Ivan suddenly realized that he had forgotten to blink. A pair of blue eyes, open wide, were staring directly at his purple ones. He fell to his knees, ignoring the sharp pain that contact with the concrete brought.
Just a moment ago, those sky blue orbs had been vibrant and passionate. They had been full of fight and defiance and…
Life.
He flexed his right hand, feeling the weight of the metal faucet pipe in his grip. In the uncomfortable silence of the room, he could hear the casual drip of blood on the floor. From his peripheral vision, he noticed the crimson liquid fill the holes and cracks in the concrete. It was seeping out from under Alfred's blond hair. It almost looked like pasta with tomato sauce, though Mac N' Cheese with Ketchup was more fitting.
It was sick, but he felt as though it was all just a joke. Ivan was holding his breath, waiting for the motionless American to blink, to twitch, to breathe. But he never did. As soon as the Russian realized that the blond would never move again, he blinked.
Tears came to lubricate his eyes and stain his cheeks.
"It seems I won, da?"