Sweet Nothings - [8/?]
anonymous
June 4 2009, 06:07:45 UTC
The next morning, he came up with some half-baked excuse about his red, puffy eyes - something about shampoo getting into them, something or other...
Do you mean them.
He didn't dare to let Ivan see. He didn't even look at his way the whole day.
---
---
"Good morning, America."
The only sign that he felt a stab on his heart was the way he frowned for a split second - before covering it up with his superficial grin.
"... Good morning, Russia."
---
---
Good nations always found a way to weather the storm, but in this case, America felt like he just wanted to float aimlessly in the clouds and never come back. Still, he was a good nation, so he was quick to shove his feelings to the back of his mind to focus on what he needed to do. It worked, most of the time - but it failed miserably when he had nothing to finish, and was left with a lot of time to think.
The days passed. He knew his eyes were bloodshot and sunken in and generally he looked horrible, from what he saw every time he went in front of the mirror to shave. It really was that bad, since even his boss demanded him to take a long vacation - he deserved it.
Problem was, he didn't want a vacation.
He wanted Ivan. He was already past the point of caring - he knew what he wanted and he wasn't going to deny it any longer.
And he also wanted to know why did you -
That night kept replaying in his head over and over. It wasn't as if he did anything wrong, and neither did Ivan - Alfred said something about not knowing what to say, and that's when it all went downhill.
Christ, we're fucked. I - I don't know what to say.
I mean, we've been doing this for a while, I - and, this whole thing -
I feel stupid for not figuring it out sooner... Fuck.
America laughed shakily, running a hand through his hair. He repeated.
"I don't know what to say."
The realisation hit him one day like a ton of bricks, and he couldn't believe it eluded him for as long as it had.
- He retreated slightly, and looked at Alfred, as if waiting for an answer.
He was waiting for me to say it, too.
America laughed humourlessly. He wanted to throw himself off a cliff - something.
I'm such a fucking idiot.
---
---
He wasn't even kidding when he said that he really tried.
But Russia was dead set on keeping their meetings brief, to the point with no lingering whatsoever. America was starting to snap from the stupidity of it all - he was frustrated, and everyone kept on bugging him about it, and he really wanted everything to be over with, but would Russia stop being so - so - I don't even know.
He wanted to say sorry, he wanted to say that he was an idiot, he wanted to say a lot of things, and maybe, he wanted to say - he wanted to say -
America growled, getting up from his armchair and pacing the steps all the way from his discussion room to the front door. A few weeks. Weeks. Every time he came to confront the nation, it was as if he was shot down before he even got the ball rolling.
"R-Russia, I -"
"Forgive me, there are some pressing matters to attend to at the moment."
-
"Russia, we have to -"
"Go bother someone else, America."
-
"Ivan. You can't just -"
"I -"
"Fucking listen to me!" he screamed, breathing heavily.
Russia closed his eyes momentarily at America's outburst. Then he smiled.
"But that's the thing, America. There's... Nothing else to say."
The next morning, he came up with some half-baked excuse about his red, puffy eyes - something about shampoo getting into them, something or other...
Do you mean them.
He didn't dare to let Ivan see. He didn't even look at his way the whole day.
---
---
"Good morning, America."
The only sign that he felt a stab on his heart was the way he frowned for a split second - before covering it up with his superficial grin.
"... Good morning, Russia."
---
---
Good nations always found a way to weather the storm, but in this case, America felt like he just wanted to float aimlessly in the clouds and never come back. Still, he was a good nation, so he was quick to shove his feelings to the back of his mind to focus on what he needed to do. It worked, most of the time - but it failed miserably when he had nothing to finish, and was left with a lot of time to think.
The days passed. He knew his eyes were bloodshot and sunken in and generally he looked horrible, from what he saw every time he went in front of the mirror to shave. It really was that bad, since even his boss demanded him to take a long vacation - he deserved it.
Problem was, he didn't want a vacation.
He wanted Ivan. He was already past the point of caring - he knew what he wanted and he wasn't going to deny it any longer.
And he also wanted to know why did you -
That night kept replaying in his head over and over. It wasn't as if he did anything wrong, and neither did Ivan - Alfred said something about not knowing what to say, and that's when it all went downhill.
Christ, we're fucked. I - I don't know what to say.
I mean, we've been doing this for a while, I - and, this whole thing -
I feel stupid for not figuring it out sooner... Fuck.
America laughed shakily, running a hand through his hair. He repeated.
"I don't know what to say."
The realisation hit him one day like a ton of bricks, and he couldn't believe it eluded him for as long as it had.
- He retreated slightly, and looked at Alfred, as if waiting for an answer.
He was waiting for me to say it, too.
America laughed humourlessly. He wanted to throw himself off a cliff - something.
I'm such a fucking idiot.
---
---
He wasn't even kidding when he said that he really tried.
But Russia was dead set on keeping their meetings brief, to the point with no lingering whatsoever. America was starting to snap from the stupidity of it all - he was frustrated, and everyone kept on bugging him about it, and he really wanted everything to be over with, but would Russia stop being so - so - I don't even know.
He wanted to say sorry, he wanted to say that he was an idiot, he wanted to say a lot of things, and maybe, he wanted to say - he wanted to say -
America growled, getting up from his armchair and pacing the steps all the way from his discussion room to the front door. A few weeks. Weeks. Every time he came to confront the nation, it was as if he was shot down before he even got the ball rolling.
"R-Russia, I -"
"Forgive me, there are some pressing matters to attend to at the moment."
-
"Russia, we have to -"
"Go bother someone else, America."
-
"Ivan. You can't just -"
"I -"
"Fucking listen to me!" he screamed, breathing heavily.
Russia closed his eyes momentarily at America's outburst. Then he smiled.
"But that's the thing, America. There's... Nothing else to say."
It hurt.
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