A/N: This one, surprisingly enough, doesn't have any pairings except for hints of RussUS from the previous chapter. But instead, this chapter is dedicated to Belarus, who is a pretty awesome (and scary) character in the series, and while I love how funny her obsession with Ivan, I wanted to look at it at a more serious way. Hopefully, I've done her some justice. xD

Never fear though, fellow fangirls, the next chapter will be Lithuania and Poland, hurhurhurhur. LIEKOMGRITE? //shot

ALSO, I would like to thank everyone who have reviewed/commented/story-alert'd this story - it means a lot to me since this is the first time I've ever written anything other than Germancest (who is my OTP, so if you've written any GermanyxPrussia fics, tell me. :D) HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS CHAPTER, MY DEARS.

Beauty

Yearning

Natashya Alfroskaya yearned for beauty.

Oh, she was beautiful she knew; not even Francis Bonnefoy would deny that.

But Ivan Braginsky, her precious brother, was who she wanted; who she longed to have. Many times, she remembered, he would tell her that he loved her, that he cared for her. Many times – he would remember – she would tell him that she loved him, that she cared for him. So why would he not have her? Though as she loved him, she hated him in a way – and in a way, she hated herself for it. Natashya hated him for not loving her after everything she had done for him. She had devoted her life to him, her will, her dignity, her being.

He repaid her by bring home that foolish sky-eyed nation home.

He didn't even look at her twice.

Natashya looked outside from her seat on the antique couch, legs crossed primly and the hands folded on her lap. The couch; it did not have the same musty smell that most old things did, but instead it smelled like vodka, tears and something that was purely Ivan.

The tears were hers.

Outside, the sky was the same colour as her heart.

A noise to her right made her eyes slide towards the staircase where heavy steps could be heard descending. She watched carefully until the figure was at the foot of the stairs and she almost let out a sigh of relief. If it had been Alfred, it would have been awfully awkward, but thankfully it was her precious brother who was looking at her as if seeing her for the first time, his scarf still billowing around his figure. Her heart darkened a little more.

"Good morning brother," she said silkily and stood gracefully, watching with sick pleasure the hint of wariness that suddenly bloomed across his face. "Did you have a good night?"

The wariness became a little stronger and Ivan attempted a half-smile. She knew what he was thinking but she said nothing. He was so, so beautiful, but not in the same way that Alfred had seen. No, she saw a little more than those amethyst eyes and flawless skin that was so much like the Siberian snow. She saw what the other nations could not. Ivan made to move, edging around her as if she were dangerous – but she would never harm him, didn't he know? – And walked stiffly to the kitchen, bare feet padding against the tiled floors. Natashya watched him for a moment as he disappeared around a corner and then she began to follow. Brother, brother – can't you see that I see you for so much more than the idiot asleep upstairs? The one who you gave your love to?

America – Alfred F. Jones. He could never see Ivan the same was Natashya could, not ever. Ivan was too complicated for him. He could never see the beauty that was Ivan Braginsky. Natashya blinked, realizing that they were in the kitchen, the kettle's shrill scream ringing in her ears. Her brother was watching her from the corner of his eye.

"Natashya, are you alright?"

"Of course brother," she answered automatically. She would never let her brother worry, because she knew he did, especially about her and her older sister. That was part of Ivan's beauty – he cared, and when he cared he cared with all that he had and it was dear and valued to him like nothing else was. As Natashya watched her brother prepare breakfast, Natashya couldn't help but list all those wonderful traits that only she truly loved.

Like the raw power that the others feared.

Like the innocence and sweetness that flowed from him.

Like the cruelty that no one could match.

She shivered and in an instant, Ivan was standing behind her, arms around her slight figure and warming her easily. Natashya gave a sigh that sounded like a woeful breath – only for now, she knew, that his fear of her would be forgotten. "Are you cold, my dear sister?"

"Brother..."

"Hey, Ivan-"

The two turned at the same time to the entrance of the kitchen were a certain blond was scratching his head sleepily. His eyes widened as he came to focus on Natashya.

"Oh, g'morning Natashya," Even he looked scared.

She opened her mouth to reply, but then her throat closed and her breathing grew laboured. Already her brother had let go of her. Her heart sunk painfully and the tears pricked her eyes like tiny cruel needles.

Natashya Alfroskaya yearned for beauty.

Ivan Braginsky was that beauty.

As she beheld the image of the two men, Natashya wondered.

Was it she that was the real fool?