The Companion [7.6/?]
anonymous
May 19 2010, 17:27:54 UTC
"Hey, guess what time it is? Time to tell me what's going on."
"Ah, yes. That─" Russia turned his head away, a disinterested dullness reflecting in his blank expression. "I never said you would tell you anything."
"Buddy," America began politely, betraying the blossom of anger in his chest. "You said you would tell me what was up once we ate. I did it, I ate your little bowl of spiced water."
"I said I would show you, America. Telling is too easy, too simple."
A violent tremor manifested in America's hands as they clenched into tightly balled fists. "I bet I could beat you half to death and break out of this popsicle stand."
Russia's gaze floated to the ceiling, lips forming a curious frown. "That is true, but I would not be deserving of such a treatment."
"How'd you come up with that?"
"I have not hit you during your stay, have I?"
In a reflexive motion, America leaned against his chair to think. The back bit into his bruise, reminding him immediately of the events that had transpired earlier that morning. His lips moved clumsily as he attempted to articulate the incident, and how Russia had indeed given him a good thwack, but it nearly seemed like more trouble than was worth mentioning. Russia's reasoning had made sense when he looked back on it.
"I guess not," America huffed with childish defeat, his fists unfurling. "But how are you going to show me?"
"Using the news."
America's heart dropped to his feet, fluttered a bit, and expired. The idea that things between his country and Russia had changed so much it was worth reporting caused an overwhelming swoon to sweep over his mind. He didn't want things to change, as much as he liked expansion and progress, like any creature of the world, change unsettled him.
Sweat wetting the palms of his hands, America watched in silence as Russia approached the wardrobe that lay directly across from the bed. A dull flare of amusement went off in America's stomach as he realised it was really a discreet way of hiding a large television. Russia grabbed a remote from a shelf within the case, motioning for America to join him with his free hand.
With feet that struggled to disobey, America took his place at Russia's side. He held his neck stiff and straight, eyes focused on the blackened screen before him. His jaw clenched in anticipation as his feet rooted to the floor.
Russia gave a light press of the remote and the darkness flickered on, the image snapping and buzzing to static for a moment before gathering its bearings. Pale light bathed America's already bloodless face, and with one final, deep breath, he readied himself for the truth.
------------
A/N:
I wanted this chapter to be longer, but figured this was as good a place to end as any other. If I finished it up as neatly as I'd like to have, well, you wouldn't be getting another cliffhanger, and where's the fun in that?
Re: The Companion [7.6/?]
anonymous
May 22 2010, 00:44:34 UTC
So cruel, anon, taunting us with cliffhangers ;__;
I do enjoy how you're portraying Russia so far - even if I'm terrible at putting it into words. There's just so many moments - he's so lonely and he doesn't want to hurt America but sometimes he just does and aldfjakdjf
So in other words, MOAR PLZ. (gives you internets)
The Companion [8/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 17:54:39 UTC
America stared with a growing, and very confused, interest at the television. He had girded his loins for some kind of earth-shattering news report, with screaming people throwing themselves out of buildings and Russian troops marching down Wall Street.
What he got was a bright and flashy video trying to sell him clothes. He glanced sideways at Russia to see if he had missed something. "This is the big news? Half price sale at J.C. Ruski's? Oh, look, scarves are on sale too, you might want to swing by and pick up a few."
Russia let out a small, uncomfortable cough. The tips of his ears were dusted with pink. "This is not the news, America, this is a commercial. Are you so desensitized to them you cannot understand the difference?"
America narrowed his eyes as his lower lip jutted out of its own accord. That was almost a decent joke. He flailed for a comeback; any would do. "Bet this isn't as dramatic as you hoped it'd be."
Russia hushed him, his breath a low hiss. "You have so little patience, it is coming on now."
America looked back to the screen. A young woman with an offensively pink jacket and an eerily large smile was speaking to the camera. Her voice was high and grating, as if it were being physically torn from her mouth as her eyes sped back and forth along the lines of the teleprompter. She was a news anchor alright.
Her words were meaningless to America, not a single one registering meaning in his mind. A box popped up next to her head, first displaying a Russian flag that was soon joined by an American one. America stiffened, back going rigid as he strained to make sense of what he was seeing.
The flags and news anchor disappeared, replaced by a large, official looking building with pale pillars supporting a sloped roof. Two podiums sat together at the head of a case of stone steps, tall men with dark, fitted suits standing side by side. Recognition sparked in America's eyes.
"That's what's-his-bucket!" he exclaimed, pointing to the man on the right. America knew him as a politician, or an ambassador, or a something, but in a world where America met such people every day, the man's name had only barely made its way into his memory. It danced on the tip of his tongue, refusing to leave its perch as America tried to speak it.
"Don't they look lovely together?" Russia breathed a content and satisfied sigh.
America frowned and pulled his attention away from remembering names, instead focusing on the appearance of the two men. They faced each other with shaky smiles that could be washed away as easily as the waves could claim a castle of sand. Their hands met in a handshake, though both struggled subtlety for control.
"What are they doing?" America asked, straining to gleam any kind of information he could from their movements.
"Cementing our new friendship."
America turned to Russia, slack jawed and unbelieving. "We don't have any kind of a friendship, buddy."
"If you say so, buddy," Russia mimicked.
A wave of disdain painted America's insides. "I'm not your buddy, bud─" He caught himself, choking on word. "Dude."
"No, no, do not stop using this word, 'buddy'." Russia hummed happily, savoring the moniker.
America wrinkled his nose in disgust. It sounded so wrong when Russia said it, like he was speaking a language that his vocal chords could not quite grasp, an alien tongue he was never meant to emit. America grumbled and turned back to the television, but the scene had been wiped, replaced with what looked to be a story about cats. Or tricycles. Possibly cats with tricycles.
"That's it?" America scoffed. "People shake hands and we're suddenly friends?" He knew it ran much deeper than that, but refused to openly admit it.
He couldn't even begin to fathom what wheels Russia had set in motion. It wasn't possible to simply kidnap a nation, shove them in a room for awhile, and force relations to improve. If things were that easy, nations would go missing as often as storybook princesses.
The Companion [8.1/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 17:56:04 UTC
"That was only a brief mention, they will be coming back to it later in the program."
"How long does this puppy last?"
"Awhile."
"Rough estimate, cough it up."
"Two hours."
America stared blankly at Russia. There was no way he was going to bail out on finding out more about his situation, but the idea of staying for so long in Russia's room was beginning to pick at him. He quietly argued the benefits of staying versus what could come of leaving.
The longer he stayed, the more information he'd have, the more enlightened he'd be. He could find out what day it was, what time it was. He'd been so focused on the news itself he hadn't caught it, and without that bit of knowledge he couldn't bring himself to bail out.
"Do you mind if I stick around to catch the follow up?"
There was no response. America looked to Russia only to find him missing. He scanned the room quickly, but found no other occupants, yet the door that joined Russia's room to the bathroom America so often heard was closed. America shrugged to himself, switching from foot to foot to relieve the soreness that festered from standing still too long.
After a few minutes of hopping about uneasily, a soft and steady whistle met America's ears, the tune familiar, and rather catchy. He recognized it immediately as Russia's national anthem, which he had to admit was always a song he was fond of. Figuring bathroom whistling was a sign that Russia was taking his sweet time, America found no reason to wait to ask permission to stay.
He plopped down on the bed and focused on the television. The news had returned, a small clock in the bottom hand corner revealing that it was a quarter past eleven. Soon the combined image of the Russian and American flags popped up again, but to America's chagrin it was soon chased away by a weather report.
America winced as he observed the temperatures. He'd suffered a lot of harsh winters, but even these numbers shocked him. Tomorrow's weather didn't look half as bad as tonight's, a smiling sunny face floating beneath the header.
The day after tomorrow looked much worse. The sun was replaced by a globular white cloud with a volatile look in its eyes. Its mouth opened to reveal a deep abyss interrupted only by the steady stream of snow that streamed forth. Great swirls of wind battered its sides and flew about.
The mattress dipped, startling America. "A storm is coming," Russia told him matter of factly.
"Is that a metaphor, or an actual reference to the news?" America shot Russia a glance. He was near the headboard of the bed, his lower body becoming a hidden mass as it slid beneath the covers. His coat had been exchanged for a simple tee shirt with no insignia or design. The scarf, however, remained.
"The news." Russia yawned, too wide and drawn out to be genuine. "We will have to go shopping tomorrow in case we get snowed in."
"Wait, 'we' are going to go shopping? Like, together?"
"That is the plan." Russia gave him a conspiratorial wink, as though they were allies working towards the same goal.
"I'm going to keep watching it," America announced. It came out as a shy, faltering plea, instead of the fierce bark he would have preferred. He ignored the wink and what Russia had given him. Surely what he had seen was a trick of the shadows, the words only mocking.
"I will not stop you." Russia rolled onto his side, settling his head upon a thick white pillow. "Turn it off when you've finished."
America nodded and continued to watch. The stories slipped by his glazed eyes without invoking much reaction. Footage of a farmer turned to video of a parking lot, the roofs of the cars gleaming like the scales of a winding serpent. The commercials returned, attempting to sell America all manners of things he had no desire to own.
The cold of the outside world began to fill the room as America waited. It wasn't as bad as his own room, but nippy enough that his pajamas were unable to ward off the chill, leaving his body to tremble as it tried to keep warm. He looked over his shoulder to check on Russia as he took to hugging himself.
The Companion [8.2/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 17:57:33 UTC
Russia was still curled on his side, one hand hidden beneath his pillow while the other was wound about his scarf. America slowly scooted closer to the headboard, squinting at Russia's face. It was lax, lacking the composure of those who were awake. America waved a hand in front of Russia's face and waited for a reaction, but received none.
"I'm going to go ring up the police now," America informed Russia, just for good measure. Russia seemed to have no problem with that, which stole away America's fun.
Deciding Russia was legitimately conked out, America peeled away the covers and gingerly crawled beneath them, careful not to rouse his bedmate. Russia stirred slightly and, America thought, edged closer. It was too hard to tell for sure in the dark, though.
America pulled the blankets up to his chin and wiggled his toes, a yawn overtaking his lips as he squirmed about to make himself comfortable. He soon settled on his back, ankles crossed together as he watched the screen of the television. They'd finally come full circle and returned to what America really cared about.
The same story was shown again, with the same footage and, worst of all, played for the same length of time, the only added bit being a small spot of conversation between the two men. Their words were in English, but America's relief was almost instantaneously demolished as a Russian voice began to speak over them, translating their exchange.
He fought to read their lips. Basic, everyday words were easy to pick out, but he made no headway on their actual conversation, other than noting that the word 'and' showed up way too often, and that 'eggplants with soy sauce' was most definitely not what the Russian man was saying, no matter how similar it looked.
When the images had faded, replaced again by the frightening looking weather with its smiling suns and snow-vomiting clouds, America decided it was time to grab a pillow, his hands beginning to grope about with only the fluorescent glow of the television to guide his way.
After a moment, America's fingers brushed against the light fabric of a pillowcase. He gave it a pull, but it stayed firmly put. Next he gave it a few good tugs, his results negligible at best. With a grunt, America gave one final yank, managing to pull the pillow a few inches.
A pleased smile skipping across his lips, America mentally applauded himself for the progress. Hope renewed, he searched for the source of why the pillow had been so stubborn to move. The answer made itself obvious.
The sheets ruffled as Russia stirred, his hands sleepily swiping at the pillow, fingernails raking at it until it was back under his head. America stiffened, his breath hitching in his chest. He waited, eyes wide and white-rimmed. Russia settled back into a deep, unmoving sleep.
America let out the breath he had bottled up. Adrenaline flared through his body, setting his fingers shaking. His eyelids slipped shut as he worked to calm himself down. He chastised his shot nerves, reprimanding them for giving him such a fright. In return, they chided his sense for not looking more closely to begin with. His mind settled the argument by charging them both with equal fault.
America forced himself to concentrate back on the television, though his interest waned constantly, straying back several times to Russia's snoozing form. He looked like a hibernating bear, one that would not appreciate being awakened. America wondered how he'd react if he found America still in his room, in his bed no less.
Probably wouldn't do a thing, America thought. Russia hadn't demonstrated any of the bizarre mental disturbances he was known for since America had arrived. At worst, he would send America to his own cold room and his own cold bed. America nestled deeper into the covers at the thought, glad to have a moment to enjoy the warmth that blanketed his body. He wondered if, using a few well placed smiles and a honied tone, he could talk Russia into moving him to new room
The Companion [8.3/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 17:59:10 UTC
Small scenarios regarding how to attain a new room flit through his head, the news becoming nothing but background noise. He closed his eyes, mind moving from thoughts of warm rooms back to what he had seen. Those two men had only been shaking hands, it didn't equate to any kind of friendship, as Russia was regarding it.
At best, it was only a small step towards not so rocky times. America was sure that no matter how much paperwork Russia had stolen, he didn't have the power to change things to such an extent that their countries would be closer.
America, as a person, as Alfred, did have a certain amount of power regarding the actions of his country. Not much, but enough that if he was unshakably against something, it wouldn't happen. Any true headway revolving around Russia would have to go through him first, receive his go ahead, or at least a nod of recognition.
Most of the time America preferred to stay out of the boardroom, and any form of important document was instead mailed to him. Now that he was unable to so much as waltz on out to his mailbox, the post would soon start to pile up. Eventually the mailman would have to notice, eventually the handful of handlers that kept track of America would realise he was no longer reporting to them in any way, shape, or form.
America clutched onto the knowledge that soon the people of his government would notice his disappearance with a certain ambivalence. Generally, humans were not privy to a nation's whereabouts beyond a basic address and phone number. Their personal lives were not to be interfered with, and any kind of sickness was kept from the 'regular folk' as much as was possible.
It wasn't that nations attempted to hide any sign of weakness for the vain sake of keeping up appearances, but instead to set the minds of their people at ease. Something as simple as a dry cough or sneeze could set alarm bells off. America shuddered to think of how people would react when they couldn't find him. Doomsday theories would run rampant in the ranks.
He silently hoped that England, or maybe Canada, would be able to interfere somehow. They could steal his mail, and, if it wasn't already happening, Canada might be staying in his house, keeping watch and impersonating his brother when it was necessary.
America smiled tiredly, content in believing his family would pull through for him. He snuggled under the covers, scooting towards the warm epicenter of the bed. His arms flopped across a large bundle of sheets that had ridden up between him and Russia. It radiated a secure, unending heat, its form solid and unchanging as it coaxed America closer and closer until he was nestled up beside it.
The television continued to play on, but from what America could hear it was another set of bright, flashy commercials he cared not for. With eyelids that weighed too heavily to hold up, America assured himself that after a brief catnap he'd hop right back to watching and find out everything he could.
By the time the news broke in again, this time with footage of crowded rooms of committees with people arguing, then deciding, and finally agreeing, America was fast asleep, absorbed in dreams with lips he could not read and words he could not understand.
----------
America's thoughts slowly buzzed back into consciousness, chugging a slow and steady path towards the clarity of mind that came with wakefulness. His eyelids fluttered as he curled in on himself, making small and contented noises as he wriggled beneath the covers, searching for the most comfortable spot.
He found a warm depression in the bed a little to his left, the same spot where the covers had rumpled into a cushy mound for him to curl up next to. The hill had decomposed into nothing but an unclaimed pillow, which America instantly stole, as well as the cozy indentation on the bed.
The pillow itself still carried residual heat from its previous user, but America was hardly awake enough to realise such things. He merely enjoyed the dreamy daze he was wallowing in, succumbing to the alternating states of his mind, tuning in and out to the patter of water against floor.
The Companion [8.4/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 18:04:44 UTC
America blinked lazily, becoming more attuned to the noise. He picked his head up from the bed, supporting himself on his elbows. His eyes scoped out the alarm clock which informed him in glowing red numbers that the morning was moving on without him, already having reached a quarter past ten. Ruffled that he had slept so late, America's limbs spasmed and kicked the covers off.
The chill of the room pounced upon him. "Oh, oh nooo," he bleated weakly, sounding very much like an old lady and immediately yanked the sheets over his head, providing himself a small niche in which to huddle within. The blissful warmth of the bed was infinitely preferable to the rest of the cold room.
Belatedly, America noticed his fussing about was fetching no reaction from Russia. Not that it ever seemed to get one. His fingers gripped at the pillow beneath his head, the only one on the bed. He listened to the water as it continued to pound, the slow and embarrassing realization that Russia was no longer in the bed consuming his thoughts.
He peeped out from the covers and glanced around. Everything was still neatly packed into its place, largely unchanged but for the removal of the gun. The phone sat patiently on the writing desk, waiting to be called to service.
The desire to use it was fleeting, a blink of thought in the eye of time. It was too cold to move, and dial, and hold respectable conversation. And, knowing his own luck, America was sure Russia would jump out of the shower before he'd gotten so much as one ring off. He'd wait patiently instead, prove that he could sit and be still and not do reckless things.
He didn't have to wait long. The taps soon squeaked as they were turned off, the heavy stream of water turning to a few orphaned drips. The door swung open on creaking hinges, steam billowing out as if the entrance were the maw of a great dragon. Russia didn't emerge from the bathroom as much as he seemed to fade into the room. It was really very dramatic for so early in the morning, America thought.
"Did you sleep well, America?" Russia questioned, his footsteps silent as he approached the bed. The inquisition startled America, his body admitting to being awake as his mind protested.
"I'm still snoozin'," he answered, eyes closed.
"You are like a school child." A large drop of water splashed against America's forehead, his face flinched instinctively as he looked up as Russia's hovering form. His hair was plastered to his skull, darkened by water that slid down his pale cheeks and dripped from his jaw, continuing to land on America's face.
"I like sleeping, that's all." America rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. He wasn't ready to get up yet.
"Mother, only five more minutes, I promise. I will be the best boy in the world if only you would give them to me," Russia mused softly, more to himself than America.
"Okay, okay, I'm getting up." America made a grand show of being roused. His arms appeared first, sliding above the sheets, failing wildly, stupidly, halfway intending to smack Russia. When he found himself without the satisfying thud of connection, he withdrew his arms, curling them slowly inward, snail-like in appearance.
America lay incredibly still for several moments, the only visible movement the rise and fall of the covers as his chest rose and fell in steady succession. His left hand, the one closest to Russia he surmised, very slowly moved towards the bright glow of the room, his fingertips pausing before they could be exposed.
With the snapping lash of an eel's strike, America's arm shot out, clipping Russia in a lightning quick and eerily fluid movement before retreating, or at least, mostly. His fingers still peeked from the head of the sheets, opening and closing, biting the air like a live creature, weaving occasionally in search of prey.
"Do you put on these productions every morning?"
"For the right price."
"Oh," Russia breathed the word out in a sigh, sounding unsure of how to take the comment. "So this is reward for taking you out with me today?"
The Companion [8.5/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 18:07:26 UTC
America froze for a moment, eyes wide, fixed on nothingness in the darkness beneath the duvet. "You really meant that?" The tail of his words quivered with poorly concealed hope.
"Yes."
"Well, then." America sprung upright, the covers falling away. "Sorry about ol' eel arm there, he happens sometimes."
Russia was supporting himself with one hand flat on the bed, the other pinching at the bridge of his nose. America could not decipher if his choked expression was from repressed laughter, or if he just really wanted to punch America. The two expressions, America had learned at a very young age, ran very close together.
"Please, do not rush yourself." Russia's hand fell from his face, a small, almost strained smile on his lips.
"Right-o," America agreed, rubbing his arms to fend off the cold of the room. "Did you leave any hot water left?"
"I would like to think I am a courteous host."
"I will take that as a yes, then." America smiled in an awkwardly toothless way, inwardly replaying his too-friendly interaction with Russia. I'll tamp down on that no good nonsense, he resolved as he turned to leave. Russia reached an arm out, as if to grab America, but stopped himself.
Instead he raised and puffed his body to its full height, and his eyes shone with fierce, almost forced hospitality. "Please, use my own bathroom. It is much cleaner than the one you have, I am sure." Despite the request the words portrayed, Russia's demeanor twisted them into more of a demand than anything.
America gave a single, wary nod. "Sure, I can do that."
Tension rippled across Russia's shoulders before slipping from there, his expression settling into one of great ease. America gave him an odd, half-formed thumbs up before trotting into the bathroom. He surveyed his surroundings carefully, as if expecting to find some kind of surprise waiting for him.
The bathroom was rather nice, even in comparison to what he had at home. A large white tub took up the way furthest from him, an iron shower head gaping over its porcelain depths. The floor was tiled and cool beneath his feet, the grouted lines creating squares that were pleasing in their uniformity.
America mopped at the wide mirror, sweeping away a thin film of fog that obscured his own reflection. The same person he more or less expected greeted him. His hair perhaps a bit scruffier than he was used to, the purple hollows beneath his eyes more vivid than he would have liked, but he was still America more than anything else.
He grinned at himself, big and goofy. Today was going to be a good day; America knew it, like how he knew he had ten toes and ten fingers. Of course he could always ruin his day, as he could alter the number of fingers and toes he had, but he hardly wanted to. To be outside again, to feel the tickle of the sun's rays and the brisk nip of the wind was more than he could have asked for from Russia, and, America suspected, he'd be in public, primed to draw attention to himself, ideally from someone who also knew English.
The shuffle of footsteps and the slam of a door snatched America's attentions away from how he'd explain his situation to the first English-speaking person he met. He snuck a look back into the room to find it empty. The hairs on his neck prickled. Russia had left him.
America scolded himself as he followed suit, his mind working as his legs traced Russia's path. How could he have believed that Russia, the same man that had confined him, would allow him back out into the world, allow him to mingle and interact with those that could rescue him?
America rounded the corner with an angry spring in his step; if he had to stay trapped inside, Russia would too. The naked soles of America's feet slapped against linoleum as he entered the kitchen, echoing in the room.
Russia looked up from the counter he was standing at when he heard the noise. He was fully dressed, donning his usual coat, sporting the same military badge it always did. His hair was no longer dripping, but instead struggling to regain its usual pallor. His polished boots emitted a leathery rustle as his weight shifted.
The Companion [8.6/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 18:08:26 UTC
"I knew it," America hissed, closing their distance in several hasty strides. His muscles twitched with a thirst for violence, wanting to wind their way into the folds of Russia's scarf and strangle him with it. Yet he refrained, if only from the instinctual fear of retaliation.
"Knew what, America?" Russia went back to looking at the counter, a carton of eggs displayed before him. America's anger fizzled into confusion and a sheepish embarrassment. People making quick getaways didn't stare at eggs.
"Uh, knew you were running away─" His words fumbled across his tongue, lurching back and forth in a tangled dance. "─to the kitchen!"
"What else would I be doing?" Russia asked coolly, picking several eggs from the carton and checking them for cracks.
"Nothing else, nothing at all," America said airily, possessing the loud and theatric air of one trying to hide their silly notions beneath a surface of normality.
"Are you having trouble turning the shower on?"
"Yeah," America answered, bordering on the snappish side. "It's all backwards and messed up." Regardless of the fact he had not even tried to turn the shower on, America knew to make it sound like a serious incident that needed immediate attention.
With nothing more than a simple nod, Russia lead the way back to the bathroom. America followed in his wake, transfixed on watching the sway and flutter of his scarf as it drifted obediently behind him. He nearly bumped into it once Russia stopped, just inside the frame of the bathroom, flattening against the wall to let America pass him. America stayed put.
"Now what is it you are having trouble with, America?"
"Um, well," America blustered, wondering if he should start a count of how many times Russia could say his name. It wasn't like America ever took the effort to refer to him as anything beyond 'buddy', and that was only out of habit. "It wouldn't work for me."
"It does that sometimes, usually when it meets new people." Russia coughed in a way that America fully suspected was really a rough laugh, causing a boyish shame to rise to America's cheeks, though he remained silent. As long as Russia wasn't going to slink off, he could say and do any weird thing he wanted to and America wouldn't bat an eyelash. Unless that got him closer to the front door.
America folded his arms, his head lowering in thought. Would Russia be susceptible to his charms? England sure was, and America didn't suspect that anyone could be more of a hard ass than England. But what if his charms worked too well, and Russia expected even more from America? An uninhibited shudder ran though America's body as he subconsciously edged away. The last thing he wanted was funny business with Russia.
He did miss the daily smiles, hugs, and occasional chaste kisses he was used to receiving, but there was no way America would stoop to Russia's level to get them in return. Not that is wasn't tempting. America was starving for attention and affection, and with how often Russia sat a smidge too close, how he always leaned in a tad too far, America was pretty sure he was just as hungry, if not more, for physical touch.
But Russia was a stupid lonely oaf, and America didn't make nice with stupid oafs, even if they really weren't all that dumb. America tapped his foot absentmindedly as he scratched off 'stupid' on his mental list of adjectives that described Russia. Completely and utterly insane fit him much better. He did have a touch of intelligence, if America was going to be honest with himself. Enough so that he could trick America into the shower while he sped off. Or made breakfast.
A pulling at his hand and the sudden contact of tepid water shook America from his thoughts. Russia was holding his arm beneath the shower head along with America's, his sleeves rolled up to avoid getting his clothes splashed. "Is this warm enough for you?" he asked, head bowed slightly to get a better look at America's face.
"I─ yeah, this is good." America blinked owlishly, still halfway stuck in his mind.
Russia released his grip, his hand moving instead to cup the side of America's face, fingers delicately stroking. "Now, why did you come fetch me from the kitchen?"
The Companion [8.7/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 18:09:34 UTC
"I already told you, I couldn't get the shower working."
"No," Russia said flatly, though his touch remained fond. "You would not come to me over something so simple."
America's mind ran a few excuses by in his head, none of them adequate enough to explain why he had dragged Russia back in here. He didn't think he could get away with not answering at all. Russia seemed the type to wait around until he heard what he wanted.
Fearing Russia would once again laugh at his absurd notions, America made to buy himself some sympathy, if only by wiping out his own dignity first. Ignoring the undulating revulsion that coiled in his stomach, America cocked his head to the side, loosely pinning Russia's hand between his cheek and shoulder.
"You aren't planning on lockin' me up in here while you go to the store today, are you?" he asked, forcing his voice into a timid croak while biting back the acidic bile that rose in his throat at the act.
Russia's expression melted into friendly, disarmed relief. "America, my little America. I promise to stand by patiently until you are ready. Never has it crossed my mind to leave while you are preoccupied." He crooned the words in such a loving manner that it caused America's heart to very briefly stammer and want to believe in his own little act, if only for a single second.
"Are you positive?" America backed up, shrugging off Russia's touch. "I mean, you could just be saying that." He sidled closer to the shower, fingers grazing the mouth of the tub.
"I promise, I will not leave you unattended in my home. Not even for a minute," Russia assured. "In fact, if it puts you at ease, I shall stay in here with you until you are finished."
"No, no that's really not necessary." America was back on unsteady ground, unsure of whether or not Russia was yanking his chain. "Why don't you stay in your room or something instead? Make a bunch of noise so I can hear you, too."
"I suppose I can do that." Russia nodded astutely.
"Great, mosey on along now." America made a shooing motion with his hands, Russia politely obeyed them.
With the bathroom clear of any Russian influence, America quickly shimmied from his pajamas and cast them aside. The chilled air of the bathroom sent him straight under the warm jet of water in the shower, his body dancing and bending to cover every inch of skin at once.
His hands worked to scrub away the horror of his actions, rubbing and scraping his flesh into a raw, red canvas. He'd used a little bit of flirting to get his way before, but only on the rarest occasions. Never with a madman like Russia. In a failing attempt to keep his self respect intact, America argued that it was necessary to behave in ways he'd rather not, as long as it got him closer to freedom. He'd already assured himself of that earlier, but after putting his theory in to play, it was nowhere near as easy to reason away the guilt he knew would haunt him.
America shook his head of his inner turmoil and went back to bathing. Wasn't Russia supposed to be kicking up a racket outside to show he was planning to stick around? He sure was doing an awful job of it. America went to washing his hair while he waited for the sound to start, giving the bottle a customary sniff before deciding that the light vanilla scent was an acceptable thing for his scalp to smell like.
In the middle of his rinsing and repeating, America's ears perked at the sound of singing. He waited for the crackle of the gramophone, the static of a radio station, but could perceive no such thing. The notes were perfectly clear, as though the singer was merely in the next room over. An electric tremor skittered up and down America's spine as he realised it was Russia.
His voice was deep and operatic, a smooth and luxurious baritone that swept into the shower and mingled with the water, bathing America's skin in rich, musical notes. The trill of Russia's perfect vibrato caused America's own chest to swell as he breathed in the sound.
The Companion [8.8/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 18:11:03 UTC
For all the dislike America managed to muster for Russia, he had to admit the man had a nice voice. The captivating quality of it wasn't even relegated to singing. During simple board room meeting talks, rowdy arguments, or whispered threats, it had a rough, yet all together pleasing quality. Its lilting cadence that jumped as Russia's emotions spun reminded him of a dog's coat. Course and protective to the touch, but sweet with a downy quality beneath the surface.
The singing stopped the instant he shut the taps off. America deflated slightly, the combinational kiss of cold air and the lack of song causing a shiver to cling to his shoulders. He stared blankly at the clothes he had earlier cast away, their layers forming a sad heap. He hadn't brought anything fresh in with him.
America's expression settled into a thin-lipped look of irritation as he snagged a towel from the rack. He quickly blotted the worst of the water off him as he shook his head in a doggish manner, droplets spraying everywhere. He'd have to dash to his room with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.
Chest held high with masculine pride, America pulled the door open and marched into the room. Russia looked over his shoulder from his position on the bed, his form silhouetted, backlit by the glow of the television. America's hands clasped at the shoddy knot he had tied in the towel as he strut towards the door.
His back was stiff, muscles tight with discomfort and only too aware of how much pale flesh he was exposing. He was always at odds with his body in front of others, and had passed a point where he knew not whether it was a personal problem or something that affected him from his own country's constant attention to the human figure. Either way, he was too damn old to care anymore, and one of these days he'd stop. Just as soon as he figured out how.
"I thought you would be tanner," Russia remarked as America passed him.
America reached for the knob before freezing, his shoulders hunching with uneasy tension. "That's kind of a jerk thing to say, especially coming from someone who looks like a ghost." He turned and wagged an admonishing finger at Russia. "And why are you even looking at me?"
Russia's shoulders swelled dipped with a shrug. "Is a bird with silvered plumage not as beautiful as one with gold?"
"The gold one is better."
"Why?"
America hesitated, arranging and rearranging his towel. Most people he'd met seemed to prefer gold to silver, tan to pale, America really wasn't sure why, but he figured it an aesthetic law. "Gold looks nicer than silver," he answered, running a hand over his fair complexion.
"Maybe for you, but I like them both the same. Gold has a lovely gleam, but silver reflects a certain shine that cannot be matched."
A red flush nipped at America's skin, tiny, heated pricks crawling up his neck and glowing against his cheeks, but his personal disappointment with himself for not keeping up a healthy bronzed tone all year round faded slightly. If Russia didn't give a hoot, America wouldn't either. Though America did wonder how Russia knew it had been bothering him.
Russia had gone back to watching the television, his posture strong and, judging by the way he was massaging his knuckles against his thighs, rather excited. America padded back over, his curiosity peaked. A red banner crept along the bottom, rattling off headlines in Russian.
The camera was trained on a podium not unlike the one America had previously seen, though this time it had no occupant. Microphones were littered about it, each a fat, misshapen glob vying with its neighbor for space. The occasional flash of the bulb lit up the strange scene.
Finding nothing involving about the situation, America occupied himself with a few stray threads that were sprouting from his towel. Maybe things would pick up in a second. He wound a strand around his forefinger, watching with waning interest as the tip of it turned into a swollen, purple segment.
The Companion [8.9/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 18:12:18 UTC
He glanced back to the screen as he unwrapped the string and set to work on his middle finger. He gave the podium another once-over with his eyes, his gaze washing over the microphones, sliding down the angular wooden sides, lingering over the seal.
An eagle was emblazoned on it, wings splayed wide. One talon clutched at a bundle of arrows, the other grasped an olive branch. Held between his beak, a banner read "E pluribus unum". America's mind grappled with the words as his heart beat rose, pumping icy blood into his veins.
Why was the President's seal being broadcast on the Russian news? Didn't they have better things to show than an empty podium? America's knees locked together as the room stirred to life, the flash of cameras turned the scene into a blaze of constantly flickering lights. The brightness flooded America's mind as the President took up his post.
"Russia." America's knees loosened, turning to a dripping jelly as he mind reeled. "Russia, what's he doing on the news?"
Russia startled, having concluded that America had already left. He sprang from the bed, instantly moving to block the television from sight, fingers fiddling behind him to change the channel, to lower the sound, to chase the image away in any way he could.
"It is nothing, America," Russia assured him, his voice husky and urgent, a momentary crack and snap sounded and the television's glow evaporated.
"It's not 'nothing'." America clutched at the sheets with his hands, needing something to hold and tether himself to. "I want to know why my President is on your news. And was that some breaking stuff? It sure looked like it to me."
"It is not important." Russia stepped closer to America, tried to lightly tug him up from the bed. "Why are you still not dressed? We have places to go, my little bird." His hold strengthened as America made no effort to get up.
"I want to watch that," America told Russia in a very smooth, very calm voice. The bright blue of his eyes dampened, hardened into something that could not be reasoned with.
"No," Russia said firmly, fingers bruising America's flesh with their grip. He forcibly pulled America from the bed, hauled him, along with the sheets he clung to, to his own room and shoved him on the bed. America stared at him, though his eyes shone with a remoteness that said he was still in the other room.
"Why can't I watch TV with you?" America sat up, his body loose and disassembled. His feet kicked weakly at the edge of the bed. "Friends watch TV together, don't they?"
"America," Russia's voice was heavy, bubbling with anger. "Do not do this to me." He paced several steps away before veering back. His fists clenched and unclenched as the tendons in his jaw strained.
America kept himself disconnected from the situation, kept himself disconnected from the fear that yearned to flood his body when he saw Russia's fist clench again, only to raise it slightly, as if to strike America down. He flinched in an instant, instinct forcing his body to react. And all at once, Russia dropped to his knees.
The solemn blankness etched on America's face lightened as his mind decided to rejoin him. Russia was in front of America, hands reaching out, grabbing for him. "Look at me, look at what you do to me." Russia shook his head before leaning forward, his forehead resting on the edge of America's knee. "I do everything in my power to keep you warm, fed, and safe. What do you do in return? You throw it back in my face and upset me."
"I just said I wanted to watch TV with you," America argued weakly. He didn't want to see Russia on his knees, relying on him for strength. It was like seeing a parent cry. Russia was supposed to know what to do, always. He wasn't supposed to break down like this, not when he was in control.
"My little bird, always pecking away at me," Russia murmured, lifting his head to look up at America. His eyes were huge and round, pleading and sad. America swooned with pity at the sight.
Re: The Companion [8.10/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 18:13:35 UTC
"Hey, c'mon buddy. There's no need to get so worked up. I get it, you don't want me watching to news anymore." America pat the bed next to him. Russia hauled himself up next to him and slung an arm over his shoulders, pulling them together, their heads lightly pressed against one another's.
"Do you know what you have, America?" Russia's free hand went to America's chest, giving it a few hearty thumps. "You have a good heart."
America gave a bashful nod of thanks, his heart beating back against Russia's touch.
"But it is also so soft," Russia continued, a wistful breath intertwining with his words. "It cannot handle too much all at once. That is why you cannot watch the news with me."
America shifted slightly, leaning further against Russia. He was surprisingly warm. America had always expected him to emanate a certain iciness in conjunction with the fierce winters of his land, but he felt the same as any other body, giving off a comfortable bit of warmth that was particularly pleasing against America's bare skin.
"I don't think my heart's all that bad," America said, more to keep Russia with him than anything. He'd gone so long without such delicate and comforting touch his body craved it more than anything. More than any kind of information or freedom, he wanted tender affection.
"I never said having a soft heart was bad. Soft hearts are kind and loving, they hold an endless forgiveness. But they are quick to cry and become overwhelmed easily. Too much at once and they will break. You don't want that to happen, do you?"
"Well, no, not really."
"And that is why I must protect you! You must trust that if anything bad were to happen, I would tell you. I do not want you to become concerned with minor inconveniences and trivialities. If anything important happens, you will be the first to know, I promise."
America listened carefully to Russia's speech. He was feeling a tad on the overwhelmed side as of late. Maybe Russia really did know what was best, he was older and more experienced in the ways of the world after all. Yes, America decided, he'd leave everything to Russia for now.
"Right, well, I think I should probably get dressed then." America shrugged Russia's arm off. "You go watch the news and tell me if it's anything I should know about." It wasn't that America thought Russia really would tell him anything, but he really did want to put some proper clothes on to ward off the cold of the house.
"Of course," Russia agreed, a cheered lilt coating his words. "I am sure it is nothing. Oh, and─" he stammered slightly, "─I apologize for being so rough. It was not my intention to act as such." His head lowered for a moment in shame.
"No problem. It was my bad, I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that."
"That's right," Russia chided playfully before standing. "I hope you will not try again."
"Wouldn't dream of it, buddy." America smiled, his nerves at ease. He knew he wasn't the slightest bit at fault for Russia's erratic behavior, but he didn't mind fudging the truth to get Russia back into working order. He had grown to rather like, or at least tolerate, Russia's company when he was of sound mind.
When they had played chess together, for instance. Russia had been calm and composed, not at all the threatening and unapproachable figure he was used to, the one that watched him with frigid, unblinking eyes every time they came into contact. Eyes that seemed to be moving closer and closer...
Russia's lips met America’s cheek, pressing softly. Not a kiss, but a touch. Like he had taken a hand and placed it on America's flesh, not pushing nor prying, not anything. A simple act of skin against skin. A finger traced along America's temple, tucking a stray lock of golden hair behind his ear. America straightened up and looked to Russia, almost as if expecting an explanation.
"Well, off I go now." Russia bent at the waist and wrapped his arms around America. Before he could break the embrace, America's arms slipped around him as well, returning the hug with his trademark gusto, hands patting down Russia's sides with a certain familiarity.
The Companion [8.11/?]
anonymous
May 28 2010, 18:15:47 UTC
"See you soon, right?" America's arms dropped from Russia, moving behind him in support as he leaned back.
"Right," Russia echoed. He exited with a joyous skip to his step and a happy hum sounding in his throat. The metal click of the door being locked sounded behind him.
America's hands shot back to his lap the instant the door locked. He stared at his palms, or really, the small book of crosswords puzzles he had nipped from Russia's pocket while 'hugging' him. He had seen it bobbing about, sneaking glances at him while Russia dragged America back to his room. And it wasn't as if it were wrong to steal it back, seeing how it was his to begin with.
He quickly flipped through the pages without really looking at them, glancing from the dresser to the book several times. There were a few clues he had been able to solve, that had been begging him to be written into their neat little places. He wanted to jot them down before they flew from his mind.
Grabbing a pencil from his nightstand, America set to work. He flipped to the page he suspected held the vacant boxes he was looking for, the graphite poised to strike with knowledge. Nothing but answers greeted him, crammed into the small spaces with hunched script.
He thumbed to the next page, sure he had made a simple mistake. Not a single blank square crawled into his vision. He tried the next, and the next, his heart and head throbbing with confusion. America rubbed at his eyes, pressing with such force that small white minnows swam across his vision when he opened them.
Every single page had been completed. The book in its entirety was finished, each puzzle already solved. He hadn't even been in possession of it since he'd been kidnapped, let alone worked on it. But there it was, the book complete, each entry scrawled in using his own hand writing, no less.
---- A/N: Sorry this is a little late, at first it was just from laziness, then my internet stopped working, then it was time to watch Eurovision and yadda yadda yadda. As a heads up, I don't think there will be an update next week. Chapter 9 will be pretty long and probably not finished by the next deadline, so I might switch to posting chapters every other week.
Re: The Companion [8.11/?]
anonymous
May 29 2010, 05:39:56 UTC
*blinks* *re-reads* *blinks more* WHOA. WHOOOA. WHAT. THAT- WHAT- HOLYCRAP. O___O Either he's losing time like crazy or he's losing his marbles. Oh Russia's been creepy and learned to mimic America's handwritting, lol.
Now I'm worried that in addition to his budding Stockholm syndrome, America's got D.I.D. going on. *worryworry* THAT WOULD BE SADDENING.
"Ah, yes. That─" Russia turned his head away, a disinterested dullness reflecting in his blank expression. "I never said you would tell you anything."
"Buddy," America began politely, betraying the blossom of anger in his chest. "You said you would tell me what was up once we ate. I did it, I ate your little bowl of spiced water."
"I said I would show you, America. Telling is too easy, too simple."
A violent tremor manifested in America's hands as they clenched into tightly balled fists. "I bet I could beat you half to death and break out of this popsicle stand."
Russia's gaze floated to the ceiling, lips forming a curious frown. "That is true, but I would not be deserving of such a treatment."
"How'd you come up with that?"
"I have not hit you during your stay, have I?"
In a reflexive motion, America leaned against his chair to think. The back bit into his bruise, reminding him immediately of the events that had transpired earlier that morning. His lips moved clumsily as he attempted to articulate the incident, and how Russia had indeed given him a good thwack, but it nearly seemed like more trouble than was worth mentioning. Russia's reasoning had made sense when he looked back on it.
"I guess not," America huffed with childish defeat, his fists unfurling. "But how are you going to show me?"
"Using the news."
America's heart dropped to his feet, fluttered a bit, and expired. The idea that things between his country and Russia had changed so much it was worth reporting caused an overwhelming swoon to sweep over his mind. He didn't want things to change, as much as he liked expansion and progress, like any creature of the world, change unsettled him.
Sweat wetting the palms of his hands, America watched in silence as Russia approached the wardrobe that lay directly across from the bed. A dull flare of amusement went off in America's stomach as he realised it was really a discreet way of hiding a large television. Russia grabbed a remote from a shelf within the case, motioning for America to join him with his free hand.
With feet that struggled to disobey, America took his place at Russia's side. He held his neck stiff and straight, eyes focused on the blackened screen before him. His jaw clenched in anticipation as his feet rooted to the floor.
Russia gave a light press of the remote and the darkness flickered on, the image snapping and buzzing to static for a moment before gathering its bearings. Pale light bathed America's already bloodless face, and with one final, deep breath, he readied himself for the truth.
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A/N:
I wanted this chapter to be longer, but figured this was as good a place to end as any other. If I finished it up as neatly as I'd like to have, well, you wouldn't be getting another cliffhanger, and where's the fun in that?
I'll tell you.
There is no fun in that.
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I love this. A lot <3
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I do enjoy how you're portraying Russia so far - even if I'm terrible at putting it into words. There's just so many moments - he's so lonely and he doesn't want to hurt America but sometimes he just does and aldfjakdjf
So in other words, MOAR PLZ. (gives you internets)
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What he got was a bright and flashy video trying to sell him clothes. He glanced sideways at Russia to see if he had missed something. "This is the big news? Half price sale at J.C. Ruski's? Oh, look, scarves are on sale too, you might want to swing by and pick up a few."
Russia let out a small, uncomfortable cough. The tips of his ears were dusted with pink. "This is not the news, America, this is a commercial. Are you so desensitized to them you cannot understand the difference?"
America narrowed his eyes as his lower lip jutted out of its own accord. That was almost a decent joke. He flailed for a comeback; any would do. "Bet this isn't as dramatic as you hoped it'd be."
Russia hushed him, his breath a low hiss. "You have so little patience, it is coming on now."
America looked back to the screen. A young woman with an offensively pink jacket and an eerily large smile was speaking to the camera. Her voice was high and grating, as if it were being physically torn from her mouth as her eyes sped back and forth along the lines of the teleprompter. She was a news anchor alright.
Her words were meaningless to America, not a single one registering meaning in his mind. A box popped up next to her head, first displaying a Russian flag that was soon joined by an American one. America stiffened, back going rigid as he strained to make sense of what he was seeing.
The flags and news anchor disappeared, replaced by a large, official looking building with pale pillars supporting a sloped roof. Two podiums sat together at the head of a case of stone steps, tall men with dark, fitted suits standing side by side. Recognition sparked in America's eyes.
"That's what's-his-bucket!" he exclaimed, pointing to the man on the right. America knew him as a politician, or an ambassador, or a something, but in a world where America met such people every day, the man's name had only barely made its way into his memory. It danced on the tip of his tongue, refusing to leave its perch as America tried to speak it.
"Don't they look lovely together?" Russia breathed a content and satisfied sigh.
America frowned and pulled his attention away from remembering names, instead focusing on the appearance of the two men. They faced each other with shaky smiles that could be washed away as easily as the waves could claim a castle of sand. Their hands met in a handshake, though both struggled subtlety for control.
"What are they doing?" America asked, straining to gleam any kind of information he could from their movements.
"Cementing our new friendship."
America turned to Russia, slack jawed and unbelieving. "We don't have any kind of a friendship, buddy."
"If you say so, buddy," Russia mimicked.
A wave of disdain painted America's insides. "I'm not your buddy, bud─" He caught himself, choking on word. "Dude."
"No, no, do not stop using this word, 'buddy'." Russia hummed happily, savoring the moniker.
America wrinkled his nose in disgust. It sounded so wrong when Russia said it, like he was speaking a language that his vocal chords could not quite grasp, an alien tongue he was never meant to emit. America grumbled and turned back to the television, but the scene had been wiped, replaced with what looked to be a story about cats. Or tricycles. Possibly cats with tricycles.
"That's it?" America scoffed. "People shake hands and we're suddenly friends?" He knew it ran much deeper than that, but refused to openly admit it.
He couldn't even begin to fathom what wheels Russia had set in motion. It wasn't possible to simply kidnap a nation, shove them in a room for awhile, and force relations to improve. If things were that easy, nations would go missing as often as storybook princesses.
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"How long does this puppy last?"
"Awhile."
"Rough estimate, cough it up."
"Two hours."
America stared blankly at Russia. There was no way he was going to bail out on finding out more about his situation, but the idea of staying for so long in Russia's room was beginning to pick at him. He quietly argued the benefits of staying versus what could come of leaving.
The longer he stayed, the more information he'd have, the more enlightened he'd be. He could find out what day it was, what time it was. He'd been so focused on the news itself he hadn't caught it, and without that bit of knowledge he couldn't bring himself to bail out.
"Do you mind if I stick around to catch the follow up?"
There was no response. America looked to Russia only to find him missing. He scanned the room quickly, but found no other occupants, yet the door that joined Russia's room to the bathroom America so often heard was closed. America shrugged to himself, switching from foot to foot to relieve the soreness that festered from standing still too long.
After a few minutes of hopping about uneasily, a soft and steady whistle met America's ears, the tune familiar, and rather catchy. He recognized it immediately as Russia's national anthem, which he had to admit was always a song he was fond of. Figuring bathroom whistling was a sign that Russia was taking his sweet time, America found no reason to wait to ask permission to stay.
He plopped down on the bed and focused on the television. The news had returned, a small clock in the bottom hand corner revealing that it was a quarter past eleven. Soon the combined image of the Russian and American flags popped up again, but to America's chagrin it was soon chased away by a weather report.
America winced as he observed the temperatures. He'd suffered a lot of harsh winters, but even these numbers shocked him. Tomorrow's weather didn't look half as bad as tonight's, a smiling sunny face floating beneath the header.
The day after tomorrow looked much worse. The sun was replaced by a globular white cloud with a volatile look in its eyes. Its mouth opened to reveal a deep abyss interrupted only by the steady stream of snow that streamed forth. Great swirls of wind battered its sides and flew about.
The mattress dipped, startling America. "A storm is coming," Russia told him matter of factly.
"Is that a metaphor, or an actual reference to the news?" America shot Russia a glance. He was near the headboard of the bed, his lower body becoming a hidden mass as it slid beneath the covers. His coat had been exchanged for a simple tee shirt with no insignia or design. The scarf, however, remained.
"The news." Russia yawned, too wide and drawn out to be genuine. "We will have to go shopping tomorrow in case we get snowed in."
"Wait, 'we' are going to go shopping? Like, together?"
"That is the plan." Russia gave him a conspiratorial wink, as though they were allies working towards the same goal.
"I'm going to keep watching it," America announced. It came out as a shy, faltering plea, instead of the fierce bark he would have preferred. He ignored the wink and what Russia had given him. Surely what he had seen was a trick of the shadows, the words only mocking.
"I will not stop you." Russia rolled onto his side, settling his head upon a thick white pillow. "Turn it off when you've finished."
America nodded and continued to watch. The stories slipped by his glazed eyes without invoking much reaction. Footage of a farmer turned to video of a parking lot, the roofs of the cars gleaming like the scales of a winding serpent. The commercials returned, attempting to sell America all manners of things he had no desire to own.
The cold of the outside world began to fill the room as America waited. It wasn't as bad as his own room, but nippy enough that his pajamas were unable to ward off the chill, leaving his body to tremble as it tried to keep warm. He looked over his shoulder to check on Russia as he took to hugging himself.
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"I'm going to go ring up the police now," America informed Russia, just for good measure. Russia seemed to have no problem with that, which stole away America's fun.
Deciding Russia was legitimately conked out, America peeled away the covers and gingerly crawled beneath them, careful not to rouse his bedmate. Russia stirred slightly and, America thought, edged closer. It was too hard to tell for sure in the dark, though.
America pulled the blankets up to his chin and wiggled his toes, a yawn overtaking his lips as he squirmed about to make himself comfortable. He soon settled on his back, ankles crossed together as he watched the screen of the television. They'd finally come full circle and returned to what America really cared about.
The same story was shown again, with the same footage and, worst of all, played for the same length of time, the only added bit being a small spot of conversation between the two men. Their words were in English, but America's relief was almost instantaneously demolished as a Russian voice began to speak over them, translating their exchange.
He fought to read their lips. Basic, everyday words were easy to pick out, but he made no headway on their actual conversation, other than noting that the word 'and' showed up way too often, and that 'eggplants with soy sauce' was most definitely not what the Russian man was saying, no matter how similar it looked.
When the images had faded, replaced again by the frightening looking weather with its smiling suns and snow-vomiting clouds, America decided it was time to grab a pillow, his hands beginning to grope about with only the fluorescent glow of the television to guide his way.
After a moment, America's fingers brushed against the light fabric of a pillowcase. He gave it a pull, but it stayed firmly put. Next he gave it a few good tugs, his results negligible at best. With a grunt, America gave one final yank, managing to pull the pillow a few inches.
A pleased smile skipping across his lips, America mentally applauded himself for the progress. Hope renewed, he searched for the source of why the pillow had been so stubborn to move. The answer made itself obvious.
The sheets ruffled as Russia stirred, his hands sleepily swiping at the pillow, fingernails raking at it until it was back under his head. America stiffened, his breath hitching in his chest. He waited, eyes wide and white-rimmed. Russia settled back into a deep, unmoving sleep.
America let out the breath he had bottled up. Adrenaline flared through his body, setting his fingers shaking. His eyelids slipped shut as he worked to calm himself down. He chastised his shot nerves, reprimanding them for giving him such a fright. In return, they chided his sense for not looking more closely to begin with. His mind settled the argument by charging them both with equal fault.
America forced himself to concentrate back on the television, though his interest waned constantly, straying back several times to Russia's snoozing form. He looked like a hibernating bear, one that would not appreciate being awakened. America wondered how he'd react if he found America still in his room, in his bed no less.
Probably wouldn't do a thing, America thought. Russia hadn't demonstrated any of the bizarre mental disturbances he was known for since America had arrived. At worst, he would send America to his own cold room and his own cold bed. America nestled deeper into the covers at the thought, glad to have a moment to enjoy the warmth that blanketed his body. He wondered if, using a few well placed smiles and a honied tone, he could talk Russia into moving him to new room
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At best, it was only a small step towards not so rocky times. America was sure that no matter how much paperwork Russia had stolen, he didn't have the power to change things to such an extent that their countries would be closer.
America, as a person, as Alfred, did have a certain amount of power regarding the actions of his country. Not much, but enough that if he was unshakably against something, it wouldn't happen. Any true headway revolving around Russia would have to go through him first, receive his go ahead, or at least a nod of recognition.
Most of the time America preferred to stay out of the boardroom, and any form of important document was instead mailed to him. Now that he was unable to so much as waltz on out to his mailbox, the post would soon start to pile up. Eventually the mailman would have to notice, eventually the handful of handlers that kept track of America would realise he was no longer reporting to them in any way, shape, or form.
America clutched onto the knowledge that soon the people of his government would notice his disappearance with a certain ambivalence. Generally, humans were not privy to a nation's whereabouts beyond a basic address and phone number. Their personal lives were not to be interfered with, and any kind of sickness was kept from the 'regular folk' as much as was possible.
It wasn't that nations attempted to hide any sign of weakness for the vain sake of keeping up appearances, but instead to set the minds of their people at ease. Something as simple as a dry cough or sneeze could set alarm bells off. America shuddered to think of how people would react when they couldn't find him. Doomsday theories would run rampant in the ranks.
He silently hoped that England, or maybe Canada, would be able to interfere somehow. They could steal his mail, and, if it wasn't already happening, Canada might be staying in his house, keeping watch and impersonating his brother when it was necessary.
America smiled tiredly, content in believing his family would pull through for him. He snuggled under the covers, scooting towards the warm epicenter of the bed. His arms flopped across a large bundle of sheets that had ridden up between him and Russia. It radiated a secure, unending heat, its form solid and unchanging as it coaxed America closer and closer until he was nestled up beside it.
The television continued to play on, but from what America could hear it was another set of bright, flashy commercials he cared not for. With eyelids that weighed too heavily to hold up, America assured himself that after a brief catnap he'd hop right back to watching and find out everything he could.
By the time the news broke in again, this time with footage of crowded rooms of committees with people arguing, then deciding, and finally agreeing, America was fast asleep, absorbed in dreams with lips he could not read and words he could not understand.
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America's thoughts slowly buzzed back into consciousness, chugging a slow and steady path towards the clarity of mind that came with wakefulness. His eyelids fluttered as he curled in on himself, making small and contented noises as he wriggled beneath the covers, searching for the most comfortable spot.
He found a warm depression in the bed a little to his left, the same spot where the covers had rumpled into a cushy mound for him to curl up next to. The hill had decomposed into nothing but an unclaimed pillow, which America instantly stole, as well as the cozy indentation on the bed.
The pillow itself still carried residual heat from its previous user, but America was hardly awake enough to realise such things. He merely enjoyed the dreamy daze he was wallowing in, succumbing to the alternating states of his mind, tuning in and out to the patter of water against floor.
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The chill of the room pounced upon him. "Oh, oh nooo," he bleated weakly, sounding very much like an old lady and immediately yanked the sheets over his head, providing himself a small niche in which to huddle within. The blissful warmth of the bed was infinitely preferable to the rest of the cold room.
Belatedly, America noticed his fussing about was fetching no reaction from Russia. Not that it ever seemed to get one. His fingers gripped at the pillow beneath his head, the only one on the bed. He listened to the water as it continued to pound, the slow and embarrassing realization that Russia was no longer in the bed consuming his thoughts.
He peeped out from the covers and glanced around. Everything was still neatly packed into its place, largely unchanged but for the removal of the gun. The phone sat patiently on the writing desk, waiting to be called to service.
The desire to use it was fleeting, a blink of thought in the eye of time. It was too cold to move, and dial, and hold respectable conversation. And, knowing his own luck, America was sure Russia would jump out of the shower before he'd gotten so much as one ring off. He'd wait patiently instead, prove that he could sit and be still and not do reckless things.
He didn't have to wait long. The taps soon squeaked as they were turned off, the heavy stream of water turning to a few orphaned drips. The door swung open on creaking hinges, steam billowing out as if the entrance were the maw of a great dragon. Russia didn't emerge from the bathroom as much as he seemed to fade into the room. It was really very dramatic for so early in the morning, America thought.
"Did you sleep well, America?" Russia questioned, his footsteps silent as he approached the bed. The inquisition startled America, his body admitting to being awake as his mind protested.
"I'm still snoozin'," he answered, eyes closed.
"You are like a school child." A large drop of water splashed against America's forehead, his face flinched instinctively as he looked up as Russia's hovering form. His hair was plastered to his skull, darkened by water that slid down his pale cheeks and dripped from his jaw, continuing to land on America's face.
"I like sleeping, that's all." America rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. He wasn't ready to get up yet.
"Mother, only five more minutes, I promise. I will be the best boy in the world if only you would give them to me," Russia mused softly, more to himself than America.
"Okay, okay, I'm getting up." America made a grand show of being roused. His arms appeared first, sliding above the sheets, failing wildly, stupidly, halfway intending to smack Russia. When he found himself without the satisfying thud of connection, he withdrew his arms, curling them slowly inward, snail-like in appearance.
America lay incredibly still for several moments, the only visible movement the rise and fall of the covers as his chest rose and fell in steady succession. His left hand, the one closest to Russia he surmised, very slowly moved towards the bright glow of the room, his fingertips pausing before they could be exposed.
With the snapping lash of an eel's strike, America's arm shot out, clipping Russia in a lightning quick and eerily fluid movement before retreating, or at least, mostly. His fingers still peeked from the head of the sheets, opening and closing, biting the air like a live creature, weaving occasionally in search of prey.
"Do you put on these productions every morning?"
"For the right price."
"Oh," Russia breathed the word out in a sigh, sounding unsure of how to take the comment. "So this is reward for taking you out with me today?"
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"Yes."
"Well, then." America sprung upright, the covers falling away. "Sorry about ol' eel arm there, he happens sometimes."
Russia was supporting himself with one hand flat on the bed, the other pinching at the bridge of his nose. America could not decipher if his choked expression was from repressed laughter, or if he just really wanted to punch America. The two expressions, America had learned at a very young age, ran very close together.
"Please, do not rush yourself." Russia's hand fell from his face, a small, almost strained smile on his lips.
"Right-o," America agreed, rubbing his arms to fend off the cold of the room. "Did you leave any hot water left?"
"I would like to think I am a courteous host."
"I will take that as a yes, then." America smiled in an awkwardly toothless way, inwardly replaying his too-friendly interaction with Russia. I'll tamp down on that no good nonsense, he resolved as he turned to leave. Russia reached an arm out, as if to grab America, but stopped himself.
Instead he raised and puffed his body to its full height, and his eyes shone with fierce, almost forced hospitality. "Please, use my own bathroom. It is much cleaner than the one you have, I am sure." Despite the request the words portrayed, Russia's demeanor twisted them into more of a demand than anything.
America gave a single, wary nod. "Sure, I can do that."
Tension rippled across Russia's shoulders before slipping from there, his expression settling into one of great ease. America gave him an odd, half-formed thumbs up before trotting into the bathroom. He surveyed his surroundings carefully, as if expecting to find some kind of surprise waiting for him.
The bathroom was rather nice, even in comparison to what he had at home. A large white tub took up the way furthest from him, an iron shower head gaping over its porcelain depths. The floor was tiled and cool beneath his feet, the grouted lines creating squares that were pleasing in their uniformity.
America mopped at the wide mirror, sweeping away a thin film of fog that obscured his own reflection. The same person he more or less expected greeted him. His hair perhaps a bit scruffier than he was used to, the purple hollows beneath his eyes more vivid than he would have liked, but he was still America more than anything else.
He grinned at himself, big and goofy. Today was going to be a good day; America knew it, like how he knew he had ten toes and ten fingers. Of course he could always ruin his day, as he could alter the number of fingers and toes he had, but he hardly wanted to. To be outside again, to feel the tickle of the sun's rays and the brisk nip of the wind was more than he could have asked for from Russia, and, America suspected, he'd be in public, primed to draw attention to himself, ideally from someone who also knew English.
The shuffle of footsteps and the slam of a door snatched America's attentions away from how he'd explain his situation to the first English-speaking person he met. He snuck a look back into the room to find it empty. The hairs on his neck prickled. Russia had left him.
America scolded himself as he followed suit, his mind working as his legs traced Russia's path. How could he have believed that Russia, the same man that had confined him, would allow him back out into the world, allow him to mingle and interact with those that could rescue him?
America rounded the corner with an angry spring in his step; if he had to stay trapped inside, Russia would too. The naked soles of America's feet slapped against linoleum as he entered the kitchen, echoing in the room.
Russia looked up from the counter he was standing at when he heard the noise. He was fully dressed, donning his usual coat, sporting the same military badge it always did. His hair was no longer dripping, but instead struggling to regain its usual pallor. His polished boots emitted a leathery rustle as his weight shifted.
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"Knew what, America?" Russia went back to looking at the counter, a carton of eggs displayed before him. America's anger fizzled into confusion and a sheepish embarrassment. People making quick getaways didn't stare at eggs.
"Uh, knew you were running away─" His words fumbled across his tongue, lurching back and forth in a tangled dance. "─to the kitchen!"
"What else would I be doing?" Russia asked coolly, picking several eggs from the carton and checking them for cracks.
"Nothing else, nothing at all," America said airily, possessing the loud and theatric air of one trying to hide their silly notions beneath a surface of normality.
"Are you having trouble turning the shower on?"
"Yeah," America answered, bordering on the snappish side. "It's all backwards and messed up." Regardless of the fact he had not even tried to turn the shower on, America knew to make it sound like a serious incident that needed immediate attention.
With nothing more than a simple nod, Russia lead the way back to the bathroom. America followed in his wake, transfixed on watching the sway and flutter of his scarf as it drifted obediently behind him. He nearly bumped into it once Russia stopped, just inside the frame of the bathroom, flattening against the wall to let America pass him. America stayed put.
"Now what is it you are having trouble with, America?"
"Um, well," America blustered, wondering if he should start a count of how many times Russia could say his name. It wasn't like America ever took the effort to refer to him as anything beyond 'buddy', and that was only out of habit. "It wouldn't work for me."
"It does that sometimes, usually when it meets new people." Russia coughed in a way that America fully suspected was really a rough laugh, causing a boyish shame to rise to America's cheeks, though he remained silent. As long as Russia wasn't going to slink off, he could say and do any weird thing he wanted to and America wouldn't bat an eyelash. Unless that got him closer to the front door.
America folded his arms, his head lowering in thought. Would Russia be susceptible to his charms? England sure was, and America didn't suspect that anyone could be more of a hard ass than England. But what if his charms worked too well, and Russia expected even more from America? An uninhibited shudder ran though America's body as he subconsciously edged away. The last thing he wanted was funny business with Russia.
He did miss the daily smiles, hugs, and occasional chaste kisses he was used to receiving, but there was no way America would stoop to Russia's level to get them in return. Not that is wasn't tempting. America was starving for attention and affection, and with how often Russia sat a smidge too close, how he always leaned in a tad too far, America was pretty sure he was just as hungry, if not more, for physical touch.
But Russia was a stupid lonely oaf, and America didn't make nice with stupid oafs, even if they really weren't all that dumb. America tapped his foot absentmindedly as he scratched off 'stupid' on his mental list of adjectives that described Russia. Completely and utterly insane fit him much better. He did have a touch of intelligence, if America was going to be honest with himself. Enough so that he could trick America into the shower while he sped off. Or made breakfast.
A pulling at his hand and the sudden contact of tepid water shook America from his thoughts. Russia was holding his arm beneath the shower head along with America's, his sleeves rolled up to avoid getting his clothes splashed. "Is this warm enough for you?" he asked, head bowed slightly to get a better look at America's face.
"I─ yeah, this is good." America blinked owlishly, still halfway stuck in his mind.
Russia released his grip, his hand moving instead to cup the side of America's face, fingers delicately stroking. "Now, why did you come fetch me from the kitchen?"
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"No," Russia said flatly, though his touch remained fond. "You would not come to me over something so simple."
America's mind ran a few excuses by in his head, none of them adequate enough to explain why he had dragged Russia back in here. He didn't think he could get away with not answering at all. Russia seemed the type to wait around until he heard what he wanted.
Fearing Russia would once again laugh at his absurd notions, America made to buy himself some sympathy, if only by wiping out his own dignity first. Ignoring the undulating revulsion that coiled in his stomach, America cocked his head to the side, loosely pinning Russia's hand between his cheek and shoulder.
"You aren't planning on lockin' me up in here while you go to the store today, are you?" he asked, forcing his voice into a timid croak while biting back the acidic bile that rose in his throat at the act.
Russia's expression melted into friendly, disarmed relief. "America, my little America. I promise to stand by patiently until you are ready. Never has it crossed my mind to leave while you are preoccupied." He crooned the words in such a loving manner that it caused America's heart to very briefly stammer and want to believe in his own little act, if only for a single second.
"Are you positive?" America backed up, shrugging off Russia's touch. "I mean, you could just be saying that." He sidled closer to the shower, fingers grazing the mouth of the tub.
"I promise, I will not leave you unattended in my home. Not even for a minute," Russia assured. "In fact, if it puts you at ease, I shall stay in here with you until you are finished."
"No, no that's really not necessary." America was back on unsteady ground, unsure of whether or not Russia was yanking his chain. "Why don't you stay in your room or something instead? Make a bunch of noise so I can hear you, too."
"I suppose I can do that." Russia nodded astutely.
"Great, mosey on along now." America made a shooing motion with his hands, Russia politely obeyed them.
With the bathroom clear of any Russian influence, America quickly shimmied from his pajamas and cast them aside. The chilled air of the bathroom sent him straight under the warm jet of water in the shower, his body dancing and bending to cover every inch of skin at once.
His hands worked to scrub away the horror of his actions, rubbing and scraping his flesh into a raw, red canvas. He'd used a little bit of flirting to get his way before, but only on the rarest occasions. Never with a madman like Russia. In a failing attempt to keep his self respect intact, America argued that it was necessary to behave in ways he'd rather not, as long as it got him closer to freedom. He'd already assured himself of that earlier, but after putting his theory in to play, it was nowhere near as easy to reason away the guilt he knew would haunt him.
America shook his head of his inner turmoil and went back to bathing. Wasn't Russia supposed to be kicking up a racket outside to show he was planning to stick around? He sure was doing an awful job of it. America went to washing his hair while he waited for the sound to start, giving the bottle a customary sniff before deciding that the light vanilla scent was an acceptable thing for his scalp to smell like.
In the middle of his rinsing and repeating, America's ears perked at the sound of singing. He waited for the crackle of the gramophone, the static of a radio station, but could perceive no such thing. The notes were perfectly clear, as though the singer was merely in the next room over. An electric tremor skittered up and down America's spine as he realised it was Russia.
His voice was deep and operatic, a smooth and luxurious baritone that swept into the shower and mingled with the water, bathing America's skin in rich, musical notes. The trill of Russia's perfect vibrato caused America's own chest to swell as he breathed in the sound.
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The singing stopped the instant he shut the taps off. America deflated slightly, the combinational kiss of cold air and the lack of song causing a shiver to cling to his shoulders. He stared blankly at the clothes he had earlier cast away, their layers forming a sad heap. He hadn't brought anything fresh in with him.
America's expression settled into a thin-lipped look of irritation as he snagged a towel from the rack. He quickly blotted the worst of the water off him as he shook his head in a doggish manner, droplets spraying everywhere. He'd have to dash to his room with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.
Chest held high with masculine pride, America pulled the door open and marched into the room. Russia looked over his shoulder from his position on the bed, his form silhouetted, backlit by the glow of the television. America's hands clasped at the shoddy knot he had tied in the towel as he strut towards the door.
His back was stiff, muscles tight with discomfort and only too aware of how much pale flesh he was exposing. He was always at odds with his body in front of others, and had passed a point where he knew not whether it was a personal problem or something that affected him from his own country's constant attention to the human figure. Either way, he was too damn old to care anymore, and one of these days he'd stop. Just as soon as he figured out how.
"I thought you would be tanner," Russia remarked as America passed him.
America reached for the knob before freezing, his shoulders hunching with uneasy tension. "That's kind of a jerk thing to say, especially coming from someone who looks like a ghost." He turned and wagged an admonishing finger at Russia. "And why are you even looking at me?"
Russia's shoulders swelled dipped with a shrug. "Is a bird with silvered plumage not as beautiful as one with gold?"
"The gold one is better."
"Why?"
America hesitated, arranging and rearranging his towel. Most people he'd met seemed to prefer gold to silver, tan to pale, America really wasn't sure why, but he figured it an aesthetic law. "Gold looks nicer than silver," he answered, running a hand over his fair complexion.
"Maybe for you, but I like them both the same. Gold has a lovely gleam, but silver reflects a certain shine that cannot be matched."
A red flush nipped at America's skin, tiny, heated pricks crawling up his neck and glowing against his cheeks, but his personal disappointment with himself for not keeping up a healthy bronzed tone all year round faded slightly. If Russia didn't give a hoot, America wouldn't either. Though America did wonder how Russia knew it had been bothering him.
Russia had gone back to watching the television, his posture strong and, judging by the way he was massaging his knuckles against his thighs, rather excited. America padded back over, his curiosity peaked. A red banner crept along the bottom, rattling off headlines in Russian.
The camera was trained on a podium not unlike the one America had previously seen, though this time it had no occupant. Microphones were littered about it, each a fat, misshapen glob vying with its neighbor for space. The occasional flash of the bulb lit up the strange scene.
Finding nothing involving about the situation, America occupied himself with a few stray threads that were sprouting from his towel. Maybe things would pick up in a second. He wound a strand around his forefinger, watching with waning interest as the tip of it turned into a swollen, purple segment.
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An eagle was emblazoned on it, wings splayed wide. One talon clutched at a bundle of arrows, the other grasped an olive branch. Held between his beak, a banner read "E pluribus unum". America's mind grappled with the words as his heart beat rose, pumping icy blood into his veins.
Why was the President's seal being broadcast on the Russian news? Didn't they have better things to show than an empty podium? America's knees locked together as the room stirred to life, the flash of cameras turned the scene into a blaze of constantly flickering lights. The brightness flooded America's mind as the President took up his post.
"Russia." America's knees loosened, turning to a dripping jelly as he mind reeled. "Russia, what's he doing on the news?"
Russia startled, having concluded that America had already left. He sprang from the bed, instantly moving to block the television from sight, fingers fiddling behind him to change the channel, to lower the sound, to chase the image away in any way he could.
"It is nothing, America," Russia assured him, his voice husky and urgent, a momentary crack and snap sounded and the television's glow evaporated.
"It's not 'nothing'." America clutched at the sheets with his hands, needing something to hold and tether himself to. "I want to know why my President is on your news. And was that some breaking stuff? It sure looked like it to me."
"It is not important." Russia stepped closer to America, tried to lightly tug him up from the bed. "Why are you still not dressed? We have places to go, my little bird." His hold strengthened as America made no effort to get up.
"I want to watch that," America told Russia in a very smooth, very calm voice. The bright blue of his eyes dampened, hardened into something that could not be reasoned with.
"No," Russia said firmly, fingers bruising America's flesh with their grip. He forcibly pulled America from the bed, hauled him, along with the sheets he clung to, to his own room and shoved him on the bed. America stared at him, though his eyes shone with a remoteness that said he was still in the other room.
"Why can't I watch TV with you?" America sat up, his body loose and disassembled. His feet kicked weakly at the edge of the bed. "Friends watch TV together, don't they?"
"America," Russia's voice was heavy, bubbling with anger. "Do not do this to me." He paced several steps away before veering back. His fists clenched and unclenched as the tendons in his jaw strained.
America kept himself disconnected from the situation, kept himself disconnected from the fear that yearned to flood his body when he saw Russia's fist clench again, only to raise it slightly, as if to strike America down. He flinched in an instant, instinct forcing his body to react. And all at once, Russia dropped to his knees.
The solemn blankness etched on America's face lightened as his mind decided to rejoin him. Russia was in front of America, hands reaching out, grabbing for him. "Look at me, look at what you do to me." Russia shook his head before leaning forward, his forehead resting on the edge of America's knee. "I do everything in my power to keep you warm, fed, and safe. What do you do in return? You throw it back in my face and upset me."
"I just said I wanted to watch TV with you," America argued weakly. He didn't want to see Russia on his knees, relying on him for strength. It was like seeing a parent cry. Russia was supposed to know what to do, always. He wasn't supposed to break down like this, not when he was in control.
"My little bird, always pecking away at me," Russia murmured, lifting his head to look up at America. His eyes were huge and round, pleading and sad. America swooned with pity at the sight.
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"Do you know what you have, America?" Russia's free hand went to America's chest, giving it a few hearty thumps. "You have a good heart."
America gave a bashful nod of thanks, his heart beating back against Russia's touch.
"But it is also so soft," Russia continued, a wistful breath intertwining with his words. "It cannot handle too much all at once. That is why you cannot watch the news with me."
America shifted slightly, leaning further against Russia. He was surprisingly warm. America had always expected him to emanate a certain iciness in conjunction with the fierce winters of his land, but he felt the same as any other body, giving off a comfortable bit of warmth that was particularly pleasing against America's bare skin.
"I don't think my heart's all that bad," America said, more to keep Russia with him than anything. He'd gone so long without such delicate and comforting touch his body craved it more than anything. More than any kind of information or freedom, he wanted tender affection.
"I never said having a soft heart was bad. Soft hearts are kind and loving, they hold an endless forgiveness. But they are quick to cry and become overwhelmed easily. Too much at once and they will break. You don't want that to happen, do you?"
"Well, no, not really."
"And that is why I must protect you! You must trust that if anything bad were to happen, I would tell you. I do not want you to become concerned with minor inconveniences and trivialities. If anything important happens, you will be the first to know, I promise."
America listened carefully to Russia's speech. He was feeling a tad on the overwhelmed side as of late. Maybe Russia really did know what was best, he was older and more experienced in the ways of the world after all. Yes, America decided, he'd leave everything to Russia for now.
"Right, well, I think I should probably get dressed then." America shrugged Russia's arm off. "You go watch the news and tell me if it's anything I should know about." It wasn't that America thought Russia really would tell him anything, but he really did want to put some proper clothes on to ward off the cold of the house.
"Of course," Russia agreed, a cheered lilt coating his words. "I am sure it is nothing. Oh, and─" he stammered slightly, "─I apologize for being so rough. It was not my intention to act as such." His head lowered for a moment in shame.
"No problem. It was my bad, I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that."
"That's right," Russia chided playfully before standing. "I hope you will not try again."
"Wouldn't dream of it, buddy." America smiled, his nerves at ease. He knew he wasn't the slightest bit at fault for Russia's erratic behavior, but he didn't mind fudging the truth to get Russia back into working order. He had grown to rather like, or at least tolerate, Russia's company when he was of sound mind.
When they had played chess together, for instance. Russia had been calm and composed, not at all the threatening and unapproachable figure he was used to, the one that watched him with frigid, unblinking eyes every time they came into contact. Eyes that seemed to be moving closer and closer...
Russia's lips met America’s cheek, pressing softly. Not a kiss, but a touch. Like he had taken a hand and placed it on America's flesh, not pushing nor prying, not anything. A simple act of skin against skin. A finger traced along America's temple, tucking a stray lock of golden hair behind his ear. America straightened up and looked to Russia, almost as if expecting an explanation.
"Well, off I go now." Russia bent at the waist and wrapped his arms around America. Before he could break the embrace, America's arms slipped around him as well, returning the hug with his trademark gusto, hands patting down Russia's sides with a certain familiarity.
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"Right," Russia echoed. He exited with a joyous skip to his step and a happy hum sounding in his throat. The metal click of the door being locked sounded behind him.
America's hands shot back to his lap the instant the door locked. He stared at his palms, or really, the small book of crosswords puzzles he had nipped from Russia's pocket while 'hugging' him. He had seen it bobbing about, sneaking glances at him while Russia dragged America back to his room. And it wasn't as if it were wrong to steal it back, seeing how it was his to begin with.
He quickly flipped through the pages without really looking at them, glancing from the dresser to the book several times. There were a few clues he had been able to solve, that had been begging him to be written into their neat little places. He wanted to jot them down before they flew from his mind.
Grabbing a pencil from his nightstand, America set to work. He flipped to the page he suspected held the vacant boxes he was looking for, the graphite poised to strike with knowledge. Nothing but answers greeted him, crammed into the small spaces with hunched script.
He thumbed to the next page, sure he had made a simple mistake. Not a single blank square crawled into his vision. He tried the next, and the next, his heart and head throbbing with confusion. America rubbed at his eyes, pressing with such force that small white minnows swam across his vision when he opened them.
Every single page had been completed. The book in its entirety was finished, each puzzle already solved. He hadn't even been in possession of it since he'd been kidnapped, let alone worked on it. But there it was, the book complete, each entry scrawled in using his own hand writing, no less.
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A/N:
Sorry this is a little late, at first it was just from laziness, then my internet stopped working, then it was time to watch Eurovision and yadda yadda yadda. As a heads up, I don't think there will be an update next week. Chapter 9 will be pretty long and probably not finished by the next deadline, so I might switch to posting chapters every other week.
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Now I'm worried that in addition to his budding Stockholm syndrome, America's got D.I.D. going on. *worryworry* THAT WOULD BE SADDENING.
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