hetalia oneshot || let's just hope tomorrow's sunny;
title: Let's Just Hope Tomorrow's Sunny
pairings: onesided USxUK because England's an idiot; onesided Russia X America because America's an idiot
rating: PG
summary: A dark bruised night; America watches for England, Russia watches for America.
LET'S JUST HOPE TOMORROW'S SUNNY
Dark night, bruised lights; it had been sunny today but all the movement seemed like rain, even against the cheerful neon, against the crowded voices. An open, free-type scene, people all around- either minding their own business or tryin' to get in on somebody else's. The meeting had let out only fifteen minutes ago but familiar faces had emptied into the masked crowd. Russia spotted Japan moving fast down his own corner; looked around, saw France and in in the flash of a moment lost sight of him. Russia, a foreigner in New York- he pulled up his gloves and ambled along with a mysterious look on his face, a shady smile. Down one city block, the corner of another...
Making his way back to his hotel. He'd managed to get a room at one not too far from the stone-glam faced building that they met in. Business as usual: lots of words and not much being said, everyone with a hidden plan. His plan was hidden at least. Two car horns sounded like an animal military and then passed into reflections of colored steel.
Halfway down the block, there was darkness and light in many colors- and the magnesium brightness of a familiar blonde, familiar arrogant laughter, fighting its way against labyrinth sounds. He looked up, squinting slightly, narrowing out the possibility. Oh, so that was America. Strange, the people you ran into. 'Specially when they were people you didn't want to run into.
America was only a few paces ahead of him. Russia's mind paused, a sudden emptiness of thought as he watched America- watched cheer sparking in the movement of his hands. Salesman's hands. The crowd cleared a bit, and now he discerned England's slim frame, bones of formality. Russia smiled absently. Always together, those two, always a team, some sort of family.
America seemed to be pitching an idea England wasn't too keen on. They stopped in the middle of the crowd, and Russia stopped too.
"-are you staying? I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry, America." England's voice on a thin wire.
America laughed. "Yeah, that's true!" Russia leaned against a phone booth, watching them with slim eyes. There was something in America's posture that he'd never seen before- something like...hesitance? But not especially; a strange shuffling in his hands and feet, but he was imperceptibly leaning toward England- like dangling off night cliffs, looking for something to hold onto. Russia laughed slightly to himself, a small note. Someone passed by his line of vision, but not before he saw America brush his hand through his hair, a nervous tick in his wrist. "D-d'ya wanna eat with me? I mean it's only across the street. I mean if you're not y'know. Too English for a diner."
His words a tripping fall- Russia checked off every mistake he was making, from the friendly insults to the star white grin he flashed. England looked at him with flat eyes. "Too English- you're too charming, America. And I'll pass. I'm going back to the hotel-"
"Aw, come on," America said, grabbing England's arm before he turned away. England looked at him expectantly. Something in Russia sparked, flared, at the tone of America's voice- so strangely soft and asking- sparked at the silence between them...he felt a darkness in the back of his head, beginning to pound a dull beat. "It's not too late, is it? I mean, it's only- what time is it?"
"It's eleven 'o' clock, America."
"Pre-cisely!" he exclaimed, with a cheesy pronunciation. "Come on, it'll do you good, ya old man-" and with a short laugh proceeded to drag England across the small street. Well, America was always good at forcing people to do things, Russia noted with battery acid in his thoughts.
"Stop dragging me I already said-"
"Come on, please?" He said it on the wave of a sunshine laugh.
"Oh God!- America stop you're going to get hit by a bloody car!" And indeed that was possible. A burnt orange Scion came dangerously close to being dangerously close to America, but the driver stopped just inches before him, spitting curses in her seat.
"What? Nonsense. Heroes don't get his by cars."
"Oh you're insufferable-" England said, and Russia perceived the warmth in his voice...but then their voices were out of earshot, and the silence left him in a new state of heavy empty, a new state in which he was a stranger. He hummed to himself...feeling cheerful, although the black feeling was still beating in his mind...
America by pure luck dodged a Yamaha- England seemed to shake or jump in shock, shouted something incoherent that got him a few puzzled looks, but America carried on. They managed it unscathed; now on the sidewalk, America let go of England's arm, and even after he did England whipped it away as though insulted. America laughed again- Russia could barely hear it, but it was always discernible- the notes were radio-waves floating diamond-scratch across the crowd...
England shouted something at America, fists balled up at his sides, but America just kept laughing...something seemed to clear up. That side of the street was almost empty, only a few disco vultures loping around...and the darkness crowding, but America wasn't somebody who could be shadowed. The laughter subsided, waved off. England stood rigid by the curb.
America said something, pointed back at the diner with his thumb (probably something like, "I'll go get a table?"); England shook his head, replied something, turned away. Russia leaned forward a bit- curious as to the conclusion of this incidental play- a kind of curiosity children pay to small animals, spiders to flies. He couldn't clearly see the expression on America's face- but he could decipher the asking in his posture, one hand outstretched, with that same leaning...but England waved him off and reached to take something out of his coat pocket. America's posture withdrew, receded into itself, a wave back into the ocean. He said something that Russia understood as "okay," and paused. And England didn't see any of it- the dark blue, the wanting in his open palm, the breath of sincerity, or the fall...Russia sat down, still leaning against the small phone booth pole. England had seen it just as a question, and it was, but he didn't realize America was asking a lot more.
America shrugged and turned off into a diner. England dialed something on his cellphone and brought it up to his ear, the rhythm of waiting in his fingers, his face blank. Russia's smile quirked up to the side- so America'd been turned down. He hadn't expected that one. And he hadn't really even been "turned down," because there was no emotion in England's response. He'd been unnoticed; gone by because of blindness. If England had seen the subtle movements, America's smile, maybe he would have taken him up, gave meaning to a night- but he didn't even notice. Russia was sure America wasn't used to that. He tapped idly on his knee. It was funny to him in a way, but oddly, he wasn't sure that he was laughing at America. Or even at anybody. The laughter in his head was reflective, iridescent, hollow.
England finished his phone call and went across the street. The stories of the night swelled and took over for a moment. Russia figured that he should get on back to the hotel and enjoy his shadow victory later- but then through the large diner windows, he spotted America- the brash electricity coursing through the way he moved, the brightness of his hair and smile...he said something to a waitress and sat down on a spinning chair at the long counter.
He asked for something; he paused, seemed to reflect on his hands- then he got up nervously from his seat and started to go out, and then seemed to remember something and sat right back down. His movements were now inward and biting, like he was kicking himself in the head for thinking something stupid.
Russia watched, breath hitched like ice; his posture idle, his eyes remembering. He couldn't make out America's eyes precisely, but he recognized the lost blue...he recognized the coolness in his arms, his hands...he recognized the whole look just like he would recognize a mirror. Slightly lost, having tried, having spent up energy and solutions- the slack posture of being miserably back at square one, and the soft darkness of being unrecognized, of desiring. Russia's smile picked up again, although softly this time.
The waitress put down a cup of coffee in front of America. He smiled and nodded at her but seemed to barely regard it. The night storm came up effervescent in the lights again, and Russia realized that here more than every they were together- companions in naked snow.
He knew America though, and America would pick up and try again and again, no matter how obtuse England was. Russia leaned back against the metal pole; he himself wasn't like that. He could never muster the energy to be like that. America could melt snow, but Russia just became it, much as he didn't want to admit it. But for now, they were similar, for now they were in the same place, bit off and disregarded by the same cold wind. Not the best way to be together, he mused, but together nonetheless.
On the outside looking in. Russia watched America for a few more minutes, feeling like they weren't separated at all, feeling every ache and push of his movements. A hamburger came down the counter soon after the coffee. Russia gave a little laugh- of course a hamburger, what else? What a stupid boy...
Then he noticed cigarette smoke drifting by his eyelids; the lights like rain- he looked up and noticed England standing nearby him, eyes sharp. Russia wondered for a moment whether he was watching America as well. But then a car passed by and England's eyes followed it; he realized that no, he was just waiting for a taxi. England in his Navy coat, the dying fire smoldering again as he inhaled.
"Oh, hello," Russia said sweetly, loud enough so England could hear him above the street sounds.
England started a bit, then looked down and saw Russia sitting idly down by the phone booth, looking clean and dignified against the gumshit concrete. England's eyebrows furrowed, and a high suspicious feeling rose in him- what the Hell was Russia doing here...? He nodded a greeting and took another drag, eyes still on the street.
Then he looked to Russia again; smoke drifting cool out of his mouth. Russia looked up at him and thought him one of the biggest idiots alive (maybe even more than America himself), but his smile only obliquely hinted at that...and then he turned his eyes back toward the diner window. England shifted uncomfortably.
"Eh- what are you watching?" England asked.
Russia smiled up at him again. "Warmth that I could never muster," he replied.
The words hit England's mind, a cold strange magnet. He followed Russia's gaze...he didn't know exactly what Russia was talking about, but he got the gist. Something in him hardened as he flung his cigarette onto the sidewalk, stamped it out. "It's usually better to be alone," he answered, going back to watching the cars.
Ah, so that was the problem. Russia looked at England and thought it might be true; but then he turned his eyes back toward America, and he knew better.
A black cab's tires whirled a turning sound onto the street, and it pulled up to the curb in front of them. "Right, then," England said by way of greeting, very formal and official, opening the door.
Russia got up from his place in a clean, graceful movement. "Just keep your eyes open, England," he said, sing-song, waving a short goodbye. England's expression wilted, his eye twitched in irritation (probably figuring it some kind of threat)...then he closed the door, and the car spun off, down the dark foreigner street.
Russia gave one last glance to America in the window; America of course didn't look back, crossed in solitude and planning. But Russia just laughed to himself, and started back to his hotel. People passed him by, signs of tomorrow. He figured America was thinking up new schemes to win England's maidenly affection, and that was all good and fine, but Russia wasn't going to wish him luck. He wasn't at that stage of winter just yet.
Notes;; So yeah. I might do a follow-up? Also does anyone notice how much I love the winter thing for Russia? XDDD
Oh and please point out any spelling/grammar mistakes here? Reason being is I had to re-type it from one comp to another so I don't know if I have any fuck-ups.
Thanks for reading! :D
pairings: onesided USxUK because England's an idiot; onesided Russia X America because America's an idiot
rating: PG
summary: A dark bruised night; America watches for England, Russia watches for America.
LET'S JUST HOPE TOMORROW'S SUNNY
Dark night, bruised lights; it had been sunny today but all the movement seemed like rain, even against the cheerful neon, against the crowded voices. An open, free-type scene, people all around- either minding their own business or tryin' to get in on somebody else's. The meeting had let out only fifteen minutes ago but familiar faces had emptied into the masked crowd. Russia spotted Japan moving fast down his own corner; looked around, saw France and in in the flash of a moment lost sight of him. Russia, a foreigner in New York- he pulled up his gloves and ambled along with a mysterious look on his face, a shady smile. Down one city block, the corner of another...
Making his way back to his hotel. He'd managed to get a room at one not too far from the stone-glam faced building that they met in. Business as usual: lots of words and not much being said, everyone with a hidden plan. His plan was hidden at least. Two car horns sounded like an animal military and then passed into reflections of colored steel.
Halfway down the block, there was darkness and light in many colors- and the magnesium brightness of a familiar blonde, familiar arrogant laughter, fighting its way against labyrinth sounds. He looked up, squinting slightly, narrowing out the possibility. Oh, so that was America. Strange, the people you ran into. 'Specially when they were people you didn't want to run into.
America was only a few paces ahead of him. Russia's mind paused, a sudden emptiness of thought as he watched America- watched cheer sparking in the movement of his hands. Salesman's hands. The crowd cleared a bit, and now he discerned England's slim frame, bones of formality. Russia smiled absently. Always together, those two, always a team, some sort of family.
America seemed to be pitching an idea England wasn't too keen on. They stopped in the middle of the crowd, and Russia stopped too.
"-are you staying? I'm hungry."
"You're always hungry, America." England's voice on a thin wire.
America laughed. "Yeah, that's true!" Russia leaned against a phone booth, watching them with slim eyes. There was something in America's posture that he'd never seen before- something like...hesitance? But not especially; a strange shuffling in his hands and feet, but he was imperceptibly leaning toward England- like dangling off night cliffs, looking for something to hold onto. Russia laughed slightly to himself, a small note. Someone passed by his line of vision, but not before he saw America brush his hand through his hair, a nervous tick in his wrist. "D-d'ya wanna eat with me? I mean it's only across the street. I mean if you're not y'know. Too English for a diner."
His words a tripping fall- Russia checked off every mistake he was making, from the friendly insults to the star white grin he flashed. England looked at him with flat eyes. "Too English- you're too charming, America. And I'll pass. I'm going back to the hotel-"
"Aw, come on," America said, grabbing England's arm before he turned away. England looked at him expectantly. Something in Russia sparked, flared, at the tone of America's voice- so strangely soft and asking- sparked at the silence between them...he felt a darkness in the back of his head, beginning to pound a dull beat. "It's not too late, is it? I mean, it's only- what time is it?"
"It's eleven 'o' clock, America."
"Pre-cisely!" he exclaimed, with a cheesy pronunciation. "Come on, it'll do you good, ya old man-" and with a short laugh proceeded to drag England across the small street. Well, America was always good at forcing people to do things, Russia noted with battery acid in his thoughts.
"Stop dragging me I already said-"
"Come on, please?" He said it on the wave of a sunshine laugh.
"Oh God!- America stop you're going to get hit by a bloody car!" And indeed that was possible. A burnt orange Scion came dangerously close to being dangerously close to America, but the driver stopped just inches before him, spitting curses in her seat.
"What? Nonsense. Heroes don't get his by cars."
"Oh you're insufferable-" England said, and Russia perceived the warmth in his voice...but then their voices were out of earshot, and the silence left him in a new state of heavy empty, a new state in which he was a stranger. He hummed to himself...feeling cheerful, although the black feeling was still beating in his mind...
America by pure luck dodged a Yamaha- England seemed to shake or jump in shock, shouted something incoherent that got him a few puzzled looks, but America carried on. They managed it unscathed; now on the sidewalk, America let go of England's arm, and even after he did England whipped it away as though insulted. America laughed again- Russia could barely hear it, but it was always discernible- the notes were radio-waves floating diamond-scratch across the crowd...
England shouted something at America, fists balled up at his sides, but America just kept laughing...something seemed to clear up. That side of the street was almost empty, only a few disco vultures loping around...and the darkness crowding, but America wasn't somebody who could be shadowed. The laughter subsided, waved off. England stood rigid by the curb.
America said something, pointed back at the diner with his thumb (probably something like, "I'll go get a table?"); England shook his head, replied something, turned away. Russia leaned forward a bit- curious as to the conclusion of this incidental play- a kind of curiosity children pay to small animals, spiders to flies. He couldn't clearly see the expression on America's face- but he could decipher the asking in his posture, one hand outstretched, with that same leaning...but England waved him off and reached to take something out of his coat pocket. America's posture withdrew, receded into itself, a wave back into the ocean. He said something that Russia understood as "okay," and paused. And England didn't see any of it- the dark blue, the wanting in his open palm, the breath of sincerity, or the fall...Russia sat down, still leaning against the small phone booth pole. England had seen it just as a question, and it was, but he didn't realize America was asking a lot more.
America shrugged and turned off into a diner. England dialed something on his cellphone and brought it up to his ear, the rhythm of waiting in his fingers, his face blank. Russia's smile quirked up to the side- so America'd been turned down. He hadn't expected that one. And he hadn't really even been "turned down," because there was no emotion in England's response. He'd been unnoticed; gone by because of blindness. If England had seen the subtle movements, America's smile, maybe he would have taken him up, gave meaning to a night- but he didn't even notice. Russia was sure America wasn't used to that. He tapped idly on his knee. It was funny to him in a way, but oddly, he wasn't sure that he was laughing at America. Or even at anybody. The laughter in his head was reflective, iridescent, hollow.
England finished his phone call and went across the street. The stories of the night swelled and took over for a moment. Russia figured that he should get on back to the hotel and enjoy his shadow victory later- but then through the large diner windows, he spotted America- the brash electricity coursing through the way he moved, the brightness of his hair and smile...he said something to a waitress and sat down on a spinning chair at the long counter.
He asked for something; he paused, seemed to reflect on his hands- then he got up nervously from his seat and started to go out, and then seemed to remember something and sat right back down. His movements were now inward and biting, like he was kicking himself in the head for thinking something stupid.
Russia watched, breath hitched like ice; his posture idle, his eyes remembering. He couldn't make out America's eyes precisely, but he recognized the lost blue...he recognized the coolness in his arms, his hands...he recognized the whole look just like he would recognize a mirror. Slightly lost, having tried, having spent up energy and solutions- the slack posture of being miserably back at square one, and the soft darkness of being unrecognized, of desiring. Russia's smile picked up again, although softly this time.
The waitress put down a cup of coffee in front of America. He smiled and nodded at her but seemed to barely regard it. The night storm came up effervescent in the lights again, and Russia realized that here more than every they were together- companions in naked snow.
He knew America though, and America would pick up and try again and again, no matter how obtuse England was. Russia leaned back against the metal pole; he himself wasn't like that. He could never muster the energy to be like that. America could melt snow, but Russia just became it, much as he didn't want to admit it. But for now, they were similar, for now they were in the same place, bit off and disregarded by the same cold wind. Not the best way to be together, he mused, but together nonetheless.
On the outside looking in. Russia watched America for a few more minutes, feeling like they weren't separated at all, feeling every ache and push of his movements. A hamburger came down the counter soon after the coffee. Russia gave a little laugh- of course a hamburger, what else? What a stupid boy...
Then he noticed cigarette smoke drifting by his eyelids; the lights like rain- he looked up and noticed England standing nearby him, eyes sharp. Russia wondered for a moment whether he was watching America as well. But then a car passed by and England's eyes followed it; he realized that no, he was just waiting for a taxi. England in his Navy coat, the dying fire smoldering again as he inhaled.
"Oh, hello," Russia said sweetly, loud enough so England could hear him above the street sounds.
England started a bit, then looked down and saw Russia sitting idly down by the phone booth, looking clean and dignified against the gumshit concrete. England's eyebrows furrowed, and a high suspicious feeling rose in him- what the Hell was Russia doing here...? He nodded a greeting and took another drag, eyes still on the street.
Then he looked to Russia again; smoke drifting cool out of his mouth. Russia looked up at him and thought him one of the biggest idiots alive (maybe even more than America himself), but his smile only obliquely hinted at that...and then he turned his eyes back toward the diner window. England shifted uncomfortably.
"Eh- what are you watching?" England asked.
Russia smiled up at him again. "Warmth that I could never muster," he replied.
The words hit England's mind, a cold strange magnet. He followed Russia's gaze...he didn't know exactly what Russia was talking about, but he got the gist. Something in him hardened as he flung his cigarette onto the sidewalk, stamped it out. "It's usually better to be alone," he answered, going back to watching the cars.
Ah, so that was the problem. Russia looked at England and thought it might be true; but then he turned his eyes back toward America, and he knew better.
A black cab's tires whirled a turning sound onto the street, and it pulled up to the curb in front of them. "Right, then," England said by way of greeting, very formal and official, opening the door.
Russia got up from his place in a clean, graceful movement. "Just keep your eyes open, England," he said, sing-song, waving a short goodbye. England's expression wilted, his eye twitched in irritation (probably figuring it some kind of threat)...then he closed the door, and the car spun off, down the dark foreigner street.
Russia gave one last glance to America in the window; America of course didn't look back, crossed in solitude and planning. But Russia just laughed to himself, and started back to his hotel. People passed him by, signs of tomorrow. He figured America was thinking up new schemes to win England's maidenly affection, and that was all good and fine, but Russia wasn't going to wish him luck. He wasn't at that stage of winter just yet.
Notes;; So yeah. I might do a follow-up? Also does anyone notice how much I love the winter thing for Russia? XDDD
Oh and please point out any spelling/grammar mistakes here? Reason being is I had to re-type it from one comp to another so I don't know if I have any fuck-ups.
Thanks for reading! :D