Click Click Bang
Title: Click Click Bang
Originally posted: 2/1/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 1,100 words.
Characters/Pairings: US, Russia. Implied UK/US and Russia/Lithuania.
Premise: Russian Roulette. Tonight, somebody dies!
Time period: Indefinite future.
Smuttiness: 1/10
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 8/10
Lolhistoryness: 0/10
Violence: 4/10
Would I like it?: It's dark, dark, about the end of the world, and dark.
You can read this story in:
Russian - translation by shiranutrixter.
Chinese - translation by chamber_music
They sat on the floor, facing one another. The moon outside the bare window washed their angles in pale milk; otherwise, everything was dark. Russia had a half-empty bottle of vodka at his side. America had one of Jim Beam. They had both taken off their shoes, and spread their coats beneath them on the concrete floor. America's shirt collar was open, and his glasses were gone, discarded somewhere into the murk of the room. He didn't need them, because it was too dark to see anyway, and because the picture he held of Russia in his mind was preferable to the Russia actually before him.
The old bear handed America a revolver and said, "Your turn."
America wrapped his fingers around the grip and gazed down at it sightlessly. It was warm from their hands. It was the only warm thing left. Outside, the sky was clear, but an hour ago, a kissing snow of ashes had carefully everywhere descended. This was Houston. The streets below were silent.
He raised the gun and pressed the muzzle to Russia's forehead. Russia waited.
Click.
He didn't even sigh. Just passed the revolver back to the other man, and turned his face half towards the window.
The streets of Houston were silent, as they were in New York, DC, Chicago…and Vladivostok, Moscow, and Novgorod. The Middle Eastern oil fields were on fire. He knew most of the other nations were dead.
Russia brushed a gunmetal kiss behind his ear and pulled the trigger.
Click.
He took the gun with a muttered "thanks" and spun the chamber absently. He heard Russia pick up his bottle, take a drink.
He couldn't rightly say who might still be alive. He knew Arthur was gone. For decades that thought had sent a cold pulse through his heart, but now he was too tired to care. Ludwig was gone, Feliciano was gone. Francis and Antonio were gone. Kiku had starved to death. So had a number of others. Russia had reclaimed the eastern bloc near the start of the war, and so America had murdered them himself.
He waited for Russia to finish his drink, then aimed and fired.
Click.
As he handed the gun back, he asked, "You sure that thing's loaded?"
Russia chuckled deep in his chest. "Don't worry." He spun the chamber, and the gun went tink…tink…tink as it bounced gently against his bottle. "I wouldn't forget Cuba."
Cuba was not the country. Cuba was what they called the bullet. At one point they had thought it was funny, and America guessed that, on some level, he still did.
Russia didn't waste time this round: he pushed the gun below America's ear, pulled the trigger--
--Click--
Then passed the pistol to America and resumed drinking.
It had started as a war over resources--at least, he was pretty sure; a lot of knowledge had been lost in the past forty years, but there had been an energy crisis, right? But things got out of hand. Russia said America had sent up the first nukes, but Russia was a lying son of a bitch. Then the other nations pushed their way into it. The EU had ordered immediate, total nuclear disarmament, and had deployed their armies to enforce it. It mostly worked. Only a few nations caught retaliatory warheads
(Arthur)
A dull ember of anger stirred in his chest, and he cocked the gun and took his turn at the trigger with more energy than he'd mustered in quite some time.
Click.
Of course, he was the one who had killed Liet, poor Liet, who he had once called his friend--in his sleep, while Russia's attention was elsewhere. So the old bear had just as much right to be angry at him.
Click.
The disarmament had turned out so god damned pointless, that's what really got him. They just went back to more old fashioned weapons, and instead of destroying the world in an afternoon, it had taken fifty years. Now they were down to this.
There might still be survivors. He supposed he hoped there were. But they knew to stay away from Russia and the United States.
Click.
He had been there when Matthew died. That was a rare mercy. His brother had died in his arms, cursing him, and America had closed his eyes for him and whispered an apology in his heart which could never be sufficient.
Click.
America looked up and imagined Russia the way he had once been: pale, immense, always that mixture of placid cunning and sorrowful beauty in his eyes. Not at all like now: now they were rough, crippled, withered things, and even if they had wanted to leave that room, America doubted that they could. He had thought for a long time that Russia was his opposite, but in the end they had turned out just the same. Bloody bastards who would do anything to survive. America knew by now that there weren't any heroes, and the worst part was that he didn't even care.
The gun roared in his hand like thunder. He screamed in surprise. Russia's vodka bottle rolled away into the dark.
America dropped the pistol and scrambled to Russia's side. He hesitated before he pushed his hands into the bundle of clothing to find the skeletal body inside. He lifted Russia into his lap. He was far too light. Wet leaked from his skull and spread across America's thighs.
"Russia?" he whispered.
There was, of course, no response.
America pressed a hand across his mouth, and felt tears on his cheeks.
That was it? No last words? Russia was dead, and it meant nothing? (Well, what had he expected? Not for things to end…never for things to just end.)
He clasped the old bear to his chest, and shook, and perhaps he cried, but he couldn't feel it. At length, Russia's body felt cold in his arms, and a sickly dawn was rising.
He kissed Russia's blood-wet hair and felt around in his pockets. "If you love me," he whispered, and he didn't know why he said it, or who he was talking to, "If you love me it'll be here."
Yes. America doubled over in gratitude when his fingers closed around a second bullet, hidden in Russia's clothes. Maybe Russia had planned to betray him, or maybe he had meant to use it on himself; maybe he had even smuggled it in for America, America didn't care.
He loaded the round and spun the chamber, and pushed the muzzle of the gun beneath his chin.
Click. Click. Click…
Originally posted: 2/1/2009, on the kink meme. Link
Length: 1,100 words.
Characters/Pairings: US, Russia. Implied UK/US and Russia/Lithuania.
Premise: Russian Roulette. Tonight, somebody dies!
Time period: Indefinite future.
Smuttiness: 1/10
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 8/10
Lolhistoryness: 0/10
Violence: 4/10
Would I like it?: It's dark, dark, about the end of the world, and dark.
You can read this story in:
Russian - translation by shiranutrixter.
Chinese - translation by chamber_music
They sat on the floor, facing one another. The moon outside the bare window washed their angles in pale milk; otherwise, everything was dark. Russia had a half-empty bottle of vodka at his side. America had one of Jim Beam. They had both taken off their shoes, and spread their coats beneath them on the concrete floor. America's shirt collar was open, and his glasses were gone, discarded somewhere into the murk of the room. He didn't need them, because it was too dark to see anyway, and because the picture he held of Russia in his mind was preferable to the Russia actually before him.
The old bear handed America a revolver and said, "Your turn."
America wrapped his fingers around the grip and gazed down at it sightlessly. It was warm from their hands. It was the only warm thing left. Outside, the sky was clear, but an hour ago, a kissing snow of ashes had carefully everywhere descended. This was Houston. The streets below were silent.
He raised the gun and pressed the muzzle to Russia's forehead. Russia waited.
Click.
He didn't even sigh. Just passed the revolver back to the other man, and turned his face half towards the window.
The streets of Houston were silent, as they were in New York, DC, Chicago…and Vladivostok, Moscow, and Novgorod. The Middle Eastern oil fields were on fire. He knew most of the other nations were dead.
Russia brushed a gunmetal kiss behind his ear and pulled the trigger.
Click.
He took the gun with a muttered "thanks" and spun the chamber absently. He heard Russia pick up his bottle, take a drink.
He couldn't rightly say who might still be alive. He knew Arthur was gone. For decades that thought had sent a cold pulse through his heart, but now he was too tired to care. Ludwig was gone, Feliciano was gone. Francis and Antonio were gone. Kiku had starved to death. So had a number of others. Russia had reclaimed the eastern bloc near the start of the war, and so America had murdered them himself.
He waited for Russia to finish his drink, then aimed and fired.
Click.
As he handed the gun back, he asked, "You sure that thing's loaded?"
Russia chuckled deep in his chest. "Don't worry." He spun the chamber, and the gun went tink…tink…tink as it bounced gently against his bottle. "I wouldn't forget Cuba."
Cuba was not the country. Cuba was what they called the bullet. At one point they had thought it was funny, and America guessed that, on some level, he still did.
Russia didn't waste time this round: he pushed the gun below America's ear, pulled the trigger--
--Click--
Then passed the pistol to America and resumed drinking.
It had started as a war over resources--at least, he was pretty sure; a lot of knowledge had been lost in the past forty years, but there had been an energy crisis, right? But things got out of hand. Russia said America had sent up the first nukes, but Russia was a lying son of a bitch. Then the other nations pushed their way into it. The EU had ordered immediate, total nuclear disarmament, and had deployed their armies to enforce it. It mostly worked. Only a few nations caught retaliatory warheads
(Arthur)
A dull ember of anger stirred in his chest, and he cocked the gun and took his turn at the trigger with more energy than he'd mustered in quite some time.
Click.
Of course, he was the one who had killed Liet, poor Liet, who he had once called his friend--in his sleep, while Russia's attention was elsewhere. So the old bear had just as much right to be angry at him.
Click.
The disarmament had turned out so god damned pointless, that's what really got him. They just went back to more old fashioned weapons, and instead of destroying the world in an afternoon, it had taken fifty years. Now they were down to this.
There might still be survivors. He supposed he hoped there were. But they knew to stay away from Russia and the United States.
Click.
He had been there when Matthew died. That was a rare mercy. His brother had died in his arms, cursing him, and America had closed his eyes for him and whispered an apology in his heart which could never be sufficient.
Click.
America looked up and imagined Russia the way he had once been: pale, immense, always that mixture of placid cunning and sorrowful beauty in his eyes. Not at all like now: now they were rough, crippled, withered things, and even if they had wanted to leave that room, America doubted that they could. He had thought for a long time that Russia was his opposite, but in the end they had turned out just the same. Bloody bastards who would do anything to survive. America knew by now that there weren't any heroes, and the worst part was that he didn't even care.
The gun roared in his hand like thunder. He screamed in surprise. Russia's vodka bottle rolled away into the dark.
America dropped the pistol and scrambled to Russia's side. He hesitated before he pushed his hands into the bundle of clothing to find the skeletal body inside. He lifted Russia into his lap. He was far too light. Wet leaked from his skull and spread across America's thighs.
"Russia?" he whispered.
There was, of course, no response.
America pressed a hand across his mouth, and felt tears on his cheeks.
That was it? No last words? Russia was dead, and it meant nothing? (Well, what had he expected? Not for things to end…never for things to just end.)
He clasped the old bear to his chest, and shook, and perhaps he cried, but he couldn't feel it. At length, Russia's body felt cold in his arms, and a sickly dawn was rising.
He kissed Russia's blood-wet hair and felt around in his pockets. "If you love me," he whispered, and he didn't know why he said it, or who he was talking to, "If you love me it'll be here."
Yes. America doubled over in gratitude when his fingers closed around a second bullet, hidden in Russia's clothes. Maybe Russia had planned to betray him, or maybe he had meant to use it on himself; maybe he had even smuggled it in for America, America didn't care.
He loaded the round and spun the chamber, and pushed the muzzle of the gun beneath his chin.
Click. Click. Click…