This is a plotless (maybe?) RusAme fic I wrote and I haven't edited yet. Also, this is a very short fic, I hope it's good.
The cold snow bit into his skin, piercing into his body, it was too cold that day—too cold to be called an evening. He pulled out a cigar and light it. The cigar (to him) taste bitter but sometimes it gave a hint of sweet, he knew it's dangerous but he never bothered. His name is Ivan Braginski, his eyes scanned through the beautiful scenery of Moscow. He tucked in his scarf as he finally made his mind to walk away from the place he stood.
He walked down stairs from the rooftop, he—first—step on his cigarette. On his way out of the building, he met his (not so friendly) friend. He tried not to made an eye contact with the other man but the man himself ran towards Ivan before he could walk out. "Hey Ivan!" the man exclaimed.
The man gave a sarcastic smile, his blonde hair was too tidy for a man who worked in a war zone. He waited for Ivan's respond and he scoffed, almost like a snort. He grabbed Ivan's shoulder, "what are you doing here? Aren't you suppose to attend a meeting?" he asked. The ex-soldier then smiled althought this time his blue eyes faded away, "you're suppose to do your work when you still got one."
Ivan sighed, "why are you here?" he asked. Ivan knew about this man, Ivan used to be a commander in a war where he met the guy—who used to be a general. He noticed that the guy wasn't in a good shape after asking Ivan. "I'm sorry, Alfred…" he continued, "…I don't want to be related to your past anymore."
Alfred—the guy—he bit his lips, he watched Ivan walked away. He ran towards Ivan, he shouted the other's name over and over but the taller man didn't bother until one time Ivan finally respond. "Alfred, I've told you, I don't want to be related to any of your past!"
"Listen to me, y-you have to listen to me!" Alfred exclaimed, he has never been that sad, he always smug himself in front of Ivan but not that day. He grabbed Ivan's broad soldier, held it tight.
Ivan moved backwards, leaving the other's hands alone. He never understood of what Alfred wanted.
"What do you want?" he rised his tone that startled the blonde guy. "You have never acted this way—perhaps it is because of the war? Is it…?" he asked.
Alfred shrugged, "I'm sorry—I just… I don't wanna lose to you back then—losing to you,"
The answer Alfred gave made Ivan even more confused. "I—Ivan…" Alfred unbuttoned his shirt, "I wasn't allowed to run yet…" he said, with a raspy voice, he showed a stitched wound (which was opened). Blood started to gush everywhere, he covered the wound. Ivan could only stare in horror, he gulped. "I wasn't allowed to run but… I ran and…" he coughed.
Alfred collapse to the ground, his lips turned grey and chapped, his eyes formed tears. Ivan sat down immediately, he looked at the wound and placed his scarf to stop the bleeding. Ivan never been this sad either, he stared at the dying man, "hang in there, we-we're going to the hospital,"
"No," Alfred said as he coughed louder. "You see Ivan… the reason I'm… here…. in Moscow…" Ivan tried to stop the bleeding, he cried. "…is… you."
The last word that Alfred said crushed Ivan's heart. He could only cry.