Click Click Bang [1/2]
anonymous
February 1 2009, 12:12:23 UTC
Not the above anon.
They sat on the floor, facing one another. The moon outside the bare window washed their angles in pale milk; otherwise, everything was dark. Russia had a half-empty bottle of vodka at his side. America had one of Jim Beam. They had both taken off their shoes, and spread their coats beneath them on the concrete floor. America's shirt collar was open, and his glasses were gone, discarded somewhere into the murk of the room. He didn't need them, because it was too dark to see anyway, and because the picture he held of Russia in his mind was preferable to the Russia actually before him.
The old bear handed America a revolver and said, "Your turn."
America wrapped his fingers around the grip and gazed down at it sightlessly. It was warm from their hands. It was the only warm thing left. Outside, the sky was clear, but an hour ago, a kissing snow of ashes had carefully everywhere descended. This was Houston. The streets below were silent.
He raised the gun and pressed the muzzle to Ivan's forehead. The Russian waited.
Click.
He didn't even sigh. Just passed the revolver back to the other man, and turned his face half towards the window.
The streets of Houston were silent, as they were in New York, DC, Chicago…and Vladivostok, Moscow, and Novgorod. The Middle Eastern oil fields were on fire. He knew most of the other nations were dead.
Ivan brushed a gunmetal kiss behind his ear and pulled the trigger.
Click.
He took the gun with a muttered "thanks" and spun the chamber absently. He heard Ivan pick up his bottle, take a drink.
He couldn't rightly say who might still be alive. He knew Arthur was gone. For decades that thought had sent a cold pulse through his heart, but now he was too tired to care. Ludwig was gone, Feliciano was gone. Francis and Antonio were gone. Kiku had starved to death. So had a number of others. Ivan had reclaimed the eastern bloc near the start of the war, and so Alfred had murdered them himself.
He waited for the Russian to finish his drink, then aimed and fired.
Click.
As he handed the gun back, he asked, "You sure that thing's loaded?"
Ivan chuckled deep in his chest. "Don't worry." He spun the chamber, and the gun went tink…tink…tink as it bounced gently against his bottle. "I wouldn't forget Cuba."
Cuba was not the country. Cuba was what they called the bullet. At one point they had thought it was funny, and America guessed that, on some level, he still did.
Ivan didn't waste time this round: he pushed the gun below the American's ear, pulled the trigger--
--Click--
Then passed the pistol to Alfred and resumed drinking.
It had started as a war over resources--at least, he was pretty sure; a lot of knowledge had been lost in the past forty years, but there had been an energy crisis, right? But things got out of hand. Ivan said America had sent up the first nukes, but Ivan was a lying son of a bitch. Then the other nations pushed their way into it. The EU had ordered immediate, total nuclear disarmament, and had deployed their armies to enforce it. It mostly worked. Only a few nations caught retaliatory warheads
(Arthur)
A dull ember of anger stirred in his chest, and he cocked the gun and took his turn at the trigger with more energy than he'd mustered in quite some time.
Click Click Bang [2/2]
anonymous
February 1 2009, 12:13:57 UTC
Of course, he was the one who had killed Liet, poor Liet, who he had once called his friend--in his sleep, while Russia's attention was elsewhere. So the old bear had just as much right to be angry at him.
Click.
The disarmament had turned out so god damned pointless, that's what really got him. They just went back to more old fashioned weapons, and instead of destroying the world in an afternoon, it had taken fifty years. Now they were down to this.
There might still be survivors. He supposed he hoped there were. But they knew to stay away from Russia and the United States.
Click.
He had been there when Matthew died. That was a rare mercy. His brother had died in his arms, cursing him, and Alfred had closed his eyes for him and whispered an apology in his heart which could never be sufficient.
Click.
Alfred looked up and imagined Russia the way he had once been: pale, immense, always that mixture of placid cunning and sorrowful beauty in his eyes. Not at all like now: now they were rough, crippled, withered things, and even if they had wanted to leave that room, America doubted that they could. He had thought for a long time that Ivan was his opposite, but in the end they had turned out just the same. Bloody bastards who would do anything to survive. America knew by now that there weren't any heroes, and the worst part was that he didn't even care.
The gun roared in his hand like thunder. He screamed in surprise. Russia's vodka bottle rolled away into the dark.
Alfred dropped the pistol and scrambled to Ivan's side. He hesitated before he pushed his hands into the bundle of clothing to find the skeletal body inside. He lifted the Russian into his lap. He was far too light. Wet leaked from his skull and spread across America's thighs.
"Ivan?" he whispered.
There was, of course, no response.
Alfred pressed a hand across his mouth, and felt tears on his cheeks. That was it? No last words? Russia was dead, and it meant nothing? (Well, what had he expected? Not for things to end…never for things to just end.)
He clasped the old bear to his chest, and shook, and perhaps he cried, but he couldn't feel it. At length, Russia's body felt cold in his arms, and a sickly dawn was rising.
He kissed Ivan's blood-wet hair and felt around in his pockets. "If you love me," he whispered, and he didn't know why he said it, or who he was talking to, "If you love me it'll be here."
Yes. Alfred doubled over in gratitude when his fingers closed around a second bullet, hidden in Ivan's clothes. Maybe the Russian had planned to betray him, or maybe he had meant to use it on himself; maybe he had even smuggled it in for Alfred, Alfred didn't care.
He loaded the round and spun the chamber, and pushed the muzzle of the gun beneath his chin.
Writer!anon knows that Russian Roulette is when you take turns at shooting yourself, not the other guy, but this works better for the story, so lemme alone.
Re: Note...
anonymous
February 1 2009, 14:24:34 UTC
'awkward dry sobbing' -- I do that all the time reading Hetalia fics and I had no way to describe it! Now I shall steal that phrase and use it shamelessly in my daily life.
Truly dark-perfect, anon. You've made me a very happy panda. I'm kind of glad Matthew died cursing Alfred (precisely what Canada would do, I believe). That line, "If you love me, if you love me it'll be here" really brought it home. Brilliant and so, so good!!
BRB having your internet-baby. Whether you like it or not!!
They sat on the floor, facing one another. The moon outside the bare window washed their angles in pale milk; otherwise, everything was dark. Russia had a half-empty bottle of vodka at his side. America had one of Jim Beam. They had both taken off their shoes, and spread their coats beneath them on the concrete floor. America's shirt collar was open, and his glasses were gone, discarded somewhere into the murk of the room. He didn't need them, because it was too dark to see anyway, and because the picture he held of Russia in his mind was preferable to the Russia actually before him.
The old bear handed America a revolver and said, "Your turn."
America wrapped his fingers around the grip and gazed down at it sightlessly. It was warm from their hands. It was the only warm thing left. Outside, the sky was clear, but an hour ago, a kissing snow of ashes had carefully everywhere descended. This was Houston. The streets below were silent.
He raised the gun and pressed the muzzle to Ivan's forehead. The Russian waited.
Click.
He didn't even sigh. Just passed the revolver back to the other man, and turned his face half towards the window.
The streets of Houston were silent, as they were in New York, DC, Chicago…and Vladivostok, Moscow, and Novgorod. The Middle Eastern oil fields were on fire. He knew most of the other nations were dead.
Ivan brushed a gunmetal kiss behind his ear and pulled the trigger.
Click.
He took the gun with a muttered "thanks" and spun the chamber absently. He heard Ivan pick up his bottle, take a drink.
He couldn't rightly say who might still be alive. He knew Arthur was gone. For decades that thought had sent a cold pulse through his heart, but now he was too tired to care. Ludwig was gone, Feliciano was gone. Francis and Antonio were gone. Kiku had starved to death. So had a number of others. Ivan had reclaimed the eastern bloc near the start of the war, and so Alfred had murdered them himself.
He waited for the Russian to finish his drink, then aimed and fired.
Click.
As he handed the gun back, he asked, "You sure that thing's loaded?"
Ivan chuckled deep in his chest. "Don't worry." He spun the chamber, and the gun went tink…tink…tink as it bounced gently against his bottle. "I wouldn't forget Cuba."
Cuba was not the country. Cuba was what they called the bullet. At one point they had thought it was funny, and America guessed that, on some level, he still did.
Ivan didn't waste time this round: he pushed the gun below the American's ear, pulled the trigger--
--Click--
Then passed the pistol to Alfred and resumed drinking.
It had started as a war over resources--at least, he was pretty sure; a lot of knowledge had been lost in the past forty years, but there had been an energy crisis, right? But things got out of hand. Ivan said America had sent up the first nukes, but Ivan was a lying son of a bitch. Then the other nations pushed their way into it. The EU had ordered immediate, total nuclear disarmament, and had deployed their armies to enforce it. It mostly worked. Only a few nations caught retaliatory warheads
(Arthur)
A dull ember of anger stirred in his chest, and he cocked the gun and took his turn at the trigger with more energy than he'd mustered in quite some time.
Click.
Reply
Click.
The disarmament had turned out so god damned pointless, that's what really got him. They just went back to more old fashioned weapons, and instead of destroying the world in an afternoon, it had taken fifty years. Now they were down to this.
There might still be survivors. He supposed he hoped there were. But they knew to stay away from Russia and the United States.
Click.
He had been there when Matthew died. That was a rare mercy. His brother had died in his arms, cursing him, and Alfred had closed his eyes for him and whispered an apology in his heart which could never be sufficient.
Click.
Alfred looked up and imagined Russia the way he had once been: pale, immense, always that mixture of placid cunning and sorrowful beauty in his eyes. Not at all like now: now they were rough, crippled, withered things, and even if they had wanted to leave that room, America doubted that they could. He had thought for a long time that Ivan was his opposite, but in the end they had turned out just the same. Bloody bastards who would do anything to survive. America knew by now that there weren't any heroes, and the worst part was that he didn't even care.
The gun roared in his hand like thunder. He screamed in surprise. Russia's vodka bottle rolled away into the dark.
Alfred dropped the pistol and scrambled to Ivan's side. He hesitated before he pushed his hands into the bundle of clothing to find the skeletal body inside. He lifted the Russian into his lap. He was far too light. Wet leaked from his skull and spread across America's thighs.
"Ivan?" he whispered.
There was, of course, no response.
Alfred pressed a hand across his mouth, and felt tears on his cheeks.
That was it? No last words? Russia was dead, and it meant nothing? (Well, what had he expected? Not for things to end…never for things to just end.)
He clasped the old bear to his chest, and shook, and perhaps he cried, but he couldn't feel it. At length, Russia's body felt cold in his arms, and a sickly dawn was rising.
He kissed Ivan's blood-wet hair and felt around in his pockets. "If you love me," he whispered, and he didn't know why he said it, or who he was talking to, "If you love me it'll be here."
Yes. Alfred doubled over in gratitude when his fingers closed around a second bullet, hidden in Ivan's clothes. Maybe the Russian had planned to betray him, or maybe he had meant to use it on himself; maybe he had even smuggled it in for Alfred, Alfred didn't care.
He loaded the round and spun the chamber, and pushed the muzzle of the gun beneath his chin.
Click. Click. Click…
Reply
Reply
Anon, please marry me!
This, this is pure, deliciously dark genius!
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
OHGAWDOHGAWDOHGAWDDDDD!!!!!!!111
WHAT IN THE FRIKKIN' HELL JUST HAPPENED???
Oh shit anonnn!!!!
*dies from the awesome*
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Truly dark-perfect, anon. You've made me a very happy panda. I'm kind of glad Matthew died cursing Alfred (precisely what Canada would do, I believe). That line, "If you love me, if you love me it'll be here" really brought it home. Brilliant and so, so good!!
BRB having your internet-baby. Whether you like it or not!!
Reply
Thanks for the great prompt. I cannot get enough of the "make it fucked up; sex optional" prompts.
Reply
this is so sad, I can't handle it.
Reply
Reply
Personally, I think he's talking to Britannia Angel.
Reply
Leave a comment