WARNING: Rated M for cursing, yaoi A.K.A. boyxboy, sexual innuendos, noncon (not in this chapter), illegal use of drugs, and overall just not-niceness. Please read at your own risk. If you think you can't handle any of the above topics, you are always welcome to hit the back button. Flames are not tolerated here, but concrits and nice reviews are~ Also, I do not own Hetalia or any of its characters.

I am not in any way trying to offend anyone, especially any of you Russians out there reading this story! The characters' actions don't in any way reflect my true feelings toward their countries in real life. And honestly? I've always wished I could go visit Moscow. IT LOOKS SO COOL, DUDE! AND RUSSIAN ACCENTS ARE THE TOTAL SHIZ! (Seriously though. My American accent is so boring...)

I should probably tell you that this story takes place somewhere during the late 1960's. Ish. Just know that we are in the midst of the Cold War, and you'll be A-okay.

Enjoy!~

To Strangle a Heart, part 1

x

"Shut up, you narcissistic git!"

"I was only trying to help! You should be kissing my magnifique feet for even bothering to assist you."

"Well, we failed anyways! And I will do nothing of the sort!"

Across the table a blond-haired, blue-eyed male sprang to his feet, excited by this sudden change of events. A world conference was currently taking place in London, and just seconds ago Alfred F. Jones had been bored out of his mind. England was discussing some new trade policy, and everyone had been taking notes—well, America was really just doodling on the table, but that wasn't the point—when France had suddenly stood up, accusing England of being a "Trojan Whore", or something to that effect.

That had caught America's attention. Huh? Condoms and prostitutes? He and the other countries watched as France and England bickered back and forth, somehow managing to get onto the topic of a Spez—or was it Swez?-canal*. This brought forth more fighting.

Anyways, now the two were at each other's throats, which as usual sparked insanity in the conference room. Spain and China were trying to break the two apart while Japan just stood off to the side, not sure if he should interfere; Italy was screaming nonsense while Romano struggled to cover his mouth; the Nordics were betting on who would be the first to get a bloody nose; Greece was still sleeping; Russia just calmly sat at the table, a small smile gracing his seemingly innocent face;

And, as usual, America was laughing his ass off. Now this was fun! So much better than doodling or trying to pay attention to that boring meeting. "HAHAHA! You guys are killin' me!" he exclaimed.

At the other end of the table, a very tall, irritated blond man stood up and angrily slammed his hands onto the table. "EVERYBODY SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP! I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS NONSENSE!"

The room got quiet in an instant. Everyone standing up sulked back to their seats, avoiding eye contact with the furious Germany.

No one messed with Germany. Even after WWII had ended and his country was in bad shape, Ludwig was still an intimidating man whom not many would stand up to. He even still held control over the conferences—that is, as much control as one could have with such a chaotic group.

"Now," he continued once everyone was sitting, "I think we've had enough fighting for today. Everyone will go back to their hotels, and then we will meet again in a week. I think we all need to take a few days to clear our heads. England and France," he barked sharply, "You two need to sort things out. I will not tolerate these antics again."

A murmur of agreement rippled across the room, and soon everyone began collecting their papers and belongings. Pretty soon the nations were filing out at a moderate pace, some walking in groups to chat. America watched from his seat as the room began to clear out then hastily began to erase the doodles he'd drawn onto the table, hopefully before England noticed. If he did, America was sure he'd have to sit through an hour of "You bloody idiot" and "Don't damage my property".

Unfortunately he only managed to clear away a few of the stick figures before England headed over to him. The blond quickly grabbed his messy note papers and shoved them into his briefcase in hopes that he wouldn't look suspicious.

"Hey, America, what's taking you so long?" England asked, stopping in front of the other.

Alfred looked up at him and got up out of the chair, nearly tripping over the legs in the process. Way to be smooth, Al. "Uh, nothing! I was uh, just going over the notes and stuff again before I left. Yeah."

Why did he have to be such a terrible liar? He could tell that England didn't buy it for one second, but he tried to play it cool and let out a huge grin. Maybe he could just discreetly change the subject and avoid everything like one of those cool Japanese ninja dudes in the movies. "…So I'm really hungry. I think I'ma go get a burger. The hero's gotta eat, you know!" He patted his stomach enthusiastically.

England raised an eyebrow and sighed. "If you're going to change the subject, don't make it so obvious next time. Lucky for you, however, I'm not in the mood to force the truth out of you, seeing as I've already lost all my energy fighting that girly-haired wanker today."

America laughed at that. "Oh yeah, that was so funny dude! It totally made it worth going to the meeting for once! You guys should really s—"

A strong force suddenly knocked America off balance, effectively cutting him off and sending him stumbling forward. The blond lost grip of his suitcase and watched helplessly as it crashed into the ground, springing open and scattering papers every which way. England, however, managed to catch the American before he, too, hit the floor.

Alfred lay there in the British man's hold, his head spinning. What the heck? Who did th—

"Russia, if you're trying to prevent war, next time I suggest that you not intentionally shove America." England glared as he placed the young nation back on his feet. At the sound of that name, the blond turned on his heel to face the Russian, who was walking out the door as if nothing happened.

But then he stopped, craning his head in the general direction of the other two countries, but not directly looking at them. "Ah, forgive me. I did not see you there, Amerika." And with that he disappeared behind the large double-doors, leaving the two alone to stare after him.

America fixed his glasses which had gone askew. He then proceeded to collect the papers that had flown out of his briefcase, using any and all resistance he had to not chase after Russia and punch his lights out. "Stupid commie…" he spat under his breath.

England sighed and knelt down to help the blond. "What is it with you two lately? You're always on edge whenever he's near you. Ever since World War II ended…"

Grabbing the last of the sheets, America stood up and frowned slightly. "'Dunno, I guess he just hates my guts—well, not that I like him either, really. We never agree on anything." He dusted his pants off and watched as the Englishman scrutinized him, most likely searching for more to that answer.

After a few seconds the other shook his head. "Hmm. Well, you must excuse me, for I have some business I need to discuss with my boss urgently. I'll see you around, yes?"

America nodded. He needed to go back to his hotel, take a nap, and then maybe get some snacks. "'Kay, bye. And um, thanks for the help. …Not that the hero needed it, of course!" He waved energetically, his irritability already starting to wear off. There was really no point in lingering on the bad things in life, right?

The other rolled his eyes as he headed out into the hallway. Once the man disappeared from his sight, America picked up his briefcase and began walking in the same direction. Just as he was about to twist the doorknob, though, something interesting caught his eye. It was a chair—more specifically, the chair of a certain tall, platinum-haired nation who sat at the opposite end of the conference room. Curiously, the young male set down his items and strode over to the item in question. When he reached it, he stared in both confusion and shock.

Sitting on the chair was a scarf. A soft, light grey scarf. Russia's scarf. The scarf Russia always wore. The scarf that nobody had seen Russia without.

Isn't this thing, like, his most prized possession? America wondered, picking up the item and examining it closer. Why would he just leave it here—actually, why would he even take it off in the first place? Why didn't I notice he wasn't wearing it before?

And yet, America already knew the answer to that last question. He had been far too upset about being pushed over to notice, let alone care. But as for the rest, Alfred F. Jones was completely clueless.

"Maybe he left it on accident…?" The blond muttered aloud. "Maybe I should go give it back to him…"

But why should he have to go out of his way to help the commie, especially after the man had deliberately knocked him over? No. It wasn't worth it. He would let the bastard figure out himself, and then he would have to drive all the way back here to get it. It wasn't America's responsibility to play the retriever here!

But… I'm the hero, right?

A hero helped people, resolved problems when others could or would not. Plus, if America brought the scarf back, then Russia would have to acknowledge that he had helped him! And then when they disagreed again, America could say, "Oh yeah? Well remember that time when I saved you from losing your most prized possession?" Russia wouldn't know what to do.

"Yeah…" He whispered, a smile quickly starting to spread on his lips, "I'll show him!" He eagerly grabbed the grey material and bounced back to the double doors, retrieving his suitcase before dashing out into the hallway.

I wonder if he's still near the building, or if he's already on the way back to his hotel. He did leave in kind of a hurry... America paced down the elongated room until he finally reached the exit door. He waved to some of the countries who were hanging out next to the edge of the building, then stepped outside.

As usual, the London weather was very gloomy today; the sky was overcast with dark grey clouds, and a heavy fog hung in the air as if it were waiting to see something exciting happen. It also occurred to the young man that it was drizzling rain when a drop splashed on the tip of his nose. Peering through the haze, America attempted to locate the sleek limo decorated with a Soviet flag on the tail. He thought he saw it at the far end of the enormous lot, but quickly realized it was France's…

…For the man climbing aboard suddenly flipped his hair, something Russia wouldn't be caught dead doing (and to be honest, neither would America, nor most of the other male nations).

Much to his chagrin, the young man could find neither the plane nor the person he was looking for. He frowned. He was almost certain that Russia was already halfway back to the hotel. Just how was America supposed to reach him now? Due to political tenseness and such, he had been ordered by his boss to delete the man's number from his phonebook and cut off all contacts between them. He couldn't even call him!

Just as this realization passed through America's mind, a slightly shorter, green-eyed man came charging through the exit doors. He zeroed in on Alfred and roughly grabbed the collar of his bomber jacket. "You stupid git! Why did you go and draw on my very expensive mahogany table?! That's the fourth time this past season! Are you five years old, or something? Could you SERIOUSLY not keep your hands on your own property for a four hour meeting? Alfred, I swear I'm going to take your head and beat it into the ground if you keep up these ridiculous anti—"

"—Yeah, yeah, sorry 'bout that dude I was just really bored and I can't stand drawing on lined paper 'cause it ruins the pictures, aaannnd you do have Russia's phone number?"

The Brit stared with his mouth partly open, completely taken aback by this response. "Wait, what?"

America sighed exasperatedly. "Aw come on, you heard me. I said, do you have Russia's phone number?"

"…Why do you ask?"

"Well, duh, I need to call him, obviously. He left something behind at the meeting, and I wanna return it to him."

It was then that Arthur Kirkland noticed the peculiar article of cloth wrapped in the American's hands. "His scarf…?" England furrowed his prominent brows and quickly put two and two together before narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "America, don't you think it's a bit, well, odd that Russia would be so careless as to leave something like this behind?"

America shrugged. "I dunno, maybe he was thinking about something else and just wasn't paying attention. I know I do that all the time!"

England wasn't fazed by the other's reply, instead taking a step forward and placing one hand on the other's shoulder and another flat against his own forehead. "Alfred, that's just because you're a forgetful idiot. But Russia's not like that—both you and I know that very well. The fact that he would leave his most prized possession behind, for you of all people to notice… It doesn't sit right with me. It's almost as if he wanted you to find it."

"HAH! That's real funny, England! Why would he want me to find it? He hates me, you know that!" America playfully jabbed the other in the chest with his elbow.

The shorter nation looked aside, staring at the small droplets hitting lightly against the pavement. "I know."

America stared at the Englishman for a split second with confusion, but quickly shook it off. He cleared his throat and grinned cheekily again. "So, can ya give me his number or not?"

England looked back at America's bright blue eyes, sighing in defeat. "Yes I can. But I still can't help but feel uneasy about all of this." He beckoned the other to follow and led him back inside to a black telephone in a side office. The taller blond waited impatiently as England picked up the receiver and dialed the number.

After a few seconds more the British man handed over his phone, and when America held it up to his ear he heard a monotone ringing. Then there was a beep, and a bit of scuffling was heard from the other side of the connection.

"Да? What can I do for you, England?"

Alfred felt his mood drop significantly just from the sound of the others' voice. Despite that, he told himself he was going to do this. It would be worth it in the end, after all.

He cleared his throat. "Actually, this is America—I'm just borrowing England's phone. Sup, man."

For a split second the only thing he could hear was the sound of Russia's breaths ghosting over the device. "Ah, Amerika. I cannot say I am not surprised. Why did you call me?"

America's mouth dropped open. "You seriously haven't noticed it yet!?" He shared a glance with England, who was watching intently.

"Noticed what?"

The undertone of Russia's voice was unnerving—dangerous, even—and America unconsciously shivered. He took a breath to recompose before continuing. "Well…you left your scarf here. At the conference room. I thought you would have realized it was missing by now!"

Russia let out a sharp gasp, and there was suddenly a ton of static and movement in the background. After a few seconds the noises stopped abruptly when the man presumably picked the phone back up. "Oh no! I did not realize I had left it back there! I wear it so much that I automatically assumed I still had it."

America shooed England away when the man started poking him and asking what was happening. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Well I have your scarf with me now, so can you give me your hotel address so I can bring it over?"

"Would you please? That's very kind. Thank you, Alfredka." He then gave out the direction to the hotel, as well as the floor and room number.

America's eye twitched at the pet name. It made him sick to his stomach when Russia called him that; he said it so sweetly, so innocently, yet at the same time America knew it was just bullshit. He used to call the blond that when they had been closer, but now he was sure it was just being used as an insult.

"'Kay, I'll be there in about 20 minutes. Bye." America placed the phone back into its place before turning to England, who was watching anxiously.

"You're actually going to go there? To see Russia?"

America nodded curtly. "Yep. A hero's gotta do what he's gotta do!" He turned around and strode out of the office, leaving behind a very bewildered England to gawk after him.

x

x

America took a deep breath before knocking on the door to Room Number 66. He had originally told the Russian that he would be here in about 20 minutes, but after forgetting where he put his car keys, then getting lost on the confusing London streets, and finally walking all the way to the top floor of the hotel only to find that Russia's room was in the next building, America ended up taking an hour. He hoped that the freakishly tall man wouldn't be too upset.

The wooden door opened slightly, revealing a pair of icy amethyst eyes. "Привет, Amerika~!" Russia greeted, "It is about time. Come inside, please." The door was swung open fully, and America anxiously stepped past the other and into the room.

America took a sweeping glance at his environment. It appeared to be a luxury suite, for there were three distinct rooms. There was a huge king-sized bed and light beige sofa up against the left wall, and separating the two was a nightstand with a radio and telephone on top. In front of the couch was a glass coffee table, and in front of that a large TV. There was also a small entryway on America's right that presumably led to a small bathroom. To the right side of the large room was a kitchen with a small refrigerator, sink, and double-burner stove. On the farthest side of the room next to the bed were two glass sliding doors that led to a balcony outlooking London. Maroon curtains hung on either side of their frames, completing the look.

The blonde whistled softly as he took all of it in. "Some hotel room this is, huh?' He fidgeted with the scarf in his hand. This whole ordeal was very uncomfortable for him, seeing as how usually America's encounters with the Russian were unfriendly, to say the least. But Alfred kept telling himself that this would all be worth it when Ivan somehow got into trouble and was forced to come to him for help.

"It is, Да? My boss made sure to reserve the very best for my trip here. It helps me to forget how sad and gloomy it is here compared to back home." He smiled sweetly—so sweetly, in fact, that America found it sickening.

Arrogant jerk. Sure, it's rainy here, but that doesn't mean he should go around insulting Arthur's country! America had had just about enough. Turning to the Russian, he extended his hand which held the prized scarf, trying his best not to make a face of disgust.

The taller man slid the material out of the other's hand. "Oh, thank you so much. I cannot imagine what I would do without this." He carefully wrapped the scarf back around his neck, his lips upturning ever so slightly more.

America nodded at once, the deed being done. He immediately turned to leave. "Well, I guess I'll be going n—"

"—Not so fast!" The blond was halted midstep when his upper arm was grabbed, nearly knocking him off balance as the Russian jerked him back inside the doorframe.

America attempted to wriggle his arm out of the other's grasp, but he only succeeded in making the other tighten his grip to the point that it felt like the circulation was getting cut off. "…What?"

Russia smiled, half-dragging the confused nation and plopping him down on the beige sofa. "I cannot just let you go without thanking you for being so nice. The least I can do is give you some food, or alcohol maybe." He released America's arm and strode over to the door. Digging a key out of his pocket, he then closed the door and secured the lock. Russia dropped the key back into his enormous overcoat and headed across the hotel room in search of his favorite drink.

America sighed quietly, sinking into the cushions. He hadn't expected Russia to ask him to stay—or rather, force, seeing as he couldn't open the door thanks to that damned key—and he didn't dare try to escape now. Even though America was a very bold person, he knew better than to test Russia's limits. It was simply too dangerous, even for the Hero himself…

Dammit! Since he's offering me food and drinks as thanks, I can't hold anything against him in the future… This whole "scarf" thing was totally pointless, and now I'm stuck here with creepy Russia until further notice. Fantastic.

"You do like vodka, right?" came said person's voice from the kitchen. He had been searching around in the refrigerator for the past minute or so, shuffling things around and completely blocking Alfred's view of the inside. Once he found what he was looking for, he made his way back to the anxious American. "The hotel did not provide shot glasses; I hope you do not mind using this."

The platinum-blond set a mostly full bottle of vodka and another glass on the table, settling next to America on the couch. In turn, America tried to subtly scoot as far away as possible.

Russia noticed this and slid closer, trapping the other between the armrest and himself. "Amerika, there is no need to be so cold. I understand we have not been on the best terms lately, but I have realized that you are not so bad. You kindly brought me my scarf, after all. …I think I would like for us to become friends. So please, have some drink and we can talk." He pushed the vodka-filled glass into the other's hands and took a swig from his bottle.

Wait, what? Alfred stared in shock at the large nation before him. Does he really mean that…? He fidgeted with his drink and ran the words over and over in his head. I mean, now that I think about it… I kind of hope he does.

"Really? Friends?" Biting his lip he continued to observe, albeit this time with a glimmer of hope.

"Да. I do not wish for us to be so hostile anymore." Ivan had a faint smile on his face, but this time it didn't make Alfred want to puke. It seemed almost…genuine.

Friends with Russia…

As he let those words sink in, America realized he'd been staring at Russia for so long that he was starting to feel awkward. He glanced to the side in embarrassment, but at the same time his lips curved up slightly.

Yeah! That sounds…nice. This Cold War thing is pretty stupid, anyway. Screw it.

As the Russian took another swig from his bottle, America looked down at his glass. He had never particularly liked vodka; it was too strong and not sweet enough. America liked sweet things, such as candy and…well, candy. But regardless, he raised it to his lips and took a nice, long sip. The alcohol stung as it slipped down his throat and made him grimace, but in a few seconds America felt a pleasant warmth tickling his stomach. He took another sip before setting the glass on the coffee table. He then turned back to Russia, who had already consumed nearly half of the bottle.

The American glanced from his glass to the bottle in the other's hand, and did it again. A question formulated itself as he continued to look back and forth between the two. "Hey…Ru—I mean, Ivan?"

The taller male paused before setting the alcohol down. "Hmm?"

"Just curious…why did you give only me a glass? There's no way you could drink all that by yourself, right?" America knew if he himself consumed that much vodka, he'd be passed out by now.

Russia laughed lightheartedly. "Silly you. Of course I can! I'm Russian, am I not?"

America snorted. "I guess s—"

"Oh, and it's also to make sure I would not accidentally drug myself." He laughed again, this time a bit louder.

…

…

…

"Drug?" The blond looked at the Russian quizzically for several long seconds. "What drug…"

And then it hit him. America's eyes traveled down to his half-empty glass of alcohol, suddenly feeling sickened by that fuzzy warmth. His eyes widened in realization.

"You…you tricked me!" He shot up from his seat on the couch, banging his shin against the table. "No…I don't understand!" As he stood there, his legs began to feel as if they were being dragged into the ground, and with each second that passed, the force grew stronger and stronger.

Russia stood up too, his childish smile never leaving his face. "What is there not to understand? You are my enemy."

America's vision was swimming with black and green dots, and the world around him was quickly blurring into a blob of colors. His legs screamed in protest as he stumbled backwards, his shaking hands blindly searching for the door to the hotel hallway. "You…bastard…I-I thought…you wanted to be…friends!" He couldn't believe it. How could he be stupid enough to trust Russia? He should have listened to England when he had the chance!

"Friends?" Russia giggled, continuously stepping forward. "I could never be friends with a capitalist Шлюха."

I have to get… out of here! Much to his dismay, America's legs finally failed him, and he collapsed against the wall. He gasped and attempted to stand back up, but it was useless. With the last of his strength he outstretched his arm for the doorknob, sweaty palms slipping against the cold metal. But the knob wouldn't twist no matter how hard he tried.

That's right…locked… "Sh…it…" the younger male mumbled, his foggy mind dimly recognizing the key dangling from the Russian's fingertips. He struggled to keep his heavy eyes open.

Ivan crouched in front of the drugged figure, allowing his long index finger to poke the tip of the other's nose. America shot a weak glare at him and tried to throw a punch; his wrist was caught before it came even close to the Russian's face. He swallowed heavily, eyes only half-lidded now as he continued to fight against the overwhelming urge to sleep.

"Ah-ah-ah," Russia taunted condescendingly as he captured the American's wrist. He leaned forward, brushing his cool lips against his victim's ear. "You are not going anywhere. You are mine now, Alfredka."

Those haunting words sent a shiver down America's spine. Sapped of all energy, his eyelids finally fluttered closed.

And try as he might, he could not escape the suffocating darkness that followed.

x

To be Continued in part 2

Translations (in order of appearance):

Magnifique = mahnifeek = Magnificent/beautiful

Да = Da= Yes

Привет = Privyet = Hello/hi

Шлюха = Shl'uha = whore (Don't use this word at home, kids! Although I doubt many kids will read this in the first place… xD)

*A/Ns to anyone vaguely interested: What America meant to say was the Suez Canal, referring to the Suez Crisis of 1956. What basically happened was Egypt decided to claim the canal as its own without British consent (who owned shares of it). England, with the help of France, then tried to attack Egypt and take back the canal, but in the end they didn't succeed.

When America heard "Trojan Whores" (lol), what France actually said was "Trojan Horse" (a giant horse disguised as a gift that helped take down an entire city). This relates to another incident that happened in the 1960's which involved trade between European countries. When England tried to join in on the European Economic Community (EEC), France vetoed the application and basically said, "This ain't gonna happen as long as stupid England is here." France believed that England was just using EEC as a cover-up for trying to get closer trade relations with the US instead of the rest of Europe (thus relating to the "Trojan Horse"). And no, America, he was not talking about condoms or prostitutes XD

If you were too lazy to read all that, then in short, England and France are just two nincompoops looking for any excuse to argue. And also, I did my homework :P

So yeah! I originally wasn't going to have this story split into 2 sections, but once the oneshot hit around the 7,000 word mark I was like, "okay, this is waayyy too long for my tastes". And plus, it proves that I haven't been sitting on my butt for the past few weeks. I already have most of the second chapter done, so it shouldn't take too terribly long to finish. Then I will resume my other work-in-progress, Chasing the Darkness.

But until then, ciao~!