My second attempt at a multi-chaptered story. I intend to actually finish this one, because it is meant to be a collab between me and a friend. I write the story, she turns it into a doujin. So, the going will be slow. But hopefully, eventually, this one will be finished.
IMPORTANT WARNINGS: This story will contain slash, detailed smut, violence, bad language, possibly gore, and angst. If ANY of these hits you the wrong way, I suggest you click away now. There will be no more warnings after this.
"Mein Gott, what has happened to you?" the blond asks, and there is pain and sorrow and most of all fear in his voice. Hardened blue eyes glare under furrowed brows, confusion and hate warring in the icy centers.
He just smiles, the corners of his lips crooking upward and he can see himself in the others eyes. The smile he sees in those sharp surfaces is not his; there is no warmth, no happiness, no good in that smile. It is his smile. One of beguiling, misleading childishness; a glacier mask used to convince all that I'm harmless. Just a cold country at the top of the world. Don't worry about me.
Gleaming black metal, held steady in the blond's hand. It is not the first time he has stared down the barrel of the German's gun. It is bitterly nostalgic and hysterically ironic. He wants to laugh. Long and loud, shouting his dark humor up to the gray fogged skies stretched above. It is so funny, because he is the bad guy. He is the killer, the conqueror, the dictator, the villain.
What happened to the hero that ruled the world through kindness and greatness? The one that wanted to liberate all?
He has been lost to ice and hate, things that go hand in hand and blend with sweet iron red and pale violet.
A despondent wail filled with mountains of heartbreak and terror and desperation interrupts the reply that will never come. The German wants to comfort the the man behind him, the Italian kneeling over his brother's limp corpse; dark russet hair matted with congealed blood, reddening it and it looks more like the sobbing, living brother's. The tan uniform is ripped to shreds, pale chest carved with ragged Cyrillic.
Все станет один с Россией.
Vse stanet odin s Rossiyeĭ.
All will become one with Russia.
He cocks his head to the side, looking over the German's shoulder to grin at the one still clutching the body, wet face pressed into stained hair and giving new life to the dried blood; it smears over the Italian's face, run pink with saline from brown eyes.
His neck aches, dull thuds of pain shooting down his spine from the dark clouds circling the skin. It makes him shudder with sweet rapture, to recall the icy hands tight around his throat as he is fucked into the mattress.
A sharp click stops his fantasies, and he turns back to face the newly cocked gun. He stares down the barrel like he can see the bullet ready to pierce his skull.
Nothing else stirs in the dead night around them. Miles of decimated forest surround them, charred logs and craters pock marking the brown, dried up ground. He remembers the whistles of bombs dropping from rolling planes over head, balls of fire erupting from impact with the land, eating up the earth and bringing forth obedience.
His hand tightens around the mangles rifle he'd found, still dripping with the dead brother's blood. He almost wants to giggle as he remembers the muted crunch of a skull fracturing beneath the butt of the gun.
Lovino should not have been wandering through lands he no longer possessed.
"H-How could you d-d-do this?" Feliciano cries, his voice clogged with his tears and despair. Ludwig flinches at the sound. "Y-You aren't a-a h-hero, America!"
Alfred smiles.