What even is this.

I was sitting in my sister's choral concert and this idea hit me like lightning. And it just begged to be written.

Anyway, um, my ideas on nation-death are kinda fluid. I know I killed off nations permanently in some of my stories, but my general headcanon is that they can die in the ways that humans can, (but are still a lot harder to kill) but they eventually regenerate/get resurrected.

I don't even know what genre this is supposed to be hahaha…I mean, I wanted it to be kind of funny but…I dunno. OTL

Contains almost-smut, references to mafia!Russia, blood/temporary death.

"Uh— uh— I-Ivan— don't stop— "

Russia licked and sucked onto America's pulsing neck, hands already slipped under the younger nation's boxers, stroking and squeezing at his hips. Alfred had his hands wrapped around Ivan's chest, leaning his head back against the cold glass window behind him.

Alfred gasped as Ivan bites lightly at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. The Russian chuckled against his reddened skin, moving his mouth up to kiss Alfred on the cheek.

"Are you liking that, алыш ?"

Alfred turned his head to the side, nudging against the side of Ivan's head with his lips.

"Y-yeah."

Ivan shifted his hands to Alfred's backside and began to grope at him, causing Alfred to moan happily into Ivan's mouth, hitching a leg up around the other's waist.

America had suggested that Russia fuck him up against the giant, ceiling to floor plate glass window adorning the furthest wall of his office. Ivan had been hesitant, but Alfred had assured him that they were so high up that no one would see them, and that the others nations were all out on their lunch break. Alfred had said it was exciting, an amazing adrenaline rush to be on the teetering edge between safety and the open air. Frankly, the Russian had become slightly annoyed at Alfred's insistence that they become intimate in increasingly ridiculous locations. But Ivan had eventually agreed, only because he had been desperately aching for the American's heat. And because Alfred had threatened dragging him up into space to have sex in null gravity unless he complied. Ivan imagined such an act would be difficult to perform and put Alfred deeper into debt.

"Uhh— Come on— Vanya— more— "

He pressed hard, harder into America, flattening him up against the glass. Ivan pulled back for only a moment, causing Alfred to whine at the loss of friction, before thrusting forward, pushing Alfred up against the window again, lifting his foot off of the carpet with sensual force.

But, as Russia sought to find the winded American's mouth again, he heard a soft pop, like the sound of a suction cup coming loose. Ivan saw Alfred's eyes widen inches from his own, and suddenly both of them were lurching forward, Ivan losing his balance due to the counterbalance of Alfred's weight. Letting go of the American with one hand he scrabbled for something solid, grabbing onto the window frame as Alfred's hands frantically clung to his coat. He anchored himself and tried to grab at Alfred's panicky hand, hearing a surprised cry as it slipped from his grasp.

And suddenly Alfred was gone.

Just like that Ivan was left with one hand gripping tightly onto the window frame, one foot half off into the open air, and a quickly fading wail echoing in his ears.

And no Alfred.

Ivan gaped openly for a few moments, wind whipping at his hair. His eyes moved downwards to the streets below, registering that the long wail had been cut short. Then, aware of his position precariously hanging out of a window forty stories up in the air, he jerked back and landed with a thump on his rear inside the office.

Dumbly, Ivan looked around the room and behind him, wondering if perhaps Alfred had slipped by him into the office, but the American was nowhere to be seen. Ivan turned his gaze back to the window. The empty, open, glassless window. Where Alfred had been only moments before. It took a few moments for the entirety of what had happened to hit Ivan.

Alfred— Alfred had— fallen.

Onto the street below. The street full of America's citizens. A street full of people who would not react well if a man who had just fallen forty stories got up without a scratch.

Ivan cursed harshly in Russian under his breath. This was not good. He scrambled to his feet, almost tripping over his unfastened coat and overlong scarf in his haste to get to the door. He wrenched it open and pounded through the halls, praying he would not run into any other nations along the way, hoping that nobody still in the building had heard the commotion that was sure to be going on below.

The elevator was at the ground floor so instead Ivan opted for the stairs, taking them four or five at a time, almost slamming into the walls due to the momentum of his bulk.

More than anything, Ivan felt annoyed; annoyed that Alfred had insisted on being intimate against the glass, thus causing this mess in this first place. But, he supposed, it wasn't entirely Alfred's fault. Ivan made a mental note to discover who had manufactured such a shoddy product, and make sure they did not live through the day.

After descending nearly forty stories of staircases in record time, Ivan's threw open the door leading to the ground floor, banging it so hard against the adjacent wall that it almost splintered.

He bounded across the marble floor of the lobby and pushed through the glass double doors, the smells and sounds of the city hitting him like a wave.

Immediately, Ivan turned his head to the sound of screams and moved in their direction, looking for signs of a splatter of blood or a limp body, finally seeing a ring of people forming on the sidewalk, gathered around what appeared to be one of those brilliant yellow cars that Alfred had opted for this morning, rather than letting the Russian call in a "favor" from members of his "social club" for their own limousine.

People were already shrieking, on their cellphones, calling the police and paramedics, some even using them to take pictures of the wrecked cab roof and the bloody hand dangling over the side. Ivan groaned.

Fortunately, the majority of the crowd was standing a ways off from the cab, shying away due to the silvery shards of plate glass liberally spread out on the sidewalk and asphalt. Ivan ignored them, crunching the remains under his thick boots as he pushed his way apart from the crowd.

In a few quick strides he bounded up the trunk of the cab to take in the scene on the roof. Ivan wrinkled his nose.

Alfred was splayed on his back on the top of the cab, his weight and the force of the fall having caused it to collapse. His limbs lie haphazardly about him, bent at strange painful angles. A large fan of red was spreading out from behind Alfred's head, blood trickling from his mouth, ears, and nose.

It was a messy death.

As quickly as he could he extricated what was left of the American's body from the crumpled cab roof and took him into his arms, hand on the back of Alfred's head to keep whatever was left inside from splattering all over his clothing. He had learned from experience that blood and innards were very difficult to wash out. Ivan distantly heard a few shrieks from the passerbys, a few shouts for him to stop and wait for the paramedics, but he ignored them as he got down from the destroyed cab and jostled his bulk through the crowd and back towards the conference building.

Ivan rushed through the lobby as discreetly as possible, or as discreetly as one could while carrying a man whose skull had practically dissolved. He heard shrieks from those he passed by and clearly saw a woman faint on the floor. Ivan looked behind him briefly and grimaced at the blood trail he and America were leaving behind, but there was really nothing to be done about it. The best he could do was make sure Alfred' s entire brain, or what was left of it, didn't fall out. That would be more unpleasant, and require even more of an explanation to the already shellshocked people in the building.

He made his way to the elevator that had been designated specifically for nations, eliminating the awkward notion of having to ride in a tightly packed elevator with a dead man who could possible revive at any moment and raise some serious questions.

Ivan entered in the elevator, pressing the button to go to the fortieth floor. He hoped that no other nations were using the lift— Alfred had said they were out, many of them should still be out on their lunch breaks—

As soon as he reached the correct floor Ivan rushed out of the elevator, turning towards the hall where the nation's offices sat all in a row, but, to his dismay, he nearly ran straight into the one person he certainly did not need to see at the moment—

"Mein Gott!" Prussia exclaimed, pointing at Alfred's body. Russia froze for a moment, the sudden movement causing a bloodied piece of something to slip through his fingers and land with a splat on the floor.

"Russia! Dude, you fucking killed America!" His expression was less than distraught, instead he looked thrilled, as if he had just stumbled upon a juicy secret.

"You fucking flattened him! Look at his head! You're spilling his brains all over! Wait till' West hears about this— "

Ivan grumbled and pushed past Prussia, resisting the urge to simply silence the obnoxious ex-nation right then and there. No doubt the loudmouthed German would run off to tell the entire conference in no time. Ivan cursed having left his pipe back in Alfred's office.

He burst through the door of the nearest office, vaguely registering it as belonging to England and in hindsight hoping that the British nation would not be sitting at his desk when Ivan broke into the room carrying the dead body of his son-slash-brother.

However, the powers that be gave the flustered Slavic nation a fortunate reprieve, as the office was empty. Ivan shut the door close with a foot before walking over to lay Alfred onto England's desk, which, he reasoned, would be easier to clean than the cream colored carpet. Though the documents that used to be organized neatly on the Brit's desk would be a different story. Ivan hoped the he wouldn't mind his desk and papers being covered in blood and brain matter.

Ivan quickly locked the door, in case Prussia's outburst prompted an investigation in the rest of the building. No doubt there would be questions and inquiries, but hopefully not until America revived and they could mock up some sort of tale as to why he had been in such a state. Perhaps he could call the Prussian a liar, although the blood trail leading through the building might tell a different story—

Out of curiosity, Ivan began to examine Alfred's body further. It was morbidly intriguing to see how the back half of Alfred's skull had almost entirely disappeared, no doubt crumpled and forced inside. Ivan pulled at a piece of blonde hair that was congealed in pulverized cerebrum. It was a little disconcerting, Ivan had to admit, to see his precious sunflower still and laid out in such a fashion. Now that he thought about it, Ivan had never seen the young nation in death before. Ivan wondered briefly if Alfred had ever experienced it before. He must have, correct?

There honestly wasn't much to do but wait, so Ivan slowly paced England's office, twiddling his thumbs and occasionally looking over to see if Alfred's chest had started to move again. After what seemed to be at least an hour, Ivan grew bored, and found himself bending over the small bookshelf the Brit had set up. Perhaps England would have some Tolstoy, something to pass the times, or perhaps he could make some tea to keep him busy—

However, as soon as Ivan's fingers had graced over the only Russian name in England's library, as if on cue, there was a huge, gasping inhale behind him, followed by Alfred's raspy swears.

"Oh— ow— fuck!"

Eloquent as always.

Sighing, Ivan placed the book back and straightened up, turning to see America moving and groaning on England desk, taking in large mouthfuls of air, as if he'd just come up after a long dive underwater. Alfred's head lolled to the side and Ivan can see the pair of blue eyes looking straight at him.

"Hey," Alfred rasped, the dazed and disoriented look something that Ivan had not seen since on America's face since the late 60s.

"Hello dorogoy," Ivan walks over to the desk and let his hand tentatively touch Alfred's hair, "You are awake."

"Looks like it."

Alfred blinked in quick succession, the dazed look in his eyes gradually fading. He tried to turn his head to look around, but let out a hiss of pain. However, it was enough to take in the relative unfamiliarity of his surroundings.

"What the hell happened? Did we have such mind-blowing sex that I passed out?"

Ivan stopped petting Alfred's hair. For a moment he just stared incredulously at his companion.

How could Alfred possibly not remember?

Alfred tried to move up into a sitting position but inhaled sharply in pain and flopped back down, yelping as his head connected with the hard desk.

"Ow, shit, my head hurts— or wait, no, somebody caught us, right? Oh man, I bet Iggy did, he whacked me on the head and knocked me out, right— ?"

Alfred, hissing again at the pain in his limbs, moved a hand to the back of his head. Russia gasped and made to stop him, but halted. Perhaps it would help jog Alfred's memory?

Ivan saw Alfred's eyes go wide as he touched the back of his head. No doubt the skull had already healed, but—

"What the fuck?" Alfred cried as he felt around, pulling at something stuck in his hair. Ivan stared blankly as Alfred's hand came back, covered in blood with a very thick chunk of brain in his palm. Alfred turned a shade paler.

"Ah— that."

"Yeah, that. What the fuck is that, Vanya?"

Ivan paused for a moment, trying to think of how to best break it to the American.

"Well, you see— you fell, dorogoy."

America gaped at him for a moment,

"I— fell?"

"Da."

"O-oh." Alfred set the chunk of brain as far away from himself as possible, "F-from how high?"

"Very high."

Alfred felt the blood-soaked hair at the back of his head again, wincing.

"I cracked my fucking head open?"

"Da."

"No way— I fucking died?"

Russia nodded. He reached a tentative hand above Alfred's head, pausing for a moment to see if Alfred reacted. When he did not, Ivan gently began to pet his hair again. It concerned Ivan slightly that Alfred did not remember what he had been doing moments before his death. There was no way there could be any residual brain damage— could there?

"Ohh, I remember." America suddenly moaned, nodding slowly. "The window. The fucking window."

Or perhaps Alfred was just a touch slow, as usual.

"Da. The window."

Alfred groaned again, trying to move his legs, but only succeeding in causing a jolt of pain from the half healed and dislocated limbs. Finally giving up, he just falls limp on the desk.

"Shit. I mean, shit. That's like something you see in the movies. That stuff just doesn't happen."

Alfred was quiet, Ivan taking a moment to pluck the askew spectacles off of the American's face.

"It is a marvel that these did not fall off or break, dorogoy."

Alfred snorted, as if he found the statement ridiculous.

"Duh. I mean, it's Texas. They're tough fuckers. Nobody messes with them. Not even gravity."

Ivan hummed as he cleaned the glasses on his scarf, wiping off the blood and examining them closely for cracks or dents in the frame.

Alfred watched him, a frown beginning to appear on his face, as if he had just realized something in his typical, delayed reaction type of way. As Ivan placed the relatively unscathed glasses back on his face, he noticed Alfred's expression and cocked his head.

"What is it, Fredka?"

Alfred's expression fell a little further as Russia spoke. As soon as the glasses settled back onto his nose, he shifted his head, turning his face away from the Russian, giving Ivan the "cold shoulder," was that what it was called?

"I can't believe you let me fall, stupid Commie. Why the hell didn't you catch me or something?"

Ivan was caught off guard by the question, and by Alfred's tone. He sounded rather dejected at this, which worried the Russian further. He put a hand on Alfred's shoulder, delicately to not cause him any pain, causing him to turn his head back and look at Ivan.

"Fredka— I was just as surprised as you were. I assure you I did not know that was going to happen." Was this going to turn into a trust issue between them? If the incident was anyone's fault, then it would certainly be Alfred's, his idiotic lover had insisted on using the window.

Alfred's frown disappeared, and he gave a pained shrug, and finally rewarded Ivan with a small smile.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. 'Suppose it's no big deal."

More silence. Ivan took to fiddling with the clasps on his coat, some of them still undone from the romp that had caused all the mess.

Finally, as he was apt to do, Alfred broke the silence.

"Here," Alfred groaned and wriggled his shoulders, "Help me out, will ya? My fucking arms and shoulders and legs hurt like hell."

Of course. Ivan feels like smacking himself. Alfred was alive, but his body had just gone through a fall, of course he was going to be sore, his joints dislocated—

With little effort or preamble Ivan lifted Alfred up into a sitting position and popped his sockets back into place, causing the younger nation to yelp. Ivan sighed.

"Little one, why must you make such noises at things like this, when you have suffered far worse— "

"Hey, shut up! I mean, I haven't died in a real long time. Since like the nineteenth century or something. Alfred 2.0 shot me." He groaned as Russia cracked his elbow back into place. "Besides, it still hurts like a fucking bitch."

Ivan frowned in confusion.

"Alfred 2.0?"

America's face momentarily dipped into a frown as he responded.

"Yeah. The Confederacy."

"Ah." Ivan suddenly felt uncomfortable. He remembered those days very well. Very painful days for his Fredka, and, by extension, painful days for Ivan.

Alfred stretched his arms out, flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles.

"Isn't it weird? That you pretty much wanted to kill me for about half a century, but it's when we're all cool and over it and like fucking each other again that you actually do it?"

Ivan crossed his arms, miffed.

"I did not kill you, Fredka."

Alfred had set about picking the matted bits of brain matter and skull fragments from his hair, casually flicking them onto England's desk.

"Yeah, alright big guy. Totally not your fault that you pretty much fucked me out of a window."

Russia flicked America on the nose.

"Do not be so profane, Fredka. I must say that I almost preferred you as a corpse. At least then you would be silent."

Alfred shoved away his hands away.

"You suck, Vanya."

Ivan sighed and took a step back, observing as his American took to examining his body closer, looking for any other injuries.

"Aw man," Alfred plucked at the bloodstained white shirt he was wearing under his business suit, which was also splashed red, "Look at this. Totally ruined. And it's a rental too! Fuck!"

Ivan feels a pang of guilt at that. He could not tell if Alfred was whining out of habit, or to annoy Ivan, or because he was genuinely upset.

"I admit I am feeling a bit sorry for putting you through this. Tell me, алыш, is there a way I can make up for it?"

Ivan puts both hands on the desk and leans in, invading the intimate area of personal space around Alfred, who turns a shade redder.

"Make up for it?" He mouths a quiet "oh" as Ivan's hand slide softly up his thigh, "Wait, one sec— "

Ivan squeezed Alfred's hip, causing his to gasp.

"I mean in— " he took a look around to get a better hold on his bearings, and grimaced further, "In Iggy's office? No way. That's like doing it in your parent's bed. Yuck."

Ivan stopped his hand and finally settled with just playing with the bloodstained fabric of Alfred's pants.

"We may move— "

Alfred sighed and crossed his arms, trying to fidget his sore leg away from Ivan's touch.

"You're just really fucking horny, aren't you, Vanya? Maybe I'm just fucking sore and not in the mood 'cause, God, I dunno, I just fell forty fucking stories, you asshole."

Ivan grinned at Alfred indignation, but relented in his advances, pulling away from Alfred's leg to take one of his hands.

"Ah of course. You are still hurting from your little fall, da? And, of course, I would not want to hurt you further." Still, Ivan leaned in a little more and tapped his lips.

"Perhaps just a kiss, then?" Alfred smirked, and turned to face Ivan, scooting forward to the edge of the table and wrapping his arms around Ivan's shoulders and legs around his waist.

"Sounds good."

Ivan joined their mouths, hands roaming up to squeeze Alfred's triceps as he pushed against his teeth for entrance, still wanting to enjoy some of the American's warmth. Alfred grunted against his mouth and grudgingly let him in. Ivan hummed back in pleasure, Alfred's tongue still tasted of blood.

Ivan flicked his tongue around Alfred's mouth for a few moments before temporarily drawing back, only to find something hard and sharp come back into his own mouth. Momentarily confused, he drew away, leaving a trail of saliva from a questioning Alfred, and fished around his mouth with two gloved fingers, finally pulling out the foreign object.

America gulped and looked to the side, avoiding Ivan's eyes in embarassment.

"S-sorry about that."

Ivan turned one of Alfred's bloody, white front teeth in his hand, setting it down on the desk as Alfred gave a wavering, asymmetrical smile.

"Perhaps we shall call it a day, da?"

Haa…remember the story of the lawyer who pushed up against a plate glass window to prove it was unbreakable, and ended up falling through it after the entire thing popped out? I guess that's what this is based on. :|

Fredka: diminutive form of "Alfredka." I read it somewhere and thought it was cute. :x

алыш : Little one

I apologize for so much fail.