The Companion [5.5/?]
anonymous
May 5 2010, 18:45:54 UTC
The fear and adrenaline that had been pulsing through America's veins faded to steady wariness, the tremors that licked over his body lightening up. America wasn't sure about Russia's excuse that it had been a game, one that Russia could have ended at any time. It was only a poor cover up for slamming America in the back with a pipe, and then scaring him half to death. Fear was always a good tool for control, after all.
Or maybe he was on page forty of a five page book, reading too deeply into things that didn't exist. Russia's knee-jerk reaction with hitting the first time made sense. Not that America was thinking that it was okay, only that he could kind of, maybe, sort of see why Russia had done it.
But what had happened after that, America didn't want to think about. This once, he'd believe Russia, believe that it was only a little game of chicken, where he wouldn't have gotten hurt no matter what. For now, he just wanted to stop crying and pull himself together.
America tried to force himself to forget that Russia was the one holding him and calming his nerves. He kept his eyes shut and pretended he was held against someone he wanted to be around, like Santa, even if he didn't exist. He had to do what he had to do to get through it all, and England always fell back on imaginary things when he was stressed.
America sighed as his muscles relaxed slightly, the image of Santa's jovial face burning into his mind. His fingers wound into the coat that was pressing against his cheek, inhaling the stark smell of the fabric. A hand wandered up and down his back, performing a subtle waltz of strokes and taps, careful to avoid the budding throb of pain that was becoming increasingly more vivid.
"America," Russia said, breaking the illusion America was trying to create for himself. "I need to turn the water off, but I'll be back in a moment." He let go of America and stood from the bed, making a motion with his hand to stay as if America were a dog.
America stayed put as he watched Russia disappear into the bathroom, listening as the taps were turned off. His heart had settled back into its appropriate spot, and America was decidedly less teary eyed, having used Russia's scarf as a tissue when he was sure it wouldn't be noticed.
Russia stepped from the bathroom, pipe held in his arms. America blinked and looked over the sheets, unsure as to when Russia had taken it back. There was nothing but a few wrinkled puzzles mixed between the covers. His eyes flicked back to Russia, flitting from the pipe to his face.
Russia hardly looked like he was about to attack America again. His eyes were wide, taking on an almost childish edge; he shifted his weight from foot to foot, worried and nervous. His pipe was held in his arms not as a weapon, but for comfort, something to hold and pet and keep close to his heart.
"Are you okay?" America wasn't sure why he even bothered asking. It wasn't like he cared, but Russia's expression stoked his protective tendencies.
Russia gave an unsure nod, like he was trying to give the answer America thought he wanted, but hadn't completely figured out what it might be.
"I mean it, man. You looked kind of bummed out." America collected the crosswords as he spoke.
"I think you would be feeling similarly if your pet kept trying to run away," Russia said honestly, eyes cloud and downcast, lower lip rolling between his teeth.
The papers crumpled in America's hands. "Stop talking about me like that. I wasn't trying to leave, and I'm not your pet. You're as bad as England, always treating me like a child."
"Being treated as a pet and being treated a child are entirely different," Russia said, the words quickly rolling from his tongue. "It is much better to be a pet. There are no responsibilities, unlike children, with their schooling and chores and trivial interactions with those around them. A pet is permitted to laze about without a worry and simply be beautiful, providing its master with unending and deserved companionship."
Or maybe he was on page forty of a five page book, reading too deeply into things that didn't exist. Russia's knee-jerk reaction with hitting the first time made sense. Not that America was thinking that it was okay, only that he could kind of, maybe, sort of see why Russia had done it.
But what had happened after that, America didn't want to think about. This once, he'd believe Russia, believe that it was only a little game of chicken, where he wouldn't have gotten hurt no matter what. For now, he just wanted to stop crying and pull himself together.
America tried to force himself to forget that Russia was the one holding him and calming his nerves. He kept his eyes shut and pretended he was held against someone he wanted to be around, like Santa, even if he didn't exist. He had to do what he had to do to get through it all, and England always fell back on imaginary things when he was stressed.
America sighed as his muscles relaxed slightly, the image of Santa's jovial face burning into his mind. His fingers wound into the coat that was pressing against his cheek, inhaling the stark smell of the fabric. A hand wandered up and down his back, performing a subtle waltz of strokes and taps, careful to avoid the budding throb of pain that was becoming increasingly more vivid.
"America," Russia said, breaking the illusion America was trying to create for himself. "I need to turn the water off, but I'll be back in a moment." He let go of America and stood from the bed, making a motion with his hand to stay as if America were a dog.
America stayed put as he watched Russia disappear into the bathroom, listening as the taps were turned off. His heart had settled back into its appropriate spot, and America was decidedly less teary eyed, having used Russia's scarf as a tissue when he was sure it wouldn't be noticed.
Russia stepped from the bathroom, pipe held in his arms. America blinked and looked over the sheets, unsure as to when Russia had taken it back. There was nothing but a few wrinkled puzzles mixed between the covers. His eyes flicked back to Russia, flitting from the pipe to his face.
Russia hardly looked like he was about to attack America again. His eyes were wide, taking on an almost childish edge; he shifted his weight from foot to foot, worried and nervous. His pipe was held in his arms not as a weapon, but for comfort, something to hold and pet and keep close to his heart.
"Are you okay?" America wasn't sure why he even bothered asking. It wasn't like he cared, but Russia's expression stoked his protective tendencies.
Russia gave an unsure nod, like he was trying to give the answer America thought he wanted, but hadn't completely figured out what it might be.
"I mean it, man. You looked kind of bummed out." America collected the crosswords as he spoke.
"I think you would be feeling similarly if your pet kept trying to run away," Russia said honestly, eyes cloud and downcast, lower lip rolling between his teeth.
The papers crumpled in America's hands. "Stop talking about me like that. I wasn't trying to leave, and I'm not your pet. You're as bad as England, always treating me like a child."
"Being treated as a pet and being treated a child are entirely different," Russia said, the words quickly rolling from his tongue. "It is much better to be a pet. There are no responsibilities, unlike children, with their schooling and chores and trivial interactions with those around them. A pet is permitted to laze about without a worry and simply be beautiful, providing its master with unending and deserved companionship."
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