Versailles, France. June 28th 1919
It didn't hurt. It really didn't. Germany learned best how to steel himself from France's strikes a long time ago. But the humiliation was there, especially with the other countries observing France's retaliation.
There was no doubt a red sting visible on his pale cheek but Germany had no choice but to stand there and take it. France once again reeled his arm back and attempted to strike him once more. He was upset, of course he was, he lost the most in the war so no one attempted to excuse his fuming behavior, nor his violence toward the German nation. But what France failed to see, as well as everyone else, was that Germany had lost much too and now he had to deal with overburdening repercussions.
With shoulders tense, in preparation for another strike seeing how France had pulled his hand away again and aimed it toward the younger nation, Germany braced himself and clenched his fists tight, standing there and taking it. But the calculation of timing was off. There was no sting, no jerk of the head. No contact.
Turning his eyes Germany gapped at the sight of America holding France's arm in mid-air, the palm of the nation's hand looked ready for another impact with the German's skin. The young nation had stopped France from coming in for another humiliating blow.
"That's enough, France," America stated and applied just enough pressure in a squeeze to cause some sort of discomfort for the Frenchman.
France sneered before pulling his arm away from America's grasp. He glared at him with disdain before looking back toward Germany who stood alone before the other nations, his big brother nowhere in sight—nowhere to help him.
"America is far away, protected by the ocean. Not even Napoleon himself could touch England. You are both sheltered; we are not," France responded before turning back toward America and offering a small glance toward England who stood nearby watching for any tensions about to raise their heads. With that France turned on his heel and ordered his men to bring Germany into the board room.
Germany refused to be touched by the Frenchmen and instead shook their hands off of his arms and walked into the room himself. England had prepared himself to enter as well but noticed a lack of companionship into the room where the treaty was set to be signed. Turning he looked to see America standing unmoving in the waiting room, the boy was looking toward the exiting door like it was the one thing he wanted most.
"America? Are you coming?" England asked.
"I can't find myself to agree with either one of you," America admitted and slumped his shoulders before he reached out and took hold of the knob on the exit.
"Wait, you can't just simply leave," England insisted. "We're about to sign."
"And this is one signature you're not going to get," America said as he turned toward England. The look in his eyes was stern and England found himself surprised to be gazing into a nation claimed so young but now looked so mature like that of a thousand-year-old country. "Sorry," With that America opened the door and left.
He stopped. Outside, in the hall sat a lone albino. He offered no threat despite the French guards standing near and America felt his heart go out to him. Walking up toward him he gave the French humans a glare to remove themselves from his national presence as soon as possible, the men did and now Prussia looked up to him.
"Is Ludwig alright?" Prussia asked, his hands rolling his overcoat in his lap to wrinkles. He was concerned for his little brother, as he should be. America wanted to offer comforting words but after all that had happened between him and the German brothers a hate began building up inside him like a sickening bile. He didn't want to feel it, but it was what his people felt and he couldn't just simply ignore it no matter how hard he tried.
"No," America answered truthfully. "I tried talking to France but he won't relent. He and England blame him the most."
"That's not fair!" Prussia spat as he stood up and gazed into the American's serious blue eyes. They were the same height. Prussia stood even with him now, if not just a little lower due to America's status as victor. "They've all fought in countless wars before. They know the causes. France is just getting recompense from the Franco-Prussian war isn't he? Why won't he take it out on me? Not Ludwig."
"They already did," America informed with a heavy sigh. "You've already been removed from any power you once held over your brother."
"Is that enough?" Prussia asked. "Now they torture me with tormenting my baby bruder. It's not fair and you know it!"
"Then it was fair to attack me despite my claims for neutrality?" America asked. That had stopped the Prussian's rant.
Prussia stood there with his jaw hanging. His eyes scanned his thoughts for anything to say in response to America's statement but how could one negate the truth? So Prussia closed his eyes and sat himself down in defeat.
"Ja, I am sorry about that, Alfred," Prussia said lowly. His scarlet gaze flickered down at his black scuffed shoes. How could he tell America why it had happened? How could he tell him that it had been the German General Staff who had secretly convinced their Chancellor to lean toward unrestricted submarine warfare just so they could starve England? After England's blockade the Germans could no longer continue with trade with America. What else could they have done? Even so Germany hadn't wanted it knowing that America would likely enter the war but Prussia pressed for it in an attempt to defeat England. Of course nothing ever went as planned and an angry America came faster than expected.
Would America really believe all of that despite it being true? He could see it; Prussia could see how upset America was. He felt it in his fury when he entered the war and marched with his men on the frontlines. They had all wanted the war over with as soon as possible and Germany above all hadn't wanted America to enter, but now look at them.
America was right and Prussia was all to blame.
"War is war," Prussia stated with a shrug. It was all he could offer for an explanation close enough to reason.
"The hell it is!" America growled as he reached down and took up Prussia by the collar of his shirt, pulling him close to let the older German state see just how writhing he was. "I lost over a hundred thousand men, you son of a bitch, and you're telling me that, 'war is war,' like it's something fucking normal?!"
That was right; this had been the first time America had been in a grand scale war since possibly his revolution. The horrors he had seen this time around.
"I saw what you krauts did to Belgium; I saw what you did to France! Now you're trying to do the same damn thing to Russia!"
Prussia's back hit the wall behind him roughly and as his legs bumped into the bench underneath him his form fell and he was once again sitting, staring up at a red-faired blurry-eyed U.S. The boy's fists were shaking beside his hips and his shoulders were up and tense. He'd never seen him this upset since . . .
"Now I would let France and the others have their ways with you if it didn't go against my morals," America said as he began taking deeper breaths of air in to calm his form and ease the redness in his complexion. "And I will swear to you that I will sign another treaty with you."
"You . . . would?" Prussia sat there amazed with America's restraint. He hadn't been directly harmed from the war like France and the others, but his anger because of it was still there. It was expected but Prussia had never seen such willingness to forgive despite sudden tension between nations. It was either maturity or naivety but Prussia would not disregard it nonetheless.
America nodded. He turned and said, "We'll talk about it after they're done with your brother."
Prussia could hear the hurt in America's voice but he couldn't possibly tell him. If he did then he would doubt any morale code of the American or his people would save him and his brother from the bitter resentment from the blond.
The bombing of his cargo ships; there was no choice. Purposely invading Belgium and ignoring the convention; again, no choice. But with Russia . . . Prussia wanted to say it was to get their men out of the Eastern Front but in reality he and Germany had plotted his downfall for good and the reason for such an act just so happened to be standing before him right now.
Hurt. Of course America was hurt. But he'd come to feel just how horrible it felt when a heart breaks after Russia was through. Prussia did it for his baby brother's continuous affection.
Even throughout all of this Prussia was certain Germany's love for America wouldn't fade. If only America would show more bitterness then it would force his love-struck brother away from the ex-colony, but he didn't. Time after time America offered the restoration of trust when neither were deserving. This only enticed Germany closer and it was because of this Prussia couldn't sit idle.
As an older brother he had a duty to give to his little brother whatever he wanted and if he wanted the world then he had it, on a silver platter—no, gold. If he wanted the affection of the young United States of America then it was first and foremost important to be rid of the nation's supposed lover at once and that is what they had done. They removed Russia; from the war, from the spoils, from America's heart.
From what he had heard the American shout in anger Prussia realized he might have heard rumors about the Germans' involvement in Russia's revolution. He was certain the boy thought them only as rumors and acted on such an anger just to vent his frustration. He would forget whatever he heard later.
So Prussia remained silent. It was all for Germany. He was doing this because of him and only him.
Now that they had taken him away from him he felt useless as a big brother. He was meant to protect him and now the guilt of that and the guilt of seeing that hurt in America's eyes was getting to him and he could hardly hold himself back from the confession if only just to get it out of him and lift the weighing weight off his shoulders.
"Whenever you want," Prussia said. "Look, I know I no longer have any say over Ludwig, but please, when you talk to him . . . please treat him with respect." Looking up at America, Prussia knew the boy had a right to reject the offer. After all, no one ever negotiated with losers; it was the winners who the losers negotiated with. But Prussia knew America was different. He was fair. He understood when others let anger cloud their judgment and just beat other nations into dust when they felt like it.
"When we talk," America offered before turning and walking away.
"Wha—? Alfred, where are you going?" Prussia asked as he stood up again and watched the boy walk hastily down the hall toward the exits.
America stopped and turned toward Prussia. Those blue eyes of his looked more hurt than ever before. Forget the sunk cargo ships, forget the military losses, it was Russia that was in America's concerning thoughts. Prussia could see it and he knew, he knew that the boy was going to him. Despite the situation there America was going. It was not a good idea and Prussia knew it, but who was he to say no?
Prussia would just let him figure it out by himself that Russia was different and that he didn't view the young America in the same light anymore. So, after America let the old nation go then Prussia would escort him back to Germany for a promising and more stronger courtship when he was ready.
Moscow, Russia. July 1919
"Open up, you bastards!"
America once again propelled himself against the large wooden door but with little effect like the previous times he's thrust himself against it. It had to end, all of this. This revolution. This disruption of allies. These Bolsheviks. These communist-minded hell spawn.
If this continued then America knew, he just knew it would change Russia. For the worst more than likely. The thought of it made him sick to his stomach. His heart wouldn't fall back into his chest and simply remained in his throat, choking him out of the words he had to say to his men to keep them fighting, to say to himself to ease his being to think Russia would be fine.
Russia was much older than him and no doubt had been through worse than something as trivial like a revolution. If that were the case then why was America so afraid? Why did he push himself with so much force against Russia's Moscow home?
Well, he did so because he was afraid. Afraid of losing him. Of losing Russia.
He was afraid of Russia no longer speaking to him. No longer smiling at him. No longer looking at him. No longer listening to him when he cried to him to turn toward him again.
But time was still of the essence and Russia did hear America's pleas to turn to him and ever he begged to his new leader to let him go.
"Please!" Russia cried out as he pulled himself against the chains this new self-proclaimed leader of his had placed him in. "Don't lock me away when he is crying for me!"
Russia could hear the boy nation. He could hear him even through the layers of the cellar he was locked under. He could hear him screaming for him. The desperation in his voice made his gut churn until Russia about vomited on himself.
"This is why you are locked away," The human said with a smile. He and his men looked on with expectations at the contained nation readied to undergo a transformation. "Westerners are not allowed here any longer. Nor affections for said western nations."
"Po'shyol 'na hui!" Russia spat but the butt of a gun didn't feel too pleasant on his scalp. Dazed, Russia felt himself slump over and the biting chains wrapped around him worsened their hold as he hung there.
"Very rude of you to say that to your own ruler," the human said as he crossed his arms and then turned toward a man to his right, nodding toward Russia. "Stalin."
The dark-haired man nodded and approached Russia. Reaching up he unhooked the chains from their holds on the ceiling, leaving Russia to collapse to the floor where the bald man approached and knelt down. Taking a hold of Russia's scarf he pulled close and smiled in the effect of choking the nation.
"You will stop resisting us. Our ideals are now your ideals. What is so hard about that? Is it that boy up there? Hm, that is it, isn't it?"
Letting go the man stood up and looked down at his pitiful nation that had once exiled him. "Imperial Russia is no more!"
"Nyet!" Russia shouted his defiance for the sake of those cries he continued to hear and the hurting twists his heart was doing inside his chest as it hurled itself against his ribcage with each heave America was throwing himself into against the door to try to break into the tattered home.
"You are now Soviet Russia!" the man stated, his gaze intense but Russia refused to look at him and only shook his head to brush the prompting words from entering his mind.
"Nyet!" Russia cried out, closing his eyes shut tightly and bearing his teeth as he felt it—the happenings of a revolution. It was more like a civil war though because of the inner turmoil and the murder and the resistance. It hurt so much and Russia felt for certain he'd be torn apart.
"You will yield to the Bolsheviks!"
"Nyet!"
Russia was taken by the scarf once more and when he stared into the eyes of Lenin he swore they had glown a demonic red. "You do not love any western nation, much less the United States of Amerika!"
"N-Nyet, you're wrong!" Russia shouted and felt a fire digging its way out of him as this would-be leader of his insulted his long-held love for the boy who had always offered his support and affection in return. "The General had made him for me! I was the only one, the ONLY one who stayed true and he gave him to me because of it!"
The man's smile was sadistic and he looked at him as if an adult looking at a brainwashed nonsense child. "The General was simply mistaken. He's shown you the wrong nation."
Russia's eyes widened. How could this man say that? How could this human assume to know General Winter as well as Russia had? It was insulting and that smug look on his face . . .
"Never," Russia muttered. "He'd never misguide me . . . not after all I've done."
"He's always loved fucking with you," the bald man said simply. "You were ever his favorite play thing."
General Winter . . . fucking with him? Never. Why would he when Russia's always remained loyal? It was him who had opened Russia's eyes to the boy nation when he first laid eyes upon him. It was he who whisked the young nation into his arms encouraging Russia to take the opportunity to love him. It was he who suggested giving America his colony in the New World as an extravagant present shadowed by all else the American would receive. Now this human was telling him that the General had lied to him for nearly two fucking centuries?!
"You're undeserving of any companionship," the man stated with a frown and disappointed shake of his head. "Besides, you hadn't even fucked him yet. So it matters not if you break ties."
Russia's eyes stung and now he wished they'd unbind his wrists so he could rub the sting away. His heart hurt from the words they were saying. They weren't true, any one of them. General Winter had shown him America as his promised mate. Russia did love America and America did love Russia.
"All I ask is that you isolate yourself from the Western world. Why? Because they don't like you. I seem to get that, but you, comrade, do not." The man by the name of Lenin sat himself in a skinny chair seated near the entrance of the cellar. "You're never an ally for long. One day you're shaking their hand, the next day you're squeezing their throat, or the other way around. It is rather unhealthy; shouldn't you think so, Ivan?"
"Don't call me by my name!" Russia snapped. "You are not official! I will never accept you!"
"True," Lenin nodded as he rubbed his knees. "But you put up a good front, especially with him around."
Lenin and the others glanced upward when they heard the sound of the giant door cracking in half and the shouting of the Bolshevik troops who confronted the American on the first level of the floor. Gun shots were heard, cries of pain, bodies meeting their end as they broke in two against walls and columns after being flung by the strong nation on his way toward the cellar.
"Ivan!" Russia could hear his lover calling out to him and he choked as his heart thrust itself against his chest over and over. "Ivan, where are you?!"
He sounded desperate and despite the obstacles throwing themselves in front of the American, Russia could hear how he easily took care of the men of the Red Army and continued his way to him. Russia smiled. America would never give up on him and with that confidence he glared at the men surrounding him.
"Your ruler-ship over me will remain poddelka," Russia stated with a chuckle. "I'll forget this entire revolution happened once you all pay for what you've done to my monarchy!"
"You think I don't know what happens to a nation in revolutions?" Lenin asked. Once again he looked at Russia like he was a negligent child. "It is true. You do forget. You forget those who lost. But remember, dear Ivan, we will be the ones who will win and it will be you who will forget . . . him."
Lenin turned and stood. The men with him lined the door and it wasn't long before the metal rectangle dented. The sound echoing throughout the stony walls and reverberating inside Russia's chest when he realized it was America.
"Ivan!" America shouted. "I'm coming for you. I'm coming!"
"Alfred," Russia whispered through cracked lips and a dry throat. That sting was there again. His eyes hurt and so he closed them. He was so grateful that America was so strong. They always could rely on each other.
Ka-chink.
Russia's violet eyes snapped open. With wide horror he watched the men ready their guns. They meant to shoot America once he was through the door.
"Nyet! Alfred!" Russia cried out to deter the American from entering the room but the sound of his voice had encouraged instead of discouraged and in a flash of gun works America had bent the door in half and jumped through, raising his arms to shield himself from the bullets flying toward him.
Dunking low America had swung his leg out to trip three of them and when their heads collided with the stone floor America jumped upon them and jammed his forearm into their throats, effectively breaking their necks in a second. He turned and moved onto the others firing upon him.
Russia flinched when he witnessed a bullet rip itself through America's arm. He watched as it jostled around inside the nation's arm before making a sloppy exit out of the backside and coincidentally hitting a man behind America, striking him dead. The left arm now hung uselessly but America dealt with it quite well. With just the use of one arm America was able to break a few more necks and nozzles of guns.
The excitement shook Russia's bones so much that his limbs became taut and pulled and pulled until something crunched and something cracked. His chains. He'd broken free and—!
Russia let out a gasp and collapsed to the floor. America had just thrown a light-haired man against the wall, breaking his body in half, when he turned to see Russia had fallen over. "Ivan!" America made his way toward the nation but stopped as a man stepped in front of him, blocking him from Russia. He seemed older than the rest of the men there and he was balding as well, but his eyes, they held such conniving ideals that America seemed daunted.
Taken aback as he might have been by this man, America knew he was just a human. But human or not, when America looked to see what he was holding in his hand his heart nearly stopped. With wide eyes America watched as the organ in the human's hand expanded and then deflated over and over. A beating heart.
It was Russia's beating heart.
There was a flash of light and America's eyes caught sight of a small knife. The moment he realized what was going to happen it was too late. "NO!" America cried out, lunging forward to try to grab the organ.
The fragile thing was stabbed and its white covering soon bled red, the blood now coating it in a color more fitting of the substance it carried. America froze and watched in horror as the heart changed in color and signified the success and the failure of everything.
"No. No, no, no!" America cried out. "What have you done?!" He turned to see Russia shaking on the floor, convulsing and crying out in agony. America decided to forget any attempt to save the damned heart and instead scurried to Russia's side and placed his hand upon his pale cheek. "Ivan? Ivan stay with me. You'll make it through this. Keep fighting, damn it!"
"It's too late, young ambitious Amerika," Lenin said while he turned and tossed the bleeding heart carelessly to the floor, its impact making a sickening squelsh sound. "You might want to think about returning from where you've come from."
"It's never too late, you sick ba—!" America was cut off mid curse when he had turned to glare daggers at the leader of the revolution. His breath was knocked out of him and his throat nearly collapsed as he was lifted off of his knees and then his back hit the floor. "I—van!" America gasped out as the weight pressed down upon him with both hands squeezing his throat. "St-Stop!"
America only had one good arm to defend himself with and that wasn't useful at all when a nation bore down on him and threatened to squeeze the very life out of him. With just one hand America held onto Russia's wrist, pulling and pulling to no use.
"Ivan!" America gasped out one last time before nothing more could come out of his mouth and he grit his teeth and closed his eyes tight.
"Russia is ours, Capitalist," Lenin spoke, coming to stand next to his country who was currently choking the younger underneath him. "You are no longer welcome here. Leave now or else I shall have dear Ivan here kill the one he claimed to have once held so much affection towards."
Once? So did that mean Ivan no longer loved him? The very thought disrupted America's emotions and they tossed and turned inside him. So he simply let go. His hold on Russia's wrist left and he laid himself out defenseless with his life solely in Russia's hands.
The chokehold tightened and America felt his face becoming colder from the lack of blood flow. No doubt his skin color was turning a shade more akin to a blueberry. But he still refused to fight. Looking up at Russia who bore down upon him he managed a smile. It was sad and regretful but there was no hate in his blue eyes. Nothing but the love he also proclaimed to have for the Russian.
If Russia had his doubts then all he had to do was look into America's eyes and see for himself. He was loved. America would not fight someone he cared so much for.
"Kill the westerner," Lenin ordered, leaning over Russia and watching as America halted all movement and simply looked up at Russia.
Then in an instant the chokehold retreated. Russia's hands were still wrapped around the American's throat but no more pressure was being applied. Why? The sight of a tear sliding down America's cheek broke him out of his trance and now he was horrified.
"Alfred?" Russia questioned before pulling away. "What have I done? What have you made me do?!" When Russia's glare met Lenin the man pointed down toward the heart slowly beating and bleeding on the cold stone floor. America was lying near it, unmoving.
"You had tried to kill him because he tried to kill you," Lenin offered the lie and Russia trembled with the misconceived revelation.
"Why?" Russia asked. "You said you loved me, Alfred!"
When the American nation pushed himself up he couldn't speak. No doubt the Russian had damaged his vocals for the time being. He opened his mouth as if to protest but of course nothing he said came out. He looked distressed and attempted to come toward Russia but once again Lenin stepped in the way.
"You've hurt my nation enough with your whorish seduction," Lenin said. "Leave now. You're no longer welcomed here."
America bit his lip. He looked like he was going to cry, but save for that one small tear that had halted Russia's assault on him, America kept his eyes dry. Standing up he looked on longingly toward Russia who had curled in on himself and trembled in split. With the men threatening more violence America had no other choice and so, left.
But he tried staying as long as he could.
Russia. September 14th 1919
"Shouldn't you be returning home, America?"
The boy nation turned toward his ambassador whom he was going to escort to the docks before leaving to join up with the last of his army in Siberia. His throat had healed substantially and he was back to speaking again, but about certain subjects was a matter of willingness to share.
"I will," America offered as he watched his ambassador lock the doors to the U.S. Embassy, the one he had established over a hundred years ago. Now it was all for naught. "Just gonna join up with the boys and make sure there's a scheduled time for them to come home before heading to Willy."
"If you say so."
"What, you don't think I should?" America asked as he thrust his fists on his hips in a look of disproval at the ambassador's suggestion.
"It's not that. The men love seeing you," the ambassador said. "It's just . . ." the dark-haired man turned to look at the now empty run-down building that the very country of Russia once upon a time would frequently visit for news of America. "This place, you know? It's making you sick. I can see it, and so can the others. You need to leave, America."
Just as the ambassador thought, his nation was dancing around that feeling and right when mentioned his true colors were shown. America's shoulders slumped and his eyes darkened in dismay.
"You should leave," the ambassador said once more as he hopped onto the truck meant to carry him and a good number of Americans out of the Russian country since the people had made it very clear that they were no longer welcome.
Those three words resonated throughout America's mind and he's brought back just months earlier when he had been so close to Russia but that man had stopped him. He'd stopped everyone.
America knew he should but he had a mission to see his boys in Siberia where England had moved himself to. The two hadn't talked much and the oddities were witnessed by Japan who also had been stationed there. Both were readying to leave too.
His ambassador was right. The place, the country was making him sick and so after visiting his men and arranging passage he left. He told himself he wouldn't look back but during the entire sail home America had watched the mass of land, Russia's birthplace, his home, vanish. Even gone America stared east and wondered if he could have done something more.
His men didn't need to see him down, and they most certainly didn't need to see him cry so he braved up and held his head high with his President placing visions and tales of him being the savior of the Great War into his head which he gladly soaked up like a sponge to clog out the other useless emotions threatening to spill out at inopportune times.
Making himself busy with work helped as well. One of his last run-arounds in Europe happened to be at Germany's house, sitting down and signing a few papers that compiled into an official treaty.
Berlin, Germany. August 25th 1921
"Thank you again, Alfred," Prussia said with a smile as America gathered up the signed papers. "Forgive Ludwig for not staying after he signed but he has caught a slight cold and doesn't wish to give it to you."
"I can tell," America offered after recalling Germany's raspy voice when greeting.
Without another word America made to leave.
"Eh, wait, what's the rush? I know Berlin isn't something to look at anymore but don't insult us as hosts by just up and leaving," Prussia insisted as he approached the American and placed his hands on his shoulders.
America turned to Prussia and the older found it amazing how dead America's eyes were becoming. He knew he had visited Russia and he knew what had become of the visit but he hadn't known it'd take this much life from him.
"Is everything alright, Alfred?" Prussia asked, trying to ease the tension between their countries.
"My people want you to address me as America from now on," America informed quite monotonously. Very unbefitting of his normal personality.
Prussia frowned but nodded. "Very well, I understand. But won't you stay a little? We both could use a little company—well, company that's not hostile that is." With a weak chuckle offered by Prussia the American seemed unconvinced. He looked down at the papers in his hands for a long while as if the words on the pages would suddenly dance to life off of them.
"I really need to return home," America stated. When his brows crashed together Prussia felt alerted. "I don't feel good," America admitted and who was Prussia to deny someone safe passage when they were under the weather? Not he. So with a downcast smile he waved America off and feared for his health.
As he watched him get into a truck and drive away Prussia felt Germany enter the room.
"Ja, he's gone you know," Prussia said as his brother joined him next to the window to watch the American convoy leave over hill.
Germany was quiet as his weary blue eyes watched on longingly. Prussia felt his heart clench at the sight, especially at seeing his brother so restricted. When they had first started out, when Germany had become an official country, Prussia sought to give him everything. Recognition, colonies, money, everything. But companionship? It was easier said than done.
Prussia had never been good at getting those kinds of things. There had been this one nation who had a serious case of identity crisis but Prussia had been stricken with them and even to that day he still felt the tings of his heart strings pulling whenever he saw said country. He was a coward and couldn't win them over no matter how many battles he fought with them or how many enemies he took down for them. Nothing was good enough and because of that when Germany found himself in love with the American nation Prussia swore that he'd never have to feel what he had felt, what he's still feeling now.
But to his foolishness he had thought to officially court someone you'd have to be able to provide alliance, and military might, and possibly a few colonies as presents of affection. Germany had been prepared for all until America rejected his invitation. Prussia honestly had not predicted that kind of an outcome.
The two had seemed perfect for each other. They were both young, both strong, both healthy, and both growing fast. Why had the union failed? Prussia and Germany had seen it as a gesture of affection too late given on their part.
Now Germany's become like him—looking on at something he knows he can't have and possibly never can. Prussia hated seeing that sadness in his brother and after he had fallen ill from financial crisis there was also the fact that he was still lovesick. But then again, apparently, so was America.
Prussia had seen it in America's eyes, noticed it in his step. Russia had been changed in the October Revolution and his leader's new policy was to cut ties with the westerners, which meant America too. He wasn't quite sure what transpired there in Russia but he had heard enough to piece together what little he knew and what probably happened.
Tales of the massacre of the monarchy, the overthrowing of the imperialist government, and then there was the shutting down of the U.S. Embassy. They were no longer on speaking terms and Prussia wondered how it all had transpired. He remembered how Russia had longed for the boy and how disturbed he, himself, had been because of it. He wouldn't be lying when he said he was happy over the split even though he was pretty sure only he and Germany had known about the secret courtship, but still . . . America was too young to look like that, as was Germany.
"You will wait for him," Prussia ordered when he turned and placed his hand upon his brother's wide shoulder in encouragement. "He and Russia are no more. When you are better and when he is better you will go to him and woo him over. You hear?"
"He's angry with me," Germany insisted, bowing his head in defeat.
"How many times must I tell you it wasn't your fault?" Prussia asked with a frown. "War is war. Treaties are made and alliances are forged. What were you to do when Austria insisted?"
"Honor alliances," Germany recited and then let out a sigh and covered his mouth to hide a cough.
"Ja," Prussia nodded. "America may be upset but less so than the others. Still, you will wait a few decades before you approach him, you hear?"
"How?" Germany asked. "I can't even leave home."
"Once the debts are paid then you're free to go," Prussia reminded once more, trying to keep at his best and be the optimistic for his depressed brother.
"What if he's seeing someone else again?" Germany asked when he finally looked his brother in the eye only to stare at him with concerning unforetold fear.
Prussia frowned and took his brother's jaw in his hand before giving his skull a firm shake to get a thought into his head. "He won't be," Prussia assured. "He's hurt. Very much so. He won't be seeking companionship for a long time, and when he does you'll be there with arms open for him to run into. Got it?"
Germany nodded slowly before Prussia shook his head to force him to verbally answer.
"Ja," Germany answered and then Prussia let go before patting him on the back. "Good boy, now I must be going. You know the others; if they see me in your house they'll throw a fit. I'll visit every few months to check on your health. You rest and then get to work to repay them. I'll do my best to help. Later, West."
Germany watched silently as his brother, the one who had lived with him (or the one whom he had lived with) until the end of the Great War, left; forced into separation through France's treaty. He was upset and sick, a horrible combination and he silently fumed over his losses.
But even so he couldn't help but smile at the outcome of his and his brother's plan to separate Russia and America. It had worked and now all it took was a little time until Germany would once again ask for America's hand for the third time.
Washington D. C. United States of America. September 1921
"Here is the treaty, sir," America said with a bright smile and a thumbs-up. "I told you I would get them to sign it via the heroic way."
His President smiled kindly and looked at the papers. America wanted to chuckle seeing how those bushy eyebrows of his President's reminded him so much of England but he didn't, because he didn't feel like chuckling, and he didn't want to think about England. He didn't want to think about any European for that matter.
"Everything looks good, Alfred," President Harding said with a smile. But when he had looked up toward the nation standing before him he had seemed to have caught him in a moment when his guard was down. There America stood; shoulders slumped and eyes dark with depressing thoughts. "Alfred?" His President's call pulled America out of his own thoughts and he was quick to widen his eyes and straighten his shoulders while putting on a smile. "Is everything alright, son?"
"Of course," America answered with a chuckle. "I just got Germany to sign our long-negotiated treaty. I'm finally out of Europe and back home. Our economy is booming. Life is just great!"
"Spare me the fake optimism," Harding said as he clasped his hands together and looked at America quite seriously. "I know what happened back there. Wilson told me everything."
"Yeah, war is hell, huh?" America said with a chuckle, offering another smile to his President. "Anyways, enough with grievous pasts, anything you want me to do, Commander?"
"No," Harding simply said as he sat back in his chair and observed the nation closely. "Why don't you relax? You've earned it." He saw through the boy's ploy; make oneself busy enough to not think about the hurtful past, it was foolproof. Or so America had thought. But the President insisted the boy stop letting it eat him from the inside out. It wasn't healthy and this was the 20's now, a new decade, a prosperous one at that despite having just come out of a war.
"Nothing?" America asked. "Nothing at all?"
"Nothing," Harding concluded.
"Okay," America said. That smile still pulling his lips taut and his teeth shining in the light of the lamps.
Harding watched closely despite the strange silence floating around them. He was watching closer and closer, looking for any signs of discomfort in the America nation but so far the teenaged nation had hid himself well and that smile was now just becoming disheartening to the President.
"Vacation it is!" America cheered as he turned himself around and threw his arms in the air. He froze for a moment and Harding's throat tightened in wonder if it was the final moment. Turning back around with a curious look on his face had certainly thrown the President off and he wondered if what the preceding President had told him had been but a lie.
"Where do you think I should go? Name a place would ya, Warry?" America asked with an attractive wink.
"How about your home?"
"Huh, why? How boring," America pouted and the President blinked. Since when had his nation begun to act like this? It was strange and somewhat unsettling.
"You need to relax," Harding said. "You've done us good, Alfred. Now it's your turn to settle down."
"What if I don't want to?"
"You need to, son. If you don't I may just order it upon you. My, imagine the day when people refuse actual vacation days," Harding muttered and chuckled while he placed the papers on his desk in a folder before turning in his seat back toward America. What he saw caused him to jump out of his chair and take cautious steps out from behind his desk toward the country.
There stood America. In the same position as before. His arms were down by his sides and his smile still present but next to his lips were lines of clear liquid. The source? His eyes. He was crying and it looked like he didn't even know it.
"Alfred?" Harding questioned. He stepped closer to the boy and reached out a hand to touch him but before any contact was made America spoke. He didn't make eye contact, he didn't even turn his head toward the man as he spoke, saying—
"If I don't do something . . . then I'll think about it . . . I don't want to think about it . . . because it hurts . . . it hurts so bad!"
The smile feigned and suddenly his lips were trembling before America closed his eyes and out came those heavy, heavy tears. With shoulders shaking and fists clenched tight America stood there sobbing.
Harding came close and pulled the boy to him who leaned his head on the human's shoulder and stood there trembling.
"It's alright to let it all out every once in a while," Harding said as he rubbed his country's back in a show of comfort. He knew it would be a long time before America ever recovered from the break up knowing their extensive history and their secret courtship, but Harding had faith that through relaxation he could ease himself down and come to terms with the issue better.
America's face was now red as he pulled away to cover his appearance from his leader but after a harsh sob escaped his mouth America's knees buckled and he met the floor. Harding gasped and knelt down to hold him. Wrapping his arms around him was all he could do to help. The grief of a nation was just as devastating as that of a human's and ran far longer than theirs ever could.
It was hard on the President to hear such cries from his nation. To see him like this. If the other nations saw him then there could be a possible risk they might attack. He was officially in a weakened state and Harding just wouldn't have that.
Letting the boy go, the President got up and dashed over toward a cart where various beverages were offered. He took up a bottle and glass and ran back over toward the weeping America before pouring the contents into the cup.
"Drink this, Alfred. It'll soothe the ache," Harding insisted and assisted the teen in holding the drink in his trembling hands before pressing it to his lips. America barely managed to down it with his sobs but even what he did he spit back up, the child just wasn't as used to alcohol yet.
Harding didn't give up, he needed the boy to remain strong at least for appearance's sake and the strong drink tended to fool everyone. So he poured more and offered it to the nation. America had looked at it like he didn't want it, but with pressing concern from his President, his leader and commander, America did as told and drank and drank and drank until he could feel and remember no more.
Russia. January 1922
Russia deserved this.
Russia deserved this.
He deserved it all.
This was all his fault.
Covering his ears, Russia could hear the agonizing screams of his people as they died in the streets, in the fields, in their beds knowing they wouldn't be able to live another day. So many were dying and it was all because of Russia.
He shouldn't have conformed to the Bolsheviks. He should have never let the Red Army win. He should have never . . . to America . . . he had been choking him . . . trying to kill him!
"N-Nyet!" Russia cried out. He could no longer take in the cries of his people and simple stood himself up off the floor and ran out into the wintery white raging around. He wasn't dressed for the weather but it didn't matter, anyone would die no matter if one was. But Russia ran and ran with his hands squeezing his skull but the cries became louder and louder until the pain of his dying people surged through his body and he collapsed upon the icy ground in the midst of the wilderness.
The heavy snow fell upon Russia's form and nearly covered his being if it hadn't been for the biting wind sweeping down and chilling his frame.
"Make them stop . . . General Winter, make them stop!" Russia cried out as he trembled. The cries were so loud that Russia could barely even hear the wind howling around him much less the sound of a growling animal.
When he had heard the threatening sound Russia looked up and saw the creature. Its teeth were bare and the fur on the nape of its neck stood on end. It was a beautiful creature, pure white, like the snow surrounding, but it offered so much danger and threat as it circled Russia.
'You can't run from them. They are you, and you are they. They die, you die. Is fun circle of lives.'
"What have I done?" Russia cried out. "How have I angered you? You! You wanted this!"
The wolf seemed to chuckle at him as its jaw moved up and down almost as if it were speaking for the General. Maybe it was, or maybe Russia was just as insane as the others say.
'I have left you alone in relative peace for the past two centuries and you dare accuse me of wrong? If anyone then it is you. Your decisions led to this; your alliances, and your tie-cuts.'
"Tie-cuts?" Russia questioned. "Alfred?"
The wolf shook itself before scrapping up some snow with its hind legs and once again continuing its circulation of Russia.
'Ah, yes, what a pretty little thing. I'm so glad you enjoyed staring at him through a glass wall. He had been there for you to touch as you please, but you decided I had lied to you about his creation.'
"Had you?!" Russia cried out, recalling how Lenin had informed him that it had not been America that the General had crafted for him as a mate.
'How dare you question me?' The white wolf growled and bore its red gums once more with a growl. Russia felt the pressing chill upon him again, biting into his bare skin. 'I am not inclined to answer you, but you amuse me with your pathetic attempts to understand things you never will.'
The wolf approached him and suddenly a form appeared from it, it was the ghost of the General. The spirit whom Russia had known since the day of his birth. Kneeling down the General placed his hands upon Russia's cold cheeks and Russia cried out when ice began caking over his skin and crawling up toward his eyes and down his neck where no scarf could protect and warm.
'He is my death,' The General stated with a frown. 'He was the warmth in my coldness. The sunshine in my night. The softness toward my bitterness. He lives; I die. He dies; I live. You choose him, or you choose me.'
What was he saying? Why was the General saying this to him?
'I am your protection and he is your undoing,' the old ghost said as he caressed Russia's cheek, numbing the nerves imbedded into the nation's skin.
"Nyet!" Russia gasped, pulling his face away and sitting up with his knees digging into the cold wet snow. "Why would you create him and tell me he was mine to hold when you didn't wish it yourself?! Why would you be so cruel to your faithful servant?"
'More than lenient I have been to you. I even stooped so low into giving you your heart's desire. He is there and it was up to you to take him. But know now this that if you do then you will surely die. Without my presence you have nothing.'
"You're a bastard!" Russia shouted to the howling wind whirling around him. "Why, why make me suffer like this? Is this what you wanted? Did you want me to kill him? Did you want me to isolate myself in your domain? Answer me!"
'Da,' The General answered with a chuckle. 'I knew you would choose me because I am your god and you are my faithful worshiper.'
"I'll forget you, I swear it!" Russia spat as he covered his ears to the noise around and closed his eyes tightly to block any vision of the spirit before him.
The General chuckled and floated down closer to Russia. He reached out his hand and placed it upon Russia's head, watching as the ice crystals froze the strands of hair. 'You are a very hopeless fool, slave. You wish to see the one who you so foolishly place your love upon? Da, so be it.'
Russia's eyes shot open at the sight the General generated in his mind. There America was, laying on a couch, his body trembling and his hands shaking as he laid his head upon his President's lap and cried. The human looked to be trying to comfort him with gentle pats through those golden locks but America's lips just parted and out came the cries. Russia couldn't hear them, but he could feel them and he ached so much.
'You wanted me to make the cries of your people stop, da? So be it. Hear his instead.'
Russia curled in on himself, his hands slamming against his ears as America's cries were vocalized. They were loud, full of so much hurt and agony. They were worse than the cries of his people because they cried out from death's chase. America was crying for a love lost, from the torment and ache of a broken heart. And Russia had caused those cries. It was his fault. His entire fault!
"Stop it!" Russia cried out as he rolled himself away and fell face-first into the snow as if one dead. There he laid and waited for death to take him. If so then America wouldn't have to cry any longer. He would know that the one who caused him so much heartache was gone and he could smile again. That's what he wanted, right?
'Your people have chosen me, Rossiya. You have chosen me. In time you will forget your love—'
"Nyet!"
'—and you will offer me sacrifice—'
"Nyet!"
'—and you will become strong once more. Much stronger than when swooned by that death of mine.'
"Nyet!" Russia cried out once more and glared up at the General with hate-filled eyes. "I hope he kills you! I hope you vanish from this earth and never return!"
The General chuckled once more.
'Me? I am a god!' He then bent his frame and stared at Russia with hollow eyes. Russia attempted to stand his ground but as he gazed into those empty pits Russia's eyes widened in horror at what he saw. 'You see? I have lived many lifetimes, and each time the world destroys itself over and over I am there. I thrive and I will once it is destroyed again. I have seen millions of nations rise and fall. Some I have guided some have strayed from me. But I am! You were there and so was he. Different names, but the same forms. You hadn't listened to me that time either and you both perished. I am curious as to how this end shall play. Now rest, rest and forget. Let your mind be tortured by murder and your body by famine. I will rebuild you and I will make you strong.'
"Then let me have him," Russia whispered as the General placed his hand upon his eyes and eased the lids closed.
The General smiled and nodded. 'Da, the same way you had killed him previously. If you run to him then I will cease and so will you. If you take him for yourself then he will cease . . . and so will you. Is a fun game; one that always repeats.'
Looking down the General beheld that his Russian slave had fallen into slumber. General Winter smiled as his form began dispersing with the wind around. Russia's men would find him. They would heal him. He would become something new, but his old self would never disappear. It never did. No matter how many times he was reborn.
Even though the cycle seemed to be on near repetition, the General never grew old of seeing the nation prove himself faithful time and time again by taking his death, that young boy, and defiling him until he was frozen over and dead. Some things would never change but the General's death was also his servant's death as well. It was something he would never tell him, or at least something he'd never remember. After that boy's mind, soul, and body was destroyed then Russia's heart would give out and thus the process would start over all again with the winter spirit as the spectator.
Some things would just never change and the General would make sure they stayed that way. So he kept close to Russia as his men found him and carried him back to his home where they warmed him with fires and vodka and tales to dominate the Westerners, especially a young upcoming power. And Russia did nothing but listen and let those words change his heart.
History Time!
Time frame: Wold War I [28 July 1914 – 11 November 1918]
The Treaty of Versailles wasn't too popular with the Americans and so they opted to sign a separate treaty of their own with Germany which was: United States–Germany Peace Treaty.
When France says, "America is far away, protected by the ocean. Not even Napoleon himself could touch England. You are both sheltered; we are not," to America that was actually a quote from The French Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau to President Woodrow Wilson after the American's had explained there upset with France's treaty thinking it too harsh on the Germans.
Prussia no longer controlling Germany or being allowed to speak to him much is reference to the removal of the German Empire's Kaiser, Wilhelm II who was forced from his throne as the Empire was disbanded. He was of Prussian descent as were the other Emperors of the German Empire and so that is why Prussia was head because his kings were Germany's kings.
And, believe it or not, but the Germans had a major role to play in Russia's Revolution, particularly because they shipped Vladimir Lenin (who is the same man torturing and shaping Russia) back to Russia to start revolts and encourage riots and overthrow the Tsar and then murder them [Romanov Massacre July 17th 1918]. Yay for revolutions! So, while the Germans were like puppeteers their main mission was to get Russia out of the war so they could focus on the western front and move their troops out of the eastern front they had been holding against Russia. It worked and Russia up and left the war because of said reasons above. Manacle plotting for ya.
Also, the Germans apparently didn't want to get the U.S.A. involved in the war since they already had their plate full buuuuut, they honestly had no choice. The English blockaded them from any supplies being traded with the Americans so the Americans could really only trade with the allies. That wasn't good so the Germans had tried to "starve" England by sinking U.S. ships carrying cargo thus pissing off the Americans thus forcing congress to declare war. Honestly, what else did they expect to happen?
The Russian Revolution/or Russian Civil War had created two separate armies. The White Army which were for imperialism and then the Red Army which were for communism and socialism. When Lenin stabs Russia's heart it is white to represent the resisting imperialist White Army but then bleeds red in color as sign that the communist Red Army eventually triumphed. Simple visual symbolics :)
Around that time we see the Polar Bear Expedition and the American Expeditionary Force Siberia of which a couple thousand American soldiers were sent to Russia along with other allied garrisons to put a stop to the uprising and fight the growing Red Army. But in the end it was a failure and the Americans, though they knew they were losing a good ally, didn't want the Russian people to see them as an invading empire and so withdrew their men.
Following the Bolshevik Revolution, President Woodrow Wilson instructed U.S. diplomats to withhold official and unofficial recognition of the new Bolshevik
Government. U.S. Ambassador David Francis remained in Russia until November 1918, but was never replaced. On September 14, 1919, the U.S. Embassy in Russia closed its doors.
Also, if any of you lovely readers could tell, America is becoming, well America. With his, "I'm the hero!" gig and whatnot. But it begins to appear here for reasons. One, it was to hide his hurt heart and, two, it was this little bit right here: After the Versailles conference President Woodrow Wilson claimed that, "at last the world knows America as the savior of the world!" There you have it! That's where his hero complex really begins to kick in! I mean it was somewhat there before but he was mostly isolating it until Mr. Wilson goes and says that and lets it soak into America's brain.
America is now entering the "Roaring Twenties" which is infamous for rich people and booze and smoking and gambling and all that jazz. So America will be doing a lot of that to get his mind off of his breakup, that is until the hangover comes (cough, cough, the Great Depression, cough).
1921-1923: Great Famine in Russia. Widespread famine in Russia, exacerbated by war and political upheaval, took the lives of over seven million people from 1921-1923. Despite the absence of official relations between the United States and Russia, the U.S. Government extended considerable relief to the Russian people. I would have had America take a chance at coming with relief himself but he's still heartbroken and crying his eyes out and drowning his soul in alcohol as you could see.
General Winter is touching on some sensitive ground here and is suggesting that the world has been redone over and over with civilization after civilization. Possibly? Maybe. Don't know, but the concept is underlined. If that is the case then is this outcome going to be any different? General Winter seems to know all, huh? Well, we'll find out as history progresses.
And finally, Russia's become the Russia we know!
1922: Establishment of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics The Bolsheviks ultimately triumphed over the "Whites" and began to centralize power in the hands of the more powerful Bolsheviks in Moscow. By 1922, Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, and Transcaucasia (Georgia, Armenia, Azerbaijan) joined to form the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR). Uzbekistan, Turkestan, Tadzhik, Kazakhstan, and Kirghiz joined the Union in later years.
Yay for Soviet Russia!