Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot.
AN: Next chapter. Um, about last chapter. I did a research project on Dr. Zhivago by Pasternak, so that's where that came from. It's a really good book and I highly recommend it.
Other thing…some rather touchy issues are sort of addressed in this chapter. I explain afterwards.
The song of the chapter, as my darling editor agrees, is "Love the Way You Lie" by Eminem.
It was after eleven and yet the capital was still buzzing. News of Lenin's death had leaked through. The Americans knew that there were two prime candidates to take his place. The Question was who would lead…or who had already taken control of the country. The conference in a week would reveal what had ultimately happened, but that didn't stop the Americans from trying to figure out what was happening and attempt to influence it.
Pressed against the wall, the sharp ridge of the doorway. No lights, just the afterglow of the fire as it died.
Alfred jumped as the door to the library flew open, banged against the bookshelves and slammed shut. Before Alfred could form words, he had been yanked up and slammed against a nearby bookshelf, a few books toppling over to the ground from the shaking.
The lovely iron pipe was against his neck. A soft pair of lips brushed against his.
Soft, harsh, gentle, rough, loving, hateful, it was all the same.
Alfred's heart picked up speed. Russia was taking control, taking risks, changing the rules of the game, forcing Alfred to submit.
"Russia—"
"Shut up."
"No. Let go—"
"Nyet."
"Get your hands—"
"Nyet."
Words were useless here.
Alfred stopped struggling. Russia tightened his grip, his eyes crazy. Alfred didn't react, until he wasn't getting any air at all. A quiet whimper of pain, a plea, worked its way from his throat.
It was then that a flicker of recognition flashed in Ivan's eyes. His grip on the pipe went slack. It fell to the ground, a loud clatter. Alfred acted quickly because it looked like Ivan was falling to pieces, swaying on the spot. He pushed Ivan into a chair.
"Russia, what's going on, darlin'?"
Russia didn't respond, staring in horror at the floor. He wasn't seeing Alfred, wasn't seeing the library's scuffed brown carpet wearing thin in some places. He was somewhere else, seeing horrors, seeing blood stained snow, falling flakes blackened by coal, hearing gunshots, a speeding train on an old rickety track, the screams of children trapped in the burning house.
Alfred didn't know what to do. He settled for stroking Ivan's hair, trying to get him to calm down and see this world for what it was. Ivan started shaking, covering his face with his hands. If Ivan, the super power, the Soviet Union, was going crazy, how long until Alfred went there?
"Ivan…"
With a guttural yell, Ivan grabbed Alfred close, hugging him as he buried his face into Alfred's shirt. Afraid to set Ivan off, Alfred let Ivan mourn in silence.
The softness of the sheets against bare skin.
Hours later, they were tangled together on the couch, falling asleep. Ivan's head was resting on Alfred's chest, holding Alfred in place. His breathing was steadier, but, Alfred noted, there was occasionally a jump, a little shudder as a sob was covered up. Alfred didn't say a word, just kept his arm around Ivan's waist, a hand stroking Ivan's hair, whispering calming words in Ivan's ear.
Ivan spoke after some time.
"You were supposed to die. I was supposed to die."
"We're still alive, darlin'. I don't plan on dying soon." Alfred spoke as if this was a normal conversation.
"Do not die. If you die, I die too."
As the years passed, tensions got worse. Their relationship was a mess, sometimes kissing, sometimes pushing each other away as fast as possible. No nights were as sweet as the one they'd spent when Ivan was breaking into pieces.
He went crazy after that point. It wasn't until later that Alfred went crazy too.
But, by then, it was too late for either of them.
It was once Europe was free, but the Pacific still trapped, that Ivan came at midnight to see Alfred. Alfred let him in.
Alfred sat in bed, watching Ivan gather his things in the early morning light.
A scarf tossed carelessly across the back of a wooden chair, glimpses of moonlight through the storm illuminating the room.
Ivan turned to him after Alfred made the guilty confession, his eyes flashing dangerously.
"Я ненавижу вас."
Alfred flinched as he stared up into those big eyes that viewed him with utter disgust. Ivan let the door close softly as he left. Ivan was gone, but Russia was still there.
The president, in his last few days, called for Alfred to come sit with him. He obeyed, the only thing he was still able to do. It took a while for the president to finally broach the actual issue.
"Alfred, what is happening between you and Russia? We have noticed—"
"Nothing. He left me because I mean nothing to him, because I am nothing to him."
He said it dry eyed, only a hoarse, rawness to his voice.
The president somehow knew that words wouldn't mean anything to him. He didn't say anything to distract Alfred, instead patting his shoulder. Things would somehow look up. No manner of clichés would help him.
The wind rattled the little cabin, covering up all sound.
A few days after that, the president passed away. A nation was left heartbroken.
Alfred studied his reflection in the mirror on the day of the funeral. His wet hair fell into his eyes, dripping over his shirts. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, but they didn't want to stay out of his gaze. He picked up the scissors and held them to the hair.
Snip, snip, he could see again. Did he really want to though?
Alfred leaned against the sink, scissors held with white knuckles. Finally, everything he was feeling bubbled over. He lifted the scissors and…hesitated. He couldn't kill himself, he knew that. What was the point in even trying? Any damage he inflicted would only be passing.
He brought the scissors to his throat. No. He put them against his hairline and cut. A straight cut, four inches. He watched the red, crimson red, blood drip down, more and more, sliding down his neck, staining his white collar, staining his blonde hair.
For a second, he was human. He looked like he was. But, it passed. He was a nation. The cut didn't change anything. It only gave him pain, focus, the ability to clean up the blood, put on a different shirt, and go to the funeral and stand there, ignoring the blood loss that had him swaying on the spot, speaking in disjointed sentences as his leader, his president, his captain was buried.
Sharp, delicious pain.
The next meeting was a few weeks later. Alfred avoided everyone's eyes. He was there, maybe. Weeks passed. The war in the Pacific was ended. Alfred's body was covered in cuts from the scissors. It was the only way he could get through the day.
Russia pulled Alfred to the side after one meeting.
"What are you doing to yourself?"
"None of your business."
Russia slammed his fist into the wall, inches away from Alfred's head. "No, it is not. What is it?"
"You've made it clear that you don't give a damn about me. Back off!"
"You are going to tell me."
"Too bad your words don't mean anything at all. Shut up and let me by."
Russia raised a hand to gently touch him, but Alfred shuddered and backed up. Russia looked…sad?
"What happened to you?"
"You."
With that final word, Alfred turned away from Ivan and walked away.
Beautiful eyes.
That night as Alfred stared in the mirror at himself, he found he couldn't do it anymore. Ivan was in the room with him mentally, watching and reprimanding. Somehow, Ivan had known. Somehow, they were so closely entwined, that they couldn't even distinguish their fabrics from the other's. Somehow, things weren't as easy as he'd thought they were.
America got stronger. Alfred went crazy.
And all Ivan could do was watch.
—
Alfred didn't want to open his eyes when he woke up. He felt so comfortable and warm. His pillow was particularly comfortable today. He snuggled closer, very content.
Then his pillow moved and groaned. Pillows did not do that. Alfred's eyes flew open and he sat upright. His 'pillow' did the same.
He and Ivan were in the same bed. He and Ivan were cuddled together in the same bed. He and Ivan were not wearing any clothes and were cuddled together in the same bed. Both of them frantically looked at the other.
"Ivan, we didn't—"
"I do not know."
"But, we couldn't have?"
"Maybe?"
"I don't remember."
"Я тоже не."
"What?"
"I do not rememb—"
"Then it couldn't have—"
"But it appears to have—"
"Circumstantial."
"Alfred, how do you feel?"
Alfred evaluated how he felt. "…fuck."
"Great."
"This is all your damn fault."
"You kissed me."
"I…you got me drunk."
"I was drunk too."
Alfred cradled his head in his hands. Ivan gently stroked Alfred's hair, fingers tripping over the scar.
"I found it."
"What?"
"What I was looking for."
"You're not going to explain, are you?"
"Nyet."
America looked at Russia, then out the window. "It's still storming."
Translations:
Я ненавижу вас—I hate you.
Я тоже не—Neither do I
AN: Okay…so the stuff in italics is all flashback. Now, for the touchy stuff…or at least, they might be.
Going crazy…I think of it more as a slow process, something gradual that happens when someone's pushed to the edge, but only in some cases…like for Alfred and Ivan. Insanity isn't always what it appears to be.
Cutting…let me say this. Unlike some people who might throw this type of thing in for a controversial point, an attention seeking action, something 'cool', something 'emo', something 'whatever', I actually get it. That's all I'll really say about it. I'm not going to be a spokesperson or whatever, but there is help for that type of stuff. Okay, enough preaching.
Sex…did they have it or did they not? Cue the evil laughter.
Now for the other stuff…yes, the president is FDR, I took liberties with his character. I made up that whole memory sequence thing, I don't even know. My writing style decided it wanted to do whatever and I gave up on arguing. And yes, what Ivan was looking for back in like chapter four was from the Cold War. In the end, I decided that something self inflicted would be more fitting, because in the end, that time period wouldn't have been what it was if people had maintained cool heads.
In other news, I have a three foot long black rat snake living in my garage that I have named Khrushchev.
Shout Outs: Marcella Jole' Mercilee (Darling editor…), Maddybug377 (I love America's southern accent too! So much that I find myself talking like that…now I'm rambling!), Rolmolo (I sort of toed the rating line…maybe?), Perfect1Up (favorite character, hands down, is Alaska because she's so cute…trying to hook Alfred and Ivan up! Maybe Alfred's getting out of Egypt now?), sakerat (Prussia doesn't like listening to rules…he likes doing his own thing), Sexykill69 (I stayed T and maybe gave you a taste? *running from kolkolkol* ), Kiriko-sama (thanks!), WhimsicalShmoo (your long reviews always make me smile), Lunarkitty15 (I love ending with a good cliff hanger sometimes, don't you?), The Fujoshi (absolutely love your summary of the Cold War. That's totally what actually went down), MxHero (thanks!), Charliechick117 (I love leaving readers hanging…I didn't do it this chapter!), demonlifehealer (progressing relationships…well…sort of? I don't even know what to do with Alfred and Ivan), pjsandwitch (vodka always helps!), Lilac24 (I've missed writing this too, I'm glad you stuck with it!), and tezcafae (You're so sweet! Just keep writing!)! THANK YOU ALL SO VERY, VERY MUCH!
