WARNING: Sexual references ahead.

***YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED***

Also, two easter eggs for the smart bunnies: can you find the (a) Soviet Russia joke (that one's pretty easy) and the (b) War and Peace reference?

Alfred was fighting to control his breathing as Ivan hugged him. He didn't want his enemy to know that he still felt the same way, on a physical level, about him. His lungs and throat still ached from the near-strangling, and he was frightened, too, especially when Russia had shouted something incoherently in his face. "No," he muttered. "Let go…" Ivan didn't seem to hear, or care. The strong nation began to push him back further on the bed, and his lips traced from his forehead down to his nose. They lingered there for a moment—Alfred tried to pull away—then he leaned down further to bring their mouths together. Alfred tried to yell at him—he didn't want this to go so far, so soon! He didn't want this, period! Ivan's body pressed into him. He was enjoying this. Alfred growled and called on his superhuman strength—again. He needed a hamburger to replenish his strength. With an effort, he began pushing Ivan away. Russia made a little noise of protest. "You're not fucking me, commie bastard—," Alfred muttered. His hands on the superpower's shoulders, he finally forced Ivan off and away from him.

The northern nation had a confused expression on his innocent face, as though he couldn't understand why Alfred had done that to him. "My dear…" he began questioningly.

"Don't give me any of that bullshit!" Alfred snapped. He realized he was panting, his face felt hot, and he was uncomfortably hard.

"What do you mean, bull—,"

"I mean something like, 'I was just playing!' or 'I didn't mean to! I lost control!'!" he spat back, his voice mocking Ivan's. "I know what you were trying to do!" Ivan smiled innocently. He reached out a hand to gently stroke Alfred's hair. The younger nation flinched back.

"But don't you realize, my dear, that you do make me lose control? Even if I only am 'just playing' at first?" Alfred spat in his face. Ivan sighed and wiped the saliva from his cheek. "I can see this will take some time, dear America."

"What will?" Alfred snarled. "Making me 'yours' again? Believe me, Soviet Russia, you're not who you were when I loved you. You're not him. You're not Vanya." His blue eyes filled with sudden tears, and he stood to shove Ivan away. The Russian did not protest. "Go. Just go away," Alfred whispered. Ivan stared sadly at him, then turned and walked away. His footsteps echoed to the front of the van. Alfred wiped the tears from his face, fighting down agonized sobs. He half-ran out of the trailer, his breath jumping as he tried not to cry. I won't let him see me like this.

Alfred felt the tears running into his mouth. He tasted salt. He ignored them and ran up to Matthew's trailer. Just as he was about to knock, he remembered his brother wasn't alone. Lucky him… his partner isn't like who I'm dealing with… He scanned the trailer park. His sobs had stopped, but his eyes felt puffy and there were tears dampening his cheeks. The door to France and England's trailer opened. Alfred remembered how protective England became, and ran.

Ivan said… No, Russia said there was a coffee shop nearby… He needed a donut. Still running, Alfred glanced at the buildings around him and saw the store he wanted. He stopped, took several deep breaths, cleaned his face, and went inside.

He ordered another coffee and two chocolate-glazed donuts. The Canadians inside were acting lazy, giving him faintly exasperated looks when they recognized his accent, completely oblivious to the fact that he was a nation. He saw his brother in every one of them. After what felt like much too long, he received his order. In America, he would get it much faster, he thought, glad for something to take his mind off the problem. After casually thanking the Canadian, who smiled politely, Alfred went outside and sat down at a table. It was too early for the others to come out. He was alone.

Alfred appreciated this time to think. He took a bite out of the donut, reveling in its sugary goodness. As he sipped the coffee, he involuntarily recalled the taste of vodka in the coffee Russia had brought. It wasn't that bad to drink. But of course, anything connected with Russia would not end well for him, he mused, also recalling how he'd almost been raped. Alfred frowned. Why was he so afraid of the idea, when Russia and he had been intimate before the Union? Well… not that intimate. Thinking back, he was still a bit surprised that, in all their years of being close, they'd never actually done it. But, of course, their relationship had been to the point where he wouldn't have protested if Vanya had taken that step, even without his consent.

Alfred realized suddenly how close they had came to that point, as he thought back to their last few nights together. They hadn't really been together just before WWI and the Union, but Russia took the formation of the USSR as their "official" breakup, and so did Alfred, to keep things simple. Neither of them wanted to talk about those years—the years after February 1905. He began thinking back to that date, that fateful Saturday when they'd planned to deepen their relationship…

The two nations are silent, not an awkward silence, or a tense one, but a comfortable one, one that makes Alfred happy, which is strange, because normally, in this situation of perfect quiet, he'd be bored. But he isn't, so he's happy.

"Hey, Vanya," he asks, glancing over warmly at his boyfriend. "You have anything planned for tomorrow night?"

"Нет." Alfred knows from years—or was it decades, in human time? Centuries, even? He's lost track—of experience that the cheerful response means "no."

"That's good…" Vanya replies with a little hum. Still, it's a little while before the Russian speaks again.

"Why?"

"Huh?" asks Alfred, having almost completely forgotten the conversation.

"Do you have anything planned for Sunday?"

"Oh yeah—no, I don't, unless you want to make plans ourselves." He turns his head on the pillow to grin at Vanya. The expressive lips of the Russian's face curve into a kind and happy smile, almost childish in its innocence. Yet the topic he brings up is anything but.

"You will become one, да?"

Alfred starts, but only briefly. The idea makes his heart beat faster, his breath catch in his throat with longing, a terrible longing for this beautiful man, made all the more terrible with the thought that his fantasy could happen, his dreams could come true… Unable to speak, he nods briefly. The little smile becomes a happy grin, and Vanya pulls Alfred close to him.

"Well—not now—I'm not ready—," the American manages to gasp. His imaginings and reality are beginning to merge. The lines blur, it becomes confusing… Vanya nods and simply leans his head over to kiss Alfred.

The next night, Alfred waits at his house. He is ready, so ready he can barely believe he's able to wait this long. But Vanya isn't here yet. He frowns, and looks at his watch. They agreed that he'd be there by seven-thirty, eight at the latest. It's a quarter past eight, and Alfred is beginning to grow disappointed. He hadn't spent half an hour preparing himself for nothing!

Maybe Vanya's just having trouble with his car, he decides. His car always breaks down, a little too often for Alfred to be entirely comfortable with Vanya using it all the time. He's offered so many times to give Vanya a new car, but the Russian much prefers this one. Alfred will never understand quite why. The problem apparently solved, Alfred settles back on his bed and begins fantasizing. He wonders what it will feel like. He's never been on the bottom before, but he assumes Vanya will have more experience than him. Yeah… lots of experience… and he's much bigger than I am! At the thought, Alfred trembles, and an interesting sensation travels through the part of his anatomy he calls "Florida". He grins, excitedly, at the thought that the feeling will be replicated very soon, and made even stronger too…

But half an hour passes, then an hour. He feels betrayed. What is Vanya doing? Is he cheating on me? Maybe he mistook Canada for me… He grits his teeth. Standing up abruptly, he reaches for his phone and dials Vanya's house phone. The ringtone continues for much too long. Not even Estonia or Lithuania picks it up. He hangs up and calls his brother.

"Eh? Alfred? What is it?"

"Is Russia there?" Alfred replies curtly.

"Ah… no, he's not… Why?" Alfred hangs up again. Who else could he call?… Germany? Prussia? Both of those, he knew, he'd seen from time to time before Alfred… Poland, maybe? He dials the European's phone number. After a minute, Poland picks it up.

"Hi. What are you, like, doing? Why are you, like, totally calling me?"

"Umm… is Russia there?"

"Totally not," Poland says, sounding annoyed. "Do you think I'd be, like, talking to you right now if he, like, was?" Alfred begins to say no, but Poland isn't finished. "If he was, like, over, then he'd be totally trying to make me become one with him. And I'm totally not letting him, like, do that. Why are you, like, asking? Does he, like, wanna become one with you?" Alfred doesn't respond. The fact that he and Vanya are dating is common knowledge among most of the countries. "I totally thought so," Poland says, and hangs up.

Alfred sighs, puts down the phone, then sits back on the bed and buries his face in his hands. His boss is probably keeping him, he realizes, or something like that. Why? Why doesn't he try to escape, try to come see me? Doesn't he realize… doesn't he know how much he's hurting me? Tears trickle through his fingers. He stopped being aroused a long time ago. Alfred opens his eyes, lowers his hands, and stares unblinkingly at a vase of roses across the room. Vanya gave them to him ages ago, and Alfred responded in kind with sunflowers. Now, to see them is painful… He tries to close his eyes, but the tears flow faster. His breathing trembles unevenly with sobs. Damnit!... He hates this! He hates everything, hates the roses, hates Vanya for betraying him, hates himself for believing in him… He collapses back on his bed, allowing the tears to flow freely now.

When England comes to get him for a World Conference the next day, he finds Alfred in that same position, lying in bed, his closed eyes swollen with tears. America comes to the meeting carelessly, feeling empty, hollow.

Russia isn't there.

The Baltics and his sisters don't arrive either, or anybody else that lives with him. America would feel worried, like the rest, but he's beginning to wonder how much he can feel anymore. Any stimuli that should make an impression on him doesn't, and even if some do, it feels false, he can barely keep up the pretense of normal reaction.

Finally, someone comes. It's Lithuania. His green eyes, normally sharp, are dull, flat. America sees them as mirrors into his own heart. Lithuania walks up to the front of the room. France, seeing his face, doesn't even allow himself to finish talking and surrenders the floor to the Baltic nation. Lithuania's eyes sweep the room, and he begins to speak. His voice is flat, hollow.

"All of you are probably wondering why Master Russia has not been present at any functions he has been invited to yesterday or today. The tsar allowed me to leave to carry this message to you all." Murmurs spread. If Russia isn't the one who lets his subordinates leave… Lithuania's voice, even flatter than before, cuts through the rising gossip and silences it. "Yesterday, on Sunday, a protest group marched on the Winter Palace in Moscow. They asked for an audience with the tsar, who was having tea at the time, to demand a minimum wage, workday, and other things… Master Russia was watching them gather in the square from a window in the palace." Lithuania's eyes suddenly snapped back into bright, gleaming focus, only to be smudged with the threat of tears. The emotionless shell of his voice cracks, and the pain of his soul flows through his words. "Master Russia was crying. Th-there was a rifle nearby. He… he picked it up, and told me…" Tears began tracing across Lithuania's cheeks. The Baltic's breath catches and jumps, and the sobs prevent him from speaking. He finally regains control of his voice and continues. "H-he said to me, 'We don't want children who can't play nice, да?' and—" He shakes his head, as if doubting the veracity of his own words—or he would, if he hadn't seen the horrible deed himself. "And began firing out the window…" Lithuania can't go on. He puts his hands on the table to steady himself and makes a final effort to finish, despite the emotional breakdown. "The snow turned red…"

There is silence.

Alfred feels nothing except that coolness in his cheeks that means his face has gone pale.

The silence goes on.

They all—sort of—expected something like it. Russia had never been seen as completely sane by the others.

It is still silent.

But not something like this—something awful, something horrible… a massacre…

There is nothing but silence.

The quiet is truly a first for the World Conference room. But then again, so is this—the massacre…

Silence.

Lithuania nearly collapses, and the silence is broken as England rushes in to support him. The elder European nation's face is still stunned. Others come up to give aid. Nervous mutters run through the room. Alfred barely manages to stumble to a chair and sit down in it, staring blankly at a wall. Beyond him, he's barely aware of Lithuania being guided out by England and France, and the rest of the nations slowly following, and a final emptiness in the room. Canada and England come in, and they help him out too.

It is a very long time before Alfred comes to his senses. His mind is still tormented with the dreams of Vanya pointing a gun out of a window, into the cold Russian air, and snow stained with blood. An impulse to see him, to know how badly he was affected by killing his own people, comes over him. He gets up—somehow, he's back in his bed, his house; Mattie must've got him there—and dresses. He'd been changed out of his suit; he doesn't know who to thank for that, maybe he did it himself, senselessly, maybe Mattie did it for him… His mind grabs gladly onto these little things to care about, like what to wear.

He eventually decides on jeans and a woven gray sweatshirt over his simple white t-shirt. Not the red, white, and blue shirt, or his jacket, or the clothes Vanya gave him—too many memories. Alfred drives those memories quickly out of his head, fingering the eagle embroidered in dark bronze thread at the throat of the sweater. He looks at himself in the mirror of the bathroom as he absently combs his hair into the familiar part, making sure Nantucket sticks up jauntily. Little things.

The airship he takes to Europe is one of the fastest. Alfred spends the several-hour journey thinking about his economic affairs. All the cars that had been put on the road recently had somewhat increased the demand for all sorts of widely used fuel. He'd begun drilling oil wells not long ago, which was very helpful to petrol sales… He chuckles, remembering how soon after he'd started drilling Vanya had put his oil-well plan into place. "I want to keep up with you, make sure you don't get too far ahead of me," the Russian had said sweetly when Alfred had asked about it. A sudden wash of despair, anger, and even worse, that bleak emotionless void, swallows up the kind memory. He could have been my lover!... Why? Why did he do all that, then just snap like this?... It's all gone now, all of that life. He feels tears choking him, and turns away to stare out the window, ignoring the gazes of the other passengers.

Can't I for once be normal? Can't I for once act as if I'm a normal American? Can't this thing be about a normal breakup, not a breakup involving the deaths of a hundred innocents?

Alfred is caught up in the sweep of people leaving when the airship lands. He takes the time to feel irritated towards them, and figure out which train he has to take into Russia, even though such things were long thought of beforehand. Little things.

Another few hours, and he'll be in Moscow, where Vanya is, and everything will be worked out—he hopes. Such things are outside hopes. He doesn't really believe it will be that simple. But he keeps telling himself, and denying that—denying anything bad. He tries to not even consider the possibility.

But he remembers the Napoleonic Wars.

He remembers when all of Europe was stained with blood.

And he remembers how amused they all were about it.

He remembers all too well, but this isn't like that—he tells himself. This is different. So he tells himself, stepping out into the cold Moscow air, once again marveling at the beauty of the city, and wishing he'd brought a thicker sweatshirt. Again, little things.

Alfred remembers where Vanya's house is, which he is thankful for, because he doesn't want to ask any passerby for directions—they are all either pale, nervous workers and peasants who give him frightened looks and scuttle into houses or to opposite sides of the street, or pale, harsh-looking guards who give him suspicious glare as he passes, their hands drifting to their bayonets. The blades look very sharp and well-kept to the civilian, and he shudders as he walks by them.

Finally, he comes to the well-kept manor house that looms over empty streets. His gaze flashes helplessly in the direction of the Winter Palace, but he steels himself and walks up to the door. The heavy brass knocker gives a terrible boom that echoes through the road and makes Alfred jump, but he needs to swing it several times before someone at last answers.

It's a Russian he doesn't know; a younger man whom Alfred would call a hussar if it had been a hundred years earlier, with curly hair and a small dark mustache. He gives the visitor a skeptical eye, asks in accented French if Alfred is America, then lets him in after he responds affirmatively.

The halls seem the same, but Alfred notices the conspicuous lack of Russia's subordinates, and the way his outdated guide is incredibly nervous. The tense atmosphere doesn't escape even the American's perception—that's how thick it is.

"The master is here," the hussar says softly, gesturing up a flight of stairs. "The quarters and offices for nations are all on this floor." Alfred turns to thank him, but the young man has already left as quickly as he can while still being polite. With a dismissive shrug, Alfred begins climbing up the marble steps.

The hallway the stairs come up to is empty. He hears a snatch of conversation in Russian from below, but it's distant, and fades quickly. Alfred calls Vanya's name softly. His steps echo on the floor as he makes his way towards his boyfriend's rooms. Paintings of Siberian winterscapes and ancient Russian nobility stare down at him from the walls, making the younger nation feel small and insignificant. So much history is contained in these walls… He told me this house has been around since the Mongol times, and he's even older than that.

Suddenly, he hears a voice, distant, coming from ahead of him. "Alfred?"

It's Vanya.

Without thinking, he breaks into a run, charging forward, smiling, tears in his eyes. "Vanya, I'm coming!" he cries back, running to the sound of the voice.

But then it's the end of the hallway. "Vanya?..." he asks doubtfully.

Then—from his right. The doorway a little behind him. "Alfred," replies a voice from behind the door, muffled by the wood and what sounds like tears. Alfred feels tears of happiness and sympathy blur his own vision as he turns to the room.

"Vanya," he whispers happily, and opens the door.

He is pulled into an embrace that warms the core of his being, an embrace that smells of sunflowers and vodka and something else he can't recognize. Alfred feels something falling, damp on his hair, and hears a sobbing as he buries his face in Vanya's scarf. His fists clench on Vanya's coat, and he moans in pleasure as their hearts are reunited. They don't kiss, or withdraw, or even speak for the first minute. It is enough for them to be together.

Finally, they pull apart (they're both so strong it has to be a mutual thing) and stare into each other's eyes. Vanya thinks Alfred looks awful—his lovely blue eyes are red and swollen around them, and his glasses are smudged with saltiness. His hair looks like it needs a wash, despite the fact that most of it is meticulously combed. Alfred thinks Vanya looks even more beautiful than usual—his purple eyes are unnaturally bright, and there is not a single silvery beige hair out of place. The only different thing is the strange reddish-brown stains on the scarf, but they're barely noticeable and only seem to add to his overall appearance. They both feel smiles spreading across their faces and joy bubbling in their throats.

"Were you worrying about me, my dear? You look awful—," Vanya begins, but so does Alfred.

"Were you really shut up in your house this whole time? You look beautiful—," They realize they are talking at the same time, and laugh for a little while.

"You first."

"Нет, you first."

"Aw, yours sounded more important."

"If you insist," says Vanya, smiling, and begins pulling Alfred to a sofa near the window as he talks. "You look as though you were worrying about me, my dear."

Alfred nods as they sit down, even though he's a little confused at Vanya's new term of endearment. "I heard from Lithuania at the World Conference. That whole thing—it sounded—,"

"Wait—Toris was at the conference?" Vanya frowns.

"He said the tsar allowed him to leave…"

Vanya doesn't respond.

"Why didn't you let him, or anyone else, go? Did they do something wrong?" Vanya's face is shadowed, his eyes glowing brighter than Alfred's ever seen them. He feels Vanya's grip tightening on his thigh, and decides to change the subject.

"Yeah, it's kind of amazing you still look… well, amazing!" says Alfred with a little giggle. The shadow disappears from Vanya's face, and he grins.

"You think so?" With little preamble, he moves in and begins kissing Alfred. His lips are cool, his tongue warm, his teeth sharp. Alfred moans again, kissing him back, their tongues entangling. His fantasies come to the forefront of his mind again, and his hands move to Vanya's hips.

"W-want… want more…" he manages to gasp, but Vanya doesn't seem to hear. Alfred becomes angry. He's ignoring me!... Doesn't he think about these kinds of things? Doesn't he know this will… He withdraws from the kiss, thinking to punish Vanya for not giving him what he wants, like he used to.

He can't do the things he used to anymore.

Vanya stares at him, his purple eyes glowing again. Alfred feels a chill run down his spine. There's a flash of white teeth in that shadowed face, but it is not a smile. At least, not what Alfred (or most sane people) would truly call a smile.

He can't punish Vanya.

The powerful nation growls, filling the air with the threat of violence. Alfred wants to move away, but he can't—the couch is small, and he doesn't want to make any provoking movements. It doesn't occur to him that he's thinking of his boyfriend in the same terms as he would a dangerous animal.

Vanya will punish him.

"Back," snarls Russia. Alfred gulps. He backs away. "The other back." Alfred is confused.

"Is there 'another back'? What are you talking about?"

"GET HERE!" Vanya shrieks, grabbing Alfred's shoulder. He reflexively pulls away and jumps up. At the sound of the "kolkolkol…" that follows, he realizes what a stupid idea that was. Vanya stands up, towering over the younger nation. There isn't really that much of a height difference, but Alfred is terrified and Vanya seems furious. Alfred trembles. He thought that Vanya really wasn't the horrible monster the other nations made him out to be, but…

"Why?" Vanya hisses. He seems to be having trouble getting the English words out. "Why are you running,… dear?" America backs away even more. He's insane… really insane! He gulps.

"V-Vanya," he begins as calmly as possible. "Are you alright? You seem…"

"Stop running," Russia rasps. "It is… wrong. You are mine." America stepped towards the door, trying not to panic. Something's wrong.

"Something's wrong with you, Vanya… You weren't like this before."

"Never. Never be the same," Russia mutters in response. The pain in his eyes draws Alfred back towards him.

"Was—was it the massacre?"

Vanya doesn't nod; he just lifts his head to stare heartbrokenly into Alfred's eyes.

"Vanya…" he murmurs, and steps forward to place his arms around him.

There is the sound of a knife being unsheathed.

Alfred's legs give out from under him, and he falls to the fine Turkish rug. It's suddenly stained with heavy crimson, and he can't figure out why.

Ivan licks the blood from the knife's blade, his purple eyes glowing contentedly.

"You won't run away now," he says in Russian. "Вы не уйдет сейчас."

Alfred gasps for breath, smelling his own blood all around him. It smells thick and rusty and makes his stomach turn.

"Я так счастлива," Ivansays. Alfred wishes he would stop speaking in Russian; it's making his head hurt. "Вы не убегал."

"Vanya… fuck…" Alfred spits blood from his mouth. "What's your problem? You're scaring me…"

Ivan's eyes glow and he steps close to the prone country. The knife hangs casually by his side, glittering violet and silver from his aura.

"You're not running away," he says, sounding as innocent and childish as he had when they were discussing sex. "You're going to stay with me, you're going to be one with me, and you're going to stay forever and ever."

"No, I'm not," America chokes.

Ivan's boot rests on Alfred's spine, already lacerated from the knife thrust, and applies slight pressure. "Да, you are."

"I'm leaving." Alfred makes an effort to get up. Ivan stomps down.

The sound of his bones cracking still ringing in his ears, Alfred looks up at his former boyfriend. His eyes are wide, like a frightened animal's.

"I'm happy," Ivan says, his grin wide. "Are you happy, my dear? You will become one with me…"

Alfred can't hear him. His vision is dimming to a tunnel, and he can't seem to make sense of what his senses are telling him. His back can't be broken… Vanya wouldn't do something like that!

Then he remembers; this isn't Vanya.

This is a monster.

His sight fades to black and all sensation leaves.

He's alone.

Alone…

Wake up.

He doesn't want to.

I have to wake up.

He's happy.

I can't sleep now…

No one is asking him to be a hero.

I have to keep Russia from…

Agony races down his back, and suddenly he can feel his legs again. Get up!

He opens his eyes, tries to see through the bloody and tear-streaked glasses for a moment, then decides it doesn't matter and forces his arms underneath him. With a burst of energy, he springs up.

Be the hero!

Вы не уйдет сейчас- You won't run away now

Я так счастлива- I'm so happy

Вы не убегал- You aren't running away

Ivan's a creeper, right?

This was my longest chapter- makes it the longest story I've written to date. Hope you liked it! (^J^)