Ivan Braginski had never been fond of loneliness. He had grown up with two sisters, one who attached herself to him in such a way that it made him feel uncomfortable, and the other who seemed to harbor dreams of her own independence.

He had made it his goal to never be alone, and more importantly, to never have to venture out of his own home to find what he needed. He had built his country up, endured hard times and then harder times, before finally reaching his own utopia. His friends, all sharing a house with he, and he taking on the role as their guardian and support system. It was everything he had dreamed about with his older sister, and now, he was certain he would not be left alone. After all, he had learned throughout the years. Now all the countries that stayed with him were deemed friends, comrades. He would give them reassuring pats on the back, and smile as they shook with happiness. He would joke with them the same way he had seen other nations do with young America, laughing his fond laugh and smiling his childish smile as he came upon behind Latvia.

"When are you going to grow, comrade Latvia?" He quipped, his hands reaching up to ruffle the others hair, pressing down on his head. Latvia froze for a moment, and Russia smiled down at him, waiting for a response. Finally, Latvia's eyes darted up to meet Russia and he gave a slight smile, his eyes wide. He darted away, claiming he needed to find Estonia. Everything seemed to go wonderfully, and Russia smiled despite the work required to maintain his life.

Then came 1991. The Soviet Union dissolved, and took Russia's new-found friends with it. By the coming of 1992, he was as alone as ever, and the paperwork seemed unchanged1. For a while, he expected visits. He had treated all the other countries so nicely; surely they could not want to leave him! Days passed, months came and went, and the only person who dared knock at Russia's door was Belarus, whom he pointedly ignored, despite how lonely he was becoming.

He took to buying more vodka, though he had little time to drink it, and would often sign papers and talk to his boss over the phone while taking swig after swig. He did not bother with cups or shot glasses, favoring the far more direct approach the bottle offered, and when done, would simply deposit the bottle on the floor, not caring if it smashed apart on the way down.

He tried to avoid the hazy memories drinking would drag up, passing out when the images started to filter their way through his brain. He could not hide from all of them, though, and soon he found that despite the warmth that spread though out his body, vodka seemed content to harm him, just as his friends had.

"Russia! Hey, Russia!" Russia turned his head, purple eyes searching the snowy white horizon before finally landing upon a crop of sunny blonde hair and slightly tanned skin running towards him. One silver brow raised, he fully turned, waiting for the young nation to catch up to him.

Finally, he did, panting slightly. Russia looked him over. He looked better, even with his hair in slight disarray. His clothes were no longer ripped and tattered, although they did look worn, and his bright blue eyes no longer seemed caged.

"Hey man, sorry for stopping you. I mean, it's cold as hell out here, and stopping probably only makes that worse; I mean, aren't you freezing? I guess maybe not, I mean you're always wearing that big coat and scarf, so maybe you don't get cold, but I do and I mean still-"

"What is it you needed, Amerika?" Russia cut the boy off. He noticed America's voice had broken, and wondered how England felt.

"Oh, ah, right, sorry." America reached a hand up behind him, scratching the back of his neck and further ruffling his hair. A slight shiver seemed to pass through the boy, and for a moment, Russia considered stepping closer. He shrugged off the desire, knowing America had just managed to prove himself as a nation, and would hardly like anyone to think of him as needing assistance. Russia remembered feeling the very same, when he was young.

"Anyway, I just, um, just wanted to say thanks, you know?" Russia could have sworn a faint blush blotted America's cheeks. "I mean, I know you didn't really pick a side2, or anything, but still. You helped out a ton, man. Without you, I might still be drinking tea with stuffy-old England, and-"

"America," Russia interjected again, "Enough. I did not trade to help you win independence. I traded to better my own country." Starting to turn away, Russia felt a slight tug at his coat. Although barely felt, it was enough to stop him.

"Hey! Look, I know you didn't help just to help me. But I mean…you took me seriously, you know? I mean, France, I think he really just wanted to stick it to England, but you," America paused for a moment, tongue darting out to lick his chapped lips, "you took me seriously. You thought I could become something."

Russia frowned against the mouth of the bottle, his tongue shrinking back in distaste. Relationships among countries changed seemingly daily, it was true, but Russia had almost forgotten about having anything but mutual dislike exchanged between him and America.

He had known America for quite a while. England tried to keep the then-colony separated from the world, but with Russia forming colonies, it was only inevitable the two would eventually stumble upon each other. He recalled seeing the bright yellow hair for the first time, baby blue eyes always turned skyward, though whether that was because he was too short to see people or because he truly loved the sky, Russia had never figured out. He had tan skin and radiated warmth, and was everything Russia had ever wanted in a land. This was a boy, he knew, that would know little about the hardships in life. General Winter would not knock at his door; nations would not turn away from his childish innocence. They would see him as cute and endearing; they would seek out ways to make his life easier. And looking at the spark in the colony's eyes, he could tell that his very being would soon cause his own destruction. The freedom held in those eyes could not be tamed and captured, despite what England dreamed.

Russia fell asleep, the neck of the bottle slipping from his fingers and crashing quietly against the carpet.

It was four in the morning when Russia woke up, hand automatically reaching up so that he might take another swig. It was to his immediate disappointment when said hand came up empty, and the overpowering smell of vodka filled his nostrils. Peering down, he could see the bottle had broken apart, letting the clear liquid escape into the carpet. It was his last bottle, he recalled, and in order to get more he would need to go out to the store. The idea was off-putting, to say the least.

Still, Russia heaved himself up, black boots crunching against the fragments of glass. He pulled his scarf a little tighter around his neck, not even bothering to stop in the mirror and check his appearance. It would be a quick stop to the store; nothing more, nothing less. He would grab a few bottles of vodka and be on his way.

He tucked his head down as he opened the front door, wind whipping his face and pelting snow against him. He winced as a few pieces got into his eyes, but trudged forwards, slamming the unlocked door behind him. No one would dare rob him, he knew.

It was a quick drive to the store, given the fact that Russia had a perchance for driving well above the speed limit. His car screeched to a stop as he parked in front of the seemingly deserted store, and twenty minutes after he had left the warmth of his home he found himself in the warmth of the store.

Fluorescent lights beat down at him, helping the heat of the store melt away the snow in his hair. He made his way toward the side of the store, where he knew he would find the alcohol, only to stop midway.

A small rack of flowers stared at him, colors arranged in a seemingly random fashion. Many of them seemed to be dead or dying, their petals browned and falling off. This didn't bother him, for the bouquet he was looking for, directly in the middle, was neither dead nor dying. Bright yellow petals screamed of life, screamed to Russia. He felt himself step forward, close enough to dart a gloved hand out to brush gently against their smooth tips, fingers grasping the tip.

"Russia! Hey, Russia!" Again, Russia found himself stopping, turning his eyes from the white walls of the conference hall to look at the blonde hair directly below him. His blue eyes were covered by glasses now, a recent acquisition that even Russia had to admit made the nation look far older. America had grown significantly since he had become a country, and was taller than many other older countries. Not as tall as Russia yet, Russia thought, smirking.

"Yes, America? What do you want now?" He had just finished meeting with the young nation; what could he have needed that was not mentioned in the aforementioned time?

"I wanted to say thanks. Again." A blush crept over America's face, and Russia stared at him, confused.

"For what?"

"For…for the land, man. For selling me Alaska." Russia sighed, tired.

"America," he started, "I did not sell the land for you. It was of no use to me, and I wanted the money. That is all there is to it.3."

"Oh! I mean, uh, of course you didn't sell it to me just…just because, I mean. I know. But still. You could have sold it to someone else, you know?" America's eyes had widened, and Russia could have sworn he saw mild disappointment etched in them.

Before Russia knew it, his fingers had moved down along the petals, brushing along the rough stems, encased in plastic. His hold tightened, and he pulled the bouquet out from the display case, the soft crinkle of plastic echoing throughout the store. Russia didn't need to look behind him to know the shopkeeper was staring at him; no doubt watching with more than confusion as the large nation seemed to caress the yellow flowers.

Vodka forgotten, Russia headed toward the cash register, paying no mind to the rushed greeting offered to him. Fishing his hands into his pocket, his hand scraped upon a few rubles. He deposited them upon the counter and took his leave, not bothering to wait for his change or receipt. The shopkeeper's yells grew distant as Russia hid the flowers within his coat, protecting them from the storm. He laid them on the passenger seat of his car and took off, hand already reaching for his phone.

Dialing a familiar number, his boss' secretary greeted him. He did not return the affection, instead barking out his reason for calling.

"I would like a ticket to America."

"Russia! Hey, Russia!" Another sigh passed Russia's lips, but he stopped, nonetheless, turning to find the blonde hair he expected.

"Yes, America?" Another meeting has just ended, and Russia was the last to file out of the room. He had expected to ride the elevator down alone, but yet here was America, pushing himself off the wall he had been leaning on. Had he been waiting here? No, thought Russia, he had probably been making a phone call to his boss; this conference had been held in America, after all.

"I just-"

"Wanted to thank me?" Russia chuckled, for this seemed to be the only reason the nation would ever stop the European. America looked bewildered, his glasses tipping down the bridge of his nose.

"What? No, man. What would I thank you for? You know what, never mind. I just…I wanted to ask if you wanted to do something, you know? I mean, everyone else has already left, so I figured you might not have any plans and we could hang out-"

"America," Russia cut off. "Do not ramble. And the answer is no," Russia looked down at the country, who seemed to waiver slightly. "Do not get me wrong, America. My house is just very full at the moment. Eventually, all will become one with me. But not now, America."

If America looked confused before, now he was absolutely baffled. His eyes widened, seeming to quiver slightly before a look of pure anger filled them, darkening the sky blue color.

"Dude, what the hell man? I just wanted to hang out with you, I didn't want to 'become one' or whatever. Goddamn it, Ivan, you're so dense. America's never going to 'become one' with a communist nation, America's never going to 'become one' with anyone."

Russia opened his mouth, aiming to backtrack, only to find that America had pushed past him, entering the elevator alone and slamming down on the close-door button. It took Russia a moment to realize America had called him by his human name, and even longer to realize that he could move, could grab the jacket of the nation. By that time, America was long gone.

The plane ride to Virginia was a long one, but eventually the voices of the captain blared on the speaker, informing the passengers that they would be landing soon and should remain seated and fasten their seatbelts. Russia hadn't gotten up at all, choosing instead to spend him time either gazing out the window at the blue skies, or grazing the sunflowers petals, as gentle as he knew how.

He hadn't brought any luggage with him besides his carry on, and thus quickly made his way off the plane and into the parking lot. A man in a suit was carrying a sign; 'Ivan Braginski' painted onto it. Russia made his way over to him, quickly relaying an address and hoping America was at his Virginia home, and not one of his many others spread throughout his states.

He asked the driver to stop about a mile before the house, and though the driver protested; it was just beginning to rain, he claimed, and it really wasn't the time to be going on a stroll, a quick glare from Russia forced him to pull over and unlock the doors. Russia departed, thanking the man, and the man slid a card from his pocket into Russia's waiting hand.

The walk was long, mostly because Russia wasn't in any huge hurry to arrive. It would be just his luck to reach the house and find that America wasn't staying there, forcing him to call the driver back. Rain pelted his face, his silver hair growing weighted. A few strands made their way down his forehead and pecked at his eyes, small daggers threatening him throughout his walk. He held the sunflowers as close to his chest as he could, but was dismayed to find that some of the petals still fell off, carried away by the breeze.

Finally, Russia arrived at the mansion, happiness filling him as he realized that there were, in fact, cars in the driveway. Two cars, actually. The happiness faded, and Russia stiffened. Would America still welcome him in if he were to disrupt a meeting? He swiftly walked past the car, willing himself not to look into it. He didn't want to see whose it was, he just wanted to knock on the door and see that bright yellow hair.

As his hand raised up, ready to pound on the oak door, voices drifted through the cracks.

"Hey, come on, I said I was sorry!" This was America's voice, Russia knew. What was he sorry for? Was he in trouble? Russia felt his fist come closer to the door, contemplating just throwing it open.

"You git! You don't even know what you're apologizing for!" Russia stiffened. Only one person called America a git. That wasn't possible. This wasn't possible.

"I'm sorry I called your cooking terrible," America's voice, this time softer, more weighted. Russia had to press his ear to the door, waiting with baited breath. Silence met him, and the flowers he had been clutching were lowered.

"Damn, England," Finally, America's voice came back, louder than ever. Russia reeled back. "If I had known that was waiting for me, I would have apologized a lot sooner!"

"Oh, just shut up, you twat. Now get back here. And so help me, if you call my cooking bad once more-" England was cut off, and this time Russia didn't stay through the silence. The flowers fell from his hand into a puddle on the floor, petals falling off the whole way down. Russia felt water on his face, and prayed it was just the rain, pooling near his eyes. He turned his back away from the door, walking past the two cars parked in the driveway and disappearing out of sight.

Russia had waited after the meeting; he had been the last to leave. Exiting the room, he paused for a moment, expecting to be called to turn around. When no voice came, he turned of his own will, searching for a speck of blonde along the white walls. He sighed as he found none, his mind recollecting the meeting he had just left. The Second World War had just ended, they had won. The Allies all should have been happy. Instead…instead, America looked at him with contempt. With anger. He had left the room before Russia, but after many other nations. The room was almost empty, and Russia looked up when he noticed that America was standing in front of the door, his face turned towards Russia.

"You know," America whispered, "I thought you really believed in me. I thought you thought I could become something on my own. But, you're just like all the others, aren't you, Russia? You never had any faith in me at all. You were just waiting for me to fall."

Authors note:

So yeah. I teeter back and forth between RussAme and USUK. In my head cannon, America has had a crush on Russia since his colonial days, when Russia was one of the few nations that openly helped him. Russia was too blind to see it, as he was a strong nation and had quite a few countries already under his wing. Also in my head cannon, America leaves his house the next morning to get the paper and finds the flowers. Russia, why are you so slow!

And below are just some history references. They're not really needed to get the story, but they are sort of present.

1 The Soviet Union was made up of numerous countries including Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania. On December 8, 1991, the presidents of Russia, Ukraine and Belarus signed the Belavezha Accords. This claimed the Soviet Union was dissolved. The President of the USSR did not formally resign until December 25, 1991, and the Supreme Soviet was dissolved the next day. Many Soviet organizations, including the Soviet Army, remained in place through the early months of 1992. After the Soviet Union was dissolved, Russia was recognized as its legal successor. Russia voluntarily accepted Soviet foreign debt and the Russian federation took on the Soviet Union's rights and obligations.

2 Although Catherine II had Russia remain officially neutral during the American Revolution, she tended to favor the American colonists. She provided as much as she could without compromising Russia's neutrality, and many American's were comforted by the fact that Russia was not on Britain's side. Russia continued to trade with America throughout the Revolutionary war, providing them with a market as well as supplies needed to survive. Catherine II believed America gaining independence would be ideal for Russia, as it would provide an opportunity to expand commerce; not only would America be able to freely trade with Russia, Britain would have to turn to other countries (such as Russia) to supply them with resources they had previously taken from American colonies.

3 The Alaskan Purchase was made via a treaty between the United States and Russia in 1867. Russia was, at the time, having financial problems and feared losing Alaska in a future conflict (mainly to the British). The Tsar asked both Britain and America, but Britain expressed little interest. Thus, Russia offered the territory to America (this was in 1859) no deal was made due to the American Civil War breaking out. It wasn't until 1867 negotiations once more took place, and after an all-night session, a treaty was signed at four A.M. on March 30, 1867. Alaska was sold for $7.2 million, much to America's joy, who currently considered friendship with Russia of the utmost importance.