In the Unnoticed Hours [3/?]
anonymous
February 7 2010, 15:17:58 UTC
Russia slumps slightly. Or rather than slumping, he seems to fold a little more into himself. China looks at him in silence again and then says, because he doesn’t know what else to say, “Russia, I came to check on you.”
Russia doesn’t respond, in words or in gesture. China chews on his lip, his frown deepening. Then,
“I want my sisters.”
Russia says it in a very small voice. His shoulders shake, just the tiniest bit, and China suddenly realises, with a feeling like his stomach has gone hollow, that there are tears tracking down Russia’s face.
Russia draws his knees up to his chest like a child, like he is trying to make himself smaller - and it looks almost ridiculous, on a man of his size - and drags a sleeve across his eyes. “I want Ukraine.” His voice sounds pitiful, broken. “Where is Ukraine? Where is Belarus? Did they leave me behind?”
China stands there as if frozen to the spot, as Russia’s sobs grow louder. The blonde nation scrapes at his eyes with his sleeve again, both sleeves, a child trying to stem his misery.
China’s feet move across the glass-strewn floor. He shouldn’t - physically, symbolically, politically, everything - but he does, he enfolds Russia’s head in his thickly-sleeved arms and presses the side of his tear-smudged face against his chest. Barely thinking, barely needing to think, he shushes and croons and rocks gently back and forth, back and forth, like he used to for his siblings when they were very, very young. Russia doesn’t lean into the embrace, but he doesn’t pull away either; just cries like there is no one here at all. And his tears are making a mess down the front of China’s coat, but that’s okay - that’s the only thought in China’s head as he cradles Russia, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
**
Russia wakes up to the sound of cupboard doors slamming somewhere in the direction of the kitchen. There is the ringing clatter of porcelain as well, accompanied by a loud but indistinct - and dissatisfied-sounding - voice. That is not the most pressing issue on Russia’s mind though. For some reason, the curtains are open and far too much bright, early morning light is spilling through the glass and into his eyes. And brain, in little stabby pieces. So he drags himself slowly out from under the blankets and yanks the heavy fabric closed, before retreating back to the bed. The ruckus from the kitchen has, thankfully, stopped by now, concluded with the pound of departing footsteps and sound of the front door opening and closing.
It is quiet now. Russia curls up and closes his eyes.
**
The next time Russia opens his eyes, the heavier curtain has been drawn partially aside, with the white, lace-patterned curtain left across the glass. It makes the light coming through softer, more tolerable, and Russia stares at it blearily, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness.
After a moment he sits slowly up and rubs his eyes. He does not know whether the ache in his skull and his ribcage has gotten better or worse, but he knows that he is thirsty. So he will find something to drink.
He pulls himself off the bed. His coat - his coat is over there, on the back of that chair. When did it get there? It doesn’t matter. He puts it on.
He goes into the hallway. He goes into the kitchen. He stops.
China looks up from - shelling peas? And nods briefly at Russia. “Hello,” he says, simply. And continues shelling the peas. Into a bowl next to the kitchen sink.
Russia blinks, slowly. Maybe he is in 1950, or maybe this isn’t China - it isn’t China, it can’t be, but - it looks a lot like him.
OP is happy like you wouldn't *believe*
anonymous
February 8 2010, 09:53:51 UTC
Oh, anon. This was exactly what I wanted. You captured China's conflicting emotions so perfectly and Russia's fragile state of mind so expertly. I can't wait to read the rest of this fill, because this has all the makings of a great Russia/China fill.
Russia doesn’t respond, in words or in gesture. China chews on his lip, his frown deepening. Then,
“I want my sisters.”
Russia says it in a very small voice. His shoulders shake, just the tiniest bit, and China suddenly realises, with a feeling like his stomach has gone hollow, that there are tears tracking down Russia’s face.
Russia draws his knees up to his chest like a child, like he is trying to make himself smaller - and it looks almost ridiculous, on a man of his size - and drags a sleeve across his eyes. “I want Ukraine.” His voice sounds pitiful, broken. “Where is Ukraine? Where is Belarus? Did they leave me behind?”
China stands there as if frozen to the spot, as Russia’s sobs grow louder. The blonde nation scrapes at his eyes with his sleeve again, both sleeves, a child trying to stem his misery.
China’s feet move across the glass-strewn floor. He shouldn’t - physically, symbolically, politically, everything - but he does, he enfolds Russia’s head in his thickly-sleeved arms and presses the side of his tear-smudged face against his chest. Barely thinking, barely needing to think, he shushes and croons and rocks gently back and forth, back and forth, like he used to for his siblings when they were very, very young. Russia doesn’t lean into the embrace, but he doesn’t pull away either; just cries like there is no one here at all. And his tears are making a mess down the front of China’s coat, but that’s okay - that’s the only thought in China’s head as he cradles Russia, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.
**
Russia wakes up to the sound of cupboard doors slamming somewhere in the direction of the kitchen. There is the ringing clatter of porcelain as well, accompanied by a loud but indistinct - and dissatisfied-sounding - voice. That is not the most pressing issue on Russia’s mind though. For some reason, the curtains are open and far too much bright, early morning light is spilling through the glass and into his eyes. And brain, in little stabby pieces. So he drags himself slowly out from under the blankets and yanks the heavy fabric closed, before retreating back to the bed. The ruckus from the kitchen has, thankfully, stopped by now, concluded with the pound of departing footsteps and sound of the front door opening and closing.
It is quiet now. Russia curls up and closes his eyes.
**
The next time Russia opens his eyes, the heavier curtain has been drawn partially aside, with the white, lace-patterned curtain left across the glass. It makes the light coming through softer, more tolerable, and Russia stares at it blearily, letting his eyes adjust to the brightness.
After a moment he sits slowly up and rubs his eyes. He does not know whether the ache in his skull and his ribcage has gotten better or worse, but he knows that he is thirsty. So he will find something to drink.
He pulls himself off the bed. His coat - his coat is over there, on the back of that chair. When did it get there? It doesn’t matter. He puts it on.
He goes into the hallway. He goes into the kitchen. He stops.
China looks up from - shelling peas? And nods briefly at Russia. “Hello,” he says, simply. And continues shelling the peas. Into a bowl next to the kitchen sink.
Russia blinks, slowly. Maybe he is in 1950, or maybe this isn’t China - it isn’t China, it can’t be, but - it looks a lot like him.
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