"One Reverential Man"
Title: One Reverential Man
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG
First Posted: At russiamerica, for the CMC Event!
Warnings: A brief depiction of Russia's childhood. Nothing too awful, though.
Summary: Russia's been gazing at the moon since he was old enough to know what it was. And now America's gotten there first.
+++
Vanya doesn't think he's ever been so cold in his life. Ice works its way through his muscles, into his bones, and freezing gusts of wind cut through his thin clothing. He trembles, chafes small hands up and down his skinny arms to warm himself. The fire is close enough for him to see himself shaking, and to feel thin licks of warmth just once every few minutes. Somehow it makes everything worse.
He curls forward, tries to edge nearer. He would rather be on fire than cold like this. Ashes catch and glow under the logs, and he wishes he was in there too, burning with the embers. He wiggles closer, closer, and--
The iron collar slams into his windpipe, crushes out his air. He whimpers.
He strains at the fire for a few minutes more, breathing in sharp, wheezing gasps as the collar digs into his skin. His tether jerks taut, and it anchors him to a short post several feet behind him. It's not the same post They use for the dogs, not like last time. At least, he doesn't think so. He doesn't remember very much after the animals started growling.
He lunges forward again. And again, and again.
Black begins to well up behind his eyes, suddenly, and his limbs are shuddering with something that isn't cold; the feeling is still unfamiliar, but Vanya stops himself at once. He settles back, brings his knees up to his chest, and wraps his arms around them. He makes a soft, sad sound. He's started having these...funny little fits when something presses on his neck too hard. He hates them, because he cries and cries like a baby while They all stand around and laugh at him.
His teeth chatter, and he feeds two fingers under the collar. They come away bloody. It's too loose. Why can't he be big enough for it not to chafe him?
He rests his head on his knees and stares off into the night sky. The moon gleams, like a bright pebble washed smooth by a river. Vanya wishes he was there. His sister had told him a story before They took her away, about the moon being a woman with white arms and silvery hair who watched over everybody in the night.
He shivers, and thinks that she must not be paying very close attention.
The fire pops, and a tiny spark lands in the earth next to his foot. His eyes linger on it for a moment, then slide back to the sky. The moon looks cold, and distant, like an icon in a church. He decides he would like for her to hold him anyway.
+
Centuries later, and Russia is staring up at that same moon, his lungs full of smoke. He wants to wrap his fingers around the sharp, perfect edge, pull it down from the sky, and tear it in half.
His cigarette dangles briefly from his lips as he tightens the knot of his scarf with both hands. When his skin touches the cheap paper again, there's a flash of heat. He's smoked it nearly down to the filter.
"What the hell are you still doing here?" A bored voice filters down from over his shoulder.
Russia doesn't bother to turn around. "There's a better view from where you are." He takes another long drag, and exhales in a grey rush.
"You bet there is. What with me having been there and all." America's footsteps creak over the slats of his porch, and then halt as he sinks down one step higher than Russia. "But I asked you over so I could see your face when I told you, not so you could sit in front of my house like a fucking pervert."
"This has nothing to do with you," Russia lies.
There's a pause, and America's presence behind him is suffocating. Finally the other nation sighs, reaches around, and steals the tail end of the cigarette from between Russia's fingers.
And Russia does look then, if only to see America's lips press against the paper, where his own had been mere seconds before. He doesn't say anything.
America blows out thin stream of smoke. "It's beautiful, you know," he murmurs. The edge has gone out of his voice, and his eyes are fixed on the moon. "Like a...a goddess, or something."
"It's a rock, America."
A soft breeze kicks up. Russia doesn't notice. He doesn't get cold, anymore.
"Just a rock," he repeats. "And I never wanted it anyway."
He hears America stub out the cigarette against the side of the steps, and then--America's fingers, gentle, turning Russia's face up to look at him. Their gazes lock.
"Yeah, you did," America whispers.
A shivering silence.
Russia drops his eyes.
+++
-The Mongol invasion of Rus' was heralded by the Battle of the Kalka River in 1223 between the Mongolian generals Subutai and Jebe's reconnaissance unit and the combined force of several Rus' princes. After fifteen years of peace, it was followed by Batu Khan's full-scale invasion during 1237 to 1240. The invasion, facilitated by the breakup of Kievan Rus' in the 12th century, had incalculable ramifications for the history of Eastern Europe, including the division of the East Slavic people into three separate nations and the rise of the Grand Duchy of Moscow.
-The Space Race between the United States and the Soviet Union culminated in the United States succeeding in landing the first manned spacecraft on the moon, the Apollo 11, on July 20th, 1969.
-The title of this fic comes from a poem by French poet Charles Buadelaire, The Melancholy Moon. Pretension, ho!
How pensively the Moon slides by tonight,
An odalisque reclining on her couch
Of cloud, one unselfconscious cloudy white
Hand, slipping down her breast for one last touch.
Then, vanishing in a voluptuous
Avalanche of light, mesmerized for hours,
Enthralled, she watches white clouds efflorescence,
Expanding in the dark like firework flowers.
When now and then a surreptitious tear
Drips from her cheek into our atmosphere,
One reverential man--alert, alone--
Puts out his hand to catch this pallid gem
That has an opal's iridescent gleam,
And in his dark heart hides it from the Sun.
+
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG
First Posted: At russiamerica, for the CMC Event!
Warnings: A brief depiction of Russia's childhood. Nothing too awful, though.
Summary: Russia's been gazing at the moon since he was old enough to know what it was. And now America's gotten there first.
+++
Vanya doesn't think he's ever been so cold in his life. Ice works its way through his muscles, into his bones, and freezing gusts of wind cut through his thin clothing. He trembles, chafes small hands up and down his skinny arms to warm himself. The fire is close enough for him to see himself shaking, and to feel thin licks of warmth just once every few minutes. Somehow it makes everything worse.
He curls forward, tries to edge nearer. He would rather be on fire than cold like this. Ashes catch and glow under the logs, and he wishes he was in there too, burning with the embers. He wiggles closer, closer, and--
The iron collar slams into his windpipe, crushes out his air. He whimpers.
He strains at the fire for a few minutes more, breathing in sharp, wheezing gasps as the collar digs into his skin. His tether jerks taut, and it anchors him to a short post several feet behind him. It's not the same post They use for the dogs, not like last time. At least, he doesn't think so. He doesn't remember very much after the animals started growling.
He lunges forward again. And again, and again.
Black begins to well up behind his eyes, suddenly, and his limbs are shuddering with something that isn't cold; the feeling is still unfamiliar, but Vanya stops himself at once. He settles back, brings his knees up to his chest, and wraps his arms around them. He makes a soft, sad sound. He's started having these...funny little fits when something presses on his neck too hard. He hates them, because he cries and cries like a baby while They all stand around and laugh at him.
His teeth chatter, and he feeds two fingers under the collar. They come away bloody. It's too loose. Why can't he be big enough for it not to chafe him?
He rests his head on his knees and stares off into the night sky. The moon gleams, like a bright pebble washed smooth by a river. Vanya wishes he was there. His sister had told him a story before They took her away, about the moon being a woman with white arms and silvery hair who watched over everybody in the night.
He shivers, and thinks that she must not be paying very close attention.
The fire pops, and a tiny spark lands in the earth next to his foot. His eyes linger on it for a moment, then slide back to the sky. The moon looks cold, and distant, like an icon in a church. He decides he would like for her to hold him anyway.
+
Centuries later, and Russia is staring up at that same moon, his lungs full of smoke. He wants to wrap his fingers around the sharp, perfect edge, pull it down from the sky, and tear it in half.
His cigarette dangles briefly from his lips as he tightens the knot of his scarf with both hands. When his skin touches the cheap paper again, there's a flash of heat. He's smoked it nearly down to the filter.
"What the hell are you still doing here?" A bored voice filters down from over his shoulder.
Russia doesn't bother to turn around. "There's a better view from where you are." He takes another long drag, and exhales in a grey rush.
"You bet there is. What with me having been there and all." America's footsteps creak over the slats of his porch, and then halt as he sinks down one step higher than Russia. "But I asked you over so I could see your face when I told you, not so you could sit in front of my house like a fucking pervert."
"This has nothing to do with you," Russia lies.
There's a pause, and America's presence behind him is suffocating. Finally the other nation sighs, reaches around, and steals the tail end of the cigarette from between Russia's fingers.
And Russia does look then, if only to see America's lips press against the paper, where his own had been mere seconds before. He doesn't say anything.
America blows out thin stream of smoke. "It's beautiful, you know," he murmurs. The edge has gone out of his voice, and his eyes are fixed on the moon. "Like a...a goddess, or something."
"It's a rock, America."
A soft breeze kicks up. Russia doesn't notice. He doesn't get cold, anymore.
"Just a rock," he repeats. "And I never wanted it anyway."
He hears America stub out the cigarette against the side of the steps, and then--America's fingers, gentle, turning Russia's face up to look at him. Their gazes lock.
"Yeah, you did," America whispers.
A shivering silence.
Russia drops his eyes.
+++
-The Mongol invasion of Rus' was heralded by the Battle of the Kalka River in 1223 between the Mongolian generals Subutai and Jebe's reconnaissance unit and the combined force of several Rus' princes. After fifteen years of peace, it was followed by Batu Khan's full-scale invasion during 1237 to 1240. The invasion, facilitated by the breakup of Kievan Rus' in the 12th century, had incalculable ramifications for the history of Eastern Europe, including the division of the East Slavic people into three separate nations and the rise of the Grand Duchy of Moscow.
-The Space Race between the United States and the Soviet Union culminated in the United States succeeding in landing the first manned spacecraft on the moon, the Apollo 11, on July 20th, 1969.
-The title of this fic comes from a poem by French poet Charles Buadelaire, The Melancholy Moon. Pretension, ho!
How pensively the Moon slides by tonight,
An odalisque reclining on her couch
Of cloud, one unselfconscious cloudy white
Hand, slipping down her breast for one last touch.
Then, vanishing in a voluptuous
Avalanche of light, mesmerized for hours,
Enthralled, she watches white clouds efflorescence,
Expanding in the dark like firework flowers.
When now and then a surreptitious tear
Drips from her cheek into our atmosphere,
One reverential man--alert, alone--
Puts out his hand to catch this pallid gem
That has an opal's iridescent gleam,
And in his dark heart hides it from the Sun.
+