To Go Hand-In-Hand Part Two B (out of 5 or 6)
anonymous
July 17 2010, 07:07:32 UTC
“Russia…” He approaches Russia like he approaches bears: easy, gentle, ready to take down a mother fucker if need be. Russia looks up at him - when had his eyes dropped? - and Canada continues softly, “I don’t want to watch. I…” What does he want? He wants his hockey watching buddy back. He wants Russia back to normal. He doesn’t want Russia to die. “… I want you to take my scarf.” It had been a gift from France. It is red, and well cared for, and absolutely nothing like Russia’s old scarf. Canada unwinds it from around his neck, even though it lets the air of Russia’s house at his neck. He holds it out to Russia, who is stunned again, and fidgeting. Canada pleads, “Please take it.”
A large hand reaches out, hesitantly. It does not take the scarf, it just feels it: it is soft, well made, delicate, and clean. You couldn’t hang anything heavier than a chihuahua with it. Russia has come closer to him, and Canada takes the opportunity to step a little bit closer, and then closer. He inches slowly. He hopes this works, usually he talks his citizens down from cliffs, bridges and buildings, saves then from poison, drugs, self harm. Gives them a little bit of their country back, saves handfuls and morns every one of them that he misses.
But Canada has never talked a fellow nation out of suicide, and worse still this is Russia, who Canada barely understands at all.
He knows what happens if Russia goes through with it: a new body, new thought patterns, less scars and less memories and the same alliances. Mexico had gotten herself killed in a car accident in 1910. Afterwards, Mexico was a man, deep voiced and exactly the same except that he couldn’t bake, didn’t sing unless drunk, and couldn’t remember roughly a quarter of the Alamo, even though he had been right fucking there. The country is the same but the nation is different.
He knows that he doesn’t want Russia to go through with it: aside from the heavy weight of guilt that would settle over him, and aside from there being no guarantee that the new version of Russia would even give him the time of day, Canada really likes Russia, this Russia, when he’s not being a crazy vicious lunatic.
“Nyet, I can’t take this,” Russia says. He says it quietly. He’s looking at the scarf, not at Canada. “You’ll get cold. It’s very cold in my house.” Russia tries to push it away but Canada knows that he can’t let him. Because the only other scarf in the room is no longer acceptable for Russia to wear, and Russia doesn’t seem like Russia without a scarf on. So since Canada is already close enough to Russia, he sucks in a breath and wraps it loosely, once, around Russia, so that one end of the scarf is resting on Russia’s chest, and the other is flung over the man’s shoulder. It’s short.
“I’m already cold,” Canada dismisses. He presses on end of the scarf into Russia’s chest to get his attention as Russia moves to take it off, “You have to take it, Russia. I can’t let you not take it.” He presses and presses and presses it into Russia’s chest. He can’t let the larger nation reject it. He wants someone else to be here and deal with this, but there is no one else. This is the only way he knows how to maybe fix this, though, and the lump in his throat hasn’t gone away, it just keeps growing, and it’s making his voice sound strange. So he’s not the best candidate because he might start sobbing and he’s really not the one in the room who should be crying.
Russia doesn’t like the thought of taking the scarf. It’s very clear that he doesn’t. But he accepts it, eventually, lets the hand on the scarf drop after long moments of Canada staring Russia down with what Canada is sure is an increasingly desperate and pathetic expression.
A large hand reaches out, hesitantly. It does not take the scarf, it just feels it: it is soft, well made, delicate, and clean. You couldn’t hang anything heavier than a chihuahua with it. Russia has come closer to him, and Canada takes the opportunity to step a little bit closer, and then closer. He inches slowly. He hopes this works, usually he talks his citizens down from cliffs, bridges and buildings, saves then from poison, drugs, self harm. Gives them a little bit of their country back, saves handfuls and morns every one of them that he misses.
But Canada has never talked a fellow nation out of suicide, and worse still this is Russia, who Canada barely understands at all.
He knows what happens if Russia goes through with it: a new body, new thought patterns, less scars and less memories and the same alliances. Mexico had gotten herself killed in a car accident in 1910. Afterwards, Mexico was a man, deep voiced and exactly the same except that he couldn’t bake, didn’t sing unless drunk, and couldn’t remember roughly a quarter of the Alamo, even though he had been right fucking there. The country is the same but the nation is different.
He knows that he doesn’t want Russia to go through with it: aside from the heavy weight of guilt that would settle over him, and aside from there being no guarantee that the new version of Russia would even give him the time of day, Canada really likes Russia, this Russia, when he’s not being a crazy vicious lunatic.
“Nyet, I can’t take this,” Russia says. He says it quietly. He’s looking at the scarf, not at Canada. “You’ll get cold. It’s very cold in my house.” Russia tries to push it away but Canada knows that he can’t let him. Because the only other scarf in the room is no longer acceptable for Russia to wear, and Russia doesn’t seem like Russia without a scarf on. So since Canada is already close enough to Russia, he sucks in a breath and wraps it loosely, once, around Russia, so that one end of the scarf is resting on Russia’s chest, and the other is flung over the man’s shoulder. It’s short.
“I’m already cold,” Canada dismisses. He presses on end of the scarf into Russia’s chest to get his attention as Russia moves to take it off, “You have to take it, Russia. I can’t let you not take it.” He presses and presses and presses it into Russia’s chest. He can’t let the larger nation reject it. He wants someone else to be here and deal with this, but there is no one else. This is the only way he knows how to maybe fix this, though, and the lump in his throat hasn’t gone away, it just keeps growing, and it’s making his voice sound strange. So he’s not the best candidate because he might start sobbing and he’s really not the one in the room who should be crying.
Russia doesn’t like the thought of taking the scarf. It’s very clear that he doesn’t. But he accepts it, eventually, lets the hand on the scarf drop after long moments of Canada staring Russia down with what Canada is sure is an increasingly desperate and pathetic expression.
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