A Business Trip (England, Russia) - Pt 6
Title: A Business Trip
Characters: Russia, England
Warnings: Bondage, blood, guns, bad decisions
Summary: For chibi_spork, vaguely set in the same AU as Kiku Comes To Visit; with America edging closer to a very bad decision, England isn't sure what else to do.
Year: ~2050
Pts 1 - 5
Russia ran the hideous thing through his fingers, humming vaguely. “Are you ready, England?” he asked, and the tone was playful. England shuddered. “Are you ready, I asked.”
What could he say? “I'm ready,” he said, and tried to inject it with every ounce of assurance and detachment he had.
Russia smiled, so kindly. “Good.” And then his arm was moving, the whip swinging, and he felt a white-hot flash of pain. It was a moment before he remembered to flinch. “It is good, yes?” England couldn't bring himself to answer. And the thing was swinging again. This time he jerked, body trying to avoid the pain. Of course, there was nowhere to go. A third time. He couldn't stop the noise that forced its way out of his mouth. “Four.” Crack. “Five.” Crack. “Isn't this fun?” England said nothing. “Isn't this fun, I said,” and he swung the thing centimeters from his face.
England took a harsh, fast breath. Good Lord. “It's fun,” he answered, wound tight as a bowstring.
“Then I'm not hitting hard enough,” said Russia, still sing-song. Crack. England bit back a sob. Crack.
“Sto--”
Russia halted, suddenly. “What was that?” he asked, expression politely interested.
“I-- It's--”
“Yes, that's what I thought,” he said, and the whip was swinging again. This time England couldn't stop himself from coughing out a sob. He was mortified to realize that his cheeks were wet. “Yes. It's good. You will remember what it was like not to doubt.”
England went still. Because he did remember those days, when his navy was the biggest in the world, when he thought he'd never fall. When he'd been the one holding the whip. He remembered China’s face twisting with rage and helpless hate during the Boxer Rebellion. Mandinka-- whose name they wouldn't even bother to learn until centuries later-- screaming and tearing her hair as she watched her children dragged away on ships to lands she'd never seen. India's face turning to stone as he blew captive rebels to bits in front of his cannons.
Once it started, it wouldn't stop: The sense memories, the faces of the colonies, his and others’. They’d brought civilization, he reminded himself. Christianity. Sanitation. Technology. But faced with a hundred accusatory faces, a hundred economies handicapped by decades of primary exports, millions of other people's children, poor and starving... all the old mantras felt hollow. In that moment, he realized that they-- he, Germany, Portugal, Spain, Belgium-- they'd brought this upon themselves.
He felt a trickle on his chest, through the haze of pain, and realized he was bleeding. He should hardly be surprised. “Do you remember?” the man whispered.
England closed his eyes. “I remember,” he said.
“I don't think you do.”
England's whole body shook with the impact of the next hit. It hurt twice as badly when the metal pulled out of his skin. He felt a building nausea. “I'd never forgotten, Russia. It's just--” he took a breath, and winced. “The world isn't like that anymore, you should know that as well as anyone. Maybe it never was.”
Russia tilted his head, and appeared to be considering it. “Perhaps you're right,” he conceded, and England breathed a sigh of relief. Then Russia's hand hit the middle of the bloody mess that was his chest, and he hissed. “Perhaps I'll simply continue because... it's fun.”
“Let me go,” he said, meeting Russia's eyes.
“Let you go?” he asked, eyes blank and tone inquisitive.
“Let me go,” he said, eyes closing against the tears. “Please.”
“You don't want to play anymore, England?”
“I want-- I just want to rest, Russia. I'm worried. I'm... I'm scared.”
“There's no reason to be scared. With the two of us, we'll have no trouble overpowering him.” England flinched, eyes still closed. “Or is that what you're afraid of?”
“Yes,” he said. Honesty was probably his only option. “That's what I'm afraid of.”
Russia shook his head. “You don't want to do this,” he said.
“No. I don't.”
“But you will do it anyway.” It was a statement.
“Yes.”
“Because you love him.”
England shook his head at the incongruity of that statement. “Maybe, but that's not the reason. I'll do it for all of our sakes.”
“If that were true,” said Russia, sounding the sanest he had in years, “you would be here with France, not me.”
England shook a little. “Don't,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
“Don't?”
“Don't-- don't mention him, not here.”
“France?” England nodded, throat thick. “I see. He doesn't know.”
“No, he doesn't.”
And Russia smiled. “Even I couldn't have designed this better,” he said, and England didn't ask him to explain.
Characters: Russia, England
Warnings: Bondage, blood, guns, bad decisions
Summary: For chibi_spork, vaguely set in the same AU as Kiku Comes To Visit; with America edging closer to a very bad decision, England isn't sure what else to do.
Year: ~2050
Pts 1 - 5
Russia ran the hideous thing through his fingers, humming vaguely. “Are you ready, England?” he asked, and the tone was playful. England shuddered. “Are you ready, I asked.”
What could he say? “I'm ready,” he said, and tried to inject it with every ounce of assurance and detachment he had.
Russia smiled, so kindly. “Good.” And then his arm was moving, the whip swinging, and he felt a white-hot flash of pain. It was a moment before he remembered to flinch. “It is good, yes?” England couldn't bring himself to answer. And the thing was swinging again. This time he jerked, body trying to avoid the pain. Of course, there was nowhere to go. A third time. He couldn't stop the noise that forced its way out of his mouth. “Four.” Crack. “Five.” Crack. “Isn't this fun?” England said nothing. “Isn't this fun, I said,” and he swung the thing centimeters from his face.
England took a harsh, fast breath. Good Lord. “It's fun,” he answered, wound tight as a bowstring.
“Then I'm not hitting hard enough,” said Russia, still sing-song. Crack. England bit back a sob. Crack.
“Sto--”
Russia halted, suddenly. “What was that?” he asked, expression politely interested.
“I-- It's--”
“Yes, that's what I thought,” he said, and the whip was swinging again. This time England couldn't stop himself from coughing out a sob. He was mortified to realize that his cheeks were wet. “Yes. It's good. You will remember what it was like not to doubt.”
England went still. Because he did remember those days, when his navy was the biggest in the world, when he thought he'd never fall. When he'd been the one holding the whip. He remembered China’s face twisting with rage and helpless hate during the Boxer Rebellion. Mandinka-- whose name they wouldn't even bother to learn until centuries later-- screaming and tearing her hair as she watched her children dragged away on ships to lands she'd never seen. India's face turning to stone as he blew captive rebels to bits in front of his cannons.
Once it started, it wouldn't stop: The sense memories, the faces of the colonies, his and others’. They’d brought civilization, he reminded himself. Christianity. Sanitation. Technology. But faced with a hundred accusatory faces, a hundred economies handicapped by decades of primary exports, millions of other people's children, poor and starving... all the old mantras felt hollow. In that moment, he realized that they-- he, Germany, Portugal, Spain, Belgium-- they'd brought this upon themselves.
He felt a trickle on his chest, through the haze of pain, and realized he was bleeding. He should hardly be surprised. “Do you remember?” the man whispered.
England closed his eyes. “I remember,” he said.
“I don't think you do.”
England's whole body shook with the impact of the next hit. It hurt twice as badly when the metal pulled out of his skin. He felt a building nausea. “I'd never forgotten, Russia. It's just--” he took a breath, and winced. “The world isn't like that anymore, you should know that as well as anyone. Maybe it never was.”
Russia tilted his head, and appeared to be considering it. “Perhaps you're right,” he conceded, and England breathed a sigh of relief. Then Russia's hand hit the middle of the bloody mess that was his chest, and he hissed. “Perhaps I'll simply continue because... it's fun.”
“Let me go,” he said, meeting Russia's eyes.
“Let you go?” he asked, eyes blank and tone inquisitive.
“Let me go,” he said, eyes closing against the tears. “Please.”
“You don't want to play anymore, England?”
“I want-- I just want to rest, Russia. I'm worried. I'm... I'm scared.”
“There's no reason to be scared. With the two of us, we'll have no trouble overpowering him.” England flinched, eyes still closed. “Or is that what you're afraid of?”
“Yes,” he said. Honesty was probably his only option. “That's what I'm afraid of.”
Russia shook his head. “You don't want to do this,” he said.
“No. I don't.”
“But you will do it anyway.” It was a statement.
“Yes.”
“Because you love him.”
England shook his head at the incongruity of that statement. “Maybe, but that's not the reason. I'll do it for all of our sakes.”
“If that were true,” said Russia, sounding the sanest he had in years, “you would be here with France, not me.”
England shook a little. “Don't,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
“Don't?”
“Don't-- don't mention him, not here.”
“France?” England nodded, throat thick. “I see. He doesn't know.”
“No, he doesn't.”
And Russia smiled. “Even I couldn't have designed this better,” he said, and England didn't ask him to explain.