Yay! Only a few more chapters left! Thanks for keeping with me, this was my first story and I was a bit nervous… not anymore. Thanks for the great reviews everyone!

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Matthew couldn't speak, his throat still hurt quite a bit and he felt the need for cool air, maybe it would relieve the ache a bit. He headed for the front door, pulling down a jacket off the hook—the same colors as Ivan's—and wrapping an extra scarf, the color of fresh blood or perhaps one of Frances Roses, around his neck.

Russia heard the door click open and then close and went to it, looking out just in time to see a short figure walking away into the snow. Was that… Ukraine? It was her scarf, her jacket, hair that looked to be the same color as hers… perhaps she had returned to get them. He searched franticly for his jacket, realizing that it was still in his room and rushed to get it.

Matthew coughed a bit as the cold air hit his abused lungs, but he had been right, it did help. He wandered aimlessly through leafless trees, reaching towards the gray sky like skeletal, clawing hands. He picked up a stick, drawing pictures in the snow for a little while. He sighed, coughing once again—pulling the scarf higher up around his mouth—and continued his wandering.

Russia rushed from the house and followed the footprints through the snow, hoping to catch up with her. It had to be her! It had to! Maybe she had forgiven him! Maybe he wasn't alone anymore!

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Alfred had gathered wind of a murder in Russia. And at the scene the investigators had found clothes, covered in Ivan Braginski's fingerprints and containing Matthew's wallet.

Ivan had killed Mattie. Who knew what he was doing with his shy, sweet little brother now?

So, Alfred was staking out Russia's house, he had been for several days. The figure slipping out the front door signaled the beginning. "Operation Anti-Russ—err Operation Rescue the Princess in progress" he mumbled to himself, and brushing some snow of his shoulders. He loaded his sniper gun, following the figure through the snow from a distance, skirting along the top of a ridge, not seeing the other, taller form as it rushed out behind him.

The figure ahead of him held a long narrow cylinder in his hand—that damnable water pipe Russia always had with him—that he placed on his knees as he sat down slowly on a stump, at the top of a hill that provided a wonderful view of the white valley.

Alfred crouched behind a log, steadying the barrel of his rifle on it, glaring down the scope at the hunched shoulders of the form below him. Were they perhaps a little to slender, a little two short, their hair a little to long and gold…? If it was America didn't notice in the heat of his anger. His finger hovered over the trigger as he made slight adjustments in his aim.

A figure raced to the edge of the trees, pausing indecisively just as his finger pulled the trigger. Alfred's eyes raced between the two. The man in the trees was unmistakably Russia. But if Russia was there than who was…

"Matthew!" he screamed dropping the gun and leaping over the log as the figure slumped to the ground with a burst of red.

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The spray of blood against the snow sent Russia shooting forward faster than the bullet that had just hit.

Natalya! No not-

"Matthew!" Russia paid no heed to the cry, barely even hearing it as he rushed to the fallen figures side without delay, scooping them into his arms.

"Let him GO you Damn COMMIE!"

America shrieked in rage.

"Нет! не в этот раз!" the Russian replied fully aware that the person in his arms was not in fact his sister. This boy had a voice that had brought his heart back, just a little. And he had not blatantly showed his fear; he had tried to understand him when he had been in pain. And then he had hurt him.

America tried to pry his brother from the Russian's grasp, having little success.

"Oh, little Matvey…I am sorry…" the tall Russian whispered, to quiet for the American to hear, stroking a gloved hand slowly over Matthew's hair waiting for him to open his gray, sky eyes.

Alfred gave a bellow of anger, swinging the guns—it hung where he had dropped it, fastened to his waist—heavy barrel in a wide arch with all his strength, slamming it fiercely against the Russians temple, sending him sprawling and knocking him unconscious. Yet even immobilized he refused to let up his grip on Matthew's body.

America gave up after vigorous prying, choosing instead watch over his brother as the slow healing process began.

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Russia… I didn't know you had it in you to be so sweet! And you, yes YOU Alfred! How COULD you! Gack, its all my fault… I was the writer after all…. Damnit that's annoying, now I have no one to blame!

Anyways…(changing subject)

Translation notes!

"Нет! не в этот раз!"—No! not this time!

Thank you!

Please review if you have time!

-Sai