Mistakes aren't always regrets.

For once Russia could not be too unhappy about waking up. While the lack of a hangover would usually be the sign of a good morning, it barely took even his groggy mind to remember what made this one so much better. As if to prove this to himself, he reached out towards the warmth beside him and stroked the silky blond hair that was waiting there for him. It was softer than he had expected, longer, too, the slob must have been letting it get shaggy. Tired eyes registered the blond hair a few shades lighter than he remembered, but the lighting in the room was off.

The tear-stained face before him could not belong to anyone but America. He was sure of it. Certain.

So it was all the more shocking when he felt movement beneath his hand as the head it was resting on shifted to a more comfortable place on the pillow and eyes opened slightly, and the blue Russia was expecting to be there was not.

America definitely had blue eyes. Russia knew this. He knew the color blue so well his language had distinguished between its light and dark shades like others did with red and pink. The set of eyes he was now faced with were not blue, no. They were the same violet as his own and that simple fact made his hand recoil in disgust.

Those violet eyes stared at him, a certain emptiness to them caused by the drug that still seemed to be in their owner's system. It was a sedative that had allowed him to have his fun, weakening the muscles without completely knocking out his newly acquired toy. It was a sedative meant for America, not this boy with the same disgusting eye color as his own.

There was a feeling welling up inside Russia's chest as climbed out of his bed. Anger? More like betrayal. But who had betrayed him? Fate seemed a likely candidate; his plan had been so perfect, after all. America, for not falling for the plan, for allowing him to believe he had (though America had no idea about any of this). This boy, he felt the betrayal bringing up more anger and anger inflaming the sense of betrayal. This boy had tricked him into thinking he was America, taken what Russia had meant for America. He would have to be punished.

In no time at all Russia had located his pipe and thought it wise to put on some pants (anger could not always suppress the awareness of how damn cold it was), he leaned his pipe on the side of the bed as he went to grab the body curled up there.

But then he hesitated.

The boy had regained enough of his senses to cry. It was not a loud show of sobs and wails, but a quiet, suppressed but steady series of gasps for air that did not want to be noticed despite shaking his whole body. His hands, bound together at the wrists, were pulled up near his face to hide the tears. Suddenly Russia thought perhaps he would not punish him after all. This thought was surprising and even a little uncomfortable to him, so he consoled himself with adding 'at least not now.'

Instead he carefully scooped up the crying boy and, leaving his pipe, took him into the bathroom. Soon he had the tub full of hot water and both of them soaking, the boy, now unbound, in his lap. Russia did not bother to see if he had the mind or energy to wash himself, and simply did it for him. Even after the crying had died off he remained unresponsive to the larger man gently scrubbing dried blood and anything else off his body. It was only when Russia had made it down to his bloodied thighs that he finally felt the other tense. As he moved closer to the inevitable conclusion, he could hear a ragged breath being drawn and he wondered if he would begin to cry again. With a soft touch he brushed away a bit of wavy hair from his ear, not certain if his voice came out harsh or soothing.

"Would you rather have it left inside?" This question was enough to prevent all protests. A sob was choked down as Russia cleaned up the last of his mess.

Once out of the tub Russia had to hold the boy over the toilet as he was sick. He was not sure if it was the drugs, disgust, pain, or some combination, and frankly he didn't really feel the need to know. Instead he wrapped him in a large towel (Russia had trouble finding ones that suited his size) and let him brush his teeth.

He carried him back down the hall, past the many empty rooms to one that shared the corner with his own. To be honest, Russia had no idea what to do with this…mistake, but considering the shaking thing could barely stand at the moment, he couldn't turn him loose just yet. So, he supposed, for now he would just have to put him off to the side, like broken toy you can't decide whether to fix or just toss.

In silence the blond was laid onto the bed, covers drawn up around him. He seemed too tired and dazed to be frightened or surprised by the little kindness, but there was a sudden faint spark in his eye, recognition of something, and his face was instantly buried into the sheets. Russia let a split second of curiosity pass over him at this act before he turned to go, a different curiosity filling him.

There were few nations with violet eyes, and fewer—if any—humans. Something nagged the back of his mind as Russia locked the door behind him. He had to know who this America-imposter was, he just could not for the life of him remember.

Hmm, my first Hetalia fic. To be honest I have no idea how good it is, I'm not used to writing anything longer than an RP post, and I don't like to write in more than one sitting.
I hope you can at least understand what's happened/happening. I suppose I'll make it clearer in later chapters. I'm planning to keep this short, but not sure how it's going to end yet… *le shrug* I feel bad being mean to Canada but I love it at the same time~

As a random confession, I hate writing 'blond' without an 'e' no matter how much spellcheck gets upset, but I looked it up and blonde is used to refer to a female with blond hair. Damn French.