So, this is my first 'real' fanfic... Its Hetalia based... Cold War, in fact. So, pretty much read and review. I'm tired of all the CW fics being yoai and all that. So, I created this. Enjoy!
Two figures stood back to back in the center of a field. They are opposites. A startling contrast. White and black. Good and evil. Dark and Light. Fire and ice. Yet something about them is similar. They are, in a way, alike.
One step each. A pace. Rugged blonde hair, sky blue eyes. A worn leather flight jacket hung off the man's wiry frame. Glasses with cracked lenses covered those blue eyes. Those sky blue eyes that once held so much life and joy. Now, they are dull. Lifeless.
Two steps. The other is stocky, tall and broad-boned. Silver blonde hair covers stunning violet-blue eyes. A long, tan jacket covers his frame, save for the black military boots and light red scarf. A lead water pipe dangles limply from one hand, tinged crimson.
Third. This is but another day. Another chance to break or save the other. To strip him of the freedom he loved so much. To save him from his own evil ways because, God dammit, it's the hero's job.
Four steps apart, now. Not all wars are fought on the battle field. Not all wars need the bloodshed and death and terror that came with it. Unlike others, this was a battle on wit alone. Of cunningness. Patience. Surveillance and espionage are the key.
Five steps. Still not stopping. All eyes were on them. These two enemies that simply waited. It had gone on for so long. For too long, in some minds. For the sake of the world, it needed to end.
Six steps. America was always so happy. So full of life. Now, after these long years, he seemed tired. Worn. So different than before. But it was the job of a hero. He had to wait. Wait and win. At all cost.
Seventh. Truthfully, Russia was jealous. Jealous of his opponents life. His family, his father figure. Something the Northern nation never really had. A cold caretaker. Sisters that either worshiped him, or were not allowed to visit. Nations feared Russia. All but one.
Eight. Two to go. There is an exception to every rule. To every event. For Russia, that exception is the blonde-haired, blue-eyed hero. He refused to back down. Where others crumbled before the northern nation, America stood up to him. Had the courage to mock him.
Nine steps. For all their rivalries, the nations of America and Russia didn't mind each other. For America, it was a want - a need - to save the other. For Russia, it was, more or less, a game. They were evenly matched. No use fighting if two were so alike. Now, it was merely a game.
Ten steps. In the silence, a bell tolled midnight. America reached into his jacket, drawing a pistol. An old colt revolver. Russia made the same motion, retrieving the same object. It was practiced, almost. Routine. At the exact same time, the fifth toll, they spun. Facing each other. Two shots rang out.
Neither fell.
For a moment, blue eyes lit up. He cracked a small smile.
"Fooled you, Russki."
"Da, Amerika."
Our game continues.