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Jump	By : ArcadiaEclipse Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 6242 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers. I make no money from my fanfiction.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Warnings: Yaoi (RussiaxAmerica), AU, angst, language, rape, death, hurt/comfort and explicit sexual depictions in this or later chapters. This fanfic is intended for adult readers only.

Sorry it's taking me so long to get stories out. Work and classes are taking up most of my life. Hope you guys like this though.

Thanks to Volkie for translating my Russian for me.

~ * ~ Jump ~ * ~

Chapter One

By Arcadia Eclipse

                Alfred Jones: George Washington High School Class of 1983 President and Prom King was starting to feel a little less than popular. For the last two days his girlfriend had barely spoken to him and even his best friend Arthur was sighing a lot more than usual while attempting to curl up against a wooden crate and grab a few minutes of precious sleep. What he wouldn’t give for a comfortable bed right then, but no…it was all Alfred’s fault that they were constantly sleeping on floors or sheds. Admittedly, Arthur wasn’t the most jovial of all Alfred’s friends, but with the shorter blonde’s head laying upon an uncomfortable wooden box the Brit’s narrowed eyes and glowering expression left no room for speculation as to his mood.

                Arthur was pissed.

                “We could have stayed in a hostel if your boyfriend wasn’t so bloody paranoid, Sarah.”

                “Hey bro, I watch Sci-Fi Network! I know the shit that goes down in hostels, man- blood and guts galore. ..Ow!”

                The American winced and rubbed the back of his head in mock pain though his glare at the slender Asian girl seated beside him on a wooden trunk was lessened by the grin still tugging at his lips. She didn’t seem the least bit amused or apologetic for having smacked him upside the head.

                “That’s fiction, moron. This is real life.”

                “You should be scared, Jun. We don’t got a Black guy with us and the token minority always gets sliced ‘n diced first!”

                “You’re sick, Alfred.”

                “Or the slutty chick.”

                Sarah rolled her eyes though her expression read more obvious disgust with her boyfriend than mere boredom this time around. Why she dated a guy that got boners from watching slasher films she didn’t know, but there weren’t any better-looking single guys in their school at the moment and she absolutely refused to attend Senior Prom by herself like a loser. Maybe she would meet a sensitive football player once college started in the Fall.

               “Stop comparing everything we do to a horror flick! You’re not a director, we are not making a fucking slasher movie, and for Chrissakes stop being such a worrywart. You’re getting to be a real killjoy, Alfred.”

               She clicked her gum at him as if seriously annoyed with her younger boyfriend for the hundredth time that day. Cute though he was, lately she found herself on the verge of dumping him and shacking up instead with the sexy bartender that they had picked up during their brief stint in France nearly a week earlier. His English might be spotty at best, but the scruffy blonde was cute and seemed to be interested from the way he smiled and frequently kissed her hand for no reason.

               The whole point of this trip was to get away from their responsibilities and nagging parents to spend their last spring break before high school graduation backpacking together across Europe by foot or train, even hitchhiking whenever the opportunity presented itself. Money was tight to begin with, but their new friend Francis seemed unusually knowledgeable when it came to illegally hopping trains and sneaking across guarded borders. Sarah and Jun thought it was all just a crazy good time, but lately Alfred was starting to have flashbacks to a few B-rated horror flicks and even his British friend Arthur had stopped cursing or smoking pot with the rest of them and become a much quieter, worried person. Maybe some of Alfred’s paranoia was starting to rub off.

               After a few minutes more of listening to the girls wax on about how ridiculous his concerns were, Alfred purposely shoved the foul-smelling Frenchman in the process of moving from their chosen hiding spot into another freight car two connections down. This was real life, after all, and the five of them were seriously lost and on the verge of starring in their own horror movie as far as Alfred was concerned

               There had to be something, some subtle indication of where they were now. Sarah might not be concerned with where they were going, but ultimately the four of them would have to return to England if they were to catch their flight home on Sunday. For two days they had slept on this train in secret and something told Alfred that they were heading much deeper East than any of them had ever planned on going, not to mention it was getting considerably colder. Could the train have turned North without their knowledge? At least the Northern countries were still their allies. Alfred had heard more than his fair share of horror stories involving travelers that were abducted into one of the Soviet satellite states never to be heard from again. Arthur figured they were brainwashed by the Russians. Alfred wasn’t so sure they were even alive.

               Hugging his thin sweatshirt tighter about his body and thoroughly lamenting not having packed some warmer clothes, Alfred shoved the car door open and peered out into a swirling snowstorm trying in vain to locate a landmark, a road sign or most precious of all some goddamned English. There were railroad markers and occasionally a decrepit sign on its last wooden leg thoroughly mangled by the unforgiving weather, but the characters were foreign to the American even after a week of stumbling through France and Germany knowing not a word of either language. This was most definitely something new as the characters no long made any sense let alone the words that they evidently formed. Being a rather stereotypical American, Alfred had quite his fill of all things foreign and was more than ready to jump the next plane back home and rekindle his love for the finer things in life like a thick burger smothered in real Wisconsin cheddar. Ten minutes of hugging his shivering shoulders and watching snow build up on the railroad tracks was long enough to come to terms with the fact that he had not a clue where the hell they were.

               “Fuck this shit. Francis is gonna get us to an airport even if I have to kick his fugly face in.”

               The mere thought of punching that fruity French bastard gave Alfred a cocky grin as the American teen carefully crept between the swaying joints of each freight car, fighting the snow and blistering wind in the process of jerking open the car door to finally rejoin his friends.

               “Look, you fucking faggot,” he growled while tugging the heavy door shut behind him, “playtime is over! We really need to get the fuck outta…here…”

               His insistent words trailed off as shock set in. The car where his friends had been lounging and chatting a half hour earlier was now silent but for the familiar clacking of the speeding train and the rush of wind through the heavy side panel which now stood open wide to the elements without. Most disturbing of all, however, was the sight of smeared blood glistening on the wooden floorboards like a gristly painting brought to life before his eyes. The source was spotted easily enough- a tall man decorated in military grey dragging the lifeless body of Alfred’s girlfriend across the floor with practiced ease before throwing her from the train into the swirling abyss of snow outside.

               Even with all his paranoia fueled by a hundred or more horror Sci-Fi flicks, nothing could have prepared the teenager for this particular turn of events. Alfred remained frozen in shock for what felt like an eternity, but the large uniformed man turned to regard him now, and as violet eyes locked onto the American’s blue the terrifying stranger’s lips slowly quirked into a smirking smile.

               “Вы русский, товарищ?”[1]

               The rough tongue was unlike anything that Alfred had ever heard before, but although he understood not one word from this stranger’s lips now seemed like a good time to begin backing away slowly towards the door. His mounting fear only seemed to bait the taller man, and with each shaking step backwards that Alfred took the larger blonde moved forward to maintain the tentative distance between them.

                “I think no word of you is answer for no.”

                Even if he hadn’t seen the serrated blade in this man’s palm thoroughly drenched in fresh blood Alfred didn’t need additional incentive to suddenly turn on his heels and yank the door open, stumbling over the slick metal joints into the next car and beyond. Shit, he was going to be killed! This man had murdered his friends and now he was stuck on a train in God-knows-which country with a complete psychopath!

                Fighting back a veritable flood of tears, Alfred pushed his body onwards running from one swaying car to the next frantically seeking someone, anyone that might be able to help him. He could hear the freight car doors open and close only a dozen paces or so behind his fleeing back only serving to confirm that he was indeed being chased by the murdering stranger. The resulting adrenaline rush coupled with fearing for his life proved to be a much more potent drug than anything that the American teen had smoked before in his rebellious youth.

Somehow Alfred managed to stay a few steps ahead of the homicidal stranger at least until the blonde’s foot slipped on a snowy joint connecting two of the jostling freight trains and the American nearly tumbled from his perch completely but for his arms and one leg grappling precariously to the icy metal as the cars swayed and groaned in the mounting snowstorm. Something about barely clinging to life in the wake of certain death overwhelmed the brash teenager all of a sudden, and as the door behind his prone body opened Alfred Jones burst into tears. He was going to die. Thousands of miles from home in a strange land he was going to die and his parents wouldn’t even know which country he was in to seek out his body.

                The teenager wept and stubbornly clung to the freezing metal like a last precious lifeline before his body was suddenly yanked backwards by the collar wringing a yelp from the American as he was bodily thrown onto the floor just inside the fright car. Cowering, nearly blinded by tears, the seventeen-year-old felt like a terrified child again trapped in a nightmare from which he simply could not wake. Nothing made sense anymore, not even the string of blubbering apologies streaming past his lips like a mantra.

                Strong but surprisingly gentle fingers caressed his cheek briefly before the large stranger crouched before him and brushed away one of the many tears on Alfred’s face. It was a futile gesture since a half dozen more quickly took the forgotten tear’s place, but the older man slowly smiled at him as he sat back on his heels before Alfred’s trembling, crumpled frame.

                “You no are like friend of yours. On you…tear is beautiful.”

                Even when the taller blonde removed Alfred’s glasses gently and pocketed them the American barely seemed to notice until his chin was gripped softly by one large hand and tipped upwards so the teenager’s lips could be claimed by the terrifying man who had just slaughtered his closest friends mere moments before. Although he was decidedly heterosexual, the looming threat of death hung over Alfred like a shroud and the American teen never even batted an eye or cursed the offending stranger when his lips were parted by an insistent thumb and the older man’s tongue began invading the warm cavern of his mouth. None of it made any sense to him. Least of all when the larger man slid the knife into his boot and regarded Alfred unarmed with a deceptively warm smile.

                “How do they call you?”

                “H…Huh?”

                “You have name?”

                It was far too casual a conversation to be having with a man that had just murdered four people in cold blood and thrown their bodies from a train, but shock and terror mixed in the American’s veins and had his mouth moving purely on instinct.

                “Alfred. Alfred Jones.”

                “My name Ivan Braginski.”

                “Braginski,” Alfred repeated the strange syllables as his brain whirled trying to place the accent now. “That’s…er…Dutch?”

                “Russian,” Ivan corrected though his smirk broadened adding a touch of amusement to his otherwise intimidating expression. “Welcome to my homeland, comrade. I am of strong desire you will stay for long time.”

                Shit, shit, shit! They must have mistakenly jumped a train heading straight into the Soviet Union! Alfred had seen more than his fair share of horror movies depicting the brainwashing Commies and the tortures that they inflicted on their Western adversaries if ever their victims couldn’t be converted to their backwards way of thinking. Such terrible things in those films- acid tortures, inhuman experiments, removing fingers one by one with bolt cutters all for the sake of sadistic gratification…

                The American hugged his limbs tightly to his body, shoving his freezing fingers into the pits of his underarms protectively but the skittish motion only earned a soft chuckling from his captor’s direction before Ivan tipped his head to the side inquisitively.

                “What is reason you do?” Alfred stared at him confused by the Russian’s broken English, but the older man just mimicked the teenager’s protective hugging of himself with his fingers tucked into his armpits. “Why?”

                “So you can’t cut my fucking fingers off!”

                “…America must be of very strange place.”

                The terror washing over him mere moments before faded slightly as Alfred watched the smiling Soviet still crouching before him and hugging his body in mimic of Alfred’s protective gesture.

                “What makes you think I’m American? I could be German. You don’t even know.”

                “Alfred be not of German.”

                “Well…you’re still way wrong. I’m British. So…so there!”

                Ivan just smirked and slowly dropped his defensive posture to instead crawl towards the teenager like a wolf stalking prey.

                “You be not of Britain either.” Closer and closer he crawled towards Alfred as the train rocked and swayed but Ivan’s balance was impeccable and he never faltered in his approach even as Alfred shakily retreated until his back hit the wooden wall of the fright car and Ivan loomed atop him. “Alfred is loud and rude of talk; confident but weak inside; I see hands soft like never hard work in life. You are American, Alfred.” Ivan lowered his voice to a low whisper but even over the rushing of the train tracks beneath them Alfred could clearly make out each and every word uttered softly in his ear. “That is what make Alfred beautiful.”

                Alfred wasn’t really sure what possessed him to attempt an escape from the murdering Russian, but before Ivan’s lips could find his again and coax another unwilling kiss from the teenager he gave the larger man a great shove and took off running though this time half-blinded by a lack of eyeglasses. He really regretted not having convinced his mother somehow to let him wear contact lenses instead, but she was extremely adamant that he would not be mature enough to care for them properly until her son was at least eighteen years of age. Well, fuck her! It’d be her fault if he slipped on a snowy train joint and fell to his death, but somehow dwelling on this fact did little to alleviate Alfred’s current disposition of mixed anger and fear.

                He didn’t need glasses, however, to see a few moving figures at the far side of the next car. Relief washed over the teenager in a rush, and as he ran to the soldiers and collapsed on the floor at their feet Alfred couldn’t contain the ecstatic tears streaming down his cheeks.

                “Shit, thank God! There’s this CRAZY dude following me! He’s killed my friends and he’s gonna fucking kill me too! Jesus Christ, I need help!” Through all of his babbling the pair of tall strangers just stared at him expressionless even as a heavy palm descended on the American’s shoulder causing Alfred’s blue eyes to widen in terror then slowly turn upwards to regard Ivan Braginski now standing just behind him yet again with a tight-lipped smile.

                “Aмериканский?”[2]

                “No. Латышско.” Ivan’s smile quickly devolved into a smirk directed downwards at the cowering teenager while he boldly caressed one of Alfred’s tear-stained cheeks. The other soldiers watched but didn’t question the intimate gesture. “Я сним стричаюс."[3]

                “Please, he’s a murderer… Can’t you understand me?”

                The soldiers regarded Alfred for a moment but their expressions never changed and the teenager had a growing suspicion that these men didn’t understand a word of English. A thousand miles from home and no one but the murderer wiping away his tears now with a deceptively gentle hand spoke his language. Fuck, he really was all alone with his life in this psychopath’s hands. Alfred knew he couldn’t have written a script like this even if he did achieve his lifelong dream of becoming a director of first-class slasher films.

                Ivan spoke softly to the others for a few moments longer while his large hand stroked the kneeling blonde’s hair affectionately yet with a hint of suppressed malice should Alfred feel the urge to flee from him all over again. This time the American stayed put and after several exchanged words Ivan helped his captive stand and led the trembling boy into another car a few connections down. This one appeared to be smaller and not so much for transporting freight as an ordinary dwelling with a heavily padded sleeping bag in the corner, two or three blankets and even a trunk that appeared to contain clothes and other everyday items. What was most certainly NOT ordinary was the machine gun propped up against the trunk or the very large pair of knives embedded in the wooden wall just above the apparent nest of bedding.

                “I do not want you try that again.” Ivan’s voice was low and no-nonsense as the Russian moved to his bed and removed the knife from his boot, wiping it clean on a cloth atop his trunk before his fist drove it into the wood beside the other blades already residing in the wall. “Take off clothes. We sleep.”

                “It’s really freakin’ cold…”

                It was probably pointless to mention this fact, however, since the Russian appeared to be immune to the nearly-freezing temperatures that permeated this country even in mid-March. Ivan’s fingers never faltered in removing his belt and unbuttoning his jacket to fold the uniform carefully before setting it inside his trunk for safe-keeping. Loathe this man though he did, Alfred’s eyes were inextricably fixed upon the Russian’s body when his captor peeled a worn T-shirt from his powerfully muscled frame revealing a veritable maze of scars that dappled his pale skin in secret. What kind of a life had this soldier led to warrant his flesh being marred so terribly?

                The Soviet could see that Alfred’s eyes were fixed on the dozens of scars littering his body but there was no shame in his expression when Ivan removed his boots and approached the younger man only to wrap his arms around Alfred’s waist possessively and press a soft, searing kiss to the American’s jaw.

                “Take off clothes.”

                “I’m cold.”

                “Warm we will be together, Alfred.”

                Obviously there were far too many potential outcomes of Ivan’s eagerness to get him unclothed. Like the other popular kids back home, Alfred often made fun of the gay students in his high school- called them ‘faggot’ or ‘queer’ just to earn a round of laughs from his friends at a smaller kid’s expense. Ivan, however, was not a small, effeminate teenager, and not a single word of tease or revulsion passed Alfred’s lips as the large soldier set about darkening a patch of skin on Alfred’s throat with his mouth and gentle teeth.

                “Honest, I’m not gay, dude.”

                “I do not care.”

                Well, good thing they cleared that up at least. Alfred half expected the Russian to rip his sweatshirt off and pin him against the wall unwillingly, but instead it was a gentle hand that slipped into the small of his back and guided the smaller blonde to lay upon the bedding while Ivan settled in behind him. It wasn’t so bad really. The American teen had more than his fair share of uncomfortable beds over the years having spent many nights sleeping on floors at his friends’ houses after the teens would watch movies and smoke pot until dawn. Undoubtedly, this situation topped all others as being his most awkward night ever, but Ivan did not try to unclothe or fondle him beyond a single arm draped over the teenager’s hip possessively. Against all odds, after only an hour of lying awake lamenting his decidedly unpleasant fate Alfred was finally lulled into an exhausted slumber by the Russian’s soft breathing and the furnace-like warmth washing off of Ivan’s body in comforting waves.

~ * ~ To Be Continued ~ * ~

[1] “You are Russian, comrade?”

[2] “American?”

[3] “No. Latvian.” … “I am seeing (dating) him.”
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