The Companion [5.2/?]
anonymous
May 5 2010, 18:40:24 UTC
Except it was in Russian, and America had no idea what in the hell the clues, let alone the words, were meant to be. America looked the clippings over carefully, each one causing more and more frustration to well up within his chest. He didn't know if Russia was actually trying to give him something to do, or mocking him for not knowing the language of the land.
America grabbed the pencil on his nightstand and held the tip to the puzzles. It was futile to try solving them, but since he and Russia were nothing but ships passing in the night, he might as well set off a flare to get his attention. America gnawed lightly on the metal bit that held the eraser in place as he thought of what to write.
Two across, "I can't" Eight down, "Read Russian." America debated writing an insult in eleven down, but decided his results would be better if he refrained from name calling. He slipped the papers under the slat of the door and waited for results.
After his shower the next morning, America found the puzzle returned with a new piece of paper that held a translation of the clues. To top it all off, a tin of mixed nuts was waiting on his breakfast tray. Despite England's constant reminders that America was what he ate, and the fact that they made his tongue feel weird and kind of fat, America loved nuts.
Tossing an almond in his mouth, America looked over Russia's notes. His handwriting wasn't all that shabby, really. Something about it was authoritative, like whoever wrote it knew exactly what they were doing and how to do it best. It flowed in the familiar mixture of print and cursive, but the flicks of Russia's script made it appear like a new and exotic language to his eyes.
Stirrings of embarrassment curled around America's shoulders as he thought about his own handwriting, an unintelligible mix of chicken scratch and squiggles that often appeared on the notes of Doctors. America couldn't fully explain it to himself, but the comparison caused him to feel slightly lesser than Russia, as if handwriting were an indicator of intelligence.
America shook off his handwriting worries and went back to the translation. He started with one across, "Speak loudly." Easy enough, he knew the answer had to be 'yell', and he wrote the word in. It left him with three empty spaces. The word quickly disappeared under the shadow of an eraser.
He tried 'shout' next, not stopping to count how many letters were in the word. He had two empty spaces with that attempt. The eraser hovered of the word as America made to wipe it clean, but a thought struck him. The clues were now in English, but the word needed was still in Russian. He was back to square one.
America went to scribble a big "Never mind" across the notes, but found the pencil in his hand was being decidedly disobedient, refusing to touch the paper before him. America took to nibbling at it again as punishment and figured it would be best to sit Russia down and explain to him exactly why giving him things written in Russian wasn't particularly helpful.
The night that greeted America was colder than any he had experienced so far in Russia's home. The biting chill that slipped under the door and crept through the windows kept America up all night, limbs shivering, teeth chattering. He melted into a singular being with his sheets, huddled beneath them as a hermit crab hides within its shell.
The familiar sound of water rushing through pipes snapped America awake as he started to nod off. He jerked up in bed and flung the covers off, rolling out of bed. He stood against the wall closest to the Russia's bathroom, back absorbing the vibrations. The chattering of his teeth began to die as the white glow of the sun gnawed its way through the overcast sky began to pool through the window.
When the vibrations petered out, America groggily stumbled to his own bathroom. He had devised what he thought to be a most brilliant plan in talking to Russia. Writing a note and slipping it under the door was too mundane and straightforward for America's taste. He liked the thrill of things falling into place, of dominoes knocking together in just the right way.
America grabbed the pencil on his nightstand and held the tip to the puzzles. It was futile to try solving them, but since he and Russia were nothing but ships passing in the night, he might as well set off a flare to get his attention. America gnawed lightly on the metal bit that held the eraser in place as he thought of what to write.
Two across, "I can't" Eight down, "Read Russian." America debated writing an insult in eleven down, but decided his results would be better if he refrained from name calling. He slipped the papers under the slat of the door and waited for results.
After his shower the next morning, America found the puzzle returned with a new piece of paper that held a translation of the clues. To top it all off, a tin of mixed nuts was waiting on his breakfast tray. Despite England's constant reminders that America was what he ate, and the fact that they made his tongue feel weird and kind of fat, America loved nuts.
Tossing an almond in his mouth, America looked over Russia's notes. His handwriting wasn't all that shabby, really. Something about it was authoritative, like whoever wrote it knew exactly what they were doing and how to do it best. It flowed in the familiar mixture of print and cursive, but the flicks of Russia's script made it appear like a new and exotic language to his eyes.
Stirrings of embarrassment curled around America's shoulders as he thought about his own handwriting, an unintelligible mix of chicken scratch and squiggles that often appeared on the notes of Doctors. America couldn't fully explain it to himself, but the comparison caused him to feel slightly lesser than Russia, as if handwriting were an indicator of intelligence.
America shook off his handwriting worries and went back to the translation. He started with one across, "Speak loudly." Easy enough, he knew the answer had to be 'yell', and he wrote the word in. It left him with three empty spaces. The word quickly disappeared under the shadow of an eraser.
He tried 'shout' next, not stopping to count how many letters were in the word. He had two empty spaces with that attempt. The eraser hovered of the word as America made to wipe it clean, but a thought struck him. The clues were now in English, but the word needed was still in Russian. He was back to square one.
America went to scribble a big "Never mind" across the notes, but found the pencil in his hand was being decidedly disobedient, refusing to touch the paper before him. America took to nibbling at it again as punishment and figured it would be best to sit Russia down and explain to him exactly why giving him things written in Russian wasn't particularly helpful.
The night that greeted America was colder than any he had experienced so far in Russia's home. The biting chill that slipped under the door and crept through the windows kept America up all night, limbs shivering, teeth chattering. He melted into a singular being with his sheets, huddled beneath them as a hermit crab hides within its shell.
The familiar sound of water rushing through pipes snapped America awake as he started to nod off. He jerked up in bed and flung the covers off, rolling out of bed. He stood against the wall closest to the Russia's bathroom, back absorbing the vibrations. The chattering of his teeth began to die as the white glow of the sun gnawed its way through the overcast sky began to pool through the window.
When the vibrations petered out, America groggily stumbled to his own bathroom. He had devised what he thought to be a most brilliant plan in talking to Russia. Writing a note and slipping it under the door was too mundane and straightforward for America's taste. He liked the thrill of things falling into place, of dominoes knocking together in just the right way.
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