Insecure - RussiaxCanada 2/5
anonymous
February 17 2011, 04:24:06 UTC
“You're right,” Ivan agreed. “My nose is more manly than yours.” He turned to look at the man's face close up. “And it's the same, isn't it? Your faces?”
Matthew fidgeted, and it wasn't with nerves. Ivan could feel the muscles under the shoulder he still held, and he knew the feeling: it was anger. “Yes,” he agreed. “Mostly.”
“Yes,” Ivan agreed, smiling and taking his hand away. “Mostly.” Matthew looked up, startled. Ivan's smile grew, his eyes bright. “You have nicer eyes than him.”
Ivan had already started making his way back to the meeting room. He didn't see Matthew blush.
Ivan was trapped in that hell between anger and embarrassment. Everyone was going to Kiku's house for karaoke. Everyone but him. He hadn't expected to be invited, honestly, since he never was, since he and Japan had bad history, since he wasn't interested in singing in front of anyone (honestly). But Alfred had shouted out, just as everyone was packing up, that it was no good for Ivan to even try crashing the party because he wouldn't fit.
“You're way too tall!” Alfred had shouted at him before laughing, and it was the canned type that got annoying when you watched sitcoms for too long. “Japan just isn't a good place for giants!”
Giants. Giants. Giants!
He was tall, yes, Ivan would admit that. But a giant? What, did Alfred expect to see him on a sign for a circus? The Amazing Russian Giant - See Him Before His Giantism Kills Him! And wouldn't that just please Alfred even more? Him, dying from not being able to hold up his own weight? (Actually, that sounded vaguely like the fall of the Union, but it also sounded like the fall of the Roman Empire, so Ivan told himself he didn't need to worry about how it sounded).
He looked up from his fish and chips as someone slid into the booth across from him. If this was another British human trying to make conversation with him...
But it wasn't. The person across from him had his eyes and Alfred's face. If he only looked at the hair and eyes, Ivan could quell the instinctive hate he felt at the face.
“I could fit inside the booth,” Matthew said, taking off the plastic cap to his tartar sauce. “And I can sing and play instruments.” He looked up, and Ivan wanted to punch the loneliness right out of his eyes. It was like a mirror, those eyes. It didn't help that he could see his own, reflected in Matthew's glasses, purple overlapping Matthew's periwinkle. “But I'm never invited to karaoke, either.”
Ivan jabbed a fry into his ketchup, almost breaking it, and ate it. “I'm not a giant,” he said, and he told himself the tightness in his chest was anger (not insecurity; how could Russia be insecure?).
“I know,” Matthew agreed, tearing off a piece of deep fried fish and dipping it in the sauce. He stared resolutely down at his food as he continued, “But I'd rather be a giant than a nobody.”
Ivan ate a fry, much more gently, and thought about that. “Are you a nobody?” he asked, picking up another fry.
Matthew looked up, blinking. “Are you a giant?” he asked. There wasn't any malice, just the same neutral curiosity Ivan had used.
“That's what I'm told,” Ivan admitted.
Matthew nodded, ate a fry. “Same.”
The last meeting had been in England, so naturally, the current one was being held in France. But of course, if you were in France, in Paris, you couldn't show up with a stain on your shirt or a tad too much lint. That's why, fifteen minutes before he had to leave for the meeting, Ivan was in the communal laundry room of the hotel ironing a shirt he swore he had hung up the night before (and why were they staying at a place so cheap each room didn't have it's own ironing board?).
It was as he was doing the finishing touches that Alfred walked in with a group of other nations. (Ivan vaguely wondered what prevented the man from travelling alone, even to a laundry room.)
Unfortunately for Ivan, the shirt he had planned on wearing was the one currently under the iron. He only had a pair of pants (the belt hanging open, pulling the fabric down instead of supporting it) and a scarf on. His entire back and chest was open to the critical eyes of the Western world.
Matthew fidgeted, and it wasn't with nerves. Ivan could feel the muscles under the shoulder he still held, and he knew the feeling: it was anger. “Yes,” he agreed. “Mostly.”
“Yes,” Ivan agreed, smiling and taking his hand away. “Mostly.” Matthew looked up, startled. Ivan's smile grew, his eyes bright. “You have nicer eyes than him.”
Ivan had already started making his way back to the meeting room. He didn't see Matthew blush.
Ivan was trapped in that hell between anger and embarrassment. Everyone was going to Kiku's house for karaoke. Everyone but him. He hadn't expected to be invited, honestly, since he never was, since he and Japan had bad history, since he wasn't interested in singing in front of anyone (honestly). But Alfred had shouted out, just as everyone was packing up, that it was no good for Ivan to even try crashing the party because he wouldn't fit.
“You're way too tall!” Alfred had shouted at him before laughing, and it was the canned type that got annoying when you watched sitcoms for too long. “Japan just isn't a good place for giants!”
Giants. Giants. Giants!
He was tall, yes, Ivan would admit that. But a giant? What, did Alfred expect to see him on a sign for a circus? The Amazing Russian Giant - See Him Before His Giantism Kills Him! And wouldn't that just please Alfred even more? Him, dying from not being able to hold up his own weight? (Actually, that sounded vaguely like the fall of the Union, but it also sounded like the fall of the Roman Empire, so Ivan told himself he didn't need to worry about how it sounded).
He looked up from his fish and chips as someone slid into the booth across from him. If this was another British human trying to make conversation with him...
But it wasn't. The person across from him had his eyes and Alfred's face. If he only looked at the hair and eyes, Ivan could quell the instinctive hate he felt at the face.
“I could fit inside the booth,” Matthew said, taking off the plastic cap to his tartar sauce. “And I can sing and play instruments.” He looked up, and Ivan wanted to punch the loneliness right out of his eyes. It was like a mirror, those eyes. It didn't help that he could see his own, reflected in Matthew's glasses, purple overlapping Matthew's periwinkle. “But I'm never invited to karaoke, either.”
Ivan jabbed a fry into his ketchup, almost breaking it, and ate it. “I'm not a giant,” he said, and he told himself the tightness in his chest was anger (not insecurity; how could Russia be insecure?).
“I know,” Matthew agreed, tearing off a piece of deep fried fish and dipping it in the sauce. He stared resolutely down at his food as he continued, “But I'd rather be a giant than a nobody.”
Ivan ate a fry, much more gently, and thought about that. “Are you a nobody?” he asked, picking up another fry.
Matthew looked up, blinking. “Are you a giant?” he asked. There wasn't any malice, just the same neutral curiosity Ivan had used.
“That's what I'm told,” Ivan admitted.
Matthew nodded, ate a fry. “Same.”
The last meeting had been in England, so naturally, the current one was being held in France. But of course, if you were in France, in Paris, you couldn't show up with a stain on your shirt or a tad too much lint. That's why, fifteen minutes before he had to leave for the meeting, Ivan was in the communal laundry room of the hotel ironing a shirt he swore he had hung up the night before (and why were they staying at a place so cheap each room didn't have it's own ironing board?).
It was as he was doing the finishing touches that Alfred walked in with a group of other nations. (Ivan vaguely wondered what prevented the man from travelling alone, even to a laundry room.)
Unfortunately for Ivan, the shirt he had planned on wearing was the one currently under the iron. He only had a pair of pants (the belt hanging open, pulling the fabric down instead of supporting it) and a scarf on. His entire back and chest was open to the critical eyes of the Western world.
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