GASP~! I missed a day!

But, in my defense, I was out yesterday boating and getting my ass kicked on skis by massive waves…

Ugh…I'm way too devoted to writing this. I got the skin rubbed off my thumb on an awkward joint for typing…but here's this anyway.

Last chapter was about as much fluff as my brain could handle for now. So, back to the normal angsty drama. And there's a lot of hate in this chapter. Because i really do ship history...and the Soviet Union hated the United States. That does NOT mean that they wanted to start making out and being all fluffy -y'know? cause they HATED each other... -_-

Songs-

'Psycho' by Puddle of Mudd (just for the flashback)

'Heart's a Mess' by Gotye

'The Collapse' by Adelites Way (Al's Flashback)

'Falling Out of Trees' by Barcelona

Alfred was curled up into a writhing ball on the shower floor. The water was too hot, but he couldn't get up to turn it down. His heart was still pumping too quickly and he felt like he might be sick again.

He'd run into the bathroom, having enough acumen to lock the door behind himself before collapsing over the sink and retching. He stumbled into the shower room and locked that door as well.

He hadn't bothered to get undressed. He just didn't want to stand up anymore. So, he'd jammed the water on and it had felt refreshing at first, but it grew steadily warmer and now it burnt his skin through his soaked clothes.

At least if he got sick, it would wash down the drain. This didn't feel like human illness. It affected everything. His arms and legs felt like they had lead weights tied to them, his head pounded, stomach churned, lungs pricked, and his eyes swirled.

Today had started bad, gotten a bit better, and then grown progressively worse. From being terrified of every shadow on the wall, having Belarus crash through the bathroom window and try to steal Ivan, getting drunk on a plane, running around Niagara state park, to having Iggy snap at him, Alfred was exhausted.

Then there was Ivan's…strange…behavior.

As far as Alfred was concerned, he could just brush it off as teasing. He'd gotten all worked up and upset over it, so it had obviously been a success. Ivan was just all-around creepy. The American could see him doing something like that just to freak him out. He wouldn't hold it over him.

Besides, it wasn't like he felt like worrying over it right now.

But, Ivan had nothing better to do. He sat against the locked bathroom door, knees pulled up, and staring out the large window.

Obviously…he had gone too far. He had forgotten how easy it was to overstep boundaries. He'd come so close to kissing his former enemy. And, if they were still fighting, it would've only served to piss him off further. But…they were friends again now…

If he didn't restrain himself, he'd ruin it all. In the past, kissing the one who hated him was a strategic move to mess with the American's psyche, but…Alfred didn't seem to hate him anymore.

But…any feeling of want, desire, or even love that Alfred might hold for the Russian…had been completely trampled by a century of shoving him away.

They could become friends again…but…anything beyond that didn't seem feasible.

Ivan's mind was racing through things he'd wanted to do with the American for twenty years since the 'peace' time had begun, but if he tried any of them, he'd probably just scare Alfred away. Or worse…make him angry or embarrassed.

And, while it was very amusing to piss the American off, or see him all flustered and speechless, Ivan was here to make allies of him. He didn't want to ruin his chances of making a strategic friendship by pushing himself on Alfred when he obviously wasn't wanted…

…

1991- Final collapse of the Soviet Union

It was a long time coming. It didn't happen all at once either. It was slow and happened in steps. The Wall fell, the satellites set up their own governments, and Belavezha Accords declared the USSR completely dissolved.

So there was nothing to help it.

Ivan was fading.

His power was quickly draining, and he sat alone in his home. It was just past dusk and the sky had turned dark purple. The lights were off and the dark silhouettes of furniture and his few belongings took on the fickle shapes that the light from the window gave them.

The former superpower was on the floor, legs heaped uselessly, leaning against the wall, and an empty vodka flask was fittingly clutched in his right hand. He rolled his fingers weakly to see if they would still work.

The door slammed open and he started. He'd been positive that he'd locked it. But, someone walked in. For a moment, the silhouette looked familiar, but no…it was much too tall…

"Hm…I had'a see it for myself…" the intruder said calmly. He leaned against a desk in the dark as if he knew the layout of the bedroom perfectly. "Guess you skipped some critical steps when you tried to make yourself a socialist…" he muttered.

Ivan's skin was drying and peeling off. He was dissolving, but he already knew that…it had been slow coming. It felt a bit sad, but it was also what he'd so desperately needed. He'd been starving and confused for too long.

But, would he come back after this? His land was splitting again. Russia would return, but Ivan wasn't sure if he could pull past or if he'd become the USSR and would die with it…

Sometimes when the government or social structure of a country changed so completely, the representative died with their way of life. There was a grey area in between. Ivan knew there had been another representative of his land before the Tsar system had really begun; he carried a lot of his predecessor's scars.

He didn't really understand why he didn't die when the Tsar system failed; he'd pulled through to be the Soviet Union as well.

But, things had finally gotten to the point where his social, political, and economic issues had called for changes. His boss had passed programs of reform: Glastnost and Perestroika. But, the new freedoms it gave to the citizens would obviously be used against the government. And the satellites quickly revolted for their independence.

Pandora's Box had been held open and it was slowly killing Ivan. One last attempt was made by his people to preserve the Union by kidnapping Ivan's boss and taking down the revolts by military force. But, the soldiers wouldn't kill their own people, and the Coup d'état promptly failed.

The silhouette moved across the room to where Ivan was lying, and dropped down to sit against his own ankles and hover.

It spoke with America's voice, but he seemed too strong to be Alfred- too tall. "Your boss just resigned you know?" he said calmly, but it was a strained calm like he was trying to contain himself.

Ivan turned his head away. This was that damned American.

Communism and the Soviet Union might have beaten him and starved him, but America had never helped by trying to intervene and making his bosses paranoid. And he'd wasted so much money trying to make weapons to keep up, his people had to starve. America might have meant well for the good of the world, but Ivan was going to die because of him.

White teeth stood out in the dark, along with a glint off glasses and the whites of the American's eyes. "You've got amazing timing, you know?" he said, not bothering to hide his joy. "It's like you just waited for Christmas to officially die for me…it's probably the best gift you ever gave me…"

Ivan just glared in silence.

The American leaned forward, brushing a hand over Ivan's cheek.

This was exactly what he'd wanted for fifty years. The Bolshevist way of life had disgusted him for a reason. The citizens of the Union had done nothing but suffer at the hands of their own government. Alfred hardly knew how to describe the horror of their poverty. The state took everything they owned, made it property of the government, and paid back a fraction of a note for a day's work.

Any affection he'd had for Ivan had been shredded. Any respect he'd had was squandered. Ivan was a horrible, disgusting monster as far as America was concerned. He deserved to die for what he'd let happen to his people.

"You're going cold," he said, grinning teasingly. "I've waited a long time for this…I traveled all the way over through this god-forsaken blizzard to watch it with my own eyes."

This was probably the worst, most demeaning way to fade off; having your enemy sit there and rub it in your face that your attempts for stability had completely failed. "Leave," Ivan said simply. "I vant to die in peace…have enough decency to allow me this."

Alfred stood, digging his fingers under the dying superpower's arms and lifting him up off the floor to lean against the wall. If the bastard wanted decency, he should've shown some to get it in return.

The glass flask fell to the wood floor and shattered at their feet. The American leaned forward, grinning like a predator. "You're not leaving me," he said simply. "Just die already. Then come back and haunt me, will ya?"

Ivan's eyes narrowed, and he gave a cold smirk before crumbling to ash in the American's arms. There was a wet "splat" that echoed over the practically-bare walls.

Alfred looked down into the pile of dust and broken glass. A beating heart was pumping slowly, cradled in the pile ashes. The American grinned and made his exit.

...

Ivan tapped lightly on the door behind him while he waited. He had planned on leaving this morning. How did he always get sucked into staying?

There had been several instances this week where he'd come close to kissing the American. Ever since he'd returned from that collapse of the Union, he and Alfred had been progressing slowly. It had just begun to jump-start.

Recapping on the entire visit, Ivan was only confusing himself further. Alfred brought him back to America just to get rid of his flu so both of their images would remain in-tact, but there had been some silent agreement for the Russian to stay and they started traveling, they'd had a shouting match that somehow lead to their hasty alliance, Ivan had told Alfred to take care of his heart and they'd almost kissed, then they both stood back to consider the implications of trying their relationship again and scared themselves away, then Ivan had tried to push it again…so…where did that leave them now?

They'd had their ups and downs in just the past week. They'd teased, avoided confessions, lied, laughed, bickered, been terrified, taken care of each other's wounds, reflected on the past, and come so close several times.

But, now was the time to slow down and stop to think this through. Alfred was obviously ill from something. He probably wasn't going to be willing to get out and do anything around the city in this condition. But, knowing him, he'd probably pretend to be fine and make Ivan go out and have "fun" without him. So, the Russian foresaw a lot of time to sort out his thoughts.

So, he kicked his feet to the floor and sat comfortably against the door, listening to the shower running, the steady drum of water in the other room, and the occasional pitiful moan the American gave.

In a way…Alfred had saved his life. The "Soviet Paradise" was a fabricated lie that was meant to quiet the rest of the world and keep them from digging their nose into Stalin's business. In reality, people lived in shanties with rotted roves and no knowledge of radio, electric lights, newspapers, or any recent advances.

Ivan hated communism. He hated the USSR. He hated himself. He hated Stalin. He hated hating America. He hated everything from that entire era of his life.

He just wanted to start over. He doubted that America would let it happen, Alfred might, but the American people would never forget their favorite enemy. They'd always turn to England as their idol and label Russia the 'Commie' or the 'Reds'. And Ivan had no one but himself to blame. He'd practially shoved Alfred into his former caretaker's arms.

Ivan hated how naive Americans often were, believing only what they hear. How many of them still believed he was communist? How many of them believed that the citizens of the Soviet Union had enjoyed their lifestyle? Hell, how many of them believed it was winter year-round in Russia?

Ivan stood and knocked on the wall to the shower. "Are you alright?" he called.

There was a muffled mumbling on the other side, and Alfred scuttled into motion. His vision swirled a little as he stood. He'd left his glasses on and little droplets of water made it impossible to see.

The American wasn't sure if he would be sick or not, so he started moving, hoping he wouldn't. He unlocked the door and moved out into the bathroom, unlocking that door as well.

He stepped out of the door, falling over the Russian that was planted on the floor. He hit the floor on his side and seemed to shrink a little in pain, his eyes closing and mouth set tightly.

"Fredka? Vhy did you not undress…? You are soaked…" Ivan leaned over and tugged on the American's wrist.

Alfred groaned and twisted his hand to grab Ivan's. "Help…" he muttered.

"I don't know if I am still strong enough to lift you, Alfred…" Ivan lied. He wanted to see just how bad this was…he was getting a horrible feeling about this.

The American gripped his hand and pulled himself to his knees. He couldn't get his voice to work to plead for help. Ivan figured that could just be his pride. But, he gripped the American's hand and pulled him up.

Alfred clung to the Russian for support. His head swirled one more time and his vision closed up.

"You need to read these, Alfred…they just came in from West Germany," president Truman said, adjusting his round glasses on his nose. A calloused hand brushed through hair as he lit a pungent cigar. He pushed a stack of letters across the table to his country. "Hitler's soldiers wrote while they were in the Soviet Union."

Alfred lifted the papers and scanned them. His stomach churned at the descriptions. He wanted to be sick. Ivan's people…

..

Alfred gripped a Crossman pneumatic rifle, walking through a long hallway in a Soviet church. The west-wing of the building had once been an orphanage. Now, children were nailed to the walls by massive rusty steaks, their bodies stripped and mutilated.

There was no religion in this place. The priests were castrated, had their eyes poked out, arms or legs ripped off, and communist symbols had been scalded into their flesh.

The smell was unbearable. Alfred had a handkerchief tied around his nose, but he could still taste the rotting flesh smell on his tongue. The air felt so thick and hot that it seemed he was sweating bloody ash.

He had to see it for himself. No soldiers came, no politicians, no protection. And he knew he had to end it.

..

"I…" For once in his life, Alfred had no idea what he wanted to say. He'd always been so free to say whatever he wanted…but right now, there was nothing coming to mind.

He just knew he wanted to shoot that stupid smirk off that Red's face. "I vouldn't usually brag, but I believe this says words of-"

Alfred shoved his hand across the railing and covered Ivan's face before he could finish his thought. "I don't care if you put a man in space," he lied. "Because…I'll do better. I flew first. The air belongs to me. Just give me ten years…"

..

"I should kill you," Ivan suggested.

"Well, you've already got missiles aimed at me in Cuba." The American laughed quietly, lighting up a cigarette. He wasn't quite sure when he'd started smoking, it was just there recently. "But, you know it wouldn't be smart, don't you."

Ivan grinned, leaning against the fancy expensive table Alfred was sitting at. They were in his capital. There was constantly a feeling of overwhelming, sickening happiness in America, a sort of freedom and lightness. It made the communist want to strangle the pig when he folded his hands over his desk and smiled like that.

"I really wish I could murder you," he said happily. "I have little dreams about it every night." He turned around, sliding his feet to the other side so he could face the American. He popped the cigarette from his mouth and took a quick drag before passing it back. "It's all I seem to dream of anymore…"

"Get your fucking missiles away from my coastline," Alfred said, suddenly serious.

Ivan just laughed. "When you remove yours from Turkey and Italy."

Alfred's cruel smile returned. "Well, I guess we're at an impasse."

..

Ivan was just standing there. It was simple enough. But, everything was off.

He was supposed to be dead. The wall wasn't supposed to be there. So, why? Why was there a wall running through D.C.? How far did it stretch to the west? Just how many of his own politicians were communist? Who supported this?

The city was chaos. A tight mob of people was charging down Pennsylvania Avenue with guns, screaming profanities and throwing pieces of destroyed cars. The stores had been looted and food was being hoarded.

There was a loud crash and Alfred cringed, ducking behind the Vietnam Memorial for protection as a delivery truck had swerved to miss running someone over and crashed into a building. A piece of the front grill flew over the top of the shiny black wall Alfred was crouched behind.

In the distance, someone was taking a jackhammer to the foot of the Lincoln Memorial. People were setting fire to the White House gardens. Dead corpses of politicians were littered around the front lawn where they were caught up in the riot, their severed arms and legs being waved around like trophies.

Alfred put his head between his hands and shut his eyes, blocking everything out. He still heard it, so there was only one cure. He started screaming Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of his lungs to drown it out. His throat burned through the second refrain.

There was a click before Ivan pulled the trigger.

"It vas only a matter of time, Fredka…"

Alfred woke with a start. His bed was soaked…

The room was dark besides the city lights outside. It was pouring sheets of rain, so the image was blurred and distorted. The loud pattering covered the American's uneven breathing. Alfred looked down; he was still wearing the clothes he'd showered in…

He was shaking and his lungs kept seizing up.

The shower was going again, so Alfred figured he probably puked on Ivan. But he couldn't stay to apologize. He needed to get out. He couldn't sleep in the same room as the Russian after a nightmare like that…

So, still a bit lightheaded, sopping wet, shaking, and a bit drowsy, Alfred stumbled out into the hallway and to the elevators. No one was awake at this hour and the doors opened almost immediately.

He padded through the lobby listlessly. The doorman started asking questions in a Canadian accent, but the American didn't answer and just walked out into the rain. The lights from the 'OK Gift Shop' lit his face up red.

He wasn't sure where he was heading, but anywhere was better than sitting in that room. It felt hot and sick in there, and the nightmare still held in the air over that entire place.

He'd left his glasses in the room and hadn't grabbed a key, but he didn't intend on going back tonight. He just moved aimlessly. The air was still pretty warm despite the downpour, and traffic was light in this city.

A bus with Korean writing all over the side drove past through a puddle. Water splashed up over the American. A man with an umbrella chased him down at one point and offered to give it to him, but he didn't respond.

He was sick and tired and he wasn't even sure why he was out here.

He passed food stands in the street, but even his stomach was feeling unresponsive. He was too hungry to eat, too tired to sleep, and too sore to stop moving.

Finally, he collapsed a few miles from the Maid of the Mist tour docks. The only landmarks were a Ferris wheel and a currency exchange building. Other than that, all the other buildings seemed to be restaurants, ice cream stores, or Cuban cigar shops, all the usual things.

The place was all but deserted. Many of the shops had closed already, but their lights always stayed on.

"Al?"

The American didn't even feel like lifting his head to see who was yelling at him.

Two steady hands gripped his arms and pulled him up into a sitting position. The stranger stared back at Alfred with a face like his own and a look of worry. "At least get out of the rain, genius!" he cried, pulling his brother off to the side and under the awning at a Red Robbins.

Matthew leaned him against the wall and gently tapped his brother's cheek with his palm. Alfred seemed to be passing in and out of consciousness.

How had he gotten out here?

The Canadian had to move out of the way when his brother keeled over and vomited into the sewage drain on the edge of the sidewalk. Alfred shuttered when he'd finished and laid out flat on the pavement, letting his head hang over the side of the curb. Water dripped down his face. A black trail of saliva drained down from his lip.

"Alfred!" Matt cried. What was he supposed to do? He tugged at the bottom of his wet tee shirt.

He had been walking home from work when a woman had collapsed from heat while loading groceries into her car, so he'd helped her get home, but it started storming on the way back. Alfred was really lucky that he'd been walking down the same street and just happened upon him like this…

But, the water was starting to flood the storm drain, and the tide was inching up towards American's face. Matt crawled over the flooded pavement and lifted his brother's head out of the gutter.

Alfred coughed as the water drained into his mouth. "I wanna go home, Mattie…"

THAT was graphic~! XD

Overly dramatic Alfred is…overly dramatic.

Too many amazing songs! I don't even know if anybody listens to them, but some of these are just epic.

And I promise I'll do a lemon eventually, but I gotta build their relationship to a point where it would make sense and not just be rape…I could write rape, but it sorta disgusts me…

Another quick note: I think I might put quick summaries at the beginning of each chapter just to say what historical events I'm using or the general warnings for language or graphic scenes.

Don't worry, Al knows it was just a nightmare. He's just sick and delirious.

Review Please~?