Russian Roulette

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The man pacing in front of the chair had a metal pipe bouncing against his palm in a pensive manner. He was smiling pleasantly, his long trench coat covered with flecks of white; a gift from the storm raging outside.

In the chair sat a man his chest was bound to the chair by thick rope while his hands and feet were tied with thin chains. His blue eyes were burning with hatred as he watched the man pace. His glasses were cracked and his pale skin was marked with royal purples and blues that would later turn a sickly yellow.

"You bastard!" Blood flew from his mouth as he yelled this. The pipe stopped it's rhythmic tapping as is was brought smashing across the American's face. His glasses slide across the floor as he coughed, blood dripping from his mouth.

The taller blond started laughed, tossing the pipe aside, he pulled a revolver out of his belt. The barrel spun into place with a 'click.' Turning the American tied in the chair the Russian passed the gun between his hands, his furrowed brows contemplating something.

Finally he reached some kind of decision. He walked towards his prisoner, smiling pleasantly. The man in the chair returned it with as much contempt as one could put in a sneer.

Again, the taller man chuckled. "America, you and your pride. Will be the death of you." The heavy accent coupled with his broken English would've been something America would've made fun of. However, he was tied to a chair and the person of mocking in question was holding a gun so it was one of the few times he kept his mouth closed.

A pounding came from the door. Russia strode towards the door, throwing it open. Blizzard winds ripped into the room, Alfred turned his head away, shutting his eyes. Through the howling winds he could discern a few Russians sentences being exchanged.

The door slammed and America cracked his eyes open, blinking away burning tears. Russia was standing right in front of him, still smiling amiably. "Good news for you," he said, "Your friends are coming. Rescue mission."

America couldn't help but return Ivan's senseless smile. "Right about damn time."

"However," Ivan slowly began unbuttoning his jacket, peeling it off, "Mother Russia has smiled on us today. The blizzard is halting their rescue."

Ivan was finally free of his trench coat, his pants held up by suspenders as he rolled back his sleeves. He pulled the revolver out of his back pocket, examining it. "You've heard of 'Russian Roulette,' no?"

Alfred stared at him. This wasn't the way the great 'Hero' of the Cold War was supposed to die, tied up with a crazy Russki pointing a gun at him. "Can't we make a deal?" America blurted out as Ivan advanced on him.

This comment piqued the Russia's interest. He paced by America's chair to stare out a window into the dark, winter night. Quiet minutes passed, broken only by the creaking of the makeshift command centre and the whine of the dying wind.

A hand suddenly crept onto America's shoulder and squeezed tightly. Russia's face was an inch away from his. "I have deal for you." He cooed into America's ear, pressing the cold muzzle of the gun into his chin, "I ask questions, you answer. I think you lie, I pull trigger."

America blinked. The sweat was running down his forehead as his blue eyes flickered between the other man and the gun pointed at his throat. Every part of him was praying for someone to burst in and save him. He didn't even care if it was Arthur, all the gloating would be worth his life.

Russia smiled, his thumb pulling the hammer back. "Then we start. What is your army's next move?"

Alfred pursed his lips, his chest was straining against the ropes as it fought for air. Without warning, Ivan's finger pulled the trigger. The hammer drove into the chamber but no bullet was released into America's chin.

"Lucky." Ivan chuckled. His right hand reached around America's shoulder, gently skimming his chin. Alfred leaned his head away but was stopped when the revolver was pressed into his skin. "Let's try again. What is your army's next move?" He spoke each word with a deliberate slowness, as though America was the foreign one.

"You'll have to kill me before I tell you anything." Alfred said, barely able to keep the stutter out of his voice. He thought he sounded like a brave hero until Russia laughed at him.

"You're brave, no?" Again the gun was cocked, "An idiot, but brave."

Russia was definitely invading his personal space now. The big hand tucked a piece of Alfred's hair behind his ear before tracing along the bruised jaw stopping to cup it. He tilted the chin upwards. "Your jaw is strong, means you are a good leader. A good главнокомандующий. Wouldn't you agree?"

Alfred was silent until the gun pressed painfully into his temple. "I don't speak your dammed language you stupid commie." He spat out.

The gun clicked. Two slots gone, four left. America winced as the hammer was pulled back again. "You're not good at this game." Ivan remarks, pulling himself onto the younger man. The chain groaned under the extra weight. Alfred leaned away as Ivan moved forward, his head coming to rest on America's shoulder. "I am tired of this game. Maybe I should just pull trigger until you die."

"That wouldn't be fun though." Alfred said quickly, still stretching his neck as far away as possible."I could make it more interesting." He needed to distract Russia until his allies arrived, by any means necessary. Knowing he would probably regret this later, he leaned forward and bit Ivan's ear in an attempt to seduce him.

Russia pulled back, blinking at the American. What Alfred had been expecting was around round with the pipe, better beaten to the edge of the death than actually dead. He'd probably get some sort of cool scar that he could gloat about to the ladies (and Arthur) when he returned home.

What he hadn't expected was for Ivan to learn forward and kiss him. The Russian's mouth was warm on his frost-bitten lips. Alfred sat frozen in his chair as Ivan tongue begged for entrance, this wasn't exactly how he had planned the "pipe-beating" thing to go. Only when the gun pressed cruelly against his neck did he open his mouth.

"Вот хороший мальчик…" He purred, delving forward. As his tongue invaded the American's mouth, Ivan began slowly grinding his hips against him. The revolver fell to the ground as a knife was pulled out of his belt and slide upward, cutting through rope and shirt. A hand soon followed, the gloves rough against his smooth chest as they moved. Alfred's eyes widened. There was no way in hell he was getting hard from this. He squirmed as Russia's hand traced down his trembling chest, stopping to tease the sensitive skin below his navel. America breathed in sharply, trying to hold back the moans that were about to escape his lips.

Just as the hand had slipped below his belt there was a flurry of movement outside followed by the roar of gunfire of the cries of Russians as they fell. Ivan pulled away, smiling at the gasping American. "You're lucky." He said, dipping forward and placing a kiss on Alfred's lips before pulling on his coat and disappearing into the blizzard.

After Alfred had been freed and managed to come up with a reason as to why Matthew and Arthur had found him shirtless in a cabin in the middle of a winter storm, he picked up the revolver, wondering just how lucky he was. The barrel rolled open and Alfred swore. "That commie bastard..."

The barrel was empty.

Author's Note

Not bad for a first try at Hetalia fanfiction I hope...

главнокомандующий means "ultimate leader" or something akin to that.

вот хороший мальчик should mean "There's a good boy." But I don't speak Russian so it could mean anything...