[Fic] RussiaxAmericaxUK - Stalemate (3/?)

[kachiechan.livejournal.com]

Title: Stalemate
Chapter:  One, Two, Three
Author/Artist: kachiechanchu.deviantart.com (KachieChan)
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia x America x England
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual concepts. Psychological torture.

Summary: Set during the Cold War, Alfred is mentally terrorized by Ivan. Along with making appearances and sexually frustrating Alfred, Ivan makes him question his core values until the young nation snaps under the pressure. While Arthur has no idea about the mental, sexual struggle between Ivan and Alfred, he can sense something is definitely amiss with America's normal mindset.

A/N: This chapter is much longer than the rest. I worked very hard and it took me a long time, so I hope you all enjoy it. Sorry, it's probably not as good as my other chapters. D:

AGAIN! Did not make the title image, it's just one I found on photobucket so I can't credit the artist~

--

Three days.



It was always three days, wasn't it?



Alfred had waited three days and yet nothing. The prickly stubble began to grow like patches of scratchy weeds on his face, and his eyes were bloodshot and dreary. He had continued to come into the briefing room, half-listen to the days news and come home at night to a frosty beer from his empty refrigerator. All the while, the words that dropped from his mouth were cold and unfeeling. Ever since the night, he had felt a callus grow over his soul that detached his usually energetic zest from him. Every day was like a boring sitcom without a laugh track. He watched himself move from location to location and speak unenthusiastically about broken promises to himself. Win this war, he said quietly, We'll preserve the freedom of this great place.



All the while, he would silently watch the phone in hopes of some outside salvation from this nightmare he had created for himself. It had all been because of his weakness this happened at all. If he had only be firmer, if only he hadn't stuck his nose places where it didn't belong... all this doubt within him was beginning to break down his entire philosophy. Even the cheering patriotism of his supporters could not wake his waning spirit. It was the weekend, and he thought, perhaps even terrorists like Ivan took a break for Saturday.



He couldn't shake the feeling of intense abandonment. Even though he had not called England or Canada or France, he still felt like they had wronged him anyhow. None of them were here with him, and though he preferred them not to see him like this, the craving for a family gathering was prominent in the back of his mind. He wanted the warmth his brothers surrounded him with, encompassing him in a safe white circle of love and encouragement. He thought back to all the times he had teased England about his inability to get over his betrayal, yet here he was, staring at a black TV screen in his sleepwear while it was noon-time.



Alfred had fallen asleep last night watching a marathon of horror films, which he found didn't serve to help his mood any. Instead, he burned through about 2 cartons of different flavored ice cream and quite a few brews. While he didn't feel drunk, he woke up with a biting headache that made him want to roll over on his long, beaten-up couch and return to slumber. Why get up in the morning? He wondered hopelessly, what was there to get up for?



At that moment, his doorbell rang a few times, chiming incessantly in his ear.



Feeling quite irritable, instead, he decided to ignore his package and sign for it later.



But that damn mailman was persistent. Finally, he threw his heavy down comforter from him and stopped to the door in quite a crabby mood. He swung it open and glared death upon whoever stood on his door step.



"Just gimmie the damn clipboard and get off my lawn!"



Alfred hissed, his eyes blurry without his glasses. He held out his hand accusingly, jabbing for said clipboard. Instead, once his eyes adjusted, he found himself staring at a very confused England, dressed like he was ready for church with some sort of basket under his arm.



"...Alfred? Are you ill?"



England replied, somewhat befuddled but more so worried about Alfred's degenerate condition. Alfred immediately blushed at his realization, and retracted his arm to his side. He must have looked like a complete nut case, and in addition, he hadn't bathed in almost a week now nor shaved. He probably didn't smell or look his best either. However, England didn't seem to mind this much, instead pushed aside Alfred and entered his slightly-in-disarray bachelor pad. England's eyebrows twitched and knitted at the sight, but for Alfred's good he kept his opinions to himself for the time. He hadn't visited Alfred in months now with all this business with Ivan, but strangely enough, Alfred's weekly telephone calls had all but come to a complete halt and he grew worried for his condition. Honestly, the only time Alfred wasn't babbling like an idiot was when he was physically unable or was clearly trying to hide something from him.



It became undoubtedly obvious which of the two options it was to an adept Arthur Kirkland.



So, as Alfred watched sheepishly from the door area, Arthur made himself right at home in his messy kitchen by opening up his basket and retrieving several items in Tupperware. Knowing already where all the dishes and silverware was, he fixed a place on Alfred's cluttered dining room table and then ushered him into a seat. Alfred quietly followed his mentor's implications to sit and ate whatever slop was set in front of him. His silence and disinterest, even his lack of insults to the texture had Arthur observing him with deep concern. Alfred's eyes lacked the luster of his former self and his normally sharp, clean appearance had become shabby and unkempt.



Once Alfred was done, he simply stared at his empty plate hopelessly, as if he expected it to get up and clean itself. Arthur was somehow annoyed at this sentiment and found it proper to voice his concern.



"What the bloody hell is wrong with you lately? You haven't called and you're eating quietly!"





Instead of responding, Alfred simply lifted his head and stared at him blankly. He looked about a million years older than his usual self. The were clear crows feet at the edge of his eyes and the itchy five o' clock shadow seemed to add to the general middle-aged look he seemed to adopt over the last few days. His hair was tousled carelessly, so carelessly in fact that England felt as if even something as simple as running a hand over it might have fixed it temporarily. But Alfred didn't seem to even have the motivation to do that, his eating habits had slowed considerably, Arthur noticed. He ate like some sort of depressed bovine and it didn't seem to suit him at all. The overall heaviness of his aura was clear to anyone, not just clairvoyants.



Arthur bit his lip slightly and then sighed, crossing his arms, he adopted a more stern look. Perhaps Alfred needed a more stable figure in his life. War was definitely tiring and he admitted to doing a bit more wire taping of his own, able to generally pick up small details without knowing everything there was about this 'Cold War'. Although he insisted upon not giving involved, it didn't mean he didn't want to speak with Alfred whatsoever. He wondered if he had been too harsh last time they spoke about the matter and Alfred was perhaps feeling down about his statements. But he had to stand firm. He had no funds left for another war. It was nothing to be ashamed of. Maybe if Francis' troops were half as skilled as the claimed to be...



Then it hit Arthur. Why did he care if Alfred was upset? Honestly, he had put him through a hundred years of heart break and misery after betraying him. Wasn't this just a taste of his own medicine?



Another look at his face told him this was somehow different from that matter. Arthur couldn't help but feel soft for that expression, despite how weathered he may look right now, he could see the true man underneath easily through all the stubble and smudged, dry ice cream.



Just as Arthur was going to try to break this silence with something more lighthearted, Alfred spoke instead, turning away from him, he stared dead on and frowned intensely.



"I'm sorry. Is that all?"



His speech was somewhat drawled, and he seemed disinterested, almost sarcastically so. Arthur felt his heart twitch angrily at the sentiment, when he had only come to check on him and he received such rude treatment in return. He felt like he might hit some sense into him, suddenly angered by being so blatantly ignored, not thanked, disregarded... but then, came a sniffle. He snapped out of his blind rage for a moment to stare quietly at the man before him, who then proceeded to sob, his tears rolling down his face onto the empty place in front of him. Arthur's face softened considerably as America was somehow reduced to tears by an unknown source.



Alfred bit his lip and grimaced, feeling yet again ashamed of his actions. He was crying now, in front of Arthur. His eyes were blurring up with water and his stomach burbled uncomfortably in embarrassment. Never before had he felt more like a child.



Hero's don't cry, he thought to himself, so what did that make him?



Curling his fingers into tight balls, he looked down at his food-smeared plate and attempted to will his tears away. He felt if he concentrated hard enough on the crumbs that dotted the tableware that he would simply cease crying entirely. But instead, he found his throbbing headache only increasing the pressure on his already sleep-addled brain. His face became hot and flushed red, his warm tears stinging his now raw flesh with saltine. He felt a hiccup rack his ribcage as he attempted to swallow down the need to wail openly. It was already taking this much to keep back the mucus that threatened to drip out of his nose from his intense sobbing.



Just as he felt he had no shred of dignity left, he felt hands encompass his face. Strong, sturdy hands that pulled his face gently from it's position looking at the ground to stare quietly into emerald eyes. The mouth on said face was smiling warmly, using their thumbs to wipe away the shed tears of a broken man. Alfred could only stare up in awe and amazement, though the water bubbling from the corners of his eyes did not stop. Alfred would feel his chest jump with a gasp every now and then, causing his entire body to tremble uncomfortably. He had never felt so upset in his entire life, and he had felt his share of hardships. His heart was all but breaking, and his musings on life seemed all for naught under Ivan's convincing demonstrations.



"Come now, stop blubbering you washed-up ninny. Pick yourself up and go bathe, for goodness sakes."



England murmured sternly, though warmly. His voice sounded somewhat exasperated yet concerned, a complex mix of paternal and deeply worried for the man who sat weeping before him. Never had he seen such weakness within Alfred, and the thought seemed to terrify him a little. He usually thought of Alfred as the anchor that he could always depend on for support, but lately he seemed like such a washed-up old man, even more old and weathered than himself, who had seen many stormy nights at sea on his dashing Mary-Anne.



But now wasn't the time for reminiscing. He wasn't sure what the problem with Alfred is, but whatever it was, it had completely wiped out any sign of hope within him. Maybe this was the time he needed to show Alfred how to live again. He'd gladly mother him in his time of need, no matter how upset with the man he could get.



Alfred then leaned forward slightly, placing his hands over Arthur's own, settling on his cheeks. He slowly removed the hands and held them closely, balling them into fists with his fingers carefully. Arthur felt a blush burn over the bridge of his nose. He felt as if time had slowed down slightly, and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Despite the most likely estranged look on his face, he watched Alfred carefully and read his motions like a book. Arthur's heart was racing, his breathing hitched. Swallowing roughly, he watched as Alfred moved forward, in preparation for a kiss.



It had been the moment England had been waiting for since the revolutionary war. The way Alfred absent-mindedly captured his heart with his naive heroism, his baby blue eyes and his dashing figure was astronomically disproportional to the frustration of never being able to lay hands on him. It was as if the star he wished so brightly upon had granted his one wish, for Alfred to finally realize how dearly important he was to him and for his affections to be returned.



But now...



Alfred moved to place his lips against England's, only for England's hands to throb slightly in his grip. Finally, Arthur turned his head to the side, his face flushed bright red as a tomato. His eyebrows were knitting, and his eyes revealed something he didn't seem to notice before. It was a sorrow, but he couldn't understand why. He knew Arthur had always wanted him, and had many times confessed his love over the years... if not in a drunken rant. But why now, when he felt he needed him most that he turned away and refused to make eye contact with him. Alfred's fragile heart finally shattered from the crack that Russia had left upon it. No longer was he a hero, but rather a sad pathetic excuse for a man who couldn't even properly express himself to the one he admired most.



The rage and regret bubbling inside him was angry and misplaced. He felt the rage well-up inside of him, pouring itself out of his over-flowing heart in the form of hot, burning tears. He sharply drew air between his teeth and ripped his hands away from England, narrowing his eyes to the side. He remembered, all those times they laughed together and how many times he had told England he didn't think of him that way, and how his own arrogance and fear was now crashing down on him. He wanted so badly to smash anything related to Arthur, even if it was childish of him. He was the one who had rejected Arthur so many times, why didn't he even consider Arthur finally refusing to put up with his fear of commitment?



"Please understand. I can't."



"Just leave."



Alfred snapped back, not quite meaning to sound malicious, though he feared the resentment he was now feeling was easily detectable in his voice. Instead of arguing, Arthur found it in his best interest to leave the man to his own devices, before he was asked to explain his behavior. Alfred couldn't know. He wouldn't know. He had carefully wrapped the situation in a dark shroud and shoved it under his pillow for safe-keeping, and here was to hoping no one else who might have caught wind of the situation blabbed to Alfred in this state. It was better to save the conversation for when he was over this slump of his, which England perhaps attributed to the Cold War being such an exhausting measure. Stupid idiot, he told them this was a bad idea.



Regardless of what his intentions were when Arthur came to visit, he found himself leaving on a sour note, if not only to avoid the awkward silence that followed after being asked to leave. He felt horrible leaving him in this condition, but his own selfish desire to preserve his own secret was too pressing for him to act upon his initial whim. Arthur reasoned with himself as he shut the door behind him, that he'd visit another time to check on him. At least the man was fed... right?



Behind the door, Alfred sit sat in silence in his decaying kitchen. As soon as England left, he found the tears seemed to stop immediately. He wondered if the power Arthur wielded over his heart was greater than Ivan's, but instead of reaching a conclusion to that, he dismissed it as a useless train of thought.



Alfred swallowed harshly, gulping down the insecurities he had allowed himself to bear openly, recklessly. His heart of hearts, deeply rooted within his chest had been exposed and broken, sitting now in pieces at the bottom of his nauseated stomach. His belly couldn't digest the rejection.



This war, this taxing war that had taken so much of the fire out of him. Inside himself, he knew he should blame himself for his prideful front, his meddling in other's politics. His burning ache for freedom had caused this, and now Ivan had taken his naive weakness for justice and twisted the blade to face himself. Although not a single shot had been fired between the two, the mental auguish had begun to tax his damaged health from the last war. His economy was not so good after gearing it towards weaponry. Now they had a lot of guns, but nothing to do with them. You couldn't eat guns, and once guns had become a dying business, jobs slowly started to disappear from the lack of need for them. In the ends, all of his weapons had meant nothing. This war had meant nothing. The freedom he so bravely fought for had only hurt himself.



In the end, the person who had ended this war for the allies had now become his enemy. The rumors he whispered only served to further showcase the deep fear within his body, speaking loud and clear about his inability to read the Russian mind. He couldn't predict Ivan, and everyday he feared for what fresh hell awaited him.



He had come to realize that Ivan did not need to be present to torment him so. The mirror showcased a broken individual who was wasting away in paranoia, in hopelessness. The glimmer of his smile had become yellowed by the decreasing motivation to take care of himself. His heart was racing in his chest every moment, and his skin perspired at the very thought of Ivan's presence. Even in fear, he felt himself feel alive with the burning desire to fight valiantly. He wanted to redeem his crushed pride, if not only to himself. Alfred thought, perhaps if he proved his worth to Russia, he could recapture his patriotism.



Even so, the recent rejection had him feeling more hopeless than ever. He was flying solo this time, with nothing but his deep rooted fear of entrapment, of the denial of freedom to fuel his useless and tiring endeavor. This war was his and his alone, not only against Russia, but against the forces within himself.



That night, he took a shower, silently avoiding the mirror, even denying himself the thought of viewing his sorry state. His body weight had decreased, he was sure, but without gaining muscle in return. His clothes were slightly loose and he felt his hair feel coarse, instead of it's usual downy soft. He approached his bed, noting the alarm clock that he had purchased a day or so prior to replace the one he had shattered on his bedroom door.



The room was dark, as it was. He chose not to use the cowboy boot nightlight he had been childishly using to keep the idea's of darkness creeping into his mind. He laid on his back underneath of the sheets, staring quietly at the ceiling and remarking within himself how cold it had been recently. The hairs on his arm were standing up, and yet he didn't make a move to further curl into the warmth of his blankets. Instead, his tired, listless eyes made shapes of the stucco on the ceiling, listening quietly to the thump of his own beating heart.



Soon, he found himself deeply breathing, the muscle in his chest throbbing in his ears. Soon, the room had gone silent except for the drum of his chest and his shallow breath. The relaxation felt akin to meditation, and he drifted off to sleep in silence. Alone with the last shred of hope within him. In his soul, he prepared for battle.



The next morning, he found himself being thrown from his bed by a great boom that shook his entire home. His eyes jolted open just as his face made contact with his wood flooring. He groaned to himself in pain, but didn't have time before another loud sonic bang rattled the foundation. He was thrown against the wall. When the room finally stopped spinning, he crawled onto his knees and shakily brought his hand to his mouth, where he could feel blood dripping from where he had sharply bitten his tongue during the chaos. He felt an dull ache in his midsection, but didn't pay mind to it. When he lifted his head to survey the rest of his room or look out the adjacent window, he was met by a looming figure.



His eyes instantly narrowed. It was soon apparent to him that it had not been an earthquake or a bombing, but rather Russia who had somehow thrown him from his resting place. He was smiling darkly, as usual, as if he had simply paid a visit to an old friend he wished death upon.



"Good morning, Amerika-kun."



"Burn in hell, soviet faggot."



With that slur, Alfred spit at Ivan's feet, which earned a very disgruntled look. Ivan quickly snatched a handful of Alfred's hair and fisted it between his tightly clenched gloves. Alfred hissed in pain, clenching his teeth tightly together. He stared at him with an insanity and blood lust that Ivan was somewhat surprised by, but definitely delighted to see. He returned the look with his own psychotic, sadistic smile that stretched across his rosy cheeks as soon as he realized the implications.



"There is no reason to hate me so, Amerika-kun. I haven't done anything to you, after all. Nothing you didn't agree to, da."



"I will never let you control the world with your regiment of greed."



"What a curious thing to say, da. You are the one who is greedy. I want to share my motherland's love with all those who wish for it, Amerika-kun. Doesn't freedom include choice, Ameirka-kun?"



"Manipulating swine. You just want to control them. The Baltic's. Why don't you let them decide what they want?!"



"Don't speak about things you know nothing about, Amerika-kun."



Ivan's last sentence reeked of danger, his voice lowering from it's usual chipper tone to a much more baritone range. His eyes narrowed and Alfred could have sworn they flashed red with rage at such a statement. Ivan's grip increased on his hair, twisting his scalp painfully. Alfred couldn't help but grind his teeth in pain, grunting uncomfortably. The pain only enraged the American and he decided he didn't want to continue such a fruitless conversation. It was obvious Ivan was a bag of mixed nuts, aiming to keep a firm grasp on the colonies he collected during the war to sustain his own loneliness. Unable to gain companionship through any other than through force, Alfred found himself sympathizing with his feelings but not with how he was handling them. Ivan carried a child's cruelty and mentality. Using kind words to manipulate and fear to keep control of what he gained through his snake's tongue. But he would not fool him this time.



Alfred felt his heart race and he swore he could feel his veins throb with excitement. He jutted out his fist and struck Ivan square in the solar-plexus. Ivan gaped, coughing harshly as air was forced from his lungs unexpectedly. But Alfred did not pause to allow him to catch his breath. Instead, he drew his other hand, clenched into a tight ball, upward and cracked into Ivan's jaw. There was a pop, and the Russian hissed in pain as his tooth drove through his tender top lip. When his head came back down, he was glaring harshly at Alfred, who stood panting before him, watching him intently for his next move.



Ivan for once, looked visibly displeased and worried by the situation. He wasn't expecting Alfred to retaliate. He had assumed he had broken down his confidence enough to prevent a whiplash. But he was proving more of a challenge than he at first appeared. Perhaps his spirit was not quite as naive as he expected it to be. But no matter, it would only be more interesting if he put up more of a fight for his useless rights. What a sickening man, Alfred F. Jones, but he was proving to be a worthy opponent.



Russia than drew his tongue out and lapped up the blood made by the abrasion in his lip, caused by his tooth. He rushed at Alfred then, his massive size doing nothing to deter his speed. Alfred swerved out of the way, though Ivan easily followed his movements and contorted his body to follow Alfred's path. Alfred swung another furious punch at him, and Ivan caught him by the wrist and twisted him forward, using his own momentum to flip him onto the ground and throw his arm around Alfred's neck, using the crook of his bicep to crush all the air flow from his throat. Alfred gagged at first but then, as his face began to darken and blue, wriggled his neck from the crook and brought up his arm to grab the back of Ivan's neck, forcing his head down just enough for him to use his other arm to punch him in the nose. However, Ivan was proving to be more hardy once he became enraged by the furious opposition and instead of releasing Alfred, he gripped Alfred's wrist that was grabbing at the back of his neck and twisted him on his stomach, forcing him onto the ground belly-down. He twisted Alfreds arm behind his back, using his knee to secure him to the floor.



Alfred began to grow more and more anxious as Ivan twisted further and further. Alfred could hear screaming ringing in his ears so loudly, and he wondered briefly where it was coming from and who would be screaming so blood-bloodcurdling at this hour, until he realized the almost inhuman noise was coming from his own mouth, which was hanging open in complete shock. His eyes began to dilate and his body trembled with the pain as his elbow removed itself from his socket, and the adjacent bone fractured agonizingly down the middle, causing his entire body to shake violently from the shock of such an injury. He felt hot, wet tears stream down his face, and his throat grew hoarse and dry from his screaming.



His mind begged for mercy, for relief, but the agony continued onward, unwavering. He felt as if he could vomit from the amount of misery he was in at that very moment. When the pressure on his arm finally stopped, he found himself completely drenched in his own sweat, and his body quivering frantically. He was panting, his entire body feeling exhausted and anxious. He wanted to simply go to sleep to save himself from the sensations wracking his being at that moment. Within himself, he pleaded desperately for strength through this ordeal.



He felt the back of his white shirt be pulled from around the collar, hoisting his aching, dead-weight body from the ground. His arm was not visibly broken because of the nature of the break, so because of it being out of the socket, it simply hung uselessly at his side as he was twisted to face Russia. Ivan grabbed America's face and laid his finger tip against the skin, catching the wetness of his tears on the tip of his glove to suckle on it delightfully afterward, savoring the salt of his tears. Alfred could only narrowly glare in disgust at such an action, but could do nothing but shiver and fight for breath, attempting to block out the physical anguish he was experiencing.



"Like a butterfly with it's wings ripped off, da. The spirit within you burns, but this body betrays you. Your eyes anticipate my death, it's thrilling!"



Ivan chuckled darkly, back to his usual high-pitched boyish voice. It made Alfred all the more nauseated, but he said nothing. Russia's eyebrows thrust upwards and his smile grew ever more at the sight of Alfred's quiet submission. Then sharply yanked Alfred's head downward into his lap and drew his head against his crotch. Alfred felt a wash of disgust wash over him, and shame. His face grew red and yet when he tried to lift his head up, he felt a strong pressure on the back of his head, holding his face into his lap. He was blinded by the fabric, but he could feel a hand shuffling until he could feel a large amount of flesh press hard against his cheek, pushing it inward.



"It's a shame, da. I didn't want to dirty you with this, but I can't help myself. Your face is too much when you're so upset, Amerika-kun."



The words were muffled, yet Alfred could hear them loud and clear within his mind. His heart was throbbing and he felt his pride flinch at the idea. He was supposed to fight harder this time, but he was so tired and he felt so sick. His entire body hurt and he hardly any will left within him. His heart screamed against this, but the reality of gravity on top of his aching frame was beginning to over-rule his inner need for heroism.



During this inner conflict, he felt two fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to open his mouth to breath. He waited as long as he could before he did so, but eventually he did have to gape briefly for fresh air, which was instead met with a hot stream of liquid raining down on his face, splashing his cheeks. He held his breath and clenched his eyes shut, disgusted and horrified by the treatment he was recieving. The smell was putrid, and almost made put him on the verge of losing the lunch England had prepared for him. The pain mixed with the sheer vile rank of the liquid trickling down his face was almost too much to bear on a full stomach. He began to gag to himself, but breathing would mean the substance might get into his lungs and drown him. However, just as he felt he was going to faint from the lack of air, Russia withdrew himself, which allowed Alfred to sputter spastically for oxygen. Then luke-warm liquid began to drip onto the floor, dribbling down his chin, and once he realized what it was he felt incredibly angry. Yet, he could do nothing about it except utilize his sharp tongue. The taste of the urine mixed with the strong order was still quite fresh, and while vile, he only used it as more of a reason to defy.



"You get off on me, you disgusting pig? Enjoy it, because your people will devour you."



Alfred hissed, his voice low and hoarse. Russia laughed, almost a little too joyfully and playfully ruffled America's hair in response. He then zipped himself up and allowed Alfred's head to drop to the floor with a dull thud from his lap as he stood. Alfred listened, once again, as Russia exited his house and he was left on the floor. This time, he smiled, if not a little maniacally. Even if he had been violated, he at least had managed to beat him at his mind game.


 

But now he needed a hospital, a notebook and a pencil. It would be all he needed to end this war.

_{"Nothing
is given to man on earth - struggle is built into the nature of life,
and conflict is possible - the hero is the man who lets no obstacle
prevent him from pursuing the values he has chosen."- Andrew Bernstein}