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.
"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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