The Companion [5.6/?]
anonymous
May 5 2010, 18:50:54 UTC
America processed what Russia was saying slowly. He'd never thought about it in the terms Russia was explaining him, in terms that sounded almost desirable. He shook his head and threw one of the puzzles at Russia, distracting himself from the idea.
"These crosswords suck," he blurted.
Russia stared blankly at America for a moment, hands loosening on his pipe. He placed it on the dresser before picking up the ruined papers from the floor. "But I thought you liked them," he said quietly, trying to smooth the puzzles out again. "Is that why you want to leave, because you do not enjoy these?"
America grit his teeth together. "Let's get this straight, okay? I wasn't leaving! Why is this so hard for you to comprehend? I wanted to talk to you about these stupid puzzles."
Russia gave up on fixing the wadded up papers and let them fall back to the floor. "And so you tried to sneak out the door?"
"No, I was hiding behind the door to begin with, I was just going back there." America's voice came out in an exasperated hiss.
Russia rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You are not doing yourself any favors with these lies." Before America could protest, Russia shot him a sympathetic look. "But I think I know why you are doing this, my little dove. Acting out, fighting against something you cannot beat. You are sad in your cage, yes? You must want to stretch your wings a bit."
America regarded Russia with a suspicious look. He didn't know where their one-sided conversation was going, but he wasn't totally against finding out.
"Will you perhaps behave yourself for me if I were to let you step off your perch and out of your cage?"
A surprised smile broke across America's face, all eagerness and hope, bright eyes and gleaming teeth. Forgetting himself for a moment, America tugged at Russia's sleeve, childlike, urgent. "Can I really get out of here?" he asked excitedly.
"If you mind yourself, you may." Russia got to his feet and offered his hands to America, pulling him up when his offer was accepted.
"Let's get this show on the road." America made to pull his hands away, but Russia gripped them tighter, giving a slight tug to pull America closer, their bodies bumping together in a clumsy moment.
"First you must make me a promise," Russia said, leaning in close to America's face.
"I'll see what I can do." America pitched back awkwardly, unsettled by their physical closeness.
"No more tears from you."
Lips brushed along the fragile and reddened skin of America's eyes, softly kissing at the remaining tears, the barest hint of tongue tasting them. America shuddered, a wave of bashfulness sweeping through his veins as he turned his head to the side. "Not a problem," he muttered.
"Good." Russia led America to the door before letting go. He opened it and smiled, shy and devious, like he was breaking the rules and enjoying it. "You first."
-------- My A/N is too long to post and kind of rambling, so I'm only going to put it in my journal this time 'around. Hope everyone enjoyed this chapter all right!
Re: The Companion [5.6/?]
anonymous
May 5 2010, 22:47:15 UTC
At times my emotions are like children, unintentionally petty and cruel, even uncontrollable. But never do I mean to hurt you.
ZOHMYGOD, ANON. I love you. Russia not trying to terrify people, and apologizing when he does it anyway is my post-Stalinist!Russia headcanon. *-* Hurr hurr. I so adore Russia when he's being awkward and adorable. His kol'ing scares the crap outa me though.
Silly America! Santa does exist! He lives at Finland’s house! *shot* Best. Strip. Evar. Just sayin'.
…Yeah, there’s most defiantly some Stockholm Syndrome going on here. I am probably a bad person for loving that, but jeeeez, this fill is awesome that way. If this kind of situation counts as a kink, I totally, totally have it. -///-;;
Re: The Companion [5.6/?]
anonymous
May 5 2010, 23:16:27 UTC
I. Love. This.
Simple as that.
Your Russia is so interesting to read, and America crying in this chapter broke my heart. This twisted little friendship/relationship/whateveryouwouldcallit they're forming is just the best.
Re: The Companion [5.6/?]
anonymous
May 6 2010, 01:24:12 UTC
The cross word scene is beautiful. I love how it sorta takes America a moment to remember that even if the hints are in english, the answers are still russian.
Maybe he can start slowly learning russian, ahh I love your writing.
Re: The Companion [5.6/?]
anonymous
May 6 2010, 06:53:54 UTC
Russia is so creepy and cute... does it even make sense? Creepily cute?
What scares me the most is how America is slipping and he isn't even aware of it. Instead of thinking of a way to get out, he's thinking about how to speak to Russia... and the door is freaking wide open! I want to cuddle him so badly O_O
The Companion [6.1/?]
anonymous
May 12 2010, 18:03:16 UTC
Little bursts of giddiness went off in America's chest as he was escorted out of his room. Eager eyes scanned the hallway, taking it in as if he had never seen it before. Without adrenaline burning through his veins, he was able to better appreciate the seemingly endless, and nearly daunting, corridor.
Trepidation tingled along his spine as he absorbed the sight. The walls were coated with a deep red wallpaper, raised damask designs standing out against the cranberry shades. Several portraits with judgmental leers were interspersed, eyes void-like and unseeing, but lips tightened into thin lines of self assurance.
America wasn't sure how much he really liked the world outside his room. His first impressions were slightly overwhelming, his mind unused to the stimulation after being locked away like an old toy in a chest. He'd emerged to find a scene he'd not expected.
In the back of his thoughts, during forced bouts of idleness in bed, America had painted what he thought Russia's house looked like. He conjured up images on the canvas of consciousness in direct connection to the emotions he had experienced during his escape attempt.
The walls were dark, the paint peeling from them, trying to escape the house. Floorboards groaned and creaked underfoot, their slats snapping, biting, pinching skin, drawing pinpricks of blood. The rooms held nothing but bizarre devices, each one a clear implement of creative torture, freshly stained from use.
And yet, in reality, the house was almost noble, breathing the certain life that inanimate structures of rich history did. America ran his fingers along the wall, half to steady himself, half out of craving for tactile sensation. His hand hitched on a wooden frame not far from his own door.
"Your room?" America guessed confidently.
"Correct," Russia answered, not at all in the impressed tone America would liked to have heard.
The temptation to go inside tickled the palate of America's mouth, attempting to goad him into asking permission for entrance. His lips stayed firmly sealed, though he anxiously rapped his knuckles on the door, as if expecting someone to pull it open.
"I take it you'd like to go in?"
America didn't answer Russia right away, instead scratching at his neck self-consciously as his lips formed unspoken words. It wasn't like he really wanted to check out Russia's room, he thought it'd be akin to running straight into a bear's cave, or tiger's den.
But it wasn't as if the rest of the house was any more appealing. Russia's room would be just that, a room. It would have clear boundaries, unlike the house. America didn't know where he could and couldn't go within the halls and the rest of the manor, one wrong step and he could earn himself another bruise or five.
"Best to play it safe," he mouthed inaudibly before speaking up. "Sure, give me the grand tour of your room."
"It'd be my pleasure," Russia purred, arm hooking around America's shoulder before he opened the door and guided him through.
America's lips pursed at the gesture, quickly shrugging Russia off. He'd never been fond of people trying to loop casual arms around his shoulders. The gesture always struck him as possessive, bordering on greedy. Only those he trusted were allowed to do so.
America strode into the room like he owned the place, head held high and chest puffed to intimidate. His stance faltered momentarily when he heard Russia close them in, but he quickly recovered when he didn't hear the lock click into place.
Russia's arm blanketed America's shoulders again, fingers squeezing warningly for a split second. "I hope you'll find everything to your liking," he said in a saccharine sweet tone that rubbed America in all the wrong ways.
"It's fantastic," America forced the words between gritted teeth, eyes running over the room.
The Companion [6.2/?]
anonymous
May 12 2010, 18:39:18 UTC
Every little bit of furniture was neatly placed, giving the room a rather sterile feel. America was quite sure that if he ran a finger over anything, it would come away completely dust-free. A large sleigh bed lay nudged up against a wide bay window, bleary light pooling onto the sheets.
Something about the room gave America chills. He imagined there might be serpents hiding in the shelves of the bookcase at the far end of the room, waiting to strike at any hand that drew near. A few of the shadows being cast looked odd and out of place, bending and stretching far more than America thought shadows regularly did.
A checkered tabletop was tucked away in one of the corners, near what looked like a large case, coated in dark leather. Probably where Russia kept the bodies.
"I want to play checkers," America announced, pointing to the table.
"That is a chess board."
"Same thing."
"The two games are very different, America, chess being vastly superior─"
"Checkers," America spoke over Russia, overriding his opinions.
Before Russia could try to explain why the delicate intricacies of chess were preferable to the boorish maneuvers of chess, America made the short journey to the table, carefully avoiding any weird shadows that might try to suck his feet in.
He cleared a sheaf of papers from the table by tossing them on a nearby dresser before taking a seat. He sat there, straight backed and expectant, like a child waiting for a meal to be placed before him. Russia sat across from him, head lowered, wisps of white bangs skimming his forehead.
"I do not have the pieces for checkers," he admitted quietly, not catching America's eye. He said it like one might pass on news of a fatal disease, loss of a loved one, or a forgotten anniversary.
"You're lying," America said boldly, hands slamming on the table, subtly inching towards Russia. "Everyone has a set of checkers. It's a universal law, something you stow away for when you're hanging out with a buddy and have nothing to do."
Russia visibly perked up at the mentions of being buddies. "I may have them lying around. But," he croaked in a gravelly voice, tipping back in his chair, "it will take awhile to find them."
"That's fine," America murmured in an uninterested drawl, "waiting is more fun than chess."
The legs of Russia's chair dropped to the floor in a rush, the noise cracking the lazy atmosphere. America grinned broadly as he studied Russia's face, his jaw too tightly clenched to be considered calm. Russia set his elbows on the table and leaned in. America instinctively pulled his hands away.
Russia forced a ghastly smile, more a haunted grimace than a sign of happiness. America recoiled further, head bumping against the wall behind him, a flicker of regret nibbled at his mind for choosing a spot so small and confined, while Russia sat with his back bared to the rest of the room.
"Well, maybe we could play chess," America offered, hands clasped in his lap.
"Oh no, my little dove, I would not want to push you into games you'd rather not play." Russia leaned in further, almost pulling himself across the table.
"Can we compromise?"
"I am open to it," Russia pulled away, if only a sliver.
"Why don't we play chess and checkers? Like, together? We can call it chessers."
Russia's smile vanished, replaced by a questioning frown. "How would it work?"
"We could stack the chess pieces on top of the checkers."
"And the rules?"
America shifted in his seat, eyes locked on the ceiling. Beyond stacking pieces, America hadn't given chessers much thought. He shrugged and flashed a quick, unsure smile. "Make it up as we go along?"
Twenty minutes later, with a fair amount of glares and mumbled arguments, they had the board set up. Russia insisted that America go first since he was, after all, his guest. America grudgingly agreed after waiting a moment to see if Russia was joking.
The Companion [6.3/?]
anonymous
May 12 2010, 18:51:04 UTC
"This is going to be exactly like chess, isn't it?" America slid a pawn forward. "Pawn to F3," he added belatedly, sure he had counted right, and that the lingo might impress Russia.
Russia's brow quirked, mirroring the edge of his lips. "Pawn to E5."
America nibbled on his lower lip. Maybe he should take the opportunity to move two spaces while he could. Russia seemed to have no qualms with it. "Pawn to G4."
Russia calmly placed his index finger upon his queen. It glided easily in a perfect diagonal line across the board, coming to a rest once it reached the end of the available path. "Queen to D4," Russia said casually. "And of course, checkmate."
"Checkmate? You listen here, bud─" America's tongue twisted awkwardly with shock as he looked at the possible trajectories of the queen. She was perfectly poised to strike down his king in the next turn, with no way for America to retaliate. "Ah," he breathed uneasily, squinting in irritation at the board.
Russia laughed loudly, joyously. America pulled his gaze away from the board to shoot him a dirty look. Russia locked eyes with him as he chuckled, his nose wrinkling with childish glee, a glimpse of teeth showing as his lips pulled back.
America caught sight of a snaggletooth. It jutted out strangely, slightly away from the rest of Russia's teeth, peeking from around one of his canines. America concentrated on it as he waited for Russia's laughter to face, working over the curves of the jagged tooth with his eyes.
"Such a rudimentary mistake." Russia shook his head, hair whipping around him. "Let us try again."
Russia and America moved their pieces back into their starting positions, Russia smiling confidently as America tried to make his king explode with his mind. At least that way he'd get some entertainment out of the game.
Their next match lasted only ten moves. America's pieces littered Russia's side of the board. He wasn't even sure how he lost, considering he had taken several of Russia's pawns and a bishop. Russia must have used some kind of Red magic, or slight of hand.
The third match became an extreme test of patience. America played haphazardly, pawns skittering about, knights hopping in inexplicable formations, rooks rocketing to and fro with no clear objective. Russia countered with slow, precise movements, thoughtful hums vibrating in his throat with every turn.
America grumbled and slumped in his chair when his queen was snatched from the board, a checker left as a kind of grave marker, a testament to the queen's last stand. Russia had refused to acknowledge the presence of checker pieces after the first game. America hastily flicked a rook forward a few spaces, only for Russia to capture it with his knight.
America was tempted to call off the game, preferably in a way that required him to flip the table over in a fit of rage, but he didn't have the energy. Russia's unfalteringly happy face wasn't helping either.
It wasn't happy in a sick way that spoke of delighting in the pain of others, though America thought his losing streak could be a factor in Russia's joy. But at least Russia was sunny, calm, relaxed. America preferred him in such a mood, it allowed him to let his own guard down and stop worrying so much about what Russia might have planned for the future.
America returned Russia's smile, rather weak from the aching need for sleep that was settling in his bones. He lolled his head against the back of the chair, hair ruffling as it rubbed against the wall. His back still throbbed painfully, but like Russia had said, it could have been a lot worse.
"Your move, America."
America jerked his head up, eyes wide with blank confusion. "No it's not, I made a move like two seconds ago, remember?"
"It was hardly 'two seconds ago', and I have already taken my turn."
America hid a yawn behind his hand as he looked the board over. Russia pointed to a bishop that had moved, and America nodded in agreement; it hadn't been nestled up against his knight before. "Good to know you're not waiting for the seasons to change anymore before making a move."
The Companion [6.4/?]
anonymous
May 12 2010, 19:07:19 UTC
A kind light glowed behind Russia's eyes. "I took no shorter than usual, but I believe you may have drifted off while waiting."
"As if I could fall asleep in the same room as you." America wrinkled his nose, not in the kind and jovial way Russia had been doing earlier, but in nervous agitation.
"You've done it before," Russia said casually.
"Eight billion years ago doesn't count." America figured Russia must be talking about a time long past.
Russia gave a one shouldered shrug. "Are you trying to buy time to make a move? I can assure you that you may take as much as you need."
"Are you having the same conversation?" America shoved a pawn into the open before rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was too tired to play nice.
"I believe so, yes." Russia absentmindedly played with the frayed edges of his scarf, threads twirling around his fingers as he surveyed the board.
America settled back into his chair, eyelids fluttering closed. At least Russia's room was warmer than his own, a certain sleepy coziness permeating the room. The soft, barely detectable scent of old world spices tickling at his nose and settling on the back of his tongue. As long as he didn't open his eyes, or think about Russia sitting across from him, he was rather comfortable.
An arm slid beneath America's legs, another slipping behind his head. His eyes flew open, alarmed and wild. The arms pulled away, and America blinked with disbelief as he turned to see Russia at his side. He looked across the board to the empty chair, as if expecting to see him back in his seat.
"You fell asleep," Russia said coolly.
"Not even!" protested America. "Closing my eyes isn't the same as clocking out."
"So it is a habit of yours to ignore people when they try to speak to you, then?"
"It's not the norm, but I make the occasional exception," America answered wryly.
Russia leaned his shoulder against the wall, trapping America where he sat. "I think someone is grumpy. Did you not sleep well last night?" His voice rang with patronizing concern.
"As a matter of fact, bub, I didn't. I've got nothing but scratchy, paper-thin blankets at night, and the walls are just as useful. Your room feels like a tropical paradise in comparison, I swear."
Russia nodded the appropriate intervals as America spoke, eyes following America's hands as they gesticulated out of irritation and emphasized his gripes. "To be honest, that room wasn't in the original floor plan, and it was built in a hurry."
"Needed a place to keep your prisoners?"
"That is the general gist of it, yes."
America's lips pulled into a taut, pensive line. Russia's face was smooth and impassive, divulging no hint of humor in his admission. His arms folded across his chest as he looked back towards the door, the only noise in the room the subtle rustling of clothes and weary breathing.
"As enjoyable as it is to play against you," Russia began after a few minutes of quiet thought, "I have a good deal of work to do. Would you like to return to your room so that you may fall back to sleep?"
America stirred and stretched his arms far above his head, fingers grasping at the air. The idea of going back to sleep was appealing, the only thing outweighing it being America's desire to stay out of his room. Being in Russia's room was a certain freedom in and of itself, and America didn't want to give it up too quickly.
Once he was back in his own room, America had no way of knowing when, or if, he'd be let out again. Being confined to such a small space everyday for endless hours ate away at his will to fight. He could sense his fire burning low, dwindling to a weak ember, becoming more and more docile, resigned to his situation.
The Companion [6.5/?]
anonymous
May 12 2010, 19:19:49 UTC
Progressing to Russia's room had given him the slightest bit of kindling, stoking his mind back into crafting ploys and plans. America needed to hold on to his freedom, however minimal it was.
"Going back to sleep sounds all kind of nice, but, uh," America's words stuttered, clinging fiercely to his tongue. "What if I, like, camped out in here? I mean, if I slept in here, you could keep an eye on me, right?" he reasoned.
"Right." Suspicion lined Russia's agreement, but he took a step back, giving America room to stand.
America hopped to his feet and flashed a thankful smile that fell piteously short of his eyes. He scurried to the bed, performing subtle hops over the sketchy shadows in the room before throwing himself on the mattress, a soft whumph sounding as he hit the covers.
Russia largely ignored America's antics, instead retreating to a writing desk. He set to pouring over papers, showing no interest in the chorus of odd noises America made as he punched pillows and wrangled sheets.
America situated himself in the middle of the bed, the hugeness of it all creating the sensation of being lost in a sea of blankets and plump pillows. He kept a liberal amount of space between his feet and the edge of the mattress, the eternal fear that the monster under the bed would grab them forever present in his head.
With his arms pulled under his chest, America lie on his stomach, head turned towards Russia's back. A small mirror hung on the wall in front of Russia's desk, providing America with discreet means of spying. He watched the looking glass in silence, studying the reflection of Russia's face.
Russia's vivid violet eyes swept over the documents with a composed concentration, immune to distraction. Spidery lashes dipped and fluttered every few seconds, almost playfully. His eyes glinted with every new tidbit of interesting information they fell upon.
Purple eyes were kind of cool, America decided. Hair and eye colors out of the norm were, in America's mind, somewhat villainous to begin with, but America would let it slide this time.
The mix of purple eyes, impossibly pail hair, and a funky snaggletooth was a good combination. It was unique, memorable, nearly fetching. America wondered how Russia acquired such a shade for his eyes to begin with. Was he born with them? Or maybe he got them from a botched experiment─
"Stop that," Russia said abruptly.
"Stop what?" sputtered America, instantly on the defensive, hair prickling on the back of his neck.
"Staring."
America flushed with embarrassment, cheeks warming, a petulant frown curving his lips. He hadn't seen Russia look back at him, hadn't noticed even the slightest hint that he was aware of being surveyed. Probably has eyes in the back of his no good commie head, America thought.
"I don't have eyes in the back of my head, but it'd be nice."
America scowled weakly. "You can read minds now?"
Russia exhaled a low, heavy sigh through his mouth, never looking up from the papers before him. "You said it aloud, America. Go to sleep, you're tired."
"Oh, right. I'm gettin' on it, don't worry." America pulled his arms from beneath him, folding them into a pillow, a cradle for his head. "About that no good commie head stuff..."
"America─"
"I didn't mean it," America muttered into his arms, breath skimming along his skin. "It's a pretty good head, even if it is a commie head."
"America." Russia turned in his seat, arm hooking over the back of the chair. His eyes were dull, bored, almost distant. "Sleep."
"Fine, fine," America relented, succumbing to a childish pout. "Good night─ er, morning. You know what I mean."
The Companion [6.6/?]
anonymous
May 12 2010, 19:26:02 UTC
Russia went back to his work, and America shut his tired eyes. His mind drifted, warm and contented, loping along the line of wakefulness and sleep. Fingers twitched of their own accord, lightly clutching the woven blankets beneath him, his body resting comfortably atop them.
He slipped in and out of sleep, soaking up the drowsy haze that smothered his thoughts. The smooth scratch of pen nib against paper, trailing precise lines of language, served as a lullaby to America, gently pushing his mind, toppling it over into the realm of dreamless sleep.
------
Wild bleating snapped America awake. His body instinctively tried to lurch up, face smacking the bed and rebounding instead of sitting up. He lay in a dazed, useless heap for a second before remember his was on his stomach. Limbs scrambling, he rolled onto his side, using an elbow to prop himself up while his other hand went to fix crooked glasses.
Russia was still at his desk, though the sun was on his back now. With a composure that showed no regard for America's thrashing about, he reached over and pulled the phone from its cradle, silencing its shrill cry.
Russia spoke into the receiver, saying some kind of greeting. Whatever it was, it was in Russian. For all America knew, he could be ordering a firing squad for a litter of kittens, but at least it didn't sound too evil.
America sat up fully, legs crossing as he rubbed sleepily at his eyes. Russia let out a soft noise of surprise as a small voice quickly spoke on the other line. Russia's posture softened, his strong back and square shoulders relaxing, rounding into something more casual.
"Yes, this is he. You'll have to excuse me for answering in my mother tongue, it is simply─" The voice cut him off, babbling quickly, the noise like buzzing mosquitoes to America's ears. "No, no. This is not at all a bad time for me." Russia waggled his pen between index and middle finger as he waited to continue. "Now, what is it you'd like to talk about, England?"
----- A/N:
Usually I have at least a thing or two to mention in my notes, but this week I am at a loss. All I can do is give my thanks to those who have read and commented so far, I truly appreciate it.
Re: The Companion [6.6/?]
anonymous
May 12 2010, 21:09:10 UTC
"This is going to be exactly like chess, isn't it?" America slid a pawn forward. "Pawn to F3," he added belatedly, sure he had counted right, and that the lingo might impress Russia.
Russia's brow quirked, mirroring the edge of his lips. "Pawn to E5."
America nibbled on his lower lip. Maybe he should take the opportunity to move two spaces while he could. Russia seemed to have no qualms with it. "Pawn to G4."
Russia calmly placed his index finger upon his queen. It glided easily in a perfect diagonal line across the board, coming to a rest once it reached the end of the available path. "Queen to D4," Russia said casually. "And of course, checkmate."
Hey, I recognize this! it's that move that made me want to murder my teacher in seventh grade! Unfortunately, I do not think I ever got any better.
You seriously cheered me up after a horrible morning of AP testing. I just thought you should know that.
Re: The Companion [6.6/?]
anonymous
May 12 2010, 22:01:07 UTC
That chess thing? Has totally happened to me. It's very embarrassing when you realize 'Oh damn, I just got owned in THREE MOVES.' T__T
You- Cliffhanger- kla';jwgfv0 ARGH. That was an evil, evil place to stop. Jeez, I don't even know what I want to happen anymore. America being all docile is adorable, even if it weirds me out a fair bit. *anxiety goes here*
Re: The Companion [6.6/?]
anonymous
May 13 2010, 23:19:57 UTC
Next week can not come fast enough. This cliffhanger was just cruel, anon.
Every chapter seems to throw something into focus that would be a footnote in a less developed fic, and flesh it out into something completely appropriate, in-character and illuminating. How can a writer be this awesome?
The Companion [7/?]]
anonymous
May 19 2010, 17:09:46 UTC
America's body went rigid at the mention of England's name. His eyes locked on the phone in Russia's hand. He could grab it, snatch it away in an instant, utter a cry for help in the amount of time Russia would take to wrench it from his hands.
But it might also be a test, a mere dud or red herring. Russia could be trying to measure America's will to escape by providing him with an opportunity to act. And yet that was almost too elaborate, even for a mind as complicated as Russia's.
America slowly uncrossed his legs, slinging them over the bed in a swift, stealthy movement. His lips pressed into a barely visible line, feet pressing soundlessly to the floor as his back took on a predatory arch, preparing to pounce.
"Ah, I see. This is no problem at all, I believe I have the documents you mailed me right here," Russia said, feigned concern brushing along his words. He pulled open a small desk drawer, hands rummaging loudly about for a moment. He pulled it back out, not with a handful of papers, but a gun.
He placed it on the table, the metal making a dull thunk as it settled. America's muscles seized for a moment before giving an involuntary shudder. He looked to the mirror, Russia's reflected face was somber, almost sorrowful, but above all, aware. America rocked backwards on his heels before sitting back on the bed. At least that proved it really was England on the other end of the line.
"Yes, I've heard he went missing. His brother called a few days after he'd last heard from him, saying that he appears to have run away. Something about his clothes being missing, and, eh, 'sensitive information', was gone as well. Do you think he might have taken a little break without telling anyone?"
America bristled at the smug tone of Russia's words. He'd thought all of this out, mapped every little detail in a web of lies, an answer ready for each question that was thrown his way. Or at least, all but one.
"He left his wallet behind?" The surprise in Russia's tone no longer carried the air of an actor.
Perking at the gaff, America shot Russia a smile using the mirror. Russia returned it, but the glint in his eye was mocking. A spark of hope alighting in him at the first chink in Russia's armor, America bounced on the bed a bit, eyes raking Russia's back before trailing to the gun.
It was just sitting there. Russia didn't have his hand on it, or really anywhere near it. America's fingers twitched excitedly as scenarios ran through him mind. It'd be so easy to grab the gun and turn it on Russia. Not that America had ever really shot anyone with a gun.
He wasn't much for physical violence, or any kind of violence at all. If he had to wield a gun, it was mostly for show, an act to intimidate. Every time he had been forced to handle one, he made sure to always shoot into the air, above the heads of anyone that could be hurt. There was a line that was crossed when one killed a man, and America had no intention of stepping over it.
America really didn't need to shoot Russia to begin with though, did he? He could shoot the phone, as Russia himself had threatened to. Not that it would get him anywhere, the only accomplishment coming from the act an injured Russia, who would probably return the favor. Russia wouldn't even be able to call the ambulance and explain to them that there were hot shards of plastic in his eye.
America's gaze latched onto the phone cord, following the tightly wound coils, sliding to the number pad. He frowned. Something wasn't right about the phone, the colors and make jutting out in his mind. The phone from his memory was an ugly white, the one Russia was using was dark, the numbers faded from repeated use.
The Companion [7.1/?]]
anonymous
May 19 2010, 17:14:21 UTC
Brows furrowing, America allowed the memory of Russia threatening to shoot the phone flit back into his mind. Russia had claimed that he thought there was only one phone in the house, that being his excuse for not pumping it with lead, but there was no way the phone he was using now could have slipped his mind, he had to see it every day of his life.
America kicked the air a few times as he thought, the conversation unfolding before him nothing but a sea of prompt responses and long pauses. He wondered why Russia hadn't shot the phone to begin with. The first and only explanation that popped into America's head was that Russia simply didn't want America to get hurt. Or he could be stingy about ammunition; that made considerably more sense.
Stitching together snips of conversation and memory, America couldn't recall ever hearing flat out that Russia had hurt anyone. It was an assumed thing. The way Lithuania cowered, how Latvia shook, Estonia's instinctive flinching, all of it pointed at abuse, but no one ever flat out acknowledged it.
Maybe Russia kept them in line with threats, both physical and verbal, not unlike how he had been bending and twisting America into a more cooperative being. Of course a few real punches and kicks were probably thrown in, but they were mere reactionary assaults, as Russia had demonstrated earlier.
America pushed his lower lip out in an irritated pout, shrugging off the idea that Russia was anything but inhuman. No one could live as long as he without have a few atrocities in their closet, even if they were way in the back, or particularly well hidden. America was sure if he cared to think about it long enough, he could pull up an occasion or two where Russia had boxed heads in.
The threads of the phone conversation brought America's attention back around.
"If he is hiding out, do you have any idea why he might do such a thing?" Russia's voice was thick with interest, curiosity, and sympathy. "If you ask me, I think he might be upset with, well, you know what has been happening lately, I am sure."
America's head tipped to the side, unsure of what Russia could be speaking of. Nothing had been particularly bad before he'd gotten mixed up with Russia. Sure, he'd been out of the loop since then, but he'd still know if anyone were to attack him, or if financial instability rocked the country.
"I know he considers himself to be open minded and fair, but with how tensions have been lately, the sudden change in the relations between my country and his own may have been a shock. Even as nations, it is irresponsible to think that America is immune to personal prejudices."
The buzzing of America's confused thoughts drowned out England's muted response. His feet worked of their own accord, planting themselves on the floor, forcing his body upright. He wasn't going to left in the dark regarding what was going on back home. Russia threw a glance over his shoulder in response, starting slightly as America took a step towards him.
Russia half-rose from his chair, knees bent and body hunched over the desk. "England, I cannot help but notice how much this distresses you. Perhaps we should cancel this month's meeting so that we may all regroup?" England seemed to agree with this thought, because Russia soon said his goodbyes and put down the phone with a toothy grin.
America went to punch the slimy smile off Russia's face the moment he turned, but his blow was sidestepped, the lack of follow through from his fist setting America off balance. He overstepped in an automatic attempt to regain his composure, but the movement only sent him further forward.
Russia's hand shot out, firmly gripping America's shoulders and steadying him. America readied himself for another punch, only to find his motivation shot down by Russia's sudden departure into conversation.
"I like phone calls," Russia said mildly, the suppressed quality saying that, in actuality, he loved phone calls.
"These crosswords suck," he blurted.
Russia stared blankly at America for a moment, hands loosening on his pipe. He placed it on the dresser before picking up the ruined papers from the floor. "But I thought you liked them," he said quietly, trying to smooth the puzzles out again. "Is that why you want to leave, because you do not enjoy these?"
America grit his teeth together. "Let's get this straight, okay? I wasn't leaving! Why is this so hard for you to comprehend? I wanted to talk to you about these stupid puzzles."
Russia gave up on fixing the wadded up papers and let them fall back to the floor. "And so you tried to sneak out the door?"
"No, I was hiding behind the door to begin with, I was just going back there." America's voice came out in an exasperated hiss.
Russia rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You are not doing yourself any favors with these lies." Before America could protest, Russia shot him a sympathetic look. "But I think I know why you are doing this, my little dove. Acting out, fighting against something you cannot beat. You are sad in your cage, yes? You must want to stretch your wings a bit."
America regarded Russia with a suspicious look. He didn't know where their one-sided conversation was going, but he wasn't totally against finding out.
"Will you perhaps behave yourself for me if I were to let you step off your perch and out of your cage?"
A surprised smile broke across America's face, all eagerness and hope, bright eyes and gleaming teeth. Forgetting himself for a moment, America tugged at Russia's sleeve, childlike, urgent. "Can I really get out of here?" he asked excitedly.
"If you mind yourself, you may." Russia got to his feet and offered his hands to America, pulling him up when his offer was accepted.
"Let's get this show on the road." America made to pull his hands away, but Russia gripped them tighter, giving a slight tug to pull America closer, their bodies bumping together in a clumsy moment.
"First you must make me a promise," Russia said, leaning in close to America's face.
"I'll see what I can do." America pitched back awkwardly, unsettled by their physical closeness.
"No more tears from you."
Lips brushed along the fragile and reddened skin of America's eyes, softly kissing at the remaining tears, the barest hint of tongue tasting them. America shuddered, a wave of bashfulness sweeping through his veins as he turned his head to the side. "Not a problem," he muttered.
"Good." Russia led America to the door before letting go. He opened it and smiled, shy and devious, like he was breaking the rules and enjoying it. "You first."
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My A/N is too long to post and kind of rambling, so I'm only going to put it in my journal this time 'around. Hope everyone enjoyed this chapter all right!
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ZOHMYGOD, ANON. I love you. Russia not trying to terrify people, and apologizing when he does it anyway is my post-Stalinist!Russia headcanon. *-* Hurr hurr. I so adore Russia when he's being awkward and adorable. His kol'ing scares the crap outa me though.
Silly America! Santa does exist! He lives at Finland’s house! *shot* Best. Strip. Evar. Just sayin'.
…Yeah, there’s most defiantly some Stockholm Syndrome going on here. I am probably a bad person for loving that, but jeeeez, this fill is awesome that way. If this kind of situation counts as a kink, I totally, totally have it. -///-;;
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Simple as that.
Your Russia is so interesting to read, and America crying in this chapter broke my heart. This twisted little friendship/relationship/whateveryouwouldcallit they're forming is just the best.
Can't wait to see more! ♥
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Maybe he can start slowly learning russian, ahh I love your writing.
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What scares me the most is how America is slipping and he isn't even aware of it. Instead of thinking of a way to get out, he's thinking about how to speak to Russia... and the door is freaking wide open! I want to cuddle him so badly O_O
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Trepidation tingled along his spine as he absorbed the sight. The walls were coated with a deep red wallpaper, raised damask designs standing out against the cranberry shades. Several portraits with judgmental leers were interspersed, eyes void-like and unseeing, but lips tightened into thin lines of self assurance.
America wasn't sure how much he really liked the world outside his room. His first impressions were slightly overwhelming, his mind unused to the stimulation after being locked away like an old toy in a chest. He'd emerged to find a scene he'd not expected.
In the back of his thoughts, during forced bouts of idleness in bed, America had painted what he thought Russia's house looked like. He conjured up images on the canvas of consciousness in direct connection to the emotions he had experienced during his escape attempt.
The walls were dark, the paint peeling from them, trying to escape the house. Floorboards groaned and creaked underfoot, their slats snapping, biting, pinching skin, drawing pinpricks of blood. The rooms held nothing but bizarre devices, each one a clear implement of creative torture, freshly stained from use.
And yet, in reality, the house was almost noble, breathing the certain life that inanimate structures of rich history did. America ran his fingers along the wall, half to steady himself, half out of craving for tactile sensation. His hand hitched on a wooden frame not far from his own door.
"Your room?" America guessed confidently.
"Correct," Russia answered, not at all in the impressed tone America would liked to have heard.
The temptation to go inside tickled the palate of America's mouth, attempting to goad him into asking permission for entrance. His lips stayed firmly sealed, though he anxiously rapped his knuckles on the door, as if expecting someone to pull it open.
"I take it you'd like to go in?"
America didn't answer Russia right away, instead scratching at his neck self-consciously as his lips formed unspoken words. It wasn't like he really wanted to check out Russia's room, he thought it'd be akin to running straight into a bear's cave, or tiger's den.
But it wasn't as if the rest of the house was any more appealing. Russia's room would be just that, a room. It would have clear boundaries, unlike the house. America didn't know where he could and couldn't go within the halls and the rest of the manor, one wrong step and he could earn himself another bruise or five.
"Best to play it safe," he mouthed inaudibly before speaking up. "Sure, give me the grand tour of your room."
"It'd be my pleasure," Russia purred, arm hooking around America's shoulder before he opened the door and guided him through.
America's lips pursed at the gesture, quickly shrugging Russia off. He'd never been fond of people trying to loop casual arms around his shoulders. The gesture always struck him as possessive, bordering on greedy. Only those he trusted were allowed to do so.
America strode into the room like he owned the place, head held high and chest puffed to intimidate. His stance faltered momentarily when he heard Russia close them in, but he quickly recovered when he didn't hear the lock click into place.
Russia's arm blanketed America's shoulders again, fingers squeezing warningly for a split second. "I hope you'll find everything to your liking," he said in a saccharine sweet tone that rubbed America in all the wrong ways.
"It's fantastic," America forced the words between gritted teeth, eyes running over the room.
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Something about the room gave America chills. He imagined there might be serpents hiding in the shelves of the bookcase at the far end of the room, waiting to strike at any hand that drew near. A few of the shadows being cast looked odd and out of place, bending and stretching far more than America thought shadows regularly did.
A checkered tabletop was tucked away in one of the corners, near what looked like a large case, coated in dark leather. Probably where Russia kept the bodies.
"I want to play checkers," America announced, pointing to the table.
"That is a chess board."
"Same thing."
"The two games are very different, America, chess being vastly superior─"
"Checkers," America spoke over Russia, overriding his opinions.
Before Russia could try to explain why the delicate intricacies of chess were preferable to the boorish maneuvers of chess, America made the short journey to the table, carefully avoiding any weird shadows that might try to suck his feet in.
He cleared a sheaf of papers from the table by tossing them on a nearby dresser before taking a seat. He sat there, straight backed and expectant, like a child waiting for a meal to be placed before him. Russia sat across from him, head lowered, wisps of white bangs skimming his forehead.
"I do not have the pieces for checkers," he admitted quietly, not catching America's eye. He said it like one might pass on news of a fatal disease, loss of a loved one, or a forgotten anniversary.
"You're lying," America said boldly, hands slamming on the table, subtly inching towards Russia. "Everyone has a set of checkers. It's a universal law, something you stow away for when you're hanging out with a buddy and have nothing to do."
Russia visibly perked up at the mentions of being buddies. "I may have them lying around. But," he croaked in a gravelly voice, tipping back in his chair, "it will take awhile to find them."
"That's fine," America murmured in an uninterested drawl, "waiting is more fun than chess."
The legs of Russia's chair dropped to the floor in a rush, the noise cracking the lazy atmosphere. America grinned broadly as he studied Russia's face, his jaw too tightly clenched to be considered calm. Russia set his elbows on the table and leaned in. America instinctively pulled his hands away.
Russia forced a ghastly smile, more a haunted grimace than a sign of happiness. America recoiled further, head bumping against the wall behind him, a flicker of regret nibbled at his mind for choosing a spot so small and confined, while Russia sat with his back bared to the rest of the room.
"Well, maybe we could play chess," America offered, hands clasped in his lap.
"Oh no, my little dove, I would not want to push you into games you'd rather not play." Russia leaned in further, almost pulling himself across the table.
"Can we compromise?"
"I am open to it," Russia pulled away, if only a sliver.
"Why don't we play chess and checkers? Like, together? We can call it chessers."
Russia's smile vanished, replaced by a questioning frown. "How would it work?"
"We could stack the chess pieces on top of the checkers."
"And the rules?"
America shifted in his seat, eyes locked on the ceiling. Beyond stacking pieces, America hadn't given chessers much thought. He shrugged and flashed a quick, unsure smile. "Make it up as we go along?"
Twenty minutes later, with a fair amount of glares and mumbled arguments, they had the board set up. Russia insisted that America go first since he was, after all, his guest. America grudgingly agreed after waiting a moment to see if Russia was joking.
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Russia's brow quirked, mirroring the edge of his lips. "Pawn to E5."
America nibbled on his lower lip. Maybe he should take the opportunity to move two spaces while he could. Russia seemed to have no qualms with it. "Pawn to G4."
Russia calmly placed his index finger upon his queen. It glided easily in a perfect diagonal line across the board, coming to a rest once it reached the end of the available path. "Queen to D4," Russia said casually. "And of course, checkmate."
"Checkmate? You listen here, bud─" America's tongue twisted awkwardly with shock as he looked at the possible trajectories of the queen. She was perfectly poised to strike down his king in the next turn, with no way for America to retaliate. "Ah," he breathed uneasily, squinting in irritation at the board.
Russia laughed loudly, joyously. America pulled his gaze away from the board to shoot him a dirty look. Russia locked eyes with him as he chuckled, his nose wrinkling with childish glee, a glimpse of teeth showing as his lips pulled back.
America caught sight of a snaggletooth. It jutted out strangely, slightly away from the rest of Russia's teeth, peeking from around one of his canines. America concentrated on it as he waited for Russia's laughter to face, working over the curves of the jagged tooth with his eyes.
"Such a rudimentary mistake." Russia shook his head, hair whipping around him. "Let us try again."
Russia and America moved their pieces back into their starting positions, Russia smiling confidently as America tried to make his king explode with his mind. At least that way he'd get some entertainment out of the game.
Their next match lasted only ten moves. America's pieces littered Russia's side of the board. He wasn't even sure how he lost, considering he had taken several of Russia's pawns and a bishop. Russia must have used some kind of Red magic, or slight of hand.
The third match became an extreme test of patience. America played haphazardly, pawns skittering about, knights hopping in inexplicable formations, rooks rocketing to and fro with no clear objective. Russia countered with slow, precise movements, thoughtful hums vibrating in his throat with every turn.
America grumbled and slumped in his chair when his queen was snatched from the board, a checker left as a kind of grave marker, a testament to the queen's last stand. Russia had refused to acknowledge the presence of checker pieces after the first game. America hastily flicked a rook forward a few spaces, only for Russia to capture it with his knight.
America was tempted to call off the game, preferably in a way that required him to flip the table over in a fit of rage, but he didn't have the energy. Russia's unfalteringly happy face wasn't helping either.
It wasn't happy in a sick way that spoke of delighting in the pain of others, though America thought his losing streak could be a factor in Russia's joy. But at least Russia was sunny, calm, relaxed. America preferred him in such a mood, it allowed him to let his own guard down and stop worrying so much about what Russia might have planned for the future.
America returned Russia's smile, rather weak from the aching need for sleep that was settling in his bones. He lolled his head against the back of the chair, hair ruffling as it rubbed against the wall. His back still throbbed painfully, but like Russia had said, it could have been a lot worse.
"Your move, America."
America jerked his head up, eyes wide with blank confusion. "No it's not, I made a move like two seconds ago, remember?"
"It was hardly 'two seconds ago', and I have already taken my turn."
America hid a yawn behind his hand as he looked the board over. Russia pointed to a bishop that had moved, and America nodded in agreement; it hadn't been nestled up against his knight before. "Good to know you're not waiting for the seasons to change anymore before making a move."
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"As if I could fall asleep in the same room as you." America wrinkled his nose, not in the kind and jovial way Russia had been doing earlier, but in nervous agitation.
"You've done it before," Russia said casually.
"Eight billion years ago doesn't count." America figured Russia must be talking about a time long past.
Russia gave a one shouldered shrug. "Are you trying to buy time to make a move? I can assure you that you may take as much as you need."
"Are you having the same conversation?" America shoved a pawn into the open before rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was too tired to play nice.
"I believe so, yes." Russia absentmindedly played with the frayed edges of his scarf, threads twirling around his fingers as he surveyed the board.
America settled back into his chair, eyelids fluttering closed. At least Russia's room was warmer than his own, a certain sleepy coziness permeating the room. The soft, barely detectable scent of old world spices tickling at his nose and settling on the back of his tongue. As long as he didn't open his eyes, or think about Russia sitting across from him, he was rather comfortable.
An arm slid beneath America's legs, another slipping behind his head. His eyes flew open, alarmed and wild. The arms pulled away, and America blinked with disbelief as he turned to see Russia at his side. He looked across the board to the empty chair, as if expecting to see him back in his seat.
"You fell asleep," Russia said coolly.
"Not even!" protested America. "Closing my eyes isn't the same as clocking out."
"So it is a habit of yours to ignore people when they try to speak to you, then?"
"It's not the norm, but I make the occasional exception," America answered wryly.
Russia leaned his shoulder against the wall, trapping America where he sat. "I think someone is grumpy. Did you not sleep well last night?" His voice rang with patronizing concern.
"As a matter of fact, bub, I didn't. I've got nothing but scratchy, paper-thin blankets at night, and the walls are just as useful. Your room feels like a tropical paradise in comparison, I swear."
Russia nodded the appropriate intervals as America spoke, eyes following America's hands as they gesticulated out of irritation and emphasized his gripes. "To be honest, that room wasn't in the original floor plan, and it was built in a hurry."
"Needed a place to keep your prisoners?"
"That is the general gist of it, yes."
America's lips pulled into a taut, pensive line. Russia's face was smooth and impassive, divulging no hint of humor in his admission. His arms folded across his chest as he looked back towards the door, the only noise in the room the subtle rustling of clothes and weary breathing.
"As enjoyable as it is to play against you," Russia began after a few minutes of quiet thought, "I have a good deal of work to do. Would you like to return to your room so that you may fall back to sleep?"
America stirred and stretched his arms far above his head, fingers grasping at the air. The idea of going back to sleep was appealing, the only thing outweighing it being America's desire to stay out of his room. Being in Russia's room was a certain freedom in and of itself, and America didn't want to give it up too quickly.
Once he was back in his own room, America had no way of knowing when, or if, he'd be let out again. Being confined to such a small space everyday for endless hours ate away at his will to fight. He could sense his fire burning low, dwindling to a weak ember, becoming more and more docile, resigned to his situation.
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"Going back to sleep sounds all kind of nice, but, uh," America's words stuttered, clinging fiercely to his tongue. "What if I, like, camped out in here? I mean, if I slept in here, you could keep an eye on me, right?" he reasoned.
"Right." Suspicion lined Russia's agreement, but he took a step back, giving America room to stand.
America hopped to his feet and flashed a thankful smile that fell piteously short of his eyes. He scurried to the bed, performing subtle hops over the sketchy shadows in the room before throwing himself on the mattress, a soft whumph sounding as he hit the covers.
Russia largely ignored America's antics, instead retreating to a writing desk. He set to pouring over papers, showing no interest in the chorus of odd noises America made as he punched pillows and wrangled sheets.
America situated himself in the middle of the bed, the hugeness of it all creating the sensation of being lost in a sea of blankets and plump pillows. He kept a liberal amount of space between his feet and the edge of the mattress, the eternal fear that the monster under the bed would grab them forever present in his head.
With his arms pulled under his chest, America lie on his stomach, head turned towards Russia's back. A small mirror hung on the wall in front of Russia's desk, providing America with discreet means of spying. He watched the looking glass in silence, studying the reflection of Russia's face.
Russia's vivid violet eyes swept over the documents with a composed concentration, immune to distraction. Spidery lashes dipped and fluttered every few seconds, almost playfully. His eyes glinted with every new tidbit of interesting information they fell upon.
Purple eyes were kind of cool, America decided. Hair and eye colors out of the norm were, in America's mind, somewhat villainous to begin with, but America would let it slide this time.
The mix of purple eyes, impossibly pail hair, and a funky snaggletooth was a good combination. It was unique, memorable, nearly fetching. America wondered how Russia acquired such a shade for his eyes to begin with. Was he born with them? Or maybe he got them from a botched experiment─
"Stop that," Russia said abruptly.
"Stop what?" sputtered America, instantly on the defensive, hair prickling on the back of his neck.
"Staring."
America flushed with embarrassment, cheeks warming, a petulant frown curving his lips. He hadn't seen Russia look back at him, hadn't noticed even the slightest hint that he was aware of being surveyed. Probably has eyes in the back of his no good commie head, America thought.
"I don't have eyes in the back of my head, but it'd be nice."
America scowled weakly. "You can read minds now?"
Russia exhaled a low, heavy sigh through his mouth, never looking up from the papers before him. "You said it aloud, America. Go to sleep, you're tired."
"Oh, right. I'm gettin' on it, don't worry." America pulled his arms from beneath him, folding them into a pillow, a cradle for his head. "About that no good commie head stuff..."
"America─"
"I didn't mean it," America muttered into his arms, breath skimming along his skin. "It's a pretty good head, even if it is a commie head."
"America." Russia turned in his seat, arm hooking over the back of the chair. His eyes were dull, bored, almost distant. "Sleep."
"Fine, fine," America relented, succumbing to a childish pout. "Good night─ er, morning. You know what I mean."
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He slipped in and out of sleep, soaking up the drowsy haze that smothered his thoughts. The smooth scratch of pen nib against paper, trailing precise lines of language, served as a lullaby to America, gently pushing his mind, toppling it over into the realm of dreamless sleep.
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Wild bleating snapped America awake. His body instinctively tried to lurch up, face smacking the bed and rebounding instead of sitting up. He lay in a dazed, useless heap for a second before remember his was on his stomach. Limbs scrambling, he rolled onto his side, using an elbow to prop himself up while his other hand went to fix crooked glasses.
Russia was still at his desk, though the sun was on his back now. With a composure that showed no regard for America's thrashing about, he reached over and pulled the phone from its cradle, silencing its shrill cry.
Russia spoke into the receiver, saying some kind of greeting. Whatever it was, it was in Russian. For all America knew, he could be ordering a firing squad for a litter of kittens, but at least it didn't sound too evil.
America sat up fully, legs crossing as he rubbed sleepily at his eyes. Russia let out a soft noise of surprise as a small voice quickly spoke on the other line. Russia's posture softened, his strong back and square shoulders relaxing, rounding into something more casual.
"Yes, this is he. You'll have to excuse me for answering in my mother tongue, it is simply─" The voice cut him off, babbling quickly, the noise like buzzing mosquitoes to America's ears. "No, no. This is not at all a bad time for me." Russia waggled his pen between index and middle finger as he waited to continue. "Now, what is it you'd like to talk about, England?"
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A/N:
Usually I have at least a thing or two to mention in my notes, but this week I am at a loss. All I can do is give my thanks to those who have read and commented so far, I truly appreciate it.
Also, cliffhanger.
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Russia's brow quirked, mirroring the edge of his lips. "Pawn to E5."
America nibbled on his lower lip. Maybe he should take the opportunity to move two spaces while he could. Russia seemed to have no qualms with it. "Pawn to G4."
Russia calmly placed his index finger upon his queen. It glided easily in a perfect diagonal line across the board, coming to a rest once it reached the end of the available path. "Queen to D4," Russia said casually. "And of course, checkmate."
Hey, I recognize this! it's that move that made me want to murder my teacher in seventh grade! Unfortunately, I do not think I ever got any better.
You seriously cheered me up after a horrible morning of AP testing. I just thought you should know that.
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You- Cliffhanger- kla';jwgfv0 ARGH. That was an evil, evil place to stop. Jeez, I don't even know what I want to happen anymore. America being all docile is adorable, even if it weirds me out a fair bit. *anxiety goes here*
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Every chapter seems to throw something into focus that would be a footnote in a less developed fic, and flesh it out into something completely appropriate, in-character and illuminating. How can a writer be this awesome?
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But it might also be a test, a mere dud or red herring. Russia could be trying to measure America's will to escape by providing him with an opportunity to act. And yet that was almost too elaborate, even for a mind as complicated as Russia's.
America slowly uncrossed his legs, slinging them over the bed in a swift, stealthy movement. His lips pressed into a barely visible line, feet pressing soundlessly to the floor as his back took on a predatory arch, preparing to pounce.
"Ah, I see. This is no problem at all, I believe I have the documents you mailed me right here," Russia said, feigned concern brushing along his words. He pulled open a small desk drawer, hands rummaging loudly about for a moment. He pulled it back out, not with a handful of papers, but a gun.
He placed it on the table, the metal making a dull thunk as it settled. America's muscles seized for a moment before giving an involuntary shudder. He looked to the mirror, Russia's reflected face was somber, almost sorrowful, but above all, aware. America rocked backwards on his heels before sitting back on the bed. At least that proved it really was England on the other end of the line.
"Yes, I've heard he went missing. His brother called a few days after he'd last heard from him, saying that he appears to have run away. Something about his clothes being missing, and, eh, 'sensitive information', was gone as well. Do you think he might have taken a little break without telling anyone?"
America bristled at the smug tone of Russia's words. He'd thought all of this out, mapped every little detail in a web of lies, an answer ready for each question that was thrown his way. Or at least, all but one.
"He left his wallet behind?" The surprise in Russia's tone no longer carried the air of an actor.
Perking at the gaff, America shot Russia a smile using the mirror. Russia returned it, but the glint in his eye was mocking. A spark of hope alighting in him at the first chink in Russia's armor, America bounced on the bed a bit, eyes raking Russia's back before trailing to the gun.
It was just sitting there. Russia didn't have his hand on it, or really anywhere near it. America's fingers twitched excitedly as scenarios ran through him mind. It'd be so easy to grab the gun and turn it on Russia. Not that America had ever really shot anyone with a gun.
He wasn't much for physical violence, or any kind of violence at all. If he had to wield a gun, it was mostly for show, an act to intimidate. Every time he had been forced to handle one, he made sure to always shoot into the air, above the heads of anyone that could be hurt. There was a line that was crossed when one killed a man, and America had no intention of stepping over it.
America really didn't need to shoot Russia to begin with though, did he? He could shoot the phone, as Russia himself had threatened to. Not that it would get him anywhere, the only accomplishment coming from the act an injured Russia, who would probably return the favor. Russia wouldn't even be able to call the ambulance and explain to them that there were hot shards of plastic in his eye.
America's gaze latched onto the phone cord, following the tightly wound coils, sliding to the number pad. He frowned. Something wasn't right about the phone, the colors and make jutting out in his mind. The phone from his memory was an ugly white, the one Russia was using was dark, the numbers faded from repeated use.
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America kicked the air a few times as he thought, the conversation unfolding before him nothing but a sea of prompt responses and long pauses. He wondered why Russia hadn't shot the phone to begin with. The first and only explanation that popped into America's head was that Russia simply didn't want America to get hurt. Or he could be stingy about ammunition; that made considerably more sense.
Stitching together snips of conversation and memory, America couldn't recall ever hearing flat out that Russia had hurt anyone. It was an assumed thing. The way Lithuania cowered, how Latvia shook, Estonia's instinctive flinching, all of it pointed at abuse, but no one ever flat out acknowledged it.
Maybe Russia kept them in line with threats, both physical and verbal, not unlike how he had been bending and twisting America into a more cooperative being. Of course a few real punches and kicks were probably thrown in, but they were mere reactionary assaults, as Russia had demonstrated earlier.
America pushed his lower lip out in an irritated pout, shrugging off the idea that Russia was anything but inhuman. No one could live as long as he without have a few atrocities in their closet, even if they were way in the back, or particularly well hidden. America was sure if he cared to think about it long enough, he could pull up an occasion or two where Russia had boxed heads in.
The threads of the phone conversation brought America's attention back around.
"If he is hiding out, do you have any idea why he might do such a thing?" Russia's voice was thick with interest, curiosity, and sympathy. "If you ask me, I think he might be upset with, well, you know what has been happening lately, I am sure."
America's head tipped to the side, unsure of what Russia could be speaking of. Nothing had been particularly bad before he'd gotten mixed up with Russia. Sure, he'd been out of the loop since then, but he'd still know if anyone were to attack him, or if financial instability rocked the country.
"I know he considers himself to be open minded and fair, but with how tensions have been lately, the sudden change in the relations between my country and his own may have been a shock. Even as nations, it is irresponsible to think that America is immune to personal prejudices."
The buzzing of America's confused thoughts drowned out England's muted response. His feet worked of their own accord, planting themselves on the floor, forcing his body upright. He wasn't going to left in the dark regarding what was going on back home. Russia threw a glance over his shoulder in response, starting slightly as America took a step towards him.
Russia half-rose from his chair, knees bent and body hunched over the desk. "England, I cannot help but notice how much this distresses you. Perhaps we should cancel this month's meeting so that we may all regroup?" England seemed to agree with this thought, because Russia soon said his goodbyes and put down the phone with a toothy grin.
America went to punch the slimy smile off Russia's face the moment he turned, but his blow was sidestepped, the lack of follow through from his fist setting America off balance. He overstepped in an automatic attempt to regain his composure, but the movement only sent him further forward.
Russia's hand shot out, firmly gripping America's shoulders and steadying him. America readied himself for another punch, only to find his motivation shot down by Russia's sudden departure into conversation.
"I like phone calls," Russia said mildly, the suppressed quality saying that, in actuality, he loved phone calls.
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