“America-kun,” Russia's cloyingly sweet voice halted his steps. “Please don’t go there…yet.” America remained frozen for a few seconds, eyes transfixed on England's form, and then his face twisted. Without any warning, he about-faced on his heel and pounced on Russia-or attempted to, because Russia held up the Makarov right between his eyes. A low growl escaped America’s throat, face contorting in anger and making him look like some sort of trapped wild beast.
“What the fuck did you do to him?”
Russia looked at him innocently, shrugging with one shoulder. “Not much, not yet, anyway. I didn’t touch him, America-kun and I wouldn’t do it either, unless you refuse to cooperate a bit with me.” He put his free hand on America’s shoulder and pushed him into the chair. “I don’t want to hurt either of you, but if you behave like naughty children…” his face turned sad at that.
“Shut the fuck up,” America said, heat evident in his tone. His eyes were darting between the gun and England's figure, face torn between rage and anguish. “Just…out with it, what do you want?”
“Want?” Russia looked surprised at that-then seemed to consider it. “Yes, I suppose that’s what it is, isn’t it?” he posed it as a question but America did not reply. “Well,” Russia continued after a few tense seconds, “I don’t like beating around the bush, America-kun, so I’ll put it into words clearly. Everything,” he stressed on the word, baring his teeth unpleasantly, “is your fault. You set me up here, yes?”
America bristled in the chair, reaching up to grab Russia's hand and crushed it between his fingers. “Get to the point, Russia.” Russia did not flinch.
“You set me up here,” Russia continued, not paying any attention to his fingers in America’s grip or America’s words. “Now I haven’t lost, not yet, but I’m getting there. And I know that I’m losing another-completely different fight as well. You are aware, yes? That my people are breaking away from me? Those nations that are my comrades? That they don’t want me anymore.”
Russia's face was completely wiped of any expression, those eyes completely hidden under light-coloured eyelashes. England shifted uncomfortably. If America was taking Russia lightly, he was going to be sorry later.
“So, what of it?” America asked in a voice that was too calm, and dropped Russia's hand.
“Nothing, my dear friend,” Russia spoke lightly, finger caressing the trigger of his pistol and he made a face. “I’m just saying that you have won. Or you will, in a few years, I suspect. Do not think I’m unaware of the growing hatred against me, and how my own people do not want it anymore and how,” he tapped the tip of the muzzle on America’s brow; “my friends all want to leave me again.”
There was a pause in which England found very hard to breathe.
“I can feel it in my bones, America. How they groan and protest, I feel every bit of my flesh ripping itself apart and leaving me. I can feel vultures picking at my breast, oh yes, I can. Do you think I cannot feel myself rotting away?” Russia's smile was razor sharp. “It’s my body, I know it best.”
“The. Point, Russia. The point? What of it? You’re getting what you deserve-it doesn’t surprise me. You had it coming for a long time.” America was gritting his teeth despite his words, noticed England, but didn’t say anything. Come to think of it, he hadn’t spoken ever since America had come in. He wondered why.
“The point is, America-kun, I’m going to lose this round to you, yes? So before I do, I want to win. And for that, I’ll use whatever I can. Which is this.” He gestured towards England, perplexing him. What in God’s name was he talking about? Did Russia think he could use England as leverage against America?
America stood up, ignoring the gun that was now pressing at the hollow of his throat and stared directly into Russia's eyes-so angry, so very angry. “Cut the bullshit. England has nothing to do with this. It’s between you and me. Leave him out of it.”
“What the fuck did you do to him?”
Russia looked at him innocently, shrugging with one shoulder. “Not much, not yet, anyway. I didn’t touch him, America-kun and I wouldn’t do it either, unless you refuse to cooperate a bit with me.” He put his free hand on America’s shoulder and pushed him into the chair. “I don’t want to hurt either of you, but if you behave like naughty children…” his face turned sad at that.
“Shut the fuck up,” America said, heat evident in his tone. His eyes were darting between the gun and England's figure, face torn between rage and anguish. “Just…out with it, what do you want?”
“Want?” Russia looked surprised at that-then seemed to consider it. “Yes, I suppose that’s what it is, isn’t it?” he posed it as a question but America did not reply. “Well,” Russia continued after a few tense seconds, “I don’t like beating around the bush, America-kun, so I’ll put it into words clearly. Everything,” he stressed on the word, baring his teeth unpleasantly, “is your fault. You set me up here, yes?”
America bristled in the chair, reaching up to grab Russia's hand and crushed it between his fingers. “Get to the point, Russia.” Russia did not flinch.
“You set me up here,” Russia continued, not paying any attention to his fingers in America’s grip or America’s words. “Now I haven’t lost, not yet, but I’m getting there. And I know that I’m losing another-completely different fight as well. You are aware, yes? That my people are breaking away from me? Those nations that are my comrades? That they don’t want me anymore.”
Russia's face was completely wiped of any expression, those eyes completely hidden under light-coloured eyelashes. England shifted uncomfortably. If America was taking Russia lightly, he was going to be sorry later.
“So, what of it?” America asked in a voice that was too calm, and dropped Russia's hand.
“Nothing, my dear friend,” Russia spoke lightly, finger caressing the trigger of his pistol and he made a face. “I’m just saying that you have won. Or you will, in a few years, I suspect. Do not think I’m unaware of the growing hatred against me, and how my own people do not want it anymore and how,” he tapped the tip of the muzzle on America’s brow; “my friends all want to leave me again.”
There was a pause in which England found very hard to breathe.
“I can feel it in my bones, America. How they groan and protest, I feel every bit of my flesh ripping itself apart and leaving me. I can feel vultures picking at my breast, oh yes, I can. Do you think I cannot feel myself rotting away?” Russia's smile was razor sharp. “It’s my body, I know it best.”
“The. Point, Russia. The point? What of it? You’re getting what you deserve-it doesn’t surprise me. You had it coming for a long time.” America was gritting his teeth despite his words, noticed England, but didn’t say anything. Come to think of it, he hadn’t spoken ever since America had come in. He wondered why.
“The point is, America-kun, I’m going to lose this round to you, yes? So before I do, I want to win. And for that, I’ll use whatever I can. Which is this.” He gestured towards England, perplexing him. What in God’s name was he talking about? Did Russia think he could use England as leverage against America?
America stood up, ignoring the gun that was now pressing at the hollow of his throat and stared directly into Russia's eyes-so angry, so very angry. “Cut the bullshit. England has nothing to do with this. It’s between you and me. Leave him out of it.”
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