The Companion [7.2/?]
anonymous
May 19 2010, 17:15:36 UTC
America blinked, his arm lowering. "What?"
"Do you like phone calls, America? I'm sure you receive many─ used to receive many, before you came to live with me." Russia spoke as though America had willingly chosen to shack up with him, as if he were only staying for a short visit.
Anger successfully diffused by the sheer absurdity of Russia's words, America's hands dropped awkwardly to his sides. "I guess they're okay. I mean, sometimes they're not all that great, but I like 'em well enough."
"Are you lonely without their calls now?"
America sniffed at the question. He wasn't too lonely. There were much more important things to worry about at the moment. Not that he wouldn't mind having someone other than Russia to talk to, if that was even what he and Russia did. They more or less fought a daily battle to exist in the same dimension of time and space. Or at least, that was how America viewed his days.
Russia on the other hand seemed to take America's antics in stride. His mood was one of perpetual calmness and tranquility, to the point where it was unsettling, if not a bit cold. Not in the far away chill that America would have liked it to be, but instead the icy seep of a winter night as it rolls into one's room and consumes any hint of warmth.
"You see," Russia interrupted America's thoughts. "I think you are lonely now. It was foolish to assume you would warm to me easily, but still, I did not think you would continue to fight me as fiercely as you have."
"What were you talking about on the phone with England? You said something about our countries getting along. We don't get along. That's like, our thing." America refused to have his thoughts rerouted by Russia's inane rambling again.
"I used to believe that having a lot of people around you meant you wouldn't be lonely," Russia continued on, blithe to America's questions. "But I have found a single person can make you happy. I have found that person, America. But he rejects me so, like I am nothing but a venomous spider he wishes to escape from."
"Don't talk about me like that, I'm right here." America kicked at the floor with his foot, scuffing at it as best he could. The only thing worse than the nonsensical utterances that came from Russia's mouth was when he spoke of America in a thinly-veiled fashion.
Russia accepted America's request for a more direct form of communication with enthusiasm. Cool hands cupped America's cheeks, forcing him to look Russia squarely in the eye. America gave a few half-hearted shoves, but knew there was no way to duck out of the hold.
"I may be the spider," Russia said, fingertips impressing upon America's warm flesh, "but I will take care not to bite you." He leaned in close, his image becoming blurry and unfocused at such a short distance to America's eyes. All he could see was the brilliant purple of Russia's eyes.
America gave a reactionary shove, more forceful than before, but with the extra weight Russia had on him, and the lack of space to maneuver, America could only fall back on the bed, but at least Russia's frosty paws were off him.
America awkwardly sidled off the bed, doing his best to keep himself a few feet from Russia's grasp at all times. He cast his gaze about the room looking for a place to reside where Russia couldn't quite follow, but found nothing. Each seat had a matching companion, no matter how strange and out of place it was.
His only option was to sit at the writing desk, and America hardly thought Russia would let such a thing pass without respite. America took to moving about the room with an artless gait. He drifted from the bed to chair to bookcase without stopping, creating a small circuit that Russia did not follow.
"Look, you can be a spider, or a phoenix, or even a damned phoenix spider. But tell me what you were talking about with England." America slid a book from a shelf, leafed through a few pages, and slammed it shut with a loud snap.
"Do you like phone calls, America? I'm sure you receive many─ used to receive many, before you came to live with me." Russia spoke as though America had willingly chosen to shack up with him, as if he were only staying for a short visit.
Anger successfully diffused by the sheer absurdity of Russia's words, America's hands dropped awkwardly to his sides. "I guess they're okay. I mean, sometimes they're not all that great, but I like 'em well enough."
"Are you lonely without their calls now?"
America sniffed at the question. He wasn't too lonely. There were much more important things to worry about at the moment. Not that he wouldn't mind having someone other than Russia to talk to, if that was even what he and Russia did. They more or less fought a daily battle to exist in the same dimension of time and space. Or at least, that was how America viewed his days.
Russia on the other hand seemed to take America's antics in stride. His mood was one of perpetual calmness and tranquility, to the point where it was unsettling, if not a bit cold. Not in the far away chill that America would have liked it to be, but instead the icy seep of a winter night as it rolls into one's room and consumes any hint of warmth.
"You see," Russia interrupted America's thoughts. "I think you are lonely now. It was foolish to assume you would warm to me easily, but still, I did not think you would continue to fight me as fiercely as you have."
"What were you talking about on the phone with England? You said something about our countries getting along. We don't get along. That's like, our thing." America refused to have his thoughts rerouted by Russia's inane rambling again.
"I used to believe that having a lot of people around you meant you wouldn't be lonely," Russia continued on, blithe to America's questions. "But I have found a single person can make you happy. I have found that person, America. But he rejects me so, like I am nothing but a venomous spider he wishes to escape from."
"Don't talk about me like that, I'm right here." America kicked at the floor with his foot, scuffing at it as best he could. The only thing worse than the nonsensical utterances that came from Russia's mouth was when he spoke of America in a thinly-veiled fashion.
Russia accepted America's request for a more direct form of communication with enthusiasm. Cool hands cupped America's cheeks, forcing him to look Russia squarely in the eye. America gave a few half-hearted shoves, but knew there was no way to duck out of the hold.
"I may be the spider," Russia said, fingertips impressing upon America's warm flesh, "but I will take care not to bite you." He leaned in close, his image becoming blurry and unfocused at such a short distance to America's eyes. All he could see was the brilliant purple of Russia's eyes.
America gave a reactionary shove, more forceful than before, but with the extra weight Russia had on him, and the lack of space to maneuver, America could only fall back on the bed, but at least Russia's frosty paws were off him.
America awkwardly sidled off the bed, doing his best to keep himself a few feet from Russia's grasp at all times. He cast his gaze about the room looking for a place to reside where Russia couldn't quite follow, but found nothing. Each seat had a matching companion, no matter how strange and out of place it was.
His only option was to sit at the writing desk, and America hardly thought Russia would let such a thing pass without respite. America took to moving about the room with an artless gait. He drifted from the bed to chair to bookcase without stopping, creating a small circuit that Russia did not follow.
"Look, you can be a spider, or a phoenix, or even a damned phoenix spider. But tell me what you were talking about with England." America slid a book from a shelf, leafed through a few pages, and slammed it shut with a loud snap.
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