Chapter Text
To say that Alfred was furious was simply an understatement--he'd never felt this sort of animosity toward anyone before, that was, until Ivan came.
Ever since the Cold War was started, every single one of their encounters gathered no less rivalry than the previous. But somehow.. Somehow, a great nation such as America had succumbed to lust that would, in turn, ingrain its effect onto both involved parties.
For whatever reason, America and Russia's previous meeting had.. Escalated would be a polite way to describe it--and it should really be left as that.
Somehow, Alfred ended up waking beside a groggy Ivan the next morning--and that seemed to be when he had finally formed half a brain, or more so enough to really how royally fucked he was, metaphorically and literally.
Cursing himself, that morning, gathering only his clothes, or so he hoped that was the only thing he'd had with him and messily putting them back on, America hurriedly left what seemed to be the hotel room he had slept with Russia in the previous night. And, with a frantic phone call to his boss, and a quickly-curated lie, was able to secure a ride and a flight directly back to Washington, D.C, America in what seemed to be less than ten minutes.
With his whole heart, Alfred had dearly hoped that was the last of it. And, Ivan, upon waking up to find his bed devoid of anyone else, would mutually assume all of this was to be forgotten, and not a single word--whether English or Russian, was to ever be said to anyone. And, well, that was that.
Until..
Now, as America laid in bed, for what seemed like his tenth day off, he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out what could be wrong with him. At first, the nation had simply dismissed it as being an economic issue, or perhaps something bad he'd eaten at the last dinner party with Congress.
But.. As his stomach pain and nausea would not subside, even going so far as adding a bout of morning sickness to the mix--the American nation had started to suspect that something terrible was going on, and it surely was not a mild cold caused by a decline in economy or unrest of citizens.
Still, as he draped his long arms over his head and pondered the thought, his mind raced of all the different possibilities. See, nations such as himself, his brother, Matthew, or his mother (England) and father (France) weren't humans and normal human anatomies were something they lacked, so much so that, even today, with the current technological advancements being done, nations such as himself couldn't simply waltz into a doctors office and demand a visit from a physician.
So, as Alfred laid on his bed, legs draped over the clean, white sheets, and wearing a white tank-top which laid bare his rather thin frame--compared to Russia that was. It had always been a sort of insecurity the nation have, for how a nation so powerful as himself differed so greatly in physical build remained a mystery to him, even to this day.
Before his mind could race anymore, however, America was rushed with a sudden bout of unreasonable nausea, seemingly appearing from absolutely nowhere, which led him to lurch up from bed and run straight into the connect bathroom, pouring his guts out violently. It seemed, for a few moments, that as much as he retched, the bile forming at the pit of his stomach and reaching up his throat would not subside.
Until finally, it did, leaving a defeated blonde man glaring at his own pitiful state within the mirror connected atop the sink. As his rinsed away the vile flavor that resided in his mouth, Alfred could not help but catch a glance at the pathetic state he was in, staring right back at him from the mirror he wished so dearly was an illusion.
His usually well-kept, short hair had grown longer from his lack of maintenance, messily running itself down the front of his face, creating a bout of messy bangs that framed his face--in truth, Alfred did think this look suited him well enough. Along with that, his glasses were askew, which was an easy fix. As he continued to stare, the blonde nation caught sight of something rather odd--around the area of his midriff formed a sort of bump. It wasn't so large, nor was it subtle enough to ignore upon first glance.
Still, America brushed it off as an effect of is sickness. Surely, it was some sort of bloating caused from food poisoning or whatever disease he had contracted, and soon enough, along with the unknown sickness, this bump would also disappear.
For some reason, that nauseous episode had left Alfred rather exhausted. Still.. As he stared at the clock, taking into consideration the early hours of the morning, and the on-going war he had with his, what seemed to be life-long nemesis, the American nation figured he could take not one more day off, for the glory of his nation depended on it.
And so, resisting every urge that pulled the very bones in his body to return back to bed, Alfred got dressed in his usual uniform, for which he deemed patriotic in nature, and hid his awfully bloated abdomen fairly well. He deemed it was perfectly well, as if you did not look for it, his bloating didn't even seem to be present at all. Along with that, the uniform he wore, by design, hid his thin frame rather well, making him look slightly bulkier than he truly was--which wasn't a complain of Alfred at all.
Now, as America could recall, today's agenda consisted of his federal Congress meeting with England's Parliament to sort out the foundational structures of NATO. And after that.. America frowned slightly.
Hm. Wasn't it awfully wonderful how, the singular day he felt like absolute shit and throwing himself out the window, it was going to be the day he had to sit through a meeting with Russia and his Communist government. The thought could've made Alfred make a second bee-line to the bathroom and hurl his guts out for the second time.
No matter, for now, Alfred couldn't bother looking forward to more than finishing off today's load of work and returning back to bed in the hopes that his sickness would soon figure itself out and disappear.
And so, as he walked down the marble staircase of his manor in Washington, he continued through the French double door that led outside onto his front porch, which had an American flag hung on both sides of he pole rooted onto his home's foundational structure. He stood awaiting his chauffer, who would drive him to the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue.
When he was finally in the car, Alfred said with his palm against his cheek, looking outside the window to observe the all too familiar view, a path he'd ridden through many times before. Still.. It couldn't be said that he didn't want to be heading to this meeting today.
Of course, his stomach churned with whatever sickness he had to deal with, and his head was killing him, but at least he would be able to see Arthur, his dearest mother.
Even though their history after the American Revolution left much ties severed, the nations soon made up, as most whom are blood related do. Deep down, Alfred knew how much pain he'd really caused Arthur during the American Revolution. He'd heard hushed tales from Francis about how Arthur had fell into a deep bout of depression that had been near impossible to pull out off--to France's credit, he did manage it, but still.. That feeling had never truly left Arthur until England and America were back on good terms, at which Arthur had cried as he cradled an all too big Alfred in his arms for the first time in what seemed like an eternity.
America couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.. How dear he was to England.. Truly, he wondered, if he were to have a child of flesh and blood of his own, would he feel the same bond and connected as Arthur felt towards him? It was an invigorating thought indeed, he decided--one he would be adopting for the remainder of this car ride.
As soon as Alfred had stepped foot into the meeting room within the White House that had been dedicated for this conference, he was immediately met with an Arthur who was awaiting for his arrival. Upon seeing his son, Arthur was suddenly washed with a feeling of ease as he ran straight toward the now full-grown nation he could not quite envision. For in England's mind, Alfred was no more than a small little boy who simply cried and begged for any and all attention that England had.
"Alfred! You wouldn't be able to fathom how happy I am to see your face after so long, you little brat!" Arthur said fondly.
"Really, mom! Its really only been a few months, you're still as dramatic-" Before America was able to finish his sentence, he was met with a playful flick on the forehead, with a laugh that quickly followed. "Well, can I really blame you? How could you not see someone as amazing as me for so long?" Alfred added cheekily.
They caught up with one another to an appropriate amount, before taking their designated seats at the discussion table as to not keep the committee waiting.
Truth be told, Alfred could really care less about the funding needed for NATO, its impact it'd have on its national members, or the impact it would have on public citizen view. Truly, all Alfred could think of right now was how utterly nauseated he felt, his vision blurred and he felt like toppling over.
Ultimately, the American nation had to politely excuse himself from the meeting, before basically sprinting, with his hand over his mouth, to the nearest restroom, which was down the hall from the conference room.
Unsurprisingly, seeing the sickly state of his son, it was no question on whether or not England would ultimately follow suit. None of the meeting members saw any point in stopping either of them, for what truly was there if their national personifications wanted to be excused from the meeting for simply a few moments due to whatever emergency America had to deal with.
Once again, the familiar feeling settled upon Alfred's stomach as the bile leaving his mouth did practically the opposite, gushing itself out of his mouth and into the toilet within one of the stalls of the restroom stall.
As he had swung the stall door open without so much as a thought in regards of his privacy, Arthur came hurrying in, with a hand planted steadily on Alfred's back, comforting him in whatever way he could.
Finally, as the bile leaving his mouth finally left, leaving only the vile and bitter taste on his tongue, America once again found himself on his knees, kneeled over a toilet seat. But this time, with the addition of his mother by his side, Arthur's hand gently rubbing against Alfred's back, which led to nothing short of a relief or sense of comfort.
When Arthur saw fit, he assisted Alfred in getting up off the floor, and leading him to the sink to clean himself up.
"Bloody hell, Alfred.. A-Are you alright? What's wrong?" America could feel England's eyes boring into him as he continued to silently try to wash away the putrid feeling left by the bile in his mouth, with nothing but the sound of water running a stream from the faucet to replace the silence.
Once he had finished cleaning himself up, Alfred recognized it was due time to explain to Arthur why this has happened, in order to ease his worries of his son having some sort of uncurable sickness caused by the Cold War.
"You don't have to worry a golden strand of hair on your head, England. Nothing's wrong with me, don't forget I'm a superpower, so everything's alright. Its just.." Alfred paused for a moment, contemplating whether to tell his overbearing mother about the bout of sickness he's been having, hoping for her to regard it as nothing serious and go on about the day normally, returning to the meeting together like it was nothing. But he knew his mother far too well. Still.. He felt it was best to tell her. "I just haven't been feeling well, is all." Alfred scratched the back of his head.
As England continued staring intently at America, the younger nation felt it was an indication to elaborate.
"I must've caught a stomach flu of some sort, and for the last maybe ten days or so, I've just been having these crazy headaches and.. Y'know episodes like these, also I've been bloating like crazy while still not able to keep much down... I know. I know. I should see a physician of some sort soon, I'll get someone to see to it that there's a nation physician to check up on me." Alfred, upon looking back, wasn't quite able to decipher the look on Arthur's face, quickly added, "Really! There's no need to worry about me, I'm sure this'll blow over before y'know it!" He said, giving a thumbs up.
Arthur, however, said nothing else before dragging Alfred, although gently, the younger noticed, by the cuff of his collar, out the rest room and down the hall way. Although when they passed the conference room, Alfred started his objections. "Hey! Where the hell are you taking me?!" However, as he caught a glimpse of England's face, America felt it was best to simply shut up and quietly let the elder nation lead him to wherever it was they were headed.
Finally, the two arrived at the nearest drug store down the street from the White House. Alfred had really realized what they were buying once the cashier handed Arthur three boxes of pregnancy tests, and that's when the truth hit him square in his gut, making his head cloud up like another bout of puke was about to rise up again.
After practically throwing his money at the cashier, Arthur brought Alfred to the back of the store, where the restroom was, before handing all three boxes of the pregnancy tests to him.
"Alfred. Take these. I'm sure you're intellectually superior enough to realize what you have to do with them, so take them ALL and show them to me." There was not a single hitch in these words nor even the slightest bit of cursing.
America, however, was far too shocked at the relation to even notice this. Mindlessly, he all three of those boxes and headed straight for the bathroom, without a single word.
It hadn't even registered in his head what Alfred he'd just done, when finally he stood all alone in the bathroom stall, staring at the two pinks lines that had now made themselves known to his vision. The positive that was life-changing (or ending).
Alfred's initial reaction was surprising even to himself, he simply laughed--wasn't it hilarious? It was! Really! So funny!
Then the second test revealed its own two lines. Oh. Well, that one might've been faulty too.
But the final one. The final one was what finally snapped him. His smile faded and his knees wobbled, turning to jelly that threatened to collapse in on itself. Ha. Funny. Jelly reminded him of some Slavic food he saw on Ivan's table to morning he snuck out through the front door. Yes. Ivan. Ivan Braginsky. The national personification of Russia. The Soviet Union. The Cold War.. The entire point of it..
No. Alfred's body refused to give up on itself. Instead, without him knowing, it had decided on walking over to his mother. Arthur Kirkland, stood anxiously waiting outside the restroom. When his son had re-emerged, the English nation didn't know whether he should feel relief of even more anxious.
Then, when the American nation silently, with his head not daring to look back into those green eyes, handed Arthur the three tests, England looked at them. The sight was enough to short-circuit his brain.
"H-How? Alfred? Can you tell me? Please?" His voice was now nothing near the stoic form it had taken before, for now it sounded so small and distant. The begging tone seemed to tug at his feet, wanting an explanation Alfred couldn't bring himself to stay.
The two stood silently, in front of the restroom, at the back of some random drugstore. To the both of them, everything else happening seemed to be filtered out by their own thoughts.
Finally, as the oldest, England decided he had to be the one to do something. "Come on, Alfred.." He mumbled quietly, handing back the three tests, which America took mindlessly without question and gripped tightly on his right hand as his legs moved along with Arthurs.
England's plan was to get a ride back to America's manor and figure things out from there. But it seemed luck wasn't on their side today. As they approached the White House Street, Arthur caught sight of American Congressman heading out as they saw the two nations walking down the street. The leading one seemed outraged at the two of them not returning as swiftly as they could to the meeting.
Almost instinctively, Alfred shoved all three of the positive tests down the right side of his uniform pocket, before finally regaining just a smidge of his composure.
Although Alfred couldn't even make out what Arthur was saying to these Congressmen, for he was still in a rather extreme state of shock, the nation, once again, found himself dragged back into the hallways of the red carpeted white house. This time, without Arthur by his side. Looking back frantically, America found that England had been escorted back into his private car by his committee of legislator. However, the last thing he saw before all those men crowed around Arthur was how his eyes never left the Alfred.
Finally, as his awareness was regained slowly, or bit by bit, Alfred, as he was being brought down the hallway, glanced at a nearby grandfather clock which read 14:00. His heart sank. Alfred felt awfully like fainting again, for this was when his meeting with Ivan and his council members.
"No.. Please.. I'd much rather see anyone else BUT him. W-Where is mom? Where is Arthur? "
Before he even had to to register everything that was happening, Alfred was seated by a Congressman directly across from Ivan. His heart practically plummeted to his stomach and he felt he could go for a third or maybe even endless round of puking.
But no. His body didn't respond in such a way. In fact, he simply sat, staring ahead at the towering, pale, and ashy-haired man sitting across from him, whose fair bared a grin that would normally make his blood boil, but now instead sent a chill down his spine.
Where? Where had America's courage and ferocity gone? He was staring at Russia but his mind was completely somewhere else. Nearby, in fact. Alfred thought of everything, every bit of sickness he'd felt these eleven days, how he'd only notice the bump in his abdomen this morning. How.. How he had spent that night with Russia. In truth, he had remembered every single bit of it. How Ivan's abs had rubbed against Alfred's, which paled greatly in comparison to the Slavic man's. How kisses were peppered all throughout Alfred's body, and how much of a tease the other man had been, not allowing the American to come until he could barely hold it in and cried from the anguish.
Shaking his head, Alfred had to return to reality. Yes. Now wasn't the time to ponder what had happened, life goes on as it does now. As it always does, such a truth is normal for all nations, not only himself. He, of all nations, should know that. America, the BEST nation, should know that fact well enough--it should be rooted in his heart, as it has for all its people--that's what led this country to thrive as it continues to do so even now. And so, finally, Alfred Freedom Jones gathered the courage and regained finally his mind enough to register everything that was happening.
And so he sat. America sat and listened to every single detailed uttered in that meeting. The questions were asked and he answered. He listened to everything those Commies were saying, every little smirk or malice Russia gave when something amused him. Fucking bastard. And for his reward, time acted unusually obedient. Before he knew it, the private conference between Russia and America was over.
Each government official vertically slapped their documents atop the the long, wooden table. Alfred, however, could not be happier to be out of there. For the second the last polite farewell was given, he was out of the door, his closest destination; the nearest restroom.
He simply couldn't hold in his bile any longer, the all too familiar feeling rose through from his stomach, to his throat, then made a not so swift exit from his mouth. Gah! Alfred couldn't tell how he looked right now, but surely it was beyond horrible.
Now, all he wanted to do was get home and hope, against all odds, Arthur was there waiting for him. Alfred could climb into bed, his bed, and hide under the covers from everything, and Arthur could stroke his hair and comfort him--telling him everything was going to be alright. That they'll figure out a way to get through this.
With heavy breathing, after Alfred was finally done with his episode, he flushed the toilet and weakly held onto the stall walls to bring himself up, when a sudden chill ran down his spine.
"Privet, Amerika!" A voice rang out from behind him. The Slavic accent. The cold tone which lacked any sort of warmth or feeling. America knew full well who that voice belonged to.
"Ahem. Hey, Russia." Alfred's voice came out much higher pitched and weaker than he had intended, but it was no matter, for he couldn't take those words back anyways.
Trying his best to remain unaffected by the Russian's presence, Alfred continued getting up from the floor and out of the bathroom stall, realizing once again he had forgotten to close the stall door, leaving everything he did fully visible to the blonde haired man.
In silence, Alfred quickly rinse out his mouth and headed for the restroom exit, before suddenly, he felt a cold hand grasp his wrist tightly.
"Ahh~ Amerika, you hurt me! Are you not going to say a single word other than mere curt greeting to me? Have you forgotten what we did the last time we had met? That meant nothing to you, American whore?" Ivan said, his smile unwavering.
This Communistic Russian son of a bitch! Alfred was going to-
"Shut it, fucking Commie!" Alfred was ready to land a punch, but before he did so, the contents of his right pocket fell out. Alfred, noticing what had happened, cursed himself from the inside. Why the hell did he have to stuff them in his pocket so carelessly?
Without a moment's waste, Alfred had his hand out, bent down to pick up two of the tests. Somehow, the Russian was faster. Fuck!
With an intrigued look on his face, Ivan curiously inspected the two sticks that Alfred had just dropped, before a sinister smile once again spread across his face.
"Well~ Now isn't this something you don't see often.. Hmmm.. It seems to me high and mighty Amerika here seems to be expecting, hm?" He said condescendingly, waving the two sticks in front of Alfred's face.
America was livid. He was going to beat this stupid, good for nothin, bastard, Communist to a pulp. How dare he speak like that to him, what gave him the right?!
Now, Ivan had his finger up to his cheek, seemingly in thought. "If I had to guess, I would say I knew who the father of your child is Amerika. That is, if my previous accusation of you being a whore was false."
This was it. Alfred would take no more of his derogatory words, with his fist clenched, America raised it straight to Russia's jaw, punching the man square in the face. The smack and the spew of blood gave him just a slight bit of satisfaction. The fact that Ivan was still rooted in place, however, made America want to continue on with his beating until the man was reduced to nothing but a bloody mess on the floor.
Before Alfred could land another hit, however, a swift blow that he hadn't even registered flew across his face. Before he could even register it, Alfred felt the slap that had landed across his face, causing him to stagger back in shock, reaching out for the nearest wall.
What the hell? How did he not notice that? H-How? He was America, his reaction time was top-notch, and his fighting skills matched that, so how..? What's going on?
"What is wrong, Amerika, it seems you have lost your touch slightly. Now, if only you weren't pregnant with my child, I would not have stopped just at the slap. You did start it, though, which I cannot deny slightly hurts my feelings~ But as the gentleman that I am, I will assist you." Russia reached out a gloved hand towards America, who was still struggling to regain balance. His vision had gone blurry, and a wave of nausea had washed over him once more.
Still, Alfred slapped the hand away. "Your numb-skull figured out I was pregnant, but It's not yours--that I can assure." He said with a sneer, rubbing ruefully at the spot where Russia had slapped him, which was now throbbing red, a sudden cough released blood from Alfred's mouth, which he quickly wiped off.
"I see. Then, pray tell, Amerika. As a common whore, who else have you slept with in the time we were apart? Perhaps Japan? North Italy, maybe? Ooo Germany is a good one, too, da?" For some reason, now, Alfred could practically sense the anger seeping from Ivan's words, each engrained with more and more anger and hatred. Compared to previously, when the man had been calm, his words cold but devoid of hateful emotions such as these.
For a moment, the American was speechless. "I-" He let out a defeated sigh. "No one. I-I didn't sleep with anyone else. It was just you. A-and I'm not a whore, so just stop calling me that." Alfred couldn't help the crack in his voice, ever so slightly.
"Good, my little Amerika finally admits to it~ Ahh! Look at you now, not even three months in and look at the state that its gotten you in, hmm~ The great Superpower nation.." His creepy grin widened more so than Alfred had ever seen.
For every second this infuriating Russian man kept talking, Alfred's blood could quite literally start boiling. How dare he-!
Still, right now, Alfred didn't think he had any fight left in him. For everything that had transpired today.. He simply couldn't-He simply couldn't keep his eyes open for much longer. The last thing America felt was the weight of him being lifted off the floor.
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