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.
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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