FACT: America NEVER calls England 'Iggy' in the original comic strips, however France does once or twice.
This chapter has more graphic war scenes. It's one huge flashback, so I'm not italicizing the whole thing…I'm just trying to show some of the emotions in their past that explain their difficulty communicating in the present.
I'm sorry it took so long to get this out. I've been working on my books. I'm supposed to send it to the publisher in January, and I'm not even half-way done proofreading. It's kinda sad actually.
I also get distracted really easily. It's shameful, but I've spent most of my writing time watching "Clara Sheller" on Youtube. (It's my guilty pleasure) DAMN YOU FRENCH FOR MAKING INTERESTING DRAMAS! I never even liked dramas before! But Gilles and JP are so cute!
Songs-
'Again'- by Archive
'Thanks for the Memories'- by Fall Out Boy
'Pet'- by Perfect Circle
January 1934
Ivan stepped over broken shards of glass, his feet crackling loudly over the broken window pieces. He glanced down at his feet, forcing a small smile and swiveled his foot on his ankle, rubbing it in the glass. It was a cute sound.
This had once been a church. It was hard to tell that now. But, religion couldn't exist in the worker's paradise. Religion promoted too many useless things, like morals and human rights.
The walls were burnt and blackened over the white paint. The huge bronze pipes of the church organ were dented and bent. The stained-glass mosaic in the window had been broken out. The crosses were flipped over and scolding.
Bitter winter wing pulled through the empty windowpanes and nipped at Ivan's bare face and his gloved fingertips. He tossed the loose end over his shoulder again so it guarded his face.
The pews had been torn up and taken to be used for firewood. Ivan glanced up at the large cross that suspended over the congregation. The priest was nailed to it by his feet, his stomach had been ripped open, and an unborn human fetus was stuffed inside. His rib cage was protruding through the skin. A puddle of red and black mush was plopped on the ground beneath him- probably his internal organs. His robes were soaked red down his chest.
"Enjoying your 'peace'," a cocky voice drawled behind him.
The Russian turned, smiling. "Of course," he chimed. "It's so nice to have everyone in Europe getting along so well~!"
Alfred just shoved his glasses up on his nose and frowned. He'd never let his people come here and see this sort of horror, but at the same time, they should probably see to understand just how bad things were under Stalin and the Red army- if they knew, the few that supported the communists would reconsider. "You're such a creep. Only you would think things are okay. But, Toris let me know that you were crazy." The American shrugged.
"Hm? Ah, you asked how I've been? How sweet of you, America~" Ivan teased.
Alfred smiled back, pumping fake benevolence into it for show. "You know, to see how your health was, if you've been keeping yourself fit, if you need to be committed." He shoved his hands in his coat pockets.
Ivan leaned forward, his lips curling up. He griped Alfred's chin roughly and brought the American closer. "I had never cared to know how you vere doing, but I guess it vould be fit to ask if you're still on that used-bread and pennies diet."
Alfred crossed his leg so he could lean back more comfortably with no support. His depression had him feeling sick and dizzy. He fingered the revolver he kept in his coat, just for as a safety net if he needed it. "Hm…well, I figure this new president I've got will start taking care of that financial issue I got myself in." He shrugged, "Besides, I'll be in a better place than you in a few years."
Ivan quirked an eyebrow, anger boiling again. He hated seeing this American. His voice alone was enough to make him nauseous. The only good thing the west had done was go bankrupt so the wealth fell to the east. "Vhatever are you talking about, Amerika?"
Alfred frowned. He didn't want to think about the manifest war upon them. The Nazi-party had already risen in Germany and was threatening war with France and Poland. Mussolini was rallying his fascist Italians using the "black-shirts". And, Hirohito and the imperialist government in Japan were disturbing the peace with China. If France got into it, then England would follow suit, and Alfred somehow knew he'd be pulled into this eventually.
He was in no shape to go to send any troops to war, even if just a few hundred-thousand. He'd had fevers for the past few years because of his stock market crash, and he couldn't fund all-out war like some of these Easterners.
This was becoming inevitable. Europe would go to war again. But, Alfred would hold back for as long as he could, even if that was a cowardly thing to do. He had to fix his own economy before worrying about Europe's madness.
Ivan leaned forward suddenly, nestling his head in Alfred's neck for warmth. "Mmm…" He held the struggling American still and spoke conversationally. "So, tell me little Amerika, how has your 'social' life been? Need more of those tiny condoms?"
Alfred held down a growl in the back of his throat. This was their game. Try to piss the other off and make them snap. But, whoever lost their cool first would lose their game. So, Alfred just smiled darkly. "I say send as many as you can." He shrugged, jolting the bolshevist's head. "I can never tell when I'll need one. That last box you sent me only lasted a week. These girls just stopped me on the street on their way back from a movie. There had to be a dozen of them just begging for it."
Ivan just chuckled calmly. "American women are not very intelligent are they, and they travel in primitive packs?"
"Well, I'm just glad they're not like burly men. I hear your girls are tough from working in coal mines and such." The American was quite proud of shoving off that insult.
Ivan's smile wavered just a tad. "At least my women can vork. A housewife is never very interesting."
"Interesting?" America jabbed. "What does that matter? I guess you always did like lovers that could pin you to the ground." The fires in the church crackled around them, filling the air with smoke that just blew away.
"I have never been 'pinned'. Not unless I allowed it," Ivan replied sweetly. "I am not masochist. And, Toris knows how to hold back…unlike some people."
Alfred just rolled his eyes, grinning, "You sure like bringing it up. And using Lithuania as a cover? This is sad; I thought you were trying to forget me, hm?" He tapped the communist's nose teasingly and turned on his heel. He strode back down the empty foyer, waving an arm behind himself. "I just came to see what fuckery you were up to now, but have fun trying to erase me!"
Ivan just balled his fists and watched Alfred leave. Their game was getting annoying. Alfred was just a self-assured pig. He always butted into everyone's business and acted like he could solve their problems for them, then when things were finally settled, he acted like they couldn't have handled it themselves. He'd pushed his western world into an economic depression, and he was taking too much credit for his efforts in the First World War
The Russian kicked the ashes of a cross, cursing. He needed to stop caring right now. He had to stop wondering whether or not Alfred was sleeping with someone. It wasn't his problem.
...
...
March, 1953
The floor was covered in broken glass and burnt up papers. Ivan rocked back and forth on his ankles, curled up and hugging his knees. He watched Stalin as the man stumbled to the wall, tearing at the wallpaper. He was obviously in a great deal of pain.
"Fucking medics sssshouuulld have been here by noow!" he shouted in Russian, his words slurring. Ivan just cringed. Stalin gripped his own head and squeezed it tightly, growling.
"Um…P-please don't do that…" Ivan muttered.
Stalin tried to pick up a chair and throw it, but he lost his balance and fell over weakly. The dictator slurred something, but it was hard to tell his words apart now. His condition had been declining for days. This was probably his third stroke this week. He was suffering brain hemorrhaging, and vomiting blood often.
Ivan helped his boss up from where he'd toppled on the floor. Stalin threw curses at him, but allowed the country to put him in bed.
He hadn't received any medical treatment for a few reasons. Firstly, he had purged and arrested many of the country's doctors from their positions and imprisoned them. Secondly, his personal doctors feared helping him, worrying that he would take it as insult to his competence. Thirdly, his closest medical staff probably wanted him dead anyway (and had possibly poisoned him in his sleep to bring him to this point).
His own system was killing him.
And Ivan could only curl his knees in close and watch. His boss threw curses at him, demanding him to be better, reminding him how he'd failed him. Ivan just shut his eyes and tried to block it out.
…
America heard the news of Stalin's death just a day later. It was announced on radios and news stations across the country.
Alfred couldn't stop grinning. He'd been somewhat obsessed and horribly fascinated with hating Stalin. It was so much easier to direct all your loathing toward one crazy, evil, nut-job, genius dictator than it was to hate the people of the Soviet Union.
He could just imagine the broken and lost expression that Commie bastard must be wearing. He stood up to turn off his television, and danced around the couch, waving his arms. He ran up the stairs to his room and just sat on the floor, staring at his map.
He'd finally gotten a new map with other countries on it. But, they were all colored blue and red. He just wanted to know which countries were his and which were the Reds'.
Soon enough, all those ugly little red countries would be gone.
The doorbell rang.
Alfred shot up. Maybe it was Ivan, coming to apologize and beg for mercy- not that he would do that, but a guy can dream. Or maybe Canada had come over to celebrate with him quietly. After all, the Soviet Union still existed, but at least Stalin was gone.
Alfred bobbed down the stairs and unlocked his door. It had been so long since he'd used the locks, he'd forgotten which way they turned, but he couldn't chance leaving himself exposed lately.
Arthur stood in the door awkwardly, wearing a pair of large jeans held up by a chain and a beaten tweed jacket. His fists were shoved in his pockets as if it would make his stance seem more casual. He cleared his throat. "Um…you gonna let me in or…or what?" he asked.
Alfred just bumbled aside. England had been pretty testy since the World Wars, and with this Communism vs. Capitalism thing riling up so quickly, he was almost always pissed. He didn't have the money to spare for war. Alfred didn't want to test him- not right now anyway. He needed England to be his ally in this thing against Ivan.
"Have…you heard then?" Alfred wondered. "Stalin?"
"Of course," Arthur snapped quickly. "It's all over Europe. I don't live under a rock, believe it or not!"
"Yeah, I-I know, I just-mmff!" The American was pushed to the wall, his hair held tightly as Arthur despoiled his mouth. A short wave of nausea rolled over him, but he pushed it back, and returned the fierce, sudden kiss.
Where the hell had this come from? Alfred was in shock at first, but it slowly dawned on him. England was proving their alliance. China had done the same thing for Ivan.
Arthur had raised him like a brother. Now he was kissing him like a lover? It felt so wrong…but it would be so nice to rub this in the Commie's face…
Fucking Ivan!
That freak had come to Alfred's house five times over the past few decades, just to remind him that he'd had an 'affair' with Lithuania. But, Toris always denied it calmly when Alfred asked him about it during the time the Liet was living in his house.
Then there was China. Ivan had come to the world meeting in 49, gripping Yao's waist possessively. He used the Asian to advertise the opportunity to 'become one' with the Soviet Union- as if anyone wanted that…
Had he been trying to make Alfred jealous?
Why the fuck would he be jealous? Fuck! He'd be happy to have someone take Ivan off his hands!
So, the American gripped onto his former caretaker's hips and pulled him closer, convincing himself that he tasted good. It still felt dirty…but, he ignored it.
Two could play this game. But, the countries of the world would be their cards.
...
...
Summer 1965
"Can we stop talking about Ivan?" Alfred muttered, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I thought I made it clear, I just want to kill him," he growled. "I don't even care if it hurts him anymore…I just want him dead."
The American used to have fantasies of slowly ripping Ivan's organs out one by one, or feeding them to dogs while they were still connected to the Russian's nervous system. He contemplated the most painful ways to kill someone, and practically pleasured himself to imagining Russian screams and pleas.
Arthur clicked his barrel open and dropped the shells from his machine gun. He tugged his gloved down and pushed his helmet down. His face was grimy and he was bleeding from a piece of shrapnel in his neck, but it would heal by tomorrow. "You'll be MAD if you attack each other directly. Let's just get this fighting over with."
"Don't pull puns while we're on the battlefield," Alfred groaned, uncapping a grenade and throwing it over his trench into the underbrush to deter any guerrillas. MAD, or 'Mutually Assured Destruction' was the only thing holding him back from ripping all the skin off Russia's body and running over his heart in a tank.
Arthur elbowed the American in the side and waved two fingers to the direction they'd move. "Let's go."
Alfred nodded and they jumped from the trench, running with their knees bent tightly so they crouched low. The Americans hated running anywhere in the Vietnam jungles now. The ground was rigged with IEDs in the places you'd least expect them. It was sickening and terrifying to know that the very ground could flip out from under you and drop you to a bed of spikes; or you could open a door, walk down stairs, or just be marching and step on a landmine; even their own food could be rigged with explosives... Death loomed everywhere… It didn't help that you had to see it every way you turned.
Alfred reached for a poison-gas grenade. His hands were slippery with dirt and sweat. He uncapped it with his teeth and tossed it ahead of them into the Vietcong tunnel they'd infiltrate. The entrance puffed out dark black smoke and screaming was heard within the trench.
Vietnam was becoming a burden. America wanted more than anything to pull his men off the battlefield and bring everyone home, but if they left, the Vietcong would take over and many innocent people would die of disease, malnutrition, and war.
And Soviets would win this one.
THAT couldn't happen.
So, Alfred pulled his goggles over his eyes, ignored his citizens' pleas, and dropped down into the guerilla's trench they were targeting, holding a gasmask over his nose and mouth. He aimed his shotgun out in front of him, reaching for the belt across his chest and reloading it quickly.
England jumped down behind him, keeping a good distance. The Brit hadn't been as much help recently as he had in the beginning. Alfred got the feeling that Arthur was losing faith in this country. England was pulling men back slowly but steadily. America was being deserted.
Alfred crouched low under the ceiling and recalled the crude map that the scout had given him of this tunnel system. Most of the Vietcong's tunnels connected in some way or another, but they were a labyrinth and nearly impossible to navigate without detailed maps. He'd never send a civilian-soldier into an uncharted system alone. So, he'd talked his sergeant leader into letting him and Arthur scope it out first and clear the way.
Alfred pointed his shotgun down the corridor, shining a flashlight with his other hand. He started down the next passage when a clawed hand suddenly grabbed his ankle. He jumped, fearing it was a bear-trap strategically placed.
But, he kicked and the hand fell limp. He shined his flashlight down at a dying Vietcong woman, and his stomach curled sourly. Whole families lived in these trenches for years…like moles.
He pushed open the doorway she'd been crawling through. From what he could tell, this was the nursery…
Screeching interrupted his thoughts. It was that loud, shrill, blood churning screeching, like nails on a chalkboard- only wetter, like it was coming from a living thing. Alfred pointed his light across the room to a child.
The kid was choking and burning at the same time, his lungs filled with the poison gas. America couldn't do this. He couldn't see something like that and stand back.
He ripped his mask off and dropped down in front of the child, forcing the mask on its face. The child went silent and closed his eyes calmly, breathing deeply. Alfred smiled, his lips already burning from the gas. He held his breath.
America jumped when the child suddenly jerked onto its side, convulsing and gurgling. The mask fell to the dirt floor.
"That's a Cong, Alfred. Leave it," Arthur reminded him, his voice muffled behind his own mask. His gun was still held up from his aiming at the kid.
"So you had to shoot-ack!"
"Poison gas!" Arthur snapped, shoving the mask back on Alfred's face.
The American frowned at the child. Innocent life. He wasn't even old enough to know he was human, let alone a Vietcong. He wasn't a threat to democracy…why should he be killed?
"He would've died anyway! Don't start crying here you bloody idiot!" England scolded, pulling him up to his feet roughly. "Let's go!"
Why is it that 700 people hit this story, 72 people subscribe to it, and 56 people have it in their favorites, but only 13 people leave reviews? TALK TO MEH YOU LURKERS!
I quite liked that chapter. It was hard to write for some reason. I wasn't around during Vietnam, so I just went off a documentary I saw. Hetalia war scenes area always interesting- even if they're a bit depressing. It's just cool to imagine the characters being soldiers in their own army.
I'm sorry this took so long.
Review Please.