America did not so much as look at him as they waited on their limo. Some fucker had the brilliant idea to have the nations carpool and someone else thought it was a fine idea to stick America and Russia in the same car. What a mistake that would be. Even worse was forcing them to room together during this conference. "Saves on space," they said. Bullshit. They did it in hopes it would force them to make up. Russia nearly wanted to blame Italy, and could already imagine choking that little boy and throwing him against the wall-

Lavender eyes glanced over at America, one hand on his luggage and the other scrolling through his phone; trying to avoid interaction with the larger nation already. They stood about five feet apart, and Russia didn't think it was a good idea to test the waters yet. Then again, they were in a crowded airport terminal and Russia could probably get away with talking to him, without making a scene.

Russia immediately noticed how hard America worked on his outfit. The blonde wore a navy blue suit and matching tie. His hair was combed through and he could smell a whiff of cologne. Russia noted how few wrinkles there were. Maybe his outfit was one of those few things America still had direct control over and would fight tooth and nail for.

The limo finally arrived, the chauffeur getting out to greet them. He gave both countries a handshake and Russia made sure to squeeze his hand, just a little. Maybe Russia liked to establish dominance that way if his size and creepy smile didn't do enough for him. He let the driver take his bag, and quickly noted his blonde companion allowing no such thing, putting his bag into the trunk along with Russia's. They stood on opposite sides of the back doors now, briefly making eye contact. The driver opened Russia's door and America opened his own. America gave him a brief once-over, then got into the back of the limo. Russia, briefly looking back at the airport, followed suit, taking a seat in the back right of the limo. Just as quickly, America made his way over to the other side of the seats, putting distance between them again, and Russia knew the trade-off for distance was the fact America faced him now, and the only way to avoid eye contact was to look out the window or play on his phone.

They had not talked to each other in a few months. America outright refused to interact with him anymore. It had been two- nearly three years- and the only energy he received from America anymore was seething hatred and disgust.

Russia couldn't blame him. The larger man was, for all intents and purposes, a bad person. His country's meddling and actions proved that. America liked his little pretend world of good guys and bad, and Russia knew that blonde little boy was waiting for the opportunity to destroy him and be the hero all over again. He leaned over, resting his arm on the windowsill of the car and staring outside. He could see America scrolling through his phone again out of the corner of his eye. They were just trying to avoid interacting. Maybe America knew they'd break into a fight if they talked too much.

Again, Russia couldn't blame him. They had to look mature around their bosses. He had noted, however, that America loathed his boss. He was willing to bet America insulted him behind closed doors every chance he got. The change in leadership had adjusted America's attitude in recent months as well. He was willing to say America had become a more serious type- but he could see the toll it had on the smaller man. Russia could see the bags under his eyes, normally blocked by his glasses, the way his brows creased together and that side eye look- full of disgust and distrust. Occasionally, he'd look off into the distance with a thoughtful look on his face, as if he was constantly trying to think of a way to dig his country out of its own grave.

America had dropped that oblivious, happy personality Russia knew him well for. Russia liked that version of America. He was easy to push around, call him stupid, and he would take it. That self-deprecating sense of humor as the American joked about wanting to die and being depressed. It was probably still true, but he did not face his issues with that same sense of humor, as if, now, it was serious. America was seething every time they met now. Maybe America had realized, at some point, it was time to stop pretending his country was going to fix itself and now he was participating in movements and protesting every chance he got. Maybe America had decided, "Fuck being unbiased." He could envision America saying that. What could his government do to him, after all?

It was a wonder they even let America come to the meeting. Countries were supposed to be neutral- not that their opinions mattered in the first place- but the fact America held some form of outward hatred for his own government was bad for the press.

Especially when America knew everything, and was well aware of his leader's sins.

Ivan remembered the good terms they had been on years earlier, the relationship they had tested out. It often was not recommended for nations to be in a relationship- China had proven that more than once and he had been the brunt of that kind of pain before. You just didn't know when political ties would force the relationship to turn south. A war, a betrayal, a red scare.

There was a fine line between Russia and Ivan, and they knew it had been risky, but Ivan had loved the sense of superiority he had around Alfred. Back when he was a funny guy playing dumb. He missed the sweet nothings he would whisper into American's ears as he held him down. Every time he held Alfred down, it had been a relinquish of control- because Ivan knew goddamn well that the blond was stronger than him. Maybe Alfred just liked being on the receiving end. Sometimes, he wondered if Alfred missed that too. Sometimes, the look in Alfred's eyes told him, yes, Ivan. I miss you too.

It went south leading up to the election. Ivan never told him a goddamn thing Russia was doing. At the time, he did not think it was wise to- and sometimes, Ivan wondered if being open and honest with him would have fixed everything. He remembered sharing a bed with the young man, staring at the back of his head as he scrolled down his newsfeed. He saw America sit up, exposing his bare back. Ivan could remember staring at his back and inspecting that deep scar down the blond's spine as if he were cut in half by it. He had wondered if it was looking worse lately. If it caused him any pain- maybe it did. Ivan remembered Alfred hated fingers being run down his bare back.

The next thing that happened was a few texts and a call from Alfred's old boss. Alfred left the room when he was on the phone, and Ivan, at the time, didn't care to listen. Maybe he should have, maybe he would have learned something useful. Alfred distanced himself after that. Ivan had started to get worried when Alfred was talking to him less and less.

The final nail in that coffin was when Alfred didn't invite him to his election night party, and there was a short text afterward that they were done.

He knew Alfred had been in very few relationships over his lifetime- mostly that came with his fast maturity and young age, much unlike Ivan. The Russian was sure he was only the second- maybe third. He wondered how hard that had been on Alfred. Sometimes, he missed those goofy blue eyes and missed running his large hands through Alfred's hair.

Ivan found himself staring at the American lazily, and saw America turn his head. Those blue eyes glared at him and promptly told him to fuck off and stay away. Russia saw a hint of fear and hesitation as if he was afraid of what Russia would do to him, but he saw distaste and hatred more than anything else.

"Eto Bylo slishkom dolgo, Amerika," and Russia saw brief recognition flare on America's face. He knew that America's diversity gave him some amount of understanding in multiple languages, and somehow that glare was able to deepen. He wondered how much of the other man's comprehension of Russian was a holdover from the Red Scare.

What a fun time that had been.

"You got something to say to me, you fat fuck?" He at least recognized his name in Russia's statement.

Russia felt a smile creep on his face, pleasantly closing his eyes and shaking his head. He heard America huff and they didn't speak for the rest of the ride to the hotel.

Somehow, they were able to make checking into the hotel a tense situation. America made sure he was the first one out, first one to grab his luggage, and first one to check them in. He didn't want Russia to do a damn thing for him. Russia saw a faint smirk on the American's face, as they were told their room number was 420, it was quickly brushed away. That humor was in there somewhere.

The elevator ride was just as uncomfortable as the car ride.

It was America that opened the door, and Russia smiled at the sound of disgust in his tone as he saw the room. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

There was one bed. Italy was really toying with them, wasn't he? They barely talked for a few minutes, and Russia found himself staying out of America's way. He took a seat at the desk and rested his chin on his knuckles, watching as America went about his business, unpacking his bag, claiming a half of the bed, hanging up his other suits and inspecting them for wrinkles.

"I don't want to share a bed with you."

Russia felt his eyebrows raise and felt his hand thoughtlessly rub his neck. "That is understandable, comrade." Maybe he said that just to irritate him. Some part of him was getting annoyed with this attitude and wished Alfred would just talk to him, and some other part wanted to dig the nail a little deeper.

He saw Alfred's hands shake- not out of anxiety, but anger. "We- are not comrades." America looked at him with that same seething look, and Russia wondered how long he would keep this up. He wondered if he'd have to deal with this shit all night.

"That is fair." Russia hesitated, his hand resting on his lap, eyes glancing at the rest of the room. He wasn't so sure about his next words. If he said them, it would give America some thinly veiled feeling of victory. At the same time, his patience could wear thin at any moment. "I'll sleep in the lounge chair."

He saw America huff, take his card key and his wallet, and start to leave. He stopped at the door but didn't turn to look at him. "I'm going. If you mess with my things or bug them, I'll fucking kill you."

America left, slamming the door behind him. Russia took this opportunity to unpack his own things, find some vodka, and look for something to watch on TV.

America came back a few hours later. He remembered Alfred tended to stay up late, Russia knew, but he figured he had jet lag or something. Russia didn't bother asking where he went. America probably wouldn't have told him anyway. Best guess? Kiku's room to bitch about Russia, or went to bother Britain and ask for some kind of advice. It was probably the former. America didn't like going to England for advice, something about weakness.

Russia would have initially guessed the hotel bar, but he didn't smell anything on the American. The other country didn't trust himself to be intoxicated around Russia, and again, Russia couldn't blame him. Russia sat in the office chair, rocking back and forth and thoughtfully staring at his bottle of Vodka.

They didn't speak to each other for a few more hours. Occasionally moving around the room, avoiding each other, and staying out of each other's way. It wasn't until they were both in sleepwear, Russia with his head leaned back in the lounge chair and fingers locked together in his lap. He'd been dosing off.

America was sitting on the edge of the bed, back to him, but glaring at him over his shoulder. He was giving him the cold shoulder, but he wasn't about to give Russia any openings to attack him from behind.

"You just can't exist without ruining someone's life, can you?"

The statement made Russia sit up, lazily blinking at him and creasing his eyebrows. That angered glare still stared at him. "What do you mean, Amerika?" Maybe he wanted to see him get angry. Maybe he thought Alfred could finally talk to him this way.

The American stood up, fists balled, visibly shaking, and turned towards him. "You know exactly what you did- you knew- and you still, you fucker-" Russia watched him cautiously, anger taking control of his words.

"You still did that to me- I let you into my body and you did that to me-"

Ivan found himself standing up, resting his hand on the neck of his vodka. He as finally talking, at least. Maybe he could finally get something out of him, some sort of resolution. Maybe. Russia could already the possible hate-fucking ahead of him and felt his grip tighten on the bottle.

"Was I just a sick fucking game to you?" America took a step toward him, teeth bared. "You use me to get to my country? Have you done that with everyone or just me?"

He was getting tired of this. He was tired of that attitude, tired of the hatred- he should be used to it, but he just… wasn't. Maybe if it was somebody else, it wouldn't bother him, but it was Alfred who hated him now.

Alfred, who whispered his name into his ear more than once.

The sick, evil part of his mind knew exactly what to say as he moved, closing the distance between him and America, vodka bottle still in hand. He wished he hadn't said it before the words even finished leaving his mouth He wanted to apologize to Alfred and be honest with him, but… "Don't you know, America? I own you now." That was nasty. Unbelievably mean. Just the right thing to dig into.

It happened too fast, Russia felt a fist connect to his jaw and was sent to the floor. His bottle fell out of his hands. Next thing he knew, America was on top of him and he felt hands on his throat and he was being choked- Russia tried to pry America's hands off of him, starting to kick as the American straddled him, pressing his thumbs down on his windpipe.

"America- stop-"

If his life wasn't in danger, Ivan would have been damn near tempted to flip him over and fuck Alfred into the carpet. He didn't stop. America's grip tightened. Russia wheezed under him, trying to pull him off with all his might. America was stronger than him and now the blond was in control.

"Please stop, please- pozhaluysta-" What was he doing? Begging for his life? Russia could see the edge of his vision starting to turn black and he reached up, finding his hands in Alfred's hair, running his fingers through one last time- then grabbed on and pulled Alfred's face down. Now would have been a good chance to bite him, but…

Their lips connected.

He heard Alfred gasp and Ivan was tempted to keep going. He felt Alfred's hesitation and concluded that continuing down this path crossed his mind, too. Some sick part of Ivan wanted this- but that was quickly destroyed as he felt glass hit his head. Alfred had smashed the bottle of vodka against his head.

Alfred got off of him. Ivan sat up on his elbows, watching the American stand with a dark look in his eyes. He read so many emotions on his face in that moment- disgust, anger, hatred, tired, exasperated. He watched Alfred run his fingers through his own hair and adjust his glasses, then wipe the sweat off his brow. America turned, grabbing his keycard and wallet again, and starting to walk out the door.

"Alfred wait-" What's he doing? He's being stupid- Ivan reached for his companion. "I… I've missed you."

America didn't even look back at him as he slammed the hotel door shut behind him, leaving Ivan to sleep alone that night.

So, this was set in present day America. I do not condone mixing this anime with politics or real-world events. I've realized doing so romanticizes history… and that's not exactly a good thing to do, not in every case. I don't believe doing so with current politics is a good idea, either. Do to current states, I haven't even looked at this ship in a number of years.

I hope you have enjoyed this, however.