The Companion [2.3/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 16:57:45 UTC
America's fingers loosened on his makeshift weapon. Maybe throwing things at Russia wasn't such a good idea. America would have the element of surprise, but Russia might recover more quickly than anticipated and in turn pulverize him into a fine pulp.
It was too late to change his mind. America snapped up in bed and threw the paper weight with everything he had, grunting with the effort. It soared straight at Russia, who was halfway to the bed. He dropped an object from his own hand to the floor as he raised his arm to defend himself. It was struck with a sickening thud.
America stared on with disbelief, too surprised that he had really hit Russia to scramble out of bed and run. He squinted, strained his eyes to see what Russia's reaction was. He only shoved up his sleeve and gave it a quick look, a seamless recovery. America shrunk back into the sheets.
"Good morning," Russia bit out, retrieving the object he had let slip from his hand.
"H-hey," America mumbled back, peering over the covers at Russia. He didn't dare shoot a glance at what the other man was carrying, knowing from his last experience that it was unwise to look away. Not to mention he could pick up on the strained edge of Russia's voice, hear that violent twinge of wanting to strike back and then some.
Russia pulled a chair from behind a stack of boxes, never quite turning away from his captive. He dragged it over to the side of the bed, ignoring America's winces as the legs scraped and screamed against the floor. Once it bumped against the mattress, he took a seat, placing the object on the bedside table.
"America," Russia murmured, leaning in over the bed. His bulk took up most of distance between them, eliminating any kind of person space America might have enjoyed, but in return America could now see Russia much more clearly. There was a cruel, rigid quality to his expression that made America wish his vision was worse than it already was.
"Russia," America returned, giving a single nod. He smelled Russia's breath as it tickled against his nose, the usual tinge of alcohol absent.
"I give you my hospitality, open my home to you, and do my best to ensure your comfort and safety on the trip over. Etiquette dictates you must be thankful, almost unendingly, wouldn't you say?" As he spoke, Russia's hand thumped a single time on America's chest, knocking the wind out of him. As America struggled to regain his breath and Russia kept talking, his hand slowly traveled upwards, coming to rest at America's throat.
"You stole me off the streets," America spat back, shoving Russia's hand away. "You knocked me out and brought me to Ice Station Zebra!"
"Do not be ungrateful," Russia snarled, his hand easily snaking back up America's throat, massaging, pressing, clutching.
America shut his mouth, body continuing to squirm, desperately trying to slither away from the nails that scraped at his throat. He was sure he'd be receiving a blow to the head at any moment, or to be strangled into a state of submission. Or until he flat out died.
Russia drew his hands away from America's throat, but did not move back entirely. America's vision was blocked by his entire body, massive and all consuming. Everything felt taken from him by this massive excuse for a man. His glasses, his freedom, and now even his insides were beginning to feel like they no longer belonged to him. Russia was so close it was as if the other man were consuming any identity America was permitted to have.
America's nerves were too shot for subtlety, and so he shoved at Russia's chest, forcing him to pull back. He pouted and looked away, giving no indication that he wanted to interact with Russia. Even if he was forced to exist in the same space, America wasn't going to make it easy. Every word Russia extracted from his mouth was going to be a fight.
It was too late to change his mind. America snapped up in bed and threw the paper weight with everything he had, grunting with the effort. It soared straight at Russia, who was halfway to the bed. He dropped an object from his own hand to the floor as he raised his arm to defend himself. It was struck with a sickening thud.
America stared on with disbelief, too surprised that he had really hit Russia to scramble out of bed and run. He squinted, strained his eyes to see what Russia's reaction was. He only shoved up his sleeve and gave it a quick look, a seamless recovery. America shrunk back into the sheets.
"Good morning," Russia bit out, retrieving the object he had let slip from his hand.
"H-hey," America mumbled back, peering over the covers at Russia. He didn't dare shoot a glance at what the other man was carrying, knowing from his last experience that it was unwise to look away. Not to mention he could pick up on the strained edge of Russia's voice, hear that violent twinge of wanting to strike back and then some.
Russia pulled a chair from behind a stack of boxes, never quite turning away from his captive. He dragged it over to the side of the bed, ignoring America's winces as the legs scraped and screamed against the floor. Once it bumped against the mattress, he took a seat, placing the object on the bedside table.
"America," Russia murmured, leaning in over the bed. His bulk took up most of distance between them, eliminating any kind of person space America might have enjoyed, but in return America could now see Russia much more clearly. There was a cruel, rigid quality to his expression that made America wish his vision was worse than it already was.
"Russia," America returned, giving a single nod. He smelled Russia's breath as it tickled against his nose, the usual tinge of alcohol absent.
"I give you my hospitality, open my home to you, and do my best to ensure your comfort and safety on the trip over. Etiquette dictates you must be thankful, almost unendingly, wouldn't you say?" As he spoke, Russia's hand thumped a single time on America's chest, knocking the wind out of him. As America struggled to regain his breath and Russia kept talking, his hand slowly traveled upwards, coming to rest at America's throat.
"You stole me off the streets," America spat back, shoving Russia's hand away. "You knocked me out and brought me to Ice Station Zebra!"
"Do not be ungrateful," Russia snarled, his hand easily snaking back up America's throat, massaging, pressing, clutching.
America shut his mouth, body continuing to squirm, desperately trying to slither away from the nails that scraped at his throat. He was sure he'd be receiving a blow to the head at any moment, or to be strangled into a state of submission. Or until he flat out died.
Russia drew his hands away from America's throat, but did not move back entirely. America's vision was blocked by his entire body, massive and all consuming. Everything felt taken from him by this massive excuse for a man. His glasses, his freedom, and now even his insides were beginning to feel like they no longer belonged to him. Russia was so close it was as if the other man were consuming any identity America was permitted to have.
America's nerves were too shot for subtlety, and so he shoved at Russia's chest, forcing him to pull back. He pouted and looked away, giving no indication that he wanted to interact with Russia. Even if he was forced to exist in the same space, America wasn't going to make it easy. Every word Russia extracted from his mouth was going to be a fight.
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