Blue Lips 39
anonymous
April 27 2011, 02:32:28 UTC
“Da. You will.” Russia had wanted to take the phone away to beat it into his head that if he didn’t rest all it would do was hurt him more. Did he really think he was missing the cold hard looks given after every session of physical therapy?
America had simply shrugged and mentioned the time, knowing Russia had to leave for a meeting he could not miss.
That had been yesterday morning.
This morning, the sunlight was cold and grey as it streamed through the drawn curtains. The room was cold in blue shadow, but Russia stood outside in the hall, leaning against the wall as he looked at the ceiling and listened to the hitched breathing from within the door.
America wasn’t taking slow progress well. He never had. It was always ‘I’m going to do this and it will happen now’. Russia admired that, the brazen strength that so few nations still had to keep getting up and moving. But now he listened to America, probably in pain from working the healing leg and deliberated on what to do. Violet eyes traced a hairline crack scrawled across the ceiling, a little brown from where water had slowly built up over the years. The walls were thin and cold, rough against Russia’s back as he listened to Alfred take another tight and choked breath. His violet eyes moved from studying the darkened ceiling to the wall across from him, staring at the smallest whorls of paint drips in the corner or the small marks from where portraits used to hang.
It nearly hurt to hear America so quietly dealing with pain, rather than blatantly muttering about it or laughing it off with the alacrity of a child. Russia frowned down at the floor, rubbing his own wrist in thought. When had he started to pick up on these small fragments of emotion? He wished he could blame it on watching a rival for too many years, but there was a softer layer that hid under that stony lie. But at the same time, maybe that was all. Maybe all it was, was empathy for a former enemy. Russia looked to the door, still rubbing at his wrist. He rubbed his throat once, thinking silently on what to do.
Well, there really wasn’t much of a choice, was there?
The door pushed open easily under Russia’s hand and he looked at the dark room to where the bed lay. The guest room was small, only enough for one bed a small dresser and a window framed by now drawn blue curtains. There was only a minute sliver of light seeping in from the morning outside, sending a stripe of cold grey across America’s stomach. He hadn’t moved, chest moving heavily and slowly in an attempt to stay both quiet and calm. Russia glanced towards the light switch, thinking for one moment of turning on the light but stayed still in the room. There was no need to close the door behind him. The room smelled musty from disuse and faintly of sage from the sachets his sister had once left behind.
Alfred’s arm was over his face, the crook of his elbow covering his eyes as he clenched his hand tightly. The corners of his lips were turned down, pressed tightly until they parted for a hitched breath. “I didn’t realize I’d slept in so long.”
Russia took a step closer, shutting the door for some reason he didn’t know. He didn't say anything, listening to the scratched and gravely quality of the younger nation’s voice. Fingers lifted up to adjust the small watercolor that hung crookedly. “I did not realize you were still so hurt.”
“I’m not.” Alfred hadn’t lifted his arm away, and the room fell back into silence. When Ivan said nothing again, he added with fatigue, “I’m not, really.”
“Da. You will.” Russia had wanted to take the phone away to beat it into his head that if he didn’t rest all it would do was hurt him more. Did he really think he was missing the cold hard looks given after every session of physical therapy?
America had simply shrugged and mentioned the time, knowing Russia had to leave for a meeting he could not miss.
That had been yesterday morning.
This morning, the sunlight was cold and grey as it streamed through the drawn curtains. The room was cold in blue shadow, but Russia stood outside in the hall, leaning against the wall as he looked at the ceiling and listened to the hitched breathing from within the door.
America wasn’t taking slow progress well. He never had. It was always ‘I’m going to do this and it will happen now’. Russia admired that, the brazen strength that so few nations still had to keep getting up and moving. But now he listened to America, probably in pain from working the healing leg and deliberated on what to do. Violet eyes traced a hairline crack scrawled across the ceiling, a little brown from where water had slowly built up over the years. The walls were thin and cold, rough against Russia’s back as he listened to Alfred take another tight and choked breath. His violet eyes moved from studying the darkened ceiling to the wall across from him, staring at the smallest whorls of paint drips in the corner or the small marks from where portraits used to hang.
It nearly hurt to hear America so quietly dealing with pain, rather than blatantly muttering about it or laughing it off with the alacrity of a child. Russia frowned down at the floor, rubbing his own wrist in thought. When had he started to pick up on these small fragments of emotion? He wished he could blame it on watching a rival for too many years, but there was a softer layer that hid under that stony lie. But at the same time, maybe that was all. Maybe all it was, was empathy for a former enemy. Russia looked to the door, still rubbing at his wrist. He rubbed his throat once, thinking silently on what to do.
Well, there really wasn’t much of a choice, was there?
The door pushed open easily under Russia’s hand and he looked at the dark room to where the bed lay. The guest room was small, only enough for one bed a small dresser and a window framed by now drawn blue curtains. There was only a minute sliver of light seeping in from the morning outside, sending a stripe of cold grey across America’s stomach. He hadn’t moved, chest moving heavily and slowly in an attempt to stay both quiet and calm. Russia glanced towards the light switch, thinking for one moment of turning on the light but stayed still in the room. There was no need to close the door behind him. The room smelled musty from disuse and faintly of sage from the sachets his sister had once left behind.
Alfred’s arm was over his face, the crook of his elbow covering his eyes as he clenched his hand tightly. The corners of his lips were turned down, pressed tightly until they parted for a hitched breath. “I didn’t realize I’d slept in so long.”
Russia took a step closer, shutting the door for some reason he didn’t know. He didn't say anything, listening to the scratched and gravely quality of the younger nation’s voice. Fingers lifted up to adjust the small watercolor that hung crookedly. “I did not realize you were still so hurt.”
“I’m not.” Alfred hadn’t lifted his arm away, and the room fell back into silence. When Ivan said nothing again, he added with fatigue, “I’m not, really.”
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