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Downfall	By : Darbracken Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1478 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia but I wish I did. I don't own America, England or Russia. I have not and will not make any profit from this fic.

Chapter List
- 1-Downfall
- 1
Alright, so this is a monster of a drabble! The Sunday before last my better half proposed I write a Hetalia drabble (I am pretty obsessed with Hetalia so this has been a long time coming.) The challenge was Russia x America, in the snow and the keyword downfall. It’s taken over the usual week to do the first part of this because I kept stopping and starting. I promise there will be a second chapter where I actually get Russia and America together. I absolutely love feedback and comments. Also though Kyo has proof read this form me I’m sure there are still probably loads of glaring errors so I apologise. If there are any major historical errors please let me know, I researched a lot and I’ve discussed a few of the inaccuracies and why I’ve put them into the fic in the history notes at the bottom. If you like this fic you may be pleased to know my challenge this week is another Hetalia drabble. Without further ado here’s the first part:

--

Bright sapphire eyes watched him as the American bounced excitedly, unable to keep still. Lifting his tea cup Arthur masked a sigh, for the seventh time that day wondering why he’d agreed at all to listen to the overzealous man. Alfred was crazy. Ever since Alfred’s boss had started giving the man coffee and hero movies, despite his own boss’s repeated requests that he did not, things had become strained between him and his former colony. To make matters worse he was living in Germany’s house with Russia on one side and America on the other side of his room. At least France wasn’t a direct neighbour but living in such close proximity to his fellow allies was starting to feel claustrophobic.

“Arthur, your idea is so cool! I just know Russia is planning to do something to you guys and I’m so going to be the hero! What we need to do is tie him up and put him in a sack and then put him on some railway lines so he thinks a train is going to come and then make him agree with everything we say and do!” Fingertips pressed into emerald eyes, trying to pretend he had not heard the last few statements, though that was a little hard when Alfred was on his feet saluting the stars and stripes. In fact when had his bed sheets become covered in the ludicrous red, white and blue?

“We’ll call it… operation unthinkable! The plan to impose upon Russia the will of me and you!”

“The only thing that is unthinkable is that you think that this plan would do anything other than get us killed. Good grief man, Russia can even survive Busby’s chair and the idea of tying him up for –any- reason gives me cold chills.” Alfred cocked his head, disappointment filtering across his features as he made his way back over to the older nation. “But Arthur you tie me up al-.“ Cheeks flushed scarlet as bushy eyebrows furrowed. “That’s different you fool! And stop saying it out loud; you’re giving Canada an affection complex!” With a look of confusion, as he plonked by Arthur, all the American could muster was: “who?”

--

Hymns roused through the streets, thousands of voices joined together in harmony. The slow procession moved forwards towards the Winter Palace, one step at a time taking them closer to where he was waiting. Shaking hands grasped the shaft of the rifle, feeling the sting of tears forming upon pale lashes. Why did it have to always be this way? These people had no weapons, they had done nothing wrong. Yet he was to kill them. All they wanted was some food to fill their starving families, better working conditions and the end to the conflict with Japan. So why? Why did his boss want these people dead?

Vision blurred, large flakes merging into a formless whiteness as he could no longer focus on the distant figures. A wet sniff was buried into his scarf before he seized the nearby bottle of vodka, taking swift gulps of the fluid that seared him to the core. The pain cleansed him, anchored him to his body even if he wished he could be millions of miles away. As thoughts became hazy the grasp on his weapon became more firm, the clear duty that had been placed on his shoulders by the Tsar burning his soul every bit as viciously as the vodka had his throat.

There were none who stood beside him, none that would offer their hand in friendship or aid. He was alone. Often, longingly, he had watched America and England, the way they interacted as though different halves of the same whole. Even though they clashed the affection they had for one another shone passed their differences, the love they had for one another. When their eyes met there was an attraction, an understanding. All that reflected in the eyes of his companions was fear or loathing. Russia had grown used to it, he had grown strong but that did not stop the yearning. And now he was here, waiting to slaughter innocent people. Perhaps he was a monster. Perhaps they saw the darkness within him.

Droplets traced down flushed cheeks, feeling the warm curl of alcohol ignite in his stomach as the nervous Lithuania approached. Throwing open the windows as the first of the protesters came into range he let the cold air flow around his countenance, freezing the crystalline tears upon his strong jawline. Eventually he steeled himself and lofted the rifle, offering a glance back to his fellow nation, a tiny smile fluttering across his lips as he felt the madness cracking his fragile mind.

“Hey, Lithuania. We don’t want children who can’t play nice, right?”

The first bullet buried deep into a boy’s chest, perhaps no more than sixteen, petals of crimson flowering through his shirt as he crumpled backwards. Screams punctured the air as several more shots penetrated the crowd, felling them at random. Chaos descended, destroying the binds of humanity that tied the workers together as they clawed at each other in blind panic, trying to escape the unseen gunman. Some whom were not shot were dragged down by the swirling mass of bodies, trampled beneath the tide of feet and crushed to death.

As the shots rang out a soft bubble of laughter roused, engulfing the Russian’s throat as the pitch rose feverishly. They would all die! Look how easily they wilted under his power! Lithuania, deeply disturbed, backed away swiftly until his spine was pressed to the wall, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and Ivan. Crazed amethyst eyes danced as his aim became less deadly, spraying the fleeing crowds with hot lead. Yet tears had resumed, dripping rhythmically into the fabric of his scarf, even as he laughed. Hundreds had died that wintery Sunday in January if not thousands. Their blood stained his hands.

--

Alfred huffed, wringing the letter through his hands as he tried to control the irritation and impotence he was feeling. He was the hero! The world only need look to him to see freedom, democracy and justice in all its glory. All they needed to do was follow him! Then why was it so hard? Why was it, at every turn, the shadow of that bastard Russia was blocking him? Banging his fist into his desk he threw the letter onto its surface. “We need to build a big wall and make sure he can’t get out!” Fuming he clenched his hands then uncoiled them over and over again as though by doing so he could throttle the life from the overbearing phantom that haunted his every waking second. Eventually when he had calmed a little he sunk into his chair and resumed reading the letter from Arthur.

“Dear Alfred,

I know I have told you this many times before but in this instance, if no other, please listen to me! We must be prudent! We must be careful! I know you’re upset about the situation at Korea’s house but if we overly involve ourselves we might end up going to war with China. Do you want that Alfred? You remember what war is like don’t you? People get hurt, people die.”

People end up crying on the battlefield, seeming so small. Even Alfred had to swallow as he saw the slight tremble in the handwriting. That war, like no others in his past, was something he could not forget, no matter how much he tried to lock the memories in his storage shed. It seemed that Arthur could not forget it either, though the next words returned to his bold lettering style.

“Please Alfred, I don’t want to see you hurt, I don’t want to be hurt anymore either. Let us try to be diplomatic. You can’t always be the hero. ~~But you can always be my...~~

Your eternal friend.

Arthur.”

For the second time that day he screwed up the letter, feeling slight hostility towards the older nation. He was a hero! He was the hero! No boogie man was going to shackle the free world, Alfred wouldn’t stand for it. Even if he had to drag the Britain kicking and screaming he would end Russia’s reign of terror with him by his side. It was a matter of principle. It was a matter of pride. If movies taught him anything, good always triumphed over evil.

--

Footsteps echo from above; the mute lighting masking Russia’s presence as humans approach. Hatred seethes within him, burning away every shred of sanity he may once have possessed. It is all their fault, every blow he has suffered, every night he has fallen asleep starving and frozen. Fingers coil around his gun, the hardness reassuring. It is difficult to be silent, he wants to scream and lash out with his full force but then they would know he was there. The urge to crush them is palpable so he swallows and thinks of the many nights he has licked at his wounds as the ice tried to encase his body.

Russia is angry. So very angry. Finally they come into view, filling down the staircase into the basement where Russia patiently waits. Diamonds glisten and dance, they smile at one another as they think they are being given a passage to safety. No one suspects that Russia is there, waiting. But Russia is there and he is waiting. Horror encases the Tsar’s face as he finally sees Russia. It is plain, he knows why Russia is here, even if he had thought that he had managed to escape the vengeful nation, pacify it even.

The first shot smashes into the Tsar’s chest but it does not kill him. Hands reach towards the gleaming amethyst eyes of what can only seem like a devil summoned up from the gates of Hell. “You know not what you do…” But Russia knows and coldly he thinks of the boy who was barely a man, whom this man declared unworthy of life. A second bullet follows and then a third. It does not satiate his rage, even as his chest swells with blood and he sinks to the floor Russia keeps on firing remorselessly, far beyond the end of the man’s human existence.

Blood is splattered across his face; it’s not the first time so as he reloads he takes a moment to wipe some of the hot fluid away. Conveying it to his lips he sucks fingertips clean, musing silently that the blood of royalty tastes no different to anyone else’s. Russia is right, all humans are the same, they should all be treated the same. It is only a matter of ridding his memory of this wasteful person and then he can pretend Tsars, royalty and that Sunday never happened. Russia wishes it never happened.

The women are screaming, the noise is jarring and so he turns to them, pulling back the trigger time after time. Perhaps it is fortunate for him that diamonds protect their frail human bodies, he can become more intimate. They can feel his hot breath wash over them as he strips their lives away like the lowly beings they are. Pulling out a knife he stabs them, the physicality of it making him shiver in delight. They gasp and try to crawl away; the process is long and cruel. Russia enjoys it. Even after several attempts he cannot completely overcome their protective clothing so he picks up his gun again.

A bullet lodges in their brains, quietening the painful pleas and gasps. But look! Children are still alive. This is unacceptable to Russia; they must all die for this to be worthwhile. Seizing the two bloodied bodies he pulls them outside, crying and clinging to one another. They implore him, beg him even. Didn’t Russia always love them? Were they not all friends? Russia silences them coldly with more bullets to the chest. Their petitions are worthless words, they cannot control him anymore. And so he burns them, watching the flames of his hell consume their mortal bodies slowly until there is something that only mildly resembles human remains.

Russia feels much better. He drinks a bottle of vodka and congratulates himself, ignoring the blood and gore smeared all over his uniform.

--

Arthur’s hands were busy as the over-exuberant American burst through his door without knocking. It was something he was used to and for once it seemed that the Brit wasn’t going to even grumble about it. It took a few minutes for Alfred to click but when the older nation failed to berate him for entering uninvited he knew something had to be wrong, terribly wrong. England was smiling. “Ok man, that’s pretty creepy. What are you doing?” England never smiled like that unless he was doing something despicable. Instinctively Alfred shielded his vital regions and determinedly went to peer over Arthur’s shoulder.

“Cats?” The disturbing chuckle that filled the room chilled Alfred, never having known that England was fond of cats, though one did permanently live at his boss’s home. The Brit however was packing the cats carefully into boxes. Creepy, it was all very creepy. “Dude are you sending those to Greece, because that guy totally digs cats? I never knew you and Greece were close?” Which reminded him, he was on super important business here and he didn’t have time to play with the felines, no matter how cute they were.

“Hey England I thought you hated France. Like you totally said ‘whatever, I hate his frog face.’ So you’d never get intimate with him right?” Arthur paused then, Alfred’s words finally seeming to register to him, though they usually were nothing more than an incoherent babble. Bushy brows furrowed as Alfred started to put some more of the cats into waiting boxes. “Why would I ever get involved with France?”

“And Germany too... you said ‘I hate that potato eating croute! I hope he falls down a well.’ You even looked a little cool at that time England.” Alfred nervously rang his hands, not liking the news from Europe, not liking it one bit. It might be alright for the Europeans to share a shop to do their groceries but England would always want to buy things at his shop, right? Right? Of course England would! They were pals weren’t they? And England seemed not to have as much aversion to his food as some of the other nations.

“Alfred you’re not even making any sense and no I’m not sending these cats to Greece, I’m sending them to Australia.” Gloved hands seized the elder’s shoulders, shaking him a little as though he could convey the frantic sensation he felt with the thought that he might lose England to –them-. Of course they were mostly on friendly terms with him as he was financing the rebuilding of their homes but no matter what America did he would never be one of them. They wouldn’t even let him join their song contest. Alfred had sulked about that for a long time and then declared any music other than his own had to thoroughly suck.

A delicate sigh lifted before he rubbed the bridge of his nose, noticing the look of insecurity on his former colony’s face. “Look France asked me to marry him and I turned him down. And the thought of me and Germany hooking up is even creepier. Look Alfred what brought this on? You know you and I will always have a speci… cl-close relationship.” As Arthur flushed Alfred pulled him tightly into his chest, utterly relieved that England didn’t seem overly eager to abandon him and join the European Union. After all everyone in Europe hated England more than they hated America pushing his way into their business… and that was saying something.

“You’re awesome England!” Arthur was partially blinded by the brilliant smile the American gave him, even the tips of his ears scarlet by this point. “So why are you sending Australia cats again?” The creepy smile returned to the Brit’s face as he started shipping the boxes out. “After what he did to my cricketers I think it’s only fitting…” America would never understand England, sometimes it seemed he was a little lonely and then he went and did things that would make him even more isolated from the rest of the world.

Seized by a sudden thought he leant down, ignoring the feeble attempts Arthur made to get away. They always seemed to say ‘come closer, hold tighter’ rather than ‘get off’. “Hey England, do you want to… sign a treaty?” Arthur ceased scrabbling against Alfred’s chest and looked up, suspicious but curious all at once. “What sort of treaty?” The darkness permeating the bright sapphire eyes that peered down at him made him shiver reflexively. “A treaty just between you Arthur and me Alfred.” Shit. This was dangerous, when America got that kind of look he often ended up having to sit on ice for days. “We-well Alfred, I don’t know if that would be wise…”

Before he knew it Arthur was being swept along by the ‘human’ tide that tugged him relentlessly towards his office. “You can even dress up as that cool hero that I made. What’s his name again? James Bond?” Arthur snorted indignantly and opened his mouth to roundly criticise America for attempting to claim his work when he found a hot tongue invading his mouth. “Mmmppphhh Alfred!” Lips parted, damp with saliva, the flush resuming across pale cheeks.

“No wait! I’ll be the hero and you can be the villain… like his nemesis… Moriarty or something. The English make the best villains after all!” Digits clenched and unclenched in fury as the American obliviously pulled him forwards and locked the office door behind them. Arthur was unsure whether he was angrier that America thought he made a good villain, the fact that he was being molested against his will… or perhaps worst of all that he thought Moriarty was the arch nemesis of James Bond. “That’s Sherlo…” Before Arthur could complain further his protests were sealed by hot lips and the trace of long fingertips over Norfolk.

--

Blood seeped through black leather, droplets smeared across pale features as lips curled in a feral manner. It was only a matter of time before all were crushed under his might. Before they all had no choice but to acknowledge him. Before all became one with him. Kicking over the mutilated corpse of Czechoslovakia’s boss Russia lowered into his seat, setting down the iron pipe which had smashed into the skull of the fallen leader time after time. Hot fluid burnt a satisfying path down his throat, warming the sick roiling within his stomach as he grimaced.

“Russia did not want to hurt da? America forced this. Russia liked very much but America made him do this to show America that he cannot subjugate Russia.” Gloved fingers curled under what might have been a jawbone, lifting the bloodied stump of the man’s head, looking into where eyes might once have existed. “Don’t worry, now you are one with Russia, Russia will protect you.” Leaning forwards lips pressed into the bloodied gore before his head tilted back, licking the fluid away as he dropped the corpse back to the floor.

“Why do I have to do? Why does everyone hate Russia? Russia just wants everyone to be same, everyone happy.” Words crackled with grief and fury, another wave of nausea gripping him as memories from –that day- swarmed back into the forefront of his mind. “No! Russia is not like! Russia is nice! Why all hate?!” Violently the vodka bottle was flung to the floor, shattering into thousands of pieces and littering the various still figures. Insanity danced within violet orbs as a cruel smile enveloped twisted features, lighting a match and dropping it into the alcohol. “Russia will make them all see!” As flames consumed the macabre scene the man left, dragging behind him the terrified Czechoslovakia, swathed in the bloodied folds of the communist flag.

--

Quiet whimpers filled the room, calloused fingertips roving over warm cheeks as Arthur touched Alfred tentatively. Alfred had discovered the exact amount of alcohol it required to get England to do as he pleased. Too much and the man disintegrated into a sobbing mess, bemoaning the past. Too little and he remained stiff, vigilant and unwilling to engage whole hearted… but just enough and… “Alfred.” The plaintive sound of his name on the other’s lips sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine.

England was never wanton, he was always the perfect gentleman but no man was an island, not even one as strong as he was. Alfred did something to Arthur that he chose never to examine, he changed him, moulded him into a man who could engage in this mostly compliant exchange. Arthur understood, ever since he had sunk onto his knees on that battlefield he could never stand before America again. So he bided his time and grasped at every scrap of affection Alfred offered, even if in the past he would have been the one to push America down in this situation. Now he parted thighs accommodatingly.

Fingertips pressed to soft lips demanding supplication which was duly received, a hot tongue swirling around the digits. Arthur looked flustered, shy almost and Alfred had to wonder how he had looked when the world was at his feet. Nothing like this, he imagined. Arthur’s fondness was something he had come to rely upon, especially when it came to dealing with Europe. Often the Brit could crowbar open a door that would slam closed in his face and the intimate exchanges they frequently partook of took the edge off his isolation. They meant –something- but Alfred was never quite sure what.

“Get on with it you git!” Arthur was flushed as hips rose to rock the delicate little pucker against saliva coated fingers, drawing the American from his reverie. If Arthur knew what he was planning to do the Brit would try to chain him up in his creepy basement, that or prevent him from leaving the country. So he plied him with a sweet smile and pushed a digit in, earning a dull hiss. In truth he was scared, the magnitude of it made him reconsider for the hundredth time as he felt the hot muscle contract around him. It would be so much easier if he could just stay with Arthur and explore every room of his house as he did as a child.

A second digit splayed the taut passage, a hum of discomfort stoically swallowed in Arthur’s throat. With amusement Alfred leant down and kissed that ‘stiff upper lip’, taking his time to gently prepare the other man for invasion. Blonde strands were thrown back as Arthur arched from the covers erotically, sending a tingle of excitement dancing down the younger’s spine. England was always lecturing him about his ‘green and pleasant’ land but it was the pale, soft flesh of the man’s body that beckoned him, a hot tongue tracing his collarbone.

Teeth grazed perspiration from the Brit’s throat to distract him as a third finger wormed within. “Damn… you’re tight.” Alfred’s voice was husky with arousal as he imagined hot flesh greedily clutching to him. Unable to be patient any longer fingers retracted, kissing Arthur almost violently as he pulled him into his lap. The prominent flesh sunk between lean thighs as languidly hips were rolled, rubbing erections together. Alfred growled in the pit of his throat, pleased with the lack of inhibitions his occasional lover was showing. It would be something to remember him by.

Leaning forwards Arthur positioned himself against the burgeoning manhood, feeling the faint throbs of encouragement that twitched the shaft below. Determined he eased down, his face contorting as he eagerly tried to impale himself. It wasn’t often that Alfred allowed him to set the pace and he wanted to show his appreciation for the opportunity. On Alfred’s part the sight of the sweat soaked Brit taking him in so openly, wanting to be with him so earnestly was secretly making him a little emotional. No other embraced him so fully, strong arms wrapping around his shoulders as he felt thighs finally rest on his lap.

Arthur leant in and kissed him, body heaving as it struggled to adjust to the intrusion and the heat of desire. Tongues flickered together as Alfred skimmed fingertips along the damp flesh of the other’s back, digging nails in just lightly to leave clear marks. It wasn’t as though he desired to own him; it was just that he needed England to be his ally even when the rest of Europe turned their backs on him. Finally hips began to rock, grinding bodies together, a mutual moan teasing between their mouths.

Tentative lunges soon became sure, sinking firmly into his lap thrust after thrust in swift success, a twist of arousal starting to knot in his stomach. Droplets of sticky fluid dripped onto his palm as he wrapped digits around Arthur’s manhood, giving it a firm stroke. “Je pense que tu es belle.” Soft words where whispered into blonde strands by the Englishman’s ear, despite poor pronunciation it earned the desired response.

Muscles tightened reflexively around the throbbing shaft buried within that pert rump. “Don’t speak bloody Fren... Oh God, right there Alfred, I’m going to…” Alfred wasn’t sure whether his turn of phrase made Arthur really angry or really aroused but every time he dared to use it the Brit tensed exquisitely around him. It was enough to tip him over the edge, heat flooding the taut passage as a low groan ripped from his throat. England wasn’t far behind, he never was, cheeks a delightful hue as he spilled his essence between their abdomens.

Bodies rocked gently together for a little while longer before Alfred tilted forwards and spilled the tired blonde back onto the bed. Gentle kisses peppered his collarbone, the taste of sweat as potent as the fragrance of sex in the air. Arthur fidgeted a little under his tender ministrations but he allowed them, very indulgent when the mood took him. Of course he didn’t know that Alfred was taking the first plane in the morning to Siberia and it wasn’t something Alfred wished to divulge.

Instead fingers were run through sandy strands, looking down at his former colony. “Alfred I lo…” Surging forwards lips were pressed together, muffling the words he least wanted to hear at that moment, no matter how much the elder meant them. Silenced Arthur found he could not muster the courage to reiterate them and so he fell asleep securely wrapped up in the American’s arms. Alfred in contrast didn’t sleep at all and instead spent the night watching the peaceful face of the man who he cherished above most others.

--

Historical notes: There are some historical inaccuracies in this but I tried to keep it as close to actual world history as I could. Russia never did intervene in the Czech coup d’état, in fact this was done by political pressure and the threat of violence, not the actual murder of the government at the time. Of course it was political murder in the name of communism so I’ve used a bit of artistic licence here.

America and Russia never actually physically came to blows during the cold war as they do in this story. This was basically done because under the drabble challenge it was pretty much expected this was going to turn into evil Russia x America porn. (Yay for America x Russia porn!)

Operation unthinkable did actually exist. It was both conceived and dismissed by England and the basic idea was to force the will of America and England onto Russia. Alfred just got involved because it amused me. (How they thought they’d be able to force their will on Russia in the first place is beyond me. XD)

The scenes of Bloody Sunday and the death of the Tsar were made as accurate as I could within Hetalia-verse; I would suggest researching them both if you need further details. Again Russia didn’t actually order the execution of the Tsar, allegedly he was brought before a firing squad comprised of Czechs and Slovaks. For the sake of this drabble though it seemed fitting that Russia would kill them in the name of revenge and communism.

The reaction of America to England joining the European common market was drawn from a newspaper article I found and my own interpretation of what Alfred might have thought at the time. Also I wanted some fluff and humour to balance out the darkness of Russia’s history.

Sending Australia cats – According to Australia a lot of their native wildlife has been hunted to the point of extinction by the cats that were brought to their lands and subsequently escaped. I thought it would be amusing for England to send Australia lots of cats to piss him off because England and Australia have a very jocular relationship (in my opinion). Australia’s cricketers purposely bowled at England’s cricketers bodies so they’d hurt them, it was widely called the ‘bodyline series’. England was not amused. Australia found it hilarious.

Norfolk is England’s ‘ass’, or at least the large bulge to the south east of the country.

“Je pense que tu es belle.” – I think you are beautiful.
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Downfall