Just a Game

(Russian Roulette)

He awoke with a childish smile playing on his lips, one he was so used to forcing out that he even did it in his sleep. One that he knew frightened everyone; hell, he often scared himself upon seeing it in the mirror.

He awoke sweating; something he was also used to doing. Nightmares had plagued him from an early age, jolting him awake in a cold sweat with visions of danger dancing eagerly behind his eyelids. It was nothing if not frightening. He had grown almost used to them in the past few years. Now that Ukraine wasn't there to wake him up and comfort him, he had to do so himself.

However, the nightmares were slightly…comforting in themselves. They were part of his nightly routine and he liked routines. He would undress- removing everything but his light pink scarf- then burrow under his covers before falling into a deep sleep, snoring happily. The nightmares would interrupt his pleasant dreams of sunflowers. He would all but jump out of bed after a few minutes, sweating, smiling, and on occasion, crying. It all depended on the nightmare, really.

Tonight, it contained blood (naturally), pain (typical), and a revolver.

There was something extremely different about this particular dream, however.

He suddenly felt the need to shower.

He stumbled into the bathroom, drunk on sleep, and turned the light and water on as hot as it would go. His room was quite chilly in the middle of the night. He cautiously stripped himself of his scarf and whimpered a bit as it hit the ground. He loved his scarf to bits and it wasn't a secret. He only removed it to clean it and to bathe.

When he was finally under the water, the chill disappeared, the smile dropped, and his shoulders sagged. He relaxed. It wasn't something he did often.

"You need more of this, da?" he whispered coldly to no one but himself and the shower curtain, his situation suddenly less than desirable, no matter how relaxed he was. His voice was far deeper than anyone had ever heard it. Ask any one of the nations and they would tell you his voice was high and childish as his smile. It was a lie. His voice was very low; more so than they'd ever expect.

The urge to scrub himself clean came back quickly as images from the nightmare suddenly haunted his mind. He found his soap and began scrubbing his skin. He didn't stop until his arms, legs, torso, everything were pink and numb. He shampooed and rinsed his hair three times and then let the water wash over him.

He was cleaning off imaginary blood.

His hands still felt dirty, but nothing could be done about that. He sighed in defeat and shut off the water, slipping out of the shower and into a very large towel. Not before putting on his scarf again, mind you. Upon touching the pink fabric, be felt like there was something running down his hand. He looked down: blood. He blinked: no blood.

"You are losing it, Braginsky," he muttered under his breath, wrapping his scarf around his neck and subconsciously wiping his hands on the towel that was held up by his hips. He walked more confidently back to his bedroom, ignoring the clothes he had carelessly thrown about before entering his shower. He found clean boxers and a pair of loose, flannel pants, donning them before leaving his bedroom.

This was also a part of his nightly routine. He'd wander the house for an hour or so, contemplating the dream and a few other things before returning to bed. Sometimes he ended up in his study; other times he could be found fondling members of his gun collection. On occasion, he would simply be sitting on the floor in the middle of the kitchen with a bottle of vodka (or two or three). He actually enjoyed those nights. Vodka was nice. He decided it should also be a part of his routine from here on out.

Tonight, he had no aim. He was simply walking. Walking away from his bedroom, the pain, the memories, and the nightmare.

The nightmare.

"Russia, please! This is unacceptable!" *Click*The man jumped a bit.

"I'm begging you here, man! Like, this is totally uncool!" *Click*The man curled in on himself, letting out a scream. His glasses fell from his face.

He shuddered as he pulled a bottle of vodka from a cabinet that he typically kept locked.

"I-I think y-you're going to r-regret this, I-Ivan…" *Click*He was nearly invisible all the time, yet here, he was just the opposite. All eyes on him, a squeal escaped from his lips. The Russian behind him grinned.

"It's not that bad, da? I'll even take a turn." The childish smile crept back onto his face. *Click* "It's just a game," he continued jokingly. *Click* He was enjoying himself. Normally, he wouldn't know why or how, (even though in the back of his mind he secretly figured that he did indeed know). But this was a dream, a nightmare. Anything could happen…especially in a game.

"Russia-kun, please reconsider what you are doing. This is not as fun as you think." *Click*

The beginnings of a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth, tears starting to sting his eyes. He grabbed a second bottle, just in case. He knew he would need it. He locked the cabinet and opened the first bottle, downing half of it.

"Vous êtes fou! Get away from me, maniaque!" *Click* The usually suave male squeaked.

"I vill fight you if that is vat it takes. Stop this madness, you imbecile." *Click*The burly, muscular man in front of him hardly flinched, but did clench his fists.

"Prease do not continue this." *Click* No words came from the short man after that.

Tears streaked his face now. He had fallen to his knees in the middle of the hallway. He knew what was coming. It broke his cold heart to replay it in his head. He finished the first bottle of vodka before-

"Ve, what are you do-" *Bang* A mad cackled sounded throughout the room, overpowering all the cries of the other potential victims as blood splattered across his scarf.

He felt the blood running over his hands again. He passed it off as an illusion at first, but when he looked down this time, there was actually red liquid coming from his palms. He had clenched his fists too hard and broke through the thick, calloused skin with his own nails. He pulled himself up off the ground, the second bottle of vodka in hand, and rushed through the halls. Now he had a goal. Now he knew where he was going to end up.

The room holding his extensive collection of guns was, after all, where he ended up the most. He should have known he couldn't just wander aimlessly. After all, he did need to stick to his routine. But there would be a variation in his routine tonight. That was strangely okay with him. Change was…good. For the best even.

He picked up a revolver and smiled, a few tears still falling from his eyes. He was strangely proud of this gun. It was old-ish, 1870; a 12-shot revolver that not many would pick for this kind of purpose. It would make the game last too long. He sniffed and rubbed at his eyes. He whispered to himself (something he was doing quite often), "Why cry now? This is a game, da? You are supposed to be having fun." The tears stopped falling as he opened up the gun. He inserted a single round and spun the cylinder before snapping it back into place.

The cold barrel pressed to his temple. He could vaguely feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, ready to jump out of his chest. Before he started his little game, he took a swig of his alcohol, hardly drunk even off an entire bottle.

He giggled out a poem that was made up in his head, each line produced after a pull of the trigger. He didn't flinch. He didn't scream. He was not afraid of the odds of dying. Some of his poem was nonsense, other parts were strangely true. Some made him laugh and others made him upset, if only for a second. The rhyming lines comforted him.

*Click*

"One for England, a funny kind of guy."

*Click*

"One for America who thinks he can fly."

*Click*

"One for Canada whose eyes shine bright."

*Click*

"One for China who could've put up a fight."

*Click*

"One for France, a true pervert at best."

*Click*

"One for Germany who finds everyone a pest."

*Click*

"One for Japan, quiet as can be."

*Click*

Another drink of his vodka. More than half the bottle disappeared.

*Click*

"A couple more tries for unlucky Italy."

The door to the room opened slowly. "Mr. Russia…?" He turned to the voice, smiling a devilish smile and finished off the last of his vodka. He was completely competent; not even slightly drunk. His eyes, however, were tinted red and his hair was still dripping from his shower. His scarf was limp against his bare chest and back, covering many layers of scars that littered his pale skin. The years had worn him thin. He supposed it was only a matter of time before he lost his mind. Blood still dribbled from his hands, trickling down onto the floor. Now he could really feel his heart about to fall out of his chest. He was tempted to catch it out of habit, yet he did not. He felt truly cold and emotionless as it hit the floor. His next sentence over flowed with sarcasm and bitterness.

"I'm sorry. Did you want to play too?"

"N-no, Mr. Russia, that's alright. B-but how about you g-go back to b-bed?" the subordinate stuttered out. The gun was turned on him anyways. The Russian's smile dropped as the Lithuanian denied him.

"Close your eyes. Sometimes it helps," he said in a creepily soothing voice as he pulled the trigger.

*Click*

The country dropped to the floor with a shriek.

"Oh well, my turn again. We should play this more often, da?" The smile returned. He closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer of victory in Russian. It was out of mere habit. He couldn't care less if he lost this, but he never lost. He had practically invented it after all. Russian Roulette was his favorite. But, if he did lose, who was he to complain? It was just a game.

His fingered tapped the trigger.

*Bang*