A/N: So I made this oneshot as a request I got on Tumblr. Decided to post it here because I'm actually quite proud of it :D It's different, I guess, since Russia's the angsty one this time.

Disclaimer: Nope. Nyet. Don't own Hetalia.

There were days when sometimes Russia felt alone in the dark. Whenever he looked back on it, he knew it was silly to feel that way. After all, he had his sisters to comfort him and keep him company along with China; not to mention that he was in a somewhat stable relationship with America. But more often than not – ever since he and America had gotten in a relationship - he just felt like he was missing something; and the worst part was that he didn't know exactly what that something was. This led him to become frustrated, which led him to become angry, which led him to fight with America, which led to harsh words and fallouts, which led him to his trusty friend vodka.

It was only then, when he was intoxicated, that the Slavic nation knew what he was missing. The permanent hole in his heart would be temporarily filled, and he would laugh and cry at the same time. He'd paint the walls with colors – sky blue, yellow, peachy orange, anything colorful or light – and afterwards sit back and admire his work.

And for the time being, Russia was happy.

Finally, in his own little drunken world, he could pretend he was somewhere else. Somewhere that resembled paradise; with lots of sunflowers and stars and America and Ukraine and Belarus and China and maybe…maybe he'd even have more friends. Maybe there wouldn't be any enemies or hateful bosses or General Winter or the goddamn cold that killed so many of his people. Somewhere happy, somewhere warm, somewhere safe.

But then Russia would fall asleep on the cold hard floor and wake up not knowing why his walls were painted with bright colors or why there was such a feeling of longing in his chest. So he'd tear out his hair and scream and leave that room as fast as possible. Sometimes that was when America found him, other times it was after he'd regained his composure and cleaned himself up.

"You've been drinking again, haven't you?" America would always say sadly. "When will you realize that it's becoming a bad habit, Russ?"

And always Russia couldn't meet his boyfriend's eye. He felt too ashamed.

America knew his boyfriend had a problem. Not only was Russia slowly becoming a borderline alcoholic, but he looked lost and acted irritable lately. Vaguely, the American wondered if it was because of their relationship, but quickly dismissed the thought. It couldn't be that since they had already settled their differences. It had to be something else; and he was so going to find out what it was.

Walking up to Russia's front door with a basket in hand, he rang the doorbell. Scuffling was heard before Russia answered it, a smile on his face. "Priv –" He began, only to be cut off when America kissed his cheek.

"C'mon, dude. Get out of that house and let's go." The American said, pulling the other outside.

The Slavic nation frowned. "Wait, Amerika! I don't have my shoes on!"

"Oh. Heh. Sorry about that, bud. Go get your shoes," America sheepishly apologized while letting the other go.

Russia ran back inside and reappeared a moment later, now wearing his trench coat and boots. Falling into step with America, he asked, "Where are we going?"

The glasses-wearing nation whistled and shook his head. "Can't tell ya," he finally answered.

"Why not?"

"It's a secret."

"What?"

"Yup."

Neither of the two said anything for a while, walking side by side comfortably. They didn't dare hold hands for fear that they'd be caught; after all, they were still in public. People passed by them, heading further into the city while the two nations headed out. America wondered how he was going to go about asking Russia what was wrong. Should he do it right away? Or wait until the end? Russia himself didn't seem comfortable talking about it…

Blonde eyes glanced up at the sky. It was clear and tinged with orange from the sunset. In a few hours the meteor shower would start, and they still had to climb the small hill. "Hey, Russia?" America asked.

"Da?" Russia replied.

"How great are you with climbing?"

Russia looked at America and raised an eyebrow. "Climbing?" He echoed.

"Yeah, dude. Or hiking."

"Are we going to hike?"

"Maybe…?"

The Slavic nation sighed and shook his head. "Amerika," he began, "is it going to be uphill in the dark?"

The American nodded enthusiastically. "To see the meteor shower," he explained.

For a while the other didn't say anything. The quiet between them stretched for a long time – too long, in America's opinion. So he stole a glance at his boyfriend; and when he did, he stopped smiling. Under the streetlights, Russia had a troubled expression on his face and looked upset over something. "Hey," America began gently. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Russia responded quickly.

"Don't bullshit me. I know something's up; so spill."

But taller nation didn't say anything.

I guess now's a good time as any, America decided. "Look, Vanya, what's going on? Do you not want to go? We can always turn back."

"Nyet! It's not that," Russia said. "I would like to go…"

"…but you don't at the same time, right?"

Russia nodded. "Izvinite."

"No man, don't apologize. It's okay, I understand." America stopped walking, making Russia pause as well. "It's my fault too, I should've asked before we went.

"But look, I'm worried about you. Lately it seems like something's been bugging you and, like, you go get wasted to cope. First off, not only is that unhealthy, but you're turning into a borderline alcoholic. Second off, I kinda feel left out –"

"Then leave." Russia suggested weakly.

"Why would I leave? I'm your boyfriend, Russia. I want to help you. But –"

"But you can't do that because I'm a monster."

"What? No! You aren't a monster. Sure, you were a pain in the ass during the Cold War what with you being a commie and all. Then you became a hot mess after you lost the USSR – but that doesn't make you a monster. We all make mistakes, man. Some are just bigger and more unforgivable than others." America stopped his lecture when he saw his boyfriend turn his head away and start to walk away. Oh shit, I fucked up. The American thought. "Russia!" He called, running to catch up. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean it like that!"

But Russia kept walking. Unbeknownst to America, there were tears in his eyes as he tried his hardest not to cry. So was this "date" thing just a stage to ask what was wrong? The violet-eyed nation burrowed his head in his scarf, walking faster. His eyes burned and his throat felt tight. This was meaningless self-pity, he knew, but for some strange reason he couldn't shake himself out of it.

Yeah, he had problems that only vodka could cure; but there was nothing wrong with that, surely? Borderline alcoholic? Russia didn't think so. He had seen alcoholics firsthand, seen their life patterns, and knew that wasn't him. He didn't drink 24/7 or drink dozens of bottles away. It wasn't his fault that he felt devoid of something until he drank.

Yet how could he explain all this to America? How could he explain that feeling of missing something that was never there, but not knowing what it was he was missing? How could he explain that feeling of being alone in the dark even when he knew he clearly wasn't? America would never understand. Heck, Russia didn't even understand it himself!

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the he wondered if talking to the other nation would help. Perhaps it would alleviate the frustration and piece together all those pieces he collected. Bright walls, cold floors, vodka, emptiness, frustration, and now something with stars. When America had said they were going to watch stars fall out of the sky, something had triggered. It wasn't a negative feeling, yet not positive either. It just…was. It just was another unexplainable feeling.

Russia felt as if he'd explode like a supernova. What was it that he was missing?!

A hand grabbed his wrist, pulling him out of his reverie. The tall nation blinked once in surprise and turned around to see America watching him with worried eyes. "Dude," America breathed, "you walk fast."

If he weren't so preoccupied, Russia would've smiled. As it were, he didn't and instead asked in disbelief, "You followed me?"

"Uh yeah. You looked upset, so –"

"So you decided to play hero."

"What?!"

The Slavic nation didn't know what was wrong with him. Everything he said screamed contradiction to what he was feeling. Because in all honesty, he felt touched that the North American nation had followed him. Why couldn't he just say that? What was wrong with him? "I'm sorry," he apologized now, willing his icy tone to disappear.

"Whatever. I just wanted to try and talk to help you, but whatever. I'm done chasing. If you –"

"I'm sorry, Alfred. Please do not go."

America narrowed his eyes.

Russia felt something crack open inside him. America didn't believe him. And suddenly everything came tumbling out whether he liked it or not because he needed America to understand – to try to understand – that feeling that plagued him day in and day out. He needed America to understand that it was his fault and not the other way around; that America had done nothing wrong. He needed America to believe him.

When he was done, his violet eyes frantically searched blue ones to see some form of recognition. "Please," he breathed, "please don't leave me."

America's eyes softened and he tucked a lock of beige hair behind Russia's ear. "Oh Russia," he whispered. Then he gave him a hug.

The hug felt different from all the other hugs. The hug he was receiving now felt full of that unexplainable emotion, and Russia cherished it. When America pulled away, he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, wanting to commit it to memory.

"Do you get it now?" America prodded gently.

"The feeling…it is there…I don't know what it is though," Russia answered sadly.

"No name for it?"

"Nyet."

"Love."

Russia opened his eyes and looked into America's. "Love?" He echoed.

"Love," America confirmed, pressing his lips to his boyfriend's.

And it was in that moment where Russia no longer felt in the dark. It was then that the void was filled and he finally knew what it was that he was missing. Only he had never really been missing it; it was more of the word, really. Love. Such a funny little word with unexplainable emotion behind it.

Russia found that he rather liked it.