America wiggled under the Russian.
"Russia, if you're not going to kill me, let me up." Russian eyes moved town to watch the pink American lips, cracked and dry from malnutrition. "Ivan, let me go."
"Nyet." Russia wanted nothing more in that moment than to stay near Alfred, the Alfred who had been gone so long. He had grown tired of the hollow shell and couldn't bear to look at it any more. That's why he had tried to kill him, and although there were questions running rampant in his head demanding to be answered, he decided that for this moment, he would be here. Why he wanted to be here could be addressed later.
Russia stared down at the man beneath him, no longer crying, but studying his features. Without realizing it, he shifted his weight to his left hand and knee and lifted his hand. His fingers met the side of Alfred's face which was bony and cool against his hand. His hand lingered there, neither knowing exactly how to respond. Russia was shocked by the movement, but had no interest in removing the hand. America was just shocked. His face was blank for a couple moments until it twisted in to confusion and then rage. He snarled at the other and spat into his face. Russia's hand moved from America's cheek to the spit on his face, and after slowly wiping it off, he lifted his arm and punched the American in the same place his hand had caressed only moments before. Russia stood faster than the American could process, and he was shocked when a boot met his stomach. He growled in pain and turned to look at the Russian, seeing only his back as he walked out the cell door.
America:
I lie on the floor for a while, unsure of what to do with myself and where I should go from here. First thing, I need to escape. Holding my stomach, I looked up at the cell door. I hadn't previously stopped to check the security of the door, as I had no intention of escaping, or doing anything else for that matter. Regardless, the security of the door shocked me. Where I had expected the door to be a heavily guarded blockade, preventing my escape, I had expected dead wrong. The door might have been a sturdy, titanium metal door, which I would have struggled immensely to escape from, but it was also hanging wide open. Russia must have been so caught up in his psychotic thoughts that he forgot to lock it.
I limped slightly over to the door, my eyes blinded by the dimmest of lights after extended periods in the dark. Once my eyes finally focused, I saw a dark hallway before me with bloodstains on the walls. Jesus, this guy really is fucked up… I moved forward with stuttering steps as my legs were weak and unsteady from repeated breaks and repairs combined with disuse. I was exhausted before I had walked thirty feet, but I was driven onward by a light coming from around a corner at the end of the hall. I moved toward it at a cripplingly slow pace, sick with anticipation for what Russia had in store for me, but when I turned the corner, there was a staircase. This must be a basement of some kind… that explains the smell.
My legs were shaking with exhaustion as I pulled myself up the stairs, using my arms against the filthy walls more than my legs to push me further. I stumbled out of the stairway into a dimly lit room where the old, splintered wood creaked harshly beneath my step. There was a light to my left and I could hear the crackling of a fireplace. I moved toward it, forgetting Russia for a moment and thinking only of how I longed for the warmth and comfort. Sitting before the fireplace, there was an old leather chair which was tattered and worn, but still sang of days of elegance. I could see white strands, glowing in the flickering light above the top of the chair and as my eyes focused further, I could make out the top half of his head. I felt fury well up inside of me and I was ready to lash out when he spoke softly.
"Sit, Amerika. 'ave a drink." He didn't turn to face me, just stared blankly toward the fire. I stepped forward nervously and the floor creaked with every step.
"Come Amerika. It's over." He sounded so genuine, but also something else. Maybe… sad? I cautiously sat on a larger couch near the fire, wanting to relax in to the glowing warmth in front of me, but also fearing the consequences. I turned to him with my eyes squinted.
"What do you want, Russia?" I asked acidly.
"Nothing, Alfred. …I don't know," he sighed in resigned frustration, standing and walking over to a long wooden table covered in glass bottles. He grabbed a bottle and two large glasses and poured a clear liquid in each. As he walked back to his chair, I could see that he was tired but also slightly crazed. His eyes glowed maliciously in the light and his hair was a mess. He handed me one of the glasses and slumped back in to his chair. I sniffed the liquid suspiciously. It would be just like him to poison us both, in some sick double suicide.
"It's just wodka, Alfred. Your favorite." I growled at the tasteless attempt at a joke and tasted the contents of the glass tentatively. It burned the tip of my tongue, and I relaxed recognizing the burn.
"Do you have anything besides this drain cleaner?"
"No. Just wodka," he said before downing the contents of his glass. He stood again and retrieved the bottle, carrying it back to his seat. I watched as he drank deeply from the bottle. He turned slowly to look at me, and smiled sadly.
"W-What? What the fuck do you want?" He turned back to watch the fire for a few moments, and I watched his profile expectantly.
"They're alive, you know."