As Alfred finally spotted the outline of a house in the distance, every fiber of his being screamed to turn back.

He shuffled down a rather narrow footpath through heaps of fresh snow, transforming the forest into a ghostly maze. No, this wasn't the fluffy kind – the kind you built snowmen and had playful snowball fights with – this was the hard, unpleasant kind.

It reminded him far too much of the atmosphere of a particular dream whose memory had yet to fade.

Boy, he wish it would.

He folded his arms across his chest, trying desperately to stop the shivers raking his body, only for his efforts to be in vein.

And he though winters in New York could be bad.

That was nothing in comparison to the relentless sheets of ice pelting him now – here he was so small and insignificant compared to the vast wilderness surrounding him.

Why did Ivan have to insist on living so far from civilization?

Maybe his disintegrating sanity wasn't entirely his fault, or any of his sibling's for that matter. Anyone who isolated themselves in this mess was bound to lose it.

Just trying to make the trek to the front door had his own grip on reality dwindling.

He exited the trail onto a larger walkway that led into a clearing. Or at least what he though was a clearing. The piles of snow were so large that he could never be quite sure what lay beneath. For all he knew, there could've been elephants hiding under there. He wouldn't really know until all of this dreaded ice melted …If it ever did.

As he studied the towering manor growing in size – its walls dark against the flourishing white – it almost looked deserted.

He felt a jolt at the thought.

What if this was just another one of the Commie's traps? What if he didn't actually live here? He'd just dragged him out in the middle of nowhere so no one could hear his screams?

Or worse.

What if Belarus had something to do with this?

The thought of being stuck out in these woods alone with her in the middle of a blizzard made his chest heave. Get him right while he was out of his element. It was ingenious.

This is why he was only partially relieved by the faint trail of smoke lingering above the chimney stack.

The fact that he was no longer alone did little to ease his worry. In fact, it only seemed to make matters worse. All it did was contribute to the list of endless possibilities to consider. Now he didn't even have an excuse to turn back on the off chance it really was deserted.

More importantly, what was he to expect for dinner arrangements? I mean, when Lithuania had said 'we', he had assumed that he'd meant dining with the entire remanence of the Soviet Union.

Fun.

He could only imagine what kind of disasters this would have resulted in had it taken place fifty years in the past. Like, we're talkin' global destruction.

Feeling the pistol he'd hidden for good measure in the back of his trousers and the outline of Belarus' knife in his pants pocket, he was only provided with minimal relief. Mere human weapons would have never been enough to fend off a reawakened Soviet Union. It was simply a precaution to make him feel better. He knew Toris wouldn't mind it though. He understood well enough that Alfred couldn't just stroll into one of his greatest adversary's homes unarmed. He was in foreign territory now. He had no control.

Stopping in front of the residence, he dug a gloved hand deep into his pocket to feel the blade surely waiting.

He'd brought it for a number of reasons.

It was truly an impressive weapon. Small enough to be easily concealed, yet thin enough to blend into your wardrobe. Even after only having possession of it for a short time, he could already begin to understand how Natalya could seemingly pull her blades from nowhere. They weren't heavy enough to slow you down, but their lack of weight was made up for in deadly precision. With years of practice, it was no surprise how one could learn to master them to the extent that they appeared to be pulled from thin air.

…

Okay. You got him.

The main reason he had it was because he was going to return it.

Now, this may have sounded crazy, but if you'd just hear him out.

That knife had served as a reminder. A constant connection to the memories he was trying to forget. The longer he kept it, the longer he would live in grief. Simple.

He didn't really feel right about keeping it, and maybe if he gave it to Toris, the man could return it to her as a peace offering.

I mean, he obviously couldn't just give it to her directly. Right now he could only hope that he wouldn't even have to be in the same room as her altogether. Surely Toris would've had enough sense not to put them together again so soon.

As he finally willed himself to climb the wooden steps of the porch, he had to keep reminding himself: This is for Lithuania.

They were easier to climb than he'd expected with the promise of a warm covering from the blizzard ahead.

He observed the porch space, seeming to have been recently swept off. Or more accurately, shoveled off.

On both sides of the main doors were bulky flower pots. Except that's all they were. No flowers. No life. Just dirt.

How comforting.

No welcome mat?

Anything?

…Hmm.

With the unpleasant sensation of frigid wind whipping at his back, he began to take his first steps towards the doors.

He paused, as if to say his goodbyes to the world. The likeliness of him ever coming back out was slim.

Well, he'd told his boss where he was going, so it's not like no one knew where he was. If he wasn't home within the next three days, they were to assume the worst and send in the SWAT teams. It'd taken dozens of attempts to convince his government to let him have a few days off for diplomatic travel before they'd finally caved. "It'd encourage better international relations," he'd coaxed. Eventually, they'd mailed him their acceptance in the form of a stack of paperwork needing to be completed in the meantime, 'So you won't get behind,' they had written.

Can't a guy leave for two days without mountains of work piling up?!

Nevertheless, he was just surprised they'd actually listened. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Russia was involved. They would have never allowed him to decline an invitation from the Russian, in fear of coming off as 'unfriendly'. They'd do anything to prevent another Cold War.

Alfred gulped, looking up at the beams of the porch's overhang, shutting his eyes for a moment.

He drew in a large breath, rapping on the door before quickly drawing his hand away.

Nothing.

Just when he thought General Winter's nipping hands would sweep him back out into the storm, the door opened.

A timid dirty blond head peeked out from around the edge, its turquoise irises tinged with violet, as if they were still deciding on their true color. They widened in concern as they saw the American standing oddly out of place in the middle of a Russian blizzard.

"O-oh! M-Mr. America! What a pleasure it is to see you. Please come inside. We've been expecting you." There were no cheer in his words.

Alfred shuddered, leaning away from the breeze. "Of course."

Latvia held the door open, ushering him inside.

He stepped past the threshold.

Thick chocolate bar doors swung closed behind him with a thud, like prison gates locking. He blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the interiors yellow lighting.

He glanced down at the boy, finding him tightly grasping a broom in one hand with a frilly apron on. He rose an inquisitive eyebrow.

The younger shuffled nervously, eventually deciding to rest his broom against the wall. He motioned to a nearby coat hanger, piled with cloaks. "You may remove your coat."

Alfred immediately began to peel his heavy bomber jacket off, thankful he hadn't left any weapons in its pockets – they were all still safely concealed on his body. "Hello, Latvia. How've ya been?" America tried to play a smile, initiating in easy conversation.

Latvia turned a shade of ghostly white as he hesitated. "I have been… w-well." He croaked shyly, eyes frantically darting around the room.

America wondered how much of that answer was true.

"Great!" Alfred responded, removing his gloves and allowing for the boy to take his jacket from him.

As he hung it up on an empty hook, Alfred let his sight wander throughout the room. It was cozy. There was a crackling fireplace surrounded by some bulky furniture draped in woolen quilts. The walls consisted of numerous paintings – bearing a general theme of sunflowers and summer fields – undoubtedly Ivan's influence. It was, in an undeniable way, as if the man longed for the very opposite of everything he had ever come to know.

"Please, follow me."

America was led down an adjoining hallway, endless doors lining each side of the corridor. Alfred was too busy marveling at the apparent normalcy of the house – hominess even – to monitor their path.

The place was bigger than it looked!

The shorter stopped at the end of the hall, turning to the last door on the right. There was nothing special about it. Looked about exactly the same as every other one lining the hall.

"Here we are. R-right through there." Latvia mumbled, voice cracking.

The boy moved to open the door, holding it wide against his back for the American to enter. A dim abyss lie in wait.

He wasn't sure whether to take Latvia's behavior as a genuine sign of warning, or whether it was just purely normal to live in constant fear under the roof of this household. It honestly wouldn't have surprised him if the latter was the case.

"Thank you, Latvia." He granted, trying to be polite and ignore the horrid feeling filling his gut.

Except – when he took his first step inside – he realized that it'd been right all along.

"I'm sorry," The hushed whisper broke the air before the door jutted shut behind him. It was followed by something that sounded suspiciously like the turning of a lock.

All politeness went out the window.

He stood rigid, shocked in place.

Alfred's eyes bulged, adjusting to the abrupt darkness of the room as he felt his heart begin to beat out of his chest.

"T-Toris?" He called out softly.

Surely Lithuania was there. This was some kind of sick prank.

"Toris?!"

Except, Toris wasn't the pranking kind. Not in a situation like this.

He was armed. He just had to keep reminding himself of that. He had prepared for this.

Too stiff to move, he looked over to the windows filling one side of the room – providing his only light source – obscured by the thick of snow on one side and blanket of drapes on the other. Only dull slivers of light leaked in, icicles hanging in jagged formations outside as more frost pelted the house.

His heart leapt to his throat as a racket pierced his ears. The commotion of a piano scale broke the icy silence, as if someone had ran a hand over the keys.

It descended straight into a deep rumble of low notes that seemed to be pulled straight from a horror movie soundtrack.

He frantically searched the room for its source – nerves on edge – squinting to make out the shapes among the shadows.

Before he could whip out his firearm, he jerked his head to see a small flame brake the darkness. It hovered over what appeared to be a dining table. Wick after wick was lit until three orbs of fire cast the surrounding area into an eerie orange glow, no evidence of the musical instrument in sight. Surely it lurked somewhere deeper beyond the candles radius.

There, standing behind the array of candles with a flickering match in one hand, was the sole cause of his inner turmoil.

Making a reappearance.

All five feet of lean Belarusian, looking absolutely lovely in her signature gown.

Just manic over her menacing performance.

Panic time.

Oh no- Oh no- Oh no-

"What are you doing here?!" Alfred finally burst out, voice filled with more dread than anger, "Where's Lithuania?"

He was only met with a devious grin of fangs as she gingerly blew out the single match.

He restrained his nervous fingers from reaching their weapons. He didn't need to expose himself yet. He needed that ace up his sleeve.

More importantly, he didn't need to be the one to initiate the conflict. He didn't need to go down as the offender.

Not exactly what he had in mind. Out of all the scenarios he'd dreamed up. From having been strangled by Russia's very much 'alive' scarf, to being kicked out due to his poor manners, or to even something as extreme as starting a full out nuclear war. Not this. Stuck in a candle lit room with a surprisingly gorgeous psychopath… Hmm, maybe it was just the candlelight…

He wanted to sigh and internally slap himself.

How had he been dumb enough to walk into this?! Lithuania had said everything had been under control! He'd just thought that since Liet had- …

Uh, oh…

If Lithuania wasn't here, then-

"What'd you do to him?! You monst-"

"Sit." It was a command.

"Come on, I'm not playing games- now where is he?!"

"Sit."

"Tell me where he is!" He found himself backing towards the door in retreat, hand instinctively reaching for the knob, unable to accept the anticipated result. He was plastered to the door, paralyzed with fear. "I-I'm- I'm gonna-"

"Take a seat, Alfred."

His threats froze on his tongue.

After one last hysteric attempt with the stubborn knob, his hands fell limp at his sides. Something in her voice – maybe the personal edge to his human name, or the pain it surely promised – called for his unwavering compliance. Why did his strength always seem to elude him when it came to her?

He shared a long stare with her before finally taking the initiative.

He neared her with several rigid steps, mostly just trying to get close enough to use the candle light to his advantage – he wanted to get a good look at her face.

Entering its range, he wasn't sure what to expect. Animosity? Anguish? He had practically abandoned her, and based on that security footage, she clearly hadn't taken well to it.

What he wasn't prepared for in meeting her eyes, though, was the complete and utter derangement there, sizzling like purple acid behind an innocent facade. Now this wasn't her typical look of madness, oh no. This expression was seemingly plain upon first glance. That's what made it scary.

Beyond its shell, its true sentiment penetrated deep. It was knowing. Calculating. Morbidly delighted. All of these mixed into one with a shadow of vengeance, lying just beneath the surface, ready to be awakened in an instant. Ready to form a hideous beast that yearned for nothing more than to see the floors mopped with his own blood.

It was more terrifying then he could have ever imagined.

It was beyond broken.

Shattered.

The perfect mixture. The perfect fuel for a psychopath.

His throat went dry.

Now Alfred was a naturally curious man.

He'd taken it upon himself to do some much anticipated research within the last few days leading up to his departure. He'd always had his theories about Natalya's behavior, much like everyone else.

At first, he'd suspected that she was simply Bipolar.

Now that had made perfect sense, but he wasn't so sure anymore.

What he did know, however, from what basic understanding of Psychology he had, was that she was undoubtedly suffering from some type of severe personality disorder.

After several late nights of browsing the internet for answers and narrowing the results down, he had come to the conclusion that the disorder most shockingly fitting of her symptoms, was some condition called Borderline Personality Disorder.

The extreme fear of abandonment, the emotional instability, the violent outbursts and farfetched impulses.

It just fit so well.

He had to wonder how she'd gotten this way, though. He'd seen her scars – the ones covering her arms at least – which surely only documented a small fraction of the tragedies she'd faced throughout her long life. One significantly longer than his own.

He couldn't even imagine.

She appeared to be in shambles, yet other surviving nations from as far back as the ancient world – China for instance – seemed to be in a relatively stable mindset. What was it that differed? What caused a nation to just – lose it? Were they simply created that way? Was it the people – the environment in which they represented?

There were still just so many things about his kind they had yet to understand.

Which particular instance had been the one to send her over the edge? How long ago had it been?

Every time he thought about it, it just unearthed so many latent feelings in him that he couldn't quite grasp them all at once. It was heartbreaking to think that all she desperately wanted was to have a long lasting, loving relationship, but her mental state was constantly twisting all of her attempts into a gross misunderstanding. Like maybe – just maybe – all of this wasn't her fault after all. She was merely ill. A patient urgently in need of treatment. That maybe he could help her. That maybe one day, they could… they could just –

-No!

…H-he didn't care.

He couldn't.

The female gave a pointed look to the chair before her, holding her chin high and breaking him out of his thoughts with a grunt.

Huh?

Her eyes flickered from him, down to the seat.

Oh!

Wait. Was she serious?

She cracked open a lid, batting her lashes at him insistently.

Closing his mouth – which he'd just realized had been hanging open – he broke the stillness to cross over to her side of the table, pulling the chair out for her in a gentlemanly like gesture.

She pursed her lips, sitting lightly upon the red velvet cushion with her hands in her lap, waiting to be pushed in.

Alfred maneuvered the seat forward, adjusting it in front of the table before returning to what had been designated as his own seat.

He slowly settled in his chair – modeled exactly after hers – and shifted uncomfortably in place.

Okay. This was okay. He'd just have to talk his way out of this one. He'd have to worry about Toris later. If what she'd done to Tony had been any indication, he was likely just locked in a broom closet somewhere. Unharmed.

Welp, let the awkwardness commence.

He wanted to be mad at her, he really did. After all, he was really getting tired of this whole being held hostage thing, but he couldn't help but feel like this time, he may have actually deserved it…

And it wasn't fair to hold this against her if she really was sick…

As he sat back, he could feel the pressure of the smuggled pistol against his lower back. He couldn't let her discover it. Thankfully, he'd been sure to wear enough layers to where it wasn't noticeable, using the climate as an excuse, but if something were to happen and she found out...

Clap!

The sudden clap of two pale hands made him start.

He stared at the girl across from him, wide eyed and clutching the chair's seat so tightly, he had to physically restrain himself. He knew that if he didn't, it would be undoubtedly pulverized. Didn't need to cause any property damage on top of everything else.

Vision drifting down to the table, elegantly set with linin cloths and a stand of candles set off to one side – he noticed the vase, harboring a pair of lonesome roses – one of scarlet and one of ivory.

How perfect.

There were sounds of a tussle as torrents of white danced against the windows.

He practically ground his teeth together at the sound of a side door creaking open.

When had that gotten there?! They were definitely good at keeping him in the dark – literally.

Light flooded through the doorway, giving way to a well-dress figure, straightening his suit jacket as he shuffled out, "You called?"

Alfred felt his jaw drop at the voice.

Natalya held her chin high, "Refreshments."

"Of course,"

Their new visitor disappeared for only a fraction of a moment before returning with a rolling metal serving cart.

America felt as though he could spit fire as he locked gazes with the traitor.

Estonia only adjusted his spectacles before greeting him with a sour smile.

What the heck, Eduard! I thought we were friends! Alfred internally fumed, the cold of betrayal seeping in.

The other nation didn't seemed too horribly concerned though, actually, quite the opposite. More-or-less amused. Should he interpret this as a good sign? Surely Estonia was one of the few countries who didn't wish for his demise.

The Estonian quickly broke their stare to look down at his work as he rested two crystal glasses upon the table, their forms glistening in the candles glow.

"You must be parched," Belarus motioned to his glass as their so called 'waiter' lifted a pitcher and immediately began to fill it with a clear liquid, "Have a drink."

Alfred faced the glass with a doe-eyed expression, eyes flickering to each of his company's faces.

"Do not fear, it is only water."

Yeah. And it'd better not be the Russian kind either.

The twisted smile on Natalya's face was chilling as she gave Edward instructions before turning back to him.

"Dinner will be served shortly," Estonia announced before exiting the room.

So dinner was still on? …J-Just the two of them? …Alone?

Semidarkness consumed them once again.

He was glad. This way, maybe she wouldn't see how pale his complexion had grown, or how sweaty his hairline was becoming.

Belarus picked up her glass, taking a pristine sip.

"So, Amieryka, since all of your previous 'friendship building activities' have clearly failed, I have decided that it is only fair that I should have a try on the matter."

Oh, cutting straight to the chase, I see.

The way she gripped the glass as she bit out the word 'failed' – as though she was an instant from shattering it – made him feel as though he might shatter too.

The female tilted her head to look down at the space beside her seat, carefully lifting a box onto the table.

At Alfred's startled noise, she quickly affirmed, "It will serve its purpose this time, I assure you."

America could only watch as she opened the lid, half expecting something to pop out. He was proved wrong when she reached inside to pull out a stack of seemingly harmless notecards.

She smirked at Alfred's look of utter bemusement.

Jeez, was she still mad about the whole Monopoly thing?

"Allow me to explain the directions. I pick a card, I answer the card. You pick a card, you answer the card. Simple, dy?"

Come on, they could play Twister next time if she wanted! No misunderstandings in that!

America felt his spine quiver as his eyes darted back and forth between her and the stack.

There was absolutely no way on the planet this was going to be an ordinary game.

Sensing his reluctance, Natalya offered, "Let me show you, I will take the first turn."

She reached for the pile, selecting a random card from the lot. She took a deep breath before reading its contents aloud:

"What are the wedding traditions of your homeland?"

She closed her eyes dreamily, pleased for a moment before continuing.

"Ah, yes. Very good. First, you must know about the Vodka. It is most important. Suiters must present it as a gift to the bride's parents during the initial feast. Then, if he is deemed worthy – and only then – they shall marry. The bride shall tie a finely embroidered towel around her hand that she will drag across the ground on her way to the church. It will establish the path to be used by her companions once they have been wed."

Her eyes seemed to blaze with passion as they crinkled at him. "What is it like in your homeland," She rested her chin in her hand comfortably, "when you are finally united with the one you love?"

Alfred hadn't noticed he'd started biting his lip until a faint metallic taste registered on his tongue.

"D-does tying soda cans to the back of your car count?" He squeaked in a mixture between a murmur and whimper, struggling to find his voice.

She burst out into a cackling laugh that was cut unnervingly short. "How… interesting." She spoke melodically, "I'm not sure how my people would react to such a sight." Then she reasoned to herself in a whisper, "That is one particular tradition I would like to refrain from on the day we finally wed..."

Alfred jerked back in his seat, "Wait! Wha-"

He was interrupted as the box was shoved in front of him, "It is your turn now, dy?"

He silenced, watching the box as if it would suddenly suck him inside like a vacuum at any given moment, where she would surely keep him prisoner.

After enduring a torturous moment's stare, he gulped, impossibly reaching for a card.

America slowly drew one, simultaneously deciding that he was in need of a drink. He eagerly lifted the glass to his mouth.

If there was one thing that Belarus had been right about, it was the fact that he was parched. The scratch in the back of his throat was driving him mad. It was one of anxiety's pesky side effects.

He drew in a tentative sip as he nervously searched the letters printed on the cardstock.

Ahk!

He choked, nearly spewing onto the table.

No, it wasn't the drink. She'd been one hundred percent truthful there. It was just plain old tap water.

But the card-!

At first he thought he wasn't reading it correctly because of the lighting, or Texas was acting up, but-

He unwillingly erupted into a fit of coughs and hacks, covering his mouth with a fist, some part of him –possibly the gentlemen Britain had raised – still attempting to preserve his manners.

What kind of game was this?!

He immediately felt his face growing warm as he flipped the darned thing over so no one could see it, insistently shoving it away from him.

He gave his head a vigorous shake, "I-I'm not answering th-that-" He rasped.

Her expression was unsettlingly devoid of worry as she studied him with something similar to disappointment.

She began to lean in, inquisitively.

Man, his face felt like it was on fire!

Alfred continued to wipe at his mouth, lowering his glass, head still shaking an insistent 'no'.

"I don't want to play-"

Belarus paused for a tense moment before firmly reaching for the card he'd made such a big fuss over.

She barely scanned it before a grin tinged her expression with lunacy.

"Oh, this is one of my favorites," She cooed, "How many children do you wish to have?"

Her saying it out loud only made his coughing – which was just beginning to subside – start up again, his cheeks flaming along with it.

Shouldn't have come. Should have listened to Arthur. He always should've listened to Arthur – and he always realized it too late.

"If it helps you, Amieryka, I will answer first," The way she purred his name gave him goosebumps.

He was just about to take another – hopefully successful – sip to sooth his throat and hopefully ease his respiratory distress when she responded,

"I would have as many precious dzieci as possible. I can only hope that my offspring would number in the twenties at least-"

BAD decision.

This time he couldn't hold back the spit-take, as liquid expelled from his lips – although most of it ended up only staining his own shirt.

Sweet lady liberty!

He gasped for air, trying to regain his composure for the second time in the last minute.

Was his poor throat ever going get some relief? All he wanted was a drink for crying out loud!

"T-that sounds-" He wheezed, fighting the urge to blurt out something offensive. He carefully rephrased his words, "…expensive."

Oh, there were so many other things he could have finished that sentence with…

If he thought his cheeks must have been burning up before, then he couldn't even imagine what they must've looked like now. You couldn't find that kind of color on a chameleon.

The Belarusian curiously inspected him, silently judging his reactions as she peered out from her veil of darkness.

Something peculiar shifted in her.

"I… I think that that will be enough for now…"

Heh? She suddenly sounded so flat. Saddened almost?

He hadn't expected her to give up so easily. Belarus never gave up.

Maybe Bipolar wasn't entirely out of the question then?

This gave him a sinking feeling that he couldn't quite shake. There had to be more going on.

The smell of a hot meal lingered into the vicinity just moments before Estonia made his reappearance.

The man seemed to immediately catch sight of Alfred's spectacular bush and give him a sly wink as he gently placed their dishes on the tablecloth – Natalya finally removed her disturbing attempt at a bonding activity from the table.

Thank goodness! He didn't even want to know what the rest of those cards had said…

His attention span was suddenly compromised by the steaming meal before him.

He hadn't even realized he'd been hungry.

How did they know food was his weakness?

He stared longingly at the foreign assortment that filled his nose with such savory delight.

His initial excitement immediately dwindled at the sight of the blood sausages.

Ugh. Black Pudding. He just couldn't shake the relation it held to his numerous visits to the UK where Arthur would always make the European dish and scold him when he didn't finish it.

Now, Al wasn't one to leave a meal unfinished, but take into account, these were extenuating circumstances. Part of it was simply the fact that they had been made by Britain of all people, which had enough horrors in itself, but Alfred had never been too fond of the dish to begin with. Something about the ingestion of blood was just… not his idea of an ideal meal…

It wasn't a burger; that's for sure.

Aside from that, though, there was a pile of gourmet looking vegetables alongside some rice that appeared to be topped with an odd type of round berry…

The smell was definitely calling wonders to his empty stomach.

But was it safe?

Estonia wouldn't lace his food… right? He was a decent guy… for the most part.

Eduard watched as Alfred unconsciously licked his lips, gaze never wavering from his plate, like an animal on the brink of starvation.

No doubt the boy hadn't eaten since his lengthy flight had landed.

"Enjoy," Estonia gave a light bow, lighting several more candles around the room to increase their visibility before exiting with the empty cart.

Belarus folded her napkin, laying it properly in the center of her lap. Alfred could just imagine Arthur's pleased nod now.

She gently lifted a fork – crafted from perfectly polished sterling – before deliberately hesitating on her guest.

How was it that she could appear to be so ruthless, yet at other times so delicate?

Alfred incredulously eyed the meal, then the Belarusian.

"Please," She insisted, "Eat."

His only response was an involuntary gulp.

"Go ahead," She reasoned, eyes crinkling in delight, "Don't be shy."

They seemed to twinkle mysteriously like a leopard's, "After all, it was made especially for you."

Something about that statement didn't settle right.

Only after she had begun to take several small bites of her sausage did he finally work up the courage to pick up a fork.

The sausage suddenly wasn't as bad as he remembered. Perhaps he'd just never had it cooked the right way. Maybe it was just Artie again, after all, ruining things for him as usual.

He picked at his pile of vegetables, mulling over just what they could be.

Was that a carrot? Or some type of turnip? Hmm… Well it tasted good for that matter…

A wave of silence stretched on.

Uhg… he needed to break the ice already, lighten the mood. The room was already so stuffy and with the lack of activity, the cold from outside seemed to seep in.

It was time to whip out that good old Hollywood charm of his.

Quick! What was a good way to strike up friendly conversation? ...

The weather never hurt to mention, right?

"So, uh…" Alfred fought the urge to curl up into a ball and hide, "Is the weather always like this?" He stuttered.

Seeming to sense its mention, the blizzard began to pick up to the point where – if he didn't know any better – he would have feared the windows cave in.

No matter how trivial of a question it was, it seemed that the unhinging atmosphere could turn almost anything sour.

She quickly looked up – a little too eagerly – but he soon realized by the hard expression she wore that it was from anything but enthusiasm.

After a moment of calculation, she spoke.

"Yes. As of late," Then her lashes drooped and she ever so slightly bowed her head to the table, "I used to like it… but now…" Suddenly her voice deepened and the death grip on her fork made him pause mid-bite, "It only reminds me of him."

He needed no further explanation.

All one would need to see is the grimace wrinkling her nose and the bending of the all too expensive eating utensil to know which country had rendered her wretched.

Only with Natalya could a topic as neutral as the weather spike such intense implications. He'd need to back out of this one fast, find a new topic of conversation, one preferably Ivan-free –

"This is quite delicious," He quickly complemented, "Did Estonia make it?"

She seemed to uncoil from her tightened posture, holding his gaze before nodding.

"Well, give him my gratitude." A warm smile spread over his lips.

Suddenly he saw the key. It had been so simple all along.

"You see," He began, picking at his meal, "I've never had much of a taste for blood sausage," He looked up to catch her questioning glance.

"Then again, the only ones I've ever tried were prepared by Britain, so I guess that's saying something," He suddenly realized the goofy grin on his face, and he guessed Belarus did too, because her lips were slowly turning to something shy of amusement.

Oh, he could get her to crack.

"A couple-a years back, I ended up staying over in London for a while on an extended trade negotiation. While I was there, Artie of course, insisted that I stay to dine with the royal family. To make a good impression– you know, for Mister and Mrs. Your Highness… and all fifty of their pet corgis. Well, things were going pretty smoothly, you could say, until the waiters finally brought out dinner. It was descent – by no means better than this here –"

Alfred briefly motioned with his fork down to the plate in front of him, "but I could stomach it – I got a gut of steel!" He paused to give his abdomen a light pat for emphasis.

"Then, I got to the sausages. Let me tell you, I was totally not expecting black pudding… at least not as bad as it was. Now, I don't know what it is that they do to those things over there, but let's just say they were less than appetizing. I was busy cringing before I noticed the pair of beady eyes staring up at me from under the tablecloth. So, naturally I got to thinkin'… say, Fido looks like he could use these a lot more than I could… So, I tried to sneak the fella an innocent little bite…"

He shot the girl a mischievous glance, noting how her head had perked up in interest.

"Next thing I know, five Corgis – that's right, five, not one – are on the dining room table, scarfing down my plate! And the whole royal family – plus Arthur – are just sitting there, wide-eyed, gawking! And, ya know what I said to them?"

Alfred's lip twitched with barely contained laughter.

"I just looked them straight in the face and said, 'I think Fido needs some more bloody pudding, don't you?'"

With that the boy erupted into laughter, slapping his knee as he remembered the surreal scene.

"Ha, ha! You should have seen their faces!" He wailed, briefly pausing to imitate their shock with a gaping mouth before breaking off into another fit.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Natalya with a hand over her mouth, attempting to muffle a sound that surprisingly bordered on giggles.

America finally willed himself to calm down, letting out a puff of air as he wiped at the corner of his eyes.

"Yeah well, Mrs. Elizabeth didn't seem to think it was so funny. Arthur turned beet red! You should have seen him! He totally freaked! Dragged me outta there… by the ear… " He mumbled with a hint of embarrassment. "He made me apologize, but, of course, I've never been good at sympathizing with royalty. So, I probably won't be visiting Buckingham palace again anytime soon…"

Impossibly, at the vivid imagery, the Belarusian let out a snort. Unable to hide her amusement any longer, she released a muffled cackle. The sound had almost a rusty consistency to it, like that of underused machinery.

It occurred to him that this was the first time he had heard her laugh since witnessing her morbid amusement at their last – and not to mention, only – movie night.

And before that, there's no telling how long it'd been since her last real laugh.

Although it was anything but innocent, he figured it was as close to normal as she'd get.

She actually seemed rather happy. Or maybe she simply had a knack for delighting in Arthur's misery, which was a pastime he could completely understand.

After recomposing herself, the girl looked up at him with a small smile, "I am glad that this meal is to your liking. I will most certainly pass you're comments along to Mr. Estonia."

For a moment they shared a look of content before returning to said meal.

Well, wasn't she in a good mood. With her smiling, he found it so much easier to follow suit.

That was until Natalya peeked up at him from chewing to introduce a new topic that he had nearly forgotten about.

"How did you like the Draniki I left you, majo kachannie?"

Woah now. Back it up. He didn't understand half of the words in that sentence.

He looked up, mouth full and cowlick bent oddly out of shape, "Heh?"

The female released a giggle before leaning forward, "The Draniki, silly. They are cakes."

America could only register the richness of iron as the hardy meat turned putrid on his tongue.

"-You mean those squished tater-tot things?" He blurted – before his words could be censored. Leave it to him to say something stupid during a moment of panic. It was just his awkward teenage way of repressing inner conflicts. A defense mechanism of sorts: Turn everything into a big joke.

How much it had actually worked, though, was questionable.

She raised a perplexed brow. "Tots?"

"U-uh, n-nothing," Alfred quickly reassured, giving his head a brisk shake.

Idiot. Be careful what you say. Some time she's gonna understand one of these comments and it's gonna be the end of you…

"They were, uh," He audibly cleared his throat, "tasty." He cracked a weak smile.

He couldn't let her know how much heartache those dumb patties had caused him. He honestly couldn't even remember what they'd tasted like. After he'd seen the news, everything had been… blurred.

-Nope. Stop right there, Alfred. He didn't need to venture into that realm of depression again. Not here, not now. Not right in front of her.

Belarus gave him a careful stare, lips parted ever so slightly in contemplation.

She hastily nodded before lowering her gaze back to her pile of rice.

There was that unexplainable shift again…

Poor thing. He really needed to get her out more and expose her to the wonders of corporate American culture… She was probably embarrassed at her lack of competence in the matter.

He'd heard rumors in the past about Belarus being one of the more isolated and underdeveloped of the European nations. He'd received word over the years since her parting with Russia that she'd been facing some major economic and political identity crises.

It was in situations like these that America realized just how out of touch with reality he'd become in his quest to become self-sufficient. He constantly found himself under the naïve belief that everyone in the world lived like him. Had the same resources to expend, technologies to rely on, food to eat. Air conditioning.

It always came as a shock to hear otherwise, although at this point he should've known better.

Sensing her insecurity on the matter, Alfred opted to instead try and embrace something that she held more familiarity with. Whatever it is that was…

"You've seen what I do for fun. You have any hobbies?" He questioned, genuinely curious.

She tilted her head for a moment in thought.

"Yes," The other nation nodded, "I frequently perform ballet." Her pale complexion sparkled in the low light and he could almost envision the girl twirling gracefully in a tutu, poised like a ballerina on the stand of a jewelry box.

He couldn't quite help the fluttering of his heart at the image.

"I also have experience in gymnastics,"

Eastern European's did know how to dominate the ranks of the Olympics once their gymnasts took to the stage. It was as if their bones were made of rubber. If her people were that flexible, he wondered just how agile Belarus must be. She had certainly proved herself worthy in the few instances of physical exertion he'd witnessed.

What dainty pastimes for such a brutal woman.

He should have figured.

"I know a bit of dance myself," The boy found himself responding, "I don't mean to boast, but I can pull off one mean square dance." He winked.

Recognition flashed across her face and her lips began to curl in mirth. "Hmm, I'll be impressed when you can do a real dance."

"Ha, it's real alright. But if it better suits you, I was also taught how to waltz." He tilted his head back to look down his nose at her, nonchalantly crossing his arms over his chest, "I might be a bit rusty, though. It's been a while."

His smugness only seemed to fuel her own, and she reflected it back at him like a mirror, "I may have to reinstruct you then, dy?"

He released a chortle, "Hmm, it sure does seem that way, doesn't it. How about we finish dinner first, huh?"

He had no idea why he was suddenly becoming so comfortable – or why their banter was suddenly becoming so natural to him. Here he was, in a foreign country, out in the middle of nowhere, trapped in a log cabin with a madwoman prone to skewering her guests.

He would have been better off skydiving! Jumping out of a plane moving ten thousand feet above the Earth was minimal compared to this!

… Maybe that was it.

The thrill.

Of being here, under such unpredictable circumstances. It was exciting. Exhilarating.

That feeling of blood rushing through your veins and adrenaline sharpening your reflexes.

Maybe that's why he'd come even though he knew full well the risks. Why he hadn't paid his voice of reason any heed.

How could he possibly go from fearing for his life one moment, to actually yearning for its threatening the next?

All he knew, was that while it lasted, he was going to enjoy every bit of it.

This.

This queer little situation unfolding around him.

He was going to take something meant to break him and turn it around for his own benefit.

Beat her at her own game, so to speak.

On some unconscious level, his more sensible side remained wary from beneath the refuge of his newly acquired façade. This side of him – this proud face he sported in times of doubt – had often been prominent during his pioneer days, where discovery lurked around every corner, ambition its pathway. When sometimes it was necessary for ration to take a backseat and let spontaneity take the wheel.

Torture him? Ha! He'd like to see her try.

In reality, this was nothing in comparison to huddling around a fire at Valley Forge, trying to thaw his frost bitten toes as typhoid finally wore down the last of his immunities – where so many of his men were falling ill, that he could no longer resist human infections. Or spending months in a muddied trench, trying to keep his helmet below the line of fire as shrapnel pierced the dirt around him at speeds so fast, it would leave his ears ringing.

No, this couldn't compare.

Marriage! Is that what he'd been so scared of? Yeah, cause' a night full of receiving expensive gifts, eating cakes, and indulging in fancy wines sounded like an absolutory horrendous affair!

He almost wanted to laugh.

Their conversations had grown increasingly more voluntary as Belarus must have sensed his initial tensions lose their grasp. They were both suddenly speaking freely to each other; like a pair of old friends.

It was as if he'd known her forever.

The longer their conversation continued – transferring from hobbies, to national customs, to their favorite movies – Belarus seemed to grow surprisingly saner and saner. Shockingly more human; actually bordering on the line of friendliness.

Hmm, maybe his previous lessons of amiability had finally paid off after all? Or she'd simply had it in her all along, preserved somewhere deep inside of that frozen heart of hers, and only now did it have the will to come out.

An hour flew by like nothing. They had finally finished their meals and Estonia had returned to clear the dirty dishes.

Once Alfred had spared the man a gracious thank you and they'd been left to their own devices once more, Natalya rose.

America eyed her as she strolled across the room, passing an object of interest. The object in question was finally revealed to him in full light. A Grand Piano. Sitting among the bookshelves, out of place within the home's dreary aura. Despite its unlikely location, the antique was quite beautiful, with designs carved along its wooden trim.

The ghostly ring of its keys still haunted him from somewhere deep in the back of his head.

It wasn't the girls intended destination, though, as she instead stopped to remove a flask from a well-stocked shelf, turning back to give the man a wicked look.

Something about this picture – something about her face, the spark in her eyes – brought forth long held memories of his days as a sheriff out West. Alone at a saloon somewhere after dark, tired from a day of battling outlaws and train robbers – with only the barmaid out late enough to keep him company.

Al leaned back in his seat, boots crossed over the edge of the table.

Along with the stiffness had gone formalities.

No one was keeping up appearances any longer.

She dropped the flask on the table between them with a thud, holding it in place.

"This is our strongest brew," She announced a little too proudly.

Alfred didn't remove his feet from the table.

She twirled the bottle absently, purple irises boring into icy blue, as nonplussed as ever.

"I want to go against someone I can finally win against." She hissed, grin absolutely heartless.

America stroked his chin, gauging his options carefully.

Challenge him? Oh, she didn't know what she was up against. Indirectly comparing him to the likes of Russia? Well that was one way to do it.

He could hold his liquor better than anyone he knew. Even with nations considered, he ranked amongst the highest. Plus, scientifically speaking, he'd have the advantage – being male and having more body weight on his side. She was bound to succumb to the alcohol's effects at some point. He was simply more physically tolerant. Piece-o-cake.

"Yur on, darlin'," He plopped his chair back to ground level, thumping his feet against the hollow floor.

That monstrous smile of hers was starting to grow on him.

She crossed to her seat before popping the top with a single rugged bite, taking a deep swig.

She clunked in her seat, lowering the substance to the table as she licked her lips.

Before he knew it, the container was slid into his palms.

Without a second thought, he knocked back a chug of his own. He almost wasn't prepared for the burning in his gullet as the fiery rush of Vodka made its way down.

He held back a cough, passing it on once more.

She took it like it was nothing, returning a grin.

Stubbornly, he snatched it back to take in an even larger gulp.

He released a hack, covering his mouth with a free hand.

Jeez! That was some strong stuff! And Belarus didn't even seem to feel it, let alone seem anywhere close to cracking!

Natalya snickered, "Is it too much for you?"

"Nah. It's just fine." Alfred lied, wiping his mouth with a wry smirk.

Oh, there was no way he was losing to a girl. That would cost him some real man points.

And as so often as before, America's unbreakable determination led him straight into the midst of a fix.

He stopped counting rounds after the third flask.

It was rare, but even Alfred – as resolved as he was – wasn't immune to the effects of intoxication.

Soon, his thoughts weren't coherent. All memory of the apparent contest had vanished. All he knew was that he had to keep going, although he couldn't quite fathom why.

Once the shape of the female's silhouette began to blur, even this ounce of logic had fled him.

Thoughts swarmed around in his skull like a swarm of moths.

"H-hey!" He roared, cheeks rosy, stumbling out of his extravagant velvet seat. He stuck a finger out at the girl – who if he would have been sober enough to see, was in exceptionally better shape than him.

"We were 'spose to go dancin'!"

Belarus slid out of her seat with tremendously greater grace, more or less reserved, "How could I forget, maja darahaja." She purred.

With that, Alfred bounded over to her side and dragged her away from the table, leading her into the center of the room. Planting his hands upon her scrawny waste, he began to twirl aimlessly before she even had the chance to adjust her grip.

Swaying this way, swaying that.

That's all dancing really was, wasn't it?

At some point during his mess of uncoordinated lurches, staggering to keep his feet in one place, Belarus' sure steps began to override his own – eventually enabling her to guide him through his disheveled state.

America – head in a cloud – only followed merrily, occasionally mumbling or humming a tune to himself.

He'd almost believed that the abrupt measures of music flooding his ears were coming from his own tongue – in brief bewilderment of how his mouth could orchestrate such inhuman noises – but in the corner of his vision, as he was twirled blindly, he caught sight of Eduard poised in the stool before the Grand Piano.

A tune as light and jumpy as his childhood filled his senses.

His subconscious flourished in the familiar notes and sure enough, the art of the dance came back to him like it was just yesterday he was standing on the tips of Britain's shoes as they spun around a decadent ballroom.

Alfred found himself gazing at the ceiling in awe, laughing harder and harder as he fell into the rhythm of the step.

Dancing had always commemorated such happy times. All kinds of dancing with all kinds of people.

It signified a time of glee, celebration, peace. A great love among countrymen.

Somewhere in their haze, a set of baby blues singled out the petals of a white bud across the room.

He swept toward the table to pluck the blossom away from its red companion, ignoring the threat of thorns as it was lodged between his teeth.

There came a soft ring of voice, "Ah, so you do know how to dance after all?"

He snapped his head down in a daze, eyes coming within inches of another's.

He brought the female into a haphazard dip, leaning over her.

He reached up to tip his hat – which he hardly noticed didn't exist – before flashing a grin he reserved for the damsels out west.

"Would I lie to you, sweetheart?" Quip muffled by the stem lodged in his teeth.

Yes.

He would.

He did.

He'd lied about a lot.

He'd lied about their 'date'.

He'd lied to her about their marriage.

He lied to himself.

Suddenly his perfect vision came crashing down.

His hold stiffened.

The breath suddenly left him as reality began to sink in like a foot trudging the snow.

The blossom fell from his lips – as if in slow motion – momentarily resting in Natalya's blonde locks before petals of pure white dirtied against the floorboards.

He began to choke on saliva as his watering eyes widened.

"I- I," He gasped, a whimper escaping the back of his throat, "I'm sorry,"

He abandoned her.

He left her on her knees.

He'd left him on his knees.

Everyone who'd meant something.

Different people, in different times, under different circumstances.

It need not matter.

There was the same loneliness.

The same tears.

The same betrayal.

There were no more ballroom dances, filled with innocent faces, happiness and singing.

There was the inevitable reality of wars and violence and hatred.

Gain and loss.

Light and darkness.

And here he was feeding the latter.

He began to croak, just barely getting the slurred words out, "I-I'm so sorry," He sniffled.

"About the Mc Donald's, a-and, the- the ketchup, and-... for everything. Everything I've done,"

His floors sparkled with Pine-sol, his bed was carefully made, his dishes scrubbed and tucked away.

A loving meal laid patiently on a counter top. To be eaten, yes. But not enjoyed.

He held back a sob.

"Thank you. For everything, N-Natalya… You've been so good…Please, can you ever forgive me?"

He cracked open his eyes to peer down into the pair just below him, magnificent lavender pools, searching him for something shy of sincerity.

Suddenly one of the arms uncurled from around his neck and trailed down to his front.

Alfred goggled at the woman, barely sensing the fingers as they eagerly searched his pockets.

"I believe you have something that belongs to me."

At that moment, the remnants of his delusion came tumbling down, as his eyes tried desperately in vein to recognize the familiar blade – missing from its hiding place – shining before the tip of his nose.

"You have not earned forgiveness."

He hit the floor with a crash.

Author's Notes:

Guess who's back?!

Happy Memorial Day Weekend, everybody!

School has finally relented on me long enough to bring you this next instalment!

My AP Exams are finally complete and although there are still finals to worry about, the school year is finally winding down! (Although with the classes I'm taking next year, Summer Vacation doesn't seem very promising in terms of being a 'vacation'. *n*)

I really do apologize though for the ridiculously long wait, guys. ':(

Sometimes it takes me so long to find the time to write whilst still in a bout of inspiration (It seems I'm always inspired in the most inconvenient of times, like when there's math homework due the next day), let alone find the hours to complete the lengthy editing process that comes after. '=l

Not that I'm complaining, though! I love to write : ) … and I'm really determined to make this the best darn AmeBel fanfiction you've ever read. XD (We'll see how well that goes…)

This chapter was very interesting to put together. So many integrated ideas and concepts accumulated over the course of months, somehow fit together into a single scene. Really, I just realized I didn't have to put in any breaks.

Alfred is a very confuzzled little boy, huh? He just keeps on making one wrong move after the other! DX (Or are they actually the right moves, eh? *wink-wink nudge-nudge* XD lol)

As for his rapid attitude changes, let's just say that Al's little rebellious streak likes to resurface at varying times, along with his consistency to make the best of stressful situations. Sometimes it can make for a very odd mix of characteristics. He's also beginning to realize some things that will be explained later on, if you know what I mean. ;)

All thanks to those peeps who've been here since the start and to the newbies joining in along the way! :D

I can hardly believe this thing has over 110 followers and nearly 90 favorites! :D I wasn't expecting such a turn out! I personally would like to thank everyone who has allowed this to be possible despite my inconsistency! ^-^ THANK YOU!

I've read all of your comments and I must say that the ending of this thing (don't worry, it's not coming just yet, several more chappies to go) may pleasantly surprise some of you. A word of advice, my friends, it's best not to make assumptions with this story. ;) You never really know what I have going on behind the scenes…

With that said, I know a lot of you are still wondering about poor little Iggy, but not to worry, his fate will be addressed in the next chapter. (After all, we all care very deeply about our dear Arthur, don't we? ^-^)

I did a lot of research on Queen Elizabeth II (the current one), and let me just say, she's serious about her corgis. XD (Wasn't making up the numbers, people! At some point there were at least 5 of them!) Of course, the situation that unfolded in this story was completely fictional, so the true conduct of her pets is up for speculation. I imagine they are actually quite well-behaved, being royal and all… probably.

Also, if someone were to look at the search history on my computer, they'd think I'm engaged to a Belarusian or something because of all of the wedding and cultural research I've done. ,o.o, lol

Chapter 8 Translations- (As far as I know… sorry, unfortunately I'm not bilingual.)

Dy- Yes (Belarusian)

Amieryka- America (Belarusian)

Dzieci- Children (Belarusian)

Majo Kachannie- My Love (Belarusian)

Maja Darahaja- My Dear/Darling (Belarusian)

This is where stuff really starts to pick up, kids! : D

I hope you found enjoyment in this and are looking forward to what's ahead! I know I am!

I'll be seeing you then!

~GoofieDaisy -^_^-