To Go Hand-In-Hand -- Part One A (out of 5 or 6)
anonymous
July 15 2010, 07:05:19 UTC
Usually when someone doesn’t show up to a meeting with him, Canada takes it in stride and eats dinner alone, watches the game alone, sees the movie alone. Sometimes, he brings one of his provinces along just in case; they’re very sympathetic. Once he’d invited America to a concert and Wisconsin had shown up instead. It had been somewhat disheartening, because what kind of nation invites their brother to something and gets their niece instead, but it had been better than no one.
There was one very large exception to this: Hockey games with Russia. It had started sometime in 1968, and had become a regular occurrence after 1992 or so, after which they met for hockey games regularly. When Russia couldn’t make it, Canada would receive a call. This isn’t true for anything else: at G8 meetings, at the Olympics, anywhere but in matters of hockey Canada is as invisible to Russia as he is to all of the other nations. Canada desn’t even attempt anything outside of going to hockey games with Russia.
So when the game starts and Russia is still not at the game, Canada is concerned and standing outside in the frigid December air because Russia has the tickets. He’d come a long way to see the game in Russia’s house, and it was unusual for Russia to be late. But, he thinks, Russia always either comes or phones, so he is probably just held up in traffic.
Only, half way through the game and Russia is still not there and Canada is beginning to shiver. So he calls a cab and fifteen minutes later he’s at Russia’s door. He uses the large, dark door knocker because it’s the first thing he notices about the house, but there’s no answer.
Canada has never been to Russia’s house before. He finds the doorbell and rings it, which he should have looked for first, and waits, looking at the house. It’s big and it looks sad, like it is desperately trying to hunch down and become smaller. Canada doesn’t like how it looks, but he waits even as the wind picks up and rings the doorbell a twice more. There is some noise from inside, past the door knocker and the dull door it rests in and the windows on either side of the door which are a little grimy. He feels impolite but he peers into one of them, leaning over a snow drift. Perhaps Russia is sick, and was unable to call him or get to the door. Perhaps his boss had had an emergency and Russia was too busy on his phone to get Canada’s calls.
No. Russia, the great big bastard, is standing in the door to the entrance way. Russia doesn’t see him, he just stares over his large nose with violet eyes like it is an enemy to he slain. He is not smiling, not even creepily. He clutches his pipe in one hand, and even through the window Canada can tell his grip is tense, after they make eye contact. He thinks that Russia’s knuckles must be white, under his gloves.
His cell phone has Russia’s number in it, of course, but Canada dials it without having to look, still staring at Russia. He has Russia’s number memorized, and texting helps him know his phone’s keys. Canada places the phone to his ear, and it rings both there and faintly from inside the house. The bastard Russian has been ignoring his calls, obviously, because almost immediately Russia pulls it from the pocket of his great big stupid coat. Canada does not know why he feels so betrayed.
“… Da?” comes Russia’s voice from the other end of the phone. Russia’s lips move with it exactly. He sounds flat on the phone like it was any other day but Canada can see the Russia’s face: pained when he sees who is calling him, hesitant and guilty when he answers the phone.
“Open the door, you rat bastard,” Canada demands. He’s supposed to be able to depend on Russia. He’s supposed to - to be able to count on Russia. Canada is supposed to be able to show up to their hockey games and not worry that Russia will forget or find something better to do or accidentally invite someone else to take the ‘extra ticket’. It’s terrible that Russia, of all people, is the one nation to most consistently show up to meet him, and it’s horrible that some days Canada doesn’t even mind that it’s Russia, and thinks about properly becoming Russia’s friend and then can’t even go through with that because he’s too much of a coward.
There was one very large exception to this: Hockey games with Russia. It had started sometime in 1968, and had become a regular occurrence after 1992 or so, after which they met for hockey games regularly. When Russia couldn’t make it, Canada would receive a call. This isn’t true for anything else: at G8 meetings, at the Olympics, anywhere but in matters of hockey Canada is as invisible to Russia as he is to all of the other nations. Canada desn’t even attempt anything outside of going to hockey games with Russia.
So when the game starts and Russia is still not at the game, Canada is concerned and standing outside in the frigid December air because Russia has the tickets. He’d come a long way to see the game in Russia’s house, and it was unusual for Russia to be late. But, he thinks, Russia always either comes or phones, so he is probably just held up in traffic.
Only, half way through the game and Russia is still not there and Canada is beginning to shiver. So he calls a cab and fifteen minutes later he’s at Russia’s door. He uses the large, dark door knocker because it’s the first thing he notices about the house, but there’s no answer.
Canada has never been to Russia’s house before. He finds the doorbell and rings it, which he should have looked for first, and waits, looking at the house. It’s big and it looks sad, like it is desperately trying to hunch down and become smaller. Canada doesn’t like how it looks, but he waits even as the wind picks up and rings the doorbell a twice more. There is some noise from inside, past the door knocker and the dull door it rests in and the windows on either side of the door which are a little grimy. He feels impolite but he peers into one of them, leaning over a snow drift. Perhaps Russia is sick, and was unable to call him or get to the door. Perhaps his boss had had an emergency and Russia was too busy on his phone to get Canada’s calls.
No. Russia, the great big bastard, is standing in the door to the entrance way. Russia doesn’t see him, he just stares over his large nose with violet eyes like it is an enemy to he slain. He is not smiling, not even creepily. He clutches his pipe in one hand, and even through the window Canada can tell his grip is tense, after they make eye contact. He thinks that Russia’s knuckles must be white, under his gloves.
His cell phone has Russia’s number in it, of course, but Canada dials it without having to look, still staring at Russia. He has Russia’s number memorized, and texting helps him know his phone’s keys. Canada places the phone to his ear, and it rings both there and faintly from inside the house. The bastard Russian has been ignoring his calls, obviously, because almost immediately Russia pulls it from the pocket of his great big stupid coat. Canada does not know why he feels so betrayed.
“… Da?” comes Russia’s voice from the other end of the phone. Russia’s lips move with it exactly. He sounds flat on the phone like it was any other day but Canada can see the Russia’s face: pained when he sees who is calling him, hesitant and guilty when he answers the phone.
“Open the door, you rat bastard,” Canada demands. He’s supposed to be able to depend on Russia. He’s supposed to - to be able to count on Russia. Canada is supposed to be able to show up to their hockey games and not worry that Russia will forget or find something better to do or accidentally invite someone else to take the ‘extra ticket’. It’s terrible that Russia, of all people, is the one nation to most consistently show up to meet him, and it’s horrible that some days Canada doesn’t even mind that it’s Russia, and thinks about properly becoming Russia’s friend and then can’t even go through with that because he’s too much of a coward.
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