The Companion [9.1/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:15:08 UTC
Unwilling to dwell on how he'd filled out puzzles without being in possession of them, America hid his book under the pillow. He'd worry about it later. Or maybe not at all. Russia had said he had a soft heart, maybe his mind was leaning on the soft side as well. It made a strange sort of sense to him, stay long enough in a madman's house, and you'd join his company.
America went to the dresser, allowing the towel to fall and pool at his feet. He pulled on the most basic of outfits without taking much time to mull over his options. A plain pair of jeans, warm woolen socks, then a second pair (just in case!), boxers that held no significant amount of luck to them, and a long sleeve shirt that he didn't recognize, but decided would keep him warm.
His toes scuffed and dragged along the floor as he floated about, polishing and re-polishing his glasses as he went. There had been no sweaters or coats in the drawers, and any kind of footwear was missing from the scene. Another precaution in Russia's scheme, America supposed. If he had ever managed to make it outside the house, his socked feet and flimsy tops wouldn't carry him far.
America hooked a finger around a curtain and peered behind it. No shoes. He dropped to his hands and knees and peered beneath the bed. A bottle of vodka that he had been nipping away at was stashed beneath it (though he had not been the one to originally place it there), but beyond that, it was spotless. If there had ever been boots beneath it, the monster that occupied the space had already stolen them.
He kicked around one of the few boxes that remained in the room, possibly the most boring box. A few dolls sewn together from potato and flour sacks inhabited it, but America was too old to play with such things. He knocked it around the room, lazily sliding it from one wall to the next.
It bumped against a door; America glanced up. It was the closet. Despite how much time he had spent in the room, he never had bothered to check out the closet. He never found it to be of any importance, concluding it to play house to spiders of all sorts, a city of carefully woven webs consuming its space.
Throwing caution to the wind, and knowing he could holler at the top of his lungs for Russia to kill any spiders that may spill out (because to survive in such weather, they would clearly be super-spiders), America wrestled the knob open.
The inside the closet smelled of sodden wood and moth balls, of rundown outfits and forgotten belongings. It was dark, reminiscent of a cave in how America could hear the rasp of his breath rebound from the back wall. The metal tail of a switch dangled before his face, making a tinny, ratcheting sound as he gave it a tug.
The bulb flickered and buzzed to life, motes of dust swimming around it like so many tiny gnats. There wasn't a spider in sight. America pressed on, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, making out the whole of the closet. It was a bit bigger than he'd expected, as if at one time it had been a room, an incredibly cramped one, but there was definitely space for a bed.
The racks that were bolted to either side were unevenly placed, the garments that hung from them sliding in a gradual slope. America leafed through them, their hangers scraping against the rods which held them, the clear plastic of their garment bags crinkling as they shifted.
All of them were military in appearance from what America could make out, and he had no drive to take them out of their translucent veils. He'd rather chop off his own foot than wear a Russian military coat, no matter how heavy the fabric or cozy their thick linings looked. Too determined to let his drive dwindle, America soldiered on.
The Companion [9.2/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:16:23 UTC
He found an uncovered coat at the end of the line, unhooking the hanger and pulling it to him to judge its quality. It was a tad on the long side, but not unmanageable. It's coloring was deep beige, with dark strips skirting along the hem and making small appearances throughout the coat. America shook it out and ran his eyes over it several times in confusion, even going so far as to turn the light on and off to make sure he wasn't seeing things.
Without its usual war medal and complimentary scarf, its appearance was distinctly off. Yet, without doubt, America knew exactly what he was staring at. It was Russia's coat, or at least, a duplicate. The momentary desire to don it flared in America's stomach, like a child drawn to wearing the clothes of a parent. It would be an ill fit, draping over his shoulders like an old cloak, but the curiosity remained.
Would the coat give America the same menacing air that followed Russia as surely as the night followed the setting of the sun? No, it wouldn't. He rolled his eyes at the silliness of the thought. The little girl waddling about in her mother's heels with her face shadowed by the swooping brim of a Sunday hat would do nothing but reinforce her childish demeanor, not create the sudden visage of an adult.
Even in the face of reason, America still wanted to put it on. What would Russia's expression be when he recognized it? America fancied it'd be a bit cruel, yes, like wearing a dress to a party you knew the hostess would be wearing as well. But Russia and America weren't women absorbed in making sure their outfits didn't match.
There was something strangely freeing about wearing clothes that belonged to another. A kind of delicious secret that could be passed off in broad daylight, surrounded by the public. Even at his age, America still switched clothes with his brother on occasion. It was an act that children, siblings and close friends alike, did. It was a way to behave in ways one usually wouldn't; louder, bolder, more raucous. At the end of the day, one would switch back to their usual clothes, omitting themselves of the transgressions that had committed while in the outfit of another.
America hung the coat back on the rack. He couldn't really expect Russia to understand that logic, even if he acted strangely at times himself, because Russia never seemed to get what others were thinking. Somewhere along the years of his existence he had picked up an empathetic blankness. He couldn't understand what the people around him were going through, no matter how many times he had experienced the same situations and emotions himself. His mind refused to accept that others could feel at the same depth he could.
Or, America reasoned, his ignorance could be a vestige of his odd and childish nature. It wasn't that he lacked the ability to empathize, but merely refused to. A child gains nothing but sorrow and fear from learning and accepting the woe of another's life, and may opt instead to indulge themselves in a more carefree lifestyle by blotting out the distress of those around them. Fingering the fabric of the coat one last time, America exited the closet and flopped on the bed, content to twiddle his thumbs while mentally working Russia's psyche over.
Russia came back for America after a quarter of an hour, his demeanor having been boosted in the meantime. He was entirely composed of kind smiles and gentle words as he ushered America from his room, a guiding hand resting against the small of America's back, leading him to the kitchen and onward to a small nook in which two empty plates were set, silverware flanking their rounded sides.
America shifted with unruly energy as Russia moved about the kitchen, the balls of his feet bouncing against the floor as pans clattered and eggs cracked in the background. He made small designs in the light layer of dust on the table, his mind computing no thoughts in particular aside from the notion that a pleasant smell was slowly making its way towards him.
The Companion [9.3/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:21:52 UTC
He propped his elbows on the table, his cheek resting against the palm of his hand as he watched Russia, or at least, Russia's back. Russia worked at a refined, practiced pace, though his movements were delicate in the way that a scientist handles his chemicals with the utmost care, safely avoiding disaster.
Russia was soon shoveling a heap of fluffy yellow eggs onto America's plate and then his own, topping it off with two pieces of darkened toast. The two of them ate in relative silence, their knees glancing off each others with bashful knocks before settling down and merely touching with an easy comfort.
Russia openly watched America as he ate, eyes moving in steady lines, ticking back and forth like a metronome, reading America' face, his posture, his mannerisms, his everything. America tensed, wishing he had not the self conscious mind of a man, but instead that of a zoo animal, able to carry on undisturbed by those who watched it. He twirled the tines of his fork into the small mountain of scrambled eggs before taking a small bite.
It wasn't that the eggs weren't good, by all accounts they were. Better than most eggs he'd had, not at all the sloppy mess he was usually served with, but Russia's incessant staring was slowly and ever so brutally killing off his appetite. But America forced himself to continue eating, urging himself on, the knowledge that soon he would be outside keeping him going.
When he was finished, America neatly set his fork upon his plate and slid it forwards before crossing his arms in front of himself. The quiet clink of utensil against plate played against America's ears as he waited, his head bobbing from side to side with boredom. Russia's foot subtlety nudged at him from beneath the table.
America ignored it at first. He couldn't even begin to count the number of times he'd accidentally brushed against someone else's foot beneath a table. Their knees were already brushed against one another's after all, so it wasn't much of a stretch to think the momentary contact had been anything but mistake. Russia's foot brushed against him again, toes nibbling at his socks.
"What?" America asked.
Russia smiled, his lips threatening to part and reveal a grin. "Are you happy?"
"Sure, yeah, something like that." America gave him a light kick back.
"I am happy, too." Another bump under the table, followed by Russia's foot hooking around America's ankle and teasingly wrestling is closer.
America looked, really looked at Russia. A hint of tooth was starting to show now, a certain giddy glimmer surfacing in the smooth violet planes of his eyes. His broad shoulders were held high, strong and carefree. America couldn't stop a returning smile from playing across his own face. Russia's joy was rather infectious, especially when it was being so blatantly trotted about.
"Good to know." America's back arched against his chair as he tried to stretch, his foot jostling under the table, but making no real attempt to escape Russia's playful capture. "Um, hey, I don't know if you realise this, but I don't have any shoes."
"Neither do I." A few crumbs tumbled down Russia's scarf as he finished off his toast.
"No, I mean, I don't have any shoes at all, like for wearing outside."
"Oh, that." Russia hardly seemed concerned as he stood, clearing the table and depositing the plates in the sink. He strode back and offered a hand to America, an offer that was cordially accepted. "If there is one thing you will never have to worry about with me, America, is that you will always be provided for."
"Hm, well, that's nice of you." America stared at his toes while they made a rippling wave of a motion. He really didn't know what to say in all honesty. When he thought of being kidnapped, he associated it with lots of yelling, violence, and a general lack of any and all privileges. He didn't associate it with nice breakfasts, warm beds, and having everything he could want as long as he gave up his freedom. Then again, he was getting a bit of that back as well.
The Companion [9.4/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:23:06 UTC
"And I always thought you were so excitable." A gruff laugh rumbled in Russia's chest.
"I am excitable, just generally not when it comes to shoes. That's a lady thing."
"What about coats?"
America straightened up, his eyes mirroring his curiosity. "What kind of coats?"
"Not a bomber jacket."
America's interest dulled. "Coats are pretty cool, I guess."
"I think you will like this coat. When I first saw it, I was reminded of you." Russia gave America a quick pat on the head. "Wait by the door and I will bring you your things."
America gave a perfunctory nod before his brow set into a mask of fierce determination, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He was going to race Russia, even if the act was one-sided at best. He waited in silence as Russia left, going back to his room as far as America could tell.
When his footsteps became nothing but faint, muffled thuds, America took off. He slipped around corner after corner, hallway after endless hallway, assuring himself he could always backtrack, or at least he did that until he reached a point where that was no longer possible. He opened doors and scouted out rooms, many of them in the same half-unpacked fashion he had found his own in─his room? When had it become that? America rubbed at his neck, it was just a room, one he slept in, but not of his own accord.
He continued to explore, finding rooms with colors themes and rich carpet with wallpaper to match. Some had no windows at all, some had too many, and in strange shapes. It was like a fun house that had tried to take itself seriously, whimsical and obtuse, but without the usual humorous air such buildings tended to have. America took mental notes of which rooms he wouldn't mind sleeping in.
Knowing all chances of winning his personal race were most likely lost, America slowed his pace, searching for familiar areas. How big could a single house be? It was more like an entire apartment complex, though he had failed to find any stairs. America had often wondered exactly what kind of living situation Russia had set up before the fall of the USSR, and had come to the conclusion that he stuffed everyone in this single house. That would be like Russia, always keeping a close eye on those he fancied.
"America?" Russia's voice echoed, crawling along the walls.
"I'll be there in a sec," America called back. "Took a little detour." He darted off in the direction of Russia's voice, padding along at a brisk pace. He hadn't made much progress before Russia spoke again.
"Are you lost?"
"No, sightseeing."
Russia emerged from one of the rooms America was about the pass. "If that is so, allow me to be your guide."
America eyed him with suspicion. "Looking for me, were you?"
"I could say the same about you." Russia slung an arm over America's shoulders, friendly and companionable. America gave him a quick pat on the back, not wanting to ruin his good mood.
Russia took him to the front door, where two pairs of boots cuddled up next to each other. Several coats were hung from a rack stationed near the boots, and Russia deftly picked one from the pack, flapping it twice to straighten out any obvious wrinkles before holding it out, positioned so that he would help America put it on.
America slipped his arms in and shrugged it onto his shoulders, fingers petting the fabric as his eyes swept up and down. It was a dark chocolate color, nearly the same shade as his own familiar jacket. Instead of weathered leather it was a sleek felt or suede of some sort, certainly pleasing to the touch. A dark collar of black fur ran around the collar of the coat. America stroked it absentmindedly.
"Do you like it?"
"Yeah, it's fantastic. Thanks, buddy." America's fingers slid over the large, tortoiseshell buttons that lined the left side of the coat. "A real swell coat if I do say so myself." Having run out of things to do with his hands, America shoved them into his pockets. Thick wool awaited him, a pair of mittens waiting inside. "I see you've got this all planned out."
The Companion [9.5/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:24:32 UTC
"I would not want your delicate little hands to be cold." Russia was already lacing up his boots. America joined him, the two of them hunched over as their laces snaked in and out of brass eyelets. Russia finished before America and took the opportunity to help his captive tie his shoes. When they both stood, Russia gave him a quick brush down with his hands and glossed over the rumpled bits of the coat.
"My hands are made out of tough stuff, they'll be fine." America took the gloves and tossed them on an end table. "Can we get a move on now?"
Russia pulled a key ring from his own pocket, jangling them in his hand, the metal keys glinting as they swung. "As you wish." He pulled the front door back, a cold gust of wind rushing into the house the moment it was open. America was out the door in less than a breath, skipping down the few steps that lead up to the door, ankle-deep snow crunching beneath his weight.
He checked over his shoulders as he stomped around, Russia was following him closely, taking no time to lock the door behind him. America put his feet together and hopped through the snow a bit, testing his legs, testing the ground. He raised a hand to his eyes to diffuse the glare of the sun and gazed at the house.
It was a single story, but still it managed to tower above him, the roof sloping into a steeple. It was painted with a faded pale color, if it could even be considered a proper color. America thought it looked more like what would take the place of color if it ever disappeared. Thick maroon drapes hung in every window, giving the house an empty, unwelcoming air.
America turned with a childish whirl of his arms to observe what lay outside his home. The snow engulfed everything, from the twisted, drying trees that spread into a thick forest of evergreens, to a rundown farm that was settled to the left of the house. It was a sitting safety hazard if America had ever seen one.
Shingles had peeled and fallen away from the roof, leaving bald patches that displayed naked rafters. The building in its entirety had the appearance of an old, tired animal. Its bulk swayed to one side in an obvious lean, tired from the many years it had stood straight and proud. What windows remained displayed terrible cracks, fractures spreading in sharp angular waves from their starting points. None of this seemed to deter Russia, though, who was steadily making for the front of it.
America traced Russia's footsteps until he reached him. Russia was working on opening the barn doors, both of them, as though he were planning to move something very large out it. America set to helping them, driving his shoulder against the splintered wood as his feet slipped in the snow, struggling for firm ground.
"Are we going to ride horses to town?" he joked.
"Yes, many horses." Russia replied.
America poked his head into the barn once the doors had been swung open. Shafts of light lanced through the holes in the roof, piercing the heavy shadows of the barn's interior, sweeping across a large black... thing. America took a few steps back in an attempt to broaden his perspective, to make sense of what lay within.
Two round reflective eyes stared back, a large metal grill grinning in his direction. America blinked and cocked his head to the side. A car? Who kept cars in barns? Couldn't Russia park his car in a proper garage? America shook his head wearily and stood aside when he heard the closing slam of the car's door followed by the loud rumble of the engine. He inwardly bet that it would be a fogey old clunker that belonged in a museum. He was wrong.
Instead, a huge lug of an automobile rolled out, its bulky mass barely fitting through the doors. With its huge frame and faded green hues, it was distinctly military. America decided it was a love child between a tank and a hard-top jeep, if that made any sense. Which, it really didn't, but the damn car-truck-tank-whatever the hell it was didn't make sense either, so it was all rather fitting.
The Companion [9.6/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:27:11 UTC
Russia slowly pulled out, looking as casual as a man driving the most mundane of cars. The window was rolled down on his side, his forearm resting halfway out of the cab of the car, lifting only to crook momentarily in a beckoning motion. America scurried around the passenger side and hauled himself up into the seat.
The inside of the behemoth was nothing to write home about. Everything seemed to be well maintained, but none of it really impressed America aside from the vastness of the cab. Buckling his seatbelt, America set his sights straight ahead, focused on leaving the dreadful house he had been forced to live in for so long, too long. Russia gave the engine an invigorating rev and the beast began to trundle through the snow.
"Aren't you going to close up your, er, 'garage'?"
Russia laughed and sped up, the car swerved a bit in time with his chuckling. "There is nothing to steal in there besides farming equipment, and there is no one to steal from me to begin with."
"Hm." America fidgeted with his buckle, and then the strap, nervously tugging on it. "You live pretty far from town, don't you?"
"Yes."
"How far we talkin'?"
"You will see."
And that was their end of their conversation for some time. America settled back in his seat and watched the road, or really, watched for a road. He couldn't find anything resembling one, or even a hint of tire tracks. Russia in the meantime turned the radio on.
The ridiculous length of the antenna on the truck supplied, surprisingly, reception. Most stations came in clear, with a scant few being lost to the pop and buzz of static. Russia would stop at a classical station, humming with a great fervor, only to switch to talk stations once the classical music went to commercials.
He talked to the radio, seeming to agree with it at times with a few encouraging words, and other times showing his opposition to their topics and opinions with low, growling snippets of speech. America had no idea what he could be saying, but he listened anyway.
He listened to the even tone of Russia's voice, how it occasionally cooed gently, or tutted in a motherly fashion. America had always found the Russian language to be rather pleasant, with its flattened sounds and rolled letters. And the alphabet as well, it reminded him of snowflakes for reasons he could not quite place himself.
"What are you thinking about?"
America shifted, his mind searching for a new topic, one that wasn't Russian. Nothing surfaced, so he went with that. "Not thinkin' about anything, really. Snowflakes, I guess." At least he was being partially honest.
The wheels of the truck spun, momentarily stuck in a fresh drift. Russia floored it, sending them bouncing along on their way. "Do you want to know what I'm thinking about?"
No, no I don't. "Sure, why not."
"You, and how long you are going to stay with me."
America's head lolled to the side. "Mind letting me in on how long that's going to be?"
"Well, how long would you like to stay?" It sounded like a genuine question, a true curiosity.
"I'm pretty much ready to go home now."
"I thought you would say something like that." The engine roared in America's ears, the entire interior rattling. He glanced at the speedometer, his lips pursing as the needle rose in shaky jumps. Russia slammed on the breaks and spun the wheel, the backend of the truck swinging in a wide and unmanageable arc. America let out startled little yelp.
"What was that for?" America asked, hoping he only sounded nervous to himself.
"I took a wrong turn," Russia replied calmly. "Tell me more about when you'd like to leave."
The Companion [9.7/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:29:01 UTC
Russia slowly pulled out, looking as casual as a man driving the most mundane of cars. The window was rolled down on his side, his forearm resting halfway out of the cab of the car, lifting only to crook momentarily in a beckoning motion. America scurried around the passenger side and hauled himself up into the seat.
The inside of the behemoth was nothing to write home about. Everything seemed to be well maintained, but none of it really impressed America aside from the vastness of the cab. Buckling his seatbelt, America set his sights straight ahead, focused on leaving the dreadful house he had been forced to live in for so long, too long. Russia gave the engine an invigorating rev and the beast began to trundle through the snow.
"Aren't you going to close up your, er, 'garage'?"
Russia laughed and sped up, the car swerved a bit in time with his chuckling. "There is nothing to steal in there besides farming equipment, and there is no one to steal from me to begin with."
"Hm." America fidgeted with his buckle, and then the strap, nervously tugging on it. "You live pretty far from town, don't you?"
"Yes."
"How far we talkin'?"
"You will see."
And that was their end of their conversation for some time. America settled back in his seat and watched the road, or really, watched for a road. He couldn't find anything resembling one, or even a hint of tire tracks. Russia in the meantime turned the radio on.
The ridiculous length of the antenna on the truck supplied, surprisingly, reception. Most stations came in clear, with a scant few being lost to the pop and buzz of static. Russia would stop at a classical station, humming with a great fervor, only to switch to talk stations once the classical music went to commercials.
He talked to the radio, seeming to agree with it at times with a few encouraging words, and other times showing his opposition to their topics and opinions with low, growling snippets of speech. America had no idea what he could be saying, but he listened anyway.
He listened to the even tone of Russia's voice, how it occasionally cooed gently, or tutted in a motherly fashion. America had always found the Russian language to be rather pleasant, with its flattened sounds and rolled letters. And the alphabet as well, it reminded him of snowflakes for reasons he could not quite place himself.
"What are you thinking about?"
America shifted, his mind searching for a new topic, one that wasn't Russian. Nothing surfaced, so he went with that. "Not thinkin' about anything, really. Snowflakes, I guess." At least he was being partially honest.
The wheels of the truck spun, momentarily stuck in a fresh drift. Russia floored it, sending them bouncing along on their way. "Do you want to know what I'm thinking about?"
No, no I don't. "Sure, why not."
"You, and how long you are going to stay with me."
America's head lolled to the side. "Mind letting me in on how long that's going to be?"
"Well, how long would you like to stay?" It sounded like a genuine question, a true curiosity.
"I'm pretty much ready to go home now."
"I thought you would say something like that." The engine roared in America's ears, the entire interior rattling. He glanced at the speedometer, his lips pursing as the needle rose in shaky jumps. Russia slammed on the breaks and spun the wheel, the backend of the truck swinging in a wide and unmanageable arc. America let out startled little yelp.
"What was that for?" America asked, hoping he only sounded nervous to himself.
"I took a wrong turn," Russia replied calmly. "Tell me more about when you'd like to leave."
America raised an incredulous brow, but went on, one eye trained on the speedometer. "I'd pack my bags up and bolt out if given the chance." He made no attempt to lie about his want to escape, there was no point. "Seriously, first flight out of here and I would be all over that."
The Companion [9.8/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:35:09 UTC
The truck was picking up speed again, climbing with every word America said. He checked his seat belt for the seventh time since he had buckled himself in. Russia hadn't bothered to put his on to begin with. America decided Russia's leaden foot was a direct result of him speaking, and promptly shut his mouth as his fingernails gripped his seat, the snowy landscape whipping past in a blur.
After what seemed like a forever of silent praying that they wouldn't crash, America spotted a poorly paved road. Russia slowed to a merciful speed as he approached it, but scattered America's recovering nerves by speeding up again once they were on it, every bump and fissure in the pavement painfully apparent as the car jostled with increasing intensity.
"Would you mind slowing down?" America stared at his bone-white knuckles.
"Ah, but I am speeding on your behalf, America."
"I'm sure town is going to stick around if we slow down some."
"I do not doubt that, but you are in such a hurry to leave, I do not want to make you wait."
"Wait, what?" America chanced a peek at Russia. His lips were drawn into a tight, surreal smile, eyes dull and unfocused. "You're letting me go?"
"No." Russia's lip curled back in a cold sneer. "But you will run or draw attention to yourself once we are at the store."
"Don't start acting like a psychic, and a bad one at that. I haven't done anything." Yet.
"But you are thinking about it."
America was afraid to look at the speedometer now, afraid to look out the window to watch the scenery blend together at increasing speeds. He stared at his lap instead, where his hands lay neatly folded. "Russia, you've got to trust me on this. I really want to go to the store, that's all I want to do. I trusted you on all the news stuff, right?"
"Right," Russia's voice shifted from icy and unreasonable to something slightly more thoughtful. "You did." His foot eased off the gas pedal, if only a fraction.
"And," America started up, encouraged. "Haven't we been having a real nice time together? Let me tell you, my Russian buddy, that was a good breakfast." He rubbed his stomach to drive home the point.
"Did you really think so?" The truck's speed dropped even more.
"Yes, absolutely, delicious stuff!" America looked out the window. Things weren't moving nearly as fast as they had been before. "You know me, one good meal and I'll keep coming back for more."
"That is true, very true." Russia relaxed, his expression melting into one of easy confidence. "And, if you tried telling them your situation, I could pass you off as a mentally disturbed relative."
"Uh, yeah. I guess that's a possibility." America shot a quizzical frown at Russia. "Hey, not to change the subject, but I have a question for you."
"Please ask."
"I know I just mentioned the news stuff, but, like, you'll tell me what's going on won't you? Not right now, of course. I don't expect that, but eventually."
Russia's fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel. For a long while he didn't answer, instead focusing on the road, on which signs had started to appear. The tic tic tic of the turn signal sounded on and off, hints of civilization trickling by. A phone line here, a sprinkling of houses there, the occasional rickety fence bordering a property sprouting up through the whiteness.
"One day," Russia assured. He reached over and gave America a placating pat on the thigh, followed by the lightest of squeezes. "Now," he brightened. "It is time for shopping."
Gravel hissed and popped beneath the tires as Russia steered the truck into a small parking lot, pulling into a space that was three sizes too small for his mechanical beast. The engine gave a heated sigh as it was shut off.
The Companion [9.9/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:36:15 UTC
America just sat there, staring blankly at the shop front, with its foreign words and drawings of food. Was this really it? Was he about to finally get his chance? He nervously smoothed his coat and petted his hair, trying to tame any wayward strands. His heart fluttered weakly in his chest.
"America?"
"Huh?" America turned to Russia with alert eyes.
"Don't try anything." And with that, Russia slipped out of the car and cut around to America's side, opening the door for him.
America unbuckled himself and followed Russia's lead, hiding shaking hands in his pockets, eyes kept low to the ground. Russia was already expecting him to make a break for it, and his little speeding trick was a stark reminder that his mind was not all together sane. America would have to wait, put Russia at ease before he tried to book it.
Russia grabbed a shopping cart and walked through the sliding glass doors of the store. America half-marveled and half-laughed at the sight. He had never really thought about what Russia looked like as he existed from day to day. He'd had a mental image of him outside of their meetings, yes, but an odd one, one inspired by too many science fiction novels and horror movies.
His mental image had never contained Russia in pajamas, or Russia with soaked hair as he got out of the shower. He imagined Russia simply shut off at night, like a great, unfeeling robot. Once the sun rose, he'd boot back up again and do whatever evil things people like him did. But as America tailed Russia, he didn't see the robot of his mind's eyes.
Instead he saw a simple man, a man too tall for the cart he was pushing along. A man that was shopping to fill his cupboards and nothing more. He moved among the scant few who occupied the aisles with an easy fluidity, as if he were no different from them. It was a far cry from how Russia usually snuck about meetings, like a wolf prowling for the weakest of the flock to pick off.
America cast wary glances at those he passed. He was struck by the notion that they somehow knew how very wrong it was for him to be there. The way he carried himself, the fall of his step, even the way he breathed. They had to be aware of how different he was from them, something instinctual, an innate knowledge they couldn't argue with.
They wouldn't help him. They were on Russia's side. America sighed and sped his gait, careful not to let Russia's back out of his sight. He hadn't been given enough time to plan how he was going to get out of this jam, and it wasn't fair. With the phone he dialed a number, that was foolproof. But in the store, how could he explain his situation?
Any shoppers he talked to wouldn't understand him, or, if they did speak English, would be mighty confused anyway. And then there was Russia. He probably had a silver tongue with her own people, able to convey the most appropriate emotions and beautiful words to explain that, no, this young man hadn't been kidnapped, but was his 'mentally disturbed relative'. And worst of all, that bastard would probably get away with such that excuse for America's behavior.
"You are being awfully quite back there." Russia had stopped moving, instead resting his forearm on the handle of the cart as he watched America.
America halted. "Nothin' to say."
"Well, what would you like to eat?" Russia made a small gesture at the rows of food, the volume of his voice low enough so that others would not hear, but not so much that it was a suspicious whisper. "I did not bring you here to stare at the floor all day."
"I wasn't staring at the floor." America lips set into a thin line. "I was staring at you." The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them, his tongue eager to prove Russia wrong.
Russia's eyes rounded for a split second before he regained his composure. "How very kind of you, but it might be best if you pick your meals."
The Companion [9.10/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:40:56 UTC
A red hot blush curled around America's neck, his hands rearranging the fur trim of his collar to hide it. His gaze focused on everything but Russia, rolling across row after row of packaged food. They settled on a small tin of what appeared to be cookies, a delicate gold trim looping around the red, cylindrical container.
"I want that." America put the tin in the cart.
"You may have as many things as you'd like." Russia's smiled, soft and indulgent. America crossed his arms and looked away. It was hard to stay snooty when Russia wouldn't react. It made America's conscious rear up and tell him off for being so rude.
"You'll regret saying that." America continued his fight to ruffle Russia's feathers.
"You know," Russia calmly informed him. "I have done many things I regret, but this is not one of them."
America snuck a peek at Russia from the corner of his eye, having no words to respond with. It was, in a very surreal way, nice to be told that. Out of everyone in the world, it seemed Russia was the only one who actually wanted to spend time with him, and enjoyed doing so.
Everyone else treated America like he was a chore to have around. But Russia didn't complain that America ate all his food, made too much noise, combed his hair in a stupid way, or generally did everything and anything wrong. It was a welcomed relief, even if the circumstances were not the most desirable.
"So, you like having me around?" America asked, voice lilting with curiosity. He knew it was hardly an appropriate question, but he wanted more of the sweet warmth Russia's responses were making him feel.
"More than either of our languages could ever explain," Russia crooned before pushing the cart along again. It was unabashed flattery, America knew, but he was more than happy to embrace it. Like burning orphanages and kittens stuck in trees, America had always been unable to ignore kind words.
Flashing a thirty-two tooth salute at the back of Russia's head he quickened his step again, sticking to Russia's side as they traversed the store. On occasion he would drift away to pick out something he liked, but always he would return within a few moments, never straying too far Russia.
"Can we get these?" America held up a bag of chips. "Also, do you know what dogs' feet smell like?"
"Of course, but I do not understand your question. Are 'dogs' feet' a kind or drug, or maybe slang?"
"What? No." America shot the bag at the cart as if he were playing basketball, making a small swish noise as it landed amongst the other groceries. "I mean the actual feet of dogs."
"I have no idea," Russia said honestly.
"Well those chips smell exactly like dogs' feet."
"And you find this desirable?"
"No, just a coincidence, I guess. Doesn't make the chips any less delicious." America rapped his hands on the cart and stared at its packaged contents. "Think we got everything we need until the storm blows over?"
"We are nearly done, yes." Russia wound around the corner into the next aisle, one brimming with alcohol. From golden pints of beer to the clear bottles of vodka, it was ripe for the picking.
"Can't weather the storm without a bit of booze in you, eh?" America brushed his fingertips along a row of frosted glass bottles, his nails flicking against them to make faint tinkling noises. The glow of the overhead lights gave the drinks a tempting shine.
Russia didn't step up to America's bait, instead brushing past him to pluck a single bottle from the many available. America fetched some rum (or at least he thought it was rum from the pirate on the label) and placed it next to Russia's pick. The two bottles looked like lonely outcasts in a cart full of food items, in need of a pal.
"Have you ever had rum and coke?" America asked.
"No. Does it smell like dogs' feet?"
"What? No. That's ridiculous. It's delicious, like the sweet nectar of the Gods."
"America, would you like some coke to go with your rum?"
The Companion [9.11/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:42:12 UTC
"Would I? Would I?" America echoed himself in a disbelieving tone.
"Yes, would you?"
"It was a rhetorical question, stooge. Of course I want to watch movies. I haven't had anything to do beyond stare at the ceiling and go crazy since I started staying at your pad." A concerned frown flitted across Russia's face. "I don't mean like, real crazy. Bored crazy, that's what I'm talking about."
"Ah, yes. I agree I haven't given you much to do as of late." Russia smiled apologetically. "But that is why we will get movies," he amended.
The two of them meandered over to a display where the latest movies were stacked, the covers promising everything from action and romance, to horror and comedy. America thumbed through them, looking for a movie he recognized. All of the titles were written in snowflake language.
"Heck if I know what these movies are about, you pick one." America gave a flippant wave of his hand. Russia didn't need to be told twice, collecting a few tapes in his hands and depositing them in the cart before moving on. America didn't look at them, he wanted to be surprised.
With doggish loyalty, he trotted beside Russia's long, stoic strides as they made for the register. A synthetic, forgettable tone dripped from speakers embedded in the ceiling. It dripped down upon their ears, lazy and comforting in its unique blandness. The line before them thinned at an efficient pace, the low chatter of daily greetings and formalities exchanged again and again until they lost all semblance of meaning to those who heard them.
The woman behind the register was young, bright eyed, and bushy tailed. Before they had even reached her, she was flashing shy glances of acknowledgment at the both of them, the tight bun her hair had been pulled back into bobbing as she nodded in greeting. Russia returned the gesture, and America mimicked him.
When they reached her, she spoke with a blatant casualness that America could appreciate, even if he didn't understand a single word coming from her mouth. Russia smiled kindly and mirrored her tone, hands gesturing in exaggerated motions as he recounted one event after another, the girl interjecting with soft noises of astonishment, disbelief, or light laughter. Things were going well enough, America thought, but then she turned to him and attempted conversation.
"Oh, uh, sorry, I don't know any Russian." He held his hands up in surrender to the language, taking a step back. "I'm with the big guy here." He jerked his thumb at Russia.
The girl's eyes sparkled as he spoke, a bashful smile tugging at her lips. "I know English!" she informed him happily, almost ecstatically, as if she had never had an opportunity to tell anyone before now. Her accent was heavy, but certainly understandable.
"You sure do," America nearly balked in amazement. "Nice to meet you, my name is Alfred."
"Nice to meet you, too." Her eyes flicked away as she spoke, her voice holding a slight quiver, pleased that a native speaker approved of her. "My name is─” she said what must have been her name, but it sounded more like an entire address to America.
"How very interesting," Russia interrupted. "I had no idea you could speak English so well," Russia repeated the impossible name.
"I learned it in school," the girl answered brightly, continuing to scan their items, though her hand failed to keep the same efficient pace it had worked so diligently at with the previous customers. "So Alfred, what brings you to Russia?"
"What brings me here? Well, bit of a long story, if I'm going to be honest." He looked to Russia, who was giving him a look that America imagined people saw before they found themselves in line for false teeth. "Basically, I'm here on vacation."
"Yes, vacation," Russia picked up where America had left off, assuming control of the situation. "He is my cousin from the United States." America waited for him to tack on that he was rather insane, or at least 'disturbed', but he ever did.
The Companion [9.12/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:43:41 UTC
After that, every time the girl would direct a question at America, or somehow try to fish him back into the conversation, Russia would find a way to block her, answering on America's behalf, cutting him off whenever he made to open his mouth. Eventually, both America and the girl, tired of trying to work their way around their middleman, gave up. Russia was positively grinning at their silence as he paid the bill. America grumbled under his breath as he helped carry the bags back to the behemoth mobile.
"It's not illegal for me to talk to the nice folks at the cash register, is it?"
"No," Russia told him as they hoisted the backs into the back. "But I did not want you to be tempted."
"I'm not going to be 'tempted' to spill the beans to a little kid like that. For all I know you'd send her to a gulag." Russia helped him back into the passenger seat.
"I would do no such thing," he stiffly informed America, standing beside the open door. "Now, listen very closely to me."
America cocked his head to the side. "What's up?"
"I need to buy something in that store." Russia pointed at a door not far from the grocery. Musical notes were painted in one of the windows, and the shop's sign displayed several varying instruments. "I will only be gone a moment, you will need to stay here."
"Sure thing, I'll sit tight."
"Good," Russia murmured, reaching up to stroke America's hair in appreciation. America shied away. Or he meant to, really. His mind and body were at odds, wanting to both lean into the touch and pull back. Russia's hand fell away before America could make a concrete decision.
"Go do your thing," America prompted and went back to staring at the storefront. "I'll be right here."
The truck swayed at the door was shut, rocking America with it. He watched as Russia disappeared into the music store, the glass door swinging shut behind him, catching his eyes for the smallest of seconds as he checked back on America one last time. America stretched his legs out before him and put his hands behind his head, settling in to wait.
A child with a puffy pink coat skipped across his vision, a stuffed animal hanging from her arms. The toy kicked a bit, causing the child to drop it. America straightened up and adjusted his glasses, squinting at the scene. It wasn't a toy at all, but instead a very small dog, apparently unhappy with how it had been handled. A leash ran from the dog's collar to the child's hand, which was presently swiping at her face.
Another child tromped up behind the first one, a young boy with waving arms and wild hair. America watched the two as he would watch a play unfold at the theater, his seat front row and center as their drama unfolded.
The boy shouted at the girl's back, not in anger, but a friendly, exuberant tone. The girl turned to face him, the backs of her hands carrying away the tears that slipped from her eyes. The boy stood for a moment, his arms frozen in an awkward flail as he tried to make sense of her crying. She pointed to the dog after a moment, and then her arm. America figured it must have nipped her to get away.
In an instant the boy's arms had turned from stiff, unmoving limbs to comforting ropes, lashing themselves to the girl's body. She cried weakly into his shoulder as his hands moved at a frantic pace, first petting her back, then rubbing circles, and finally settling to artlessly pat her hair. The dog stood by, unmoved by the scene.
The Companion [9.13/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 05:47:21 UTC
America breathed a bittersweet sigh at the sight. He loved their simple emotions and their simple reactions, he loved to watch their puppyish love in action as they planted big kisses and thanks and comfort on one another's cheeks. He wanted to jump right out of the truck and scoop them up in his arms, but most of all, he wanted that affection. Such thoughtless amounts of love, receiving kindness for the smallest of problems, as simple to obtain as turning on a tap and watching water pour out.
The children skipped off together hand in hand as America quietly pined, his heart aching to reenact what he had witnessed. Every since he had come to live with Russia he had lived a life nearly devoid of physical and verbal affections. Sure, Russia gave the odd hug or bizarre compliment, but that wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough for America.
He never could settle for the small things in life. Given a hug, he'd want a kiss, given a compliment, he'd want a sonnet. Given the opportunity to flap his wings, he'd want to soar. America rapped his fingernails against the armrest of the door as he wallowed in his loneliness. Russia was like that too, he decided, never able to settle with a single scrap, always wanting the whole meal. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they gave into each other. Not a lot, only a bit. The smallest smidge.
America let out a low growl. Being stuck with Russia all day, all the time was messing with his head. It was like shoving teenagers together at a camp for a week and not excepting half of them to come back in one form of tangled relationship or another. He bumped his head restlessly against the back of his seat. Russia and relationships didn't go together. Not ever, not now.
And what was taking Russia so long, anyway? America played with the handle of the door, tugging it, letting it snap back, tugging it again. His vision became unfocused as he stared at the door of the music shop, waiting for it to open, waiting for Russia to come back. But it remained closed.
America continued to fiddle with the door handle, the snapping growing to an irritatingly quick pace as he plucked at it, his finger slipping on occasion in his haste. He snagged it more tightly, his finger yanking with impatience. The lock disengaged, the door springing open. America's hand immediately went to grab it, but missed my mere inches.
He looked at the open door, then the music shop, his eyes swiveling back and forth. He'd said he'd wait in the truck like a good little boy, yes, but Russia had also said he'd only be a moment. An eye for an eye, a lie for a lie. That was the way of the world, and in this case, a rather fair exchange. With one last glance at the store, America slipped from his seat and out in to the world, a sly smile gracing his lips.
---- A/N: RUN, AMERICA, RUN LIKE THE WIND.
Russia's 'many horses' comment is meant to be a joke about horse power. Don't look at me, it's not my fault Russia can't tell one.
Re: The Companion [9.13/?]
anonymous
June 11 2010, 14:39:34 UTC
YES!!! AN UPDATE!!!
I've never commented before, but I thought I'd let you know this time how much I love this story and especially how you write America's thoughts and little comments like dogs' feet and the thing about the man law back when he ran around with the phone. And poor(?) Russia's just like a little kid trying to tame a small animal he caught in the back yard or something, wanting to be friends with it but just keeps being unhappy. ♥
I'm looking forward to the next chapter!!! This was a horribly cruel place to stop, though. I'm both cheering for America and horribly worried about what Russia might do to him for this.
America went to the dresser, allowing the towel to fall and pool at his feet. He pulled on the most basic of outfits without taking much time to mull over his options. A plain pair of jeans, warm woolen socks, then a second pair (just in case!), boxers that held no significant amount of luck to them, and a long sleeve shirt that he didn't recognize, but decided would keep him warm.
His toes scuffed and dragged along the floor as he floated about, polishing and re-polishing his glasses as he went. There had been no sweaters or coats in the drawers, and any kind of footwear was missing from the scene. Another precaution in Russia's scheme, America supposed. If he had ever managed to make it outside the house, his socked feet and flimsy tops wouldn't carry him far.
America hooked a finger around a curtain and peered behind it. No shoes. He dropped to his hands and knees and peered beneath the bed. A bottle of vodka that he had been nipping away at was stashed beneath it (though he had not been the one to originally place it there), but beyond that, it was spotless. If there had ever been boots beneath it, the monster that occupied the space had already stolen them.
He kicked around one of the few boxes that remained in the room, possibly the most boring box. A few dolls sewn together from potato and flour sacks inhabited it, but America was too old to play with such things. He knocked it around the room, lazily sliding it from one wall to the next.
It bumped against a door; America glanced up. It was the closet. Despite how much time he had spent in the room, he never had bothered to check out the closet. He never found it to be of any importance, concluding it to play house to spiders of all sorts, a city of carefully woven webs consuming its space.
Throwing caution to the wind, and knowing he could holler at the top of his lungs for Russia to kill any spiders that may spill out (because to survive in such weather, they would clearly be super-spiders), America wrestled the knob open.
The inside the closet smelled of sodden wood and moth balls, of rundown outfits and forgotten belongings. It was dark, reminiscent of a cave in how America could hear the rasp of his breath rebound from the back wall. The metal tail of a switch dangled before his face, making a tinny, ratcheting sound as he gave it a tug.
The bulb flickered and buzzed to life, motes of dust swimming around it like so many tiny gnats. There wasn't a spider in sight. America pressed on, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, making out the whole of the closet. It was a bit bigger than he'd expected, as if at one time it had been a room, an incredibly cramped one, but there was definitely space for a bed.
The racks that were bolted to either side were unevenly placed, the garments that hung from them sliding in a gradual slope. America leafed through them, their hangers scraping against the rods which held them, the clear plastic of their garment bags crinkling as they shifted.
All of them were military in appearance from what America could make out, and he had no drive to take them out of their translucent veils. He'd rather chop off his own foot than wear a Russian military coat, no matter how heavy the fabric or cozy their thick linings looked. Too determined to let his drive dwindle, America soldiered on.
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Without its usual war medal and complimentary scarf, its appearance was distinctly off. Yet, without doubt, America knew exactly what he was staring at. It was Russia's coat, or at least, a duplicate. The momentary desire to don it flared in America's stomach, like a child drawn to wearing the clothes of a parent. It would be an ill fit, draping over his shoulders like an old cloak, but the curiosity remained.
Would the coat give America the same menacing air that followed Russia as surely as the night followed the setting of the sun? No, it wouldn't. He rolled his eyes at the silliness of the thought. The little girl waddling about in her mother's heels with her face shadowed by the swooping brim of a Sunday hat would do nothing but reinforce her childish demeanor, not create the sudden visage of an adult.
Even in the face of reason, America still wanted to put it on. What would Russia's expression be when he recognized it? America fancied it'd be a bit cruel, yes, like wearing a dress to a party you knew the hostess would be wearing as well. But Russia and America weren't women absorbed in making sure their outfits didn't match.
There was something strangely freeing about wearing clothes that belonged to another. A kind of delicious secret that could be passed off in broad daylight, surrounded by the public. Even at his age, America still switched clothes with his brother on occasion. It was an act that children, siblings and close friends alike, did. It was a way to behave in ways one usually wouldn't; louder, bolder, more raucous. At the end of the day, one would switch back to their usual clothes, omitting themselves of the transgressions that had committed while in the outfit of another.
America hung the coat back on the rack. He couldn't really expect Russia to understand that logic, even if he acted strangely at times himself, because Russia never seemed to get what others were thinking. Somewhere along the years of his existence he had picked up an empathetic blankness. He couldn't understand what the people around him were going through, no matter how many times he had experienced the same situations and emotions himself. His mind refused to accept that others could feel at the same depth he could.
Or, America reasoned, his ignorance could be a vestige of his odd and childish nature. It wasn't that he lacked the ability to empathize, but merely refused to. A child gains nothing but sorrow and fear from learning and accepting the woe of another's life, and may opt instead to indulge themselves in a more carefree lifestyle by blotting out the distress of those around them. Fingering the fabric of the coat one last time, America exited the closet and flopped on the bed, content to twiddle his thumbs while mentally working Russia's psyche over.
Russia came back for America after a quarter of an hour, his demeanor having been boosted in the meantime. He was entirely composed of kind smiles and gentle words as he ushered America from his room, a guiding hand resting against the small of America's back, leading him to the kitchen and onward to a small nook in which two empty plates were set, silverware flanking their rounded sides.
America shifted with unruly energy as Russia moved about the kitchen, the balls of his feet bouncing against the floor as pans clattered and eggs cracked in the background. He made small designs in the light layer of dust on the table, his mind computing no thoughts in particular aside from the notion that a pleasant smell was slowly making its way towards him.
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Russia was soon shoveling a heap of fluffy yellow eggs onto America's plate and then his own, topping it off with two pieces of darkened toast. The two of them ate in relative silence, their knees glancing off each others with bashful knocks before settling down and merely touching with an easy comfort.
Russia openly watched America as he ate, eyes moving in steady lines, ticking back and forth like a metronome, reading America' face, his posture, his mannerisms, his everything. America tensed, wishing he had not the self conscious mind of a man, but instead that of a zoo animal, able to carry on undisturbed by those who watched it. He twirled the tines of his fork into the small mountain of scrambled eggs before taking a small bite.
It wasn't that the eggs weren't good, by all accounts they were. Better than most eggs he'd had, not at all the sloppy mess he was usually served with, but Russia's incessant staring was slowly and ever so brutally killing off his appetite. But America forced himself to continue eating, urging himself on, the knowledge that soon he would be outside keeping him going.
When he was finished, America neatly set his fork upon his plate and slid it forwards before crossing his arms in front of himself. The quiet clink of utensil against plate played against America's ears as he waited, his head bobbing from side to side with boredom. Russia's foot subtlety nudged at him from beneath the table.
America ignored it at first. He couldn't even begin to count the number of times he'd accidentally brushed against someone else's foot beneath a table. Their knees were already brushed against one another's after all, so it wasn't much of a stretch to think the momentary contact had been anything but mistake. Russia's foot brushed against him again, toes nibbling at his socks.
"What?" America asked.
Russia smiled, his lips threatening to part and reveal a grin. "Are you happy?"
"Sure, yeah, something like that." America gave him a light kick back.
"I am happy, too." Another bump under the table, followed by Russia's foot hooking around America's ankle and teasingly wrestling is closer.
America looked, really looked at Russia. A hint of tooth was starting to show now, a certain giddy glimmer surfacing in the smooth violet planes of his eyes. His broad shoulders were held high, strong and carefree. America couldn't stop a returning smile from playing across his own face. Russia's joy was rather infectious, especially when it was being so blatantly trotted about.
"Good to know." America's back arched against his chair as he tried to stretch, his foot jostling under the table, but making no real attempt to escape Russia's playful capture. "Um, hey, I don't know if you realise this, but I don't have any shoes."
"Neither do I." A few crumbs tumbled down Russia's scarf as he finished off his toast.
"No, I mean, I don't have any shoes at all, like for wearing outside."
"Oh, that." Russia hardly seemed concerned as he stood, clearing the table and depositing the plates in the sink. He strode back and offered a hand to America, an offer that was cordially accepted. "If there is one thing you will never have to worry about with me, America, is that you will always be provided for."
"Hm, well, that's nice of you." America stared at his toes while they made a rippling wave of a motion. He really didn't know what to say in all honesty. When he thought of being kidnapped, he associated it with lots of yelling, violence, and a general lack of any and all privileges. He didn't associate it with nice breakfasts, warm beds, and having everything he could want as long as he gave up his freedom. Then again, he was getting a bit of that back as well.
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"I am excitable, just generally not when it comes to shoes. That's a lady thing."
"What about coats?"
America straightened up, his eyes mirroring his curiosity. "What kind of coats?"
"Not a bomber jacket."
America's interest dulled. "Coats are pretty cool, I guess."
"I think you will like this coat. When I first saw it, I was reminded of you." Russia gave America a quick pat on the head. "Wait by the door and I will bring you your things."
America gave a perfunctory nod before his brow set into a mask of fierce determination, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. He was going to race Russia, even if the act was one-sided at best. He waited in silence as Russia left, going back to his room as far as America could tell.
When his footsteps became nothing but faint, muffled thuds, America took off. He slipped around corner after corner, hallway after endless hallway, assuring himself he could always backtrack, or at least he did that until he reached a point where that was no longer possible. He opened doors and scouted out rooms, many of them in the same half-unpacked fashion he had found his own in─his room? When had it become that? America rubbed at his neck, it was just a room, one he slept in, but not of his own accord.
He continued to explore, finding rooms with colors themes and rich carpet with wallpaper to match. Some had no windows at all, some had too many, and in strange shapes. It was like a fun house that had tried to take itself seriously, whimsical and obtuse, but without the usual humorous air such buildings tended to have. America took mental notes of which rooms he wouldn't mind sleeping in.
Knowing all chances of winning his personal race were most likely lost, America slowed his pace, searching for familiar areas. How big could a single house be? It was more like an entire apartment complex, though he had failed to find any stairs. America had often wondered exactly what kind of living situation Russia had set up before the fall of the USSR, and had come to the conclusion that he stuffed everyone in this single house. That would be like Russia, always keeping a close eye on those he fancied.
"America?" Russia's voice echoed, crawling along the walls.
"I'll be there in a sec," America called back. "Took a little detour." He darted off in the direction of Russia's voice, padding along at a brisk pace. He hadn't made much progress before Russia spoke again.
"Are you lost?"
"No, sightseeing."
Russia emerged from one of the rooms America was about the pass. "If that is so, allow me to be your guide."
America eyed him with suspicion. "Looking for me, were you?"
"I could say the same about you." Russia slung an arm over America's shoulders, friendly and companionable. America gave him a quick pat on the back, not wanting to ruin his good mood.
Russia took him to the front door, where two pairs of boots cuddled up next to each other. Several coats were hung from a rack stationed near the boots, and Russia deftly picked one from the pack, flapping it twice to straighten out any obvious wrinkles before holding it out, positioned so that he would help America put it on.
America slipped his arms in and shrugged it onto his shoulders, fingers petting the fabric as his eyes swept up and down. It was a dark chocolate color, nearly the same shade as his own familiar jacket. Instead of weathered leather it was a sleek felt or suede of some sort, certainly pleasing to the touch. A dark collar of black fur ran around the collar of the coat. America stroked it absentmindedly.
"Do you like it?"
"Yeah, it's fantastic. Thanks, buddy." America's fingers slid over the large, tortoiseshell buttons that lined the left side of the coat. "A real swell coat if I do say so myself." Having run out of things to do with his hands, America shoved them into his pockets. Thick wool awaited him, a pair of mittens waiting inside. "I see you've got this all planned out."
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"My hands are made out of tough stuff, they'll be fine." America took the gloves and tossed them on an end table. "Can we get a move on now?"
Russia pulled a key ring from his own pocket, jangling them in his hand, the metal keys glinting as they swung. "As you wish." He pulled the front door back, a cold gust of wind rushing into the house the moment it was open. America was out the door in less than a breath, skipping down the few steps that lead up to the door, ankle-deep snow crunching beneath his weight.
He checked over his shoulders as he stomped around, Russia was following him closely, taking no time to lock the door behind him. America put his feet together and hopped through the snow a bit, testing his legs, testing the ground. He raised a hand to his eyes to diffuse the glare of the sun and gazed at the house.
It was a single story, but still it managed to tower above him, the roof sloping into a steeple. It was painted with a faded pale color, if it could even be considered a proper color. America thought it looked more like what would take the place of color if it ever disappeared. Thick maroon drapes hung in every window, giving the house an empty, unwelcoming air.
America turned with a childish whirl of his arms to observe what lay outside his home. The snow engulfed everything, from the twisted, drying trees that spread into a thick forest of evergreens, to a rundown farm that was settled to the left of the house. It was a sitting safety hazard if America had ever seen one.
Shingles had peeled and fallen away from the roof, leaving bald patches that displayed naked rafters. The building in its entirety had the appearance of an old, tired animal. Its bulk swayed to one side in an obvious lean, tired from the many years it had stood straight and proud. What windows remained displayed terrible cracks, fractures spreading in sharp angular waves from their starting points. None of this seemed to deter Russia, though, who was steadily making for the front of it.
America traced Russia's footsteps until he reached him. Russia was working on opening the barn doors, both of them, as though he were planning to move something very large out it. America set to helping them, driving his shoulder against the splintered wood as his feet slipped in the snow, struggling for firm ground.
"Are we going to ride horses to town?" he joked.
"Yes, many horses." Russia replied.
America poked his head into the barn once the doors had been swung open. Shafts of light lanced through the holes in the roof, piercing the heavy shadows of the barn's interior, sweeping across a large black... thing. America took a few steps back in an attempt to broaden his perspective, to make sense of what lay within.
Two round reflective eyes stared back, a large metal grill grinning in his direction. America blinked and cocked his head to the side. A car? Who kept cars in barns? Couldn't Russia park his car in a proper garage? America shook his head wearily and stood aside when he heard the closing slam of the car's door followed by the loud rumble of the engine. He inwardly bet that it would be a fogey old clunker that belonged in a museum. He was wrong.
Instead, a huge lug of an automobile rolled out, its bulky mass barely fitting through the doors. With its huge frame and faded green hues, it was distinctly military. America decided it was a love child between a tank and a hard-top jeep, if that made any sense. Which, it really didn't, but the damn car-truck-tank-whatever the hell it was didn't make sense either, so it was all rather fitting.
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The inside of the behemoth was nothing to write home about. Everything seemed to be well maintained, but none of it really impressed America aside from the vastness of the cab. Buckling his seatbelt, America set his sights straight ahead, focused on leaving the dreadful house he had been forced to live in for so long, too long. Russia gave the engine an invigorating rev and the beast began to trundle through the snow.
"Aren't you going to close up your, er, 'garage'?"
Russia laughed and sped up, the car swerved a bit in time with his chuckling. "There is nothing to steal in there besides farming equipment, and there is no one to steal from me to begin with."
"Hm." America fidgeted with his buckle, and then the strap, nervously tugging on it. "You live pretty far from town, don't you?"
"Yes."
"How far we talkin'?"
"You will see."
And that was their end of their conversation for some time. America settled back in his seat and watched the road, or really, watched for a road. He couldn't find anything resembling one, or even a hint of tire tracks. Russia in the meantime turned the radio on.
The ridiculous length of the antenna on the truck supplied, surprisingly, reception. Most stations came in clear, with a scant few being lost to the pop and buzz of static. Russia would stop at a classical station, humming with a great fervor, only to switch to talk stations once the classical music went to commercials.
He talked to the radio, seeming to agree with it at times with a few encouraging words, and other times showing his opposition to their topics and opinions with low, growling snippets of speech. America had no idea what he could be saying, but he listened anyway.
He listened to the even tone of Russia's voice, how it occasionally cooed gently, or tutted in a motherly fashion. America had always found the Russian language to be rather pleasant, with its flattened sounds and rolled letters. And the alphabet as well, it reminded him of snowflakes for reasons he could not quite place himself.
"What are you thinking about?"
America shifted, his mind searching for a new topic, one that wasn't Russian. Nothing surfaced, so he went with that. "Not thinkin' about anything, really. Snowflakes, I guess." At least he was being partially honest.
The wheels of the truck spun, momentarily stuck in a fresh drift. Russia floored it, sending them bouncing along on their way. "Do you want to know what I'm thinking about?"
No, no I don't. "Sure, why not."
"You, and how long you are going to stay with me."
America's head lolled to the side. "Mind letting me in on how long that's going to be?"
"Well, how long would you like to stay?" It sounded like a genuine question, a true curiosity.
"I'm pretty much ready to go home now."
"I thought you would say something like that." The engine roared in America's ears, the entire interior rattling. He glanced at the speedometer, his lips pursing as the needle rose in shaky jumps. Russia slammed on the breaks and spun the wheel, the backend of the truck swinging in a wide and unmanageable arc. America let out startled little yelp.
"What was that for?" America asked, hoping he only sounded nervous to himself.
"I took a wrong turn," Russia replied calmly. "Tell me more about when you'd like to leave."
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The inside of the behemoth was nothing to write home about. Everything seemed to be well maintained, but none of it really impressed America aside from the vastness of the cab. Buckling his seatbelt, America set his sights straight ahead, focused on leaving the dreadful house he had been forced to live in for so long, too long. Russia gave the engine an invigorating rev and the beast began to trundle through the snow.
"Aren't you going to close up your, er, 'garage'?"
Russia laughed and sped up, the car swerved a bit in time with his chuckling. "There is nothing to steal in there besides farming equipment, and there is no one to steal from me to begin with."
"Hm." America fidgeted with his buckle, and then the strap, nervously tugging on it. "You live pretty far from town, don't you?"
"Yes."
"How far we talkin'?"
"You will see."
And that was their end of their conversation for some time. America settled back in his seat and watched the road, or really, watched for a road. He couldn't find anything resembling one, or even a hint of tire tracks. Russia in the meantime turned the radio on.
The ridiculous length of the antenna on the truck supplied, surprisingly, reception. Most stations came in clear, with a scant few being lost to the pop and buzz of static. Russia would stop at a classical station, humming with a great fervor, only to switch to talk stations once the classical music went to commercials.
He talked to the radio, seeming to agree with it at times with a few encouraging words, and other times showing his opposition to their topics and opinions with low, growling snippets of speech. America had no idea what he could be saying, but he listened anyway.
He listened to the even tone of Russia's voice, how it occasionally cooed gently, or tutted in a motherly fashion. America had always found the Russian language to be rather pleasant, with its flattened sounds and rolled letters. And the alphabet as well, it reminded him of snowflakes for reasons he could not quite place himself.
"What are you thinking about?"
America shifted, his mind searching for a new topic, one that wasn't Russian. Nothing surfaced, so he went with that. "Not thinkin' about anything, really. Snowflakes, I guess." At least he was being partially honest.
The wheels of the truck spun, momentarily stuck in a fresh drift. Russia floored it, sending them bouncing along on their way. "Do you want to know what I'm thinking about?"
No, no I don't. "Sure, why not."
"You, and how long you are going to stay with me."
America's head lolled to the side. "Mind letting me in on how long that's going to be?"
"Well, how long would you like to stay?" It sounded like a genuine question, a true curiosity.
"I'm pretty much ready to go home now."
"I thought you would say something like that." The engine roared in America's ears, the entire interior rattling. He glanced at the speedometer, his lips pursing as the needle rose in shaky jumps. Russia slammed on the breaks and spun the wheel, the backend of the truck swinging in a wide and unmanageable arc. America let out startled little yelp.
"What was that for?" America asked, hoping he only sounded nervous to himself.
"I took a wrong turn," Russia replied calmly. "Tell me more about when you'd like to leave."
America raised an incredulous brow, but went on, one eye trained on the speedometer. "I'd pack my bags up and bolt out if given the chance." He made no attempt to lie about his want to escape, there was no point. "Seriously, first flight out of here and I would be all over that."
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After what seemed like a forever of silent praying that they wouldn't crash, America spotted a poorly paved road. Russia slowed to a merciful speed as he approached it, but scattered America's recovering nerves by speeding up again once they were on it, every bump and fissure in the pavement painfully apparent as the car jostled with increasing intensity.
"Would you mind slowing down?" America stared at his bone-white knuckles.
"Ah, but I am speeding on your behalf, America."
"I'm sure town is going to stick around if we slow down some."
"I do not doubt that, but you are in such a hurry to leave, I do not want to make you wait."
"Wait, what?" America chanced a peek at Russia. His lips were drawn into a tight, surreal smile, eyes dull and unfocused. "You're letting me go?"
"No." Russia's lip curled back in a cold sneer. "But you will run or draw attention to yourself once we are at the store."
"Don't start acting like a psychic, and a bad one at that. I haven't done anything." Yet.
"But you are thinking about it."
America was afraid to look at the speedometer now, afraid to look out the window to watch the scenery blend together at increasing speeds. He stared at his lap instead, where his hands lay neatly folded. "Russia, you've got to trust me on this. I really want to go to the store, that's all I want to do. I trusted you on all the news stuff, right?"
"Right," Russia's voice shifted from icy and unreasonable to something slightly more thoughtful. "You did." His foot eased off the gas pedal, if only a fraction.
"And," America started up, encouraged. "Haven't we been having a real nice time together? Let me tell you, my Russian buddy, that was a good breakfast." He rubbed his stomach to drive home the point.
"Did you really think so?" The truck's speed dropped even more.
"Yes, absolutely, delicious stuff!" America looked out the window. Things weren't moving nearly as fast as they had been before. "You know me, one good meal and I'll keep coming back for more."
"That is true, very true." Russia relaxed, his expression melting into one of easy confidence. "And, if you tried telling them your situation, I could pass you off as a mentally disturbed relative."
"Uh, yeah. I guess that's a possibility." America shot a quizzical frown at Russia. "Hey, not to change the subject, but I have a question for you."
"Please ask."
"I know I just mentioned the news stuff, but, like, you'll tell me what's going on won't you? Not right now, of course. I don't expect that, but eventually."
Russia's fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel. For a long while he didn't answer, instead focusing on the road, on which signs had started to appear. The tic tic tic of the turn signal sounded on and off, hints of civilization trickling by. A phone line here, a sprinkling of houses there, the occasional rickety fence bordering a property sprouting up through the whiteness.
"One day," Russia assured. He reached over and gave America a placating pat on the thigh, followed by the lightest of squeezes. "Now," he brightened. "It is time for shopping."
Gravel hissed and popped beneath the tires as Russia steered the truck into a small parking lot, pulling into a space that was three sizes too small for his mechanical beast. The engine gave a heated sigh as it was shut off.
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"America?"
"Huh?" America turned to Russia with alert eyes.
"Don't try anything." And with that, Russia slipped out of the car and cut around to America's side, opening the door for him.
America unbuckled himself and followed Russia's lead, hiding shaking hands in his pockets, eyes kept low to the ground. Russia was already expecting him to make a break for it, and his little speeding trick was a stark reminder that his mind was not all together sane. America would have to wait, put Russia at ease before he tried to book it.
Russia grabbed a shopping cart and walked through the sliding glass doors of the store. America half-marveled and half-laughed at the sight. He had never really thought about what Russia looked like as he existed from day to day. He'd had a mental image of him outside of their meetings, yes, but an odd one, one inspired by too many science fiction novels and horror movies.
His mental image had never contained Russia in pajamas, or Russia with soaked hair as he got out of the shower. He imagined Russia simply shut off at night, like a great, unfeeling robot. Once the sun rose, he'd boot back up again and do whatever evil things people like him did. But as America tailed Russia, he didn't see the robot of his mind's eyes.
Instead he saw a simple man, a man too tall for the cart he was pushing along. A man that was shopping to fill his cupboards and nothing more. He moved among the scant few who occupied the aisles with an easy fluidity, as if he were no different from them. It was a far cry from how Russia usually snuck about meetings, like a wolf prowling for the weakest of the flock to pick off.
America cast wary glances at those he passed. He was struck by the notion that they somehow knew how very wrong it was for him to be there. The way he carried himself, the fall of his step, even the way he breathed. They had to be aware of how different he was from them, something instinctual, an innate knowledge they couldn't argue with.
They wouldn't help him. They were on Russia's side. America sighed and sped his gait, careful not to let Russia's back out of his sight. He hadn't been given enough time to plan how he was going to get out of this jam, and it wasn't fair. With the phone he dialed a number, that was foolproof. But in the store, how could he explain his situation?
Any shoppers he talked to wouldn't understand him, or, if they did speak English, would be mighty confused anyway. And then there was Russia. He probably had a silver tongue with her own people, able to convey the most appropriate emotions and beautiful words to explain that, no, this young man hadn't been kidnapped, but was his 'mentally disturbed relative'. And worst of all, that bastard would probably get away with such that excuse for America's behavior.
"You are being awfully quite back there." Russia had stopped moving, instead resting his forearm on the handle of the cart as he watched America.
America halted. "Nothin' to say."
"Well, what would you like to eat?" Russia made a small gesture at the rows of food, the volume of his voice low enough so that others would not hear, but not so much that it was a suspicious whisper. "I did not bring you here to stare at the floor all day."
"I wasn't staring at the floor." America lips set into a thin line. "I was staring at you." The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them, his tongue eager to prove Russia wrong.
Russia's eyes rounded for a split second before he regained his composure. "How very kind of you, but it might be best if you pick your meals."
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"I want that." America put the tin in the cart.
"You may have as many things as you'd like." Russia's smiled, soft and indulgent. America crossed his arms and looked away. It was hard to stay snooty when Russia wouldn't react. It made America's conscious rear up and tell him off for being so rude.
"You'll regret saying that." America continued his fight to ruffle Russia's feathers.
"You know," Russia calmly informed him. "I have done many things I regret, but this is not one of them."
America snuck a peek at Russia from the corner of his eye, having no words to respond with. It was, in a very surreal way, nice to be told that. Out of everyone in the world, it seemed Russia was the only one who actually wanted to spend time with him, and enjoyed doing so.
Everyone else treated America like he was a chore to have around. But Russia didn't complain that America ate all his food, made too much noise, combed his hair in a stupid way, or generally did everything and anything wrong. It was a welcomed relief, even if the circumstances were not the most desirable.
"So, you like having me around?" America asked, voice lilting with curiosity. He knew it was hardly an appropriate question, but he wanted more of the sweet warmth Russia's responses were making him feel.
"More than either of our languages could ever explain," Russia crooned before pushing the cart along again. It was unabashed flattery, America knew, but he was more than happy to embrace it. Like burning orphanages and kittens stuck in trees, America had always been unable to ignore kind words.
Flashing a thirty-two tooth salute at the back of Russia's head he quickened his step again, sticking to Russia's side as they traversed the store. On occasion he would drift away to pick out something he liked, but always he would return within a few moments, never straying too far Russia.
"Can we get these?" America held up a bag of chips. "Also, do you know what dogs' feet smell like?"
"Of course, but I do not understand your question. Are 'dogs' feet' a kind or drug, or maybe slang?"
"What? No." America shot the bag at the cart as if he were playing basketball, making a small swish noise as it landed amongst the other groceries. "I mean the actual feet of dogs."
"I have no idea," Russia said honestly.
"Well those chips smell exactly like dogs' feet."
"And you find this desirable?"
"No, just a coincidence, I guess. Doesn't make the chips any less delicious." America rapped his hands on the cart and stared at its packaged contents. "Think we got everything we need until the storm blows over?"
"We are nearly done, yes." Russia wound around the corner into the next aisle, one brimming with alcohol. From golden pints of beer to the clear bottles of vodka, it was ripe for the picking.
"Can't weather the storm without a bit of booze in you, eh?" America brushed his fingertips along a row of frosted glass bottles, his nails flicking against them to make faint tinkling noises. The glow of the overhead lights gave the drinks a tempting shine.
Russia didn't step up to America's bait, instead brushing past him to pluck a single bottle from the many available. America fetched some rum (or at least he thought it was rum from the pirate on the label) and placed it next to Russia's pick. The two bottles looked like lonely outcasts in a cart full of food items, in need of a pal.
"Have you ever had rum and coke?" America asked.
"No. Does it smell like dogs' feet?"
"What? No. That's ridiculous. It's delicious, like the sweet nectar of the Gods."
"America, would you like some coke to go with your rum?"
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"Yes, would you?"
"It was a rhetorical question, stooge. Of course I want to watch movies. I haven't had anything to do beyond stare at the ceiling and go crazy since I started staying at your pad." A concerned frown flitted across Russia's face. "I don't mean like, real crazy. Bored crazy, that's what I'm talking about."
"Ah, yes. I agree I haven't given you much to do as of late." Russia smiled apologetically. "But that is why we will get movies," he amended.
The two of them meandered over to a display where the latest movies were stacked, the covers promising everything from action and romance, to horror and comedy. America thumbed through them, looking for a movie he recognized. All of the titles were written in snowflake language.
"Heck if I know what these movies are about, you pick one." America gave a flippant wave of his hand. Russia didn't need to be told twice, collecting a few tapes in his hands and depositing them in the cart before moving on. America didn't look at them, he wanted to be surprised.
With doggish loyalty, he trotted beside Russia's long, stoic strides as they made for the register. A synthetic, forgettable tone dripped from speakers embedded in the ceiling. It dripped down upon their ears, lazy and comforting in its unique blandness. The line before them thinned at an efficient pace, the low chatter of daily greetings and formalities exchanged again and again until they lost all semblance of meaning to those who heard them.
The woman behind the register was young, bright eyed, and bushy tailed. Before they had even reached her, she was flashing shy glances of acknowledgment at the both of them, the tight bun her hair had been pulled back into bobbing as she nodded in greeting. Russia returned the gesture, and America mimicked him.
When they reached her, she spoke with a blatant casualness that America could appreciate, even if he didn't understand a single word coming from her mouth. Russia smiled kindly and mirrored her tone, hands gesturing in exaggerated motions as he recounted one event after another, the girl interjecting with soft noises of astonishment, disbelief, or light laughter. Things were going well enough, America thought, but then she turned to him and attempted conversation.
"Oh, uh, sorry, I don't know any Russian." He held his hands up in surrender to the language, taking a step back. "I'm with the big guy here." He jerked his thumb at Russia.
The girl's eyes sparkled as he spoke, a bashful smile tugging at her lips. "I know English!" she informed him happily, almost ecstatically, as if she had never had an opportunity to tell anyone before now. Her accent was heavy, but certainly understandable.
"You sure do," America nearly balked in amazement. "Nice to meet you, my name is Alfred."
"Nice to meet you, too." Her eyes flicked away as she spoke, her voice holding a slight quiver, pleased that a native speaker approved of her. "My name is─” she said what must have been her name, but it sounded more like an entire address to America.
"How very interesting," Russia interrupted. "I had no idea you could speak English so well," Russia repeated the impossible name.
"I learned it in school," the girl answered brightly, continuing to scan their items, though her hand failed to keep the same efficient pace it had worked so diligently at with the previous customers. "So Alfred, what brings you to Russia?"
"What brings me here? Well, bit of a long story, if I'm going to be honest." He looked to Russia, who was giving him a look that America imagined people saw before they found themselves in line for false teeth. "Basically, I'm here on vacation."
"Yes, vacation," Russia picked up where America had left off, assuming control of the situation. "He is my cousin from the United States." America waited for him to tack on that he was rather insane, or at least 'disturbed', but he ever did.
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"It's not illegal for me to talk to the nice folks at the cash register, is it?"
"No," Russia told him as they hoisted the backs into the back. "But I did not want you to be tempted."
"I'm not going to be 'tempted' to spill the beans to a little kid like that. For all I know you'd send her to a gulag." Russia helped him back into the passenger seat.
"I would do no such thing," he stiffly informed America, standing beside the open door. "Now, listen very closely to me."
America cocked his head to the side. "What's up?"
"I need to buy something in that store." Russia pointed at a door not far from the grocery. Musical notes were painted in one of the windows, and the shop's sign displayed several varying instruments. "I will only be gone a moment, you will need to stay here."
"Sure thing, I'll sit tight."
"Good," Russia murmured, reaching up to stroke America's hair in appreciation. America shied away. Or he meant to, really. His mind and body were at odds, wanting to both lean into the touch and pull back. Russia's hand fell away before America could make a concrete decision.
"Go do your thing," America prompted and went back to staring at the storefront. "I'll be right here."
The truck swayed at the door was shut, rocking America with it. He watched as Russia disappeared into the music store, the glass door swinging shut behind him, catching his eyes for the smallest of seconds as he checked back on America one last time. America stretched his legs out before him and put his hands behind his head, settling in to wait.
A child with a puffy pink coat skipped across his vision, a stuffed animal hanging from her arms. The toy kicked a bit, causing the child to drop it. America straightened up and adjusted his glasses, squinting at the scene. It wasn't a toy at all, but instead a very small dog, apparently unhappy with how it had been handled. A leash ran from the dog's collar to the child's hand, which was presently swiping at her face.
Another child tromped up behind the first one, a young boy with waving arms and wild hair. America watched the two as he would watch a play unfold at the theater, his seat front row and center as their drama unfolded.
The boy shouted at the girl's back, not in anger, but a friendly, exuberant tone. The girl turned to face him, the backs of her hands carrying away the tears that slipped from her eyes. The boy stood for a moment, his arms frozen in an awkward flail as he tried to make sense of her crying. She pointed to the dog after a moment, and then her arm. America figured it must have nipped her to get away.
In an instant the boy's arms had turned from stiff, unmoving limbs to comforting ropes, lashing themselves to the girl's body. She cried weakly into his shoulder as his hands moved at a frantic pace, first petting her back, then rubbing circles, and finally settling to artlessly pat her hair. The dog stood by, unmoved by the scene.
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The children skipped off together hand in hand as America quietly pined, his heart aching to reenact what he had witnessed. Every since he had come to live with Russia he had lived a life nearly devoid of physical and verbal affections. Sure, Russia gave the odd hug or bizarre compliment, but that wasn't enough. Nothing was ever enough for America.
He never could settle for the small things in life. Given a hug, he'd want a kiss, given a compliment, he'd want a sonnet. Given the opportunity to flap his wings, he'd want to soar. America rapped his fingernails against the armrest of the door as he wallowed in his loneliness. Russia was like that too, he decided, never able to settle with a single scrap, always wanting the whole meal. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if they gave into each other. Not a lot, only a bit. The smallest smidge.
America let out a low growl. Being stuck with Russia all day, all the time was messing with his head. It was like shoving teenagers together at a camp for a week and not excepting half of them to come back in one form of tangled relationship or another. He bumped his head restlessly against the back of his seat. Russia and relationships didn't go together. Not ever, not now.
And what was taking Russia so long, anyway? America played with the handle of the door, tugging it, letting it snap back, tugging it again. His vision became unfocused as he stared at the door of the music shop, waiting for it to open, waiting for Russia to come back. But it remained closed.
America continued to fiddle with the door handle, the snapping growing to an irritatingly quick pace as he plucked at it, his finger slipping on occasion in his haste. He snagged it more tightly, his finger yanking with impatience. The lock disengaged, the door springing open. America's hand immediately went to grab it, but missed my mere inches.
He looked at the open door, then the music shop, his eyes swiveling back and forth. He'd said he'd wait in the truck like a good little boy, yes, but Russia had also said he'd only be a moment. An eye for an eye, a lie for a lie. That was the way of the world, and in this case, a rather fair exchange. With one last glance at the store, America slipped from his seat and out in to the world, a sly smile gracing his lips.
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A/N:
RUN, AMERICA, RUN LIKE THE WIND.
Russia's 'many horses' comment is meant to be a joke about horse power. Don't look at me, it's not my fault Russia can't tell one.
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And with how this part ended, I am suspecting these things are, in fact, going down. *nervous anitcipation goes here*
I laughed at the horse power joke, by the way. I thought it was brilliant. *epic fail*
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I've never commented before, but I thought I'd let you know this time how much I love this story and especially how you write America's thoughts and little comments like dogs' feet and the thing about the man law back when he ran around with the phone. And poor(?) Russia's just like a little kid trying to tame a small animal he caught in the back yard or something, wanting to be friends with it but just keeps being unhappy. ♥
I'm looking forward to the next chapter!!! This was a horribly cruel place to stop, though. I'm both cheering for America and horribly worried about what Russia might do to him for this.
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RUN DAMMIT!
I DON'T EVEN CARE IF I'M BREAKING UP MY OTP!
Well, maybe just a little.
FREEDOM FIRST, AMERICA.
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