The Companion [5.1/??]
anonymous
May 5 2010, 18:37:59 UTC
For several days after Russia's talk of puppets and kings, America would not speak. Every inquest Russia made regarding his health and well being was met with stony silence and folded arms. America refused to give him an opportunity to weasel sensitive information from him, and didn't trust his own tongue enough to be sure it wouldn't accidentally spill a secret or two.
Eventually, Russia stopped coming. America would wake up every morning to find a breakfast fit for a king set on his nightstand, and, once emptied, the plates refilled themselves after he slipped into fitful dreams. Every few days, the dirty clothes he tossed on the floor would disappear in the night, only to return to his drawers in neatly folded piles the next time he peeked in.
Unsettled that Russia could slip in and out without notice, America concocted a plan to alert himself. Every evening he would create a barricade before the door. He pushed and shoved and piled boxes to ridiculous heights, sure that they would topple in the morning. It worked like a charm.
America's alarm clock became the noise of smashing trinkets and crumpling cardboard. Russia paid no mind to the noise, his face remaining completely passive and distant as America bolted up in bed. He approached the dresser with a few pairs of jeans hung over his arm and proceeded to deposit them as if nothing had happened.
Before he left, Russia removed the boxes that had fallen, using the side of his shoe to sweep up bits of shattered glass. He never looked at America, and if he felt America's eyes boring holes in his head, he never acknowledged it. After repeating his box-building exercise a few times, America's room had been mostly cleared of them. He had to to find a new way to make Russia miserable.
America eventually worked out a kind of schedule, despite the lack of working clocks and the fact that the sky was almost always the same boring shade of gray. He could always hear Russia as he moved through the house, whether it be day or night. Like a rat slithering and scraping through the walls, the noise always caught America's attention.
Every day, when the sky was barely beginning to lighten, America would hear the twist of taps and the spouting of water. If he strained his ear, he was sure he could hear the rustle of a shower curtain being pulled back. America began to stay up through the long hours of blackness to hop in the shower right before he thought Russia would.
America usually played it safe, turning the water on the moment he heard Russia start to move about. He took to sitting on the tub floor, if only to relieve his swollen ankle as he let the warm water sluice over his body, letting it wash away sweat and grim. Only when the water took on a chilled edge did America turn it off, satisfied that he had robbed Russia of a steaming hot shower for the morning to come.
After a few consecutive days of spoiling showers, America was blasted by a jet of ice while in the middle of washing his hair. He yelped loudly and clamored to his feet in a rush, hauling himself out of the shower as he was pelted by painfully cold water.
A laugh sounded from the other room, and America knew Russia had turned his faucet on once he was sure America was washing up. America punched the wall he figured connected his room to Russia's a few times and yelled nonsense at it for good measure. He waited until after Russia had finished his shower to take his own after that.
One day America left the bathroom to find his sheets changed and bed made. He clutched at the towel wrapped around his waist and crept closer. Several square pieces of paper lay stacked on his pillow. America looked around to see if Russia was waiting in the shadows. He'd never left anything besides food and clothes before.
Making sure his fingers were dry, and picked up the first paper. It was a newspaper clipping. Small, perfectly square boxes ran in horizontal and vertical lines, all of them empty and waiting for letters. Sentences typed up in Cyrillic lay beneath the boxes. A crossword puzzle.
Eventually, Russia stopped coming. America would wake up every morning to find a breakfast fit for a king set on his nightstand, and, once emptied, the plates refilled themselves after he slipped into fitful dreams. Every few days, the dirty clothes he tossed on the floor would disappear in the night, only to return to his drawers in neatly folded piles the next time he peeked in.
Unsettled that Russia could slip in and out without notice, America concocted a plan to alert himself. Every evening he would create a barricade before the door. He pushed and shoved and piled boxes to ridiculous heights, sure that they would topple in the morning. It worked like a charm.
America's alarm clock became the noise of smashing trinkets and crumpling cardboard. Russia paid no mind to the noise, his face remaining completely passive and distant as America bolted up in bed. He approached the dresser with a few pairs of jeans hung over his arm and proceeded to deposit them as if nothing had happened.
Before he left, Russia removed the boxes that had fallen, using the side of his shoe to sweep up bits of shattered glass. He never looked at America, and if he felt America's eyes boring holes in his head, he never acknowledged it. After repeating his box-building exercise a few times, America's room had been mostly cleared of them. He had to to find a new way to make Russia miserable.
America eventually worked out a kind of schedule, despite the lack of working clocks and the fact that the sky was almost always the same boring shade of gray. He could always hear Russia as he moved through the house, whether it be day or night. Like a rat slithering and scraping through the walls, the noise always caught America's attention.
Every day, when the sky was barely beginning to lighten, America would hear the twist of taps and the spouting of water. If he strained his ear, he was sure he could hear the rustle of a shower curtain being pulled back. America began to stay up through the long hours of blackness to hop in the shower right before he thought Russia would.
America usually played it safe, turning the water on the moment he heard Russia start to move about. He took to sitting on the tub floor, if only to relieve his swollen ankle as he let the warm water sluice over his body, letting it wash away sweat and grim. Only when the water took on a chilled edge did America turn it off, satisfied that he had robbed Russia of a steaming hot shower for the morning to come.
After a few consecutive days of spoiling showers, America was blasted by a jet of ice while in the middle of washing his hair. He yelped loudly and clamored to his feet in a rush, hauling himself out of the shower as he was pelted by painfully cold water.
A laugh sounded from the other room, and America knew Russia had turned his faucet on once he was sure America was washing up. America punched the wall he figured connected his room to Russia's a few times and yelled nonsense at it for good measure. He waited until after Russia had finished his shower to take his own after that.
One day America left the bathroom to find his sheets changed and bed made. He clutched at the towel wrapped around his waist and crept closer. Several square pieces of paper lay stacked on his pillow. America looked around to see if Russia was waiting in the shadows. He'd never left anything besides food and clothes before.
Making sure his fingers were dry, and picked up the first paper. It was a newspaper clipping. Small, perfectly square boxes ran in horizontal and vertical lines, all of them empty and waiting for letters. Sentences typed up in Cyrillic lay beneath the boxes. A crossword puzzle.
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