Dro: Wooh! I like Fridays. My last class ends at 1:50, and it's a lab, so I always get out at like 1:00. Anyway, have at it! And review for me, darlings!

Chapter Summary: Matthew finds his old feelings suddenly brought to the forefront and threatening to take him over. Meanwhile, alter-Alfred watches in horror as Francis betrays Arthur, and he vows to kill the man no matter what. Finally, we return to Feliciano and Ludwig, whose final showdown comes to an abrupt end.

Warnings: Suggestive Themes, Violence, Language

Disclaimer: Dro will never own APH.

If anyone had asked him later, Matthew would have told him that he had struggled desperately to get out of Ivan's grasp. He would have claimed to kick and scream and bite and growl and swear. He would have described a fierce battle with Ivan in order to escape from the man's cold embrace. He would've assured his listener that he'd tried everything possible to escape from the most evil man in the world. He would have told them every single excuse in the book to keep himself true in the eyes of his comrades and friends. He would've claimed to have fought Ivan back without a single moment of hesitation.

And it would've all been a lie.

Matthew went rigid against Ivan's lips the moment the man started kissing him. But that quickly dissipated, and Matthew found himself greedily kissing back. What his mind had marked off as the worst decision of his life, what his heart had forsaken, his body remembered. Sixteen years was too long a time to just shrug off. Too long to pretend it had never happened. Too long to ever deny it to his former lover.

Matthew was in love Alfred, but he had not forgotten Ivan.

Through the alarm bells ringing in his head, Matthew found a dormant chest of desire had been unlocked and opened. Ivan's kiss was just like he remembered, though it had been well over a decade since their last one. Ivan's fingers gently caressed his cheeks, urging him to kiss harder. Ivan's lips were both hot and cold, both passionate and empty, both human and nation. He was Russia, but he was Ivan, and those things were two entities in one body, as Matthew had learned longed ago. Those two sides of the man constantly battled for domination. But neither would ever win. The cold, tundra-like country would sometimes be pushed back, leaving a warm-hearted and confused man in its wake. Other times, the country would win and banish Ivan's compassion to a frozen prison, leaving in its place something not quite…human. And sometimes, both sides would surface at once, creating a bastardization of humanity and monstrosity. Matthew had watched this ebb and flow for years, learning how to work around Ivan's moods.

He told himself he was only responding to Ivan's advances in order to get the psychopath to favor him. If Ivan's barrier of permanent distrust could be dented by Matthew's compliance, then he could quite possibly find a way to escape. He, knew, however, that his excuse was just that. An excuse. True, but an excuse nonetheless. He wanted this, as much as he hated to admit it. He had not left Ivan because of a lack of passion—or even a lack of love. He had left because he'd been scared. Ivan's increasingly erratic behavior had become unbearable. Matthew had begun to fear not for his safety but for the safety of his friends. Ivan had never physically harmed him. Even now, after being knocked unconscious with chloroform and tied up, Matthew knew Ivan had not hurt him.

He didn't know where Ivan's restraint came from in his case. The man was typically willing to hurt anyone and anything that even slightly irritated him. But he would not harm Matthew. And Matthew wondered if he could somehow use that to his advantage. After Ivan finished making out with him.

Their tongues met. Matthew heard a low groan and blushed as he realized it had come from his own mouth. He heard and felt the low chuckle in Ivan's throat. Ivan's tongue dominated his own, pressing roughly against it, wetly sliding around it, tasting his very essence. Matthew's cheeks were on fire. God, if someone saw him like this. He really couldn't deny he was into it. Passion and sex had never been the things that were missing from his relationship with Ivan.

Al. The guilt grew every second. Any minute now, he was sure, he would explode from the sheer volume of it. He loved Alfred. He wanted to be with Alfred more than anything. He'd dedicated himself to somehow catching Alfred's attention such a long time ago. And he'd still lost his chance. It hurt, knowing Alfred would not even acknowledge his feelings. Matthew had made several moves toward a relationship with Alfred, and the man hadn't even given him an ounce of reciprocation. It hurt. Matthew's chest ached. And the other Al was leaving as soon as this fiasco was over. Either that or he would die. Here. Tonight. It hurt so much.

He kissed Ivan with everything he had. His unbound legs wrapped themselves around Ivan's waist. It was awkward with Matthew's hands tied behind his back, but he managed to pull himself forward until his chest pressed against Ivan's. Ivan made a sound of surprise. He obviously hadn't expected Matthew to give in like this. Honestly, Matthew hadn't expected it either. He should've been struggling to get away. He tried to convince himself this was just a clever method to escape, and that was what he would tell anyone else if they found out. And it was a lie. Always a lie. He'd lied to himself about Alfred. About Arthur. About himself.

Ivan's hands left his face the same time his mouth did. They grabbed at the rope binding Matthew's hands together and deftly untied it. Matthew hands sprung free from the rope and tangled themselves in Ivan's hair as the man bit softly on his neck. Ivan sucked on the skin, and Matthew let out a low moan. His thoughts were starting to get clouded. He clenched his eyes. Keep it together, Matthew. If you let yourself go, you'll let everyone down. He shuddered as he inhaled, Ivan's teeth grazing his collarbone. Ivan's nose brushed against his chest as he slid lower and lower, unbuttoning his shirt along the way. Matthew could feel the desire rolling off himself in waves. Mon Dieu. I need to stop this before…Ivan's tongue dipped into his navel, and Matthew whimpered loudly. Ivan chuckled. A hand brushed against the front of his pants, and Matthew groaned in frustration.

"Stop teasing me!" He growled.

Ivan snickered. "If that's what you want, Matvey." Fingers grabbed at the button on his pants, and Matthew let his eyes slip shut in anticipation.

Then someone knocked on the door. Matthew swore.

Ivan just laughed. "It appears we will have to continue this later." He rose, sealing their lips together one last time.

Motherfucker! Matthew wanted to kick him in the goddamned balls. But he had to cease that little plan as Ivan headed for the door, quickly trying to button up his shirt before whoever was on the other side saw him. Ivan paused just before opening the door.

"Ah, Matvey, you may want to retie your hands."

Matthew furrowed his brows. "Why?"

"You will see momentarily."

Matthew grabbed at the cloth and rope and lightly tied his hands together, making it look like he couldn't escape. What was Ivan doing now? Why would he need to appear tied up if Ivan wanted him on his side? Unless…who was on the other side of that door? Matthew got his answer moments later, and he wished more than anything he had never asked the question in the first place.

Ivan wrenched the heavy door open to reveal Francis standing in front of it, surrounded by guards.

With an unconscious Arthur in his arms.

Alfred ambled up the stairs toward the third floor. Arthur and Francis had obviously ended up ahead of him. Their first meet up point had been at the base of the stairs, but on the occasion that Alfred took too long, they would head up before him. He hit the last step, wondering idly if his other self and Matthew were all right. He hadn't run into any more trouble, but there was always the possibility that there was an ambush waiting for him. Ivan was a master of traps.

His feet skidded along the carpet as he spotted a group of guards in the distance, and he rapidly leapt a few feet to the left, hiding himself down another hallway. Cautiously, he peered around the wall, spying a circle of guards. There were surrounding something.

Someone.

Arthur and Francis.

Alfred's heart clenched. Shit. They had anticipated all sorts of ambushes, but there had always been the possibility they'd still get caught by one. Alfred counted. Too many for him to take out before they'd had a chance to kill his comrades. If he wasn't fast enough, Arthur could…He took a deep breath. No, he had not come all this way just to lose everything in the end.

He readied his gun.

He aimed at the guard in the middle of the crowd, trying to see if he could scatter the hoard and provide his friends with an escape route. His finger tightened on the trigger, his rifle providing a trajectory that would lead straight to the man's skull.

Then he saw Francis move. He faltered, missing his shot, as he watched, horrified, as Francis whipped around and pistol-whipped Arthur in the face. Arthur didn't even have a chance to react. His unconscious body fell over, and Francis settled a hand around his back to ease his descent. Adopting a completely different persona from anything Alfred had ever seen before, Francis hoisted Arthur into his arms and stared down the guards.

"Tell Ivan I have the resistance leader."

Alfred's blood ran cold. It couldn't be. No. No. No. Not Francis. Out of all of them…out of everyone it could've possibly been…how could…Francis couldn't be a spy. He was Arthur's closest friend!

And therefore, the perfect double agent.

Alfred's icy veins were suddenly melted by a surge of fiery rage. How dare that bastard! How dare he betray Arthur! I swear to God as soon as I save Arthur, I'm going to kill you, you traitorous motherfucker! As soon as he had a shot, he swore, he'd blow a hole right through Francis' skull. I will end you, you son of a bitch. Furious blue eyes watched as Francis walked off with Arthur in his arms, the guards following him.

A veil of fear fell over Alfred. They were taking Arthur to Ivan. His pulse quickened. How long would Ivan keep Arthur alive before…? He had to do something. He had to get Arthur out of Ivan's clutches before that bastard hurt him…or worse. He'd never forgive himself if he stood by and let Arthur die. He was still the hero, damn it! And he loved Arthur. More than anything. You're the one I've been waiting for my entire life. Always right in front of me but always invisible on my radar. And now I finally have you…and I'll be damned if I let myself lose you again.

He watched as the crowd disappeared around the corner.

Then he followed.

Time had slowed to a crawl. One moment, Feliciano had been running full speed at him, knife drawing ever closer to his neck or stomach or heart or wherever Feliciano wanted to land his final blow. But the next second, Feliciano seemed to be moving in slow motion, and though Ludwig's clarity was oddly lucid, he moved with the same slow pace. His brain felt like it was working a thousand times faster than his body. His arms slowly shifted to aim at Feliciano's prone body. His finger slowly pulled the trigger.

Too slow.

Feliciano maneuvered around the shot, and it blew chunk out of the wall instead of him. So Ludwig fired again, and Feliciano dodged again. And again. And again. Like a skipping record. But with every skip, the distance between them grew smaller and smaller. Feliciano neared him, poised to deliver the kill, and Ludwig desperately fired one last shot.

Feliciano slammed into him, his leg knocked out from under him by the force of the bullet. But he didn't stop his assault. Ludwig pushed him off as the knife came swinging for his neck, and Feliciano retaliated with a kick, sending Ludwig sprawling over. He cried out as the knife in his back shifted again, tearing into the muscles around his shoulder. The time it took Ludwig to recover from the rush of pain was all the time Feliciano needed to get to his feet, blood dripping from the wound in his thigh, and initiate another assault.

Ludwig knew he'd never get up in time. He faced away from Feliciano, pushing himself up as quickly as he could. He turned his head just in time to the knife swing down toward his back. Damn it. He clenched his eyes shut, waiting for the pain.

It never came.

Ludwig cautiously opened his eyes, craning his neck to get a look at Feliciano's face. The knife dug into the material of Ludwig's shirt, stopping just short of piercing the skin. Feliciano's hand was rigid, but Ludwig could see the subtle tremors running through it. His eyes trailed up Feliciano's arm until he got to his eyes.

He'd never seen an expression like that on Feliciano's face. It didn't look like fear. It didn't look like sorrow. It didn't look like pain.

It was more than any of those things separately and greater sill than any of them combined. It was the worst thing Ludwig had ever seen in Feliciano's expressions. Even past Feliciano's mercilessness and indifference. Even past the fury and heartlessness. Even past the look of grim satisfaction that flickered across his face when he'd successfully injured Ludwig.

There was only one way to describe Feliciano's eyes.

Haunted.

As soon as Ludwig made eye contact, Feliciano stumbled backward, his injured leg causing him to fall over. The knife clattered to the floor, the hand that had once held it now covering Feliciano's mouth. He was gripping his face so hard, his fingers had turned white, and his face had drained of its color. Brown irises were unfocused and dilated. Like he wasn't there anymore. Like he was somewhere else. Somewhere in the past.

Ludwig immediately knew what he was seeing. He'd seen it before. So many times.

He's remembering when he killed the other me. He's having a flashback. He's...he has post traumatic stress disorder. A wave of pity washed over him. A small voice in the back of his mind told him to shoot Feliciano and get it over with. The guy had killed the other him! But this…cruel, heartless, premeditated murder did not usually garner emotional damage like this. There was something else going on here. Something wasn't right.

"You," he started, "did you really kill the other me?"

Feliciano's eyes widened, and he looked like he was really seeing Ludwig for the first time. And Ludwig knew.

"You didn't, did you? You didn't kill your Germany, did you?"

Tears ran down Feliciano's face as slowly shook his head.

"Who did?" Ludwig dared to ask.

Feliciano shook his head again. "No, that…it's not for you to know…it's not…you can't…this isn't…I have to…there's other…I have to kill you! I have no other option!"

"You always have more than option, Feliciano." Ludwig was really suspicious now. He watched as the double of his lover quickly broke down in front of him. Feliciano gripped his hair pulled at it, crying out in frustration.

"Stop it!" He screamed at no one. "I have to! I have to do it! I failed before! I'm empty and hopeless and heartless and dead! This shouldn't hurt! Why does it hurt!"

"Feliciano, who killed me?" He tried again.

"Fratello!" Feliciano screamed. "Fratello took my hand and shoved the knife in your back! Fratello did it! Fratello! I hate Fratello! I hate him! I love you! I love you, Ludwig. I always did." He broke down into a mass of sobs. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He rocked back and forth, repeating it over and over.

Oh Gott, Ludwig thought, this boy was so damaged. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before. The heartlessness was all an act. The coldness was a mask that covered to the broken and fragile emotional state on the inside. He'd been betrayed by Romano and lost his lover, and it had destroyed him. Ludwig had spent his entire time here with everyone assuring him that Feliciano was a heartless monster.

And they'd all been wrong.

He'd been broken, and in tatters, Russia had put him back together as mock murderer, confused and hurt and hopeless. Ludwig was angry, angrier than he been in so many years. Possibly, angrier than he'd ever been. Feliciano had been the same kind man he knew back home. He had been the carefree and joyful and laidback Northern Italy that Ludwig knew and loved. And he'd had that persona smashed to pieces by his own brother, the shards of it rubbed back into his bloody hands with every dark emotion that Russia implanted him with. He'd been completed fooled and manipulated.

Feliciano started wailing, his finger nails digging into his scalp. A dribble of blood ran down his face. He was completely breaking down, his mind coming apart at the seams. So Ludwig did the only thing he could think of.

He hugged the man he loved.

Dro: D'aw! Germany! I knew you had a soft side somewhere! Hmph! Matt, you know better than to make out with the enemy...not that I mind. And Alfred, stop threatening to kill people! By the way, where's the other Alfred?

Next Chapter: Matthew and Francis confront each other, and we finally find out just what Ivan promised the Frenchman all that time ago. Meanwhile, alter-Alfred comes up with an elaborate plan to sneak up on Russia. Let's just say it involves vents. Lastly, Gilbert and Antonio come back into the picture as they both go searching for Ludwig...and Lovino comes too...sort of.