[FIC] Golovolomka (Russia/America APH)
S'been a while! Thanks for all the birthday well-wishers and any vgifts I got! ♥ Now for fic!
Title: Golovolomka (Puzzle)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: A sneaky Russian and America's mouth
Notes: For silvertailstora at the russiamerica Spring 2010 Gift Exchange, based on the prompt: "America speaking Russian, Russia teasing him by speaking to him in Russian, or really anything along those lines.".
Summary: Attempting to clean out his storage again, America finds some books he packed away during the Cold War and decides to read them again. Russia is intrigued by his choice of literature and decides to take it upon himself to educate America slightly.
------
America lets a box fall to the ground with a groan, coughing slightly in the cloud of dust that puffed up with it.
He had felt, with yet another century of old junk in it, that perhaps it really was time to tackle the massive project of cleaning out his storage room. Since he wasn't on so rocky terms with England as last time, he hoped he would make a better headstart on it before he was lost in bittersweet memories, since the split was that much farther behind, and he felt much more disconnected from it now. Besides, he'd already repacked away most of the trigger items the last time he'd tried cleaning, so if he avoided the really old stuff until last, he felt he'd make headway.
Of course, this did not stop from the vital need that he really needed to get rid of some stuff, and he had to look through it to decide what he really had to keep and what could just be thrown out.
Digging through his storage room was like a steadily-regressing time machine trip. He'd laughed at all the recent 90s stuff, the useless Pogs and Beanie Baby boxes easily set aside to get rid of in some garage sale or on eBay, aside from the special few he couldn't find it in himself to toss out. The 80s had less of such useless stuff, but he'd cringed at the fashions and thrown out all those clothes. Much the same for the 60s and 70s, although he got misty-eyed when he found a few mementos of Kennedy and the moon landing, and snorted softly at some of the more colorful memorabilia and...alternative lifestyle items.
Now, somewhere in the middle of what he assumed was the 50s, he was working on more boxes. He sat down next to the one he'd just dropped, a remarkably heavy one. It was unmarked, but so were all the boxes. He dusted off the box, and pulled open the top. Books, from the look of it, filled entirely. No wonder it was heavy. They were very dusty and very old, clearly before the turn of the century, so he picked one up gently and wiped off the cover to read the print clearly.
His eyes flickered over the gold-embossed text of the title and the name, just staring. He'd forgotten he'd packed these away.
He holds Anna Karenina in his hands, the gold leaf faded but the patches left shining at him in the dim light. He looks at the rest of the box. More Tolstoy. Dostoevsky. Pushkin. Gogol. Goncharov. Turgenev. Lermontov.
He'd packed them all away, when the war faded and a colder one began earnestly in its place. He hadn't been able to get rid of them, though, but merely packed them away. He had hated Russia with a passion then, but he'd found himself unable to hate his writers. So he'd squirreled the books away and forgotten about them.
He puts the Tolstoy back, pulling out another one. This one is The Brothers Karamazov and America finds himself flipping it open automatically. It falls on "The Grand Inquistor".
He'd never admitted it to the country himself since he was not suicidal, but the Ivan in this book had been his favorite character, because it had reminded him of Ivan the country himself. The parallel had gotten more haunting when Russia had obviously started to slip into insanity and the Soviet Union took over. America had forgotten it after he'd packed the books away, but staring at the words of the page, he is reminded forcefully now.
He continues staring down at the open book, feeling the words tug at him. It'd been a long time since he'd read anything besides comic books - although he did enjoy a good novel, no matter what England thought - and the temptation to settle into a novel was strong.
He looked up from the book, tearing his eyes away to gaze at the rest of the room. He should really just set the books aside, perhaps think about selling them, since they were all original prints from the late 1800s, when he and his people had truly discovered the depth of skill Russia's writers had. He should continue on his work.
His eyes go back to the text.
It is Ivan's poem, the Inquistor against the second coming of Christ, that Ivan relates earnestly to Alyosha. It had always been his, and many of his children's, favorite passages.
America leans back against the wall, flips back to the start of the book, and starts to read.
---
The next day found America eagerly reading again, although not in his home.
After being caught up in the book, he'd gotten no other work done, and he'd groaned as he had dragged the box of books out of the storage room, promising himself the next free day he'd continue, as he couldn't for the next few days due to a conference.
He was now at the conference, in a break between meetings. Not feeling like being insulted for his choice of spending his free time - especially by England, who would insist he didn't understand what he was reading, and then get fussy about why, if he was reading, it was not one of his authors, and America didn't really feel like being drawn into the emotional tug-of-war England insisted on playing, not today - he'd found a quiet nook of the hotel, rarely visited, had curled up in a chair, and continued in on Karamazov.
Engrossed in the book as he was, he did not hear the footsteps approaching, although that was more because their owner always took certain care to walk as soundlessly as possible. He didn't notice, in fact, until he put the book down to stretch out, his back having become cramped for sitting in the same position so long, and he nearly flung the book out of his lap - and in turn, nearly fell out of the chair - when he opened his eyes from a yawn and saw Rusia standing there quietly, watching him.
"Jesus Christ!! Goddammit, Russia, make some noise next time!"
Russia smiles innocently, tilting his head to the side. "I walked up in plain view, it is not being my fault you did not notice."
Groaning softly, America put his hand over his chest, trying to calm down from the shock. "Ugh. Bastard, you know I wouldn't notice you. You think it's funny."
Still grumbling slightly, he set the book down, standing up to stretch once more, not noticing Russia's eyes go to the book, widening slightly.
"So what brings you here? S'not much here, just me and a chair. Please don't tell me it's about the treaty, we finally signed it and everyone seemed pretty happy so--"
"You are reading Dostoevsky." Russia states, cutting America's ramble off. The blonde blinks, looking down at the book. He finds himself blushing for no reason, starting to ramble words to hopefully distract from his red face.
"Oh! Um, yeah, I am. It's a good book, he's a good author. Found it recently, you know...in my old stuff. Have all those books of your literature when they first came to me, felt like...I dunno, rereading it. It's nice to reread books sometimes, you know?"
Russia does not say anything in response, reaching out to take the book himself, flipping through the pages. America frowned.
"Hey now, don't lose my spot, I was in the middle of a good part--"
Russia interrupts him again. "It is better in Russian."
America rolls his eyes slightly. "Of course I'm sure it's better in Russian, but I can't read it then, now can I? It's good enough in English for me, even if I'm probably making Dotoessy-whatever roll in his grave."
There is the faintest smile on Russia's face, and America can't decide if it's creepy or not. "Dostoevsky."
America snorts in derision, but since he doesn't know what that smile of Russia means, he obliges. "Dos-toe-eev-sky."
Now Russia is laughing, and America flushes slightly. "Hey, it's not my fault your names are like, ridiculously long and look like you just slammed onto a keyboard to come up with them!"
"Nyet, that would be Welsh." Russia states, and the amusement is audible in his voice. "You are trying too hard, it is more simple. Pronounce every letter separately. Dos-to-ev-sky. There is no letter in Russian that an English speaker cannot pronounce, you simply have to learn to string them together."
"Dos-to-ev-sky," America tries to copy, but it still sounds horribly flat and nasal to himself, and crosses his arms with a pout to hide his embarrassment. "Whatever, you totally do, like that composer's name, the nutcracker dude. Yeah, him, how the hell do you even pronounce t, c, and h together, anyways? It's like trying to read words out of Scrabble letters."
"You make that sound all the time." Russia replies mildly, and America relaxes slightly. Whatever Russia is so amused by, it's obviously honest amusement and not 'ha ha that was so funny I am going to beat you with my pipe now, da?" amusement. "It is called...scoffing, I believe, da?"
"I totally do not scoff out Russian sounds." America feels slightly insulted. "How can you even compare that?"
"Is it not called that? You use it when around Russia a lot, when you like to...dismiss of what I say, da? See, it is a ch sound, like in your word 'church', but just with a t in front. You start like you are going to pronounce a t and then make the ch sound."
America gives him a scowl, feeling rebellious, but England always said to humor the crazy person. He tries. "...Tt....ch....chuh...fuck you, you're laughing at me!" He shakes his fist at Russia, who is smiling at him, eyes shining.
Russia grins, the same humor in his eyes. "Do you hear me laughing?"
"You're not laughing out loud, you bastard. But I know you are in your head! 'Look at the stupid American, he can't pronounce simple sounds! It's so cute!' You can keep your Dossy people and your crazy composer Try-whatever--augh!"
Russia has reached out to grab America's chin, amusement still strong on his face. America glares as him, working his jaw to try to free it. "'Ey! Lyemme goh!"
"Your tongue is too far back." Russia says, ignoring America's squirms and heated glare. "Keep it more in the front of your mouth. Tighten your mouth up more, too, you speak like you always have food in your mouth. You will find the pronounciation comes easier when you are not so slack-jawed."
"'Ey!'"
Rusia giggles, then lets go. "Try it."
Rubbing at his jaw, America gives Russia a dirty glare and debates not doing it, just to piss the other off. But that would also mean America couldn't do it, and like hell he was going to prove the bastard right. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth and tries again.
"Dostoevsky."
It comes out, he admits, better than before, and he makes a face when Russia smiles at him. "Good. Now try Tchaikovsky."
America tries, but the sound keeps eluding him, and he gives up after several frustrated tries, Russia smiling throughout the whole deal. Silently, he admits that maybe he's starting to hear the sound now, the difference between what sounds to his American ears almost like "try" to Russia's "tchai". He resolves to practice it on his own later - Japan had a t-something letter too, that whole "tsunami" deal. He certainly wasn't going to practice saying Russian better, but maybe it'd help with his Japanese...
"Instead of author names, perhaps you should just start with simple sentences." Russia muses out of nowhere, and America looks back up at him, frowning.
"Like what?"
"Hmmn..." Russia taps in chin, looking contemplative for a long moment, before smiling. "I know just the one."
America eyes him warily. "You're not gonna make me memorize something like 'My name is America and I'm a dumbass', are you? Cause that's just not cool, man. We're finally starting to cooperate, it'd be pretty lame to have to punch you."
"It is nothing of the sort." Russia asserts, same smile on his face, and America doesn't feel very assured. "Here, it is a simple one. Ja tebja ljublju."
America gives him a blank stare. "Ya tebby what now?"
Russia laughs, bright smile springing on his face. "Here, Russia will go slowly. Ja teb-ja lju-blju. Remember, say every sound instead of blending, da?"
America grimaces like he ate a lemon, but gamely rises to the challenge. Having the hero defeated by a crazy-ass language would be beyond lame. "Ya teb-ya luh..um..leeyoo-bloo."
Russia smiles yet again, and something about it makes America pause. He's not sure he's seen Russia smile like that, at least not for a very long time. He restates the phrase, voice slow and gentle. "Ja tebja ljublju."
America frowns, but he feels that it's important to at least master this phrase, to prove that not even Russian was beyond his abilities to master. He schools his tongue and mouth carefully, takes a breath, and tries again "Ja...Ja tebja...ljublju."
The smile he gets in return makes America pause again, holding his breath. "Very good, da! You will speaking Russian in no time!"
America forces himself to breath again. Right, no time to act funny around the mentally-unstable man. He coughs to regain his composure, forcing his normal grin on his face. "Heh, well, nothing is beyond the powers of a hero! Although I think I'll stick to English, thanks, don't think this is some creepy attempt to become one with you or anything, the world's way past that."
He stops, remembering something important. "Oh yeah...what the hell did you teach me to say anyways?"
Russia smiles serenely. "If you learn more Russian, maybe I will tell you someday. Or perhaps you will find out for yourself. It is more fun that way, da?" With that, Russia turns, beginning to walk down the hall. "By the way, I was sent to fetch you. The next meeting is starting soon, we would not want to be late, da?"
"Hey!!" America sputters, caught off guard, before running after Russia, using a few long strides to catch up to the taller man. "No, seriously, what's it mean? You didn't teach me how to say 'I suck dick' or something like that, right? Cause I don't wanna say this phrase to anyone and be like, punched in the face."
Russia throws him a smile over his shoulder, that same strange smile that makes America's breath stop for a moment and his chest feel funny.
"If you learn more Russian, you will have earned the right to know. Just do not say it to anyone but me, and you will be safe, da?"
America grimaces, having no answer to that, and just continues following Russia down the hall. They walk in strangely companionable silence for a while, before America can bring himself to break it.
".....If you really did teach me something vulgar, I don't care about foreign relations, I'm slugging you in the face."
"I will keep that in mind." Russia replies, amusement in his voice, and America lets himself grin, just a little.
"Really hard. I won't hold back, you know."
"I look forward to it."
They continue walking back to the meeting room, and America can't help but feel like he's gotten another piece of the Russia puzzle.
Now, if only he knew where the rest of the pieces were, and how they fit.
------
Title: Golovolomka (Puzzle)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: A sneaky Russian and America's mouth
Notes: For silvertailstora at the russiamerica Spring 2010 Gift Exchange, based on the prompt: "America speaking Russian, Russia teasing him by speaking to him in Russian, or really anything along those lines.".
Summary: Attempting to clean out his storage again, America finds some books he packed away during the Cold War and decides to read them again. Russia is intrigued by his choice of literature and decides to take it upon himself to educate America slightly.
------
America lets a box fall to the ground with a groan, coughing slightly in the cloud of dust that puffed up with it.
He had felt, with yet another century of old junk in it, that perhaps it really was time to tackle the massive project of cleaning out his storage room. Since he wasn't on so rocky terms with England as last time, he hoped he would make a better headstart on it before he was lost in bittersweet memories, since the split was that much farther behind, and he felt much more disconnected from it now. Besides, he'd already repacked away most of the trigger items the last time he'd tried cleaning, so if he avoided the really old stuff until last, he felt he'd make headway.
Of course, this did not stop from the vital need that he really needed to get rid of some stuff, and he had to look through it to decide what he really had to keep and what could just be thrown out.
Digging through his storage room was like a steadily-regressing time machine trip. He'd laughed at all the recent 90s stuff, the useless Pogs and Beanie Baby boxes easily set aside to get rid of in some garage sale or on eBay, aside from the special few he couldn't find it in himself to toss out. The 80s had less of such useless stuff, but he'd cringed at the fashions and thrown out all those clothes. Much the same for the 60s and 70s, although he got misty-eyed when he found a few mementos of Kennedy and the moon landing, and snorted softly at some of the more colorful memorabilia and...alternative lifestyle items.
Now, somewhere in the middle of what he assumed was the 50s, he was working on more boxes. He sat down next to the one he'd just dropped, a remarkably heavy one. It was unmarked, but so were all the boxes. He dusted off the box, and pulled open the top. Books, from the look of it, filled entirely. No wonder it was heavy. They were very dusty and very old, clearly before the turn of the century, so he picked one up gently and wiped off the cover to read the print clearly.
His eyes flickered over the gold-embossed text of the title and the name, just staring. He'd forgotten he'd packed these away.
He holds Anna Karenina in his hands, the gold leaf faded but the patches left shining at him in the dim light. He looks at the rest of the box. More Tolstoy. Dostoevsky. Pushkin. Gogol. Goncharov. Turgenev. Lermontov.
He'd packed them all away, when the war faded and a colder one began earnestly in its place. He hadn't been able to get rid of them, though, but merely packed them away. He had hated Russia with a passion then, but he'd found himself unable to hate his writers. So he'd squirreled the books away and forgotten about them.
He puts the Tolstoy back, pulling out another one. This one is The Brothers Karamazov and America finds himself flipping it open automatically. It falls on "The Grand Inquistor".
He'd never admitted it to the country himself since he was not suicidal, but the Ivan in this book had been his favorite character, because it had reminded him of Ivan the country himself. The parallel had gotten more haunting when Russia had obviously started to slip into insanity and the Soviet Union took over. America had forgotten it after he'd packed the books away, but staring at the words of the page, he is reminded forcefully now.
He continues staring down at the open book, feeling the words tug at him. It'd been a long time since he'd read anything besides comic books - although he did enjoy a good novel, no matter what England thought - and the temptation to settle into a novel was strong.
He looked up from the book, tearing his eyes away to gaze at the rest of the room. He should really just set the books aside, perhaps think about selling them, since they were all original prints from the late 1800s, when he and his people had truly discovered the depth of skill Russia's writers had. He should continue on his work.
His eyes go back to the text.
It is Ivan's poem, the Inquistor against the second coming of Christ, that Ivan relates earnestly to Alyosha. It had always been his, and many of his children's, favorite passages.
America leans back against the wall, flips back to the start of the book, and starts to read.
---
The next day found America eagerly reading again, although not in his home.
After being caught up in the book, he'd gotten no other work done, and he'd groaned as he had dragged the box of books out of the storage room, promising himself the next free day he'd continue, as he couldn't for the next few days due to a conference.
He was now at the conference, in a break between meetings. Not feeling like being insulted for his choice of spending his free time - especially by England, who would insist he didn't understand what he was reading, and then get fussy about why, if he was reading, it was not one of his authors, and America didn't really feel like being drawn into the emotional tug-of-war England insisted on playing, not today - he'd found a quiet nook of the hotel, rarely visited, had curled up in a chair, and continued in on Karamazov.
Engrossed in the book as he was, he did not hear the footsteps approaching, although that was more because their owner always took certain care to walk as soundlessly as possible. He didn't notice, in fact, until he put the book down to stretch out, his back having become cramped for sitting in the same position so long, and he nearly flung the book out of his lap - and in turn, nearly fell out of the chair - when he opened his eyes from a yawn and saw Rusia standing there quietly, watching him.
"Jesus Christ!! Goddammit, Russia, make some noise next time!"
Russia smiles innocently, tilting his head to the side. "I walked up in plain view, it is not being my fault you did not notice."
Groaning softly, America put his hand over his chest, trying to calm down from the shock. "Ugh. Bastard, you know I wouldn't notice you. You think it's funny."
Still grumbling slightly, he set the book down, standing up to stretch once more, not noticing Russia's eyes go to the book, widening slightly.
"So what brings you here? S'not much here, just me and a chair. Please don't tell me it's about the treaty, we finally signed it and everyone seemed pretty happy so--"
"You are reading Dostoevsky." Russia states, cutting America's ramble off. The blonde blinks, looking down at the book. He finds himself blushing for no reason, starting to ramble words to hopefully distract from his red face.
"Oh! Um, yeah, I am. It's a good book, he's a good author. Found it recently, you know...in my old stuff. Have all those books of your literature when they first came to me, felt like...I dunno, rereading it. It's nice to reread books sometimes, you know?"
Russia does not say anything in response, reaching out to take the book himself, flipping through the pages. America frowned.
"Hey now, don't lose my spot, I was in the middle of a good part--"
Russia interrupts him again. "It is better in Russian."
America rolls his eyes slightly. "Of course I'm sure it's better in Russian, but I can't read it then, now can I? It's good enough in English for me, even if I'm probably making Dotoessy-whatever roll in his grave."
There is the faintest smile on Russia's face, and America can't decide if it's creepy or not. "Dostoevsky."
America snorts in derision, but since he doesn't know what that smile of Russia means, he obliges. "Dos-toe-eev-sky."
Now Russia is laughing, and America flushes slightly. "Hey, it's not my fault your names are like, ridiculously long and look like you just slammed onto a keyboard to come up with them!"
"Nyet, that would be Welsh." Russia states, and the amusement is audible in his voice. "You are trying too hard, it is more simple. Pronounce every letter separately. Dos-to-ev-sky. There is no letter in Russian that an English speaker cannot pronounce, you simply have to learn to string them together."
"Dos-to-ev-sky," America tries to copy, but it still sounds horribly flat and nasal to himself, and crosses his arms with a pout to hide his embarrassment. "Whatever, you totally do, like that composer's name, the nutcracker dude. Yeah, him, how the hell do you even pronounce t, c, and h together, anyways? It's like trying to read words out of Scrabble letters."
"You make that sound all the time." Russia replies mildly, and America relaxes slightly. Whatever Russia is so amused by, it's obviously honest amusement and not 'ha ha that was so funny I am going to beat you with my pipe now, da?" amusement. "It is called...scoffing, I believe, da?"
"I totally do not scoff out Russian sounds." America feels slightly insulted. "How can you even compare that?"
"Is it not called that? You use it when around Russia a lot, when you like to...dismiss of what I say, da? See, it is a ch sound, like in your word 'church', but just with a t in front. You start like you are going to pronounce a t and then make the ch sound."
America gives him a scowl, feeling rebellious, but England always said to humor the crazy person. He tries. "...Tt....ch....chuh...fuck you, you're laughing at me!" He shakes his fist at Russia, who is smiling at him, eyes shining.
Russia grins, the same humor in his eyes. "Do you hear me laughing?"
"You're not laughing out loud, you bastard. But I know you are in your head! 'Look at the stupid American, he can't pronounce simple sounds! It's so cute!' You can keep your Dossy people and your crazy composer Try-whatever--augh!"
Russia has reached out to grab America's chin, amusement still strong on his face. America glares as him, working his jaw to try to free it. "'Ey! Lyemme goh!"
"Your tongue is too far back." Russia says, ignoring America's squirms and heated glare. "Keep it more in the front of your mouth. Tighten your mouth up more, too, you speak like you always have food in your mouth. You will find the pronounciation comes easier when you are not so slack-jawed."
"'Ey!'"
Rusia giggles, then lets go. "Try it."
Rubbing at his jaw, America gives Russia a dirty glare and debates not doing it, just to piss the other off. But that would also mean America couldn't do it, and like hell he was going to prove the bastard right. He presses his tongue against the back of his teeth and tries again.
"Dostoevsky."
It comes out, he admits, better than before, and he makes a face when Russia smiles at him. "Good. Now try Tchaikovsky."
America tries, but the sound keeps eluding him, and he gives up after several frustrated tries, Russia smiling throughout the whole deal. Silently, he admits that maybe he's starting to hear the sound now, the difference between what sounds to his American ears almost like "try" to Russia's "tchai". He resolves to practice it on his own later - Japan had a t-something letter too, that whole "tsunami" deal. He certainly wasn't going to practice saying Russian better, but maybe it'd help with his Japanese...
"Instead of author names, perhaps you should just start with simple sentences." Russia muses out of nowhere, and America looks back up at him, frowning.
"Like what?"
"Hmmn..." Russia taps in chin, looking contemplative for a long moment, before smiling. "I know just the one."
America eyes him warily. "You're not gonna make me memorize something like 'My name is America and I'm a dumbass', are you? Cause that's just not cool, man. We're finally starting to cooperate, it'd be pretty lame to have to punch you."
"It is nothing of the sort." Russia asserts, same smile on his face, and America doesn't feel very assured. "Here, it is a simple one. Ja tebja ljublju."
America gives him a blank stare. "Ya tebby what now?"
Russia laughs, bright smile springing on his face. "Here, Russia will go slowly. Ja teb-ja lju-blju. Remember, say every sound instead of blending, da?"
America grimaces like he ate a lemon, but gamely rises to the challenge. Having the hero defeated by a crazy-ass language would be beyond lame. "Ya teb-ya luh..um..leeyoo-bloo."
Russia smiles yet again, and something about it makes America pause. He's not sure he's seen Russia smile like that, at least not for a very long time. He restates the phrase, voice slow and gentle. "Ja tebja ljublju."
America frowns, but he feels that it's important to at least master this phrase, to prove that not even Russian was beyond his abilities to master. He schools his tongue and mouth carefully, takes a breath, and tries again "Ja...Ja tebja...ljublju."
The smile he gets in return makes America pause again, holding his breath. "Very good, da! You will speaking Russian in no time!"
America forces himself to breath again. Right, no time to act funny around the mentally-unstable man. He coughs to regain his composure, forcing his normal grin on his face. "Heh, well, nothing is beyond the powers of a hero! Although I think I'll stick to English, thanks, don't think this is some creepy attempt to become one with you or anything, the world's way past that."
He stops, remembering something important. "Oh yeah...what the hell did you teach me to say anyways?"
Russia smiles serenely. "If you learn more Russian, maybe I will tell you someday. Or perhaps you will find out for yourself. It is more fun that way, da?" With that, Russia turns, beginning to walk down the hall. "By the way, I was sent to fetch you. The next meeting is starting soon, we would not want to be late, da?"
"Hey!!" America sputters, caught off guard, before running after Russia, using a few long strides to catch up to the taller man. "No, seriously, what's it mean? You didn't teach me how to say 'I suck dick' or something like that, right? Cause I don't wanna say this phrase to anyone and be like, punched in the face."
Russia throws him a smile over his shoulder, that same strange smile that makes America's breath stop for a moment and his chest feel funny.
"If you learn more Russian, you will have earned the right to know. Just do not say it to anyone but me, and you will be safe, da?"
America grimaces, having no answer to that, and just continues following Russia down the hall. They walk in strangely companionable silence for a while, before America can bring himself to break it.
".....If you really did teach me something vulgar, I don't care about foreign relations, I'm slugging you in the face."
"I will keep that in mind." Russia replies, amusement in his voice, and America lets himself grin, just a little.
"Really hard. I won't hold back, you know."
"I look forward to it."
They continue walking back to the meeting room, and America can't help but feel like he's gotten another piece of the Russia puzzle.
Now, if only he knew where the rest of the pieces were, and how they fit.
------