Romance/tragedy/angst/horror. RusAme deathfic. (title supposed to mean bitter, sweet in Russian.)

War.

It has worn on for too long.

He knows they will all fall, one by one. In a slow, agonizing dance, they watch each droplet of spilled blood with sick fascination and wonder, knowing next time-

Next time it would be theirs.

So many already gone, the blood spraying and spraying and coating everything in a thick layer of viscous red liquid, just everywhere. He knows he will be the next to fall. No, the only choice left is who to fall to.

What a bitter ending, but it will be his to make.

He waits and knows it will end soon-

He knows there's death waiting for him when he gets there. He knows he won't care. And somehow, this makes the journey all the more worthwhile. Running through the cold streets, he feels a freedom he hasn't in a while. There is nothing to worry about except that which he has come here to tend to. Feeling the bitter wind whip through his hair, it feels exhilarating to be racing towards the end, where he finally won't have to worry.

It is uncharacteristic, the little glint of silver he sees in his hand. Normally it's a pipe. Maybe a gun. But he knows the results are the same, knife or not.

He's always wondered how much he could bleed before falling unconscious, anyway.

Russia turns around, but too slowly before he can stop him from saying the three words and taking the full force of the instinctually thrusted knife. It's only a little spot of pain before it becomes familiar and he can feel layers of muscle parting easily around the cold little blade like waves in the Dead Sea. Something is said, something is shouted, but his ears have stopped hearing and everything seems a little blurry around the edges.

The same voice, so sweet and indistinct, is now closer to him, close enough to make out the words he doesn't need to know. He can taste fear, but it isn't his. He has nothing to fear anymore. The voice sounds shocked, then fearful, anger directed at itself. The voice beseeches him, but he whispers back a hazy 'no, it's too late' and shuts his eyes. His only regret is that he cannot see those beautiful clear purple eyes once more.

He can feel something wet on his cheek, and he knows the tears aren't his because his eyes are dry. No, the only things on his face are an impossible smile and a pair of cold lips whispering against his paling skin. The three words are returned, and he knows his work is done.

Review, pretty please? I'm trying to work on my angst and horror skills.