Tuna Surprise [1/2]
anonymous
November 23 2009, 01:16:21 UTC
The many famines over the centuries of his life had forced Russia to, in shear desperation, eat some pretty horrible things. He had eaten grass, bark, even mud at times. And even then, he felt quite certain that he had never tasted anything as awful as America's tuna surprise.
“How is it?” America asked anxiously, as Russia held the first forkful in his mouth and wondered if he could spit it out without America noticing. Seeing no other option, he reluctantly chewed and tried to give America a smile. It seemed to work; America smiled back and appeared relieved as he began devouring his own portion with gusto.
“Glad you like it!” he said happily around a mouthful of that culinary horror. “I've been practicing that recipe forever to get it juuuust right. I got England to try it too, and he said it was fine, but I was still a little nervous, you know?”
Russia forced himself to swallow and choked, “Y-you did fine. It's delicious.” What else could he say? He couldn't tell America the truth! The younger country had clearly put a lot of effort into this evening. He had lit candles and put on some Frank Sinatra when Russia arrived, and even put on a suit for the occation. Things had actually been quite pleasant, even romantic in a charmingly old fashioned way, until America brought out the food. But as unbearably disgusting as the food was, Russia was determined to eat the entire thing and appear grateful about it. America would be so disappointed if he knew the truth...and after spending 46 years trying to upset America, he had decided that the activity was extremely overrated. It was much more satisfying to make America smile. He was willing to choke down a casserole from hell to see that smile.
His stomach churned queasily as he scooped up the next bite. America had started to talk about something, but Russia couldn't hear it over over the effort it took to fight his own gag reflex. No, be strong. He could do this. He had survived the Mongols and Stalingrad and he could handle a casserole. Just think about happy things. Think about sunflowers. Think about America. You don't want to ruin this nice evening with America.
He managed to gulp down the latest bite, ignoring his protesting stomach, and looked up at America, who was staring at him in concern.
“What's wrong?” the younger country asked, frowning. Russia felt a shock of panic in his stomach, which did nothing to improve the nausea. Had America seen through his act?
“N-nothing. Nothing is wrong.”
“But you're crying! Why are you crying? Is it something I said?”
Russia was about to protest that he most certainly was not crying, until he realized that there were indeed tears on his cheeks. The casserole had been bad enough to make his eyes water excessively.
“I-I am just very happy to be here with you. Because I love you very much, da,” he babbled, wiping the tears with his napkin and resisting the urge to wipe his tongue off as well. This seemed to be the right answer, because America got up, walked around the table and dragged Russia into a tight hug.
“How is it?” America asked anxiously, as Russia held the first forkful in his mouth and wondered if he could spit it out without America noticing. Seeing no other option, he reluctantly chewed and tried to give America a smile. It seemed to work; America smiled back and appeared relieved as he began devouring his own portion with gusto.
“Glad you like it!” he said happily around a mouthful of that culinary horror. “I've been practicing that recipe forever to get it juuuust right. I got England to try it too, and he said it was fine, but I was still a little nervous, you know?”
Russia forced himself to swallow and choked, “Y-you did fine. It's delicious.” What else could he say? He couldn't tell America the truth! The younger country had clearly put a lot of effort into this evening. He had lit candles and put on some Frank Sinatra when Russia arrived, and even put on a suit for the occation. Things had actually been quite pleasant, even romantic in a charmingly old fashioned way, until America brought out the food. But as unbearably disgusting as the food was, Russia was determined to eat the entire thing and appear grateful about it. America would be so disappointed if he knew the truth...and after spending 46 years trying to upset America, he had decided that the activity was extremely overrated. It was much more satisfying to make America smile. He was willing to choke down a casserole from hell to see that smile.
His stomach churned queasily as he scooped up the next bite. America had started to talk about something, but Russia couldn't hear it over over the effort it took to fight his own gag reflex. No, be strong. He could do this. He had survived the Mongols and Stalingrad and he could handle a casserole. Just think about happy things. Think about sunflowers. Think about America. You don't want to ruin this nice evening with America.
He managed to gulp down the latest bite, ignoring his protesting stomach, and looked up at America, who was staring at him in concern.
“What's wrong?” the younger country asked, frowning. Russia felt a shock of panic in his stomach, which did nothing to improve the nausea. Had America seen through his act?
“N-nothing. Nothing is wrong.”
“But you're crying! Why are you crying? Is it something I said?”
Russia was about to protest that he most certainly was not crying, until he realized that there were indeed tears on his cheeks. The casserole had been bad enough to make his eyes water excessively.
“I-I am just very happy to be here with you. Because I love you very much, da,” he babbled, wiping the tears with his napkin and resisting the urge to wipe his tongue off as well. This seemed to be the right answer, because America got up, walked around the table and dragged Russia into a tight hug.
“You're so sweet, Russia. I love you too!”
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