The Companion [4.1/??]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 18:29:46 UTC
America couldn't remember waking up, only that he was suddenly in an otherworldly amount of pain, and that he wasn't in his own bedroom. There was no in between for sleep and wakefulness, only hurting and oblivion. He shut his eyes tightly and rolled onto his side, trying to relieve the agony that was crowding his thoughts. The change was negligible at best.
The soft clinking noise of the door unlocking drew his attention, if only momentarily, away from his brooding. He sat up as best he could, smoothing down the sheets while plastering on a mocking smile. It would've been nice to have another paperweight to chuck.
The door slid open to reveal Russia, not that America had been expecting anyone else. A gleaming pipe was tucked beneath his arm, like a morning newspaper. A silent I dare you, urging America to try rebelling, a wordless threat that such actions would not be tolerated again.
"Good evening," Russia intoned flatly, hooking the toe of his boot around the door to shut it. He carried a tray of food to America's bedside, setting it down neatly on the incapacitated man's lap.
America eyed it. Dark bread with a generous helping of unmelted butter, a plain bottle of water, and what looked to be a saucer of milk. "What is this?"
"Breakfast."
"But you said 'good evening', shouldn't it be 'dinner'?"
Russia shrugged, as if he had not the smallest interest in their conversation. "It is your first real meal of the day."
America poked at the saucer. "Is this milk?"
"Yes, I assume you are familiar with such a beverage."
"Milk is the drink of champions, of course I know what it is. But why is it in this little cup?"
"Because you are sweet, and yet so feisty. Like a little kitten, and they drink from dainty saucers, do they not?"
America took a moment to wrap his mind around Russia's explanation, but could not completely grasp it, able only to comprehend that it was weird, and weird was wrong.
"There should be a task force whose sole job is to keep you from speaking. And I mean always keep you from speaking."
Russia cleared his throat and crossed his arms, the pipe catching America's eyes as it shifted. "I cannot help but think you are unhappy here."
America snorted derisively. "Spot on, and you want to know why?"
"I know why," Russia growled, his words short and tight with irritation. "Now eat your breakfast before I feed it to the floor."
America rolled his eyes before turning them to his food. It looked relatively safe and untainted. At least the water bottle's seal was still intact. He lifted the piece of bread to his mouth and took a tentative nibble. It tasted relatively poison free to his untrained palette. America decided it wasn't an immediate threat his health, and took a hearty bite.
He took a sip of water next, watching Russia from the corner of his eye, waiting for some kind of bombshell. Any second Russia would tell him the world through his window was actually a painted scene, that they were really hiding out in an underground bunker, or every other being on Earth was dead.
Russia simply sat quietly, observing America with the trained eyes of a bird watcher. He announced no threats to America's health, there was no boasting about imprisoning a world power, not even the slightest hint at the plans he must have had in store for his captive.
America finished his food and drink, save for the saucer of milk, and pushed the tray away, wincing as the edge pressed into his injured palm. He drew his hand away to examine it.
White, fluffy gauze was taped over his wound in a manner that assured him it had been applied by experienced hands. The lightest dab of cottony-pink blood had seeped through it. America's tongue peeked between his lips in concentration as he set to picking at the tape.
"Don't." Russia batted America's hand away from the bandage. "I won't have you picking at your stitches like a recently neutered dog, you are above such thing."
The Companion [4.2/??]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 18:31:03 UTC
America raised a single eyebrow. "I'm above such things? I thought I was pretty much dirt in your eyes."
"You've thrown dirt in my eyes before, both metaphorically and physically, but I have never said you are dirt in my eyes."
A distrustful frown flicked across America's lips. "Yeah, sure." He picked the tray up, careful to avoid pressing on his cut, and set it in Russia's lap. "I'm all fed and watered now, you can beat it."
Russia stood and gave an understanding nod as he lifted the tray up. He exited without a word of farewell, only a quick walk to the door, a bit of fussing to get it opened while holding the tray, and then the shut and click of Russia locking it from the outside.
America returned to laying on his side, dull pain continuing to course through his veins. He curled in on himself, teeth grinding and snapping as his neck pulsed with tightly cinched pain. He kicked his feet to disperse some of his pent up screams by lashing out with his feet, kicking and tangling them in the sheets of the bed, eyes watering as red hot lashes of fire burned through his bad ankle.
"Would you like something for your discomfort?"
America lurched upright, a hand instinctively rising to his mouth to withhold a startled gasp. "Didn't you leave?"
"Only to wash the dishes," Russia politely informed him, hovering over America as he studied him. "Why don't I bring you some fresh clothes?"
"Nothing wrong with these ones," America grumbled, looking down at himself. His jacket had dark splotches of dried blood, but they were hardly noticeable in comparison to the more vivid spots on his pale shirt. "Well, it's not that bad," he tacked on.
Russia was already at the dresser, rifling through the top drawer. America's shoulders tightened as he watched Russia go through his things, exploring the clothes that America wore outside of their structured meetings and conferences.
"I didn't give you permission to go through my stuff!" With the stiffness of the elderly, America managed to crawl his way out of bed and hobbled over to Russia. "They're mine for a reason."
"Yes, I'm sure they are." Russia pulled a knit top from the drawer. It unfurled under his hands, creating a hand-crafted landscape of frolicking reindeer and small elves with disproportionately short limbs in comparison to the rest of their bodies.
"It was a gift," America mumbled, the tips of his ears reddening.
Russia made a disbelieving noise and folded the top back up, carefully returning it to the drawer. He pulled out a dark blue number and shook it, his gaze sweeping the length of the fabric. He held it up against America's frame for a moment, head cocking to the side as he humming with thought.
Russia's eyes glittered with judgement, like a man perusing a line-up of women on the street, deciding which one was most worth being solicited, and America happened to have the look he went for. America's fists clenched with dry tension, lower lip jutting out in defiance to being regarded as a piece of meat.
"This will do," Russia smiled, voice harboring an almost imperceptible dreamy quality.
America shrugged off his jacket and checked the pockets, making sure nothing of value would go through the wash. His fingers met only with the touch of thin plastic. He pulled it out, recognizing it as the clear bag he had used to carry goldfish in. His little book of crossword puzzles should have been with it.
"What did you do with my puzzles?"
"The same thing you did to your neck," Russia answered nonsensically, and almost too quickly.
"My neck?" America raised a self conscious hand to his neck, fingers lingering over his flesh, but never coming into contact.
"Yes, it has an awful bruise," Russia remarked, voice lilting with the stirrings of concern.
"What does it look like?"
"Like a man chasing a duck."
"Does it really?" America gaped.
"No ," Russia snorted coldly. "It's a bruise, not a Rorschach ink blot test."
Re: The Companion [4.3/??]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 18:32:13 UTC
"Oh, I get it," America muttered back, tucking a lock of hair behind his ears and letting his gaze fall to the floor. "But what I was asking was if it looked bad or not."
"I would not consider 'bad' to be sufficiently descriptive of how it looks."
"Then how bad is it?"
"Enough so that it warrants a turtleneck," Russia responded, holding the dark shirt out to America.
America dropped his jacket to the floor and took the shirt from Russia before turning around. He raised his bad ankle in the air, balancing precariously as he hung the top on his knee so that he would have both hands free to finish undressing.
He grasped the hem of his shirt and began to slowly pull it upwards, shimmying his hips so that he wouldn't fall over. Gloved hands grasped at his waist the moment the skin was exposed. America stiffened in surprise, only to overbalance a second later. But Russia's grip held firm, keeping America upright.
"Hands off the merchandise, bub." America swatted at Russia's hands. "I'm trying to change here."
"Then don't put on a show."
"I'm not putting on a show," America barked indignantly. "I'd like to see you change on one foot."
"I've done more difficult things before." Russia gripped loosened a fraction, shifting from unemotional and disconnected to something slightly more tender.
America wriggled and twisted, trying again to lose Russia's touch. "Can't you leave for like five minutes? I can dress myself." He paused. "And I gotta piss too, where the heck is the bathroom?"
Russia relinquished his hold on America and went to shoulder a tower of boxes aside, revealing a plain door that America had failed to notice. "There you go. Five minutes, that's all you get." He was gone before America could throw a snide 'thanks' at his back.
After relieving himself, America made his way back to the bed with a heavy limp. He sat upon the rumpled sheets, taking his time as he pulled the shirt over his head. The brisk air of the room was a welcome touch as it brushed along his skin, and he sighed with the momentary bliss of interrupted pain.
After giving his arms a good stretch, America set to putting the clean top on. He quickly pulled it over his head, expression becoming scrunched as the cloth clung to his face. Fingers clawed at the fabric and he gasped dramatically as his head popped out of the neck.
He looked down automatically at his stomach as he went to pull the shirt over it, but was stopped by the sight of his skin. Bruises blossomed over his flesh, sickening greens and jarring blues sat arrogantly upon his torso, as if the blood from his previous shirt had been so heavy it had seeped through the fabric, tattooing itself upon his skin.
America cringed at the bruised canvas of his body and quickly pulled the shirt down as far as it would go, fingers nervously playing with a few frayed edges. Changing his jeans was out of the question, even if he knew without looking that they were ruined as well. He didn't want to see how much of the color spectrum his ankle had collected.
Shaking fingers moved up to America's hair, searching for an outlet for their energy. He haphazardly fluffed his hair, running his fingers from root to tip through downy locks before shaking his head as carefully as he could without causing an explosion of agony in his neck. The door opened again.
Russia's voice wafted through the opening, like words on the wind. "Are you decent?"
"Even if I said no, you'd still come in."
Russia slipped into the room with a condescending smile, though it had a certain brightness to it. "Such brash assumptions you make, my little sparrow."
"I thought I was your 'panicky little bird'?" America sneered as he recalled the words.
"Oh, first and foremost you will always be my panicky little bird." The mattress dipped as Russia took a seat next to America, his hand lazily falling on America's thigh. "Throwing yourself against the bars of your cage again and again until your body is nothing but bruised and mangled bones, with wings too broken to fly."
The Companion [4.4/??]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 18:33:15 UTC
America shuddered, his heart fluttering. He looked around the room, doing anything he could to avoid looking at Russia. He took in the boxes again, thought about the little baubles and bits they held. Those things were for him. Small toys meant for him amuse himself with in his cage, like the mirrors and cuttlebones birds were so prone to play with.
"I meant that as a compliment, you know," Russia added once he saw America had no intention of responding.
"That's, uh─" America searched for a response that wouldn't get his lights knocked out. "Something, I guess."
Russia gave his leg a squeeze, and America's blood jumped. He fought not to show it outwardly. He wouldn't let Russia get a rile out of him, give him a reason to strike America down. Russia continued in his touching of America unobstructed, fingers trickling down to his kneecap before crawling back up to his thigh.
Russia's touch was not wholly unpleasant to America, but it was not wanted all the same. America struggled to ignore the hand, but found the only thing he could concentrate on was the continuous pain that wracked his body, throbbing with every beat of his heart.
Sweat beaded on America's forehead, the fringe of his bangs becoming matted and sticky. His muscles trembled with unwanted weakness and exhaustion. The redness that had been nibbling on the tips of his ears spread, licking down the length of his neck, scuttling over his skin.
America wallowed in a pit of irritation as the petting, and his pain, continued on unchecked. He was fairly confident that he could handle one or the other, but not together. Pain was preferable. To America, anything was preferable to Russia's touch.
Russia made a noise in his throat, a haunting and almost musical sound, like wind singing from the mouth of a cavern. America's gritted his teeth as he looked at Russia; or rather, the small spot between his eyebrows that America would have liked to plant a punch, or a lead bullet, in.
"You have the eyes of a dove," Russia softly murmured. "So gentle and benign, impassive to the cars that race below you, unaware of the hawk that will soon drop from the sky and snatch you. I wish I could take them from you, have them as my own."
America's expression fell to one of extreme discomfort. "Remember that task force I mentioned earlier?"
"Yes."
"I meant it."
Russia chuckled good-naturedly, letting the insult slide off him, but withdrew his hand from America's thigh. America arched his lower back out and rubbed at it, trying to work out the kinks that had nestled against his spine. The air seemed to ripple and tense as they continued to exist in silence.
America looked his bandaged hand over, turning it over to observe the gauze. He figured a compliment would help smooth over his previous jabs. "So, this bandage─" he gestured with the arm, shaking it at Russia. "─It was, uh, not the worst thing you could have done." America grimaced at the poorly worded 'thank you', hoping Russia would read between the lines to see the true meaning.
"You're welcome," Russia responded.
Despite himself, and the situation he has in, America grinned. He was tempted to turn the charm on to disarm Russia, or at least attempt some kind of half-friendship. Not that he wanted one, but certain things were necessities. Befriending captors was pretty high on the list of ways to survive being kidnapped.
America glanced at the ceiling without really seeing it, running through things to say in order to butter up Russia. He could compliment Russia, which was wrong, and awful, and not some a hero would do. Villains deserved nothing but curses, or─
The Companion [4.5/??]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 18:34:22 UTC
"Hey, I got a great idea," America piped up.
"Tell me more," Russia prompted.
"C'mon now, hear me out just for a few─ Oh, wait." America found his tongue momentarily tied, stumbling over confused words. "Er, well I was thinking, you say a lot of creepy things."
"And you say many blunt things." Russia fell back on the mattress, arms spread out on the sheets, legs still hooked over the edge of the bed.
"But that's me, we're talking about you." America's smile bloomed into a full on movie star grin. "I'm going to help you not say such creepy things, it'll be fun!"
"And in return, I will teach you to speak with more tact?"
America barked out a laugh at the absurdity of the notion, and followed suit in falling on the bed, the back of his head connecting with Russia's forearm. There was a small gap where America could have acknowledged the inadvertent touch, muttered something in protest and repositioned himself, made crystal clear how much he loathed the contact. He let it pass.
"Pay me a compliment," America prompted, he was so used to getting them on a daily basis he was growing to miss them, and decided even Russia's were worth hearing, no matter how odd.
"I wish I could rip the warmth from your voice and wrap it around me like a blanket."
"Okay, that was a solid start, it really was," America encouraged. The words had a kind cadence that made his skin tingle pleasantly, but such sincerity that it also made his throat tighten instinctively. "Let's try again. This time without mention of ripping things."
"I want to steal─"
"No stealing, either."
"When I look into your eyes," Russia began, stopping to see if America approved.
"Good, good, I like where this is going."
"─I only want to punch you in the face a little bit."
"Russia," America groaned, turning his head to look at him. "How can you be so utterly unable to give a good compliment?"
Russia's pale lips quirked up at the corners. A playful light flickered behind his eyes, dancing in and out of view as America studied them. America pushed himself up on his hands and looked down his nose at Russia. He was being played for a fool. Russia was coming up with inappropriate compliments on purpose, yanking America's chain for his own amusement.
"Do you not like my kind words to you?" Russia asked, laughter trailing on his breath.
"You're just messing with me." America cheeks puffed into a childish pout.
"But it is helping, is it not?"
"Helping with what? Annoying the heck out of me? Because that's pretty much all you're accomplishing."
"Distracting you from your pain," Russia answered lightly.
"Oh," America paused, registering Russia's intentions behind his poorly-worded compliments. They weren't meant to intentionally creep America out, or if they were, that was not their first objective. They were simple sentences to distract him from the aches of his body, the cries of his bones.
"I'll have to assume it worked."
"Couldn't you have done something conventional, like given me painkillers?" America lowered himself back down on the bed, pulling his legs up, body curled towards Russia's.
"No matter how many assurances I gave, I cannot imagine you swallowing pills that have come from my hands," Russia said, words tapering off into a wistful sigh.
"Fair enough."
"However, I will always be happy to supply you with enough vodka to drink your pains away." Russia flashed America a toothy smile, one that suggested he had tried such a remedy many times before and found it particularly helpful.
"Couldn't hurt," America shrugged, having come to the conclusion that Russia didn't spike drinks.
"Wonderful!" Russia exclaimed, arms darting in a flurry to grab America before pulling him close to his body. Russia hugged America like a boy hugs his dog when it has responded to its name for the very first time. A hug that sang of a friendship that would evolve into something unbreakable by time or distance.
The Companion [4.6/??]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 18:36:09 UTC
"You're hurting me," America lied, starting to rethink his plan to become buddy-buddy with Russia.
If America and Russia were to become friends, it would be a permanent relationship. Once you made a friend, they would always be your friend. Even on the battlefield, with guns leveled at each other's chest, you couldn't simply erase what had been. Memories, thoughts, feelings and experiences would always live on.
Even as friends were parted, either by mere drifting, or wretched apart by destiny and war, they would always know your weaknesses and fears, what made you tick inside. America couldn't trust Russia with that knowledge, even if it meant he got the same in return from him.
Russia let go of America as he started to squirm in his arms, getting up from the bed only to drop to the floor on his hands and knees. America watched with cautious eyes as Russia looked under the bed before pulling out a bottle of vodka.
"Always good to keep a little something hidden away," Russia said, handing the bottle over.
------------
One hour and a mostly empty vodka bottle later, America decided it was as good a time as any to get to the thick of things. Like why he was still breathing.
"Commie boy," America started in a loose Southern drawl, the one that only showed up when he was tipsy. "I do believe I have a question for you."
"I will do my best to answer." Russia had moved back to his chair, allowing America to hoard the bed with his sprawled limbs.
"I don't mean this like no philosophizer, or your modern day Aristotle, but why am I here?" America strained the last few words, the tendons in his neck straining.
"Because I brought you here." Russia fished America's glasses from his face and tried them on.
"Give those back, snow man." America waved his bottle at Russia. "I'll trade you for them."
Russia took the bottle from America's hands and set it on the nightstand before placing the glasses back in America's waiting palm. "These are terrible, how can you see with them?"
"More like, how can't I see with them," America sputtered. "And you're avoiding my question."
"Yes, yes I am," Russia said, unashamed.
"Look, I don't know if you're aware of this, but I need to leave. So the sooner we get this all worked out the better."
"Things are not as simple as that."
"Tell me about it," America groused.
"I see no better way to pass the time," Russia conceded, readjusting his scarf so that it was wrapped quite snuggle about his neck. "What do you know of chess?"
"Chess is for assholes," America laughed, rolling around on his back. "And for people who have no lives. Sometimes both."
"Do you know the pieces in chess?" Russia went on, ignoring America's thoughts regarding the game.
"Of course I do."
"And do you know their values?"
"I know the Queen is the bee's knees, but that the King is where it's all at."
"That's right, yes, but there's more to it. For example, a pawn had a value of one. A knight has a value of three─"
"Don't care," America huffed. "Doesn't have anything to do with me being stuck here."
"But it does, America." Russia moved in a fluid motion, switching from the chair to America's bed to blot out the ceiling, effectively making himself the center of America's attention. "Lithuania, Estonia, and all the rest of them, pawns. Little pieces with a worth of only one."
America turned his head to look away, he didn't want to hear talk of nations being referred to as meaningless pawns, as objects to sacrifice in order to come out on top. Russia cupped America's cheek and gently eased his head back, forcing America to look at him.
"This is not something you want to hear, but it is the simplest way I can explain it." He absentmindedly stroked America's cheek, his expression bleak and far away. "All my pieces are gone now. Stolen away from me so that they may live their miserable little lives without interference."
The Companion [4.7/??]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 18:41:04 UTC
"I'm just another little pawn for you to play with, is that what you're getting at?"
Russia laughed to himself and shook his head before casting a patronizing look at America, like the look a Mother might give her child after they've asked if the moon is truly made of cheese. "You are not a simple pawn, America. You're one of the strongest countries there are, the king of the world, one might say. And as for the King in chess, his value is limitless."
America blushed at Russia's words. To think himself a king, a ruler, was something he had only indulged in during his childhood bath times, waging war with toy boats and a soapsud army. But there was no denying that deep down, in the spot behind his heart where all his secrets slept, he liked the idea.
"Let me guess, you want to tag team it up and rule the world?" America supplied, struggling to keep his words from becoming drunken and disjointed slurs.
Russia thoughtfully tapped his chin. "In a sense, yes. But perhaps not in the way you're considering it. As you have previously mentioned, the king is at the top of the food chain, but only when it comes to the board. You must remember that in actuality, it is the player who calls the shots."
America rubbed his eyes, as if to make the situation clearer. "And you're the player?"
"Exactly," Russia chirped, clapping his hands together once. "While the other pieces don't trust me enough to listen to my orders, they'll listen to their King."
"What makes you think their 'King' is going to listen to you?"
"That's the beauty of it all, America," Russia said as he stood, wrapping around himself in a self-assured embrace.. "Even if you don't want to dance, I am the one pulling the strings."
---- A/N: -This chapter feels really clunky to me, but I can't put my finger on why. -For the instrumental input I asked for in the last chapter, the winner was the cello, so you can expect it to show up in an upcoming part. -The fate of the crossword puzzle book will be answered! I must admit it is rather devious. -Pairing wise, Russia/America will start happening in the next chapter. -Constructive criticism is always welcome! ♥ -I think there may not be an update next week, sadly. There definitely will be one in two weeks, but my beta-er won't be able to beta next week, so. . . we'll see!
Re: The Companion [4.7/??]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 23:29:58 UTC
Didn't find this fill in time to give my input, but the one I wanted won anyway. XD Cello~~
The way you write Russia is very close to my headcanon!Russia. There fore, I love him, even if he does scare the hell outta me on occasion.
It's kinda funny that you update on Wednesday. I have a friend who I beta for who does the same thing. XD Obviously, you are not her, but it's still funny.
The soft clinking noise of the door unlocking drew his attention, if only momentarily, away from his brooding. He sat up as best he could, smoothing down the sheets while plastering on a mocking smile. It would've been nice to have another paperweight to chuck.
The door slid open to reveal Russia, not that America had been expecting anyone else. A gleaming pipe was tucked beneath his arm, like a morning newspaper. A silent I dare you, urging America to try rebelling, a wordless threat that such actions would not be tolerated again.
"Good evening," Russia intoned flatly, hooking the toe of his boot around the door to shut it. He carried a tray of food to America's bedside, setting it down neatly on the incapacitated man's lap.
America eyed it. Dark bread with a generous helping of unmelted butter, a plain bottle of water, and what looked to be a saucer of milk. "What is this?"
"Breakfast."
"But you said 'good evening', shouldn't it be 'dinner'?"
Russia shrugged, as if he had not the smallest interest in their conversation. "It is your first real meal of the day."
America poked at the saucer. "Is this milk?"
"Yes, I assume you are familiar with such a beverage."
"Milk is the drink of champions, of course I know what it is. But why is it in this little cup?"
"Because you are sweet, and yet so feisty. Like a little kitten, and they drink from dainty saucers, do they not?"
America took a moment to wrap his mind around Russia's explanation, but could not completely grasp it, able only to comprehend that it was weird, and weird was wrong.
"There should be a task force whose sole job is to keep you from speaking. And I mean always keep you from speaking."
Russia cleared his throat and crossed his arms, the pipe catching America's eyes as it shifted. "I cannot help but think you are unhappy here."
America snorted derisively. "Spot on, and you want to know why?"
"I know why," Russia growled, his words short and tight with irritation. "Now eat your breakfast before I feed it to the floor."
America rolled his eyes before turning them to his food. It looked relatively safe and untainted. At least the water bottle's seal was still intact. He lifted the piece of bread to his mouth and took a tentative nibble. It tasted relatively poison free to his untrained palette. America decided it wasn't an immediate threat his health, and took a hearty bite.
He took a sip of water next, watching Russia from the corner of his eye, waiting for some kind of bombshell. Any second Russia would tell him the world through his window was actually a painted scene, that they were really hiding out in an underground bunker, or every other being on Earth was dead.
Russia simply sat quietly, observing America with the trained eyes of a bird watcher. He announced no threats to America's health, there was no boasting about imprisoning a world power, not even the slightest hint at the plans he must have had in store for his captive.
America finished his food and drink, save for the saucer of milk, and pushed the tray away, wincing as the edge pressed into his injured palm. He drew his hand away to examine it.
White, fluffy gauze was taped over his wound in a manner that assured him it had been applied by experienced hands. The lightest dab of cottony-pink blood had seeped through it. America's tongue peeked between his lips in concentration as he set to picking at the tape.
"Don't." Russia batted America's hand away from the bandage. "I won't have you picking at your stitches like a recently neutered dog, you are above such thing."
Reply
"You've thrown dirt in my eyes before, both metaphorically and physically, but I have never said you are dirt in my eyes."
A distrustful frown flicked across America's lips. "Yeah, sure." He picked the tray up, careful to avoid pressing on his cut, and set it in Russia's lap. "I'm all fed and watered now, you can beat it."
Russia stood and gave an understanding nod as he lifted the tray up. He exited without a word of farewell, only a quick walk to the door, a bit of fussing to get it opened while holding the tray, and then the shut and click of Russia locking it from the outside.
America returned to laying on his side, dull pain continuing to course through his veins. He curled in on himself, teeth grinding and snapping as his neck pulsed with tightly cinched pain. He kicked his feet to disperse some of his pent up screams by lashing out with his feet, kicking and tangling them in the sheets of the bed, eyes watering as red hot lashes of fire burned through his bad ankle.
"Would you like something for your discomfort?"
America lurched upright, a hand instinctively rising to his mouth to withhold a startled gasp. "Didn't you leave?"
"Only to wash the dishes," Russia politely informed him, hovering over America as he studied him. "Why don't I bring you some fresh clothes?"
"Nothing wrong with these ones," America grumbled, looking down at himself. His jacket had dark splotches of dried blood, but they were hardly noticeable in comparison to the more vivid spots on his pale shirt. "Well, it's not that bad," he tacked on.
Russia was already at the dresser, rifling through the top drawer. America's shoulders tightened as he watched Russia go through his things, exploring the clothes that America wore outside of their structured meetings and conferences.
"I didn't give you permission to go through my stuff!" With the stiffness of the elderly, America managed to crawl his way out of bed and hobbled over to Russia. "They're mine for a reason."
"Yes, I'm sure they are." Russia pulled a knit top from the drawer. It unfurled under his hands, creating a hand-crafted landscape of frolicking reindeer and small elves with disproportionately short limbs in comparison to the rest of their bodies.
"It was a gift," America mumbled, the tips of his ears reddening.
Russia made a disbelieving noise and folded the top back up, carefully returning it to the drawer. He pulled out a dark blue number and shook it, his gaze sweeping the length of the fabric. He held it up against America's frame for a moment, head cocking to the side as he humming with thought.
Russia's eyes glittered with judgement, like a man perusing a line-up of women on the street, deciding which one was most worth being solicited, and America happened to have the look he went for. America's fists clenched with dry tension, lower lip jutting out in defiance to being regarded as a piece of meat.
"This will do," Russia smiled, voice harboring an almost imperceptible dreamy quality.
America shrugged off his jacket and checked the pockets, making sure nothing of value would go through the wash. His fingers met only with the touch of thin plastic. He pulled it out, recognizing it as the clear bag he had used to carry goldfish in. His little book of crossword puzzles should have been with it.
"What did you do with my puzzles?"
"The same thing you did to your neck," Russia answered nonsensically, and almost too quickly.
"My neck?" America raised a self conscious hand to his neck, fingers lingering over his flesh, but never coming into contact.
"Yes, it has an awful bruise," Russia remarked, voice lilting with the stirrings of concern.
"What does it look like?"
"Like a man chasing a duck."
"Does it really?" America gaped.
"No ," Russia snorted coldly. "It's a bruise, not a Rorschach ink blot test."
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"I would not consider 'bad' to be sufficiently descriptive of how it looks."
"Then how bad is it?"
"Enough so that it warrants a turtleneck," Russia responded, holding the dark shirt out to America.
America dropped his jacket to the floor and took the shirt from Russia before turning around. He raised his bad ankle in the air, balancing precariously as he hung the top on his knee so that he would have both hands free to finish undressing.
He grasped the hem of his shirt and began to slowly pull it upwards, shimmying his hips so that he wouldn't fall over. Gloved hands grasped at his waist the moment the skin was exposed. America stiffened in surprise, only to overbalance a second later. But Russia's grip held firm, keeping America upright.
"Hands off the merchandise, bub." America swatted at Russia's hands. "I'm trying to change here."
"Then don't put on a show."
"I'm not putting on a show," America barked indignantly. "I'd like to see you change on one foot."
"I've done more difficult things before." Russia gripped loosened a fraction, shifting from unemotional and disconnected to something slightly more tender.
America wriggled and twisted, trying again to lose Russia's touch. "Can't you leave for like five minutes? I can dress myself." He paused. "And I gotta piss too, where the heck is the bathroom?"
Russia relinquished his hold on America and went to shoulder a tower of boxes aside, revealing a plain door that America had failed to notice. "There you go. Five minutes, that's all you get." He was gone before America could throw a snide 'thanks' at his back.
After relieving himself, America made his way back to the bed with a heavy limp. He sat upon the rumpled sheets, taking his time as he pulled the shirt over his head. The brisk air of the room was a welcome touch as it brushed along his skin, and he sighed with the momentary bliss of interrupted pain.
After giving his arms a good stretch, America set to putting the clean top on. He quickly pulled it over his head, expression becoming scrunched as the cloth clung to his face. Fingers clawed at the fabric and he gasped dramatically as his head popped out of the neck.
He looked down automatically at his stomach as he went to pull the shirt over it, but was stopped by the sight of his skin. Bruises blossomed over his flesh, sickening greens and jarring blues sat arrogantly upon his torso, as if the blood from his previous shirt had been so heavy it had seeped through the fabric, tattooing itself upon his skin.
America cringed at the bruised canvas of his body and quickly pulled the shirt down as far as it would go, fingers nervously playing with a few frayed edges. Changing his jeans was out of the question, even if he knew without looking that they were ruined as well. He didn't want to see how much of the color spectrum his ankle had collected.
Shaking fingers moved up to America's hair, searching for an outlet for their energy. He haphazardly fluffed his hair, running his fingers from root to tip through downy locks before shaking his head as carefully as he could without causing an explosion of agony in his neck. The door opened again.
Russia's voice wafted through the opening, like words on the wind. "Are you decent?"
"Even if I said no, you'd still come in."
Russia slipped into the room with a condescending smile, though it had a certain brightness to it. "Such brash assumptions you make, my little sparrow."
"I thought I was your 'panicky little bird'?" America sneered as he recalled the words.
"Oh, first and foremost you will always be my panicky little bird." The mattress dipped as Russia took a seat next to America, his hand lazily falling on America's thigh. "Throwing yourself against the bars of your cage again and again until your body is nothing but bruised and mangled bones, with wings too broken to fly."
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"I meant that as a compliment, you know," Russia added once he saw America had no intention of responding.
"That's, uh─" America searched for a response that wouldn't get his lights knocked out. "Something, I guess."
Russia gave his leg a squeeze, and America's blood jumped. He fought not to show it outwardly. He wouldn't let Russia get a rile out of him, give him a reason to strike America down. Russia continued in his touching of America unobstructed, fingers trickling down to his kneecap before crawling back up to his thigh.
Russia's touch was not wholly unpleasant to America, but it was not wanted all the same. America struggled to ignore the hand, but found the only thing he could concentrate on was the continuous pain that wracked his body, throbbing with every beat of his heart.
Sweat beaded on America's forehead, the fringe of his bangs becoming matted and sticky. His muscles trembled with unwanted weakness and exhaustion. The redness that had been nibbling on the tips of his ears spread, licking down the length of his neck, scuttling over his skin.
America wallowed in a pit of irritation as the petting, and his pain, continued on unchecked. He was fairly confident that he could handle one or the other, but not together. Pain was preferable. To America, anything was preferable to Russia's touch.
Russia made a noise in his throat, a haunting and almost musical sound, like wind singing from the mouth of a cavern. America's gritted his teeth as he looked at Russia; or rather, the small spot between his eyebrows that America would have liked to plant a punch, or a lead bullet, in.
"You have the eyes of a dove," Russia softly murmured. "So gentle and benign, impassive to the cars that race below you, unaware of the hawk that will soon drop from the sky and snatch you. I wish I could take them from you, have them as my own."
America's expression fell to one of extreme discomfort. "Remember that task force I mentioned earlier?"
"Yes."
"I meant it."
Russia chuckled good-naturedly, letting the insult slide off him, but withdrew his hand from America's thigh. America arched his lower back out and rubbed at it, trying to work out the kinks that had nestled against his spine. The air seemed to ripple and tense as they continued to exist in silence.
America looked his bandaged hand over, turning it over to observe the gauze. He figured a compliment would help smooth over his previous jabs. "So, this bandage─" he gestured with the arm, shaking it at Russia. "─It was, uh, not the worst thing you could have done." America grimaced at the poorly worded 'thank you', hoping Russia would read between the lines to see the true meaning.
"You're welcome," Russia responded.
Despite himself, and the situation he has in, America grinned. He was tempted to turn the charm on to disarm Russia, or at least attempt some kind of half-friendship. Not that he wanted one, but certain things were necessities. Befriending captors was pretty high on the list of ways to survive being kidnapped.
America glanced at the ceiling without really seeing it, running through things to say in order to butter up Russia. He could compliment Russia, which was wrong, and awful, and not some a hero would do. Villains deserved nothing but curses, or─
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"Tell me more," Russia prompted.
"C'mon now, hear me out just for a few─ Oh, wait." America found his tongue momentarily tied, stumbling over confused words. "Er, well I was thinking, you say a lot of creepy things."
"And you say many blunt things." Russia fell back on the mattress, arms spread out on the sheets, legs still hooked over the edge of the bed.
"But that's me, we're talking about you." America's smile bloomed into a full on movie star grin. "I'm going to help you not say such creepy things, it'll be fun!"
"And in return, I will teach you to speak with more tact?"
America barked out a laugh at the absurdity of the notion, and followed suit in falling on the bed, the back of his head connecting with Russia's forearm. There was a small gap where America could have acknowledged the inadvertent touch, muttered something in protest and repositioned himself, made crystal clear how much he loathed the contact. He let it pass.
"Pay me a compliment," America prompted, he was so used to getting them on a daily basis he was growing to miss them, and decided even Russia's were worth hearing, no matter how odd.
"I wish I could rip the warmth from your voice and wrap it around me like a blanket."
"Okay, that was a solid start, it really was," America encouraged. The words had a kind cadence that made his skin tingle pleasantly, but such sincerity that it also made his throat tighten instinctively. "Let's try again. This time without mention of ripping things."
"I want to steal─"
"No stealing, either."
"When I look into your eyes," Russia began, stopping to see if America approved.
"Good, good, I like where this is going."
"─I only want to punch you in the face a little bit."
"Russia," America groaned, turning his head to look at him. "How can you be so utterly unable to give a good compliment?"
Russia's pale lips quirked up at the corners. A playful light flickered behind his eyes, dancing in and out of view as America studied them. America pushed himself up on his hands and looked down his nose at Russia. He was being played for a fool. Russia was coming up with inappropriate compliments on purpose, yanking America's chain for his own amusement.
"Do you not like my kind words to you?" Russia asked, laughter trailing on his breath.
"You're just messing with me." America cheeks puffed into a childish pout.
"But it is helping, is it not?"
"Helping with what? Annoying the heck out of me? Because that's pretty much all you're accomplishing."
"Distracting you from your pain," Russia answered lightly.
"Oh," America paused, registering Russia's intentions behind his poorly-worded compliments. They weren't meant to intentionally creep America out, or if they were, that was not their first objective. They were simple sentences to distract him from the aches of his body, the cries of his bones.
"I'll have to assume it worked."
"Couldn't you have done something conventional, like given me painkillers?" America lowered himself back down on the bed, pulling his legs up, body curled towards Russia's.
"No matter how many assurances I gave, I cannot imagine you swallowing pills that have come from my hands," Russia said, words tapering off into a wistful sigh.
"Fair enough."
"However, I will always be happy to supply you with enough vodka to drink your pains away." Russia flashed America a toothy smile, one that suggested he had tried such a remedy many times before and found it particularly helpful.
"Couldn't hurt," America shrugged, having come to the conclusion that Russia didn't spike drinks.
"Wonderful!" Russia exclaimed, arms darting in a flurry to grab America before pulling him close to his body. Russia hugged America like a boy hugs his dog when it has responded to its name for the very first time. A hug that sang of a friendship that would evolve into something unbreakable by time or distance.
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If America and Russia were to become friends, it would be a permanent relationship. Once you made a friend, they would always be your friend. Even on the battlefield, with guns leveled at each other's chest, you couldn't simply erase what had been. Memories, thoughts, feelings and experiences would always live on.
Even as friends were parted, either by mere drifting, or wretched apart by destiny and war, they would always know your weaknesses and fears, what made you tick inside. America couldn't trust Russia with that knowledge, even if it meant he got the same in return from him.
Russia let go of America as he started to squirm in his arms, getting up from the bed only to drop to the floor on his hands and knees. America watched with cautious eyes as Russia looked under the bed before pulling out a bottle of vodka.
"Always good to keep a little something hidden away," Russia said, handing the bottle over.
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One hour and a mostly empty vodka bottle later, America decided it was as good a time as any to get to the thick of things. Like why he was still breathing.
"Commie boy," America started in a loose Southern drawl, the one that only showed up when he was tipsy. "I do believe I have a question for you."
"I will do my best to answer." Russia had moved back to his chair, allowing America to hoard the bed with his sprawled limbs.
"I don't mean this like no philosophizer, or your modern day Aristotle, but why am I here?" America strained the last few words, the tendons in his neck straining.
"Because I brought you here." Russia fished America's glasses from his face and tried them on.
"Give those back, snow man." America waved his bottle at Russia. "I'll trade you for them."
Russia took the bottle from America's hands and set it on the nightstand before placing the glasses back in America's waiting palm. "These are terrible, how can you see with them?"
"More like, how can't I see with them," America sputtered. "And you're avoiding my question."
"Yes, yes I am," Russia said, unashamed.
"Look, I don't know if you're aware of this, but I need to leave. So the sooner we get this all worked out the better."
"Things are not as simple as that."
"Tell me about it," America groused.
"I see no better way to pass the time," Russia conceded, readjusting his scarf so that it was wrapped quite snuggle about his neck. "What do you know of chess?"
"Chess is for assholes," America laughed, rolling around on his back. "And for people who have no lives. Sometimes both."
"Do you know the pieces in chess?" Russia went on, ignoring America's thoughts regarding the game.
"Of course I do."
"And do you know their values?"
"I know the Queen is the bee's knees, but that the King is where it's all at."
"That's right, yes, but there's more to it. For example, a pawn had a value of one. A knight has a value of three─"
"Don't care," America huffed. "Doesn't have anything to do with me being stuck here."
"But it does, America." Russia moved in a fluid motion, switching from the chair to America's bed to blot out the ceiling, effectively making himself the center of America's attention. "Lithuania, Estonia, and all the rest of them, pawns. Little pieces with a worth of only one."
America turned his head to look away, he didn't want to hear talk of nations being referred to as meaningless pawns, as objects to sacrifice in order to come out on top. Russia cupped America's cheek and gently eased his head back, forcing America to look at him.
"This is not something you want to hear, but it is the simplest way I can explain it." He absentmindedly stroked America's cheek, his expression bleak and far away. "All my pieces are gone now. Stolen away from me so that they may live their miserable little lives without interference."
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Russia laughed to himself and shook his head before casting a patronizing look at America, like the look a Mother might give her child after they've asked if the moon is truly made of cheese. "You are not a simple pawn, America. You're one of the strongest countries there are, the king of the world, one might say. And as for the King in chess, his value is limitless."
America blushed at Russia's words. To think himself a king, a ruler, was something he had only indulged in during his childhood bath times, waging war with toy boats and a soapsud army. But there was no denying that deep down, in the spot behind his heart where all his secrets slept, he liked the idea.
"Let me guess, you want to tag team it up and rule the world?" America supplied, struggling to keep his words from becoming drunken and disjointed slurs.
Russia thoughtfully tapped his chin. "In a sense, yes. But perhaps not in the way you're considering it. As you have previously mentioned, the king is at the top of the food chain, but only when it comes to the board. You must remember that in actuality, it is the player who calls the shots."
America rubbed his eyes, as if to make the situation clearer. "And you're the player?"
"Exactly," Russia chirped, clapping his hands together once. "While the other pieces don't trust me enough to listen to my orders, they'll listen to their King."
"What makes you think their 'King' is going to listen to you?"
"That's the beauty of it all, America," Russia said as he stood, wrapping around himself in a self-assured embrace.. "Even if you don't want to dance, I am the one pulling the strings."
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A/N:
-This chapter feels really clunky to me, but I can't put my finger on why.
-For the instrumental input I asked for in the last chapter, the winner was the cello, so you can expect it to show up in an upcoming part.
-The fate of the crossword puzzle book will be answered! I must admit it is rather devious.
-Pairing wise, Russia/America will start happening in the next chapter.
-Constructive criticism is always welcome! ♥
-I think there may not be an update next week, sadly. There definitely will be one in two weeks, but my beta-er won't be able to beta next week, so. . . we'll see!
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The way you write Russia is very close to my headcanon!Russia. There fore, I love him, even if he does scare the hell outta me on occasion.
It's kinda funny that you update on Wednesday. I have a friend who I beta for who does the same thing. XD Obviously, you are not her, but it's still funny.
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I love the story so far~
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Can't wait for the next chapter!!!
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http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/15769.html?thread=39508121#t39508121
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