Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia, Evan Lysacek, Yevgeny Plushenko, or any other rl name mentioned...

A/N: I'm not the happiest camper Lysacek that won. Neither is Russia. May the disappointment ensue. Also, I don't like writing real life people into my stories... ;___;

Warnings: Since this fic was influenced on my own personal belief on the dissatisfaction of Lysacek winning, it may offend some people. Oh well.



Ivan's eyes had never left the legend Olympian, even as the proudly carried form of the Russian skater left the ice.

Yevgeny Plushenko's eyes were fixed downwards, hard, lost in his own mind theater, replaying his performance over and over again, comparing it side-by-side to the American's - Evan Lysacek. The applause of the crowd did not break his concentration.

Surely, Ivan thought, it was a worthy program, even after a three and a half year absence, requiring all the ingredients a skater needed to impress Olympic judges; the essential triple axel, a few other triple jumps and combos blended in, varied spins with high levels of difficulty sprinkled throughout, complex and interesting footwork to add a splash of flavor and charisma, and of course, an added quad to pleasantly top it all off. And with said quad, the competition should have been his.

But as the final score was announced, (and Yevgeny was only 1.31 points away, not even 2 points away from defending his title) the initial shock did not even hit Russia right away. Amethyst eyes were blank, that faked mask of a smile only dropping from his lips a little as his gaze continued to stare at the defeated blonde in the Kiss and Cry.

The bewilderment on Plushenko's face mimicked that of all the Russians back at home and in the stands, who had all been convinced that, from the first day of Vancouver, their beloved Olympian would once again make Russia synonymous with gold and glory in the art of men's figure skating.

And it was not the roars from the crowd that drew the great country out of his disbelief - it was the sudden cheers and screams coming from the left of him, the American shouts and joyous congratulations to the new Olympian. Ivan turned; if it wasn't for the skater's height, staring past the excited heads jumping up and down and hugging him would have been hard. But there was Lysacek, all smiles and radiating that absolutely relieved and undignified way Americans get when they win.

And all at once, all that dislike and ugly feeling toward America that was once spawned from the tension of the possibility of a nuclear war returned to Russia, a burning, white hot fire that momentarily and inwardly blinded him... but the latter extremity was only for a split second before it was smoldered by rational thinking; after all, it was... it was no reason enough to break out the faucet and introduce it to Alfred's face later.

In addition, it was also a sport - albeit a sport to take seriously, competitively, it was a sport. And, begrudgingly, Russia silently acknowledged that Lysacek had performed decently... even if there was no quadruple.

...but where was the progress, if the new Olympian had no quad to add to men's skating? Just how long had triples been in skating? They were nothing new; they were rotations capable by all the men worthy to be in Vancouver in the first place!

The vexed feeling inside Ivan stayed with him as Plushenko made his way toward him, toward the doors, all at once preparing to leave to the medal ceremony and to escape the press.

Russia stopped his skater, placing a gloved hand on his shoulder; "You made your country wery proud out there, da." And later, Putin would praise the defeated champion, saying that 'his silver was worth gold', accurately presenting the country's view on Plushenko's performance.

The silver medalist, still a bit breathless from his program, gave him an understanding nod; he knew his skating represented the entirety of Russia well, but the notion of losing to Lysacek was troubling.

Plushenko disappeared, and Ivan didn't see him until the ceremonies later that night.

A parade of cameramen, skaters, and backstage people followed close, all exiting for more or less the same reason. The American skater was among them, pumping his fist in the air proudly, erupting screams of excitement from the crowd. Ivan left a smile on his face as Evan and his throng of supporters passed, but it quickly left as the last man straggled behind stopped in front of the Russian nation.

Alfred F. Jones.

But Russia didn't want to hear it, turning abruptly, scarf lifelessly trailing behind as he excused himself. America followed, grinning a horrible grin that was most capable of earning a punch to the face, a cocky air about him that scratched at every single tiny nerve inside Ivan, like stained forks grinding against expensive china plates.

"Hey, your man did well, Russi--"

"As did yours, America," Came the rather loud, bitter, false compliment; he was not in the mood to hear of the blonde's showboating, not in the mood to hear how the Russians failed to defend their prized title.

Alfred was sincere, though, in wanting to congratulate Plushenko for such a show out on the ice...

But that didn't take away from how much he wanted to show off his world, and now Olympic, champion.

"So, did'ya see Evan out there? Man, he really delivered!" The bright-eyed man was going off, spouting words that only transformed into a pile of horseshit from Russia's perspective. Every remark on how great Lysacek's program was drove Ivan to the edge, fingers twitching to grab a pipe that wasn't there.

And Alfred continued to go on and follow Ivan, who had tried to lose the amerikosy by going through the less crowded back corridors of the arena. Yet he kept on his tail, and Russia was therefore trapped, loathing the fact that he could not escape a nation who had nothing better to do then show off.

"...haha! I should really thank Carol for trainin' such a star! Or even a hero! I mean seriously, did you see that footwork? If your guy had our choreographer, then maybe you guys woulda--"


And that was the final straw; ettah gruzit, bez pizdy.

"It vas just luck, America, luck; how your skater could win vithout quad is lucky!" His composure snapped. The dignified, majestic picture of Plushenko flashed to mind, how high the skater always held himself; such an image betrayed how Ivan had lashed out at America after finally just having enough, and soon the Russian felt a tinge of guilt for somehow letting his skater down in a way impossible to describe. He had ruined something intangible, something only he knew about to begin with.

Alfred wasted no time in responding to the reaction he had wanted out of the country. "Really now? Didn't see your skater take the gold, and he had a quad!"

Within a moment, Ivan had whipped around, one hand snatching the collar of the obnoxious man's 'Team USA' jacket, ramming him with such a strong force against the poured, off-white wall, other hand balled up into a fist and ready to strike down on Alfred's face like a snake. America retaliated by raising a defensive arm up, the free one reaching to pull Russia down by the handmade scarf he always wore.

They were face to face, tips of noses barely touching, the inside tension built up to its zenith in their gleaming eyes, quivering tremors of malice and nostalgic history on the brink of being released.

And then the American had the balls to say, with a snarky lilt to his voice, "Relax, Russia - it's just a game."

Without a moment's hesitation, he tossed America aside. Said nation stumbled a bit, regaining his balance with a look of satisfaction about him - whatever he was planning seemed to go accordingly. He fixed his collar back in place, blue eyes dancing.

Ivan inhaled, restoring his lost equanimity; he couldn't let himself go like that again, especially not to the taunts of the American.

America's phone vibrated, and after reading the message that was sent to him, let out a surprised exclamation. "The awards ceremonies! Shit!" He pocketed the electronic device and started back from where he came from in a steady jog. His departing words? "Don't be late, Russia! Or else Japan may steal your spot on the podium!"

Perse irises stared after the retreating form, before dropping down to the floor.

"Just a game," the words were repeated, rolling dryly off his tongue. Russia sighed, one hand covering his face, fingers rubbing his temples.

To America, Evan Lysacek's win might have just been another pretty medal to add to their growing collection, another thing to gloat in.

To Russia, Yevgeny Plushenko's loss was a heartbreak to the nation, a disappointing and sad sign that the art and beauty of figure skating was regressing because of a person who only performed during the footwork, as well as the damned new judging system.

A single sigh, and that was it.

It was almost time for the ceremony, anyways.


A/N: yeah i apologize for my writing. it's been awhile, but this story just wrote itself. :U

also, is it just me or was johnny weir underscored? he should have beaten poor lambiel and oda. weir performed the best i've ever seen him these past few nights. yay for judges hating on weir's 'eccentricity' and bullshitting crap about 'lack of transitions'. even scott hamilton realized they cheated him.

russian translations: 'ettah gruzit, bez pizdy' roughly translates to, 'this is shit, honestly'.