"It'll really suck to be the guy stuck with Russia," America said absently as he watched the movie.
"Mmm-hmm," replied Lithuania, curled in a ball on the couch next to his friend.
"I mean, can you imagine what would happen if France and Russia ended up together? Or England?"
"…He's not as bad as you guys all think…"
Alfred snorted. "The bastard fucked you up. Multiple times. And beat you." Lithuania didn't respond. "See what I mean?" Lithuania didn't, really, but he kept quiet, his eyes on the TV screen. It was some new horror thing Alfred had bought a few days ago. Both nations were silent for a while.
"This isn't that scary," Alfred said eventually.
"Mmm-hmm."
More silence. This time, it was abruptly interrupted by a loud knocking on the door. Alfred leapt up from the couch.
"I'll get it!" he and Canada shouted at the same time. Alfred got there first. He opened the door to see a female country with short platinum blonde hair, a headband, violet-blue eyes, and…oh my God …really big…um…tracts of land. She was familiar, unsettlingly so. She made him think of Russia—
"Ukraine!" Alfred said cheerfully. "How ya doing?"
The Soviet nation smiled cheerfully. "Fine, thank you, Mr. America."
Alfred laughed. "Don't call me Mr. America. Lithuania calls me that." Ukraine seemed struck by a sudden revelation.
"Oh! Is Liet here? Brother told me to tell him that he's needed back in Russia…" She trailed off, spotting Canada lingering behind Alfred. "Mattie!" the country cried cheerfully, shoving Alfred aside easily, her large breasts bouncing audibly.
"Katuyasha—," Matthew began, but he was smothered in Ukraine's sudden embrace. He grinned into her hair, his troubles for the moment forgotten. The Canadian hugged his girlfriend back, and was about to guide her out of the house, but then he spotted his brother. Alfred was in the position Yekaterina (Katuyasha was a nickname) had pushed him, against the doorframe, gaping at the pair. Blushing suddenly, Canada untangled himself from the embrace.
"I—I'm sorry Al… I thought you'd be mad if I told you… that you wouldn't understand…"
"And I don't," Alfred said softly. Ukraine, a worried look on her face, started to back away. "Russia's sister!" Matthew shook his head.
"Look, Al, we've been dating for a few months now, and we're on perfectly good terms." Seeing Ukraine edge out of earshot, Canada dropped his voice. "And look, I know you know about my other relationships, but could you please try not to ruin this one?" His voice fell to a desperate whisper. "Please. It's the first real, nice, normal relationship I've had…"
America's face was emotionless. "Please…" his brother whispered. He gave no response. Canada sighed and lowered his head. As he began to turn, a fist came up and struck him across the face.
As Matthew tumbled to the sidewalk, he heard Ukraine cry his name. She rushed to him with a loud bouncing noise, and crouched over her boyfriend, stroking his cheek in worry.
"Funny. Weren't you having Prussia over until, oh, a week or two ago? Gee, I wonder if he knew about this. He hates Russia almost as much as I do. He wouldn't think real highly of you dating his sister!" Alfred was standing on the top of the steps, rubbing his bloody knuckles. Ukraine looked up at him, her eyes tearful. "Oh, I'm sure you had some excuse," he continued. "For both of them. I'm seeing a movie with my brother. I've got hockey practice. I need to plan a party. You asshole!"
"Mr. America… you…you don't really think that!" Ukraine cried, standing. "He's your brother—!" She stopped as America stepped down next to Canada, his eyes fixing her in a smoldering blue gaze.
"And I'm sure you know all about sibling bonds!" he snarled back. She shut up, staring fearfully at the two brothers. "Hey, Matthew," Alfred muttered, bending down. Canada moved his head, turning his face to stare in fear through broken glasses. "You do know what you're doing here? What you're making me do to you?"
Matthew's eyes suddenly flattened. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I'm exposing your selfishness… Just because I'm your brother does not mean I will do every. Single. Thing you tell me to do." His gaze shifted to Ukraine. "And just because she's his sister doesn't mean she's his puppet!"
Alfred's face twisted in fury. Raising a sneakered foot, he began kicking Matthew. Hard. Canada cried out with every blow. Ukraine had been standing away from them, but at the sounds of pain…
America suddenly heard somebody yelling something in a language he didn't recognize. He paused, looking up. "Holy shit!" he yelped, leaping back. Yekaterina was charging him, her eyes blazing with rage, brandishing a freaking pitchfork. How the hell had she gotten it? He thought frantically, dodging her swipes. It reminded him of the way Russia would suddenly pull his faucet out of nowhere and start wreaking havoc. As he was thinking this, Ukraine was getting more and more worked up, yelling "Відійдіть від мого друга, американського ублюдок!" Whatever the fuck that meant.
But translating Ukrainian wasn't really something he had the time to do. In battle, Yekaterina really was her brother's sister. Alfred was getting exhausted from constantly leaping away from the pitchfork, while she seemed not to feel any fatigue. He couldn't go on the offensive at all; her body was guarded by the whirling points of her weapon. But he was getting used to her attacks, which were somewhat repetitive. Slashing from side to side, then a jab at his body… A grin spread across America's face. He could do more than just run away! He put on a sudden burst of speed, bending to pick up a rock. He felt giddy from the adrenaline surging through his veins, his mad smile not fading. Slash… slash… jab… slash… slash… He prepared to throw the rock, noting the way she pulled back the fork to jab. Slash… slash…
But before he could throw, Ukraine unexpectedly twisted the pitchfork, hitting him squarely in the stomach with the butt. Gasping in pain, Alfred fell to the ground. Damn it, he hadn't been expecting her to do that! The excitement faded from his body, and he stared trembling up at the Soviet nation. Her eyes, now glowing purple, were filled with hate. The pitchfork was raised, its prongs glinting in the sunlight. It was hypnotic, looking at his approaching death… it wouldn't be a real death, since it was not a real war… but it was still death, blocking out all other thoughts. Matthew began pushing himself up, and seemed about to intervene, but he was entranced by it too. Even more so, for he knew both of them intimately, and could barely fathom the emotions that had changed them in this way… but he could view the result, and it was amazing and horrible and beautiful.
Alfred couldn't close his eyes. The raging face of his brother's girlfriend, and enemy's sister… the sun gleaming on the descending metal… the silent, watching sky over it all… This was where he would die. He would die, not as America, the country, but as Alfred F. Jones, the man. Oh, he would return, but it would be a different Alfred F. Jones, tainted by the death. His life didn't flash before his eyes. That was fiction… But wasn't it all fiction, at this point? All concepts of death? For what writer had made it to this moment of certain death and lived to tell about it? He thought dreamily. Indeed, the situation was so beautiful and terrible he could not put it into mere words. So beautiful… so terrible… Death…
"Yekaterina! Mr. America!" Somebody cried out from the house. Ukraine started, the insanity vanishing from her eyes. But the pitchfork was already on its way down, and the most she could do was jerk her hand so the wound would not be fatal. Alfred, hearing the voice, had experienced a surge of irrational hope rush through him, and so he was surprised when he felt the metal prongs pierce his flesh. The shock made it all the more painful. Blood splashed on the pavement, bones and metal crunched and ground together: the sounds were terrifying for the wounded country.
Her frightened face mirroring her opponent's, Yekaterina swiftly pulled the pitchfork back. Alfred collapsed on the sidewalk, blood spurting from a punctured shoulder. She stared at him, grasping the stained weapon. Although he was pale and fainting from loss of blood, and the wounds were deep, they would heal soon and leave no scars. He was a country. He would survive. Matthew came up behind her, his hand on her shoulder. She sighed and hung her head.
"I'm sorry… Mattie… America…"
Matthew sighed and buried his face in her shoulder. "It's okay. He was asking for it."
"Yeah… Guess I was." The two countries looked up at the sound of the pained voice. Alfred was just barely lifting his head, blood trickling from his lips with the words. He grinned weakly at them.
"Mr. America, you shouldn't talk! You're hurt!" A stern voice yelped from the house. Boots rang on the pavement. Alfred tried to turn his head to see, but collapsed with a groan.
"'M fine, Toris…" Lithuania stopped by his friend's head and kneeled, his face worried.
"No, you're not," he admonished sternly. Toris gave a suspicious glare at Ukraine, who was still grasping the bloody pitchfork, and Canada, whose arms were around her. "Come on, I'll get you inside."
Matthew tugged on Yekaterina's arm. "Let's go…" She followed to the car.
The silence filled the car as they drove away. A bystander would have noticed the churning mix of emotions within that silence; anger, embarrassment, sorrow, but predominately guilt. The two did not notice their feelings running parallel. After some time, Yekaterina spoke.
"Was… was your brother telling the truth? About Gil—Prussia?" Matthew's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He dipped his head imperceptibly. More silence. He felt he had to say something, to explain…
"I—I felt… that… well, after so long, I've, uh, wanted to have a, you know, a normal relationship," he stammered. He took Ukraine's silence as a cue for him to continue. "I'd tried to keep you as my only—er—friend for a little while, but I couldn't do that. It felt empty, with you the only person in my life…" The words came out faster now. It felt good to confess it all.
"When Gilbert came back to me a month later, I couldn't refuse him. We were together for a night. I felt awful, going out with you the next day. I wanted to break up with you. But… but you were my refuge. From Gilbert… Francis… even Alfred sometimes." He shrugged. "So, I stayed with you. It was easy—too easy. You thought I'd broken up with Gilbert and the rest. They thought I'd dumped you. …But now,…" Matthew shook his head. Ukraine thought about this. Silence reigned once more.
After a little while, she looked over and saw his knuckles white on the steering wheel. She said nothing, not wanting to bother him. But when they stopped at a red light ten minutes later, she saw he was still smoldering with anger. "Mattie…?" she asked tentatively. "What is it?"
"It's my damn brother!" he shouted. "He's got no heart! You saw how he treated me! Just because you're Soviet! And just because he's got it in for me! I hate him!" He slapped the steering wheel, then burst into angry sobbing.
"Mattie…" Yekaterina murmured, reaching out a hand to stroke his cheek. The tears of rage were hot against his skin. "You know it'll all work out…" He sighed.
Deep inside him, Matthew Williams called upon the strength of the country, the strength of Canada. His emotion now was human, not a nation's emotion. But he could still be a nation. He used that strength to gather up his anger for his brother, crushing it into a ball of hate. This burning clump of rage was submersed in his cold intellect, becoming a cooling mass of pure vengefulness. He grinned. "You know what, you're right, Katuyasha…"
Відійдіть від мого друга, американського ублюдок!- Get away from my boyfriend, American bastard! (Ukrainian) (Or something to that effect, it's been a little while since I wrote this)
Hooray! Second chapter! Does anyone think I overdid it? Methinks Purple Prose.