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He had won.
Finally. Finally, finally, finally.
The game was over. The checkered flag swung as the victor of the race crossed the finish line.
He won. Against all the odds and what everyone had been hoping, he had been the one to win.
Satisfaction bubbled inside of him and came out as a chuckle, softer than a whisper as he stared down at the loser in front of him.
He had won.
The world was his for the taking. The one person that had been able to stop him – no, who had tried to stop him, over and over again – was now at his complete mercy.
“Я выиграл.” He breathed out in his native tongue, not caring that the other was too out of it to ever fathom translating the words, and a smile stretched across his cracked, dry lips.
So much fighting – there had been so much fighting, and the blood, dear everything the blood... So much blood had been spilled to lead up to this very moment.
Russia crouched down over the defeated form of America, bringing a large hand up to almost gently run a hand through his hair. The locks of golden wheat, normally soft, were matted with dirt and blood. He stroked, brushing rough fingertips over the other's scalp in a manner that was almost soothing. But then the hand closed into a fist, tightening around hair and using the grip to pull up his head.
He was the winner.
Bringing America's face up to be almost level with his own, violet eyes wide with euphoria scanned over the barely conscious features. He took in the spiderweb cracks on the lenses of those glasses, seeing how they just barely hung on the edge of a pointed nose and looked ready to fall to the floor in order to shatter completely.
With another low, quiet laugh, Russia lifted his other hand up and stroked the underside of the younger country's chin.
There was an ugly yet beautiful bruise blossoming on a tanned cheek. Dried blood was dotting the edges of cracked lips that looked so, so inviting. A thick thumb was dragged over the bottom of America's mouth.
“I won, Америка,” Russia murmured, and he leaned forward, capturing the other's lips in a fierce, dominating kiss. Teeth clashed and blood met the larger nation's tongue, but it was right – so right! – and it was all he could do to pull back after less than a minute of the exchange.
Eyes the color of the blue, cloudless sky were now opened. They were dully glaring at Russia, narrowed and still spiteful, that free spirit still alive even after being crushed underneath such a mighty, imposing force.
They made Russia laugh openly before he dove in for another violent kiss. By the time it was over, America's bottom lip was swollen and bleeding fresh. The hand that was tracing beneath his chin moved down to his throat. As it started to squeeze, the victor locked his eyes with his long lasting foe for one last time.
“No one will stop me now.”