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09 December 2009 @ 02:18 am
holy shit we rp hetalia now pt. 2  
Characters: America & Russia
Fandom: Hetalia
Timeline: A few days after the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagaski, during the Cold War.

a l f r e d :It all sorta happened way too fast. Russia had gone off on one of his insane rants and America tried to tune him out, tried hard not to listen, but when he brought Canada, Matthew, his brother into it, then it all got out of control. He tensed, about to open his mouth to yell that Ivan would not bring Matthew into this. This was between them, his brother had nothing to do with it, nor would he allow him to be dragged into it as long as he could help it. Sure, it always seemed like America didn't really care about his brother but, in all reality, he did and he knew the soft spoken and entirely too gentle Matthew could not handle Russia. And that just wasn't fair, was it? No. But when was it ever? Strong preyed on the weak, it was the order of things, so it wasn't any surprise to America when Russia had threatened to hurt his brother. Russia liked to covet the weak and lie to himself and call it love.

He tensed when he feels his gun being pulled out of his holster and he reaches out to snatch it back but only ended up shoved onto the ground with the older nation pinning him down. He shoved his knee into Ivan's stomach, the raw hatred and anger sparking in his eyes as the gun was shoved to his head, as Russia laughed, the strange choking, sob-like sounds. He doesn't cry though, because the older nation never cried, ever. America did, though he wasn't really one to cry in front of people. He needed to be tough and maintain that image, especially now, so crying and sadness was definitely out. But right now, in this moment with Russia telling him that he was not going to leave, with the barrel of his own gun pressed to his forehead, he felt many emotions running through him. Sadness, hurt, anger, want, lust, need, love. Yes, love, and maybe it showed on his face, maybe it was really what he thought he was passing off for hatred and anger.

His fucked up, jealous sort of love. It was what he kept locked up, something he didn't talk about or what to think about.

It used to be pure once. What happened? Ah, right.

This happened. This Russia.

His glare softened, much to his dismay, and he grit his teeth as he felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple. He didn't move, just continued staring up at Russia, letting the long gap of silence fill between them before he finally said, "You are the problem, Ivan."

I don't want to leave. I love you. Love me like I love you. No, no, those thoughts wouldn't do any good, they weren't allowed. He had to push them back because they would just get him in another mess, Russia would probably even killed him if he said it, if it showed on his face.

"I have to leave and you know why. You're too blind to fucking see it, though," he sneers. "We're different, you believe in too many things that I don't, you're doing too many things that I'm against. And you knew it, too, you knew it all along, didn't you?" he wants to squirm, wants to scream at Ivan to get off of him but he doesn't. Instead he stays stock still, swallowing back the trembles and tremors and tears.

"I'm sure you did. Otherwise you wouldn't be shoving it in my face like you have been for the past couple of years." he wants to go on, bitch about how fucked up Ivan is, how fucked up his sense of love and justice and pride is, but he bites his lower to choke it all back. It'll come up eventually, he was sure.

ivan russia d:He just keeps on smiling the whole time America stays under him, America isn't blank, but he isn't terrified. The nation stands strong, just like Russia stands strong, and that makes him laugh--how alike their reactions to each other were. They had different principles, they argued over such things as politics and religion, petty little things that somehow made a person because it defined how they thought.

That was just it though, it didn't define how they thought because they thought exactly the same.

It was just, Russia had a different way of doing things.

It was just, Russia had been around longer.

It was just, Russia didn't have time for the dreams that America had.

And that, his dreams, his hopes, all of that made him naive technically; but he wasn't a child. No, the beautiful thing was that he had all this after enduring the wars, after Engalnd, after...

He breathed in, thinking about this, staring at America's blue eyes, a common color--a color that he had seen on many of the other nations, on many other evil people. Yes, there was a story behind those eyes, but there was also a spark. It was spark that was in many other nations, it was what made the nations beautiful, they had their own thoughts and ideas that made them different. But America, America was strange and different and fascinating...

Which was why Russia thought he was simply beautiful, there was no evil, there was no evil yet.

And that scared Russia.

Because America was just like him.

Nobody, nobody deserved to end up like Russia.
Which causes Russia to shake a bit, shake as he's still pinning down America and shake as America kicks a knee into his stomach--shake with laughter, and those choked sobs and he has a broken smile on his face. And he can't stop shaking, shaking in all these different ways and he knows how vulnerable he looks and yet he also knows how much he scares America right now, and that's the beauty of it.

But he still has that gun pointed to his forehead, to America's throat, he's gone over everywhere as if trying to figure out where it would hurt America the most.

"I am the problem, I am the problem but so are you. What are you going to do without me? Oh, you won't be helpless and you're have your glory. But then you'll be all alone again, you're like me--me." Russia presses against America's body, letting the gun guide his way through America's body, letting the gun touch America because that's exactly how Russia was right now--the touch of death, the touch of a cold, heartless gun.

"You'll die or worse run back to England or any other nation--you can't survive alone America, you can't survive and you run back to everyone, asking for favors and one day--they're not going to repay you with anything. There will be nothing and even worse, you'll end up like me America. Me, and that makes you cringe, that makes you sick because that's what you want? You want to be different, so you try to hard and you do...you...you push me away...and then...then..."

He shakes, he laughs more and while he climbs off of America--he does the worst thing he's done this whole visit--points the gun at his own neck, his own skin because America's touch, America's words, everything was just that cold and heartless like a gun.

"And then..."

His voice trails off and he's smiling, he's smiling with a gun pointed to his own neck. "I don't want you to end up like me, you're lost with me, everyone is...everyone..."

"But..." He's not shaking anymore, the nation is completely stoic, completely rigid, knows exactly what he's doing. "If you insist."

a l f r e d :He can feel the other nation trembling above him and it almost makes him break, almost makes him slip and allow his own shivers to wrack his spine. He doesn't though, he just feels the weird lump in his throat grow and he gets that stupid god damn urge to reach up and touch Russia, to hug him, something. He hated it, he hated the look on Ivan's face, it was too vulnerable and too broken and it screamed of pain and of things of the past and yet there was some twisted, dark sort of light in his eyes, too. He was so much like a kid that it hurt America. America was childish, too, sure, but not childish in the way Russia was. Russia wanted and needed so many things and he demanded them, and he got them one way or another, though he would never see it that way. He would think of it was that's what the other person wanted to, that they wanted to be happy with him, not that he just wanted a glimmer of happiness for himself. After so many years of torment and torture and pain and war and love and heart ache, he was bound to snap, wasn't he?

And America was going to end up just like this because they were too alike.

It scared him to no end, it left him flinching away from Russia as he felt the cool caress of his metal gun on his skin, his body, yet he continued to stare up into Ivan's face, into the frightening and yet beautiful violet eyes. He doesn't flinch when he feels the older nation press closer to him, just keeps his knee firmly planted into Russia's stomach, the only barrier between them. And he replies, voice surprisingly calm and steady, "I can survive." because I have the will to but he doesn't say it. "I can, even if no one is around to help me because like hell will I ever be under the control of someone again. I don't care if no one is there to help, if I have no one to rely on," he's whispering it again, through his teeth, and he grins, "I've been alone all my life. I won't be like you because I know how to survive on my own, I know how to adjust to loneliness." nd then he laughs, as if it's some sort of joke and he reaches up pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead, fingers gripping onto his blonde hair.

No one likes you when they can't capture you, parade you around and declare that they own you.

The laugh chokes off into a sob.

"I won't ever be like you and yes, the idea does make me sick," he says it with such vehemence and the tears are starting to well in his eyes and he has no idea why. Maybe because the idea of becoming like Russia, of becoming everything that he never wanted to be was entirely too much to handle His body is just a bundle of nerves right now and everything is coming out at once, words, tears, laughter, shudders. And he's sitting up now, staring up at Russia, the thin, cruel smile painting across his lips as he watches the older nation press the gun to his own neck. How funny.

"It would end everything, wouldn't?" Don't do that, put that down, I love you, iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou. Why can't you see it? "It would be stupid, too, and that's just like you to make stupid, catastrophic mistakes, Russia. Just like me, too." he pulls himself to his feet. He was going insane in this house, he needed to leave, to get out, he was already starting to say idiotic things. Soon, before he knew it, he'd probably be sobbing to the other nation about how much he wanted him and how he didn't want to leave and that just wouldn't be okay.

"Do it if you have the courage," he hisses. "Otherwise, give me my gun back." his words are cold and cruel and yet he's still crying, still trembling. He's holding out his hand for the gun, staring at Russia, when all he really wants to do is touch him, hug him, kiss him, maybe.

Yeah. A kiss would be nice.

But they can't go back to what they used to be.

ivan russia d: Russia laughs, laughs as he lowers the gun--but he doesn't hand it over to America, instead he points the gun right at America's own hands--cocking it once. "If you call me a coward again, I'll shoot your hands and then cut it off and feed it to the dogs." See, another scary thing is that Russia all said this in an even, childish tone, just as Russia would have said: "I love you."

"I'm not a coward. Nations? Guns and all this nonsense doesn't work with us. Sure we're people, but we're not human. Silly America, we don't die anyway. Shooting myself will be like nuking myself, just like if I shot you."

He shot the gun.

Of course, he misses America on purpose, shooting the window right past his head and laughs more. Russia's hand trembles though, he hated war, he hated fighting, he hated it so so so much. He didn't get the sick and twisted joy that everyone else did when they had that power, when they had that thrill of war. Oh no, he didn't use violence for his own sick enjoyment.

But he was not a coward.

"I suppose you're right though, about all my stupid and catostrophic mistakes. But with all our mistakes, our people grow stronger, we grow stronger, our stories grow stronger. And that's why, that's why we're so powerful. It's because we're not cowards, and we don't think of anything as stupid and catastrophic mistakes--we do it for our people, we do it for other nations even; no matter what the outcome is." He smirks, he smirks and runs a hand through his hair, while pressing the gun to his head now.

"Do you know what this would do America? Do you? I wouldn't die, I would put my people in danger, I would put you at a so called victory. And your people would be happy, but in the end you'll be guilty and you'll put on that egotistical, sickening head of yours on and your eyes would get dark, and your nation would get dark. Then, then when my people come back--you would be helpless because with one simple pull of a trigger, with one single declare of war you would be at my mercy by this time."

Russia laughs, but he doesn't tremble, he doesn't cry he just laughs at his own sick plan. Then his eyes narrow, his eyes narrow and stare right at America. He cocks the gun once more and presses it against America's chin, pinning him down to the wall, the wall right next to window he just shot open as if it a reminder that he knew what he was doing if it was for all the wrong reasons.
"Now what if I shot you...what if..." He presses the gun against his lips, whispering in his ear, "What if I shot you...? That would be interesting...huh?"

"Then maybe...you can understand...you can understand just what it feels like, because you haven't been through everything, but with one, simple pull of the trigger I can make you go through everything anyone has ever put me through. And I'll make sure I'm the one to do it..."

But instead of shooting the gun, he pulls America closer to him and kisses him sharply, hard, needing, wanting, pouring all of his twisted emotions right into the other nation. And he laughs, he laughs while he's kissing him and pulls away, eyes sparkling as he still holds Alfred at gunpoint.

"Maybe I will."

a l f r e d : America felt another shiver want to wrack his body at Russia's words, more at his tone than his words, really. He doesn't even move and he's not sure if he's stopped crying yet, he can't really feel the tears, he was never really even able to feel them after the Revolutionary War, anyways. But he could feel pain and he could feel sadness and that was the beauty of it. He wasn't numb, yet, he was still alive and he was still this happy little sun spot that irked other nations. Just how can he be so happy? Half of it was faked, most of it was real. It was just his style, just like it was to keep brave in times of danger, to never back down and never surrender. It was stupid and reckless and dangerous but that's how he was and that's how he had survived for so long.

He had faith in himself. Most of the time. That was something most nations lacked, faith and trust. In themselves, in others.

He didn't flinch when Russia pulled the trigger and a bullet went whizzing past him, just pulled his hand back because it was obvious he was not getting his gun back. He had a trust that Russia wouldn't have shot him, he could have, and he didn't, and that was the beauty of having blind faith and dumb luck. It would also, most likely, be his down fall one day. But he didn't want to think of that right now, not when his downfall could be oh-so-close, with Russia waving a gun, his gun, around. Yes, it would be just a simple shot the leg or the foot or maybe even his chest, some vital area, that would call off this war that wasn't really a war. And he hadn't ever really gave death a thought, he was too optimistic for that and that was dark stuff, things he didn't want to wade through.

"But you can't break me like they did with you," he says when the gun is pushed to his chin, when he's shoved back against the wall. He tilts his head up, almost as if he's making it easier for Russia to slip the gun underneath, and he gives another mocking smile.

"Oh, I'm sure you'd love to do that, Russia, Ivan-" he was always saying his name with a cruel, teasing ring to it now"-you'd love to be the one to try and break me because you just can't stand that I'm not yours, can't stand that I still have all this faith and happiness that you don't have anymore." and then his words are cut off and he shivers violently as he feels the other nations lips against his. He doesn't squirm away though, or break the kiss, instead he's kissing back with harsh, painful kisses of his own, pushing his lust and greed and anger into them as he did so. He doesn't know why, but he does, and he doesn't care. He hates Ivan right now, he loves him and hates him and so many other things.

"Will you?" he asks, almost innocently, grabbing Russia's wrist in a bruising grip and shoving him back onto the ground, gaining back some control. "Could you?" he smiles, one of his usual, bright smiles, before slamming his foot into the older nations stomach.

"Well, alright," like an open invitation, a you can come and get me if you're that daring. And then he bolts, because he can't handle being in the house anymore, being around Russia, the swell of emotions and fears that came with it and that was making him crazy and sick. He's running through the snow without his coat and he can't feel the cold and he knows he should feel it but he doesn't. Instead he's just running as fast as he can, losing himself amongst the trees and the snow and the cold. It was a stupid idea.

But he was a stupid boy.

ivan russia d:Russia stops laughing, instead the only thing he knows is that America left him, he left [i]his house and that just doesn't work--oh no no, NO. He would not, he would not left America leave him, so instead he grins and runs after America. It was okay, he was just as stupid as the other nation sometimes, it was okay if America wanted to play a little game with him because Russia likes to play games as well.

Plus, it's winter.

Feeling the cold against your skin, for Russia it meant home, it meant familiarity. It had to be Russian cold because no other nation had the cold like Russia did. No, Russia dominated here, Russia had home here, Russia knew what it was like here.

He can hear footsteps by the time he reaches the forest (America was faster then him, but America had no idea where he was going, Russia knew where everything was), he knows exactly whose footsteps they are. He just knows, he can hear the running, he can hear the pants, he knows and he thrives on the sound of America.

He smirks, turning to a tree not too far off, and he stands still on the other side of it. He stands still and waits for America, because he wasn't here yet--but he was going to turn back, he was going to feel bad and he was going to come back. His plan was not to get out of the forest though, because then Russia would find him.

Yes, he knew America all too well.

Still, he hears the footsteps of America and hears him edging closer to the tree and moves quickly, pinning him down to the snow, inserting the gun straight into his mouth without letting him speak, without letting him cry or do anything for himself, for them and he grins.

"Got you. Now, can you stay still for me or are you going to try leaving me again? I will shoot you if do so much as budge."

And this time, he would.

"When I let this gun out of your mouth...you're not going to leave, you're going to stay still, you can talk but you can't move, because if you do then you lose, then I shoot you."

a l f r e d : Oh, the mess he had gotten himself into. This was going to be the kind of mess that he couldn't get out of and that he had no one but himself to blame. He should have shut up but shutting up was never his strong point, he always liked to talk big. But he could play big, too, it wasn't like he couldn't back up his claims, but with Russia.. Well, this was supposed to be a settling their differences meeting, not a mental break downs everywhere, fucked up game of tag kind of meeting. But what else was he expecting, he knew coming into it that he probably wouldn't settle anything with Russia, that one of them would snap and it would just end on a bad note. But he didn't really imagine it would be this bad, but he never, ever thought about the consequences of his actions or of his words, he didn't have time to think of that. He only had time to think about his country, his people, their safety. Never mind that he had rushed into this terrible decision because he wanted to get out while he could, before he made even more terrible mistakes.

One couldn't blame him, he had had a gun pointed to him, had been threatened.

Most people, though, would try to stay and talk it out, to smooth things over, but not America.

He didn't have time to cry out when he felt himself shoved onto the ground by Russia, barely even had time to catch his breath before the cool barrel of his pistol was shoved into his mouth. His tongue snapped back, as if assaulted by the metallic taste, and he stared up at Russia, feeling a bloom of panic rise in his stomach, clench at his chest. It didn't show on his face, though, he tried to keep calm but if Ivan were to look, he would see the raw fear in his eyes and a spark of animosity, too, as if he weren't going to give up just yet. His eyes always gave him away. And he was trying to tell himself that he didn't feel bad for hurting the older man, that he didn't turn back, that he had gotten lost and simply wound up in this position. He was such a mess and he wanted to blame Russia but he could only blame himself, really. He was the one who had fallen in love and he was the one who was jealous and angry and a million other things. His emotions had gotten the better of him and now they were going to get him seriously, seriously hurt.

He doesn't move, though, he's good at listening when he wants to be. Instead he just stares up at Russia, trying to clear his mind and think of something logical, reasonable that he could say. But there was nothing he could say to the other nation, nothing that would snap him out of this and let America go home unharmed. He would twist his words some how, some way, and get angry or upset, it's just how he was. And America was never really good at backing down in the face of danger, at not saying things that wouldn't get him in over his head.

He could try, he supposed, he could play good but Russia knew how to push his buttons just like he knew how to push Russia's. It was an endless cycle.

ivan russia d: Russia removed the gun out of his mouth, but again didn't give America time to say anything, instead he just held him by the hair and kissed him. He doesn't sto kissing him, because this was different then the kiss he gave the nation earlier. This was the kind of kiss that meant something, the kind that told America; I love you, I love you, I love you. It was the kind of kiss Russia would give him when he went off and said something stupid, said something stupid that made the older nation laugh.

But then he pulled away, he blinked at America lifelessly, still holding the gun in his hand. But right now, for the next five seconds he was a fragile man, he was a fragile, insane man with little choices in his mind. There wasn't anything Russia could do, he realized America was going to fall to his own demise sooner or later, that America was going to end up just like him and that he can't let him go.

He wouldn't.

He was meant to lead America to his own demise.
He blinks once more, and pins him to the ground (significantly lighter then all the rest of the times, Russia was planning now, he wasn't simply going insane, no Russia had a plan now to get America where he wanted him). "I'm not letting you go." And there it was, the whisper and broken grin they had started with, some of the last words Russia said to America when they had a relationship. They were the words that Russia whispered into his ear while America was waking up, they were the words that scared America, they were the words that started everything bad.

"You're going to be difficult, aren't you?" Russia ran his hands through America's hair, stared at his blue eyes--his eyes, they were so different, they made Russia's heart ache if his heart could ache anymore. "You don't have to be difficult...~"

He inserts the gun back in America's mouth, slowly, giving him time to protest, while letting his lips linger on the edge of his neck--waiting...

a l f r e d : He doesn't react to the kiss for a moment, instead just lays in the snow and let's Russia kiss him, like those old kisses they used to have, the ones he missed. The ones he had been wanting earlier. He hesitantly kisses back, just one or two little kisses, as if to say, sorry, I'm sorry. But it doesn't work like that. Things couldn't be fixed with kisses and hugs and declarations of love, even if they were true. No, that's just how the world was and he knew that's how it was. He wanted to change it but he was just one man, a powerful nation, sure, but his dreams of changing the world were slowly being crushed as Russia's lips lingered on his, as he kissed back. He was so stupid and disgusting that it truly frightened him. He grinned into the kiss, as a sad sort of laugh bubbled in his throat and died on his tongue. He hadn't ever really stopped to think that one man could take him down so easily, one love, one hate, one relationship.

Oh, America was so weak in that moment. He hated it so much, he hated himself for what he was doing, for giving up and not bothering to struggle like he should have been doing. That's not how he was but he didn't know what else to do. He had to keep his country safe, didn't he? And besides, maybe Russia would let him go, maybe they could just forget this ever happened or... But he was being idealistic again, he wasn't thinking realistically. The reality of it was that he wasn't getting out of this, that he had fucked up by listening to England and showing up on Russia's doorstep. Russia was right, he shouldn't have listened to England. But he really had hoped things would work out.

He doesn't say anything when Russia whispered about not letting him go, it was just words he had been hearing all night, the words that had drove him to leave Ivan in the first place. Instead he just blinks up at him, the smoldering anger and self loathing in his eyes, presses his lips together against the spew of words that wanted to come out. Oh no no no, those were bad and those would get him no where, he still had a tiny sliver of hope that he could get out of this "tight spot". So he would play along, even though part of him was screaming that he was being stupid, that he should just give up while the other part was driving him to continue to believe in that string of hope.

"You wouldn't like me if I was anything else." he says and there's no emotion or tone or anything to his voice. He says it just kind of blankly as the realization that something very bad was going to happen in the next moment dawned on him. He can't say anything else, though, he can't plead with the other nation, can't laugh or cry or anything, the gun's back in his mouth. He smiles a bit, staring at the gun for a moment before sighing.

He closes his eyes against the sensation of Russia brushing his lips across his neck, against the falling snow, against the world.

Maybe this was always meant to be his downfall.-
It scared him that he was so accepting of it, that he still had that blind faith that he would be okay, that he could get out of it, that he still loved Russia. It scared him, made him quiver slightly, against the snow, against the other man.

ivan russia d:He blinks once, that's all, he just blinks once and slides the gun out of the other nation's mouth. He's only pinning him down by one shoulder, he smiles because now it's guranteed that America wasn't going to go anywhere, America wasn't going to leave him now. He leans into him, kissing his neck, once, twice and so much that he becomes intoxicated in it.

It almost hurts to pull away, just to speak, he didn't know his need for the other nation to be with him was this big and that such a thing could hurt so much.

"I love you, I love you no matter what you're like. Which is why you have to be with me, which is why everything I'm going to do right now is because I love you, is because I want to protect you, because when you know what your fate is going to be just as well as I do." The emotion is pouring back into his faith, the genuine care that he had for America, the reason he was doing this.

"But, it'll be better this way...for us, for you...for...us..." His voice trails off, his voice is cut off, his voice lingers there for a moment and he gives America one more kiss, very similar to the kiss they had the very first time they met--the very first time they fell in love.

I love you.

And he shot America, right there, right in the head, no hesitations.

The gunshot could be heard throughout the forest, he's pretty sure the nations living in his house wanted to know what it was, but of course they were too scared to do such a thing. They would be too scared once they had seen what he had done, everyone.

Of course, Russia is smiling as he did it too, as he watches America fall, he even leans down to kiss him right before his eyes shut, right before the nation supposedly dies...
Oh, but he's not dead. He'll come back, his whole nation clueless, maybe America wouldn't remember anything, maybe he would remember everything. But his whole nation is clueless without him, they are lost, they have no idea what to do without Alfred. This is quite okay though, because Russia knew what to do with it, Russia knew what to do with America, Ivan knew what to do with Alfred--how to make everything right again.

"Come on, you're going to be one with me now America~ We can share a bed, we can live together, I would like that, I think you can get used to it..."

He keeps his eyes closed, his lips moving in a wordless prayer, to the God that he so highly believed in, to the one he was fighting against those commie bastards with. He was praying for his safety, for his nations safety, he had no idea why, though. But he couldn't stop the sickening fear that was beginning to creep into him, especially when Russia pulls away, especially when he begins to speak. He stops his prayers, he opens his eyes, and he stares up at him quietly, hoping, praying, that this was it. That he would be let go, that he could go home to his people, to the ones he so loved and cherished and took care of. The ones he never wanted to let down. But it was too late for that, he had let down his nation by giving into Russia, by not struggling and fighting, the American way.

"Russia... Ivan," there was no cruel conviction in his voice this time, just a desperate plea, the voice of a scared little boy, and he whispers it, "don't." he doesn't kiss back, he just smiles, almost sadly, as he watches the gun being raised. And he reaches up, almost as if he's going to push Ivan's hand away, but he doesn't, it's too late for that. He feels his head snap back, feels his hand drop into the cold, cold freezing snow, and he exhales, eyes fluttering close. He feels the blood trickling down his forehead, but even more, he feels it. He feels that the core of America, that Washington DC, is gone. The white house, the pentagon, the president, the vice president, everything that his nation needed to keep their head, to keep calm. And he feels the buildings burn, crumble, disintegrate. He feels the people within that area disappear into the blinding white light, and then those around it... He feels their searing pain, he feels their panic and horror and he shudders with his, he convulses with it and he screams. It's one that rings through the forest, one that rings in his own ears, one that no one will hear except himself, Ivan, and the others within Ivan's house.

And then the silence that follows is the silence that sweeps the nation. It takes a few minutes, no one knows what's going on, they're panicking -"was that a bomb? it was. oh my God." But god wasn't there to help them, God wasn't there to stop the bomb, God. wasn't. there.-, but then it begins to cut across every t.v. station, every radio station, an emergency broadcast of what had happened, that they were under attack, that Washington DC was just now barren waste land. And he can feel the fear of his nation, he can feel their absolute raw and pure terror and it surges through him, makes him shiver. They're screaming, he wants to scream with them. They're running, they don't know what to do, they're lost and he's lost. He can't help them, he has failed his nation. His fear, the one thing he had always fought and strove against, came true just in one single moment.

And he couldn't save them. He could have done so many things to prevent it and he didn't.

He doesn't move for a few more moments as he feels the wound, the hole, disappear and then, he opens his eyes. They flutter open and he feels the tears stinging his eyes as he reaches up to press the palm of his hand against his forehead, as if it would do anything, as if it would save his people. He doesn't move, only stares up at Russia blankly, numbly, wondering if anyone would come to save him. But why would they? No one liked him after all and he was the monster who had let the destruction of his own country happen, it was all his fault, anyways. No, no one would come and save him. Everyone would sit back and laugh and watch as his nation falls apart.

He sits up and doesn't say a word, just stares down at the blood stained snow, hands fluttering down to touch it then jerking back, as if he were afraid. And he was, he was terrified. Of Russia, of Ivan, of himself, of what would become of him now.

"Oh my god." is the only thing he can whisper, hand going up to press against his forehead again. But there was no god with him tonight, there was no god out in the forest, it was just him and the man he once loved.


*Probably could have figured this out through reading, but just to clarify: YES, Russia and America did have a relationship and then they broke up and BAM Cold War.
*America has been taken into Russia's house TO BECOME ONE WITH THE MOTHERLAND as a prisoner of sorts. This means that the entire country of the US is under Russia's control. As you probably figured...
*Something we decided was that when their bodies are injured fatally [basically meaning: IT SHOULD HAVE KILLED THEM. JUSTSAYING.] then it's like a bomb to their country. Depending on where they're injured is where the bomb is dropped. So, America shot in the head = bomb in DC. I decided this because a) shot in the head = north and b) the mind = the core and DC is the core of America. Just like Russia said, it's like NUKIN' YOSELF.
*There's still love between them, l-lol.