Broken Glass -- USSR x Third Reich

Bocca della Verità

Soviet had stuck his finger in the open book for so long that it was beginning to get sore. He paid little attention to it though, for his mind was already adrift.

They had installed a ceiling-height bookshelf stuffed to the rim with hardbacks and paperbacks big and small, even though the ceiling wasn't very tall, at that corner of the living room. The book pushing against his hand was about birdwatching. As he looked to his side, the body that made the lightest indent on the sofa came into sight--Third Reich, buried in pictures and word analyses of famous paintings.

Soviet stared through the corner of his eye and wondered how in the world Reich ended up in heaven. From that he thought back to the housing of their bunch. Japanese Empire decided to stick with Fascist Italy, everyone else was too traumatized to share a house with the Third Empire, Soviet just didn't care so he got stuck with the little man.

Who knew, Reich performed well as a housemate, aside from his swearing too much. He always kept his part of the house in order; Soviet had to admit, albeit embarrassingly, that he sometimes asked the German for spare items, to which the one being asked grumbled but fulfilled his needs.

Reich insisted on wearing his uniform at home though. It suited him, actually, the shoulder pads squared him up and his coat showed off his slender waist. Pitch black, a sliver of warm light peeking through from the lamp. Looking up at his counterpart's contour in curiosity, Soviet was reminded of his razor-sharp teeth. He had witnessed them, pearly white, every time Reich smiled.

Reich had finally gotten too distracted by Soviet's burning gaze and put down unwillingly his book.

"What is it, Soviet." He widened his eyes at the touch of the other's hand and glared back. It was already a merciful act that Reich didn't dodge and give that hand a nice and forceful slap. The thumb, hot to the touch, rubbed against the corner of his mouth and pushed, slightly parting Reich's upper lip to show the cold glint of his shark teeth. "Don't tempt me to bite that phalanx of yours off," he sneered as Soviet looked on with an intent expression.

"Oh, but you wouldn't do that."

"Try me-"

The ornithology paperback landed lightly on the sofa. What are we?  Soviet asked himself, Reich's chin still in his soft grasp. 

When did his emotions begin to step over the line?

It had come to his attention that Soviet never really knew what he was feeling. 

In fact, he didn't feel much at all. Reich's betrayal did not lift that much of a wave in his bosom. It was simply an interesting play of events that seemed to unravel only yesterday. Soviet wasn't a stranger to near-death experiences.

He saw what Reich was capable of. Either of them, in fact, could pull out a dagger or spike the other's food any second. Death wasn't an option anymore, but at least attempted homicide could relieve them of their previous rage. Soviet reminded himself that every inch of Nazi Germany is caked with blood. Whatever goal he had, he would always find a way to get there. Even though his boots trod over mountains of broken flesh and shattered bone. Such deadliness, in the cage of such a small body, one that he would always fall for.

There is a reason for every move, every reaction, in a game. Reich brandished his charisma like a weapon, pointed it toward his foes, and the seas rose to his command. The lighthearted flick of his red eyes, and the delicate swipe of his gloved fingertips, appeared to be cranked to maximum charm. Precisely calculated. Meticulously planned.

And now he had the antichrist held in his right hand. The German felt Soviet pause from prodding the corner of his mouth and pushed his way through. Soviet held down his mortal urge to flinch when his attention was completely drawn to the warm, moist breath on his thumb. His entire consciousness became focused on his hand, the outermost of his body, but perhaps the closest he could get to that evil mind. 

They locked eyes. As Soviet looked into the windows that supposedly opened to the other's soul, he found that something about them quivered, a hesitance, a gap in the wall.

Reich slowly closed his jaw on the appendage and applied just enough pressure on the finger to let Soviet know what he could end up with. How interesting.. The mighty USSR is made of flesh and bone after all.

Blood pulsated more vigorously under Soviet's outstretched hand. He understood, clearer than ice, what he used for this gamble. There was nothing to fear...He thought as his eyes began to wander once more. From the two smoothly cut orbs of ruby, down, to the bared neck no longer protected by a stiff collar. It shifted as Reich swallowed, delicate and inviting simply by a glance. 

But at this moment, Reich hesitated.

The last thing he saw before losing consciousness when he was still alive, was the same pair of golden eyes, burning with an ever-so-cold flame, and something through his heart. Soviet held the handle.

Was he just afraid, or was there something more?

His breaths became quicker as Reich studied once more the man that sentenced him to death. Through his insanity and bloodthirst, he felt the same in the enemy, if that word could still be used in such a situation.

Reich admired the elegance of the Union.

He alone achieved what Reich's former self abandoned as a faraway utopia.

"...No no, we're even."

What? 

Soviet watched wide-eyed, as Reich pulled his hand away. A clear light string suspended temporarily between his lips and Soviet's finger. 

Caught off guard, Soviet froze, but kept his suspecting eye on the other.

Infuriated by Soviet's dull-wittedness and distrust, Reich groaned and squared his shoulders. He took a deep breath, and said,

"I'm sorry about the pact. And your eye.

Since we're both dead,

can we start over?"