WARNING: Violence...

***YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED***

For years afterward, Alfred swore that the Canadian Annual Road Trip for that year was the best thing that could have happened for his relationship with Russia. They always stood next to each other at any sort of gathering, every glance at each other was filled with secret smiles, and Alfred lost count of the nights that ended with him moaning in Ivan's arms.

When other nations asked him about it, he would reply with a laugh and shrug off the accusations that Ivan had hurt him. But there were some countries that knew him well enough to see the flickers of pain in his eyes, saw the force he needed to keep his nuclear power from rushing up in a wave of emotion.

One day, as they sat on the couch, staring at the flickering TV screen, Lithuania could hold back his worry for his employer no longer. He leaned forward, his fingers fiddling nervously with his hair.

"Mr. America?..." He was uncomfortable at first, but then he asked his question, the question, for the umpteenth time, and could not hesitate any more. "What… what did Master Russia do to you?"

America turned, and there was a grimace on his face at the question, the question that he had heard far too many times. The sincere worry in Lithuania's eyes, those sparkling emeralds that were so different from the glowing purple eyes of his lover, stopped the harsh retort that was on his lips. He could not change the irritation that he felt at the return of this unfounded implication, and so he did not reach his hand out and comfort his servant. He did not wrap his arm around his shoulders, as he had so many times in less upsetting matters or even for no reason at all. He simply looked at Lithuania, and said, "He loved me."

He turned away, and did not look at Lithuania, even when he heard a racking, angry sob, even when the patter of running feet echoed through the house. He remembered the CART, and the memories brought up a smile and a sudden urge to see Ivan again. Alfred stood up, and walked to the phone in the kitchen. His fingers flew automatically over the keys.

They ate dinner together at a small, but well-atmosphered restaurant in New York City. Even though they had been here many times before, Alfred still enjoyed seeing the rush of lights and people. He loved showing Ivan the sights of the city even more, and a thrill of happiness surged through him when he realized Ivan had yet to see one of the greatest attractions. He tugged on the Russian's sleeve. "Hey, Ivan," he said, leaning up to get his lips closer to Ivan's ear. "Have you seen Times Square yet?"

Ivan hummed softly, a deep, quiet noise made low in his throat. Alfred felt shivers of delight pass over him. "Only during the day," he responded eventually.

Alfred grinned, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Wait 'till you see it at night. There's nothing like it."

And so it was that the American and the Russian stood together beneath a streetlight, staring in wonder and joy at the bright lights of the advertisements shining down on the Square. Humans were dashing back and forth, always half in the light, half in the shadow.

"Amazing," murmured Ivan. "Amazing. There are so many people."

"That's why I love it here," Alfred replied. "I always come—when—" He broke off, glancing up at Ivan. After a moment, he found a new track of conversation, and lifted a hand, sweeping it around in a gesture meant to encompass the whole of the Square. "These are all people, real people, each one with a life and story, friends, a family…" Here he sighed, and fell silent. His hand dropped to his side.

Ivan stared down at his lover. He had never guessed at this side of America's personality. He had grown up, alone, and been so strangely strong that he had no peers. He had thought that England's foster parenting had been enough to give the young superpower a feeling of family, but perhaps he had been wrong. Ivan reached out and put his arm around Alfred's shoulders, pulling him close.

They stayed that way for a while, sharing in their mutual warmth and love. After a minute, Ivan asked, "Do you know why I began to spend time with you, my dear?"

Alfred blinked. "No. You never told me." Many times, he had wondered why, since their shared time led to a strong, mutual affection, and finally, love.

Ivan gently squeezed his shoulder. "I… I was lonely. Lonely… just like you." He turned to Alfred, a sort of desperation in his eyes, a desperation that said, There, I've told you. Will you blame me? Do you still love me?

Alfred smiled reassuringly. He leaned up, until his face was less than inches away from Ivan's. "Thank you," he whispered, and brought his head forward those few inches. They kissed for a long time, filled with joy that the other was there, that they would never be lonely again…

Toris was angry. That never happened to him, not even when Poland was a bastard, not even when America acted like an arrogant asshole, not even when Russia hurt him. But this was different. Russia was hurting America—he knew it; he knew it from the burning of the scars on his back. And America didn't know it. Somehow, Russia was sucking the love from him, turning him into that arrogant asshole that caused Toris more pain than he ever let on. Mr. America didn't deserve to be known as such a jerk.

Toris was angry.

He went to his room, and rifled through his bags until he found what he was looking for. He drew it out, remembering those days of joy with Poland. He smiled fondly, recalling the day they defeated Prussia… This had had a hand in it, he contemplated, stroking it.

He heard the door opening, and the voices of Master Russia and Mr. America, teasing each other, laughing. Rage burned in him again. So, that's where all his love has gone...

Toris drew his old sword out of its scabbard and padded silently to the front hall.

Alfred was looking forward to the night, and he told Ivan as much. Ivan laughed heartily, and grinned at him. Alfred liked his laugh. It was warm, rich, and it had been years since he had heard any undercurrent of madness, and even longer since that horrible, chilling "Kolkolkol" had passed the Russian's lips.

Ivan looked lovingly at him. "Shall we go straight to your room, or do you have some other surprise for me?"

Alfred smiled. "As a matter of fact, I believe I do have something else to show you."

They passed out of the front hall, Alfred leading the way eagerly, Ivan following just as excitedly. They were so focused on one another that they never noticed Toris.

The only warning Alfred had of his servant's appearance was a strangled, half-sobbing cry, and then a noise that only could have been a sword swinging through the air—and striking flesh. He whirled to see Toris standing over Ivan, who had swayed and stumbled at the blow.

Alfred could not process what he had just seen. Toris held a sword—a real sword! It was old and notched, but it still shone with a bright steely glitter. His green eyes were sparkling harder than ever—they looked like true emeralds. Ivan was leaning against the wall, and his face was just as stunned as Alfred felt. But there was no sign of a wound.

Toris screamed again, and yelled something in Lithuanian or Russian—it sounded like an accusation, an accusation filled with righteous anger and sorrow. He lifted the sword again, and struck down at Ivan's upraised face.

This time, it drew blood.

It was the smallest cut, but crimson washed down Ivan's cheek, mirroring the faint redness on the edge of the blade. Toris sobbed in fear, and at that moment, Alfred understood why.

Ivan's eyes were glowing again, not with that loving violet shine, but with that unwholesome, eldritch purple light that reflected off the blood and the sword and even the air around him, it seemed, for an eerie aura was lighting up around him. Ivan stood, purple fire gleaming in his eyes. He struck at Toris, and not only with his hand, but with that iron pipe that he always carried about with him. Toris didn't even cry out as he fell limply to the ground, blood trickling from a cracked skull.

Ivan turned those rage-filled eyes on Alfred next, and the American shrunk back, trying to appear as innocent as possible. The iron pipe was raised, gleaming harshly in the purple light. The last thing Alfred heard was Ivan's voice.

"Quite a surprise, my dear… Kolkolkol…"

And so it also was that Alfred would forever consider the CART as one of the worst things that had happened to his relationship.

...and so it is that Russia goes insane. Again. [shakes head] Ivan, you silly communist...

Anyways, I hope you like it! Nearly twenty chapters! [happy dance] I've been working on this fanfic for so long that I've sort of, well, accepted that it's part of my life at the moment. It's going to be weird finishing it, but then I at least can work on other long projects. And I could not, honestly, do it without my somewhat-faithful readers, who find the time amidst writing their own fanfics and reading other stuff to pay attention to my little scribblings in the corner of the Internet. If it were not for your compliments and the fact that you take the time to actually write your own little reviews, I don't think I would have the heart to continue. I think I've said this before, but I'll say it again: Thank you, readers.