Chapter 1; Instinct

*inserts teh lazies…* I can't be bothered writing out Ivan's sexy accent myself. You'll have to imagine it.

Also, Ukraine's staying as Maria, mainly because I can't spell the fan dubbed name of her off the top of my head. Go check the Hetalia Wiki site, I have a right to call her Maria. =D

He still remembers the day the cold war was 'thawed'. Under Switzerland's withering glare, Russia agreed to destroy half of his stockpiled weapons. America was slightly more cheerful about this idea, and Turkey was happy to destroy the guns that America had left him, just as Cuba was glad to relinquish the guns that Russia, in turn forced upon him.

For a while, under Iceland's all too watchful eye, Russia somehow managed to make things go back a little, tensions rose, but finally, with much urging on America's part, George W. Bush agreed to sign the treaty that put an end to the whole stupid thing.

He can remember that day for two major reasons. The first was that Germany and Prussia were both crying. That wall that they had so carefully built to protect the West from the East had fallen, and the brothers were so happy.

The second? Well, that was slightly more complicated, America thought. And probably would've started the whole war up again if Ivan wasn't so… odd.

The hand on his shoulder was heavy and familiar. The last time he had felt it was when Ivan had that gun pressed to his temple. Oh how he remembered that, vivid, like it was happening right now. But Hercules and Sadiq couldn't get there in time! Not now. They were celebrating with Kiku.

Whirling as quickly as his injuries would allow, Alfred turned to face his opponent, only to be met with lips as heavy as the hand that adorned his shoulder.

With a mumbled oath, Alfred whipped his hand up and slapped Ivan across the face as hard as he could.

Expecting harsher blows and taunting words to reply to this, he was stunned by a chuckle. He backpedalled, now warier than before. Arthur would've hit back, forced him to his knees and done whatever he felt was necessary to reprimand his charge.

'What do you want?' Alfred snapped, glaring at Ivan. 'You've already reduced me to this. Come to finish me off?'

The smile on Ivan's face doesn't leave, and Ivan just stepped forwards and took Alfred into his arms, as if to press the smaller man into his body. Now, Alfred had heard the phrase 'become one with Mother Russia,' but he honestly thought that it would never happen to him.

'The fuck?' Alfred swore, struggling against the iron arms around his body.

And then he felt the warmth, the sense of safety. Unbidden, his hands rose to Ivan's thick jacket and grasped the fabric tightly. He hadn't felt this safe since those times when Matthew found him after one of Arthur's episodes, and pooled his resources to stop him from giving up.

He clung to Russia's jacket as if it were a lifeline, holding him afloat in the vast sea of loneliness. He hadn't felt like this in a very long time. He was always alone, even when Matthew was around, especially when Arthur was around, even amongst those he called 'friend', he was alone.

It was like they had their circle of friends, allies, and he didn't ever quite fit in anywhere. That's the problem with being such a superpower. Everyone becomes afraid of you, except the people you are afraid of. And then, you never fit in.

Ivan doesn't let him go for a long time, all the while pouring sheer heat into Alfred, and slowly, Alfred comes to trust Ivan. And so, they go about their lives, but in a slightly new manner.

They were more than friends, but one could not call them lovers, because it never went that far. Never went past embarrassed and clumsy kisses, and fervent wishes for something more on Ivan's behalf. But he never did anything Alfred didn't want, never did anything except trace patterns across the sapphire-eyed nation's back, tracing scars that either he himself put there, or ones that he didn't quite understand, like the twin scars just above Alfred's heart, or the one on his shoulder. All he knew is that they had something to do with Kiku.

He never did anything that Alfred didn't want. Never deliberately. He was always careful. He never hurt Alfred if he could avoid it, but this... this was different.

Russia sat in the corner of the kitchen, looking at his hands. They seemed normal. Pale, ridiculously large, but not really fine, he didn't have piano hands, he just had big hands. They went with the rest of his body. The reason he was actually looking at them was because they were shaking.

He frowned and placed them on his knees. Maybe that would still them. But no, they kept jittering, and it was getting worse.

Out of the blue, his lungs convulsed and he started coughing, the fit drawing something from his lungs. Patting in his pocket for a tissue, he spat the glob out and stared at it as blankly as he'd been observing his hands moments before.

He must be getting ill. He decided. He winced when a lance of pain shot through his heart. Very, very ill. Worse than what Alfred and Ludwig had been like during the Great Depression. As the common belief went, a nation suffered as much as its people. And Ivan was suffering.

He wasn't too bothered. If he mad himself some soup and had a good, stiff drink, then he'd be as right as rain.

He nodded to himself, pushing on his knees to stand up. When he was fully upright, a ringing noise became quite apparent in his ears, and he promptly blacked out.

'I'm home!' Alfred declared unnecessarily, dumping his jacket on the old foldout sofa in the back room. He stretched his arms above his head, being careful to pull them down enough to get thorough the doorway. He chuckled. At least he didn't have to duck his head like Ivan did.

His chuckle died very quickly when he reached the kitchen, fully intending to make himself some coffee. Maybe Ivan would have some as well if he added some vodka.

Slowly, he crept around the kitchen table when he saw the trail of fabric on the floor, a river of cream cutting through the checkered linoleum floor.

The smile fell from his face altogether when he saw Ivan's prone body comically sprawled in the too small space. Under normal circumstances, he'd find this funny. Alfred's kitchen was rather small, and had little room around the centre table, and Ivan was taking up a fair bit of the floor space, his legs twined amongst the chair legs, but this was a very serious situation.

'Fine bloody time to take a nap, idiot. Now I have to lug you to the bedroom.' Sighing, Alfred crouched and wrapped his arms around Ivan's middle, heaving the far larger man over his shoulder. Carefully, Alfred carried the body of the former USSR to a safer resting place.

Ivan was rather unceremoniously dumped onto the mattress when Alfred reached his goal, and whilst Alfred had paid no heed to it earlier, now he noticed that Ivan was rather unresponsive right now.

'Ivan?' Alfred poked the larger blonde's shoulder through the thick stiff fabric of his coat. 'Russia? You okay?' Alfred took Ivan's shoulders in his hands and shook him roughly. 'Wake up! If you're playing games, I swear, I'll set Natalya on you!'

Ivan didn't wake, but his body started shaking.

'Shit.' Alfred growled. He knew what was happening. Ivan had been keeping quite about his problems, and now they had caught up with him. Russia was… dying, and here he was, the sole remaining superpower in the world, unable to think of any way to help him, when the answer should've been so bloody obvious!

'Ivan…' Alfred's voice on the second syllable, much the same way that Ivan's voice had broken on Alfred's name when Alfred had agreed to 'become one' with him. 'Don't die…' Alfred's hands grew slack in Ivan's coat and his body sagged, his head coming to rest over Ivan's heart. At least that was steady. He still had some time.

Maybe Ivan just had a weak body? He was so big after all, or maybe he had never been sick like this before? And everyone else was so healthy right now. It wasn't fair that Ivan was the only one to go under like this.

Alfred didn't know what drove him to unbutton Ivan's coat and the shirt underneath it and press himself to the other man's body. It must've been a little something that nations possess called instinct.

Pounding drums, deep, penetrating and never ending. He must have a hangover or something like that.

When he notices that he's naked, and that there's a naked person as close as humanly, or nation-ly, possible next to him, he panics. He didn't remember this! He rarely forgets things when he's drunk, if he does get drunk at all, and it takes quite a bit of alcohol to get Ivan Braginski, Russia, the inventor of strong liquor, to get drunk.

Now, he thought, raising a hand to his head, absently noticing that it wasn't shaking, what do I remember? There had been the kitchen, and he had wanted soup, and a good drink, and there was something else. Something was missing because he couldn't remember anything else.

'Oh, you're finally awake huh?' The bundle of human by his side stretched and groaned, displaying quite nice muscles under the scarred skin. 'Took you long enough. You're fever only broke last night and then I finally got some sleep.' In a rather cat-like manner, the blonde man stretched and then cradled his head in his hands, propping his torso up on his elbows. 'I bet you're hungry, aren't you?' Alfred laughed when Ivan's stomach grumbled. 'You haven't eaten for days, and I'll take a guess that you hadn't eaten for days before that because you were so worried about your people.' Alfred laughed again, as if Ivan had been as silly as a young child. Then he became quite serious. 'Ivan, if you ever get into trouble like that again, you have to tell someone. Even if it's just Gilbert.'

Ivan looked away momentarily, blushing. His pride had gotten in the way. It was true, he had known that something was wrong in Russia, but he could handle it, if he didn't eat, then someone else could have his food, someone else could have his strength.

'Well then!' Alfred sprung to his feet, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was naked, and walked out of his bedroom, heading for the kitchen. 'Let's see…' Ivan could hear Alfred muttering. 'I'm sure I've got some pancake mix somewhere…'

Ivan lay back down with a thump. He still felt ill, but it wasn't too bad. He was probably just hungry, like Alfred said. Wrapping Alfred's American-flag-duvet around his shoulders, he followed Alfred's path from the bedroom to the kitchen, smiling softly when he noticed that Alfred was trying to read the back of the pancake-mix-bottle, without his glasses.

'Dork.' He called, using a word he had actually picked up from the American. 'Come here.' He held one of his arms out, opening the blanket enticingly. Alfred caved and allowed Ivan to draw him into the warm envelope of the duvet. 'Here, I'll read it.' Ivan offered.

Alfred frowned. 'I can read it!' He held the pancake mix up, as if it would keep it from Ivan's grasp. Chuckling, Ivan peeled it from Alfred's fingers and scanned the back of the bottle.

'You just fill water up to the line.' Ivan looked down at Alfred, only to find that the younger man was dozing against his chest. Alfred must have lost many hours of sleep over him, and now he was going to lose another. Slowly and careful not to move Alfred, he placed the bottle of powder on the bench and turned his attention to the blonde.

Alfred was shocked into full awareness when Ivan's cold hands settled on the small of his back, a fistful of duvet in each hand, and Ivan's lips molded around Alfred's softly. Surprised, Alfred stepped back, and Ivan stepped with him.

'Can you not do that?' Alfred huffed, pouting.

'Nyet.' Russia murmured, pressing Alfred against the bench. Today. Ivan swore to himself. Today he'd break though Alfred's wall of shyness, or whatever it is. 'I can't help myself.' He pressed his lips to Alfred's again, nipping at the soft flesh. Now, how would he be able to achieve that?

He tightened his arms around Alfred and lifted him to the cold marble bench, disregarding the complaint that issued from the blonde. Ivan grinned against Alfred's lips. The blonde had to open his legs so they wouldn't get squished, and they were already naked, but still… he didn't want to hurt Alfred, and there was a chance of that unless Alfred had, oh he didn't know, a bottle of lube hidden in his cutlery draw.

Ivan was tempted to check, just in case.

Alfred had no qualms to opening his mouth to Ivan's insistent demands, nor any to Ivan's hands caressing his torso, absently tracing the scars. But he did mind when Ivan's hands wander below his navel.

Squirming away from the contact, an awkward sound breaks from Alfred's throat. 'I…'

Ivan sighs and places his hands on the bench and his head on Alfred's shoulder. At least he gave it a try, didn't he?

'I'm so sorry,' Alfred whispers, sliding out under Ivan's arm. Instinct driving him to flee.

He hid in his closet, which in retrospect was probably pretty stupid and obvious, seeing as he wasn't in the bathroom, but it was fairly spacy, being one of those walk-in wardrobes.

He sat under what clothes Ivan kept at his house. A spare coat, some pants, a shirt that had a small syrup stain in the hem, a jumper or two and a pair of socks that were probably more hole than sock.

He was quite warm, even though the room was cold, wrapped in layers of clothing. He breath still came in ragged gasps, and his heart was still pounding like a horse's gallop. He thought that he could control it, the panic, the fear. Ivan wasn't Arthur! Ivan would never hurt him. That was the rational assumption, but no matter how he looked at it, he couldn't help it.

It wasn't like he didn't want to do anything with Ivan, in contrary, he'd've happily let Ivan fuck him on the kitchen bench, if only to give him something to freak Matthew out with the next time his twin came over and cooked something, but still his heart raced in fear.

He could still remember what it had been like with Arthur, quite clearly. He had felt powerless, trapped, worthless, unable to move as Arthur used his body for his own means. And for crying out loud he was just a kid when it started!

Unbidden, tears welled up in his sapphire eyes, but he caught them on his fingers before they could fall.

Maybe Arthur's kind of love was the only he'd ever receive. Harsh, unforgiving, painful… Humiliating.

Yay! I didn't think i'd finish this tonight after all. It's nearly 2am for me, so for you all in America, be greatful. It's like, totally three hours past my bed-time.

Sorry if there are mistakes. I don't have a beta. Just inbox me or REVIEW *hint hint* and I'll fix it. and please guys, if you don't review it, the next chapter won't go up. I can understand if you don't have an account or time or whatever, but even if it's just a 'cool story bro', I'm cool... except for the bro part. I'm a girl...

Sorry it's so dark. I promise that the next chapter will be a bit better, I mean, at least there shouldn't be any tears of anguish. Except from Canada. Because he's a wuss. Scratch that. i just remembered the plan. Dang. The chapter after will be better.

And by the way, when Ivan gets ill, I'm referring to when he tries to go capitalist, and the economy kinda takes a nose-dive. Excuse me for making America help him, but I'm rewriting history here, so outta my way! =D

Review, or Ivan will come and throttle you as if you were England and he found out what happened to Alfred when he was younger! (Because Maria has nothing to do with that at all =D)