A/N: Yeah. This chapter was kind of hard for me, and way, way longer than I intended. I had to really think about where I was taking this, and now I have an idea. So, heads up, guys, THIS IS OFFICIALLY AU. It didn't turn out exactly the way I'd originally envisioned, but I hope you all enjoy it, regardless.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 3: Ugly Things

"Forgive me, Russia. I'm afraid I cannot help you."

There was a tone of finality in England's voice, and Russia supressed the urge to sigh. They had been here, in England's office, for what seemed an eternity, going back and forth but not getting anywhere. All the while, he had known England's final decision, and he was not surprised. Dismayed, yes, but not surprised...

"Well," the blonde man said, leaning back in his chair. "Your ship leaves tomorrow. It's been a pleasure having you here -" Ivan almost rolled his eyes. "-but I'm sure you'll want to get your things together, and whatnot. Will I be seeing you for supper?"

There was a strange gleam in the empire's eye as he spoke. The corners of his mouth kept twitching upward, as though he were trying to surpress a smirk. Clearly, he was gleeful at Ivan's looming departure, and the feeling was certainly mutual. Their interactions as of the last few days had been more than a little strained, sometimes culminating in brief but memorable squabbles that often left him red-faced and seething.

Things had mainly gone downhill after his late-night meeting with Alfred. England didn't know about that particular event (though Ivan wished he did, if only to see the look on his face), but he hadn't failed to notice how close they had grown afterwards. The empire had tolerated it at first, though he sent scathing looks when he thought Ivan didn't notice. Otherwise, all had been well. It was only on the seventh day of his visit, when Alfred climbed into his lap for a bedtime story, that England dropped all pretenses of politeness.

He almost smiled at the memory of the shorter man's face as he stood in the doorway with a book in his hand; first shocked, then betrayed, then completely and utterly livid. A vein had stood out prominently on the flesh of the Englishman's forehead, and his hands had opened and closed, the muscles tense, as though he were barely restraining himself from choking the life out of something. Ivan, most likely.

As the colony settled in his lap, oblivious to the danger the empire was exuding, Ivan, feeling giddy and somewhat foolish, had made sure to lock eyes with the man as he gathered Alfred closer.

Slowly, deliberately, he had rested his chin on the little blonde's head -an imitation of 'Arthur's' habit - and the dark thing in him roared with glee as England bared his teeth.

It was a very ungentlemanly thing to do.

The book Alfred had brought with him was large and colorful, and his nose was buried in it so that he didn't see England standing there, struggling to compose himself. Basking in the little one's warmth, Ivan began to read, and from the corner of his eye he saw the empire go still.

Alfred had paused to look admiringly at the pictures, and Russia took the opportunity to look back at England, a smug smirk forming on his lips. That smirk had crumbled and died once he saw the other man's expression.

Cold, was the only way he had been able to describe it. Blank and empty, yet chillingly dark, England's eyes were pinned to his face with an intensity that almost made him shudder. Ivan was beginning to realize that he had perhaps not been so wise in provoking the man, when Alfred craned his neck to look up at him.

"Ivan. Will you read to me or not?"

"Of course, little one," he'd said, surreptitiously glancing back at the doorway. England was gone. Ivan had let go of a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, and, as distracting as Alfred was, the thread of unease had stayed with him for the rest of the night.

Sure enough, Ivan came to breakfast the next morning and found a different England. This one did not acknowledge him whatsoever, and the woman who served breakfast had not made him a plate. He was forced to go get it himself, and when he sat down at the table, Ivan found himself excluded from the ongoing conversation. England purposefully interrupted him whenever he attempted to speak, and he had been so coldly blatant in his rudeness that even Alfred had noticed.

Since then, it had been nothing but petty squabbles between them. When the ship that was supposed to be taking Russia home didn't arrive on the expected day, it was clear from his expression that England was ready to flip a table. Ivan, on his part, had been overjoyed - he was homesick, yes, but now he had a few extra days with Alfred, and he was in no hurry to return to the czar with nothing to show for his visit but failure.

That is inevitable now, he thought sullenly. England loathed him, and he loathed England. The czar had commanded him to form an alliance, had said that he was not to return until his task was finished - but this was a quest that could not be completed.

He would go home with nothing but useless apologies, and Alfred...

"Yes." Ivan said quietly, his thoughts turning elsewhere. And then, out of habit, "Thank you."

Ignoring Britain's surprised look, he stood and left the study, the door closing quietly behind him. His boots were heavy on the polished wood floor as he walked to his room, loud in the silence of the house. A maid scurried by, her eyes downcast, but he ignored her as he stepped into his guest room, his gaze pinned to the floor.

"Your ship leaves tomorrow."

Tomorrow...

Shrugging off his heavy coat, the Russian walked to the windowsill. It was late in the afternoon, and he heard familiar peals of laughter as Alfred played in the fields down below, closely attended by his new nanny. England had given in to his colony's pleas; he was now allowed outside, so long as he was monitored. Beautiful, Ivan thought, for what seemed the hundredth time. With his toothy grin and wide blue eyes, the boy lit up the world.

And soon he would be gone from Ivan's.

He was startled at the pain the thought brought him, and with a scowl he stepped away from the window, shutting it firmly. What was wrong with him? Why was he so...fixated on a child he barely even knew?

But that's not true, a voice whispered, that same ugly voice that both disturbed and firghtened him. He had heard it before, when he was younger, when they took away his sister, and blood had stained the snow...

You know him. You know he's like you. Lonely...

Ivan breathed, and counted to ten. Many, many years ago, he had heard that voice, and he had done awful things - things that plagued his nightmares, now. He wouldn't be so foolish again.

I am a country, he reminded himself. I am Russia. I am not a fool.

He ran his fingers through his hair, relieved when the voice died down in the back of his head. Sighing, he looked at the floor.

"Your ship leaves tomorrow."

He supposed he was homesick. He missed his people, loud and hardy, and the winter wonderlands that were his cities. He would be going back to them. But he would also be going back to the whispers, and the imprisonment, and the loneliness...

It doesn't have to be that way...

The Russian breathed, and began to pack.

xXx

Alfred, despite popular opinion, was not a people person.

He just didn't understand them, sometimes, and considering the life he'd lived, it wasn't hard to see why. Because, despite Arthur's best efforts, he remembered. He remembered the wild - what it felt like to hunt among the wolves, to paint blood upon his skin and feast on fresh-cooked meat. He remembered what it was like to fight a bear and win, to crush its skull beneath his fingers and wear its teeth. He remembered being wild, and being dirty, and being free, but most of all, he remembered her.

Tall and graceful, fierce and strong -she was the First, and she was his world.

Mother.

And despite Arthur's soft words and gentle persuasions, he remembered her hands, calloused and brown, wiping at the mud that often stained his face. Her body, warm and soft as she pulled him close. Her words, "Be strong," as they came and took him away, men with pale skin and strange sticks.

As always, he'd done what she asked - he had not cried when they talked at him in their strange tongues, or flinched when they touched him with cold, rough hands, or screamed when they showed him as he was - a boy with blue eyes and white skin. Like them.

"Be strong," she'd said, and he liked to think he had been. But sometimes...sometimes, when he was out among the trees, in the solemn silence of the woods, he would look up and expect to see her, standing by him. Then he'd remember - that he was Alfred, now, and Alfred ate with forks and spoons, and wore clothes, and had Arthur. He did not hunt. He did not run. He wasn't free.

Pain bloomed in him at the thought.

Maybe that was why he'd latched on to their most recent visitor, the strange man called Ivan. The foreigner was kind to him, if a little strange, and in his soft amethyst eyes was a sadness Alfred recognized. He had seen it in himself. So when the man pulled him close and asked him of his troubles, the colony had told him, almost without hesitation. And he had felt, as they sat and watched the muted glow of fireflies, that for once he had been understood.

The day after, he'd woken up in the warmth of his bed, with Ivan nowhere in sight. He'd come to breakfast relunctantly. Arthur had decided to cook that morning, and the smell of burnt atrocities assaulted his nose. Ivan was notably absent from the table, and Arthur's expression was sourer than usual - clearly they'd squabbled before he'd come in.

It was strange, really, Alfred had thought. They didn't get guests very often, and when they did, Arthur was unfailingly polite. "I have a reputation to uphold," he always said, lifting his nose as he often did when trying to prove a point. "English hospitality, and all."

Alfred wasn't sure what that was, but he certainly wasn't asking Arthur, who had a habit of giving long, exhausting lectures when a simple answer would do.

But again, Arthur was always polite, and to see him visibly ruffled by anyone other than Francis was unsusual, to say the least. Alfred had tried asking him about it, one night while they were reading, but at the mention of the Russian he had become cold and clipped, and the colony dared not bring it up again.

He had wondered briefly if the fault of Arthur's strange behavior lay with Ivan himself. The island nation could not have been so antagonistic for no reason. And yet...grinning at the Russian, and being rewarded with a soft smile of his own, Alfred could not picture someone as reserved as Ivan picking fights with England. Further time spent together only reinforced the colony's belief, and he pegged Arthur's strangeness as unusual, but most likely trivial. They had probably run out of tea or something.

In the meantime, Alfred had found himself growing fond of their current guest.

In the days since the meeting with the fireflies -he still preferred 'lightning bugs', but Arthur seemed to be rubbing off on him - he had found his way to Ivan through various means. Alfred spent a considerable portion of his time now in the country's guest room, poking and prodding at numerous things as he spoke with his newest friend. They had both agreed it was better if Arthur remained ignorant, seeing as how he was in such a bad mood lately, and the maids were silenced with a quick batting of the colony's lashes, a cherubic grin for the more stubborn ones.

Arthur was easy to fool, as he was currently chest-deep in paperwork, spending most of the day locked in his study. Alfred often heard him cursing, in a decidedly ungentlemanly manner, whenever he passed on his way to Ivan's room. Aside from breakfast, dinner, and bedtime, the colony hadn't seen much of him, and Alfred made sure he was on his best behavior, so the man didn't have a reason to storm out of his office. Arthur could be frightening under stress.

Maybe that's why he's in such a bad mood.

It didn't matter much to him, though. For once, he had somebody to talk to other than the old nannies or maids that attended him, and it felt good to speak what was on his mind. Be it random things like what insect he'd accidentally eaten that day, or conversations about the meaning of life and the purpose of anthropomorphic personifications - Ivan listened, and he always paused before he spoke, as though the answers he gave had to be carefully thought of before said.

It made Alfed happy, because the fact that the country was considering his answers so deeply meant that he was actually listening, not just entertaining him, as the people around him so often did. He was, mentally and phsyically, a child, yes, but chronologically he was almost 200 years old. It bothered him that his fellow personifications forgot that so often. Arthur, especially, fell under this, and whenever Alfred grumpily reminded him, the usual response was a short laugh and a pat on the head.

Ivan was different in that, when they talked, he was treated as a friend. Not babied, like a toddler, nor overestimated as an adult - with Ivan, they were equals. It was wonderfully refreshing, and Alfred had found himself glowing these past couple of days.

Not now, though.

Now he was in Arthur's study, standing in the chair opposite the Englishman with his hands planted firmly on the polished wood of the desk. His mouth was turned sharply downwards, his eyes blazing as he looked into a pair of equally burning green eyes.

"What do you mean, 'leaving?'"

The empire sat calmly in his chair, his legs crossed and his face expressionless. This equanimity contrasted oddly with his overall appearance, which was not presentable, to say the least, and the colony knew him well enough to know it was a facade. Arthur's blonde hair was even messier than usual, unkempt and sticking up in odd patches, and his eyes were red and bloodshot. His clothes were rumpled, and mountains of paper were stacked all over his desk, some scattered around the floor. A bottle of rum sat neglected nearby. He clearly hadn't gotten much sleep, last night, and under normal circumstances Alfred would've backed away slowly, lest he face the nation's wrath. He could feel it in the air, the sort of tension that always preceded a fight between them.

As it was, he was too angry to back down just yet, and he glared petulantly up at the man.

"Alfred," Arthur said patiently. "He's been here for nearly three weeks. Russia has his own country he needs to take care of, and he's stayed well past the allotted time -"

"I don't care!" Alfred said brattily. At Arthur's withering look, he brought his hands together and pleaded,

"Aw, c'mon, Arthur. He can stay a little longer, can't he? I know you two don't get along all that well, but he's my friend... You have to let him stay, Arthur, you have to..."

"I don't have to do anything," Arthur snapped, letting a flicker of annoyance slip past the facade. "He's leaving tomorrow, and that's that. Now leave it alone, or I'll send you to your room for the rest of the day."

Alfred flushed.

"That's not fair!"

"Life is not fair, Alfred."

"You're mean!"

"You're childish."

"I'm sick of you!"

Arthur looked amused.

"Of course you are, love."

Alfred's eyes narrowed in what he considered his fiercest glare. Arthur stared coolly back. After a moment of heavy silence, in which the empire refused to break, the colony decided to switch tactics. It was time to pull out the big guns.

Fighting to keep the smug smirk from his face, Alfred leaned forward on splayed hands and tilted his head, so that the sunlight streaming in caught on his hair and eyelashes, where they gleamed like spun gold. He allowed his expression to soften, and his eyes grew large and shiny with unshed (crocodile) tears. His shoulders hunched demurely, and as he looked up at the open-mouthed Arthur, the perfect picture of angelic innocence, triumph danced in his heart.

"Please, big brother," his voice was soft and shaky, as though he were about to burst into tears. "Please, let Ivan stay. Just for a little while..."

Alfred let the words trail off pathetically, though internally he was congratulating himself on his incredible acting skills. Seriously, he deserved an award or something. He didn't like having to manipulate Arthur like this, but it was the empire's own fault for being so unreasonable. Now, at least, Ivan could stay for a few more days and -

"No."

Alfred blinked.

He looked around, only to belatedly realize it was Arthur who'd spoken. Confused, he dropped the innocent facade and looked up at the empire, who was frowning disapprovingly at him.

"I...what?"

"You heard me, Alfred. The answer is 'no,' and it will continue to be 'no', no matter how long you sit there and stare at me like an idiot. No amount of begging or puppy eyes is going to change my answer. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. There's the door."

"Wait -I-hold on, how did you -"

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him.

"Alfred, love, I raised you. It's going to take more than those chaste little acts of yours to persuade me on something like this."

"But...but...Arthur..."

The empire waved a dismissive hand. "No, Alfred. Now, go on. Don't make me repeat myself."

Alfred glared at him, his hands clenching into fists.

"No."

"Alfred -"

"I'm not going anywhere, not until you promise me that Ivan stays."

Alfred was aware he was being somewhat bratty, but he was too upset to correct himself. Ivan was his friend, and as of late, the colony had harbored a glow in his chest whenever he was around him -the kind that preceded a particularly meaningful bond. He knew that Ivan, if given the chance, could become an important part of Alfred's life. He could help to fill the void left by Her, and for that reason alone Alfred couldn't let him leave. Not without a fight, at least.

Arthur sighed.

"I will not," he replied, rubbing at his eyes in the first display of exhaustion. "Listen, it's good that you two have...bonded over the past few days, but it's time for him to leave. Don't you think he misses his people? Contrary to popular belief, people have lives outside of you. You're being selfish, Alfred."

The words stung. Alfred looked away, his fire deflating. He was being selfish, wasn't he? He hadn't even asked Ivan if he wanted to stay for a few extra days...

The colony's shoulders slumped, and Arthur's eyes softened. In a gentler tone he said,

"His ship sails tomorrow. It'll be months before it returns again. He's needed in his own land...I'm sorry, Alfred."

Alfred frowned, searching deserately for a relevant retort. His face lit up.

"But -wait - hold on a second - you've got important stuff going on back home, too, don't you? And you're still here!"

For the first time, Arthur averted his gaze.

"Actually, I'm sailing for London in a week."

Alfred stopped short, his mouth opening and closing. His brows drew sharply over his eyes.

"W...what?"

Arthur continued to look down, suddenly fascinated with the wood of his desk. "You knew this was coming, Alfred. I can't stay with you forever."

Alfred continued to stare at him, open-mouthed. His anger was building up again, along with a familiar betrayal. Yes, he had known this was coming, he had known, and now Arthur was leaving and Ivan was leaving and -

He would be alone again.

"But..." His voice was tiny. Something strange and ugly bubbled in his chest.

"Alfred-"

"It's not fair!"

He hit the table in frustration, and again the sensible part of him told him to stop, that Arthur was right and he was being very unreasonable. But the thought of Arthur leaving, with a solemn goodbye, and the thought of Ivan leaving, sailing away from him forever -

It hurt.

And maybe he was being selfish, but so what? His brother was abandoning him again for who knew how many years, to a lonely house miles away from the nearest town. But, he thought bitterly, I was getting used to that.

No, what was worse was that, for the first time he had someone besides Arthur (besides Her), that honestly understood him, and to have him snatched away so soon...

It was unacceptable.

Alfred could not -would not- allow this to happen, and so he ignored the warning signs that signaled Arthur's growing impatience, and continued angrily,

"Ivan's my friend, and he likes it here, he told me so. You know full well that if you really wanted to, you could stop the ship from leaving, for a week, at least! You just don't want to, cause you don't like him!"

"Alfred, you're being unreasonable." Arthur frowned disapprovingly down at him. "You've only known the Russian for a couple of days. He's leaving, whether you like it or not. Now calm yourself and -"

Alfred stomped his foot. "No! You always do this! Everytime I make a friend, you always take them away from me, cause you're a mean old grouch who doesn't know what it means to have fun - you just like seeing everyone miserable, cause you're miserable! Just because you're a lonely old man doesn't mean I have to grow up and be one, and if you make Ivan go I'll lock myself in my room and I'll hate you forever!"

So maybe he was overreacting.

Okay, yes, he was, but Alfred couldn't help it. Of all the things he'd ever seen or imagined, be it tales of ghosts and boogeymen, or the darkness in his closet - they all paled in comparison to his single, greatest fear. It was the one that kept him up at night, when he had nightmares and couldn't sleep. He would lie awake, cold and afraid, until Arthur, who always seemed to sense these things, came and laid beside him - only then would the colony fall asleep, soothed by the sound of the country's steady heartbeat.

But Arthur would be gone soon, and Ivan would be gone, and there would be no bedtime readings or late-night conversations.

He would be alone.

But as he stood there, flushed and out of breath, watching Arthur's face go from shocked to hurt to carefully blank, he deeply regretted his words.

In nearly 200 years, it was not the first time he had made such outbursts. Of course he and Arthur had their fights, and, more often, banter, but they weren't all that common, and were rarely heated. Alfred was an easygoing child, and though he was spoiled in many respects, he was usually good about keeping his temper in check, at least when it came to the empire. When Arthur left, he was always more sad than angry, and when begging and batting his lashes didn't work, he made it a point to let the empire know he wasn't happy. Not like this, though.

There had been real heat behind his words this time, and he knew by the look on Arthur's face that he had heard it.

Swallowing heavily, he lowered his eyes and looked at his feet.

He could sense it in the air - goosebumps rose along his skin at the feel of what seemed like electricity crackling in the space between them. Arthur was angry, for real this time. Though the empire seemed to be made of stone most days, Alfred knew he was sensitive when it came to certain things, and name-calling was one of them. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously soft.

"Is that how you feel?"

Just five words. Simple and harmless when spoken by the average person, but when Arthur said them...

Alfred remembered a cold day in late August, when the rain had soaked the earth and the sky flashed with lightning as France stepped into their house. His normally-perfect blonde hair was plastered to his skull, and he had stared at England with such darkness in his eyes. Alfred had watched, unnoticed, as he handed him a parchment bound tightly with a thin red ribbon.

There had been a long moment of silence as England unfolded the parchment and read it, not even bothering to retreat to his study. Outside, a particularly strong burst of lightning had flashed, casting strange shadows over the two mens' forms. When England was finished, he'd seemed calm, but Alfred knew him well enough to note the pallor of his skin, and the way he'd stared at France, as though the other man had suddenly morphed into a stranger, an insect. Francis had noticed too, if the clenching of his fists was anything to go by.

"I see," England had said, his voice reminding Alfred of a blade wrapped in silk. "Is that how you feel, Francis?"

It was the first time Alfred had heard those words from him, and it had not been a question. Not really. Alfred heard the darkness in his guardian's voice, and as he looked between the two, saw France's face whiten at the words, he had realized something bad was happening.

"Yes, Angleterre," the Frenchman's voice was soft, his eyes shadowed. England had stood there for a moment, nodding slowly to himself, when, without warning, he threw the parchment in the other man's face.

France had allowed it to connect with his face, catching it in his hands as he stared at the island nation.

"Angleterre -"

"Get out." England had pointed to the open doorway, and the raging storm outside. "Now."

Alfred had flinched at the ice in his voice, at how cold his eyes had been. The tone had brooked no argument. France had given him one last lingering look, and then he walked to the doorway, his shoulders stiff. England had followed.

"I'll see you on the battlefield, France," he'd said, slamming the door in the other man's face.

Afterwards, he'd retreated to his study, and in the following days, Alfred had never seen the empire so foul-tempered. Since then, Arthur had said those words only twice, and Alfred had come to recognize that he only ever said those words when he very, very angry. In 200 years, they'd never been directed at him...

Shrinking under the weight of Arthur's gaze, he mumbled,

"Uh...I..."

"Answer me."

Alfred's head snapped up involuntarily, and as he looked into cold green eyes he knew he had made a mistake.

He wasn't talking to Arthur, anymore.

"No, sir." he said meekly, stepping back in the chair. Apologetic and diffident, that was the only way he could safely get out of this.

"I'm sorry. I was just upset, that's all -"

"Quiet," the empire waved his hand sharply, staring at Alfred through narrowed eyes. "I can see I've let you have your way too much, boy. You're spoiled rotten."

He leaned back in his highbacked chair, and though his posture was otherwise relaxed, Alfred saw he was gripping the arms with white-knuckled fingers. He swallowed. His self-preservation instincts were kicking in now, warning him to shut his mouth before he faced the country's wrath.

Stupid, he berated himself.

"Yes," England was saying, turning his head to stare intensely at a nearby painting. "I believe we'll have to do something about that."

A chill ran down the colony's spine, and with it a trickle of anger.

"I'm not a toddler," he mumbled sullenly.

England paused. "What was that?"

Alfred looked up, his brows furrowed. Though the sane part of him was screaming for him to shut up, right now, clearly he was suicidal, because he said again,

"You always treat me like I'm a toddler or something."

And then, unbidden, he added, "Ivan doesn't do that. To him, we're equals."

Arthur's eyes flashed, and it was the only warning the colony recieved before the man was out of his chair, grabbing Alfred roughly by his collar and bringing him to eye-level. The little blonde yelped, too startled to move. Hanging limply in the nation's grasp, he forced himself to meet the bright green eyes. The empire was an inch from his face, their noses touching, and up close the colony saw how angry he was, how much the thoughtless words from earlier had affected him.

"Ivan," he said softly, surprising the colony. "Is that what you call him? On a first name basis, now?"

He dropped Alfred to the floor, and the boy struggled to right himself as the country kneeled in front of him. They were still a hair's breadth apart, and as England knotted his fingers in the back of the colony's head, Alfred was surprised to smell rum on his breath.

"Listen to me, love," he said gently, and for some reason this unsettled the boy more than if he had been yelling.

"'Ivan' is not as nice as you think he is." He paused, staring at Alfred, as though trying to decide something.

Finally, he said softly, "He's killed people, you know. Many, many people. I mean, we all have our body counts, of course -war, and all...but Russia's is particularly impressive..." England pressed his forehead to the younger male's head, ignoring the horror that shone in his eyes. "Probably hasn't mentioned it to you, but he's rather famous throughout Europe. A history of blood and bad rulers." He smiled. "Have you ever heard of Ivan the Terrible?"

Alfred pursed his lips and didn't answer. England went on anyway.

"No, no of course you haven't. You live in ignorance, Alfred. You're blind to the world and its ways. Your naivete has lead you to believe the Russian is a good person, but believe me, darling - I've lived a long, long time, and I know a sinner when I see one."

England blinked, and his eyelashes brushed Alfred's. "I know, and I'll be damned to the seventh circle of hell before I let someone like him come and corrupt you." Alfred started to speak, but the empire kissed his nose and said, "No, no. I know what you're going to say, and you're wrong, love. Evil is contagious. It spreads like a disease among the living of this world, and everybody carries a piece of it within them, eventually. But not you. Not yet."

He kissed the other's nose again. It was not a gesture of affection.

"You're right," he said suddenly, with an empty smile. "I could delay the ship. But I will not, and nothing you say will persuade me to do otherwise."

Alfred's fists clenched, and he glared hard at the Englishman, his fear almost forgotten. The country laughed at the display. "Oh, you're adorable when you're angry..."

He patted the colony, his expression suddenly cheerful, but Alfred was not fooled. Anger still burned hot and bright behind the nation's eyes.

"The Russian leaves tomorrow," he said. "There is nothing you can do about it, and I shall wave him cheerfully onto the ship myself. Since I'm such a mean, lonely old man."

The amused expression crumbled, and the empire took a moment to reign in his temper before continuing in a quieter voice, "I'll let you off easy, today, America, but if you ever talk to me like that again, you will deeply regret it." His hand tightened in Alfred's hair, a subtle validation of his words. "I've spoiled you over the years, child, and I can see now I'll have to correct that mistake. You are a colony, property, and you belong to me. When I tell you to do something, you do it. You do not insult me, nor do you question me. Know your place. Am I understood?"

Alfred's face, previously slack with shock, grew tense and dark with rage. He looked as though he'd suffered a blow. "Yes, England."

Good, the empire told himself. A little cruel perhaps, but Alfred had done the same to him not minutes ago. Now he knows how it feels.

England stood. "Good, I'm glad we've settled that. Now go to your room. You can stay there for the rest of the day. As you said, I do so like to see you miserable." He turned to walk back to his desk. "Oh, and if you so much as consider stepping out to go see the Russian, you will deal with me. That's not a threat, dear, that's a promise. Dismissed."

"You're wrong."

England halted.

"What did you say, boy?" Turning around, eyes narrowed, he closed the distance between them again, amazed at his colony's continued impudence. Alfred stared coldly up at him.

"Repeat it."

"I said, you're wrong."

England repressed the urge to sigh. He could feel himself getting angry again, and it was only his love for the boy that kept him from wringing his neck right then.

"Am I?" he said softly. "Elaborate.

Alfred mouth was a thin white line. His eyes were not their usual shade of sky-blue - now, they were dark and stormy, and England paused.

"I'm not ignorant to the ways of the world," he said, his voice whisper-soft."And I'm not yours. I remember."

A chill ran down the country's spine, and suddenly he recognized the look on the colony's face, the shadows that danced in his eyes. He had looked like that Before - before he was Alfred. Before he was Arthur's.

Unbidden, memories sprang to the forefront of England's mind, Alfred - Not-Alfred- huddled in a corner, his head buried in his knees. He remembered the boy's strange compliance when he was first brought home, allowing the Englishman to bathe him and dress him in fine clothes and soft slippers. When he'd showed the boy how lovely he looked, standing in front of the mirror, something strange had flashed in the young one's eyes, something so dark and odd and sad, he still saw it in his dreams.

England had tried his best to make the child comfortable, but in the first few months it was nearly impossible. He tried his hardest when he was asked to do things, though he rarely understood, and, when left alone, the empire had often caught him hiding in his grandly furnished room, his eyes wet, but no tears falling from them.

Slowly, slowly, over time, with patience England hadn't known he had, he had managed to form a tentative relationship with the boy, and, as Alfred fell asleep in his arms for the first time, he felt it had been worth it. Decades had passed since then, and the country had grown confident that the savage part of his colony had faded into nonexistence.

Looking into Alfred's eyes, he saw that he'd been wrong.

"Alfred, he said softly, but it was clear his words had affected the boy more than he'd thought.

"I remember," Alfred repeated fiercely. "You and I both know the things I've seen, England, and I promise I won't ever forget."

"Alfred -"

"I'm not your property. You can't just order me around, and talk to me like - like I'm some sort of pet or something- I'm a living, breathing being, and if I wanna talk back, I'll talk back, and there's nothing you can do about it."

"Alfred -"

"I'm tired of listening to you. What, you think just because you go around scaring everybody into following you, I'll do the same? Forget you! I'm tired of you treating me like some stupid toddler that doesn't know what's best. I'm 200 years old-"

"Alfred, I am warning you -"

"'Warning me', what? What? Oh, that's right, I should 'know my place!'" He waved his hands. "Well, you know what? Maybe I don't want to. See, this is why I don't want Ivan to leave. He actually understands me. And you know what? We talked, and he told me he's sure, that one day I'll grow up and I'll be a country too, and the first thing I'm gonna do is get as far away as possible from you-"

England slapped him.

Alfred's head snapped to the side with the force of the blow, and as he stood there, red-cheeked and stunned, England stepped back, his face a mixture of fury and regret.

"I...Alfred. You...you shouldn't have said such things..."

Alfred brought a hand to his cheek. He looked up at the empire. His eyes were large and wet, and it wasn't an act, this time.

"You hit me."

His voice was small, his expression wounded, and in that moment, Arthur wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees and gather the boy in his arms. England, however, was a personification known for his pride, and instead he stood there, silent.

He had never struck the boy, before.

Something heavy hung in the air between them, and Arthur knew that what he'd done could not be taken back, any more than the words his colony had spewed at him. Alfred himself sealed the deal, his mouth forming the three words Arthur had heard only in the depths of his own worst nightmares -

"I hate you."

Without another word the boy turned and fled the room, but not before the empire saw the tears.

xXx

Ivan turned at the sound of footsteps.

They thundered up the hallway, deafening in the silence that blanketed the house, and he knew without question that it was Alfred. Tilting his head at the noise - it sounded as though he were sprinting - Ivan waited. He had not seen the colony at all today, and warmth built in his chest at the thought of seeing the boy, though he dreaded the inevitable goodbye.

Smiling despite himself, he listened as the footsteps stopped just outside his door, expecting a knock.

When none came, he frowned and rose from his bed, starting towards the door with budding wariness. Perhaps he had been wrong, and it was England who waited outside the door. He put his ear to the wood, listening, and felt his heart beat faster at the sound of soft sniffles.

Alfred!

Forgetting himself, the Russian yanked the door open, only to be greeted with a worrying sight. Alfred was standing a little ways away, a fist raised to knock. He looked as though he had been crying, and Ivan's eyes honed in on the ugly red blotch on his cheek.

England.

"H-hey Ivan," Alfred said softly. Despite the tear-tracks on his cheeks, his face was strangely (carefully) blank. "Can I come in?"

Ivan, however, could not seem to work his mouth. He stared at the mark marring the boy's round pink cheeks, and a dull, roaring noise drowned out all else. The ugly thing rose in his soul, black and malevolent, and its rage became his rage as his hands curled into fists.

"Alfred," his voice was strange. "Who did that to you?"

Some of his anger must have leaked into his expression, for Alfred took a wary step back. The ugly thing hissed at the motion, urging him to reach out and let the boy know that that was unacceptable. Instead, the Russian took a deep, shuddering breath and kneeled, doing his best to ignore his darker side.

"Alfred," he said again, reaching out. His fingers touched the blotch and Alfred winced, his eyes lowering to his feet. The colony's expression was subdued as he whispered,

"Please. Can you just...let me in?"

He gestured to the room over Ivan's shoulder, and Ivan's frown deepened.

"Yes," he assented, studying the boy's face with rapt intensity. "Of course."

Standing, Ivan moved and allowed Alfred to enter the guest room, watching closely as he stepped in behind him and shut the door. The blonde said nothing for a long moment, his eyes roaming the tidied room, and when they landed on the large suitcase sitting at the end of the bed, they flashed. For the first time, Alfred's expression was closed off from him, impossible to read as he crossed the room. Ivan stood there awkwardly while he ran his fingers over the suitcase's smooth dark leather. The boy's brows were furrowed, his shoulders trembling, and Ivan watched, speechless, as fat tears spilled from his eyes and onto his cheeks.

"Alfred-"

"You're leaving."

It wasn't a question.

"Y-yes," was all Ivan could manage to say, his eyes as wide as saucers. An invisible force was holding him still, and he could only watch in fascination as drops of moisture clung to the colony's lashes, his face flushed and pained as he stared at the suitcase.

"Why?"

Alfred looked at him, his chin quivering, and understanding broke through the haze of Ivan's shock, urging him forward on long legs to gather the boy in his arms. "Alfred," he breathed, threading his fingers in soft blonde strands. The ugly thing hummed contentedly when the boy hugged back, thin arms wrapping around Ivan's neck in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Please, I-Ivan," Alfred's body racked with deep, violent sobs, and pain bloomed in his heart at the sound. "Please don't go."

"I...I'm sorry, little one," was all he could say in response, and as he rubbed soothing circles on the colony's back, he felt sickened.

The ugly thing was stronger, now. Within him the contented humming grew louder, along with each sob that burst from Alfred's lips.

Look, it said, its voice a twisted mockery of his own. Look at how he cries for us! Look how much we're needed!

No, Ivan thought, closing his eyes. Ruthlessly, he squashed the voice, though a part of him noted that it had not been quite as easy as before. Murmuring in Russian, he focused on the warmth of the little one's body, the softness of his hair, and eventually the flicker of worry was gone, until there was nothing left but him and the child in his arms. Looking out to the moonlight through the open window, he waited for the pain to abate in his chest.

Sometime later, Alfred finally relaxed in his grip, and Ivan was relieved. A dull ache had settled in his heart. Now that he knew he wasn't the only one relunctant for his departure, it would only be that much harder to leave, and he had enough on his plate as it was. Sighing softly, he stared at the floor. What could he do? Once he left America, it was unlikely he would ever return, and he doubted England would let the colony visit him. He had skewed their relationship too much for that.

When he left, he would never see Alfred again, and that would be that.

Nothing he could say or do would change this, and though he would rather not lie to the boy, he didn't want to see him cry, either.

Speaking of crying...

Ivan's thoughts turned back to the blotch on Alfred's cheek, and his jaw clenched.

He knew the evidence of a slap when he saw one, and it was not difficult to guess who had done it, either. The servants would never dare strike the child, nanny or not, which left the British Empire as the prime suspect. Unconconsciously tightening his arms, Ivan quelled his rage and tried to think.

His own feelings for the Englishman aside, Russia could not deny that England loved Alfred, and was decent as far as guardians went. He was strict, sure, and, as Alfred had stated, "bossy," but Ivan was not so biased as to think he would hit the child for no reason. No, Alfred had probably done or said something to greatly upset the man.

Still, he thought, scowling at the floor, that was no excuse to strike him.

He would have to be confonted on this.

Standing, Ivan moved to lay Alfred on the bed, sure the boy had cried himself to sleep, when little hands tightened around his neck.

"No," Alfred murmured against his neck, his voice thick with sleep. "No. You can't leave me, Ivan."

Russia was taken off guard at the pleasure the words brought him, wrapping around his heart like a blanket. Alfred wanted him here, he remembered with a thrill, and was currently clinging to him like a drowning man handed a lifeline. He was needed.

Ivan was still trying to understand the warmth that coiled in him from that thought, when Alfred pulled back to look in his eyes. There was a strange expression on his face, what looked like a mixture between hope and fear, and there was something like shyness in his words when he said, in a clearer voice,

"You...I...we're friends, right?"

"Yes?" Ivan himself could only hope. He could not remember the last time he had been offered friendship, and he wasn't sure if he was reading the colony right. Alfred brightened at his answer, however.

"And...and you care about me?"

"Of course."

Did he really have to ask?

"Then please...stay."

Ivan's face fell, and the colony hurriedly went on to say,

"I-I mean, you can talk to Arth - England, right? I know you two don't really get along, but - but he'll listen to you. You're a country, he will -"

"Alfred, no." The colony stopped short, something like betrayal flickering in his eyes.

"You...you don't like it here?"

"I love it here. If I could, I would stay as long as you wanted me to." Ivan sighed. "But I cannot. There are pressing matters to attend to in my own country, and I am needed there. Besides, I have long overstayed my welcome...I'm sorry."

"Oh."

It was a soft, shaky sound, and Ivan could only watch, silent, as Alfred unfolded himself from his arms with unusual ease. He went and sat on the edge of the nearby bed, his head bowed. The poster boy of complete dejection.

"Alfred.."

"I...I said some mean things to Arthur. I don't think he'll forgive me for them."

Confused at the sudden change in topic, Ivan approached the boy as if he were a wounded animal. When he sat down carefully next to him, he didn't look up.

"What did you say?"

Alfred shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. It was mean, and I could tell...I could tell I really hurt him."

Ivan frowned at that, unable to sympathize with the man when he had looked again at the blotch on the colony's cheek. Cautiously, he raised a hand and caressed the marked skin, quelling the jolt of pleasure that arose within him as Alfred leaned into the touch.

"Did he do this to you?"

"Yes."

Russia had suspected. In fact, he had almost been certain - but hearing the confirmation from Alfred's own lips, and with such an expression on his face...It was harder to control his rage, this time, and with a shuddering breath he drew Alfred closer to his side, his eyes burning holes in the carpet.

"Tell me."

The blonde turned and looked at him. Silence descended, and after a moment of confliction on Alfred's part, he started,

"Well. I heard from Miss Mable - the new nanny - and she told me you were leaving tomorrow. No one had said anything about that to me -" he shot a surreptitious glance in Ivan's direction. "-so I went to Arthur's office, to see if it was true. He said it was, and, and when I tried to get him to let you stay for just a few more days, he wouldn't listen."

Alfred continued to look down at his lap, oblivious to the dawning realization on Ivan's face.

"No matter what I said, he kept telling me no, and...and I got kind of mad. Then he said that he was leaving, too, in a week, and I...I was so angry. That's when I started calling him names. Then he got mad at me, and he...started telling me things." The colony looked up at him then, his eyes moving back and forth across the Russian's face, as though searching for something.

Before Ivan could wonder what that meant, he continued,

"He told me...he said I belonged to him - that I was property, and I should 'know my place.' He...Arthur's never said anything like that to me before, and - and it hurt. So I started saying more stuff, when out of nowhere...out of nowhere he hit me!"

Alfred was breathing hard, from renewed anger this time, and, clenching his fists, he growled, "I hate him."

Ivan, for his part, was clutching the boy tense hands. It was the only thing keeping him from losing his owntemper, something he rarely did - at least outwardly. Inside, however, the ugly thing was roaring, howling and snarling its rage.

Property. Belong to me. Know your place.

Gritting his teeth, Ivan breathed, and counted to ten. He had to be reasonable. It was important to think clearly, and beating a world power to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp would do nothing but cause problems. He had enough of those.

"No, Alfred you don't," he breathed, pleased at the evenness of his tone. "You are just...upset, right now, and that is perfectly alright."

Alfred glared at him.

"No, I hate him."

"Alfred -"

"You don't understand. He hit me. In my face. Arthur's been my big brother for two-hundred years, now, and he never...he never..."

Alfred turned away from him, rubbing at fresh tears. "I-I hate him!"

"You don't mean that..."

"Yes I do!"

Alfred stood abruptly, spinning to face Ivan with his hands balled at his sides. His face was flushed, his nose red, his eyes shiny with tears that spilled in shimmering rivulets down his cheeks. Ivan marveled again at how beautiful he was.

"I thought you, of all people, would get it! Arthur's leaving again, for who knows how long. It could be years, decades, before he comes back, and now - now you're leaving me, too, and - and I'm going to be alone."

Alfred paused, as though astonished he had said the words aloud, and they hung heavy in the crushing silence. The colony had his head bowed, as though expecting a reprimand or a laugh at his words. Instead, Ivan smoothed the shock from his expression and said, very softly,

"It is awful, yes? Loneliness?"

He extended his hand. After a moment of clear hesitance, Alfred took it. He said nothing as Russia pulled him into his lap, running an affectionate hand through his hair, but Ivan was satisfied to see him relax a little. Wiping at the colony's tears, he said suddenly,

"When I was little, my sisters and I lived in a big white house. There was nothing but forests for miles and miles around, and it was very cold. On the days when winter stormed outside, we would lay curled in a nest of blankets and soft sheets, nestled in front of the fire ...My oldest sister, Katyusha, would tell us stories - of rolling green hills with the sun on our backs, and fields and fields of sunflowers..."

Ivan grew lost in the memory. It had been some time since he willingly thought of those days -even longer since he spoke of them to anyone - and now he saw his sister's faces as they had been in the glow of youth - blind and ignorant to the ways of men, to the atrocities they would soon live through.

Katyusha.

Natalia, the youngest, had always been a solemn one, with a knack for unsettling him at the best of times. She was beautiful, but cold, and had always been rather attached to her older brother. Katyusha, the oldest, was kind and soft-hearted, and in those days she was the one who cared for them. He remembered her smile, warm and bright, and his heart twisted in his chest. Now, there was nothing but sadness in the quirk of her lips, and though he was glad to have won her back from the clutches of her captors, sometimes Ivan wished he could just go back to those days instead, when his sister was really his sister.

The thought made him sad.

She had made this scarf for him, he remembered, bringing his hand to his neck. Even after so many years, the fabric was soft and mostly intact, though he feared it would start to fray in the next century or so.

Perhaps she'll make another one for me, he thought, running an absent finger along the odd little strand of hair that always stuck up from Alfred's head. Alfred tensed against him.

"Um, you have sisters?" he asked, his voice strange.

Ivan nodded. "Two."

"What...what happened to them?"

The Russian abandoned the wayward strand - noting absently how Alfred relaxed - and tugged lightly at his scarf. His voice was quiet as he said,

"Armored men came to our house and took them away."

Silence descended. It was heavier this time, thicker, and it took him a moment to realize the colony was clutching at Ivan's clothes with white knuckles. Clearly, he was thinking hard about something, perhaps the past. Ivan said nothing, knowing Alfred would talk when he was ready, and sure enough the blonde started,

"Before I came here, with Arthur, I...I lived in the wild. It's been a long time since then, and I don't remember everything, but..."

The colony's head was bent, and Ivan heard him swallow. "I used to - I could do anything. I went to sleep when I wanted and ate when I felt like it. I climbed trees and hunted things...and whenever I got hurt or sick, the wolves would come. They always stayed with me until I got better, and even though she never said anything about it, I know she was the one who sent them, to...to protect me..."

"Who?" Ivan whispered, fascinated.

Alfred looked at him. His eyes were sad.

"Mother..."

The word was sacred on his lips, more a prayer than a title, and there was such reverence, such love in his eyes as he spoke, that Ivan felt a twinge in his chest.

"Mother," Alfred said again, as though testing the word on his lips. It was clear he hadn't spoken of her in a long, long time.

"She was beautiful," the colony whispered, his eyes taking on a glassy sheen, and Ivan was left feeling as though the blonde had forgotten he was there for the moment. Eventually, Alfred turned away, silent, his body tense and shoulders hunched. It looked as though he didn't want to talk anymore.

Ivan wanted to leave him alone. He did, really, but he had never heard this part of Alfred's past before, and his own curiosity was searing within him. He had to know who this 'Mother' was, what she had done to illicit such awe - such pain - on his precious one's face.

"What happened to her?" he blurted, and immediately regretted it. Alfred turned and stared at him, his expression falling as soundly as a body from a bridge, and then he stood, pushing away from Ivan with weak legs and a flimsy excuse.

"Alfred..."

Alfred was turning away from him, starting towards the door with a mumbled apology and a faint 'goodnight.' As he moved away, the room grew cold again, and the ugly thing within him stirred to life with hollow whispers.

Unacceptable.

Without thinking, Ivan rose and caught the unsuspecting blonde in his arms, lifting him with practiced ease. Alfred gave a high-pitched squeal, his head brushing the ceiling as he stared down at the Russian with wide eyes.

"Ivan - what are you doing?!"

Ivan honestly did not know. An idea was forming in his mind, a way to make the colony smile again, but the Russian was wary. Alfred was different from other children he had encountered in his life, and so he was uncertain as to how he would respond to this next course of action. Doubts stirred within him - too forward, upsetting, what if he gets angry with me? - but the blonde continued to stare at him with eyes that were darker than his normal shade of blue, and Ivan did not like to see him upset. Especially when he was the cause...

"Ivan?"

Coming to a decision, Russia turned and tossed him on the bed.

Alfred had a moment to sit up, his mouth open in a cry of indignation, before Ivan was on top of him with a determined expression, both hands going to either side of the colony's torso. Alfred shouted in surprise as fingers began wiggling expertly in the crooks of his armpits, and suddenly he was howling with laughter, trying and failing to push the country away as he was mercilessly tickled.

"I-Ivan!" he giggled loudly, squirming wildly underneath him. "S-s-stoooop!"

The Russian's fingers only moved faster in response, and soon the colony's pleas were incomprehensible, drowned in hysterical laughter as he writhed and wriggled fruitlessly in an attempt to get away, flushed and breathless.

It was a heavenly sound, a beautiful sight. The warmth in Ivan's chest was overwhelming, now, the ugly thing a miniscule and meaningless thing in the back of his mind. He allowed himself a grin at the boy's high-pitched squeals, and it continued like this until his attacks grew particularly brutal. Alfred was screaming with laughter, now, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. He finally gave up trying to pry away the Russian's fingers, and groped blindly at his arm instead.

One moment, Ivan was tickling the colony into breathless insanity, the next he was hitting the nearest wall, his head snapping back with a resounding thump as he slid dazedly to the floor.

From somewhere to his right there was a panicked cry, and the sound of little footsteps rushing towards him. Hands, small and soft, were grabbing at his shoulders.

"Ivan!"

There was fear in that voice, and the Russian tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids only fluttered faintly in response to his commands. His head felt horribly light, and there was a sharp, insistent throb at the back of his skull that made it hard to think clearly. The hands were frantic, now, moving over his face and chest. They were warm, and they felt good against his skin.

"Ivan, c'mon, get up, please..."

The voice sounded panicked, and that bothered him for some reason. Frowning, Ivan opened his mouth in an attempt to soothe the speaker, but all that came out was a bunch of nonsense. Frustrated, he tried again, with even worse results, but then the hands went to the back of his head, to the agony pulsing there, and he fell silent as the speaker let out a strangled cry. Thin arms wrapped around him in a crushing grip. He wanted to complain, but there was warmth now, another body against his, and it had been so long since he had been held...

"Ivan, oh no, oh no...you're -Arthur. Arthur!"

The body - small, humming with heat- trembled against him. He felt more than heard the racking sob.

It's alright, he wanted to say. Don't be sad. You're precious to me.

But his thoughts felt heavy, all of a sudden. Something thick and compelling was creeping along the edges of his mind, and the strength of it frightened him. His senses were growing faint, his limbs large and useless, and though the pain was fading, so was the warmth.

No.

From somewhere far away, a door slammed open. A new voice reached his ears, deeper than the first, and he found he didn't like it as much.

"What is going on here...oh. Oh, dear."

Heavy footsteps drawing nearer. The arms tightened around him.

"Alfred, what did you do?"

The new voice was low and urgent now, and in response the first voice rose a few octaves, thick and nearly incomprehensible with disturbia.

"I...we were just playing...and I...I..."

A fresh wave of sobs. Another stab of displeasure rose within him, and the Russian wanted to glare at this new voice, perhaps show him what it meant to upset those precious to him, but then the dark, compelling thing washed over him again, and his thoughts were grew sparse and shattered. Brief snatches of the first voice pierced through the sudden haze, and Ivan clung to them.

"I - ver meant to - so sorry, Ivan, I -lease, please -"

"-lfred, get away from him - Alfred - n't question me - now."

Suddenly, the warmth was ripped away. In his mind, Ivan raged, desperately trying to reach above the swelling tide and crushing cold. It was no use. He could only sit there, dulled and furious, as rough hands - not the boy's, not Alfred's - gripped him under the arms and hauled him up. This new person made no attempt at gentleness, and Ivan felt his stomach churn at the abrupt movement.

The world swam away from him, then. Russia reached out one last time, a name on his lips, before the darkness crashed over him like a monstrous tidal wave, and suddenly he was being suffocated by shadows and fears, his mind flashing back to old dreams and cruel faces and blood, blood in the snow. And a man - no, not a man, never - standing in the midst of a winter storm, his hand wrapped around the Russian's smaller one, and it was cold.

In the depths of his mind, Ivan screamed.

As always, no one heard.

xXx

A/N: So. About Alfred's backstory, with 'Mother' and everything, I promise I didn't mean to include that. It just...kind of wrote itself in. I've always been fascinated with the concept of a Native American personification, even though I know it's unlikely, considering the Native American tribes were considerably different from one another. Still, now that it's there, it's there for a reason, not just to add some angst (though that plays a part in it, too).

I'm sorry for making Arthur look like a dick! I'm fond of him, really, but it was necessary for this chapter.

Hope you enjoyed!