The Companion [2.7/??]
anonymous
April 7 2010, 17:05:28 UTC
"I'm not dead, really," Russia assured him, holding out his arm, palm up, to America. "Touch it."
America delicately placed his hand in Russia's, listening to the crinkle of stiff leather, watching as Russia's gloved hand lightly squeezed his own. They sat quietly for a moment, America looking at his hand in Russia's own, unamused by how pale and dainty it looked. He didn't even know what this was accomplishing, or if it was even had anything to accomplish.
"What's this all about?" America questioned.
Russia's expression was slightly dazed, his awareness simmering under a layer of blank thought. "I am sure it had a point, but I cannot recall it now..." He trailed, dropping America's hand.
"Er, I'm sure." America clasped the bottle in both hands and raised it once more to his lips.
He pretended, as Russia had, to drink. Trained better in the art of acting, America forced himself to gulp at the nothingness in his mouth several times. He removed the bottle from his lips and set it on the nightstand, letting out the sated sigh of one who has had their thirst slaked.
"Is it to your tastes?" Russia said after a moment.
"Nothing to write home about, but it'll do for now." America yawned, debating how long he should take before putting on a show. After several moments, he relaxed his body, loosening every little muscle that came to mind. He fought momentarily against the covers, whining, low and drawn out. "Son'uva bitch. What'd you put in it this time?"
"I do not know what you're talking about."
"Don't even try that on me." America dropped his head back onto the pillow, throwing is restlessly from side to side. "You spiked the drink. I bet you didn't even have any."
"That is correct, I did not taste it."
America shut his eyes and stilled, using all his self control not to spit in Russia's face for trying to trick him again. But this time, the upper hand was his. Fool me once, shame on you, he thought, fool me twice, and I will jack your shit up.
Russia sat at America's side for awhile, the soft inhale, and slightly wheezing exhale, almost metronome-like in their consistency. He eventually rose from his seat, but did not leave. It sounded to America as if Russia were moving something about, not around the room, but on his person. If there was anything even resembling a God, America knew he would not, could not, be stripping.
He nearly flinched at the cool skin that brushed against his forehead, flicking a few stray hairs from his brow. The pads of Russia's bare fingers lovingly dancing down his temple, skimming over his cheek with an intimacy that America had never thought Russia capable of.
"You know," Russia whispered, his tail of his words trailing along the shell of America's ear, "I prefer you awake. I enjoy your responsiveness, the warmth of your flesh as it presses against mine in our little tussles. Even now, in the weakness of slumber, you are beautiful, and almost─" he paused, searching for the right word. "─almost forgivable. But it is not enough. I want you awake, writhing in my hands, speaking to me, in insults or niceties I do not care. All I want is your companionship," Russia said the last words in an anguished hiss.
Once Russia's confession sunk into America's mind, he visibly balked, lurching up in bed with the shock of it. The door clicked closed the moment his eyes locked on it, Russia having fled from the room the instant he had finished speaking. The distinctive clank of the door being locked echoed in the room.
America stared dumbly ahead of himself, piecing together what had happened in such a short amount of time. Russia was a monster, something mothers warned their children about, not a person who desired the mere presence of other people. He hoarded human beings like one might hoard a doll collection, adding more and more when he had no right to.
America delicately placed his hand in Russia's, listening to the crinkle of stiff leather, watching as Russia's gloved hand lightly squeezed his own. They sat quietly for a moment, America looking at his hand in Russia's own, unamused by how pale and dainty it looked. He didn't even know what this was accomplishing, or if it was even had anything to accomplish.
"What's this all about?" America questioned.
Russia's expression was slightly dazed, his awareness simmering under a layer of blank thought. "I am sure it had a point, but I cannot recall it now..." He trailed, dropping America's hand.
"Er, I'm sure." America clasped the bottle in both hands and raised it once more to his lips.
He pretended, as Russia had, to drink. Trained better in the art of acting, America forced himself to gulp at the nothingness in his mouth several times. He removed the bottle from his lips and set it on the nightstand, letting out the sated sigh of one who has had their thirst slaked.
"Is it to your tastes?" Russia said after a moment.
"Nothing to write home about, but it'll do for now." America yawned, debating how long he should take before putting on a show. After several moments, he relaxed his body, loosening every little muscle that came to mind. He fought momentarily against the covers, whining, low and drawn out. "Son'uva bitch. What'd you put in it this time?"
"I do not know what you're talking about."
"Don't even try that on me." America dropped his head back onto the pillow, throwing is restlessly from side to side. "You spiked the drink. I bet you didn't even have any."
"That is correct, I did not taste it."
America shut his eyes and stilled, using all his self control not to spit in Russia's face for trying to trick him again. But this time, the upper hand was his. Fool me once, shame on you, he thought, fool me twice, and I will jack your shit up.
Russia sat at America's side for awhile, the soft inhale, and slightly wheezing exhale, almost metronome-like in their consistency. He eventually rose from his seat, but did not leave. It sounded to America as if Russia were moving something about, not around the room, but on his person. If there was anything even resembling a God, America knew he would not, could not, be stripping.
He nearly flinched at the cool skin that brushed against his forehead, flicking a few stray hairs from his brow. The pads of Russia's bare fingers lovingly dancing down his temple, skimming over his cheek with an intimacy that America had never thought Russia capable of.
"You know," Russia whispered, his tail of his words trailing along the shell of America's ear, "I prefer you awake. I enjoy your responsiveness, the warmth of your flesh as it presses against mine in our little tussles. Even now, in the weakness of slumber, you are beautiful, and almost─" he paused, searching for the right word. "─almost forgivable. But it is not enough. I want you awake, writhing in my hands, speaking to me, in insults or niceties I do not care. All I want is your companionship," Russia said the last words in an anguished hiss.
Once Russia's confession sunk into America's mind, he visibly balked, lurching up in bed with the shock of it. The door clicked closed the moment his eyes locked on it, Russia having fled from the room the instant he had finished speaking. The distinctive clank of the door being locked echoed in the room.
America stared dumbly ahead of himself, piecing together what had happened in such a short amount of time. Russia was a monster, something mothers warned their children about, not a person who desired the mere presence of other people. He hoarded human beings like one might hoard a doll collection, adding more and more when he had no right to.
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