A/N A line break is a switch between Amelia's and Ivan's POVs (even though it should be obvious). I hope that keeps the switching back and forth from being confusing. Unlike my past chapters, the flow of the chapter just worked better switching back and forth between Ivan and Amelia. Also, there is some language that needs translating, even if you've already read it previously, so I'll continue the practice of putting it in parentheses.
Ch. 14: Untangling the Web: Do Svidaniya,* Darling
"Al, what the hell is this?" Amelia demanded, storming out of the bathroom and pointing at her hair. "I thought you said you got the best do-it-yourself hair dye in West Berlin."
"I thought that was what I got," Alfred said, raising his hands in defense.
"Well, you thought wrong," she retorted. She glared at her brother and wasn't sure if she wanted to scream or cry.
Only two hours earlier, after being dropped off by Gilbert, Amelia had met her "aunt". "It's nice to finally meet you after only reading letters from you all this time, Fräulein Brown. My name is Maria 'Gensch'," she had said in German.
Amelia had shaken hands with the woman who was playing her aunt. "I'm also pleased to meet you," she had replied in German. "Since you are my 'aunt', please feel free to just call me Amy."
"Your 'cousin', Alexander Gensch, has told me the same thing," Maria had said, nodding towards Alfred, who had been sitting in a chair listening to the radio, "so I'll oblige you both this one time since your stay here will be very short. You may call me Tante Maria."
Alfred had looked up and grinned. "Yo Amy, long time, no see," he had said in English.
Maria had looked from Alfred to Amelia. "I see you two are already acquainted. Well then, if you'll excuse me, I need to contact your handler and make sure everything is all right on her end," Tante Maria said in English as she left.
So even little old ladies can be spies, Amelia thought. Non-nation humans sure are amazing. She turned her attention to Alfred and gave him a look. "Alexander?"
"It was the closest I could come up with so that you would be okay if you accidentally slipped and called me Al," he said quietly.
"And 'Gensch'?" Amelia whispered back. "That's just the German version of Jones. Then you give me 'Amy Brown'? Why not just call ourselves 'Alfred and Amelia Jones' and save yourself some time thinking up names that are almost identical to our actual names. Seriously, Al, if you're going to keep up this spying thing, you're going to have to come up with better pseudonyms."
"Boy Sis, you sure are cranky. Give me a break, will ya?" Alfred said, pouting slightly. "If you don't like what I come up with, make up your own name next time."
Amelia sighed and shook her head. "You're right . . . sorry, I guess I'm a little stressed out right now," she replied, "but since you're giving me permission, I think I will come up with my pseudonyms from now on."
Alfred shrugged in response.
Tante Maria came back into the room. "I almost forgot: Are you planning on looking like you do when you leave, dear?"
"Yes. Is there something wrong with doing that?" Amelia asked.
"Ja. If you don't look like the photo in your passport, authorities will confiscate it," Tante Maria said. "It doesn't matter how high up in the government you are, there are no exceptions. I assume neither of you want to have to explain why you look different nor what you were doing here, even if it was for the betterment of the free world."
Amelia sighed and looked at Alfred.
"Hey how was I supposed to know they'd confiscate it if you didn't look like the photo in the passport?" he said.
Amelia pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed her eyes. "Al, you really need to start doing more homework for these things."
Alfred had been sent to the local store to get Amelia some blond hair dye in order to get her hair color as close to her original as possible. She had wasted no time in making use of Tante Maria's bathroom to apply it when he had returned. After waiting the recommended time, Amelia had washed out the dye and examined the results of her work. The image in the mirror had both shocked and angered her.
"Sis, I swear the guy at the store said it was the same type his Missus used all the time," Alfred said. "He promised that it would do the job."
Tante Maria came out of the kitchen to see what the commotion was. "Oh my," she said, bringing her hands to her mouth in shock.
Alfred studied Amelia's new color. "What's wrong with it anyway?"
"What's wrong with it? It's bright orange! That's what's wrong with it!" Amelia hollered. "And the dye didn't even cover the entire length. My head looks like a piece of candy corn."
Alfred bit his lip to keep from laughing because he could now see what she was talking about. Her hair had colored blond at the roots, a yellow-orange in the middle, and a mahogany red at the ends. "Pfft. Wah ha ha ha!" He was never good at suppressing laughter. "Guess that's what happens when you try to dye dark brown hair to blond," he said between laughs.
Amelia snatched up a pair of scissors with a murderous look in her eyes, and Alfred jumped at the action. She felt a tickle of pleasure at his reaction.
"Snip, Snip, Snip, Snip!" In four quick chops, she cut her waist-length hair to just below her shoulders. Her frustration seemed to flutter out of her, just like her hair as it drifted in clumps onto the ground.
"Amy, what have you done?" Tante Maria asked.
Amelia sighed. "I was just upset and needed to vent. I'll go to a salon and have the rest chopped off to the blond part. I'm afraid to use any more dye on my hair. I've heard if you use too much, all your hair will fall out."
"Cutting your hair as short as Alexander's won't be necessary, dear," Tante Maria said. "I didn't suggest this earlier because I didn't want to delay your departure; however, in light of this new turn of events, I have a proposition."
She glanced at Amelia. "It will take about a week to get ones that look authentic, but my nephew, Lukas, can you make new passports and paperwork with this new hair color. Would you mind staying longer than planned?" She glanced back and forth between the siblings.
Alfred shrugged. "I'll need to change our flight, but that should be no big deal. I've done it before. I don't mind staying a week. The chocolate here is outta this world, plus I'd really hate to see Ames cut off all her hair."
"Okay, then, we'll stay the extra week," Amelia said.
"I'll call my nephew right away," Tante Maria said. "He lives across town, but he visits me once a week to help me with groceries and such. It may look suspicious to have him traveling back and forth, so I'll have him do his work here. I hope you two don't mind sharing a room; I only have the 3 bedrooms. Also, I'll need you to buy me some film; I just ran out the other day." She walked over and touched Amelia's hair.
"Does it really look hideous?" Amelia asked, starting to tear up.
Tante Maria shook her head. "The hairstyle you created out of frustration will actually work for what I have in mind. All the young girls around here are going 'punk rock' style."
Another wave of laughs leaked out of Alfred.
Amelia pointed at him with the scissors, and he jumped again. "Listen up Al," she said. "Since this is your fault, you are going to take me to the best salon in Washington DC or Hollywood, I don't care which, and you are going to pay to have my hair fixed. Now give me 300 West German Marks."
Alfred handed over the money.
Amelia grabbed her purse and walked over to the door.
"Wait. Where are you going?" he asked.
She turned to glare at him. "I'm going to buy some film for Tante Maria and some new clothes and accessories to match my new look . . . and maybe a hat to cover my hair."
Alfred held out his hand to stop her. "But . . . Gil said you should stay inside just in case."
Amelia smirked. "Try and stop me Bro."
Alfred sighed. "Just be careful okay?"
Lena walked over to the table Ivan was sitting at. "I thought that Malika was away visiting her aunt," she said to him, "so you wouldn't be meeting for the next couple of weeks."
Ivan shrugged. "I still have business in some nearby countries. I came here out of habit, I suppose."
"Well it's a good thing you did," she replied. "Malika sent me a letter for you. I'll go get it." Lena hurried through some doors at the back of the restaurant.
Karl poured him a glass of vodka. "This brings back memories. We met while you were drinking alone here."
Ivan smiled and reached for his wallet.
Karl shook his head. "I can't take money for a drink that I gave to a friend. It just doesn't feel right," he said, "Who cares if my Frau gives me a hard time for it." He grinned and walked back over to the bar to serve some customers who had just arrived.
Lena returned, slid the letter across the table, and took his order for some dinner.
Ivan took a sip of the vodka, tore open the letter, and started reading Malika's ever-neat and childlike handwriting.
"Ivan, In the last week since I left so much has changed," her letter began. "I arrived intending to say goodbye to my aunt only to find that she wasn't sick after all. It was a just ruse to get me here. She wanted to try to help her only living relative who lived in the Eastern Bloc get the freedom she believed I deserved. As soon as I found this out, I insisted on returning immediately to Berlin, but she had already hidden my paperwork. I worried about getting arrested trying to cross the border with no way to contact you for help. So I decided to stay while I looked for my paperwork."
"While I was doing this, I met her neighbor, a young man named Barrett Kirchner who brought my aunt groceries every day," the letter continued. "We got into conversations and through them fell in love with each other. I'm sorry, Ivan, I do care for you, but what I feel for Barrett is more than what we had. He has asked me to marry him, and that was an offer you believed you could never give me. Call it a woman's intuition. I hope you can forgive me someday and be happy that I'm somewhere where I can express my artistic creativity in freedom. Please forgive me. Ivan, I will always fondly remember the times we shared together. Your friend, Malika."
Ivan's hand felt cold and wet. He looked down to find the vodka glass crushed to tiny pieces in his glove. He marveled at the little diamonds that sparkled in his palm, and a dark feeling bubbled up inside him.
He crushed the letter in his other hand and stood up. "I could have given you freedom . . . so long as you were with me, as long as you were always by my side, you would have had all the freedom you wanted," he told the letter in Russian as he shook the broken glass onto the table.
"Ivan, what's wrong?" Karl asked him in German. He'd come over when he'd seen Ivan stand up. Karl glanced down at the pieces of the vodka glass, and his face went pale. "What . . . " he started to say.
Ivan put on his best smile. "I'm sorry," he said in German, pulling out some Marks and putting them on the table. "I've had some upsetting news in this letter, and I guess I didn't know my own strength. I need to go now. I have some business to deal with."
Karl nodded but didn't say anything. Ivan saw a look on Karl's face that he had never given him before, but it was one Ivan recognized: fear. He'd seen it so many times. It was like an old friend. Ivan turned and walked out of the restaurant knowing it was the last time he'd ever feel welcome there. Even if Karl tried to make him feel at home, he wouldn't be able to completely hide that new emotion he now felt for the large nation.
Lithuania jumped as he slammed the door to his Berlin house. "Wh-wh-what's wrong?' he asked in Russian.
Ivan smiled. "We're going to West Berlin," he replied in Russian as he packed up his things.
"What? Why?" Lithuania said. "I-I-I mean, do we have business there?"
Ivan nodded. "Da. A fox has escaped my cage, and I want her back," he growled.
Lithuania shivered. "What if she doesn't want to come back?" he asked quietly.
Ivan stopped packing. "Then I'll drag her—wait—why would she not want . . ." He couldn't finish the question. She had told him her honest feelings in the letter. If those words are true . . . Though the anger from rejection still tinged the emotions swirling through him, the affection he still had for her softened them slightly.
"We didn't get to say goodbye properly," he said finally. "If the path she's chosen is truly what she wants, then I'll let her go and hope she's happy. But I hope . . . we can still be friends, da? . . . that she won't forget me . . . I'll tell her she can visit Moscow anytime and leave anytime she wants, no strings attached."
Lithuania got a look on his face Ivan hadn't seen for many years. "I see. Let me finish packing for you then. If you want, I can also arrange our travel."
"No let me do that," Ivan said sighing. "You'll probably screw it up."
Lithuania smiled at this jab and continued to pack their bags; he wisely didn't point out that it was only an excuse Ivan made up to hide his hurt feelings.
"This rain is really coming down," Tante Maria said in English as she picked up her purse, "but I don't have a choice."
Lukas Müller, her nephew, looked up from the pile of cards in front of him and Amelia. "Tantchen, where are you going?" he asked in English. Both he and his aunt had decided to speak only English around their guests since Alfred's German was atrocious.
"I have to go shopping," Tante Maria said. "With four people to feed, I don't have enough fresh food even if it's just for one more day."
Amelia laid down a card. "Your turn."
"Plus this one," Tante Maria said, pointing at Alfred, "eats like he's starving to death."
Alfred looked up from his comic book and laughed self-consciously.
"You shouldn't have to go out in this. I could go get you some groceries," Lukas offered as he put down a card without glancing at it.
Amelia slapped her hand down on the pile. "Hah! I win again!" she said, scooping the pile off to the side where the other cards were neatly stacked and stacking them with the others.
Lukas glanced back and sighed. "I really don't get this 'Slap Jack' game," he said, scratching his head. "Are you sure we can't play a German card game?"
Amelia shook her head. "We've been playing nothing but German games since it started raining," she said. "You're the one who wanted to play an American game, so don't complain. Besides, this game is easy. Just pay attention and be faster than me at slapping that Jack." She set her cards down. "Tante Maria, why don't we restock your kitchen since Al here has eaten almost everything in the place?"
Tante Maria smiled. "That would be nice. Let me write you out a list," she said as she went into the kitchen.
Amelia grabbed her cards and put down the next card and waited for Lukas to follow.
"I haven't eaten everything," Alfred grumbled, lowering his comic book and pouting.
Amelia looked over at him and set down her next card. "Yes, you have," she stated. "I helped her cook last night, and there wasn't much to work with. Come on, Al, it's the least we can do since you made it so we had to stay here for a whole week."
Alfred returned to his comic, turned a page, and shrugged. "Whatever," he said, not looking up from the pages. "I was going to go buy some snacks for the trip anyway."
Lukas put down another card. Amelia set down a Jack. They both slapped down at it, but Lukas was fastest this time.
"See? You're getting it!" Amelia said, grinning at him.
Lukas smiled and blushed. "Well, like you said, it's a simple game that's easy to learn."
"Here's my list," Tante Maria said as she entered the front room, waving a paper in the air. Lukas, Alfred, and Amelia all stood up.
Alfred grabbed an umbrella and gave Amelia a confused look. "Why are you getting up to leave? I thought we decided it would be safest if you stayed indoors."
"Fine," Amelia said, sitting back down and sulking as Alfred and Lukas left. She picked up Alfred's comic book and started reading it.
After five minutes, Tante Maria came back into the room. "Amy dear, could you go catch those two? I forgot a few items that are necessary for the meal I'm making tonight."
Amelia looked up. "But—"
"I know, I know, it would be better if you stayed inside, but if you're careful and quick, then you should be fine," Tante Maria said, holding out another slip of paper. "You'll just need catch up with them and run right back here. You won't be outside for more than five minutes at most."
"Okay. I'll be right back," Amelia stated, tossing down the comic book. "I was going stir-crazy anyway." She grabbed an umbrella out of the coat closet.
"Use my coat dear," Tante Maria said, pointing at it when she saw Amelia hesitate at the closet.
"Thanks," Amelia said, slipping on the bright red raincoat. "I left most of my clothes, including my raincoat, in East Berlin because taking more than one suitcase would have looked suspicious. So where do you think they went?"
"Well, Lukas knows that there's a grocery about two blocks east of here," Tante Maria stated. "I'll bet that's the one they went to. If you don't catch them there, just come straight back and I'll send them out again when they get back. We can't have you wandering all over the city."
Amelia walked into the bathroom and started putting together the look they had worked out. "I know this is part of the look," she said as she smudged a charcoal-gray eyeshadow and a bright blue eyeshadow over her lids and then lined her eyes with black, "but I'll be glad when I don't need to wear such heavy makeup."
"Well, your hair won't make sense without it," Tante Maria said.
"I know, I know. Be back soon!" Amelia called as she headed out the door.
When they arrived at Berlin, Ivan had demanded that they would start looking for her right away. He reasoned that they might bump into her since it was likely she would have let her guard down in the "free world". They started by checking the neighborhood around the address that Prussia had given them.
"We were actually given a train station address," Prussia had said. "I think that was all part of this Tante's plan, so that I couldn't find her actual address. The family member who met us there to pick up Malika didn't invite me back to her place. Said something about being busy with funeral arrangements and whatnot. Naturally, I didn't think anything was wrong with leaving her with him."
Prussia had shrugged and picked at his fingernails. "Hopefully, they're in the neighborhood of that station," he had stated. "I really couldn't tell if the relative had walked there or not."
Unfortunately, as soon as Ivan and Lithuania had started their search, a downpour had started. Luckily, Lithuania had thought to bring umbrellas with them.
"Russia, I'm going to search down the next street over," Lithuania said, pointing to where he was referring. "Perhaps, after we finish, we could find something to eat? You haven't eaten anything since we left the Berlin house."
Ivan nodded and sighed as he headed down the street adjacent to where Lithuania had said he was going. Because of the rain, not a lot of people were outside. This may just be a futile search today, he thought. Perhaps we should just call it a day and try later when this rain lets up.
A flash of red caught his attention, and Ivan blinked through the rain at a girl in a red raincoat walking down the street ahead of him. She had the same build as Malika. She was using an ordinary black umbrella that blocked most of her head and upper body, so he couldn't see her beautiful, waist-length dark locks, but he was almost sure it was her. Every movement she made was similar to how Malika moved.
A gust of wind swept her umbrella out of her hands and carried it over to him. He almost dropped his own umbrella but managed to catch hers before it blew down the street. Ivan glanced at the handle: no rose.
. . . but then that umbrella had been stolen, hadn't it? In his weariness from the pain of loss, Ivan couldn't remember if Malika had repainted the flower on her new umbrella's handle or not. He stared at the handle as if trying to will the red blossoms to grow on it.
"Excuse me . . . that is mine?" the girl said in German as she ran up to him.
Ivan's heart skipped a beat when he thought he recognized her voice. He held the umbrella out to her and looked up. "Here you are, Malika. Did you know I've been looking all over for y—" he said in German, stopping short when he saw her face.
The girl took back the umbrella and wiped the rain from her face. Ivan stared at the stranger in front of him. She had some of Malika's facial features, but her damp, shoulder-length hair was blond at the roots and the rest was bright orange and chopped in a very disorderly fashion, a style the Malika he knew would never sport.
The girl focused her brown eyes on him and gave him a crooked smile. Her eyes were shadowed with bright blue and charcoal-gray makeup and heavily lined with black. The rain had caused her mascara to run slightly, which only made her eyes look darker. Except for the red coat, she wore the almost all-black clothes that were popular for the punk or Goth trends of the Western culture and had a ton of Gothic-looking jewelry on.
"Dan-Ke Herr," she said in broken German. It was then that Ivan noticed her words were drenched with a terrible accent.
"You're welcome," Ivan replied in German, confusion rippling over him. What is that accent? Texan American? Cockney British? Whatever it is, I bet even English-speaking people would have a hard time understanding what she's saying.
"But what is 'Malika'? Mine . . . uh . . . umbrella?" she continued in her broken German, pointing to the umbrella and saying the last word in English. "I'm sorry . . . mine German ist nicht sew Goot."
A dark-haired man ran up to her. "Amy, I thought I told you not to vander off," the young man said to her in English. "Your brother is looking for you." He looked at Ivan. "Who is your friend?"
Amy shrugged. "He's not my friend," she replied in English.
Ivan was baffled that he still couldn't figure out the accent.
"He just is a nice man who kept my umbrella from flying away," she continued. "He called it 'Malika'. Is that what Germans call umbrellas, Lukas?"
"Don't vorry about that," Lukas told her as he held out his hand to Ivan. "Thank you for helping her," he said in German. "She and her brother are visiting me here from out of the country, and she probably would have chased it all over Berlin and gotten completely lost if you hadn't caught it for her. She's kind of clumsy like that."
"Think nothing of it," Ivan replied in German as he gave Lukas a single firm handshake. "I'm afraid I mistook your friend for someone I knew. That's why I called her Malika. Please forgive me."
Lukas nodded and took Amy by the hand. "Come on, your brother's vaiting for you." He nodded as if to say goodbye to Ivan and guided Amy down the street and into a corner shop.
Ivan walked straight ahead without taking a second look at the pair.
"Oh my gosh, that scared me," Alfred said in English, grabbing Amelia into a hug after Lukas had pulled her into the store.
Amelia returned the hug.
"I was so lucky that Lukas was with me," Alfred continued. "Lukas noticed you, and then we saw that guy right behind you. I couldn't rescue you from him without his recognizing me. Some hero I am, hiding behind a magazine rack while this dude did all the work. What were you doing wandering around anyway?"
Amelia held out the list. "Tante Maria forgot some things she needed," she replied in English. "Thank you for help me out back there, Lukas."
"It was my pleasure to help you out," Lukas replied in English, his accent almost as perfect as an English-speaking person's would be, as he grabbed the list. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go get Tante these groceries." He walked into the grocery area and started putting items into their almost-full basket.
Amelia pulled away from Alfred. "You're worrying over nothing Al," she said. "I think all my experience from Hollywood and this job helped me out again. I don't think Ivan recognized me; he looked confused when he saw my face. I'm glad I decided to buy some colored contacts to wear while we're here. But I'll tell ya, I didn't expect Ivan to follow me here."
Alfred frowned. "I'm not surprised," he said. "Gilbert did warn us he might, and Russia is tenacious if anything else. Speaking of that demon, Ames, you need to stop calling him that."
"Calling him what?" Amelia asked.
"Ivan," Alfred stated. "It makes you sound like you're friends."
Amelia blinked. "What am I supposed to call him when we're around non-nations?" she whispered.
Alfred looked like he hadn't realized that there wasn't another option. "Well, you need to call him Russia when it's just us," he whispered back. He turned to Lukas. "Hey buddy, why don't you pick out something special for yourself. Your quick thinking saved my bacon," he said as he walked over to where Lukas was.
"But we are friends," Amelia said quietly, looking out the front window of the store and down the street. She could barely catch a glimpse of a fluttering scarf under a dark umbrella as it went around the corner and found herself blinking away the stinging in her eyes.
"Hey Sis, are you crying?" Alfred asked as he came back over to where she was.
Amelia shook her head. "No, I just got some mascara in my eyes from the rain," she lied, wiping her eyes.
"Well, I've finished paying for the groceries. Let's get back to Aunt Maria's," Alfred said.
The trio left the store, loaded down with groceries, and headed in the direction they had come from.
"I still can't believe you're changing your 'payment' for this job," Alfred said to Amelia as they let Lukas walk in front of them. "I thought you really wanted to take that tour of England more than anything in the world. You haven't stopped talking about going back there for almost 40 years."
Amelia shook her head as she shifted the umbrella she was holding for both of them. "After what's happened in East Germany and here, I think it's for the best. I just don't feel I can face England right now," she said, touching her hair and trying to suppress her confused feelings.
"What? What did that Commie bastard do to you that's making you act like this?" Alfred said, looking upset.
Amelia sighed. "I already told you. We only kissed a little bit."
"Well, I think that 'little bit' was still too much, but I guess it was necessary," Alfred said, pouting. "No one told me that was part of the girl spy's job. If I'd known that, I woulda—wait—what was that about facing England? Are you talking about Arthur?"
Amelia laughed. "Did I say that? I must be tired. I meant that I didn't feel like facing more time away from home. The sooner we get back, the happier I'll be."
"Me too," Alfred said. "I've gotten too used to only doing the foreign part of the job. Doing both is kicking my butt."
"It's so nice to know how much you really missed me," Amelia said with a smirk, slugging Alfred on the arm.
When they got back to Tante Maria's place, the two siblings made sure to stay indoors until they left for the airport the next day.
"Do you love him?" Alfred asked Amelia later as their plane taxied up the runway for the United States.
She jumped at the question and then lowered the magazine she'd been reading to look at him. "Love?" Amelia asked nervously. "I'm sorry, who are we talking about?" Did he figure out I'm in love with Arthur? she worried to herself.
"Russia," Alfred stated. The plane took off and the pressure from the takeoff seemed to emphasize his words. The two siblings were silent for a moment until the plane gave them a feeling of weightlessness as it began to cruise toward the United States.
"Good grief, has that been rotting your brain since yesterday?" she asked.
Alfred scowled. "Just answer the question."
Amelia studied her brother's face. She knew she couldn't be as honest to him as she was to Gilbert. He would react "poorly" to say the least, even though she wasn't sure what she felt for Ivan was pity, friendship, or more. "What if I said yes?"
"Then I'd never let you out of the country again if that's the result of you interacting with other nations," Alfred honestly stated.
Poor Al. He's way too protective, or possessive, or whatever. "If that's the case, then no, I don't love him . . . but I do feel sorry that what I did may have hurt Iv—Russia," she said just as honestly back. She glanced out the plane's window and thought she could see a green island north of the European continent.
"Don't worry about him, Sis," Alfred said, patting her hand. "I can say without a doubt he's got no heart to hurt. Did I ever tell you about the time when we were at a meeting during World War II, and Russia's heart just . . ."
Alfred continued on with his story, but Amelia didn't hear a word he said. Her mind was 38 years in the past, holding a warm hand in a dark bomb shelter under a London street.
Ivan gulped down his third bottle of vodka. He'd given up using a glass two bottles ago. The drink had made his head feel fuzzy, and he was starting to feel sleepy as he sat on the floor of his private office. He didn't bother to turn on the lights because the moonlight from the full moon poured through the window and filled the room with enough light to see.
I can't understand it, he thought. Whether we search West Berlin or West Germany. There is no Malika Fuchs—no Malika Kirchner, either. He laughed when he realized that he'd forgotten for a moment the name of the bastard who'd taken her from him so easily. How can someone just disappear?
Even with his "friends" in the USSR looking for her for the last six months; none of them had been able to find her, not even with the picture Lithuania had drawn to help identify her.
"Maybe the woman we're looking for doesn't exist," Estonia had said in Russian earlier.
Ivan's anger had risen at this suggestion, but somehow he had maintained control. "She does exist," he had replied in Russian with a deadpanned expression. "Lithuania and Prussia both met her, da?" He turned to the two nations.
They both went pale and looked at each other. "Da," they both replied at the same time, nodding.
"Perhaps she's left Germany?" Latvia suggested. "I mean, if I had a chance, I'd want to visit some island resorts or England or somewhere else in the world."
Ivan stared blankly at Latvia.
The little nation started quivering. "N-n-not that I need to t-t-t-travel," he said. "I'm h-h-h-h-happy just staying h-h-h-here with you, R-R-Russia."
Ivan had patted his head, and Latvia had looked shocked at how softly he had done it. "Your sentiments are appreciated, little one. Excuse me now, I have some business to attend to," he had said as he walked towards his private office.
Lately, his "business" meant that he'd drink in his private office until he got sleepy, and then he'd crawl up on a comfortable sofa and go to sleep until morning. As Ivan swallowed the last of the vodka, someone's warm and slender arms wrapped around his shoulders from behind him.
"Vanya, it's not healthy to keep doing this," a young woman's voice lovingly whispered in his ear. "It worries me to death to see you like this. I love you too much to stand by and watch you destroy yourself."
He whirled around and clasped the young woman to his chest, squeezing her tightly and closing his eyes as he relished in the realness and warmth of holding her. "Malika? My darling Malika, I knew you didn't abandon me. You were just keeping me in suspense, so I'd love you more, right?" he said as he drunkenly ran his hand through her hair. He could feel that her hair flowed all the way to her waist. It had to be her, and she must have heard about how he was and came to Moscow to make everything all right.
"Who's Malika?" the young woman said, her voice cold and dripping with malice.
Ivan pulled her away from his chest.
Natalia studied his face. "Why did you say you love her? Who is she? That person you and the others have been looking for?"
Ivan's words stuck in his throat. Natalia was the last person he wanted to hear what he hadn't been able to repeat since that day he had confessed to Malika.
"She's the reason you're like this, isn't she?" Natalia's face was hard and frightening. She wrapped her arms around Ivan's neck, and he shivered slightly at this gesture. "I could make you forget her, Vanya," she cooed, pressing her body so close to his he could feel her warmth blending with his own. "You can do whatever you want with me. I don't mind at all." Natalia then pressed her lips to his.
Ivan's head reeled at this turn of events as a chill ran down his spine. He gently reached up and removed her arms from around his neck. "My dear Natalushka, I appreciate it, but let brother handle this by himself, da?" he said, trying to suppress the apprehensiveness her words and actions had evoked. The emotion had sobered him up a little.
He glanced around the mess his office had become and finally listened to the pain and ache in his heart that whispered Malika wasn't ever coming back, that she'd already moved on months ago. He stood up and stumbled over to his desk and pulled out several sheets of paper. He walked over to the fireplace and tossed them onto the dying coals. The papers ignited into flames immediately.
Natalia stared at the papers as they turned to ash. "Vanya, those look like drawings of you. Why are you burning them? I could have framed them for you."
Ivan glanced down at the last drawing that he had in his hand: a rose gracefully covered the paper in black and white. "You said I should forget," he said, tossing the rose sketch onto the others. "I'm starting with these memories."
Natalia looked like she didn't understand, but that was all right. Ivan didn't want her to understand. He watched as the rose shriveled up and turned black, its current state a literal metaphor for the feelings he had for the artist. When the last of the flames flickered out, Ivan sighed and shuffled toward the door. Natalia started to get up.
"Going to bed? Do you need company?" she asked, her voice tinged with desire and hope.
"Dear little one, we're older now," he said, pretending that he didn't understand what her questions implied. "We don't need to huddle together for comfort or warmth like when we were children. I'm fine sleeping alone." Ivan walked out the doorway and stumbled to his room, not caring if Natalia followed or not.
"Hey Ames, wake up," Alfred called.
Amelia jerked up from her slumber. She squinted at her brother. "Al? What do you want?" she moaned as she flopped back onto her pillow.
"Thanks for the birthday present," he said. "You always know which video game I've been secretly wanting. Although, the guys were teasing me last night about having some secret girlfriend. Your handwriting is just too girly." He laughed at his joke.
"You're welcome," Amelia said. "Now can I go back to sleep?"
Alfred's stomach growled loudly.
Amelia sighed. "How about I make you some breakfast?"
"Gee thanks, Sis," Alfred said. "You're the best sibling I've ever had."
"Mmm-Kay, now get out so I can change," she said.
Alfred chuckled. "You're already dressed. Did you get drunk or something last night and fall asleep in your clothes?"
Amelia looked at herself; true to her brother's words, she was still fully dressed. "No," she croaked, glancing over at the window. The sunlight beamed in and caused her head to throb, reminding her that she'd drunk a half a bottle of vodka the night before. "Ugh . . . Yes." She'd gotten out of the habit of drinking that much of the Russian alcohol, but last night she'd gotten into a bit of a funk and decided to indulge. "Well, go on downstairs. I'll be there in a minute," she said, sitting up and clutching her head. "My stomach feels queasy. I'll be right down after I have had some medicine."
Alfred nodded and hurried out the door.
Amelia sighed as she look at herself in her medicine cabinet mirror and smoothed out her bangs and chin-length bob with her fingers. She then rummaged through her medicine cabinet and thought about the reason she had gotten drunk the night before.
Ever since her little stint with spying had ended in 1982, she had happily spent the last 30 years taking care of domestic business at home. Alfred had celebrated his birthday yesterday, and she'd made plans watch the fireworks alone from her back porch, having already dropped off his present and wished him a "Happy Birthday" the day before.
She'd heard that a local radio station was going to coordinate patriotic music to the capital's firework show, and she had dug through her closet to find her portable radio so that she could listen without having to blast the music from her stereo in her den.
As she looked for it, several shoe-boxes full of documents tumbled out, spilling their contents all over the floor. As she gathered them up, the word "England" caught her eye on one of the papers. She picked up yellowed paper and glanced over the words.
"I promise to take you on a tour through England," Alfred's handwriting stated. "I'll introduce you to our ex-bro, Artie, and I promise other payments such as—" Amelia stuffed the contract back into the shoe-box it had fallen out of and shoved it back onto the closet shelf before grabbing the radio.
She couldn't read the rest. To protect their secret and keep Russia from finding out who she really was, she'd willingly given up the one thing she wanted to do since 1944: meet Arthur Kirkland and be formally introduced to him. If not for keeping the secret, if she'd been able to get to the United Kingdom and Alfred had reneged on introducing her, she'd planned on slipping away from her brother and meeting Arthur as "Amelia Jones, Alfred's sister" herself.
She didn't want to think about what made this Independence Day different from all the others: the World Conference had been held in the United States that year. Alfred had arranged for it to be a few days before his birthday, so that his nation friends didn't have to make two trips. It had made Amelia think about things she hadn't focused on in years and seeing that contract hadn't helped.
This is the second time in 6 years Arthur has been here in the States, she thought. Alfred had made her make breakfast for him and their former brother 6 years ago before Arthur had left for the United Kingdom. She'd asked Alfred to introduce her to Arthur then, but he'd flat-out refused when the time came. She had punished Alfred by going with Elizabeta (one of the few nations who knew about her whom he allowed her to be friends with) to one of the most expensive restaurants in town and then shopping for new clothes and shoes and then sending the bill to him.
She let out a frustrated sigh. I have no doubt Arthur has already flown back home, and with him, another chance, she mused. I wish Al would stop being such a worry-wart about things. It's not like Arthur would go blabbing it to everyone. Besides, I'm sure Iv—Russia has forgotten about me by now.
She sighed deeper and walked downstairs to go sit on her back porch. Perhaps watching fireworks would help keep her mind off of things she'd rather not think about.
As she walked through the kitchen on the way to the back yard, she glanced at the bottle of vodka gleaming from the cabinet where she kept all her strong spirits and alcohol. She stopped and stared at the bottle. He wouldn't have stayed for Al's birthday, but if I did bump into Russia and he remembered me, I wonder how he'd react, she thought. An image of violet eyes, showing hurt or pain or even anger where they had once smiled when they saw her, appeared before her. A pang of regret had stabbed at her heart as that image had swirled around her mind, but then it had been replaced with a pair of beautiful green eyes that were warm and kind and a gentle hand that held onto hers in a cramped underground shelter as bombs rumbled overhead.
"Ah what the hell . . ." she had said finally as she had grabbed the bottle out of the cabinet and walked out onto the back porch.
"Y'know, it's weird that you got drunk last night too," Alfred said, bringing her out of her recollection of the night before. She'd been unable to find any stomach medicine, so she'd headed downstairs and started breakfast.
"Too? You got drunk last night? At your party?"
Alfred chortled at her question. "No," he said, "Don't be silly. I would never get wasted around those guys, even if they are my friends. Who knows what they'd get me to do? Nah. I was talking about Artie. After the World Conference, he skipped out on my party, got totally smashed, and missed his flight. Francis just texted me about it. He'll be leaving today instead." Alfred grabbed the toast out of the toaster when it popped up and started buttering it.
Amelia tried to look nonchalant as she listened to her brother. She suddenly found it difficult to tie her apron.
"He always does this," he said, snickering. "He says he can hold his liquor better than me and then doesn't bother to stop himself until he's completely sloshed. I'm surprised he and France were sober enough to tell the cab driver where to go afterward. Why'd he decide to go drinking anyway?"
Amelia grabbed a frying pan. "You probably said something that rubbed him the wrong way. You've always had a talent for that."
Alfred shrugged and grabbed the Tabasco sauce from her spice cupboard.
She broke open some eggs and threw some bits of real bacon in as she scrambled them. When they finished cooking, she put the eggs on a plate for Alfred, removed her apron, and headed for the door.
"Aren't you gonna eat?" Alfred asked, grabbing some orange juice from the refrigerator.
"I couldn't find any medicine for my stomach," she said. "Just smelling food is making me more nauseous, and I don't want to eat until I've run down to the corner drugstore to get some medicine. I'll be right back."
When she arrived at the drugstore, Amelia had a hard time deciding which medicine to purchase. The last one she had used didn't work at all, and the one before that didn't help with the other symptoms she had.
"The best medicine for stomachaches caused by hangovers is this one," a young man with a British accent said, reaching over her shoulder and selecting it from the shelf.
"Thank you, but how did you know that I was hung-over?" she asked, turning to see who had come to her aid. Amelia's heart leapt to her throat as she caught her breath and stepped back into the shelves of medicine, knocking several onto the floor.
"I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to startle you," Arthur said, bending over to pick up the medicine. "If I invaded your personal space, I apologize . . ."
Amelia stared at him. He was dressed in a blue-gray Radiohead T-shirt and black jeans. She noticed a chain that traveled from his belt loop to his wallet in his pocket. He looked like a modern-day young man who had stopped by the drugstore on his way to college classes.
Oh my gosh, he even looks hot in everyday clothes, she thought, mentally drooling. I don't know why I expected him to be in a suit. "You're fine—I mean—you didn't do anything wrong. I'm sorry," Amelia said as she scrambled to help him. She grabbed a bottle of pink medicine just as Arthur reached for the same bottle a millisecond later than her.
His hand covered hers for a moment, and he immediately pulled it away. "Sorry," he said, blushing slightly.
Electricity seemed to pass between them when their eyes made contact. Her face warmed and quickly matched the color of his face when he didn't look away, and her hand started tingling from the contact with his hand.
"Arthur, hurry up, ze plane will be leaving soon," a blonde Frenchman called as he came around the aisle corner to where they both were. He observed the two for a moment. "Mon ami, you don't have time to be picking up girls. Allons-y!"
Arthur reddened at this comment, stood up, and shoved the medicine he had gathered sloppily onto the shelves. Amelia also stood and replaced the bottle she'd grabbed.
"I wasn't hitting on her, you stupid wanker," he said. "I was helping her with something."
"Sure you were, mon ami. Well, you're in the wrong aisle for zat anyway," the Frenchman replied, wiggling his eyebrows and grinning as he held up something in his hand. "You need to go two aisles over. I was picking up some for—"
"Blast it! Shut your stupid, perverted mouth," Arthur cried, blushing and pushing the item in the Frenchman's hand out of Amelia's line of vision. He turned back to her. "I apologize for my associate here."
The other man, who Amelia was now suspecting was France, shrugged, fluffed his shoulder-length hair, and went over to the cashier to pay for his selection.
Arthur grabbed the medicine he had indicated earlier and handed it to her before grabbing a container himself. "To answer your question, you looked like you were feeling as ill and hung-over as I feel," he said. "This will definitely do the trick. I have had my friend here in the States send me some every year because it works so well. Now I had better get going before Francis comes back to embarrass us both. Good luck!" He waved the medicine container in the air as he walked over to the checkout.
"Thank you!" she called, still stunned from the encounter.
Arthur nodded, paid for his medicine, and left before Amelia's wits came back to her.
You idiot. You could have introduced yourself right then, she scolded herself. No, that would have made things complicated, and he would have missed his flight again if he stayed to hear the explanations.
Amelia paid for her medicine and walked back to her house. As she walked up the path to her house from the street, her mind wandered to that yellowed paper in the shoe-box upstairs. Alfred was finishing up his breakfast when she walked in.
"Hey Al, do you remember that contract you made with me back when I spied for you during the Cold War?" Amelia asked as she opened her medicine and got some water to take it with.
"Yeah, but I paid you for that already with the new contract you wrote when we got home," he said, "I even sent that information to your handler like you requested, which took a lot of negotiation and string-pulling to pull off by the way."
"Thank you for that. So I was wondering: Is there any way I could get paid the original payment for my work this year or for some other major job you need me to do in the near future?" she asked. "It would be nice to go on a trip out of the country. We haven't done that for years." She swallowed the medicine and then put some bread in the toaster to start her breakfast.
Alfred narrowed his eyes. "I'd have to think about it," he said. "But maybe you could go when it's Artie's turn to host the Conference in a couple of years; that way we could save on airfare. Why are you asking?"
"No reason," she said, trying to act indifferent as her cheeks warmed at the memory her encounter in the drugstore. "I'm just in the mood for something English."
It had been over 30 years, and Ivan hadn't thought about Malika at all. In fact, he'd practically forgotten she even existed. So much had happened to distract him from trivial matters like love and affection: the war had gotten worse and the USSR was finally forced to give up on Afghanistan, and the Wall (his beautiful wall) had been torn down, along with his precious barriers—his satellite states—one by one, because of that capitalist pig America and his ridiculous friends. Somehow, miraculously, he and America had become civil but wary associates again. That's why he could come to the World Conference without getting furious at seeing that idiot's face.
Ivan had not been looking forward at all to this year's World Conference. It was in the United Kingdom, and it always rained there, even during the summer. He really preferred to stay warm and dry if he could. Oddly enough, though, on the day of the Conference, the sunshine had streamed beautifully through the windows and over the flower gardens for most of the meeting. Ivan noted with satisfaction that he could glance out those windows and admire the English gardens whenever the meeting threatened to get boring.
For the most part, though, it had been entertaining as usual to watch the nations bicker and argue over the same things as the year before. Ivan mostly amused himself with the knowledge that it was just a matter of time before they all joined with Russia. Even with the fall of the Wall and the breakup of his houseful of friends, he knew it was inevitable. He just needed to be patient.
The thing, though, that intrigued him the most that day was the maids and the afternoon tea service England had served. One of the girls who had stayed behind to refill the trays and cups of tea and coffee reminded him of someone, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly who.
"I have met you somewhere before, da?" Ivan asked as the blonde refilled his cup. He decided to try the code his spies used to identify themselves. "Haven't we met in California last summer?" he stated. If she replied, "No, I think it was the Hamptons", then it would confirm that suspicion.
The young lady smiled. "I bet you say that to all the ladies, you charmer," she said with British accent.
Ivan started. He wasn't expecting her to sound like England. Even his best spies couldn't completely master the accent as beautiful as hers sounded. Her blue-gray eyes sparkled at her joke, and a memory bubbled up to the surface of Ivan's memories.
Where have I seen those eyes before? An image of a dark-haired woman transposed over the maid he was now looking at. Malika. He waited for the anger to flow up from the pain that woman had caused him all those years ago, but nothing happened. "Do not be coy with me, miss," he said in English. "You look like моя темноволосая лисица (my dark-haired vixen)."
He examined her face. "It has been many years, da. Вы изменились мало, но . . . Вы не признают твой Иван? (You changed a little, but . . . you do not recognize your Ivan?)" Ivan looked down at his clothes and a wave of confusion swept over him. "But I appear the same as I did back then," he stated in Russian. When her face belied no recognition, Ivan started to doubt a little. After all, this woman still looked almost as young as Malika did all those years ago. Perhaps she is her daughter? he mused.
"I beg your pardon, sir," the young lady said in English, "but I don't speak a word of Polish." Her ignorance of what his mother tongue sounded like caused Ivan's mind to reel. If this was Malika or her daughter, she should have known it was Russian he was speaking.
"Da. It is obvious," he replied, still feeling a little stunned.
Off to his left, he heard England sigh. He glanced over at the nation and saw that he was looking over at the woman. He must be upset by her lack of knowledge of other languages, Ivan concluded, knowing how proud England was of his people and their intellects.
The young woman curtsied and moved to the next nation with an empty cup.
The other nations continued to jabber on and argue, but Ivan didn't hear a word they said. For some reason, he couldn't take his eyes off this maid. The more he looked at her, the more he was convinced that she was Malika. If only I could get some proof, then I'd be able to confront her and force her to confirm my suspicion.
He watched as she filled each nations' cup and smiled with delight when they thanked her. Why is she getting so much enjoyment from being acknowledged by us? Ivan wondered. It was then that he noticed that France had also been intently watching her, and he had that look in his eyes that always meant trouble.
America made some stupid joke about everything being fine with his economy and had gotten scolded for it as usual. It amused Ivan that the silly nation was so talented at getting everyone's attention and ire that no one noticed when other nations had worse problems than America did.
The maid sneezed, covering her mouth and nose barely in time. "Excuse me," she said, pulling a handkerchief out of her apron pocket. She turned away to wipe her nose and then popped something in her mouth from her other pocket.
Germany gave her a cursory "Gesundheit" and then all the nations went back to business. America suggested one of his stupid plans, which was immediately turned down and ridiculed.
Ivan watched as the maid exchanged a note and a smile with Hungary. Odd. Why do they remind me of Natalia and Katyusha all of a sudden?
When the maid got closer to France, Ivan watched as he gulped down his tea and then pushed the sandwiches' tea tray farther away from the edge of the table. France then signaled for her. She came over, and France quietly asked her to do something, pointing at the tray he'd pushed away earlier. She poured him more tea, set down the teapot, and leaned over the table to pick up the bottom tray from its setting.
France smirked as he watched her do this, and suddenly, she looked up, surprise spreading across her face. Her eyes narrowed and then flashed with an anger that struck a familiar chord in Ivan. A wave of delight rippled through Ivan at the delicious reaction it caused in him.
"Pervert!" she screamed loudly, whipping around with the tray still in her hands.
France held up his hands in surrender too late: she planted the tray firmly on his face with a delightful, resounding "GOOONG!".
Ivan heard himself let out a little laugh.
The commotion that happen next was extremely amusing for Ivan. He even got to participate, something he usually didn't get to do because the Conference would always end in a huge argument before they got to his turn.
After determining that France could not be roused, the World Conference was temporarily put on hold as America and Sweden took the comatose nation to the infirmary and the rest of the nations took a break.
Ivan picked up the dented tea tray and examined it. The damage to this . . . he thought as he looked at how much it had bent. "England, this is not silver, da?" He held up the tray.
England looked distracted, but he acknowledged Ivan's question. "It's stainless steel, plated with silver, I believe," he said. "Why?"
As I thought, to be able to bend that kind of metal this much, either France has a really hard head or she has to be . . . Ivan put on his most reassuring smile and set the tray back on the table. "Just wondering," he said. Despite Ivan's efforts to calm him with his smile and words, England appeared uneasy.
The only sound in the room was a quiet snoring. Both nations turned toward the sound. Greece nodded in his chair. He never changes. Ivan smiled in amusement at the sleeping nation.
When England started looking around the room as if he'd lost something, Ivan noticed that the girl had disappeared. He saw a flash of golden-colored hair outside the window in the gardens. America was gesturing to his stomach while talking to Canada as they briskly walked through the path that wove through the flowers. They never change either. That pig is always hungry. Didn't we just eat?
Then he saw someone else that he was beginning to believe hadn't changed either, or at least, someone who appeared to have only slightly changed in the last 30 years: The blond maid who had knocked France out earlier dashed into the garden and looked around. She stopped by some rosebushes with a panicked look on her face. Who or what is she looking for? Ivan wondered. Maybe she's planning her escape before England fires her or France sues her? Both of those theories disappeared when she turned around and walked back into the building.
"I think I'll be going now," he said, heading toward the door. "I need to pick a lovely sunflower I had my eye on earlier before she disappears from my sight."
England nodded and picked up the ruined tea tray as Ivan walked out the door.
Ivan glanced down the hallway. There were nations chatting with each other or admiring art or enjoying their break. He walked down the hallway and turned the corner in the direction of the gardens. The maid was walking towards the direction Ivan was coming from.
Everything about her was the same: the way she walked, her figure, the way her hair had a slight curl to it, her blue-gray eyes. The only thing that had changed was that she looked a little older than Malika had back then, and her hairstyle and hair color were completely different. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced this woman was either Malika herself (and had gotten some amazing plastic surgery) or Malika's daughter.
He needed it to be confirmed, though, before he acted. Maybe I can lure her away where no one can interrupt us and get her to confess she's Malika or tell me where to find her, Ivan mused. Then Malika can pay for embarrassing me all those years ago. Finally, the anger and bitterness he'd been harboring deep inside for over 30 years smoldered to the surface, and he relished it.
Ivan strode toward her, determined to get things done before anyone noticed. The girl stopped in the hallway and appeared to be wrestling with something in her mind because she hadn't noticed him yet. She brought her hands to her mouth and bit on her right hand's thumbnail.
Ivan glanced at her hands, and a warmth fluttered into his heart and melted away every dark feeling he had in there. Those hands . . . my darling's adorable, little hands, he thought as his heart beat with a familiar urgency in his chest. How is it possible that they are still holding onto my heart?
Suddenly, it seemed as if Ivan had been transported back in time and had been given another chance to say and do all that he wanted to decades ago. "My sweet darling, where have you been all this time?" he asked her in English, reaching out and tenderly grabbing her right hand with his left.
The girl turned toward Ivan. She blushed and tried to pull her hand away. "What are you doing?" she asked, clearly flustered by his words and touch.
From Ivan's perspective, her reaction to him was exactly the same as it had been three decades ago. His heart somersaulted with joy at this realization, and he smiled warmly at her. "I've missed you, Malika."
A/N
*Interesting thing about the title: Do Svidaniya does not mean "Goodbye Forever" as is commonly believed. A better way to say that farewell would be "Proshchaĭ navsegda" (Прощай навсегда). Do Svidaniya (or до свидания) simply means "Goodbye", or more literally, it means "Until we meet again" (or "Until we see each other again"), which is why it's perfect to use for the title.
One last interesting note: If Arthur Kirkland was German, his name would be Barrett Kirchner (if we based it solely on the meaning of the names; the Celtic meaning of Arthur=bear, Kirkland=church land; Barrett=bear strength, Kirchner=church landlord/caretaker-I figured they were close enough).
Translations (In case you missed them in text):
Tante = Aunt ("Tantchen" is a more intimate way of saying "Aunt" which is why Lukas, her real nephew, says it)
Natalushka = the diminutive of Natalia, just like Vanya is the diminutive of Ivan. Family members also call each other by these names as a sign of affection.
Mon ami= my friend
Allons-y = Let's get going (or something along those lines).
моя темноволосая лисица = my dark-haired vixen (or fox)
Вы изменились мало, но . . . Вы не признают твой Иван? = You changed a little, but . . . you do not recognize your Ivan?
Now we'll pick up where we left off at the end of Ch. 7, with Arthur storming down the hallway toward these two in order to rescue Amelia from Ivan. Once I post Ch. 15, the end of Ch. 7 and the beginning of Ch. 15 should fit seamlessly together (not that I want to get rid of the subplot; I love it) .
Omake:
Modern-day Ivan: "Ahem."
Me: *jumps* "Y-y-yes Ivan?"
Ivan: "Why didn't you warn me?"
Me: "Would it have made a difference?"
Ivan: "That's not the point. The point is I'm not the only one who'll be feeling pain from this." *pulls out faucet-pipe*
Me: "! ! ! Wait! If you do that, you'll only be hurting yourse—"
Belarus: "Brother, who's this girl?"
Ivan: *jumps* говно! Where did you come from?"
Belarus: *shrugs* "All I know is that I just materialized here a moment ago wearing this." *whirls around in a wedding dress* "It must be fate, Brother. So marry me, marry me, marry me" *holds out 'grabby hands' toward Russia* "marry me, marry me, marry me—"
Ivan: *runs away* "Noooo! Go away! Go away! Go away!"
Belarus: *runs after him*
Me: "Phew. That was close. Thank goodness for author powers."
Arthur: *walks up* "You kept me waiting off-stage for quite a long time, you know."
Me: *looks down* "I know. Please forgive me?"
Arthur: *grabs my hand and kisses it* "Of course, dear lady."
Me: "Heh heh heh" *swoons*
Arthur: *catches me* "What the . . .?"
Yes, Ivan swore at Belarus; this is the modern-day Ivan, after all, who knows what Bela is capable of now (you should be able to translate that word he says in a variety of online translators). And yes, I also react that way to guys cosplaying as England ^_^ LOL.
Also, I'll be writing a Gakuen Hetalia AU Gender-bend (quite a mash-up, da?) fic in the near future. I've created a sorta-Role Play style forum to help out with things like voting for Student Council and helping out with names for nations who haven't received human names yet. Please check out my profile for the current poll and links to the forum (come play with me? I'll greatly appreciate it).