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.
"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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