WARNING: Some gore and sexual references.

**YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED**

America stared down at his lover's body. The pistol was shaking in his hands. He couldn't believe he'd done what he just did.

He fell to his knees, gasping in shock. His stomach lurched again, but he hadn't eaten anything, so only bile came up.

The snow was turning red, just like in his nightmares. Ivan's body, having slipped off the bench, was only a few feet from him. Alfred gulped, and tried to look at him. The Russian's eyes were still open, and stared at him stoically through frosted lashes. Blood had splashed up onto his pale face. Alfred tried to see the entry wound, but there was only a gaping, bloody tear in his chest. The American's vision swam. He'd seen it happen a few times in meetings, but never like this…

He reached out, trembling. The mass of flesh was less than a foot away from Ivan, but it felt like miles between it and Alfred.

Alfred picked up Ivan's heart. Ivan's heart. It was bloody, still, and dark, and it looked like Alfred had always pictured it to be. His fucking heart. Ivan had always been quick to hide it whenever it fell out of him in public. What the hell is wrong with me. The temperature began to drop even more. Then the unthinkable happened.

The heart gave a sudden shudder, and expanded, as thought it was drawing breath. It gave a single pulse. The wind began to pick up, throwing snow everywhere. The heart pulsed again, and began to spurt blood all over Alfred's hands. He swallowed. He wanted to drop the slowly beating thing, but for some reason he couldn't bear to let it go.

He suddenly felt a strange agony in his hands and yelped in pain. The blood was burning, painful on his fingers! It hurt, so much that he almost let go of the heart. He held up one of his hands, squinting at it through his frosting glasses. It was slicked with crimson. He wiped it off on his jacket, and looked at his fingertips again. They were raw, raw red from cold. Alfred stared at the heart—the blood was freezing, not burning! He would never understand Russia…

At that thought, America looked up at his rival's dead body. His eyes widened. He couldn't see it. It had only been feet from him, but it was obscured by swirling snow so thick that the world seemed entirely white. He groped for his pistol with his free hand, but could only find ice. Alfred stood, staring wildly, his heart pounding. Something was very, very wrong. He heard ragged breathing over the wind, and whirled. Nothing.

Footsteps crunched through the snow behind him. Alfred turned around again, and spotted a dark shape circling him. He spun slowly on the spot, never letting the figure get out of his sight. "Ivan…" he managed to choke.

An iron pipe lashed out of nowhere, and his skull exploded. When the world stopped spinning, the blizzard had died down. He could see Russia now.

He scrambled to his feet, panting. He knew what was wrong, now. He couldn't quite explain it, but he could see it in Ivan's face. That face, once so innocent and expressive, was now completely devoid of emotion. It was shadowed, and the eyes were glowing, but his pale, blood-spattered skin didn't even look human or nation anymore.

"Give me back my heart," he said. His voice was completely flat as he extended his hand. Alfred hugged the organ closer to him, pulling it into his heaving chest.

"Give it back, Alfred," Ivan repeated. "Do not make me hurt you."

"I-I'll burn it." Alfred was terrified nearly witless, but in his bluff, he began to see a glimmer of hope for himself. "I'll nuke it, and you'll never get it back."

Ivan seemed to pause, but Alfred didn't know whether it was the threat or the turquoise light shining from his eyes. He took advantage of Ivan's apparent nervousness to concentrate some of his nuclear power in his hands, causing a radioactive glow to appear around the heart. Ivan's eyes widened, and he gasped briefly, in pain. He clutched at the hole in his chest.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Alfred said softly. He squeezed the heart, just once. Ivan gasped again. The Russian gritted his teeth, and raised his hand.

A blast of freezing wind hit America. It was so unexpected that he staggered backwards, and fell, letting go of the heart as the wind was knocked out of him by the pavement. He heard Ivan's ragged breathing and quick footsteps.

"My dear…" Ivan crooned above him. Alfred tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but his head was still spinning…

The iron pipe was raised over him. It descended, and Alfred realized he hadn't really known the pain of Ivan's wrath. The pipe struck him again and again, and his torso felt as though it was on fire. He tried to scream at Russia, but all he could do now was whimper helplessly. He remembered Gilbert and realized that this must've been what had happened to the ex-nation, and how he had felt in his last moments.

Anger. Anger was rushing at him from Ivan, and the strength of the emotion pinned Alfred to the snowy pavement, and he barely noticed when the physical assault stopped. He lay panting on the ground, tasting blood in his mouth. Ivan reached down and pulled him upright by the lapels of his jacket. Alfred didn't open his eyes, not wanting to look at Ivan's face.

"Well?" said Ivan sweetly. Alfred could feel his breath on his cheek. "Shall we make love like we have before, or are you still angry at me?" Alfred wanted to kick him, but he could barely move his legs, so he settled for a "Fuck off" through gritted teeth.

"Нeт. Fuck you, my dear."

Russia shoved America down onto the bench, smiling at the way he didn't protest. Alfred wished he could fight, but the way Ivan had beaten him had numbed his limbs, and there was no way he could recover before the night came to a nasty end for him.

Ivan's hands, still gloved, found Alfred's belt. The American realized that he was probably leaving bloodstains on his clothes, and managed to call up enough strength to reach over and try to keep Ivan from unbuckling his belt. Ivan casually slapped his hands away and pulled the strip of leather out of the loops. The belt fell to the ground, and Ivan paused to unbutton his coat. The old Soviet greatcoat hung down low enough to cover both of them, if he leaned close enough to Alfred. The younger nation felt his breath again, and managed to flinch as Ivan's cool lips brushed his cheek.

The jeans went next, and Alfred kicked weakly in an attempt to keep them on. He felt indignation rising in him—he really didn't want to do this, but he knew there was no way he could stop it. The realization made a strange, tight, angry feeling appear in his chest. He looked up to see the grin on Ivan's face, and realized with a lurch of fear and embarrassment that he wasn't wearing underwear. Ivan reached up to unzip Alfred's jacket, revealing the bare skin beneath. One of his fingertips traced a line down the fresh bruises, leaving a trail of cold blood.

Ivan's face lowered to his own, and he murmured, "Do you still love me, my dear?"

Alfred tried to turn away, but Ivan's hands were pressing down, pinning him to the bench. "No," he managed to choke.

Ivan studied him for a moment, and then said aloud, "It doesn't matter." He reached down to pull Alfred's hips up, and push his own body in between his legs. Alfred felt the bulge in Ivan's pants push against him, and tried to wriggle away. Ivan kept holding him tightly, though, even as he reached down to the zipper.

Alfred wished that he could just die now, leave his body so he wouldn't have to be there for its defiling. He gave a last attempt to pull away, but Ivan leaned down even farther so he was keeping Alfred down with his body. Then it was too late, and he entered him.

It hurt, hurt so much more than the first time. Ivan didn't seem to care that he wasn't ready at all, and started thrusting from the first. Alfred tried not to show his pain, but as Ivan hit him again and again, the pressure was building inside him, and he starting shrieking. Ivan grinned, panting, and pushed harder into his victim. His experience in sex began to tell, and he saw the look in the young nation's eyes—a combination of pain and pleasure. He had a brief flutter of doubt—didn't he want, above all else, to hurt America? As Alfred's moans grew louder, he came to the realization that it didn't matter if he enjoyed it—it would be better, even, because if he took pleasure in the rape, it would lead to a sort of ethical torment, and there were few things he liked more than to see innocents writhing in confusion, at constant war with themselves.

"Oh my God, Ivan, I'm dying!" Alfred screamed—Ivan had just started going even deeper than he'd thought possible, and it was both painful and pleasurable… He gasped, feeling tears rushing down his cheeks. It hurt so much… Oh God, I'm coming…

Ivan saw the look on his face, heard the scream of pain, felt him climax. He grinned. For the first time since nearly killing Gilbert, he was satisfied.

Okay, first of all, I would like to apologize wholeheartedly for the length of time between my last chapter and this one, but this past week has been really busy for me, and full of writer's block. The fact that this chapter is up here and actually makes sense is thanks to my fellow author and very good friend, Jazzy. Jazzy, if you're reading this, I can't thank you enough for helping me with the brainstorming work I had to do before actually starting this.

Also, I'd really like it if my readers who care enough to review would tell me if the quality is slipping. I haven't done much fictional writing in a while, so again, please say so if the writing seems a little dry, or something...