Dro: So, I realized earlier today that it has now become impossible for me to not write everyday, so without Solemnity to deal with, I ended up writing the prologue to The Road Not Taken. And then, because I had no work to do, I ended up writing this too. I was planning on posting this tomorrow, but, I mean, I already wrote and edited it, so...here it is. Enjoy it.
By the way, did you guys know I had an LJ? It's nick_rolynd, in case you were wondering. I more frequently update it with news than I do my FF profile, mostly because every time I push the "save" button on my profile, my formatting gets screwed to hell. So yeah, if you have questions for me or want more frequent news (I also repost my fics there if you prefer LJ to FF), head on over there.
So, anyway, this fic is now getting ridiculously close to the climax. It's next chapter. So, enjoy this one, and enjoy part two of this little fight scene. It will most assuredly be just as epic, if not more, than this part. And do review, sweethearts! I can't wait to know how you're feeling after this one.
Chapter Summary: The Italy brothers duke it out with Russia. Matthew finally makes a move, but it ends in disaster. Finally, Alfred and the others arrive on the arrive on the roof just in time to see a tragedy unfold.
Warnings: Violence
Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah, Dro no own. We know. We know.
Bullets flew by. Matthew ducked, dropping to the ground along with Arthur and Francis. Ivan took cover behind the thunderous helicopter, barely avoiding the brother's skillful shots. Then they were off, Italy storming around the back, Romano tearing around the front. Ivan leapt under the growling machine and rolled out the other side, the boys following him with no hesitation. They were going in the for the kill. But Ivan wasn't about to slip up now. He'd been the one to teach them all they knew, and he would not allow the students to surpass the master.
Matthew was frozen in the face of the fight. He, Arthur, and Francis watched, utterly confused, as Ivan's trained assassin's tried to take down their own leader. Matthew's eyes caught the dark red stain on the pants' leg of Italy's uniform, indicating he'd been shot in a previous confrontation. What had led up to this betrayal? The Italy brothers had been working with Ivan for such a long time, loyally killing all who Ivan proclaimed useless and annoying. So why now? Why had they decided to commit treason at such a crucial moment? He looked on in awe, his muscles completely stiff as if he'd been turned to stone, as if the brother's poised and deadly arms and legs were the snakes of Medusa.
The three fighters did not fight. They danced. Ivan, despite his size, was just as graceful as the brothers. He dropped out from under kicks, dodged punches with no more than carefully placed shifts to the left and right. He let knives slide by centimeters from his face without batting an eyelash. And the brothers were no less elegant. They moved in tandem, perfect reflections of one another. Where Italy feinted right, his brother feinted left. Where Romano flipped over Ivan's head, aiming for the face, Italy fell forward onto his knees, using his momentum to swing around Ivan's body and go for the back of the knees.
Neither opponent could touch another. Ever blow was a missed one. Every evasion was successful. They were so perfectly matched in speed and strength and skill, the Italy brothers as a unit and Ivan as a single fighter. No side could gain an inch of ground, and Matthew was oddly reminded of the World Wars, stuck deep in the trenches, fighting a week for ten feet, only to lose twenty in an hour. Ivan produced two blades, blocking the matching set of both brothers with reflective motions of his hands. He knew their movements well. He'd taught them to them, and he wasn't about to forget it. His scarf whipped around in the frigid Moscow air, the accent twisting and floating in the sky like a child's ribbon in the wind. Yet neither brother could seem to use it to their advantage. It evaded all four enemy hands, as if had a mind of its own.
Ivan ducked between the brothers' next assault and lunged forward, barely scraping by Italy's stomach. Matthew saw the boy falter, and he knew Ivan had breached their perfection. He'd broken their form. And thus, he'd broken through their defense. And thus…he'd won. He wanted to cry out, something, anything, but there was nothing he could possibly say to help the situation as Ivan used his speed to knock Romano off balance, sending the elder Italy heels over head and onto the ground face first. The younger brother, dismayed and angered, leapt forward to block Ivan's foot as it headed toward his vulnerable brother's head.
Matthew saw the flash of the gun, and the world slowed to a crawl. He watched for what seemed like hours as Italy caught sight of the glinting metal as Ivan slowly and steadily ripped from it from his coat pocket. Matthew's eyes flicked over to Francis and Arthur, who were both gradually adopting expressions of utter shock and fear. The Italy brothers were about to lose. Before Matthew could catch up to his body, his right hand jutted out and tore the handgun from Francis' fingers, Francis immediately snapping his gaze toward Matthew. But it was too late.
Matthew had the gun raised, aiming right at Ivan. The gun in Ivan's hand landed in sight of Italy's head, and Romano screamed for his brother's life. Ivan's fingers tightened on the trigger, Italy's eyes going wide at the realization that his life was milliseconds from ending.
Matthew fired.
Ivan faltered as the bullet lodged itself in his hip, and he turned as he stumbled, violet eyes, shocked and dismayed, staring back into Matthew's own. It was the third time in five minutes Ivan had been betrayed. A force suddenly slammed into Matthew, and he went down, quickly realizing Francis had tackled him.
"Stupid boy!" He tried to wrestle the gun away from Matthew. In Matthew's periphery, he watched as Ivan rose along with the Italy brothers, Romano flipping himself back up into a standing position and Italy leaping back to escape Ivan's grasp. He refused to let go of the gun, gripping it with all the strength he had. The dance of assassins continued a mere twenty feet away, Ivan now at a serious disadvantage with his mobility hindered by the wound in his hip. But he continued to fight valiantly, even harder than before, completely unwilling to give the brothers any ground.
"I am not stupid, papa! At least I wasn't actually working for Ivan! At least I'm not actually a traitor. If you had any sense at all, you would've been the one to shoot him! But you stood by! You could've ended this!"
"This is not the way it will end, Mathieu! Now give me the damned gun!"
"No!" They grappled for it wildly.
Matthew saw a blond blur leap forward and crash into Francis. Their fingers slipped.
The gun discharged.
Francis fell.
And time stopped.
Arthur's stunned face was the only thing Matthew saw for the next several seconds. Shocked green eyes, slowly filling with horror and denial and regret, bored into his own irises, burning their image into his mind. Then Matthew felt the warm liquid spreading onto his chest, soaking into his coat. And something broke. He screamed. Arthur rolled off of Francis, shaking.
"Francis. That…I didn't mean…"
Matthew's trembling hands wrapped around the back of his unmoving father. "Papa?" He whimpered. "Papa. Please." His vision started to blur. "Please."
"Matthew…" Arthur whispered.
Something exploded. Smoke and dust and ash filled the air, choking his lungs. He lost his hold on Francis as Arthur kicked the man's body away, screaming at Matthew to get up and run. "We don't have time. Get up!" Numbly, he followed the man's direction, and he trailed Arthur as the man took cover behind the stairwell. He realized he was still holding the gun, and he tossed it away from him like it had bitten him. His eyes were blurred with tears, his throat choked with suppressed sobs.
"Matthew. It's okay."
"I killed him. I killed papa."
"Matthew, calm down lad. It's going to be okay. We will get through this." Arthur gasped for air, his heart beating rapidly. "Matthew. Just calm down. And untie me."
Matthew languidly slid his eyes over to Arthur, who was still tied up. He reached over and undid the tightly bound rope. "I'm sorry." He whispered.
"What? For what?" Arthur swallowed, coughing as debris got caught in his windpipe.
"I...I made you think…you thought I was really…I'm sorry I tricked you."
"It's okay, Matthew. I understand now. For a while, I'll admit, I was hurt, but when I saw you grab that gun, I realized…when did you get so amazingly braze and clever, Matthew? That was a brilliant ruse. And when we get out of here, I swear to God I'll give you anything you want. Just name it."
Matthew decided to ignore the obvious irony in that statement. He gulped in air, his hearing insanely acute in the high-adrenaline situation. He could hear Ivan and the Italy brothers still fighting, this time accompanied by the occasional gunshot. They were playing for keeps this time, pulling out all the stocks. The smoke was gradually clearing, and Matthew dared to peak around the corner of the stairwell. The three were still going at it, still precise, still deadly.
No one seemed to have gained any real ground, and Ivan had now lost his advantage. Matthew looked at the gun in front of him, and he tentatively reached to pick it up. Arthur stopped him, placing his hand over Matthew's own. "You've done enough, Matthew, and you've certainly lost enough. This was my fight to begin with. You've gone beyond the call of duty already. Let me finish this."
Matthew met his eyes, worn and on the verge of surrender. Arthur had been through it all now, and he was ready to finish this once and for all. Matthew let him take the gun. Sucking in a deep breath, he switched positions with Matthew and took careful aim at the distracted Ivan. This was it. This would be the final blow that ended the slow destruction of the world. He would make sure of it.
He aimed.
Ivan fired.
The bullet hit the gun, sending it flinging from Arthur's hands and landing out in the open several feet away.
"Arthur!" Matthew yelled.
Arthur recoiled his hands, quickly checking them over. "I'm fine." His eyes focused on Ivan, who sent him a chilling grin. "Bastard." He knew what game Ivan was playing now. The man wanted to draw him out in the open. He wanted a "fair" fight. "Stay back, Matthew."
"But..."
"Stay here." Arthur ordered, his eyes flashing with anger. "I've risked you enough already." He left the cover of the stairwell, exposing himself to the wrath of Ivan, hoping and praying the Italy brothers could keep the fiend occupied long enough for him to grab the gun again. He rolled to a stop, whipped the gun up, and aimed again, only to come eye to eye with the barrel of Ivan's gun aimed right at him. The brothers were too far away to catch him in time. Shit. Ivan's finger pulled the trigger.
Alfred hurried up the staircase, his helmet back in its place on his head. He could maintain some semblance of an advantage with his identity concealed. Ivan was bound to underestimate him if he didn't know he was America, especially with the incapacitated America that now rested on Antonio's shoulders. Seconds ago, a massive explosion had rocked the building. Realizing it had come from the roof, the group had picked up their pace, rushing up the stairs as quickly as possible. Only a few more to go.
Beyond the stairs, Alfred could see out into the night, a smoky veil of dust and ash corrupting the moonlight. Steadying his rifle, he hit the top stop step, ready for anything any everything. Or so he believed. His vision leveled with the roof just in time to see Ivan aim and empty his gun into something to the left. As Alfred and the others spilled out onto the rooftop, he followed the trajectory of Ivan's bullets, a thousand possibilities for its target running through his mind. But nothing could've prepared him for what he watched unfold.
Arthur was the target.
But he wasn't the victim.
At the last possible fraction of a second, a blond-headed blur dashed in front of Arthur, securing Arthur in a harsh embrace. A fragile, mortal shield. All five bullets embedded themselves into his back, and he lost his ability to stand, falling into Arthur's grasp.
Matthew.
"Matt!" He screamed into the open air as he watched his brother's limp form fall into Arthur's arms. Arthur's wide eyes didn't seem to register what had just happened, and he sank to the ground with his mortally injured savior.
Ivan didn't seem to understand what had happened either. He dodged two blows from the Italy brothers as if on automatic, his eyes never leaving the sight of the bleeding and broken Matthew. Something seemed to crack within his carefully constructed façade of devious playfulness, and he lost it. Growling in rage, he swung his fist around and slammed it dead center into Romano's chest, sending the boy sprawling over ten feet through the air and bouncing off the concrete of the roof until he rolled to a bloody, skinned up stop, heaving for air as his shattered ribs tore at his lungs.
Stunned at Ivan's sudden rage, Italy faltered, and Ivan kicked him, sending him stumbling backward. Romano rolled over just in time to see his brother teetering on the edge of the roof. He managed to steady himself, and Romano sighed in relief, only to have it cut short as Ivan withdrew another gun from within his coat and aimed it straight at Feliciano.
"Ivan!" Alfred yelled at him, charging, trying desperately to stop what he knew was seconds away from happening. But he was too slow. Ivan was too far away. A shot from his rifle wouldn't topple the massive Russian, and he'd never aim at a vital place in time. He could only use his brute strength to take the man down. But he no time. If only he'd had a split second more. If only he'd been a split second faster. If only he'd forced his muscles into propelling him that much farther. But he hadn't been able to.
So all he could do was run as Ivan pulled the trigger. All he could do was hear when Romano screamed in terror. All he could do was be just as stagnant and useless as the rest of the people on the roof.
All he could do was watch as that one damned single bullet hit Feliciano in the chest.
The impact seemed to unfold in a matter of years. Italy's face contorted into one of disbelief and shock, the pain not even having enough time to register as the immense panic of falling backwards caught up to him. But it was too late. He was too far over, too far fallen to correct himself. His feet slipped out from underneath him as the back of his knees his the low border of the roof, and a stifled cry of fear, drowned out by the whirring helicopter blades, was the only audible sound as his body disappeared from view.
Romano screamed again. Loud. Piercing. Despondent. Completely and utterly heart-shattering. "No!" The shrill cry ripped Alfred's heart from his chest, and he propelled himself forward as hard as he could, fist raised to meet Ivan's face as the man turned around to face him, all the strength in his body funneled into this one punch. With it, he would crush this bastard's skull. He would leave no chance of life. None at all. He'd given enough mercy in the past. This soulless monster deserved none of it.
He swung.
Dro: Well, gee, that went south quickly. So much for Francis. And Italy. I have a sinking feeling this may not bode well for some people.
Next Chapter: An enraged Alfred gives his all to take down an equally furious Ivan as the seconds tick down on the stopwatch. Arthur breaks down as he watches Matthew quickly deteriorate, and Romano struggles to get a hold on himself as he suffers from the burning image of his brother falling to his death. And all-out death match finally breaks out between the nations still standing, but can any or all of them beat Ivan? Or is he just too strong and clever?