It was simple, really. Taking over the world isn't that hard. The first time he did it, he tried the straight forward tactic, and that failed miserably.
Ivan sighed and rubbed his forehead. Why couldn't his drunk self be more specific? The note, which said Sneaky World Domination, was wrinkled from the Russian's constant folding and unfolding. It was as if he was hoping to find something new whenever he reread it, hoping to find the answers.
As hopeless as he felt right now, he knew that he had thought up of this before, while drunk off his ass, and he can think of it again. He rolled his eyes at himself, and stood. Moaning and groaning at his desk was going to get him nowhere. Ivan rolled his shoulders and made his way to his gym, knowing that the only way to truly remember his plan was to completely empty his head.
He disappeared into the back room that he had converted into a gym after his sisters moved out. At the thought of his sisters he rushed to the front of the house to lock the front door, and then spent ten minutes locking his windows. Natalia was still on the continent. He wasn't taking any chances.
His gym was probably the one thing he splurged on, except for his vodka, and he was very proud of it. It wasn't often he got to actually use it. He stepped barefoot into the room, his feet bouncing slightly on the wrestling mat that lined the place.
A rope that hung from the ceiling, and he went to that first. After rubbing the sweat from his hands, he jumped up on the rope and climbed it army-style; no feet. He climbed to the top, slapped the ceiling, and shimmied his way down, careful not to burn the palms of his hands. Before his feet could touch the ground, he started climbing again. He did this for several minutes, going up and down, up and down, refusing to count how many times he repeated this.
When his arms started burning, he moved on to the bench press. He benched for a long time, gradually adding weight to the standard forty-five pound bar, until he could press no more. He took a five minute break and then started the leg press.
After that was rope climbing again. He worked this rotation for hours, constantly moving and only pausing long enough for some water now and then. Finally, well past sundown and probably into the next day, Ivan literally collapsed on the wrestling mat. His muscles trembled in exhaustion, his breath was ragged. His hands were bloodied from the rope.
Despite the pain that wracked his body, he felt content. His mind was pleasantly empty and he had long before worked the stress out of his system.
He sat up. Now, it was time for some meditation.
Matthew Williams was not a weak man. He was quite strong, and very agile. He could play hockey with the best of them, and often did. There was something soothing about the swish of ice under his blades, the cool air that would filter through his hair and redden his face. He was ruthless on the ice, a focused player set to win. He had no qualms about running into other players, about shoving them into walls, about "accidentally" tripping them.
But when he wasn't playing hockey, he was rock climbing. He would often visit the mountains in his country and climb them, sometimes spending days at the summit. It was an escape of sorts, a place he could go without real life intruding. He was also quite flexible, and had perfect control over his muscles. He could pull himself up into a handstand easier than most people can get up from the floor.
But now, here at the rink, Matthew sat with his head between his knees to stop himself from passing out when he tried to stand too quickly.
Decided that maybe skating wasn't good for him right now, he started to untie his skates. Prying them off his feet proved difficult, and he eventually settled for unlacing the skates all together.
Checking them back into the rental service that the rink provided, he smiled wanly at the girl behind the counter when she asked if he was okay. He pushed through the glass double doors, clutching Kumajirou to his chest.
"This was a bad idea, Kumayura," he mumbled.
"I told you so."
"So you did. I just have to learn to listen, is all." He smiled at his friend before scooting him up to his shoulders to get his car keys from his jeans' pocket. But the vibration of his phone diverted his hand, and he flipped his phone open.
"Hello?"
"Comrade Matvey."
"Russia? Long time no talk," he said, teasing slightly.
"You are kidding, no? I do not have time for jokes." The cold voice on the other end made the Canadian shiver.
"So, what's with the call?" Matthew all but whispered.
"I wish to talk to you. It is urgent that we speak face to face."
"A-all right. When?" It wasn't all right, but he wasn't going to let Russia know that. The man could smell weakness a mile away.
"As soon as you can get on a plane and get to my house." The line was disconnected and Matthew was left staring at his phone like an idiot.
"Okay then," he said, slipping his phone into his pocket and fishing out his keys. "Looks like I get to go on another trip!"
A few well-placed phone calls and a drive later, he was in his house, packing.
"Kumajirou, Mr. Harper said he would come by this evening to collect you. Will you be all right by yourself?"
"Of course. Who are you?"
"Canada." He grinned at his friend and gave him one last pat on the head before heading outside to his car, and from there, the airport.
Ivan ended the call, a smirk on his face.
He had finally remembered his plan, about halfway through his meditation technique. He had to force himself to finish it, for ending it early or abruptly could damage his calm, and that's all he really had anymore.
It was simple, as far as plans go. He'd get the weakest, yet largest country, in this case Canada, to join him. Voluntarily or not. He'd then use Canada as bait to get at least America under his rule, if not England and France as well.
America was the crux of this whole plan. Ivan was taking a huge risk in taking Canada hostage simply because no one seemed able to remember him. That damned American may concede to become one with Russia for Canada, but then forget about it.
But Ivan could be very...convincing. He smirked. He hoped that the Canadian got here soon, so that he could get started.
excitement shivered up his spine. He couldn't wait.
Sadly, however, the flight got delayed. Matthew groaned and cursed with the rest of them. He was dizzy and headachy, and was looking forward to a sleeping pill and an eight hour nap in a ten and a half hour trip. But no, weather had to act up and snow in the airport, shutting down the landing and take off lanes.
He stared out the window, watching as flurries of snow and ice was pummeled into the windows and walls of the airport by the wind. Damn it, he thought to himself. He was looking forward to this, thinking that after the business, whatever it is, was discussed he would tour around Russia, have a little vacation.
But now it was delayed. He rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone, speed dialing Russia.
"Hello?" the gruff voice answered, making Matthew tremble with fear. He wasn't going to like this.
"Russia, it's me, Canada. My flight got delayed indefinitely and I'm snowed in at the airport." There was silence on the other line, and Matthew rushed to finish. "I'll let you know as soon as we are cleared for flight."
"Just get here as soon as you can." Russia hung up on him, again. The Canadian seriously considered not going at all, simply because he was doing a favor for the Russian and he kept treating him disrespectfully. But, if the proud Russian needed help, he would do what he could.
He regretted that thought four hours later. He had curled up with his bags in a corner and a book in his hand. He was pressed against the window on his left side, and he glanced out every now and then. Sometimes it was to gauge the weather, and sometimes to look at his reflection.
He was thin. Painfully thin. He refused to categorize himself anymore, but instead studied his new face, an oddly detached feeling spreading through his chest. He shook his head at himself and turned back to the book, but didn't read.
Matthew had misgivings about his trip to Russia. They twisted in his gut, making his already sensitive stomach ache even more. He questioned his reluctance to go visit the man. Russia wasn't overly rude to him, save that one time he deliberately sat on him at a G8 meeting. The man was scary as hell, though, and creepy to boot. His child-like smiles easily chilled people to the bone and find an excuse to stay away from him.
Matthew shook his head. It would be like when Alfred visited him the other day, he tried to convince himself. They'll talk a bit of business, maybe share a meal, and Matthew would be free to roam the giant country.
Nothing would go wrong, he was sure of it.
Ivan stared at the circuitry that was once his phone that laid across the room from him on the floor. This wouldn't do. He tried to school his emotions, but the pure and unreasonable rage that blossomed in his chest when he heard that the Canadian's flight got delayed blinded him. He took a deep breath.
It would take approximately ten hours for him to arrive in Moscow. And depending on the weather from the airport in Toronto, he was looking at least a twenty-four hour delay. One day. It wasn't a big deal.
Ivan stood up and started pacing, his fists clenched. A day was too long to wait, but wait he must. He can't let his greed get the better of him. One day is not going to make or break his plan!
But it was no use. He couldn't calm down. Before he destroyed anything else, he went to the gym, shedding his coat and scarf and leaving them carelessly on the floor. He went directly to the sandbag that was suspended in the middle of the room and started punching.
It wasn't until the bag's seam split and Ivan was staring at a pile of sand on his feet, sweat slicked hair in his eyes and his breath loud in his ears, did he realize his blunder. His emotions were like a volatile weapon. A weapon that couldn't be used, should the Canadian prove that he can use them against himself.
Resolving to lock his emotions in the back of his mind, he stepped away from the sand, though there was a fine coating of it on his feet where it had stuck to the sweat collected there. Numbly, he grabbed a broom and cleaned the mess up as well as he could.
Then, he decided to jump into the shower. The icy hot needles of water pushed away the chill of General Winter, even as it turned his pale skin bright red.
He was okay. He was okay.
A.N.: Thank you for your wonderful reviews, larissita! This last one made me smile, despite my hangover ;).
Ugh. I hate hate hate hate hate this chapter. It's terrible. It's awkward and obviously a filler/transitional chapter. But, after I rewrote the fucker seventeen times, I decided I'd better go with the best I had. Ta-da!
Warning: Next chapter is when shit hits the fan and this fic earns its "M" rating.
Also, please review! They provide valuable feedback, so I can provide less crap (read the above...or rather don't. This chapter is horrendous). I really do appreciate any reviews I get! Thank you!
