He was not expecting that punch. It hit him squarely in the jaw, loosening a tooth or two and smacked his head against the wall behind him. Dots filled his vision as a new swelling formed on the back of his head.
“Lying is bad, England,” Russia chided him, shaking his head disapprovingly. Then he reached out to cup his jaw, fingering the bruise he had just created there and England saw how torn his fingers were, too and despite everything, felt pity swell somewhere in his chest for a split-second. Russia was a mess. And they-he and America-were the ones who landed him in it. It was Russia's fault to begin with, though. Yet, England felt that maybe it wasn’t so much Russia's fault this time around. Just maybe.
Those fingers shook as they ghosted over England's clammy skin and the violet eyes clouded over with pain and sorrow. “Why?” he asked in a miserable voice. “Why did you do these things to me, England? Why are you helping these-these people against me. I’m not fighting you, am I? I didn’t even do anything this time. They asked for my help, and I gave them to him-because they are comrades. Is that so bad that he must use such underhanded tactics?”
“Yes,” England hissed out. “You are fighting us. Because you are too greedy and want to take over the world-” Fingers clamped over his mouth brutally and squeezed until his teeth hurt.
“I don’t want to take over the world.” Russia tilted his face just a bit and stared right into his eyes. “I want everyone to become one with me.”
“Mmph!” England struggled against Russia's hold, wanting to scream that it was the same thing no matter how he worded it. The fingers dug into his lips and cheeks, opening his mouth forcefully and pressing so hard it hurt.
“It’s he who wants to take over the world.”
Bullshit, he thought. He could not voice it though as he was groaning in pain.
“But you know,” Russia's voice slipped back into his usual lilt again and he removed his fingers. “I can also use underhanded tricks. I can use his weakness against him.”
England stared at him, appalled. Russia always used such low moves, so that wasn’t new. However, he wasn’t aware when Russia got hold of America’s weakness-that even he didn’t know about.
“Do you not see?” Russia gestured with his hands and spoke slowly, as if speaking to a child. When England could not figure out whatever was so obvious according to Russia, the taller man shook his head, seemingly disappointed. “You will see very soon, then.” He flashed him a solemn smile and turned away.
England watched with growing unease in his stomach as Russia walked to his bed, a definite limp in his gait, and bent down-with some difficulty. He reached out with his long hands and pulled a trunk out from underneath the bed. Dusting it with his hands, he opened it with a key he had procured from a pocket of his coat and swung the lid open. England had to crane his neck in order to see the contents and when he could, his face drained of colour and his stomach dropped to his knees.
“Lying is bad, England,” Russia chided him, shaking his head disapprovingly. Then he reached out to cup his jaw, fingering the bruise he had just created there and England saw how torn his fingers were, too and despite everything, felt pity swell somewhere in his chest for a split-second. Russia was a mess. And they-he and America-were the ones who landed him in it. It was Russia's fault to begin with, though. Yet, England felt that maybe it wasn’t so much Russia's fault this time around. Just maybe.
Those fingers shook as they ghosted over England's clammy skin and the violet eyes clouded over with pain and sorrow. “Why?” he asked in a miserable voice. “Why did you do these things to me, England? Why are you helping these-these people against me. I’m not fighting you, am I? I didn’t even do anything this time. They asked for my help, and I gave them to him-because they are comrades. Is that so bad that he must use such underhanded tactics?”
“Yes,” England hissed out. “You are fighting us. Because you are too greedy and want to take over the world-” Fingers clamped over his mouth brutally and squeezed until his teeth hurt.
“I don’t want to take over the world.” Russia tilted his face just a bit and stared right into his eyes. “I want everyone to become one with me.”
“Mmph!” England struggled against Russia's hold, wanting to scream that it was the same thing no matter how he worded it. The fingers dug into his lips and cheeks, opening his mouth forcefully and pressing so hard it hurt.
“It’s he who wants to take over the world.”
Bullshit, he thought. He could not voice it though as he was groaning in pain.
“But you know,” Russia's voice slipped back into his usual lilt again and he removed his fingers. “I can also use underhanded tricks. I can use his weakness against him.”
England stared at him, appalled. Russia always used such low moves, so that wasn’t new. However, he wasn’t aware when Russia got hold of America’s weakness-that even he didn’t know about.
“Do you not see?” Russia gestured with his hands and spoke slowly, as if speaking to a child. When England could not figure out whatever was so obvious according to Russia, the taller man shook his head, seemingly disappointed. “You will see very soon, then.” He flashed him a solemn smile and turned away.
England watched with growing unease in his stomach as Russia walked to his bed, a definite limp in his gait, and bent down-with some difficulty. He reached out with his long hands and pulled a trunk out from underneath the bed. Dusting it with his hands, he opened it with a key he had procured from a pocket of his coat and swung the lid open. England had to crane his neck in order to see the contents and when he could, his face drained of colour and his stomach dropped to his knees.
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