Aannndddd...I'm back! Other account keeps me busy, I feel so loved by my reviewers there that I have to finish at least a suggestion a day and it's getting hectic but I thought of this and said "why not?" I don't know anythin about guns, so I kinda muddled that up, but I tried. Please, if you know anything about how guns work, tell me and I'll fix it.
малютка-apparently means little one.
RusAme angst/strangeness.
He stroked the barrel of the gun, watching it glint in the single fluorescent light that dangled above them. "We'll just keep playing until someone passes out?"
"Da, comrade. That is how Russian roulette is normally played." His icy voice was one a murderer might give his innocent victim. The tone did not go unnoticed.
Lifting the gun to his temple, he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He sighed and wiped his bloody bangs out of his eyes. "I missed. Your turn."
"Let's put a twist in the game, then, shall we? For every shot you take, you must tell one secret. One secret you'd never tell unless you were about to die."
"Fair enough." The weapon was exchanged, cold and warm skin brushing in the instant it took to pass the gun. Russia placed two fingers dripping with his own blood on the warm metal of the grip as if he was taking a pulse before taking aim and pulling the trigger. The click-click of the trigger and the barrel advancing one slot was the only sound in the room.
"You forgot your secret."
A pause. "For every time I have asked someone to become one, not once has anyone said yes."
Silence.
"Did you not like my secret, малютка?"
His only response was to take the gun. "I have an irrational fear of being alone, because everyone always left me in the end. Even as a child."
Click-click.
"Did you not like my secret, comrade?" The scornful sarcasm was clear.
He gripped the gun a little more tightly as he shot.
Click-click.
"There aren't many more chances, now, малютка. But I've always wanted to live in a place with sunflowers, somewhere warm and nice...have I told you this before? I think I told Toris once."
"No. You didn't." There was something else in his steady glare, something under the forced calm as he took the gun.
Hefting it from hand to hand, he smiled. "I can feel it. This is the bullet. It'll be my last for today."
"How can you tell?"
A mysterious smile. "I just know."
Sighing and tapping the table with gloved fingers, he said, "Your secret."
Raising the gun to his head, he smiled peacefully. "I love you."
BANG.
America slumped forward onto the table, head steadily oozing blood and dripping to the floor in gushing streams.
Picking up the gun triumphantly, he stole a kiss to his bloody forehead and stood to leave.
"Я люблю тебя." And he shut the door behind him and continued down the hallway.
I'm not really sure what compelled me to write this little bit of character death... ;-; poor Alfred...
And once more, people-who-know-guns must tell me how they work. Seriously.