Ivan put his head in his hands. For the last week he had been getting intense migraines. They were just like the ones he used to get right before he blacked out, but those would be accompanied with a ringing in his ears. He figured the only reason he had not blacked out yet was because he always avoided America. He would not black out unless there was someone there with blood to shed.
It had been almost two months since he had killed Estonia. Russia was actually surprised he had lasted this long with not being able to torture someone. Of course, there had been times where he had gone much longer, but that was when he wasn't continuously tempted by having someone else there all the time, within killing distance. If he was alone, he could potentially go years with not seeing another soul in pain.
Opening the door to the room, America was surprised to see Ivan in it, sitting in one of the chairs. He was just going through the house, cleaning the rooms while trying to ignore the part of his mind that was trying to tell him that Russia hated him now. Even at meal times, his supper was now just left on the table so that he was expected to know when dinner was. Because of it, he had started to use the toy more frequently, making use of the fact that it vibrated, unlike the first time.
"What's wrong?" Alfred asked quietly, seeing just how much pain Russia seemed to be in. Slowly, he went over to him and put his hand on his shoulder, trying to get the Russian to look at him.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Russia wasn't completely sure what Alfred had said to him, because his ears started ringing. He had maybe a few seconds before everything turned black, and he woke up on the floor, covered in blood. "Get out." He had no clue how loud he had said it, not being able to hear himself, either.
Alfred's eyebrow furrowed in confusion. "What?" Where did that come from? Was he really that disgusted with him now? All he wanted to know was what was wrong with Russia so that he could help him.
"Get out." He said, more forceful when he noticed that America wasn't moving. Both the headache and the ringing were stronger now, and a steady chant was starting in his mind. Kill him. Kill him. Kill, kill, kill!
"Russia..." He started, backing away slowly. America had no idea just why Ivan was being so callous, but it was extremely... Strange. He still had his head in his hands, but his voice had turned deathly cold with his last order.
With the last shred of self-control, Ivan stood up and yelled, "Go!" The smaller nation finally turned around and started running, but it was already too late. Ivan was long gone.
After Ivan had yelled a third time, America turned around just after seeing his deep, bloodthirsty eyes. Even after only seeing them for less than a second, that was the only way he could describe them as he was pulled back after trying to get out of the room.
Russia's body lifted the small blond off the floor, throwing him in the direction of a chair. He hit it and the chair flew backward. Cold eyes looked at him before he went over there, grabbing the nation by the hair and yanking up. With a flick of the wrist, Russia tossed the fragile head to a wall, hitting with a dull thud. He saw a trickle of blood gushing from a head-wound, but it didn't really register.
Through the white spots that had engulfed his vision for a few seconds, Alfred saw Russia's empty eyes which had severely contrasted with his snarling lips. Before he could comprehend just what happened to him, Ivan continued to hit the rest of his body, causing him to double up in pain, only to be thrown to the floor again. After the first hit, he couldn't completely keep up with everything that was happening.
Hand hitting a tall lamp, Russia's arm grabbed it and swung wide, hitting his prey in the stomach. There was blood on his lips now. But it wasn't enough. There needed to be more blood. A knife was brought out of Ivan's jacket pocket. He flipped open the blade with a flick and advanced on the target. One strong hand grabbed the small neck, lifting him up. He slammed the person to the wall, holding him there by the throat. Cold, dark eyes looked into terrified ones as the knife was brought to pulsing veins. With the quarry's heart pumping so fast, there would definitely be blood. Lots of it.
Alfred gasped for breath as he was held against the wall by his throat with a knife by his fluttering artery. What the hell had just happened? All he wanted to do was clean the room and ask what was wrong with Ivan. Now, being strangled, a single tear fell down his face, throughly confused as to why Russia was going to kill him, seemingly randomly. "Ivan..." he managed to choke out, his vision blurry from tears and his body pulsing from the pain.
A second of hesitation. Slowly, the hand holding the knife opened and the blade fell to the floor. His other hand let go of Alfred's throat and quickly banged against the wall beside his head. A growl from deep in Russia's throat, sounding more like it came from an animal, came from lips stretched taught. "Run."
Without hesitating, America ran out of the room. He first thought to go to his room, but then the thought of Ivan coming back to finish the job made him run down the stairs instead. Quickly unlocking the main doors, he ran outside in knee deep snow, determined to run as far as possible. Through his mind fog, he didn't realize just how idiotic he was being, running through the snow without a jacket or proper shoes in the middle of a Russian winter, but he just needed to get away.
Now, with no one else there, Russia tore the room apart. The lamp that he had hit his escaped prey with was picked back up and swung at anything possible. There were holes in the walls. Not a single piece of furniture stood a chance. Picture frames were shattered, anything breakable thrown at a wall. There were long cuts on his large hands from countless splinters and bits of glass. Things that he grabbed now had bloody hand-prints. He picked up a chair, throwing it at the only window in the room. The glass crashed to the ground, along with the chair, falling in the snow below.
Hearing the sound of glass breaking, Alfred redoubled his attempts to get as far from the mansion as possible. He didn't even look behind him, scared that the enraged Russian was following him to finish the job. It wasn't too long till he had gotten farther than he ever had walked before, tripping slightly on the thick snow.
Since he wasn't dressed properly to be outside, it didn't take too long for him to feel the bone-chilling cold that inhabited Ivan's country. Was this the 'General Winter' he had threated him with all those months ago? It seemed that it was, from the eerie howl of the light wind blowing across the empty landscape. Still, Alfred ran, putting as much distance he could between him and Russia.
Was the reason he snapped because he didn't care about him anymore? Did he become such a drain on him that it would just be better to kill him? That thought alone caused Alfred to stumble a bit more. Maybe.... Maybe he should just die. It would help Russia, since then he wouldn't have to feel obliged to take care of him anymore, plus then he could get anyone he wanted to torture. America just hoped that he wouldn't go for Canada or England, even if they didn't care about him any more.
Even though he was thinking about just giving up, he continued to push through the snow, stumbling more often from the snow and from the deep chill that had started inhabiting his body. Eventually, with almost every step he took, Alfred would end up face first in the snow, only to have to get back up, take a few more steps and repeat the process. The more he continued to run, the more his limbs felt heavy and awkward. Falling down time after time, his body by then had started to shiver uncontrollably, reminding him just how stupid he was, not grabbing a jacket on the way out. Though if he stayed there any longer, he would have probably been dead by now.
Suddenly as if he was put into a sauna, his body started to burn up. Since his mind had become as sluggish as his body, he just fumbled with his shirt and the button on his pants, shedding them. It helped the heat somewhat, but it didn't stop the feeling as if each breath shredded his lungs with ice crystals.
Finally, he allowed himself to just fall down, cushioned by the thick snow. It definitely would be better than having to trouble Russia more. Without him, Ivan would be ok. Also, Ivan had said a few times that freezing to death was the best way. In fact, the comforting numbness that had spread through his body was making him feel better. If America was to die, then everything would be better. Yes, his country would fall apart, but no one would care. They would all jump on the chance to start colonizing again; that is, if Russia didn't lay immediate claim on it.
Closing his eyes, he let the cold take him.
.oOo.
Ivan kept his eyes closed.
As he regained consciousness, he felt the pain all over his body that had accompanied him every time he woke up from blacking out. He no longer had a headache, though his arms and hands hurt more than the rest of his body, a sharp pain instead of the dull, throbbing pain elsewhere.
He could feel he was on the floor. Was that wetness he felt by his left hand blood? Or had all the blood dried by now?
Slowly, his eyelids opened and violet eyes roamed the destroyed room.
Broken chair; broken window; broken wall; broken desk. No broken body. There was a little bit of blood, but he suspected that was from the wounds he found on his arms.
This made no sense. Where was the massacre he had come to expect when he woke up? Here, the only carnage was that of the room. Maybe the body was in a different room. Russia's memories of the day were blurry at best, so he might have simply been in another room when he had blacked out, killing America there. But what were his motives for changing rooms?
Slowly, dreading what he was sure to find, Ivan started searching the rooms on that level. It didn't take long, because he could tell instantly that he had not been there. Nothing was out of place, and the floors weren't covered in blood.
Going to the other floors, even in the basement, he came up with nothing. He supposed it was possible Alfred had gotten away... even if it had never happened before...
Suddenly, Russia remembered the tracking device. No, not in America's arm. He had known back then that the blond would try to get it out, so he had never actually put one there. But, why would Alfred think he had placed a tracking device in him when he had taken out his appendix? Of course it would still be there. How could he possibly have gotten it out?
Quickly, the tall Russian walked to the room that held the equipment he had used to fly the helicopter when Alfred had been about to crash it. In a small drawer was the hand held device he could use to see exactly where America was.
There. The steady beep... outside. That would explain why he couldn't find him in any of the rooms. But... why wasn't it moving?
"Shit." Before going outside, Ivan went to the medical room, knowing he would at least need a stretcher. He had a few things in the helicopter already. He took it downstairs and outside in the knee deep snow. He swore again, fearing the worst. The helicopter seemed like it took an hour to start up. Giving another look at the screen and the dot, he took off in that direction.
He should be there soon... there! A white figure! Alfred was obviously covered in snow, but by the looks of it he was at least standing. But that looked too big to be a human, it looked more like... "Fucking polar bear." It was walking in a very specific direction. Where could it be going? All there was in that direction was a small lump of snow. Unless... Taking another look at where the tracking device was confirmed it. That lump of snow was Alfred, and he was about to be lunch for that polar bear.
Quickly landing the chopper, Ivan jumped out and ran for the large white animal. Luckily it hadn't seen him yet. Taking out a large knife, Ivan leaped at the bear.
