Warning: Super-Short, Rambly chapter ahead…filled with angst and sickness…and America having no clue what the hell he's doing.
Song- Sensible Heart by City and Colour
"Just fucking let me tuck you in!" Alfred said, frustrated.
"Nyet!"
"Quit being such a stubborn bastard and lie down!"
"И сударыня не аребенок!"
"Come on! That's just not fair! I don't understand that stuff…" Alfred pouted. "Would you get in bed?"
"I thought you knew Russian?" Ivan said, confused. "You never asked vhat I vas saying vhen I spoke it…" He lied on his back and pulled the covers over himself. Ivan would not let the American tuck him in like a child…
"Well…psh…" Alfred began awkwardly, "I know some Russian… lots of the shit you use at me!"
"Like vhat?" Ivan said skeptically.
"Lots!"
"Lots like vhat?" Ivan persisted.
Alfred rubbed the back of his head. "Mostly cuss words, really…" he admitted.
Ivan rolled his eyes and flipped onto his side. He felt nauseous and his throat was killing him. It was warm in Alfred's house, but he couldn't stop the random chills that overtook him and gave him pitiful goosebumps.
Alfred had carried him up two consecutive flights of stairs and into what he suspected was a guest bedroom. He hadn't allowed it without a fight- that was for sure. But, his entire body ached and it wasn't like he had the stomach to do much other than squirm. As it was, he had gotten sick on the way up.
It had shocked him thoroughly that Alfred had been able to support his weight up the entire way with him writhing like that. Ivan was starting to believe the tawny British man when he spoke of the child America had been, lifting large boulders and killing massive animals many times his own size. The image of it seemed strange…
Alfred watched Ivan lying there and shivering stubbornly. He hadn't gotten the comforter up, just the regular sheets. But, he wasn't going to be allowed to touch the sheets, and the last thing Alfred needed was Ivan puking all over his bed because he was fighting too hard.
Ivan had gotten sick twice on the way up to the room, once in the living room, and once on the stairs. Al wasn't looking forward to cleaning it up, but it wasn't like he could call in a maid to do it for him, or someone would know that Russia was in America again and all hell might break lose. The whole point of going to his Wyoming home was so that they could keep away from people as much as possible.
"Do you want something to eat?" Alfred wondered suddenly. Ivan had thrown up everything in his stomach, so he must be hungry…right?
"Cлабоумный," the Russian grunted.
"I'll take that as a yes?" Alfred said and he excused himself from the room. He hated being around sick people. They made the air feel thick and warm with illness. It was a relief to get out of that room. But now…as for the sick on the floor…
Ivan rolled over again. His head was throbbing and he was going to puke. Alfred had put a bucket next to the bed, but somehow it only made him feel more nauseous knowing it was expected that he would throw up. Well, he'd show the American…he wouldn't get sick…he wouldnot…
After mopping his hardwood floor, Alfred threw away the mop. He could never clean with that again and feel like he was actually cleaning anything. He lidded the trash can and wiped his hands on his pants. The screen door creaked behind him as he stepped over the threshold.
Alfred had at least one house in every state. They were all small though; little townhouses in some places like San Francisco, or a small cottage in Vermont. He didn't often visit his homes in the Midwest. The east coast was usually a lot more demanding and he had to stay and regulate things with the smaller states.
He took a bag frozen patties from the freezer. The entire ice box was stuffed with bags of frozen beef. He armed himself and walked outside to his grill.
Meanwhile, Ivan inspected the room he'd been forced into. There was a large window with red and white striped curtains pulled off to the sides. It was growing dark outside. His eyes drifted across the faded blue walls and dark wood furniture.
The room seemed to be well broken in…more so than guest rooms usually were. The sheets were softer and there were personal photographs on the walls. The entire place smelled strongly of America; like a mix between fast food, molten metal, warm wheat fields and heated blacktop. Maybe Ivan had been wrong in suspecting that this room was for company.
His sore eyes roamed listlessly over the photographs across the walls. He suspected that most were taken by the little Japanese man that Alfred was such good trading partners with.
Ivan smiled wryly, completely perturbed. Photographs of the American brought back strange and painful memories. The last time he'd looked at photographs of Alfred…
He remembered those years when America had spied on his country and he had spied right back. They both had billions of pictures, taken in secret, which could hold any sort hidden weakness. He'd learned more about the western nation than he'd probably wanted to know.
Alfred had always been a spoilt little kid. He'd never had to fight as hard as anyone else, never had to protect his borders from invaders, never had to deal with famine and plague, and had always had things much easier than the others. Ivan had thought.
But, he'd done research during the Cold War. More research than he should have…
It was easier to hate someone that you didn't know; someone you couldn't relate to. Ivan found things in Alfred's past that made it difficult to hold onto his fabricated hatred, built upon the assumption that America had it easy because of his blissful isolation.
After America had gained nuclear capabilities, Russia was angry, jealous, and threatened. He'd spent so long convincing himself that Alfred was a child that was unready to be the strength of the world. Russia deserved it more. He had worked so much harder. He had suffered so much more.
And it was very true that Ivan had suffered. He'd been invaded by Mongols when he was just a child; they ripped him to shreds, but he always came back. The Russian Revolution, WWII with it's difficult fight against Germany, his men- ill-equipped and freezing to death, the rebellions and slaughtering of his people, Lenin's death, Stalin's reforms, the gulags, murder of protesters, communist reformations, the Winter War with Finland, Hungary and Poland's protests- turned bloody…and more was to come.
Compared to all that, Alfred hadn't suffered anything.
But then…Ivan saw the picture.
Each country's boss had a picture of the country in their most raw form. Russia's tsars had one of him during their time. England's kings had theirs, and America's president had one.
It showed nothing inappropriate that might make the human part of the nation feel uncomfortable, but it showed enough skin so that whoever was in charge could know all the country's scars by heart. The person who was supposed to be in charge of America was the one who loved their country more than anyone and knew their history better than anyone.
The presidents had written all over the photograph in different color pens.
Ivan's hand had trembled as he studied his enemy's past. America's face was expressionless. He had been called in to take a photograph for reference and it didn't seem like anything… But, Alfred had always worn clothes that covered those scars.
The first one Ivan noticed was labeled the Mason Dixon line and it stretched, pink and prominent, all the way around Alfred's midline. It was labeled with curly letters in black ink.
The next was sliced just under Alfred's left collarbone and had 1812 written next to it in red pen. That scar was the furthest up on his body of any of the scars.
The Revolutionary War was fainter than some of the others, faded with age. It peeled across his chest, just missing his heart and stretching from his shoulder to his sternum.
More scars were labeled; King Philip's War, King William's War, Spanish Succession, Austrian Succession, French and Indian, Cherokee War, Franco-American Naval War, Barbary, Creek War, Texas Independence from Mexico, Mexican-American War, and Spanish-American.
Little battles from both World Wars speckled across both sides of his frame. Those were the deepest, yet the smallest.
Pearl Harbor was situated on his foot and was labeled in tiny letters just as most of the smaller scars. Other battles from the Pacific war were scattered across the left side of his body.
Over his heart, there was an arrow labeled 'Civil War' in the same curly writing as the Mason Dixon line. That scar was the most gruesome. It looked like the American had been cracked in half like a well-cooked Chesapeake crab.
Ivan had winced in seeing that line. It brought back memories he had been trying to suppress. He had been there when it had happened. Alfred had begun complaining of chest pain in the spring of 1861 when Fort Sumter was held by the Confederates. The wound had all-out split in 62 at Pittsburg Landing.
Alfred refused to take part in the fighting. It would drive him into madness if he tried to wage war against himself. So, they stood on a hill above the battle and Ivan had watched helplessly as blood dripped through Alfred's layers of clothing. He had held him. He had patted Alfred's hair as the younger nation had sobbed into his chest.
But, compared to some of the wounds Ivan had, the civil war had seemed like nothing to him while it was happening. Seeing the scar that remained afterwards was shocking.
Seeing all these little marks was harrowing. Ivan had always known that America had a bloodier past than most people were aware of…rather, bloodier than they chose to recognize. But, spending time with Alfred, no one would suspect him to wear such scars under that smile.
And, while Ivan suddenly gained respect for the American…he had to hate him more for making him respect him.
Ivan was a bad actor. He wore his emotions on his sleeve without even meaning to. He tried to hide everything with a smile like the Alfred did. But, his smiles were so false they only scared people.
Ivan thought he wanted to be able to hide his emotions, but he would watch Alfred grinning at Japan just a decade after stabbing him in the shoulder with his nuke. And…Ivan decided he didn't want to be a liar like that. It was disgusting.
Despite his history, Alfred had everything Ivan had ever wanted; warm climates, isolation, a government that was steady for the most part, hell…he even had fields of sunflowers. But, somehow…he knew how to ruin it. He knew how to overdo it. He knew how to rub it in people's faces until they wanted to strangle him. He knew how to get on Ivan's every last nerve…
And now he was stuck here.
Unable to sit up without getting sick.
Shivering in eighty-degree weather.
Was this hell?
"I've got the burgers~!" a peppy voice sang from the doorway.
No way… Ivan's head snapped to the side, making his vision swirl a little. Alfred was standing next to the bed-stand, equipped with a plate of five hamburgers and some potato salad.
The smell…
Ivan keeled over to the side of the bed and heaved.
Alfred watched, frowning. Why didn't that work? He always felt better after having something to eat…
"Получать а реальный…ugh…врач!" Ivan snarled.
Alfred stared at him wordlessly.
"Doctor!'
There are a lot of historical references in here that I don't really want to explain. But look some up if you're really interested. You might learn something XD
Translations- (keep in mind I'm doing this off the internet…not gonna say they're perfect.)
И сударыня не аребенок!- I am not a child
Cлабоумный.- Idiot
Получать а реальный…ugh…врач!- Get a real…doctor.
My grandparents have a house in Florida. The entire freezer is packed with frozen hamburgers. We opened it and i almost peed myself laughing (plus it's a 10 hour carride and i needed to go anyway) I find that so amusing. I figured Alfred would do the same thing with all his houses.