Rating: T
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
A sharp pain exploded in America's shoulder. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping, praying, that if he squeezed them tight enough, he'd wake up and it would all just be a nightmare. Another sharp pain, this time in his ribs. Make that night terror...
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
He bit his lip. He should of ripped up those tickets to Siberia that Russia had given him for his birthday. I won't cry! He told himself, so he held back the hot tears. Cold, leather-gloved fingers roughly grabbed him by his chin, jerking his head up to look through cracked spectacles and blurred vision into lavender irises.
"? ? ? ?, ?" Came the silver haired man nearly purred in a thick Russian accent, gently laying the lead faucet pipe right above the American's temple.
America gave the Russian a rye smile, "Can't answer you if I don't know what the Hell you're saying." He spat.
A deep, rumbling chuckle. Pain ravaged America's every nerve and his vision disapeared in a bright flash. He heard himself yelp and he felt the blood trickle down from his forehead over his nose, lips, and chin, then down to his white dress shirt, staining it a deep mahagony.
"Now your shirt is as red as the stripes on your damned flag, comrade." Russia cooed.
America was shaking violently. He felt sick, but he resolved to hold on to his diginity. The sick Russian bastard wasn't going to defeat him. The chilly curve of the pipe gently touched the American's cheek. He squirmed against the thick ropes. He could hear and feel the rope rubbing against his arms, weathering down his precious, now blood stained bomber jacket.
"? ? ? ?, ?" Came the thick Russian accent again. He accentuated his words by gently stroking the American's bruised cheek with the pipe.
Another smirk played across the American's lips, "English, please? Or can your simply commie mind not handle that?".
A sharp leather-enforced slap was delivered by Russia. America looked at him, his smirk still held in place (if only just barely). Smug cerulean eyes locked onto narrowed lavender eyes.
"I'm growing impatient, America. I'm unpleasent when I'm angry." He snarled.
"You're unpleasant even when content." Came America's rebuttal.
The Russian chuckled, a cruel smirk gently slid across his pale lips. Once agian, cold, leather-gloved fingers grasped the American's chin. Though the contact was much milder, much more gentle, then previous endevors, it sent a sick feeling plummeting into America's stomache.