Get ready for another OC!

Warning: Angst, RusAme, Nichu, weapons, violence, threats, dangerous situation, fight scene, gore, OC.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

Two-Faced Color

They agreed they wouldn't stop until they reached D.C., which was only a few hours away. To think that only two months ago they'd landed in Montana and hadn't a clue how in the world they were going to get to the capital was more than extraordinary. They had renewed their bonds, yes, but that didn't mean there wasn't angst among them. They had come so far, it was impossible to turn back. Once they were within the district boundaries, they were committed with the whole of their lives to the sole mission of removing the Organization from power. Looking behind was not an option.

They ate the rest of their rations—they could not afford the extra weight once they reached the capital and there would certainly be no time to rest. In each van, they planned out ways to confront the Organization, agreeing to make one last stop just before they entered the district to confirm their 'Trojan Horse' strategy. When they could, they rested, knowing full well that as soon as they saw the white stone peaks of Washington D.C. sleep would flee them to never return until all was over.

Kiku was at the wheel when they arrived at the fateful exit that would take them off the interstate and into hell. In the other van, Alfred had recovered, though still lightheaded and black-eyed, but his one good eye never drifted from the window. "Here we go."

To say they were nervous was an understatement; most of them were regretting their eating binge, wanting to pull over and puke in the lane. But they withheld (mostly out of dignity), choosing instead to focus on the unseen point in the distance from which they could feel foreboding flowing like the heat of a million wildfires.

There was a sparse stretch of national forest between the road and the city, the latter being soon identified by the signs (and Alfred) as Bethesda. They were still in Maryland, which was a relief to all of them, but they were just west of D.C. They decided to pull off the road into a wooded area to pitch their tents for the night. It was noted among all of them that the wind wasn't so harsh here nor the weather as cold. The snow was mere inches instead of feet, though the environment was bittersweet compared to the location and the fight to come.

Ludwig volunteered to keep watch, and Feliciano insisted on joining him. Ludwig would have refused to let the weepy Italian accompany him, but then again he doubted Feliciano nonetheless the rest of them would be able to sleep.

Their plan was as follows: they would continue on into D.C., taking the neighborhood roads and keeping off the main ones that the Organization was bound to be patrolling, until they reached Cabin John Creek Park, which led all the way down to the upper arc of the Potomac. There, they would abandon their vehicles—as they would be less likely to be seen without them—and salvage some canoes Alfred knew to be stored at the shoreline, if not already taken. They would then row southeast, following the curve of the river. The national forests and parks that stood between the river and the roads would hide them, and they would stop as soon as they reached Theodore Roosevelt Island. They would rest and wait until dark to venture further in and then head for Independence Avenue, where the Organization's headquarters must be established. It was a half-baked plan and very risky at best, but none of them had been to or heard from D.C. for months and not once was it mentioned in any of the Organization's broadcasts where exactly they were centralized. They didn't have a lot to go off of, but they were there, short three members, and that was enough for them to dedicate themselves to their scheme.

They all watched the sun set in the cloudless sky, alighting it in delicate shades of seashell pinks and blazing oranges, chased by a dark indigo that carried stars and moon. It was one of the few sights all of them could agree was especially genuine and beautiful; no matter what, it never changed. They were all in a good mood, though that was mostly to mask their anxiety about the next day. They did not make a fire despite the cold, and they nibbled on some jerky Yao had found in one of the vehicles they'd siphoned near Cleveland. Compared to everything else that was going on, the tough dried meat was one of the highlights of their day. Gnawing on it provided a welcome distraction from their unfortunate circumstances.

As soon as Ludwig announced that he was starting his watch, their mutual retirement was signaled. They all returned to their respective tents and followed usual routine, but there was something about it that felt completely foreign to them. They'd had to fight for their countries. They'd had to fight for their people. They'd had to fight for their beliefs. But they had never had to fight for their own lives. It was the deep breath before the plunge, and not all of them were sure they'd taken in enough air.

As soon as Alfred was well he had returned to sleeping by himself, which wounded Ivan more than he felt comfortable to admit. Here they were, staring Death in the face, and Alfred was still choosing to act like a sulking child.

Ivan gave an audible huff and slipped into his own sleeping bag, watching Alfred's back facing him across the tent. His chest hurt, and he tried to convince himself that he didn't know why. He was caught between wanting to drive his fist through a wall and forcing himself on Alfred so that he could make love to him like he wanted, making Alfred understand. He knew neither was a proper choice and was caught sulking like a child himself, not knowing what to do. The frustration was overwhelming. After a time staring at Alfred's form rising and falling with breath, Ivan grabbed the hem of his sleeping bag, preparing to pull it off of himself. This is ridiculous. I will have him sleep beside me, and I don't care if he doesn't—

"Ivan."

It hurt Ivan that his name sounded foreign on Alfred's lips from lack of speaking it, but his attention was caught nonetheless. "Da, Alfred?"

Alfred did not respond for a moment, savoring his name in Ivan's voice, then continued in a meek tone, "I… th-thanks for, um, taking care of me." He shifted uncomfortably and didn't say anymore.

Ivan's spirits rose. "That was what I promised to do, Alfred. I keep my promises."

Alfred laid there, chewing his lip and brooding. He eventually turned over and faced the Russian, sitting up and crawling out of his sleeping bag. "Ivan," he called, but Ivan was already halfway there, their lips meeting in a messy clash of teeth. But neither party wavered in their passion; Alfred's arms pulled Ivan in about his neck, and Ivan's own arms gladly enveloped Alfred's waist. It hadn't been that long since they had held each other like this, but so much had happened between then and now that it felt like a thousand years had passed without the other's touch.

A minute in, and Ivan was close to laying Alfred down and taking him as he assumed the other man wanted, but then Alfred abruptly broke the kiss and retreated from his embrace. The American looked away and wiped his mouth, regaining his breath and adjusting his glasses which had been knocked askew in their desperation.

"Ivan, I…" he began, but he trailed off and before he could finish he had returned to his empty sleeping bag and wriggled back inside. All Ivan saw was the curve of his back once again. Before Ivan could even protest, Alfred said quietly and most regretfully, "It's an endless cycle, Ivan. I can't do this anymore."

Ivan was about to say something back, but he soon stopped himself. They had shared a kiss; maybe Alfred's words were only there to cover up his embarrassment of wanting him? It wouldn't be the first time that either of them had done the same. That could be the only reason. Because Ivan loved Alfred. How could the American not see that? He had waited all his life, endured his own endless cycle of loving Alfred. For years upon years, longer than Alfred had ever known or experienced, Ivan had chased Alfred to the ends of the earth and back, only wanting his desires to be acknowledged. And when he finally managed to get Alfred to follow him, the younger turned his back again. Again. Again and again and again. Ivan liked to think that something had changed within Alfred, and he also liked to think that many things had changed within himself. They had the potential to be lovers, and perhaps more. The only thing they needed now was time.

With as much tense chagrin as they needed for the night, they both settled down, but not once did they ever close their eyes. Alfred felt his lips with his fingers… chapped, but soft and wet with kissing, bleeding slightly from their rough ministrations. This could be the last time he ever kissed Ivan, but he didn't want to go any further than that. Because dying knowing you're leaving the person you love the most behind would be the most painful thing any two people could go through, and Alfred knew that Ivan had endured enough of such torment in his life to be undeserving of further sorrows.

For Ivan's sake, he kept telling himself, but the more he repeated the thought in his mind, the more he grew not to believe it.

Yao unrolled his sleeping bag and lifted the top to get in, only to feel eyes on him. Over the weeks, Kiku had gradually taken to sleeping by himself, and, as much as it pulled at Yao's heart, the Chinaman did not pressure the younger man into being intimate when he was hesitant to. Being apart from Kiku for so long made Yao realize the reasons behind the other man's aloofness, and he accepted it. Because Kiku was his brother and his love. He could never hate any part of him.

Those rich brown eyes were on him, and Yao stopped for a moment to admire. Kiku was fully clothed, nowhere close to getting settled down, while Yao was shirtless. For once, since the last time they'd last sincerely made love (which had been roughly around the time they had first gotten together, now that Yao recalled it), Kiku held his gaze.

Yao's heart swelled, and he leaned over, taking Kiku's thin wrist in his hand. He pulled the man to him and kissed him chastely on the lips. Hope rose in his chest when he was not met with resistance. He drew back and said, "I love you, yīnghuā,"—his mantra since Kiku's retreat.

He then went back to his sleeping bag, adjusting it and slipping his feet inside. "Yao," Kiku called, and Yao's head snapped up to see the younger man's fingers on his lips, a blush trailing across his face. Perplexed, Yao watched as Kiku looked away, hand dropping back down to his lap, and muttered, "I… I…" The next second Yao was sprawled on his back with Kiku hovering over him. His face was dark with embarrassment. "I missed you," he said in a small voice before locking his lips with Yao's.

"Mmf!" Yao hadn't had time to catch his breath before Kiku was obstructing his airway. He grabbed Kiku by the shoulders and pushed him back a bit, gasping. He peered up, and the other man was flushed and panting. Yao stared at him. "What… what are you doing, yīnghuā?" As much as Yao wanted it, it felt weird to be doing such things when only last night they had witnessed the aftermath of a suicide.

Kiku thought the same, but he retained his gaze with Yao and said rather uncomfortably, "Um… y-you wouldn't touch me anymore at night and… I-I thought that you didn't want me…"

Yao frowned. "You thought I didn't want you? But, Kiku, all I've been saying is how much I love you."

That was when Kiku's eyes finally broke away to examine a piece of Yao's hair, out of place from having its owner forcibly pushed down. "Yes, I know, I just…" Kiku knew there was no logical explanation to his worries. He just didn't want to admit that Yao was in love with him and he was in love with Yao. It was a strange feeling. A distracting feeling he didn't know he could afford to nurture but desperately wanted to.

Yao took Kiku's face in his hands and directed the man's eyes back to his own. "I love you, Kiku. Why do you doubt it?"

A foreign warmth went through Kiku then, and his heart began to do weird things in his chest. Words forced themselves up his throat and past his lips, words that he hadn't bidden. "Because I don't belive it."

Yao smiled and pulled Kiku down. "You are so cute when you are flustered."

Kiku began to sputter, but Yao captured his lips before anything else could escape. It had taken him too long to open up, too long to accept the fact that Yao was truly in love with him. He'd originally thought that what they had was just frivolous, but Yao's constant dedication to informing Kiku of his love for him had Kiku thinking otherwise. Only now, with hell staring them in the face, did he truly realize how much he had wasted the time they could have had together.

They kissed for a long time, until the sun set and the stars came out. By then Kiku had explored every inch of Yao's mouth, and desired something more, forgetting the troubles of the world. He broke their kiss to say, "It's cold."

Yao took that as a signal to wriggle into his sleeping bag and pull Kiku with him. He quickly went to work removing Kiku's clothes, fumbling with nerves, and a long five minutes later they were laying skin-against-skin, hands roaming to remap territory they had previously been apart from. They kissed, and Kiku's fingers threaded through Yao's hair, loosening it from the tie holding it back. Yao's hands ventured downward to grab Kiku's asscheeks, squeezing and pulling them apart. "Mmm," Kiku moaned, and grabbed Yao's shoulders, rolling himself beneath the other man. He peered up at him, eyes hooded, breathless, and blushing. "Please," he urged, and that was all he needed to say.

Yao was so aroused, he feared he could not properly administer to Kiku without going too fast and hurting him. So he whispered for him to wet his own fingers while Yao made love to every inch of skin offered to him. Kiku could barely do what Yao asked for all the moans forced from his lungs, and every kiss, lick, bite, or suckle rendered him near breathless. Every nerve was tingling, and by the time he slid his hand between their heated bodies to insert a slicked finger into himself, he was already hard and leaking.

"Y-Yao~" Kiku moaned as his nipple was dutifully sucked, and he ended up shoving two fingers into himself with such haste that he winced. Yao couldn't help but notice.

He planted kisses all the way up to Kiku's ear. "No rush."

"Please, oh…" Kiku groaned and hurriedly scissored himself. His ass was sore from the rough treatment, but he needed to feel Yao in him. He forced his fingers to stretch himself for a little longer to prevent the impending ache, but when Yao's hand trailed down to stroke his purpling erection, Kiku gasped, "Yao, oh Yao, mmn," and he removed his fingers to guide the man's cock into him. As soon as the head pushed with a sweet burn through the tight ring of muscle, Kiku dug his nails into Yao's back and keened. He'd never felt so embarrassingly desperate in his life.

"Kiku," Yao groaned as he was submerged in tight heat. He pushed his way completely inside and stilled, waitng for Kiku's signal. It came in the form of legs wrapping around his waist.

The younger man's hooded eyes met Yao's. "Move, please."

Yao held Kiku tight to him and began to thrust slowly. Every time he languidly rolled his hips against the other, Kiku would whine and shift, heels nudging him, urging him. Yao realized his plight and struck out to find his sweet spot. It wasn't hard—it was as if they'd never parted. When he pressed it, Kiku saw stars and moved his hips upward into Yao's onslaught. His arms tightened around Yao's neck, fingers digging into the skin on his back. "Hai, Yao, a-ah…"

"You're so warm," Yao told him, peppering his partner's flushed face with kisses. "I love you, yīnghuā."

Kiku did not need any other stimulation; he came with his cock untouched, arching and throwing his head back against the ruffled material of the sleeping bag. Yao took advantage and riddled his neck with lovebites. "Yao~!" The name tore from Kiku's throat as he reached the height of his orgasm. Yao came shortly after, Kiku's insides squeezing possessively. He buried his face in Kiku's marked neck, breathing in his scent, murmuring his name.

They lay there afterward, Yao moving off and settling on his stomach, draping an arm over Kiku. His warm breath came in strained puffs against Kiku's neck, and he nuzzled against it, Kiku's hair tickling his nose. He gave a hum of satisfaction and kissed the skin before him. "Mm, you are not going to turn away, are you?"

Kiku turned over and kissed Yao's lips. His eyes met Yao's and remained steady, rich with acceptance and adoration. "No. I will always be right here beside you."

Yao then gave a sly smile, rolling over onto his back. "Want to make up for all those days apart?"

Kiku found himself returning the expression. He sat up and moved to straddle his lover. Might as well, considering they both couldn't sleep. "I'm all yours." His lips found Yao's, already so swollen with abuse, coaxing his partner's mouth open for another taste. Yao's hands roamed. One hand went to the back of Kiku's head, urging him nearer, while another slid over Kiku's thigh, traveling upward until he could feel—

A gunshot sounded, nearly deafening them with its closeness. They both jumped, Kiku almost falling over, and a moment later a bullet was smoking in the ground inches from them. Kiku propelled himself off of Yao and out of the sleeping bag, naked and shivering. "Ā kamisama!"

Yao kicked the sleeping bag off of him and scrambled for his pack where his gun lay stored. The cold didn't matter to him; adrenaline was burning through his veins as he unzipped the pocket and plunged his hand down inside.

The tent hissed as the front of it was shorn in two. Kiku went deathly silent, backing himself up until he was in the farthestmost corner. Yao's fingers brushed the grip of his gun just as a rattling voice ordered, "Unless you want your head blown off, I suggest you drop that and turn around."

Yao put his hands up and ruefully swiveled to take in the sight of a short man with a semi automatic shotgun in hand. The face of the new world resided beneath his worn gas mask.

Kiku didn't try to grab his katana. He knew after the bullet had punched through the ground beside them that there would be no chance of succeeding in anything but getting he and Yao killed by attempting to defend them. Instead, he covered himself and sat there, awaiting orders. The realization that he knew the procedure made him sick to his stomach.

The masked man's voice was warped and raspy from the filter. He motioned with his weapon. "Up, and get dressed. We're taking a trip."

They did as they were told, Kiku uncomfortable under the glass-eyed stare of the strange man. There was no confusing why he was taking them captive. The Organization had caught up with them, and now there was almost no chance of escape.

Once they were clothed, the masked man guided them with his gun out into the trees to join their other group members. Feliciano was sobbing, Ludwig was snapping at anyone who tried to come near, and Arthur was calling them every cruel name he could think of. He was compensating for his inability to seize control of their minds; there was something foreign about these men that Arthur couldn't place, couldn't construe, and it disturbed him. Never before had he been unable to subdue a mortal with magic.

He was shoved down to his knees beside his companions, glaring, eyes searching their captors'. What are you? "You lowly, ignorant bastards. If you want justice, try planting a bullet in your own thick skulls and hope you meet a quick death."

There were four men in the Organization party and only that. But they had them cornered, and that was all it took to subdue them. It frustrated Arthur to no end.

A flaxen-haired man with a gap-toothed leer snapped his fingers. At his signal, two other members drew forward to snatch Arthur up and stuff a soiled rag into his mouth. They were interrupted by Alfred lashing out.

"Don't you fuckers touch him—!" was all he was able to shout before he was kicked onto his back and was staring down the barrel of the masked man's loaded 12 gauge. "Move again and you both die," he warned.

"Now that everyone is settled," said the man who was far too tan for his fair hair. "allow me to inform you of our procedures. We have been alerted by outlying comrades that you are nations that must be exterminated. Now, don't get too excited. That part is saved for the Overlord, or at least most of it." His eyes flitted to Alfred then, shifty and hollow. "Alfred Jones, you have escaped our grasp far too often. So, the Overlord has instructed me to execute you on sight to prevent any further trouble. You get to die before your friends. No waiting, no suspense." The man motioned for the masked man to take aim. "Lucky you. Then again you won't endure the tortures we have planned for you, but we have many ideas of how to defile your body. How 'bout we gut you and wrap your entrails around whatever's left of those monuments you love so much? Fitting, eh? Might even become a monument yourself." He redirected his gaze to the gunman and said, "Rusty, if you would do the honors."

Rusty? Alfred knew he should be thinking about other more important things, such as being killed, but the name struck him as familiar. Where had he heard that before? Whatever the case, it most certainly distracted him from his frightening fate.

Arthur squirmed and gave a series of muffled yells. Ivan tried to lunge toward Alfred only to be kicked in the stomach. He grunted, nearly retching, gagging, hunching over and clutching his stomach as he watched the gunman press his shotgun to the one he loved.

Ivan's shout of Alfred's name died on his lips with the sound of a fired bullet. His heart stopped, and a heavy, dreadful sensation the likes of which he had never felt before seized his lungs, making them convulse, clawing its way up his raw throat in a single, gasping sob. He felt as helpless as when he was a child.

But when his mind gradually reacquired the ability to perceive, Ivan's heart set to beating again.

Alfred was still sitting upright, staring unblinkingly at the masked gunman and his discharged weapon. There was an annoyed "Hey!" from the leader of the opposing members, and before anyone could comprehend what was happening the gunman turned swift on his heel and cocked his weapon, blasting a bullet between the eyes of his overseer. The nations were so shocked that they were rendered paralyzed, but the gunman's companions were exceptions. One let loose a string of curses before he ran at him and tried to connect his fist with the side of the man's face, but he was promptly blocked by an expertly raised forearm and grounded with a harsh push, the masked man stomping on one of his feet as he went down. The man shrieked as his leg caught and the bone snapped, forming a sharp mound beneath the skin by the time he was sprawled and blithering in the snow below. The remaining member rushed at the gunman next, wrapping his arms around the man's shoulders and trying to strangle him. But the man in the gas mask remained unsually calm, kicking backward at the opposing man's shin to render him unstable. The man yelled in pain and frustration, but he was just as soon screaming in agony as his nose was crushed into his skull by a hard head butt. His arms slackened, and the gunman wrenched loose to turn around, regarding the man standing on wobbly legs, holding his gushing nose. He couldn't move, couldn't run, the shock too great to enable any type of movement, as the masked man strolled up to him, pressed the long barrel of his weapon into the heaving stomach, and fired. The bullet tore through the man's insides and out of his back with a spurt of blood to lodge between Matthew and Arthur, who quickly came to and scrambled out of the way. The fatally wounded member could only cough up gluts of dark blood, collapsing backward onto the snow, gutshot, his stomach tearing open and the fat blue snakes of his intestines spilling out, painting the white drifts in a bloom of red. At this, the man with the broken leg whimpered, and the masked man remembered he'd yet to kill him and walked over to drive the butt of his shotgun into the blond's skull, crushing it inward like it was nothing more than an empty soda can.

Horrified at the figure that stood before them, the nations shrunk back—all but Alfred.

"Yank," Arthur hissed as Alfred remained still while the others retreated to a safer distance. "What are you doing?"

But Alfred ignored him in favor of examining the masked man further. Now that he saw it, the man did look a bit on the short side. And he knew that style, he knew those moves. How could he not when he was the one who used them himself?

The man threw down his gun then, and he raised his hands to pull off his mask. All of them were gaping as they were met with a round face surrounded by stark scarlet curls. But Alfred only smiled.

"Heya, Red."

Translations:

Ā kamisama!-Oh God!

A Word From the Writer: Okay, so I made up for the horrible suicide thing with Lovino by giving you some lemon, however weird the timing may be. But then I followed up with violence and gore and stuff, so no reprieve for you! Still, the Nichu was pretty cute, huh? How 'bout that gutshot scene, hm? Someone had to get gutshot sometime. And, about the OC. Just... think about it. They have been mentioned in this fic (that's why they're so familiar to America), but they haven't officially been 'seen.' This is the one I mentioned as being key to infiltrating the Organization. You know who it is. Trust me.

Anyone get the title? As in red can be the color of life and happiness as well as violence and death? No? All righty then. -_-

That bloody mindfuck of a scene will be explained... next time!