WARNING: More sexual references ahead. And PruCan. Somewhat smutty PruCan.

*YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED*

Alfred was closer than he'd ever dreamed to his longtime enemy, and yet, to his shock, he hadn't done a single thing about it. Not a single thing. He could have started a war a thousand times over, could have killed him a hundred times, but he'd done nothing.

Maybe it was the memory of those times past when he could not have dreamed of fighting, maybe it was the fact that Russia would and could willingly slaughter him—or maybe he wouldn't. At the World Conference—what was that he'd said? "I have other plans for you…" Right. Alfred shuddered. He had seen enough of those "other plans" this morning. And the result of that reveal? He'd fled from the trailer, emotionally torn, physically excited. What a goddamn…

As Alfred was struggling with these thoughts, Ivan was examining him coolly over his newspaper. It was a Russian newspaper. He'd begun reading it in the hopes that it would bring him back to his homeland, but all it did was make him feel homesick. So instead, he took to observing his former love. Well—perhaps not entirely former. There were those moments, when he felt that familiar insanity gripping him, that he simply needed the American in the most carnal, primitive, delicious way. And even now, he was beginning to entertain fantasies that were quickly pushed away by the rational part of his mind, but less rational parts (of the body as well as the conscious) tended to disagree.

Finally, America seemed conscious of Russia's eyes on him. He looked up, glaring. He seemed somewhat surprised at what he saw. "You're wearing glasses," he said after a long pause.

Ivan nodded. "Да."

Alfred didn't know how to respond. His first thought was, You look super cute in them. Then he realized how ridiculous that sounded, with their relationship as it stood. Then he noticed the way Ivan seemed to be looking at him, almost expectantly. He wondered what Ivan would say if he insulted the glasses. It would not end well. Maybe I should accuse him of copying me?...

"Well?" Ivan interrupted. "Do you not like them? Should I take them off?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm, as if Alfred's opinion was all that mattered.

"Oh, no," Alfred replied absently, not picking up on the veiled mockery. "Keep 'em on. They're cute."

Ah-hah… Ivan felt that smile spreading across his lips. Alfred suddenly realized what he'd done. But there was no taking it back now…

"Thank you." Ivan nodded and went back to his reading. Alfred punched himself in the head multiple times. He decided to, for the moment, to throw his problems to the wind and just lose himself in admiring the Russian.

Ivan wasn't wearing his usual coat, but instead he had on a black t-shirt and a black-trimmed blue sweatshirt, with sleeves down to his elbows. Alfred had seen him in this before, and he never ceased to be amused by the little dark bow connecting the lapels of the jacket. The black shirt really went well with his light skin, scarf, hair, and pants. And the glasses were really cute. Alfred smiled happily, the simple fashion admiration bringing him back to those days long ago…

"Ah! L'amour !" Alfred looked up, startled. France. The European nation was grinning happily at the pair, his cheeks bright and flushed. The American glowered. Ivan continued reading.

"What the hell are you talking about?" America snapped, adding, "Remember, I don't speak French."

"Mais, le français est le langue de l'amour. You silly American, didn't Arthur teach you anything?"

"Speak. English," Alfred said through gritted teeth. He stole a glance at Russia—still studiously ignoring France! How was that possible?

"Ah!" cried France suddenly. Alfred whipped his head back.

"What?" France was pointing at him, grinning broadly.

"I saw that!"

"Saw what?"

"Saw you look at him! Don't deny it, America; I saw that surreptitious glance at him!"

Alfred was beginning to get irritated. Ivan was having a harder time ignoring his former ally. The American asked, "Will you stop dancing around the point and tell me what the hell is going on, ya fucker?"

France stopped smiling and looked at him with shrewd eyes. He thought for a moment, smirked, then leaned close, his lips tight with barely suppressed amusement, and burst out, "I know it! I know you two are in love! What a gorgeous romance—you, the young, proud prince, and him, the terrifying, insane king! How crazy! How wonderful!" He laughed, that strange, deep, joyful French laugh that terrified so many.

Alfred and Ivan were far from being terrified, however. Alfred, livid, was standing, his face twitching with rage. Ivan was continuing to hold the newspaper, though the paper was getting wrinkled around his fingers, and his face was deathly pale.

"Wh-what the hell are you…" America gasped, barely able to speak through his anger. Russia stood, his lower jaw beginning to tremble. He reached out and seized Alfred's shoulder.

"You will not speak to—not speak of me in that way," he said, his voice tightening. "If you do such a thing again, Francis, I will kill you." He turned away from France's terrified face and began walking with quick, angry steps towards the trailer.

Alfred didn't struggle when Ivan began dragging him away; he was so preoccupied with his anger at France that he sincerely believed his rage was Ivan's reason for carrying him off. He sensed Ivan was having trouble controlling his own emotions, too, but he was, again, too enraged at the Frenchman. He was so furious that he didn't notice when Ivan pulled him into the trailer, slammed the door, and shoved him up against the wall until Ivan's face moved close enough to his that he began to sense a violation of personal space.

"Hey… Russia… what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I am doing?" Ivan snapped back, his fists tightening on Alfred's wrists.

Alfred's eyes began to glow. "It looks and… uh… feels like you're trying to fuck me. As anyone could tell you."

Ivan smiled. "Then why did you ask?" As he spoke, his body kept pressing up into Alfred's. The American felt the beginnings of something he'd rather not confront. Damn Florida…

"It was a rhetorical question, damnit!" Alfred was beginning to feel panicky. His next sentence came out in a desperate whimper. "And look, I don't wanna become one with you anymore, so will you please stop raping me? Or at least trying to?"

"Don't want to become one anymore?" Ivan repeated. He's made a mistake. "Are you sure? I thought you said you liked my glasses…"

Alfred felt tears coming into his eyes, and not from the pain. "N-no… Why are you doing this? I don't wanna become one… Not now…" With trembling hands, he reached up to Ivan's face, and carefully removed the reading glasses. Now he could see his former love's eyes better. They were glowing an even brighter purple now.

Ivan smiled slightly. "'Not now'? Does that mean you will be willing later?" Alfred felt the fear creeping down his back, making him want to run and hide, or fight—and then die. He swallowed. Nah—I think I'll just wait for him to get over his lust…

"No—unless by 'later' you mean after you're not… a commie. Anymore."

"I don't see that happening anytime soon." Russia shoved Alfred further up the wall, forcing his legs apart with his hips. Ivan then twisted his arms to pin him to the wall. He ignored the agonized sobbing of his victim, his entire mind taken over by desire. America tried to kick him, and Ivan twisted his arms again. Alfred screamed, a horrible sound that penetrated Ivan's half-drunken fog of insanity. Part of him cringed at the sound of pain, but another part enjoyed the sadism. "Does it hurt, my dear?" he murmured, allowing his fingers to drag over the American's body.

"My—my shoulder…" Alfred sobbed, whimpering. Ivan slipped the aviator's jacket off him, and began exploring his torso again with his hands.

"Here?" He pressed Alfred's left shoulder. It did feel somewhat tender. Ivan pulled the sleeve up, briefly admiring the smooth skin around the healing wound. It was red, especially from the twisting of his arms, and there was a sort of scabbed-over bruise. No, there were two. Ivan frowned. He had seen wounds like this before—a pair of puncture wounds, a distance apart from each other… "What did this to this to you?"

Alfred was barely conscious, and therefore unable to answer. Ivan's scowl darkened. He gently shifted America's body in his arms, provoking a small babble of protest, and walked him over to his bunk. His mind now distant, he placed his vanmate in his bed and stood up, thinking. Alfred stared up at him with wide eyes.

The American watched him leave with conflicting emotions. The throbbing pain from his shoulder was impeding his ability to think clearly, for the moment, but he was still able to wonder about the incident. Alright, so he evidently still loved Russia. But it felt… sort of different… He couldn't explain it. At the moment, he really hated Ivan for hurting his shoulder even more. And again with the rape? Why can't he ever be polite, and ask, about that sort of thing? I obviously don't want to become one with him! Bastard! But he felt tears blurring his vision again, and he realized he still had Ivan's glasses clutched in his hand. He remembered those burning purple eyes behind the glasses, and he sat up carefully to look at them. As he did, he felt something metal knock against his leg. Ivan's flask of vodka. Alfred stared at it.

He's not fully to blame for it, I guess… He must have been drunk… And then, he spiked the coffee before the first time… Damnit… Why does it have to be this hard? The tears escaped his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He closed his eyes and with a swift, decisive movment crushed the glasses.

Gilbert had forgotten how good Canada was. His skin was soft and warm, his hands were dexterous, and God he could kiss. And get fucked. He was just good.

"C'mon Gil—," Matthew panted. "No one's here—,"

"Someone could come," Gilbert muttered. "I'm not sure about having to get dressed again—,"

"I have my bathrobe, and you don't have to take everything off—,"

"I guess," Gilbert said, his mouth leaving Matthew's neck and coming up to kiss him on the lips. As he did so, he slipped his hands up under his lover's hoodie, under which there was nothing. After a little bit of exploration, he found his nipples, and began rubbing them until they became hard. Matthew moaned, tugging at Gilbert's pants. Gilbert briefly removed his mouth to slide the hoodie up and off Canada's head. Matthew emerged with slightly tangled hair and eyes filled with lust. Smiling, he reached up to remove his glasses, then pulled Gilbert down on top of him.

Gilbert felt that his pants were growing too tight, but he wasn't entirely ready yet. He hooked his fingers into Matthew's belt loops, then jerked the pants down and off. His body was as beautiful as it had been the night before. Matthew moaned again as Gilbert touched him, spreading his legs. The sight was enough for Gilbert, and he allowed Matthew to unzip his jeans. They pressed themselves together, feeling the pleasure and pain immersing them.

There was a knocking at the door.

Gilbert ignored it, pushing harder. Their emotions flowed in concert, lust, love, pleasure… Matthew couldn't remember anything else except them, couldn't remember anyone else except Gilbert. Alfred was a distant memory, France was just a face in the crowd, Ukraine didn't exist.

The door seemed to implode. There was a blast of freezing wind, and Russia walked in through the wreckage, grasping his pipe in one hand.

The pair froze.

"Oh shit," Gilbert said.

"Maple…"

Ivan ignored the obvious implications of what they had been doing before he walked in—Canada naked, Gilbert on top of him—and went straight to the point. "What happened to America?"

Canada blushed, wishing he could make their previous activity less obvious. "Eh, when?"

"His shoulder is wounded. Why?" Gilbert felt incredibly nervous. He'd already escaped from Russia for this, and he definitely didn't want to end up in the Soviet Union before the trip was over.

"Oh… eh… Ukraine stabbed him. He tried to beat me up."

Russia's eyes glowed. "Is that so?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. He selected one of the numbers on speed-dial. He didn't have to let it ring long.

"Toris? Can you get me Ukraine?" There was a brief silence. Gilbert and Canada stood up. He glared at them.

"Yes, this is Brother," he said in Russian into the phone. Ukraine had answered. "Why did you stab America?"

"I'm sorry," Yekaterina sniffled. "He… he was beating up Matvey…"

"I know. It's a problem…"

"I'm very sorry…" Canada tried to creep into the bathroom, Gilbert slowly following him. Russia noticed and glowered, causing the air temperature around the pair to drop about ten degrees, completely eradicating any thoughts of sexual diversion.

"Do you want to be starved again?" He switched to French in order to make some impression on his eavesdroppers. "If you ever injure one of my lovers again, especially in such a problematic way, it will be problematic for you too." He hung up and walked out, leaving Canada and Gilbert to stare wide-eyed after him. Gilbert was the first to recover.

"From now on—only at night."

L'amour- love (French)

Mais, le français est le langue de l'amour- But, French is the language of love (French)

Hooray! Still more sexual tension and near-rape, followed by a good heathly dose of PruCan. I'm seeing a pattern here...

Why the PruCan? I honestly don't know. Maybe the Trekkie within feels this needs a good subplot. And maybe I just really want to write something sexy when I don't think Ivan and Alfred are up to that point yet. And I am coming to that point! And it shall be even sweeter to write for the wait! (And possibly read, but I don't know if it'll be that good.)

Please review! Thank you!