Heh, sorry for the long wait. You have my permission to deny me any and all chocolate-chip cookies you happen to encounter today. Dx Seriously, though, I really dunno why this update took so long… I was really dissatisfied with the way a lot of parts turned out and must have edited 'em ten gazillion times before finally deeming this thing good enough for you readers. =_= It sucks being a perfectionist sometimes, y'know? And writing abstract stuff can be really difficult.

Thanks to blueorgray1236, katesmak, DM-sama, LittleMonsterStick, Easter142, asdfmawesome2, and all of the anons who reviewed last chapter! *hugs*

Anyways, enjoy the chapter~!

To Strangle a Heart, part 3

x

I really don't wanna be here… America kept his eyes glued to the floor as he grudgingly dragged himself into the conference building.

He had been avoiding any and all human contact this past week. Usually when the world's leaders gathered together like this, he would be out partying and having fun with his fellow nations during the breaks in between meetings. But instead of doing that, Alfred had been cooping himself up in his hotel room, not answering the worried phone calls from Canada, Japan, France, or even England—not anyone, for that matter. He'd made it a point to completely isolate himself, so as to ensure he'd avoid having to face certain people.

But the day of the scheduled meeting eventually came, and despite wanting to curl up in bed all day and pretend like he was actually getting some sleep, America knew he had duties to fulfill as a nation. He wasn't going to let down the millions of people depending on him to, at the very least, attend the conference. So as much as he didn't want to, he forced himself out of the warm covers and haphazardly got ready.

Now he was here, standing in front of the giant double-doors. His hair was slightly tousled, his clothes in disarray, and his eyes bruised from lack of sleep, but he was in fact here. America tried his best to avoid the blatant stares and quiet whispers behind his back when he crossed the room. Honestly, he wasn't that surprised about the other nations' reactions to his appearance; under normal circumstances, he would be talking a mile a minute about the wonderful taste of hamburgers and his super heroicness and the latest horror video game that most certainly did not make him pee his pants.

…But this situation was far from anything "normal". And he really didn't feel like talking to anyone right now, so instead of socializing, America took a seat at the conference table. He lay his head down on the cherry-colored wood. I'm so tired…

Just then Germany loudly cleared his throat to grab everyone's attention. As he did this, he shot an uneasy glance towards the distraught American before looking out into the general crowd. "Um…Okay, I believe it would be a good idea to start in a minute or so. Everyone sit down."

America looked up tiredly at the other blond, thoroughly disinterested. Sure, he had forced himself to crawl out of bed and attend this thing, but now that he was here he was becoming less and less motivated to pay any sort of attention. It wasn't like he listened much in the first place; now with all that had happened, it just seemed so damn exhausting.

America laid his head back on the table, nuzzling his face into the crook of his elbow. He sighed, wishing he had just stayed in bed today.

A hand on his shoulder. "Ameri—"

"NO!" Alfred jolted upright at the touch. Before he knew it he had his fist tightly clenched in a ball and his arm raised, ready to punch. Stay away from me!

He wasn't going to let himself be touched again by those filthy hands, or have his thoughts and emotions manipulated and crushed until he couldn't think straight, or let those shallow violet eyes roam all over every square inch of his body like he was some kind of eye candy—

"—Gah! I'm…sorry, America, I didn't mean to frighten you—I just wanted to ask how you were doing. Are you feeling better now?"

However, this was not the person America had been expecting to see; England stood in front of him, looking thoroughly shocked by such a hostile display.

America lowered his fist, looking to the side awkwardly. He didn't answer the question and stayed silent, willing his heart to slow its erratic beating. It's okay, Al, it's just Arthur… Nothing to stress over. It's okay, you're okay…

When America didn't respond, the British man precariously settled into the chair to the right of the taller blond. "…You know, I've been calling you all week and you haven't answered once. And from what Canadi—I mean, Canada—said, you haven't left your hotel room since last Tuesday night. You're really starting to worry me, you know. I mean, I had assumed you'd gotten over whatever was troubling you last week, but now I'm starting to wonder if that's not the case."

Ugh…Dammit, I don't wanna talk about this… America groaned, burying his face back into his arms. This was the first time the two had spoken ever since it happened, and already America was feeling uncomfortable. "'M fine, dude," he mumbled.

He couldn't tell England what had happened that night—scratch that, he couldn't tell anyone what had happened that night. Right after it ended, America had gone straight to the Brit's house in search of a shoulder to cry on, a pair of warm arms to hold and soothe him as those terrible events replayed over and over in his mind like a scratched record. But as soon as America was able to compose himself—meaning his eyes had somewhat dried, and he could walk ten steps without collapsing to the floor—he had left immediately and gone straight home. He hadn't said a word to the other nation the entire time, and he avoided all eye contact when he had slipped out the front door.

No matter how much it hurt to keep it a secret, America knew deep down that he couldn't confess... This wasn't just some random topic about the weather or what's going on or even his country's economic problems; no, this was too personal. The magnitude of the things that had happened was so overbearing that America, supposed superpower and hero of the world, was being suffocated by it.

He had been no less than wholly dominated by his rival and enemy, rendered completely helpless as his weaknesses were exposed… How could anyone expect Alfred to tell?

And yet here Arthur was, asking him to do exactly that. America couldn't see the other's face at the moment due to resting his head in his arms, but he did hear an exasperated sigh. "You're 'fine'? …Are you absolutely sure about that?"

"Mmm."

"Don't lie, Alfred…" America felt his forearm being jostled. He lazily swatted at the other's hand, lifting his heavy head up with much effort and catching England's eye.

"I'm not! I'm just a little tired, is all… Don't worry 'bout me." To further prove his point, America allowed a giant yawn to escape his lips as he opened his suitcase and pulled out note papers. He wasn't completely lying; he actually was beyond exhausted. But that wasn't the root of the problem, and both he and England knew that.

England shook his head, clearly not satisfied with the answer. His normally stubborn features softened as he continued to stare at the dejected young nation. "Right, well…when you want to talk about whatever has been troubling you… Erm…Just know that I will be there to listen." With that the shorter blond turned his head to the front of the table, where Germany was waiting for everyone to quiet down.

Said person's eyes quickly scanned the group before him, once again lingering a split second longer on the American. He shook his head and looked up. "All right, it seems that everyone is situated. As you all know this meeting was cut short last week, so let us pick up where we left off…"

America tried his best to pay attention to what Germany was saying—something about European trade or whatever—but he quickly lost interest, his attention span ten times shorter than last week. The young male debated whether or not he should doodle on the table again, but decided against it when he recalled that England was sitting right next to him and would notice almost immediately. Not to mention America felt as if his arm would fall off the moment he picked up his pencil.

He groaned internally, wishing he could just fall asleep here. Of course, the blond knew that the second he did so, the other countries would either snicker or start to complain about it. Then when it became disruptive to the meeting, England, Germany, or even China would come over and reprimand, thus completely ridiculing him in front of, quite literally, the entire world. And after all of that, America would have to face the wrath of his boss.

Yeah, not a good idea, he concluded. But still…Tired…So tired.

Maybe it would be okay if he rested his eyes for just a minute. That couldn't do any harm, right? America leaned forward in his chair and threaded his fingers through his blond locks. He yawned again, scooting his body closer to the table before laying his head in his arms. His eyes peeked out from under his messy bangs, each second losing more and more willpower to stay open. It'll only be for a couple seconds…No one will notice.

Just as America's lids were about to flutter shut, he suddenly felt a cold chill run down his spine. He sat up in shock and wondered what was setting off the alarms in his head. The uncomfortable feeling spread to the tips of his toes and circled back around to rest in the cavity of his chest, tightening its hold on his rapidly beating heart. America blanched at the feeling, realization playing across his features.

He's watching me.

He, who had somehow managed to claim the seat directly across from Alfred, was staring at the blond with a spark of amusement in his wintry eye. He fingered the long scarf wrapped around his neck, slowly smoothing the soft material between the pads of his fingers as he observed how the American fidgeted in his seat.

And he was smiling. He was smiling that seemingly innocent facade, and it was utterly terrifying.

America clenched his fists so tight that he felt his nails break the skin of his palm. In turn, Russia continued to lazily stroke the scarf, ever so gently caressing the material as he nuzzled it against his cheek. Much to the other's horror, he then slid his tongue out of his mouth and slowly rolled it across his bottom lip. He grazed his teeth against the flesh thoughtfully, as if he was at a café trying to pick what flavor ice cream to buy.

America's throat constricted into a huge, painful lump. He's…he…oh god, doesn't anyone else see this? The young nation tore his eyes from the sight and desperately scanned the room.

It seemed everyone was too intent on taking notes to notice what was happening; it was either that, or they didn't think anything of it. America's eyes flicked over to England, who also had his full attention on the German at the head of the table. He was blissfully unaware of the situation happening right in front of him.

Shit. Shit! America clenched his fists again and winced when the cuts from his fingernails were aggravated. He swallowed hard in an attempt to ease the tension building up in his throat. If I cause a scene, people are gonna ask questions, questions I can't answer…

America looked back at the Russian just in time to see the man's pencil eraser disappear into his mouth. The tall nation ever so subtly swirled his tongue around the wood, taking care to affectionately nibble on the tip a couple of times. He allowed the pink appendage to linger for a moment before pushing the pencil nearly halfway into his mouth. He kept direct eye contact with the flustered blond, those dark amethysts burning away at the layers of skin and unabashedly staring right into Alfred's soul.

No. America felt his stomach churn at the sight. He's teasing me, he's trying to get into my head!...I can't let him do this. Not again. No! The knot in his throat seemed to tighten each second those piercing eyes burned into his own. Russia sped up a bit, a tiny dribble of saliva connecting the end of the pencil to his lips when he pulled it out completely. He then shoved it back in again, this time with more force. The oppressive look in his eyes pushed away the rest of the world until the only things that existed were him and his American.

Stop it. Stop! I can't breathe, I can't breathe—Alfred's lungs, devoid of oxygen, were collapsing in on themselves. He clutched at the front of his shirt, trying to suppress the tremors wracking through his chest. No, no no no!…His vision suddenly turned blurry, and he blinked rapidly but the tears wouldn't go away and now he could feel the bile creeping up in his throat—

"Nnngh!" America lurched out of his chair, a hand wildly clamped over his mouth. He flipped around and rushed out into the hallway, nearly tripping over his own ankle as he clumsily stumbled into the restroom a few doors down. He barely registered the sound of voices in the conference room rising behind him; the thought left his mind the second it came.

The young blond collapsed to his knees in an open stall and wasted no time before violently retching out the saliva pooled in the back of his throat. He coughed and gagged from the fiery sensation in his esophagus, despite the fact that the contents of his unusually small breakfast—a piece of toast and a cup of coffee—didn't come spilling out. He breathed raggedly, accidentally inhaling some of the fluid and thus provoking another coughing fit. The world dove into a trembling, blurry mess of awful taste, aching limbs, and memories so vivid and fresh that the boy's brain could be comparable to a pile of scrambled eggs.

"Are you having fun yet?"

Stop it! America curled in on himself, gasping out at the sheer rawness of his flashbacks. Stop, please let me go! I can't do this!

He needed to forget it all, forget every scarring sound, every horrified emotion, every traumatizing sight displayed before his eyes—

"I want you to feel what's happening to you."

—every burning touch on his lips, on his neck, his chest, his navel, his—

"You are so warm inside, Amerika…like a thick blanket shielding me from the cold of the Siberian метель…"

Alfred was lightheaded. So, so lightheaded… Everything turned numb, as if all the nerves in his body had been shut down by a power outage. He swooned backwards, head cracking against something cold and hard as he stared up at the white ceiling that was quickly fading to black...

x

x

…

…

…

"…ed…lea…ke u…"

...Huh… America was at first puzzled by the muffled noises reaching through the encompassing shell of darkness. It had felt so nice to just exist, to not have to think or do or feel or worry…He had been floating in the nameless void for some time, not quite sure how long, considering time did not exist here.

But these new sounds did exist—they were real, and it didn't make any sense in the depths of unconsciousness.

"…I w…ose...ou!..." A voice? Who's talking… He groaned softly, straining to understand the swirl of dim colors flashing behind his closed lids. Curious now, Alfred fought against the dark nothing's hold over him. With enough effort, the unfeeling began retreating to the deepest corners of his being, all the while allowing his senses to strengthen as he became more aware.

"Ca…ear me?...ay…omethin…Alfred… For the love of all that is right and civilized, please say something!"

That's… America slightly opened his heavy lids, blinking a few times to clear away the excess moisture. "Eng…land?" he croaked, recognizing the refined language of the greenish blur of a person before him.

Said blur suddenly got much closer, and America was confused until he realized that the other nation had him wrapped in an embrace. "Oh, thank goodness! I'm so glad you're okay now. You had us all sweating for a while there, you know… Bloody hell, I was afraid we'd have to call an ambulance."

America was suddenly aware of the fact that he was lying on his back on a mattress, and that the back of his head was rhythmically throbbing with pain. "What…happened?"

England pulled away and went off to the side somewhere. America was about to ask where he was going when the cool metal frames of Texas were slid onto his nose. "Well, you suddenly ran out in the middle of the conference looking like you were about to vomit. When you reached the restrooms, it seems you hit your head and passed out in one of the stalls. …I knew you weren't feeling well, but neither I nor anyone else had a clue that your condition was so bad. What were you thinking attending this meeting? It's not good to exert yourself like this when you're so ill, America..." England ran a shaky hand through his hair, looking as if he had just been through hell.

America looked at his environment. He was lying on a twin-sized bed in a small room decorated with several black furniture pieces. The space was somewhat dark, but there was a small window opposite the door to the hallway letting in some natural light. From what America could tell, it still appeared to be early afternoon.

"How long was I out?" he asked, glancing towards the window. He fidgeted with the warm red comforter draped over his body.

"Scarcely five minutes. When we all found you, we knew couldn't just leave you lying on the floor, so Russia volunteered to carry you to one of the spare rooms. I would have done it myself, but you're not a kid anymore. You're a lot heavier than I remember."

America sat up, ignoring the protesting throb from the back of his head. "Wait, Russia carried me?" He was completely awake now.

England nodded, brow furrowing slightly as if he was unsettled by this information. "Odd, isn't it? We all thought he wouldn't want to help, considering how things are between you two nowadays. It was quite the surprise, really...Quite the surprise."

Help? He didn't want to help; he just wanted to touch me again, that…that bastard! America gripped the front of his shirt as if to prevent his heart from jumping out of his ribcage. He felt sick all over again.

Russia had touched him while he was sleeping. He could have done anything he wanted, used America's body for himself ten times over … And America would never know!

In hindsight this was a ridiculous thought, because obviously the other nations had been present too, and they wouldn't allow that type of foul play—any foul play, for that matter—to happen. But still, the thought was very upsetting. "Y-yeah," America somehow managed to sputter, turning away to hide the look of utter terror on his face.

Apparently England didn't notice anything, because he then straightened up and paced towards the door. "In any case, it's good to know you didn't kill yourself. You may be an obnoxious, migraine-inducing fatass, but… I still care about you, dammit." He quickly turned his head and coughed, but not before the American noticed the faint dusting of pink across his cheeks. "Yes, well, anyways, I must go tell the others in the hall that you've regained consciousness before someone does something reckless. I mean, when I shooed everyone out of this room they were basically in hysterics—Mattie even looked like he was about to cry... Now, rest up. I will come back here later to check and ensure that your concussion has healed properly*."

America lethargically nodded and carefully lowered his head back onto the pillow. As Arthur closed the door behind himself, the young blond allowed his weary eyes to shut. He realized, once again, just how exhausted he really was.

"Oh, and America?" The door made a sound as it was creaked open a few inches.

"…Yeah?"

A short pause. "Whatever happened last Tuesday has been slowly eating away at you, and it's just killing me to see you in such a state. Even if all you need is someone in whom you can confide… I promise you, I am going to help." A quiet "click" resonated as the door was closed shut again.

Alfred, too tired to protest, simply let out a grunt as he shifted his position under the covers. He really wasn't looking forward to that conversation…

And yet, at the same time he could feel that small part deep inside of him silently crying out for exactly what England was offering.

Did he want help? What would England think if and when he found out America had been raped—such a horrible, terrifying word—by none other than Russia? Would he be angry? Unbelieving? Would he be so overwhelmingly disgusted that he could never again look America in the face without cringing? Would he think Alfred was weak for letting ithappen?

But it's true; I am weak. I'm so weak I can't even suck it up for one goddamn conference. I'm not a hero. I'm not one at all...

So many thoughts ran through America's head as he uneasily drifted off into a desperately-needed sleep. Soon enough, however, the darkness embraced him and was quick to banish any unpleasantness that tried to creep through.

Alfred slept peacefully for the first time in a week. There was no spontaneous crying out, or uncontrolled trembling, or bolting up in the middle of the night to lock himself in the bathroom and breathe and remind himself that it wasn't real, it was just another nightmare... No, this time he dreamt of pure nothing, and it was absolute, blissful relief.

And so when Alfred suddenly felt a warm but slightly uncomfortable pressure on his chest, he wasn't sure how to respond. The pressure didn't go away when he shifted, but instead spread further, all the way down to his lower torso. It became even more confusing when the air over his lips and throat suddenly got hot and significantly damper. What was this? It didn't make sense.

Alfred wasn't really sure when he'd stopped sleeping, but now he was curious as to what was causing this strange phenomenon. He lazily opened his eyes and blinked a few times. Most of everything was a blurry mess, and had he been more observant Alfred would have wondered when his glasses had fallen off.

But then he looked up, and the world suddenly sharpened to a crystal clear. Right in his face, so close that he nearly had to cross his eyes to focus, were two frigid, swirling amethysts and a face that froze his heart to a complete stop.

"Привет, Amerika. You look cute when you sleep, да~?"

x

To be Continued in part 4

Translations (in order of appearance):

Метель= mee-tyel'= snowstorm/blizzard (anyone who actually speaks Russian, please tell me if this is incorrect…thanks xD)

Привет = Privyet = hello/hi

Да = da = yes

A/N*: Obviously it doesn't take less than a day for a concussion to pass. However, the personified nations heal at a much faster rate than that of a normal person (and I like to think that the stronger the nation, the faster he/she heals). Just wanted to clear that up in case anyone got confused! *thumbs up*

Dun Dun DUNNN. Evil cliffhanger! America's just not having a good day, is he? xC Unfortunately this ain't over yet, dear readers.

Also, can someone please explain to me why I'm writing a fic about torturing my own country? IT MAKES NONE OF THE SENSES. (/ಠ_ಠ)/

Remember, reviews are to me like burgers are to Alfred. For reals, yo. xDD Thanks again, and until next time, peace out, dudes~