Just a few minutes ago, packing up to go home for the day, Alfred had been seized by the beauty of the evening sky. So he just stood there, like an idiot, staring outside of the glass-paned window, and not realizing that someone had entered the room with him. Until the person had spoken up, softly. Almost gently, and then the slam of metal hitting the carpet floor.
"We will destroy each other."
Alfred turned around slowly, almost fearful, at the sound. He had forgotten how soft and cold that voice was. His eyes met amethyst, maniacal ones.
"We will destroy each other?" Alfred repeated, not tearing his gaze from Ivan's. "How?"
And how did you get in here?
"I walked," Ivan said, reading the American's mind like an open book. Like he always did. "My boss let me come here, to surprise you with a very late evening visit." Braginski brought up his weapon and swung it around expertly. He, like Alfred, never shifted his eyes from the other. "But what are you doing here, Alfred?"
"What aren't I doing here? This is my office, my country, isn't it?"
Ivan smiled at the cold venom in Alfred's voice. "Da.. but isn't it quite late to be staring out at the sky like that, with such longing?"
So Braginski had seen him looking up at the blue ocean above them, looking as though to devour every single aspect of the sky, and to forever be held in its tight embrace.
For some reason, Alfred wasn't angry, or embarrassed, or anything he usually felt when he was around Ivan. He just felt.. sad and empty. Slowly, almost regretfully, the American tore his gaze from the Russian and returned to the window. Outside- a dark turbulence of red and orange and wisps of clouds mixing with the colors of a fading sun. It was nostalgic, something he hadn't felt in such a long time. America, Alfred thought, was not what he wanted it to be... not what he'd planned for it to be. "You said you walked here? How?"
Ivan laughed. The laugh came from somewhere near, so Alfred knew that the Russian was beside him, staring out the window too. "You do not know, Alfred? We are merely a few miles apart now... We are so very close to one other. Someday, someday soon, we will become one." That voice, dripping with nothing but sarcasm and an odd emptiness made Alfred clench his fists.
"And then we will destroy each other."
"Da."
He knew it would happen. Knew it before the hard metal collided with his skull, before Ivan had even moved one foot towards him. But he didn't bother to move out of the way, didn't bother to dodge.
Ivan brought the faucet pipe flying across Alfred's head, the force of his blow knocked the American off his feet, into the air, and smashing against the wooden walls. The sharp edge of the spigot pierced the top of his eyebrow and drew blood instantly. Already a bruise, Alfred thought in a blind daze of pain and delirious laughter, and we've only been in the same room for about five minutes...
"I am sorry." Now, through his blur, Alfred could make out the massive shape of Braginski, crouching over him. A hand coolly touched his wound. "Oh, it has already started to puff up," Ivan said softly. Again, Alfred knew what the Russian was going to do before he had even opened his mouth to talk. But he still wasn't prepared for the pain. Two fingers roughly forced its way into the opening of the wound, like a pair of parasite insects stuffing themselves into his body, drawing dark blood and an immense wave of agony.
He screamed.
Braginski laughed.
The fingers wormed their way across the full of the shape of the spigot wound, stretching his skin taut against the skull, the blood leaking and spurting everywhere down and around his face. Like something out of a stupid horror movie. But it was worse, because now he felt the cold touch of the faucet pipe again. Ivan removed his fingers with a sickening jerk, and grabbed Alfred's neck with his large hands. "I am sorry, but it is your turn now." The large, childish smile expanded on Ivan's face. "What will you do, Alfred? How will you escape this?"
Alfred had never hated that fucking face as much as he did now.
In a whirl of fierce movement and a strange bravado, Alfred brought his arms up and clamped his hands around Ivan's neck.
The Russian laughed- it came out as a straggled cough- and whispered, "You are copying me... that will not do-"
Shut up.
He squeezed. Squeezed with all his strength, around that neck, holding that face which was still smiling at him with such stupid and violet eyes. He squeezed until he felt his hands pierce through skin, until a warmth of liquid cascaded down his arm. He felt the veins pulsing underneath his touch, felt the tightening of Ivan's muscles and heavy breathing. Struggling.
The grip on his own neck loosened gradually. The beige-sleeved arms slacked against his shoulder.
"That's how," Alfred said softly, staring into that forever-laughing, stupid expression. Ivan's head flopped to the side, unsupported. Only a mess was underneath that head now, nothing but a crushed mess. And yet he was smiling, unevenly breathing while the chords of his neck vibrated against Alfred's hand. "I'm sorry," the American mocked.
"...Я... ненавижу... тебя.." Ivan coughed into Alfred's face, eyes daring him to retaliate.
Alfred didn't know much Russian, but this he had heard one too many times in the course of meeting Ivan. "I hate you too."
And I want to kill you.
But he also knew, even if his only intent was to murder the person in front of him, that they had to play fair. It was their game, after all.
"Your turn," Alfred muttered and released Ivan from his grip.
Ivan's eyebrows were knitted in a painfully twisted delight, and he kept opening his mouth to talk, then closing it in a grimace as nothing but air came out. Patiently, Alfred waited as the Russian struggled to lift his head up.
He let his eyes wander to the window again, at the bright flash of light from the sky that was slowly sinking over the horizon.
/
Today was a Monday. Earlier in the afternoon, they had had a meeting. He had hosted, and discussed the current problem they faced that century- the merging of many countries into one. Pangaea, wasn't it? In the very beginning, all the countries of the world had existed as one. Then slowly, the Continental Drift split them all apart, until there were separate pieces of landmasses, which people overtook and deemed titles like 'America, England, France, Russia, China' and so on. Now, as with everything in the world, history seemed to repeat itself... The bodies of land were slowly but gradually drifting so far apart that they were running into each other, and merging into one again.
Alfred knew, many many centuries ago, when he was still a cheerfully naive and young bastard, that someday he would run into Russia. He knew that the words, "You will become one with me, da?" would turn into a horrible, nightmarish reality for him. They were so close... so close to each other, and only a few more touches and shifting rock, then they'd become "one."
And he hadn't liked that idea.
Alfred tried to find a loophole around it. He forced his scientists to come up with something-anything-to stop the movement of his country, even using violence and illegal products from around the world for the almost impossible operation. So many people, the American remembered with the largest regret in his heart, so many people had died. All those humans risking their life, digging into the very cores of the earth to unlock the secrets as to why Pangaea was happening again. None of them had survived the heat of Mother Nature, none of them had survived the fatal procedures of climbing the rocky slides and plates under the soils of their feet. He had basically sent his country into a foolhardy mission... and murdered half the population of America.
500 hundred years ago...and the memory of it would never leave him.
After that horrible day, after he finally came to his senses and ordered everyone to stop prying into the workings of the world- something he should never have interfered with in the first place- Alfred lost his happy-go-lucky, cheerful demeanor. He withdrew himself in, very much like Japan in the early stages of his country's growth, and refused to be involved with the majority of the other countries' problems. He thought to himself, Interfering only made things worse... People got killed, people died, all because I was such an idiot.
Idiot.
How many times had Arthur called him that? He never really took it to heart, never really thought his actions would harm so many... But now, Alfred knew.
/
"I'm an idiot..."
Alfred flitted his eyes from the window to the ground, hating the brilliance of the sky. It was already evening- the sky shouldn't be so bright and still-as-ever blue... it should be dark, and cowering with fear at the knowledge of its dim future. One with Russia...
His attention focused back on Ivan with a deep breath. Preparing himself for the onslaught of the Russian's next attack and the continuation of their game.
This game they played could be brought back to the date of the New Pangaea's first shift, when Russia barged into his office and shouted, "We shall be together soon, Alfred!" and then Alfred had thrown a pen into the man's eye, piercing it and drawing the first drop of blood since their Cold War. They were once good friends, in the 1600's and so on, until the very clamorous and catastrophic war in 1947... After that disaster, the two had only gotten along just so-so; but with Pangaea and Alfred's changing attitude, they never really got back into the hang of being actual good buddies. Now they relished in this little game of torture. Taking turns to inflict as much damage on each other, playing "fairly" but mercilessly.
Three times. They only attacked each other three times, and then it was over... for the day.
But what was Ivan doing now?
He had finally managed to extract his head off the ground, his light hair bathed in a dark red and mouth curled up in the smile. But Braginski wasn't making a move to reach for his metal pipe, not even bringing his hands up to keep a firm control over Alfred, in case the American chose to attack him.
No.. there was only that burning, purple gaze, staring into Alfred's confused eyes. "...Idiot...?" Ivan said, spitting out blood as he talked. "...I do not...believe you are...anymore...Alfred..."
"Are what?" He kept a suspicious and cold watch on the Ivan.
Over the years, the two had developed a keen sense of one another. The attacks became routine, was expected, and even the things they did to each other was predictable. Alfred could read Ivan's movements and usually the expression on the older country's face without too much trouble, and figure out what was going to happen to him before it did. But now, a strange and foreboding feeling expanded across his chest. Ivan was going to do something... He was scrambling in his mind, thinking, But what?
Braginski chuckled but it came out scratched and painful. "An idiot." The gloved hand reached to caress his face. He shivered and pulled back instantly. "You are not an idiot any longer, Alfred Jones."
Ivan smiled and almost in slow motion, he leaned forward- a shadow over the American- and touched his cheek again.
"идиот," he murmured, "you have proven to me...that you are not...you admitted...it."
He brought his lips down and rammed it against Alfred's surprised mouth.
/
"...That hurt very much, America."
"You're the fucking creepy bastard who ran in here so unexpectedly, screaming and shit... Don't expect me to apologize."
"I was not...But how will you make this up to me?" The pen was still lodged in his eye.
Alfred was slightly worried now. Why did he even throw it in the first place? "I-I don't know...
"Does it hurt?"
"Did I just not claim that it hurt a few seconds ago, идиот?"
"What did you just call me?"
A smile. "What you are... An idiot."
"...I am not!"
"I will wait for the day when you can prove that to me, Alfred.
"As for this moment... would you like the pen back?"
In one swift movement, Ivan shook the hated object from his eye and flung it, javelin-style, at the person sitting behind the desk. There was a small spurt of blood and a cry of pain:
"You fucking bastard!"
The Russian only giggled and leaned his head to the side.
"Now we match, do we not, Alfred?"
/
How long ago had it been? How long ago was that day, when he sat in his office, cussing Ivan out and trying to stay sane in the midst of all that crazy laughter?
And how long ago was it, that he still remembered?
Ivan pulled back and grinned at the shocked expression on Alfred's face. "Three," he murmured. "I am done. Now it is your turn, for the last attack."
My turn.
He didn't move.
Alfred stared into the light violet eyes. Those were the very eyes that he loathed, loathing him back equally, with the murderous intent of killing and destroying him, taking over his body and mind. "Become one with me"? What a bunch of bullshit; there was no 'becoming one', there was only 'become engulf in one' when it came to Ivan... Ivan, who was the creepiest and scariest person he knew, who could easily break off his limbs and fling it across the room, who could somehow-someway-develop a weird machine to increase the pace of Pangaea, so that Alfred would be engulfed by him faster...
He hated Braginski with a passion.
He wanted to destroy Braginski.
He wished Braginski never existed.
And yet.
He found himself inexplicably drawing closer to the Russian. Both physically and mentally. Both outside, as countries, and both inside, as humans.
Ivan had seen him when he stood there next to the window, staring out into the sky as though, if he looked hard enough, he could be lifted into the air and away from the world. Away from the horror that had become him and his country. He had been there, and he had known. Like everything that Alfred thought, or that Alfred planned, or that Alfred said, Ivan knew.
"You are not an idiot any longer..."
Why did he still remember?
How could he know... that Alfred always hurt whenever he heard that word?
Idiot.
"...I hate you." He leaned against Ivan's chest, fists clenched in anger.
Weak arms wrapped themselves around him, pulling him even closer. "Da."
"I hate you so much."
"Da."
Alfred raised his head until he locked gazes with Ivan.
What a mess... he looks like a pathetic, sorry mess. And Alfred still had one attack left.
The amethyst eyes grew softer as they stared into him, seeing the sudden vehemence in Alfred's face. Knowing that, in a few seconds, it would all be over. The room would be covered in endless blood, and one of them would be on the verge of death, and the sun would be gone. The sky would disappear in an immense wave of black, and night would emerge. The day over with and done with, all's well that ends well. Until the next time, until the next day, and until the next final, colossal impact with Russia and America.
"We will destroy each other."
Surprising Ivan, Alfred reached over to the corner and took the metal pipe in his hands. The American stared down at it, his expression unreadable and blank. Ivan edged back, ready for it to collide with some vital part of his body.
But then,
Nothing. The pipe was suddenly thrust in front of Braginski. Not as an assault, but as an offering.
When Alfred spoke again, the bitterness in his voice clashed with the smile on his face. He was, once again, looking out the window.
"...Do you know, Ivan?" He turned and looked right into the Russian's eyes. Dull blue orbs. "You have already destroyed me."
/
I hate you... but you're a part of me now.
I hate you... but you've taken my heart and soul.
I hate you... but I can't hurt you.
/
Translations:
...Я ненавижу тебя. - ...I hate you.
идиот - idiot
A/N: Story came into my mind really unexpectedly. I just wanted to write something, especially of these two being so sadistic to each other ^-^ And somehow, it turned into this monstrosity, rofl.
Anyways, yay. I'm done :D Now, was that too melodramatic for ya?
Hmm... I'm really curious: What do you guys think Ivan's three attacks were? Either physically or mentally. And what about Alfred's?
Hope you enjoyed et :D Reviews would be welcomed^^