Shift [1/3]
anonymous
November 23 2009, 06:23:36 UTC
((Sorry anon, not sure if this is what you wanted...))
Something had changed. That was the only thing America was sure of anymore, the fact that something had changed. Maybe that was obvious; Germany had betrayed Russia and the massive northern country had switched sides, fighting alongside America and the others now. War changed everything, America wasn't so young that he couldn't understand that. But something more than a switch in loyalty had changed in Russia. He wasn't the same country he had been fifty years ago, or twenty years ago, or even five.
It shouldn't have bothered America...but it did. He found himself watching Russia when the five of them would meet together. There were little things you'd miss if you didn't watch closely. Like how thin he had gotten. It seemed like a funny thing to overlook; he had always been a bit heavy, but now he was downright boney. Did the war do that to him? Or was it Uncle Joe? America had heard horrible stories about that man starving Russia not too long ago, but he didn't want to believe it was true. And then there were the wounds. Those were easy to see; Russia's arm was in a sling when he first joined up with them. He had a black eye too, and walked with a slight limp. But there were hidden ones too; he must have hurt his back somehow, because when America slapped him on the shoulder (just a friendly gesture, just a sign of camaraderie) he had flinched back and winced. Nothing was said about it, but America saw that instant of pain from a man who hated to show when something hurt.
His eyes were the worst of all. They looked so hollow and empty, like all of Russia's soul had trickled out his ears a long time ago. Did he feel anything anymore? Yeah, he'd jerk back if you hit him on a not-yet-healed wound, but did his heart feel anything? Or had it just hardened up, pulled itself into a shell like a turtle to protect itself from being hurt again? That was the scariest change to America, that his old friend had lost his heart. His heart had been what America loved the most, back when the space between them was warm and friendly and easy. It wasn't warm anymore; he felt cold every time he looked at Russia these days.
Maybe it shouldn't have bothered him anymore. It wasn't like he and Russia were really friends these days. Things had fractured between them over the years. Maybe America should have just cut all ties and stopped caring altogether...but it was hard now. He had gotten stuck rooming with Russia while the meetings with the other allies were going on, and it was hard to avoid someone when you were sharing a hotel room with them.
At least Russia was sleeping now, so America didn't have to worry about talking to him. Russia just seemed exhausted all the time lately, and had laid down on their cramped bed and nodded off almost immediately after they arrived at their room. America sighed and looked at the lump of Russia's body, curled up into a ball under the blankets. Did he always sleep like that, trying to make himself smaller? It was such a defensive position, wrapped up so tight with only the top of his head exposed above the blanket, laying with his back to America. It felt like he was trying to keep America out, even when he was sleeping.
America ran a hand through his hair and stood up stiffly, trying not to shift the bed with the movement (though he doubted much less than a marching band would wake Russia up now.) He hated thinking about this heavy stuff. A cigarette would make him feel better. He could just step outside for a smoke and go to bed and feel much better in the morning...that was the plan, and his hand was on the door knob, all ready to leave when he heard a moan.
America stopped and looked back at Russia. Had he made that horrible sound? He stepped closer; was it his imagination, or was Russia shaking? There was another moan, more frightened and desperate than the first, and America no longer had any doubts that it had come from Russia.
Something had changed. That was the only thing America was sure of anymore, the fact that something had changed. Maybe that was obvious; Germany had betrayed Russia and the massive northern country had switched sides, fighting alongside America and the others now. War changed everything, America wasn't so young that he couldn't understand that. But something more than a switch in loyalty had changed in Russia. He wasn't the same country he had been fifty years ago, or twenty years ago, or even five.
It shouldn't have bothered America...but it did. He found himself watching Russia when the five of them would meet together. There were little things you'd miss if you didn't watch closely. Like how thin he had gotten. It seemed like a funny thing to overlook; he had always been a bit heavy, but now he was downright boney. Did the war do that to him? Or was it Uncle Joe? America had heard horrible stories about that man starving Russia not too long ago, but he didn't want to believe it was true. And then there were the wounds. Those were easy to see; Russia's arm was in a sling when he first joined up with them. He had a black eye too, and walked with a slight limp. But there were hidden ones too; he must have hurt his back somehow, because when America slapped him on the shoulder (just a friendly gesture, just a sign of camaraderie) he had flinched back and winced. Nothing was said about it, but America saw that instant of pain from a man who hated to show when something hurt.
His eyes were the worst of all. They looked so hollow and empty, like all of Russia's soul had trickled out his ears a long time ago. Did he feel anything anymore? Yeah, he'd jerk back if you hit him on a not-yet-healed wound, but did his heart feel anything? Or had it just hardened up, pulled itself into a shell like a turtle to protect itself from being hurt again? That was the scariest change to America, that his old friend had lost his heart. His heart had been what America loved the most, back when the space between them was warm and friendly and easy. It wasn't warm anymore; he felt cold every time he looked at Russia these days.
Maybe it shouldn't have bothered him anymore. It wasn't like he and Russia were really friends these days. Things had fractured between them over the years. Maybe America should have just cut all ties and stopped caring altogether...but it was hard now. He had gotten stuck rooming with Russia while the meetings with the other allies were going on, and it was hard to avoid someone when you were sharing a hotel room with them.
At least Russia was sleeping now, so America didn't have to worry about talking to him. Russia just seemed exhausted all the time lately, and had laid down on their cramped bed and nodded off almost immediately after they arrived at their room. America sighed and looked at the lump of Russia's body, curled up into a ball under the blankets. Did he always sleep like that, trying to make himself smaller? It was such a defensive position, wrapped up so tight with only the top of his head exposed above the blanket, laying with his back to America. It felt like he was trying to keep America out, even when he was sleeping.
America ran a hand through his hair and stood up stiffly, trying not to shift the bed with the movement (though he doubted much less than a marching band would wake Russia up now.) He hated thinking about this heavy stuff. A cigarette would make him feel better. He could just step outside for a smoke and go to bed and feel much better in the morning...that was the plan, and his hand was on the door knob, all ready to leave when he heard a moan.
America stopped and looked back at Russia. Had he made that horrible sound? He stepped closer; was it his imagination, or was Russia shaking? There was another moan, more frightened and desperate than the first, and America no longer had any doubts that it had come from Russia.
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