes it off with a sleeve, and turns his attention back onto the Cyrillic letters that are getting blurrier by the second.

"Look at you," Alfred seethes, his patience wearing thin, "You're fucking pathetic."

Still, Ivan does not respond, and continues to flip through the pages of the book without actually soaking in the words. He feels his hands and limbs shiver from the cold, but not in fright. Never in fright.

Alfred dips his forehead into his palm, and stays there for a bit. He honestly doesn't know what to do with this guy anymore... After thinking of a final tactic, he looks up. He walks forward, squats down in front of Ivan, and holds out his hand. "Look buddy," he says lowly, licking his lips, as if to strike a business deal, "before I blow your head off, want to at least call it a truce?"

"Get away from me, you filth!" The beast snarls at the provocation.

Alfred puts his arms in the air, and shakes his head. He tried to talking nice to this guy, he sure did. "Well, what did I say before? You're pathetic alright! Damn Russians don't even want to die with some honour," he mutters to himself.

"Look who's talking! You're the most pathetic man I've ever met!" Ivan cuts in, and is immediately followed by spell of coughs. He spits into his handkerchief, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "Alfred. F. Jones." Ivan says the name slowly, maliciously. His tongue burns at the taste of those words. "The United States of America, spreading your ideological filth to all corners of the world. You think you'll be powerful forever, just because you've defeated me?! That's not how the world works, you fool! No empire has ever stayed powerful until the end of time. Once you rise, you're bound to fall. It's a hard fact for nations like us!"

Alfred sniggers.

"—Think it's funny, do you? Because the prouder you are, the sooner you'll fall, and when you do, I will be laughing in hell."

Some time ago, the same swansong speech was delivered to him by Gilbert Weilschmidt, right before Ivan executed him with a bullet to the head. Oh, bitter is the taste of irony...

"Ivan, dude, let's be serious here for a second, what happened to that big scary guy who said he could beat me at my own game? Look where that ended you! If you had followed your own advice, you wouldn't end up here in the first pl—"

Alfred's arrogance is met by a brunt fist.

"Ow! The fuck was that for?!"

If Ivan's strength was at its full extent, Alfred wouldn't have any teeth left. So, black eye should have been a good bargain in comparison.

But, not for Alfred. He immediately recovers, and stumbles back up to a half-dead Ivan.

"Oh, so you want to play that game, do you? Fine then!"

With a frustrated grunt, he picks up the man by the collar, and throws him against the bookcase, as heavy volumes splatter onto Ivan's head. A dictionary, scientific texts, a car manual...

"I can kill you right now," Alfred tries again, towering over Ivan proudly like the Empire State, "and I wouldn't even bat an eye." But this time, he finds himself snarling his words out through gritted teeth. The kindness, diplomacy, it's all gone.

"Then get it over with! Stop wasting my time!" Ivan hollers back, and immediately shuts his eyes. He doesn't want the last thing he sees to be Arthur's spoiled, rotten rat-child.

"Any dying words, Ivan Braginsky?"

"No."

But, if Alfred could grant him one last wish, which is a silly, hopeless prospect in itself, Ivan would not want his life to be spared. Instead, he would like to see Yao one last time. He wants to remember everything about him, encapsulate in his mind every last thread of memory. His eyes, his hair, his smile, Ivan is afraid that once he goes down under, he'd forget the one person that, for his whole life, has meant everything to him.

This is his greatest fear, not death.

Through tear-filmed eyes, he watches Alfred's hands close around his neck. He can feel his energy being drained away from every vein in his body, and even if Alfred isn't ending his life for him, Ivan knows he would have faded away with time. Alfred's just making his death quicker.

"I win!" Alfred squeals with glee, like a kid playing a game of Risk, "I win!

Sorry that I've let you down again, Yao, Ivan thinks, Sorry that I can't make our dream come true...

"Alfred, stop!" Echoes a familiar voice from the halls, amidst Alfred's maniacal giggles.

"Who the—?"

Ivan hears frantic footsteps thumping closer, and eventually, the door snaps open. Before Ivan could affirm the person's identity, Alfred's fingers have loosened around his neck, leaving him to gasp for air.

Alfred turns back, completely and utterly shocked. "Y-Yao?"

With no time for a greeting, Yao runs up and wrestles Alfred to the side. After pinning him to the office desk, Yao turns around and takes his first look at Ivan— no longer a strong and fearsome, nor caring and warm, but a decaying, bleeding Ivan who barely has the strength to lift up the corners of his lips for a smile. Yao puts his hand up to his mouth at the sight, trying to muffle his silent scream, as his knees sink to the ground.

"Ivan..." He barely chokes out of his throat, "Ivan..."

Yao crawls up to him, while shaking away from Alfred trying to pull him back. Tears are streaming down his face. He has held it in for so long. He hasn't cried on his way to the airport, nor trying to get past the security forces, and now, he hates himself for not lasting a little longer.

Yao scoops Ivan into his arms, clutching his limp head for dear life and sobbing into the sea of silver locks.

Alfred stands over the two of them silently, arms folded.

After a while, Yao wipes his face clean and turns to Alfred. Taking a huge gulp, he says, while barely able to look him in the eye, "Alfred," his voice is calm, measured, despite the hiccups, "for as long as we've known each other, have I ever begged you for anything?"

Alfred bites his lip. "No, you haven't." He mumbled.

"Then please, don't let Ivan die..."

"W-what?"

"Alfred, do you really think it's right to eliminate everyone who has different views than you?" Yao scolds while protectively holding onto Ivan, as if his arms could keep the cells in his body from dissolving into thin air.

Well, what the fuck is he supposed to do? Give up after working so hard for this long, or go through with it, and make Yao hate him for all of eternity?

"I-I..."

A foreign chuckle cuts into the cold atmosphere, dry and disheartened. They both turn their heads; it was Ivan.

"Times have changed, Yao," he croaks, and laughs some more. His Yao is wise, but can sometimes be so stubborn and determined, like a child.

Yao grips his lover's hands, and places a firm kiss upon them. "Yes, yes they have," he mutters bitterly, "But I won't let you be reduced to a page in a history book, Ivan. Do you understand me? I won't allow it!"

"But—" Ivan is silenced by a pair of lips crashing into his own.

Alfred rolled his eyes and looked away. Can't they take their PDA somewhere else?

Fine, fine, he'll agree to it, as long as he doesn't have to watch those two do nasty shit anymore. Ivan Braginsky won't die, because Alfred will save his sorry ass. He swears he needs to be nominated for the Peace Prize after this, or get canonized as a saint or something.

TBC

Note: After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russian-American relations were on an all-time high. The privatization of the Russian market was strongly supported by the US. More tensions arose in the late 1990's though, and are still pretty tough even now.

Oh Alfred, he's such a delight to write about. Being an exclusive Rochu writer, I don't do Alfie as often as I should. But he will show up very often in this story, because he's an awesome character.

England and France will make their appearances soon.

Thanks for reading!

Any reviews, suggestions, comments, thoughts are welcome! They are what keep me going, and I am a lot happier to write if I know the people enjoy it.