I was completely doped up on allergy medicine when I wrote this last night at like midnight... I still am and trying to edit this was urg. Such a pain in the ass. So I'm pretty sure there are still mistakes. I suck at grammar and spelling. Very sorry if you see them!
I happen to cosplay America and my friend cosplays Russia. Almost every night we're arguing as the two over yahoo messenger which usually ends up with me being completely humiliated by not watching what i say and Russia being a creepy bastard. But anyway, I just started writing this on the basis that my friend is always questioning things I say as America and I get seriously annoyed at it. So...yeah.
Just the two of them sat in the room. It was small; a desk, a couple chairs. There was a window on the far wall but the blizzard outside left no attention grabbers for the apprehensive half of the party inside.
Blue eyes watched the trail of smoke rise from the Russian's cigarette. Ivan rolled it in his finger languidly before bringing it to his lips and inhaling deeply.
"Alfred," he breathed out, smoke pouring back out past his lips, "I do not want to have to ask you again."
America stared at him, keeping his mouth firmly closed. He'd be damned if he answered the bastard's questions.
"It is not completely fair," Russia mused, grabbing the bottle of vodka off the desk in front of him, "Here I offer you friendship in the kindest way and you will not even consider accepting it."
"Bullshit. That's complete and utter bullshit," America grit his teeth, his heal bouncing up and down on the ground in anger.
"Oh? Is it?"
"Yeah, it is. I know you hate me. You know I hate you. The rest of the world knows we hate each other," blue eyes narrowed behind glasses, leathered hands tightened into fists, "Don't give me this fucking crap about wanting to 'rekindle' our friendship."
Russia smiled, stamping out the cigarette in an ashtray. "No need to get angry America."
The younger nation in the room watched him as he flipped the lid of the lighter open; snap it closed with a flick of his wrist. Russia brought it up close to his face, tracing the hammer and sickle engraving on the front of it in the dim light. He frowned. The yellow and red lacquer had worm off from use.
"Hate is a strong word, Alfred."
"And? What's your point?"
"You don't hate me," a smile. A slow, sly smile. "You have never. You will never."
"Of course I do. Are you fucking crazy?" America eyed the pack of smokes sitting in the middle of the desk. God, he wanted one. "Have you not been paying attention for like, the past twenty years or something?"
"Ah, I have. Trust me America, I have," his violet eye glinted madly and America repressed the shudder he felt coming on from it. He wouldn't call it a shiver—No. Absolutely not.
"Why do you hate me then?" Russia continued, noticing the blond's momentary discomfort.
"'Cause I have too." Fingers twitched and he leaned forward, snatching the pack off the desk. By now he didn't care that they belonged to the bastard across from him.
"Mmm. And why is that?" He adjusted his scarf, watching the other as America had been watching him earlier. A couple flicks of Alfred's own lighter and he had nicotine invading his senses.
"That's easy," he leaned back, ankle resting on his knee, seemingly more relaxed with the burning stick of paper and tobacco. "It's just how we ended up writing out our own futures."
Russia was silent as he mulled over what he said. He took a swig of vodka, grimacing slightly at the burn. "That makes no sense."
"Of course it does. Two of the world's super powers—ending this war in a 'stalemate'. Sitting on pins and needles. Out leaders with their fingers constantly over those pretty red buttons," America laughed and leaned over again, this time to grab the bottle from Russia's hand, "What are we supposed to be? Skipping down the fucking street holding hands?"
He ran his sleeve over the top of the bottle before taking a chug of it. He shook his head sharply as he slammed it back to the desk.
"We were made to hate each other, Russia. I'm surprised you haven't noticed that yet."
"Are you saying that as America or as Alfred?"
Silence fell between them. America looked away, frowning at the cigarette that had almost burnt down to the filter.
"Why do you always ask so many questions? You drive me fucking insane."
Russia didn't respond, just watched the American chew on his bottom lip as he thought. The light from the lamp illuminated his profile. Many countries had referred to the man there with him as an angel. A completely moronic angel, but Russia could tell why. It looked like he was glowing; looked so warm and inviting.
He grinned. This man was no angel. Alfred was just as cold and crazy as him. His appearance fooled everyone around him. But Russia knew better.
"As America, I hate you," blue eyes were glaring at him again, "As America I hate you because my people hate you. Hate what you did, hate what you do—hate what you stand for.
"As Alfred, I—" he cut himself off with a laugh. He tapped the arm rest of the chair with his fingernails. "I would have to say I hate you too."
Russia chuckled. "Why is that?"
"Ivan," America stood, placing his hands on the desk and leaning forward. "The United States of America is higher on the list of importance than Alfred F. Jones. I know you can understand what I'm saying so no more fucking questions."
"Of course not, Америка. No more questions."
"Good," he pushed himself upright and tugged on his uniform jacket to straighten it, "I'm leaving this hell hole then."
"Do what you please," Russia spoke flatly as he watched him walk through the door and slam it shut behind him, "We both know you'll be back soon."
Russia sat in the room alone; a desk and a couple chairs, the window still perfectly displaying the blizzard raging outside.
The smile on his lips lasted even until the kerosene in the lamp went out.