Oh America, America, America the beautiful.
Russia's hands are cold on the back of his neck. Cold like the ferocity between them.
"You should have given Communism a chance," he whispers venomously. His breath stinks; he's still carrying the empty vodka bottle, and it glitters prettily in the light of the fireworks thousands of feet up in the air.
Today is Independence Day.
"Communism is flawed," America mutters, not making for the pistol hidden underneath his jacket. If Russia even senses his desire to reach for it, he'll use his work-calloused hand for what it's really good for. America shivers, and says: "It can never succeed. Human greed will never let it succeed."
"Capitalist pig," Russia says, spits, and his fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. "You are the greedy one!" Ten feet away, children and running with sparklers, laughing. America wishes he was running, too.
"A free-market system is all that guarantees the life of an economy," he counters. "If you hadn't killed Trotsky, than maybe—"
His words are cut off by Russia's grip, slowly asphyxiating him. Discussing the death of Trotsky was like asking to get your own ice-pick through the head.
"I will show you," he growls, and for once his smile is gone, shot and liquidated, and used as fertilizer to grow the hideous sneer marring his face. "I will show you the ways of Stalin, and when we emerge as the dominant power weak countries like you will come crawling to us, begging for Communism! Communism is the great equalizer, second only to Death, comrade."
Finally he releases America, throwing him. He stumbles, falls to the ground clutching his throat, gasping for air that is determined to elude him, and glares back at Russia, who has produced another bottle of vodka from his coat. The night sky above explodes with color, bright phosphorous igniting to delight the assembly of peach-faced citizens, who ooh and ahh at the spectacle. America and Russia see the display only as the colors dancing across the others expression.
"The great equalizer? Your judgement is as flawed as your beliefs! Tell me, how equal did Tatiana feel when her father murdered her in his office?! How equal were the Kulaks you fed to the ground to grow your crops for Stalin's insane quotas?! I see your equality! After all, you slaughter everyone, no matter age or race or—"
America is cut off again. Russia has hurled his bottle at the other country's face; the bottle shatters half-empty on his cheek and dowses him in clear, sparkling alcohol.
"Khleb za khelb, krov' za krov," Russia says quietly as the shards and slivers of glass, like diamonds, scatter to decorate the pavement. "You'll proclaim your Capitalism in Hell. Comrade."