(no subject)
Author: harusamemosuke
Title: This is How We Live
Characters: Russia/America
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Rating/Warnings: Written in response to the recent bombings in Moscow, and some Healthcare ranting managed to sneak its way in there. There is passing mention of Medvedev and Putin. I do not wish to offend. My heart goes out to the victims.
Summary: Russia receives a phone call.
"привет"
"Russia?"
A pause. "Америка, to what do I owe this pleasure?"
"I just saw the news. Are… are you okay?"
Russia stares at the ceiling, handkerchief pressed to his nose. Red blooms outwards and he tastes dust on his tongue. "There is blood on my scarf. And I have a headache," he remarks absently.
A weak chuckle on the other end of the line. "Y-yeah, that happens when it's underground. England complained about ringing in his ears for weeks after… well… but are you okay?"
Russia closes his eyes.
"Russia? You still with me?"
A breath. "It was very quiet. And then it was loud. Screaming. Everyone is screaming."
"W-wait, were you there, oh god, am I calling you in the hospital? Hang on, I'm going to talk to my boss and then I'll be right over-."
"Америка"
The babbling stops. Russia listens to the panicked breathing on the other end, and wonders how, between his paranoia and America's over-the-top theatrics, there are still buildings standing in their cities and the air is not choked with radiation.
Slow and deliberate, each word placed with care. "I am not in the hospital."
He can almost see America back-pedal, even before he opens his mouth. "You're not? Of course you're not! Ahahahahaha." Odd, how easy it is to hear the strain in the other's voice. When had it first appeared? After the September attacks? After that fateful day in December? Or had it always been there, ever since that day in the rain (He remembers the day and place Америка told him, when he walked away from security into freedom. He remembers thinking such freedom comes with a horrible price).
America seems to have gotten himself under control. He is all business now. "Have you found out who did it?"
"No one has come forward yet." Russia allows America his retreat into safer territory. It gives him time to collect his thoughts. "Though of course, we have our suspicions."
"The separatists." America's voice is flat.
"It is likely."
"Fuck." He can almost see the other nation rubbing his face, wonders if америка will bring up what seems to be a nagging sore point between them.There is the struggle, the confusion and the doubt, at being on both sides of a conflict, of wanting release and clinging to hold together all his pieces, every one of them. Last time, America's hero complex won out, and the ensuing fight settles cold and wide between them. In that space, Russia feels something akin to compassion.
"How early is it over there?"
"Hmmm?" A pause. "It's… 5:30 in the morning."
Russia feels a chuckle, slow and painful, rise in his chest. "Far too early for Америка to be out of his bed, hmm?" He blots his nose with the handkerchief, passing it off to an aide and places a new one on his face.
"Har har, you are such a comedian. Asshole."
Someone is barking a question off to his left, and for a moment Russia is drawn back into the maelstrom around him. The volume suddenly rises and he sees with crystal clarity the panic lining everyone's faces. His president is currently attending a press conference which is playing on one of the television screens. Medvedev is urging citizens to keep calm in this time of crisis.
His prime minister is watching the same screen with a quiet intensity, alone for the moment. In Russia's mind, he sees another face, a thousand faces with the same intensity. Some of them have been his rulers; others have looked at him from the other side and drawn him inside out, leaving him bleeding in the snow. He wonders if the women who walked into those metro stations had the same concentration on their faces as they blew themselves up, or if they were just as frightened as their victims as they died.
"You still with me, big guy?"
"Hmm? You were saying something?" He is drawn back to the phone, to the conversation with America. Away from the blood and the bodies.
"I'm thinking… I know we're supposed to meet in Prague, you know, officially in about a week, but I can probably get away early, make a little detour in the trip plans."
Russia smiles, though it is hidden under red and white cloth. "Leaving in the middle of your healthcare crisis?"
"Argh, don't even get me started on it, I mean, my boss signed the damn thing and it's a stupid, stupid hollowed out bill that no one is happy with and oh god, I'm all for free speech and everything, but throwing rocks into windows? What is this, the 1770s? I mean, really? The call to arms bullshit? Tyranny? They should've tried living under England, then they'd really know what 'no representation' means-"
"Америка."
Another pause. And then a weak sigh. "Sorry, sorry. I'm not thinking straight. You really don't want to hear about all this, I'll bet. Hell, you've probably already heard it and had a good chuckle over it."
"It is true I do not wish to hear it, at least not over the phone." Russia is staring at the ceiling again. The nosebleed refuses to stop. "And while I have heard some of it, and while it is vaguely amusing in that way that everything you do is amusing, I cannot say that I do not know how you feel. It is hard to bring change to a people who do not want it."
"Mmm…" Noncommittal, but he knows America agrees, as would any other nation that has ever had to change. Those who do not do not last long, but those who do often are torn apart before they are put back together. This time is no different. "Wait, what do you mean 'everything you do is amusing'?"
"You were saying about perhaps a visit?" Russia forges ahead, turning the conversation back. He is good at thinking in circles, while America tends to jump about in zig-zag lines.
"Ah, yeah, I was. I think my boss won't mind. It'll probably get filed under 'Improving International Relations' or something. And even if he does, 's not like I can't get myself over there. I'll fly myself, if I have to."
Russia smiles. It is painful. But it is real, not a rictus grin aimed at the ceiling. "Always with the theatrics."
A chuckle. "You would not have me any other way."
Russia closes his eyes, still smiling as he reviews the evidence, both for and to the contrary. "No. The world would be much less interesting. Though perhaps more peaceful."
"You really are a jerk, you know that?" The gumbling is good-natured, however.
"So you have told me."
"Yeah well, it's true. Listen, it looks like there is a briefing going on… goddamn, I wonder if I can get some coffee… I don't know how long it's going to last, but I'll call after I get out, okay? And I'm going to see what I can do about getting the next flight out to Moscow."
"I will make sure to lock away the fine china."
"You really on a roll today, you know that? Jackass. You must be doing okay if you're dishing it out like that." There is the strain again, under the carelessness of America's words.
"This will not kill me, Америка. It is not the first, and will not be the last." Quiet, so quiet that only America can hear.
A pause. "I know." America is also whisper-soft.
"This is how we live." Russia says.
"You're preaching to the choir, sweetheart."
Silence stretches between them, grows and coalesces into a bubble.
"Have I ever told you how quaint and confusing I have found your idioms?"
"Okay, the moment? It's totally ruined. Kaput. Gone. I mean, we were really, ya know, bonding there for a second. And my idioms are confusing? Have you listened to Japan's? Or France's? Or hell, have you looked at yours?"
Another laugh, and it hurts less than the one before. "Америка, I believe you have a briefing to go to?"
"And now he is trying to get rid of me. I see how it is. Jackass. Can't believe I was ever worried about you."
"I appreciate your concern. And truly, this is perhaps the best conversation I have had today. I have not been so entertained so much in such a short space of time."
"You really are a jackass. Okay, I'm going to hang up now. Try not to pass out or anything while I'm away. I won't be there to lug your sorry ass around for another couple of hours."
"I shall endeavor not to."
"Right. Talk to you soon."
"Goodbye, Америка"
Russia hears the click as the other nation hangs up. He is still staring at the ceiling when another aide comes over to check up on him. The nosebleed is finally slowly, and perhaps when America comes, it will have stopped completely.
He thinks of the bodies.
It may be how they live. But it does not relieve the ache in his heart.
Notes:
The September Attacks is a reference to 9/11. The day in December is a reference to Pearl Harbor.
The article I used as reference about the Moscow attacks is here. The title is a direct quote from one of the victims.
If you want to know about Healthcare in America, I suggest googling it. It's no less embarrassing, but at least it's quieter than watching it on TV.
Title: This is How We Live
Characters: Russia/America
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Rating/Warnings: Written in response to the recent bombings in Moscow, and some Healthcare ranting managed to sneak its way in there. There is passing mention of Medvedev and Putin. I do not wish to offend. My heart goes out to the victims.
Summary: Russia receives a phone call.
"привет"
"Russia?"
A pause. "Америка, to what do I owe this pleasure?"
"I just saw the news. Are… are you okay?"
Russia stares at the ceiling, handkerchief pressed to his nose. Red blooms outwards and he tastes dust on his tongue. "There is blood on my scarf. And I have a headache," he remarks absently.
A weak chuckle on the other end of the line. "Y-yeah, that happens when it's underground. England complained about ringing in his ears for weeks after… well… but are you okay?"
Russia closes his eyes.
"Russia? You still with me?"
A breath. "It was very quiet. And then it was loud. Screaming. Everyone is screaming."
"W-wait, were you there, oh god, am I calling you in the hospital? Hang on, I'm going to talk to my boss and then I'll be right over-."
"Америка"
The babbling stops. Russia listens to the panicked breathing on the other end, and wonders how, between his paranoia and America's over-the-top theatrics, there are still buildings standing in their cities and the air is not choked with radiation.
Slow and deliberate, each word placed with care. "I am not in the hospital."
He can almost see America back-pedal, even before he opens his mouth. "You're not? Of course you're not! Ahahahahaha." Odd, how easy it is to hear the strain in the other's voice. When had it first appeared? After the September attacks? After that fateful day in December? Or had it always been there, ever since that day in the rain (He remembers the day and place Америка told him, when he walked away from security into freedom. He remembers thinking such freedom comes with a horrible price).
America seems to have gotten himself under control. He is all business now. "Have you found out who did it?"
"No one has come forward yet." Russia allows America his retreat into safer territory. It gives him time to collect his thoughts. "Though of course, we have our suspicions."
"The separatists." America's voice is flat.
"It is likely."
"Fuck." He can almost see the other nation rubbing his face, wonders if америка will bring up what seems to be a nagging sore point between them.There is the struggle, the confusion and the doubt, at being on both sides of a conflict, of wanting release and clinging to hold together all his pieces, every one of them. Last time, America's hero complex won out, and the ensuing fight settles cold and wide between them. In that space, Russia feels something akin to compassion.
"How early is it over there?"
"Hmmm?" A pause. "It's… 5:30 in the morning."
Russia feels a chuckle, slow and painful, rise in his chest. "Far too early for Америка to be out of his bed, hmm?" He blots his nose with the handkerchief, passing it off to an aide and places a new one on his face.
"Har har, you are such a comedian. Asshole."
Someone is barking a question off to his left, and for a moment Russia is drawn back into the maelstrom around him. The volume suddenly rises and he sees with crystal clarity the panic lining everyone's faces. His president is currently attending a press conference which is playing on one of the television screens. Medvedev is urging citizens to keep calm in this time of crisis.
His prime minister is watching the same screen with a quiet intensity, alone for the moment. In Russia's mind, he sees another face, a thousand faces with the same intensity. Some of them have been his rulers; others have looked at him from the other side and drawn him inside out, leaving him bleeding in the snow. He wonders if the women who walked into those metro stations had the same concentration on their faces as they blew themselves up, or if they were just as frightened as their victims as they died.
"You still with me, big guy?"
"Hmm? You were saying something?" He is drawn back to the phone, to the conversation with America. Away from the blood and the bodies.
"I'm thinking… I know we're supposed to meet in Prague, you know, officially in about a week, but I can probably get away early, make a little detour in the trip plans."
Russia smiles, though it is hidden under red and white cloth. "Leaving in the middle of your healthcare crisis?"
"Argh, don't even get me started on it, I mean, my boss signed the damn thing and it's a stupid, stupid hollowed out bill that no one is happy with and oh god, I'm all for free speech and everything, but throwing rocks into windows? What is this, the 1770s? I mean, really? The call to arms bullshit? Tyranny? They should've tried living under England, then they'd really know what 'no representation' means-"
"Америка."
Another pause. And then a weak sigh. "Sorry, sorry. I'm not thinking straight. You really don't want to hear about all this, I'll bet. Hell, you've probably already heard it and had a good chuckle over it."
"It is true I do not wish to hear it, at least not over the phone." Russia is staring at the ceiling again. The nosebleed refuses to stop. "And while I have heard some of it, and while it is vaguely amusing in that way that everything you do is amusing, I cannot say that I do not know how you feel. It is hard to bring change to a people who do not want it."
"Mmm…" Noncommittal, but he knows America agrees, as would any other nation that has ever had to change. Those who do not do not last long, but those who do often are torn apart before they are put back together. This time is no different. "Wait, what do you mean 'everything you do is amusing'?"
"You were saying about perhaps a visit?" Russia forges ahead, turning the conversation back. He is good at thinking in circles, while America tends to jump about in zig-zag lines.
"Ah, yeah, I was. I think my boss won't mind. It'll probably get filed under 'Improving International Relations' or something. And even if he does, 's not like I can't get myself over there. I'll fly myself, if I have to."
Russia smiles. It is painful. But it is real, not a rictus grin aimed at the ceiling. "Always with the theatrics."
A chuckle. "You would not have me any other way."
Russia closes his eyes, still smiling as he reviews the evidence, both for and to the contrary. "No. The world would be much less interesting. Though perhaps more peaceful."
"You really are a jerk, you know that?" The gumbling is good-natured, however.
"So you have told me."
"Yeah well, it's true. Listen, it looks like there is a briefing going on… goddamn, I wonder if I can get some coffee… I don't know how long it's going to last, but I'll call after I get out, okay? And I'm going to see what I can do about getting the next flight out to Moscow."
"I will make sure to lock away the fine china."
"You really on a roll today, you know that? Jackass. You must be doing okay if you're dishing it out like that." There is the strain again, under the carelessness of America's words.
"This will not kill me, Америка. It is not the first, and will not be the last." Quiet, so quiet that only America can hear.
A pause. "I know." America is also whisper-soft.
"This is how we live." Russia says.
"You're preaching to the choir, sweetheart."
Silence stretches between them, grows and coalesces into a bubble.
"Have I ever told you how quaint and confusing I have found your idioms?"
"Okay, the moment? It's totally ruined. Kaput. Gone. I mean, we were really, ya know, bonding there for a second. And my idioms are confusing? Have you listened to Japan's? Or France's? Or hell, have you looked at yours?"
Another laugh, and it hurts less than the one before. "Америка, I believe you have a briefing to go to?"
"And now he is trying to get rid of me. I see how it is. Jackass. Can't believe I was ever worried about you."
"I appreciate your concern. And truly, this is perhaps the best conversation I have had today. I have not been so entertained so much in such a short space of time."
"You really are a jackass. Okay, I'm going to hang up now. Try not to pass out or anything while I'm away. I won't be there to lug your sorry ass around for another couple of hours."
"I shall endeavor not to."
"Right. Talk to you soon."
"Goodbye, Америка"
Russia hears the click as the other nation hangs up. He is still staring at the ceiling when another aide comes over to check up on him. The nosebleed is finally slowly, and perhaps when America comes, it will have stopped completely.
He thinks of the bodies.
It may be how they live. But it does not relieve the ache in his heart.
Notes:
The September Attacks is a reference to 9/11. The day in December is a reference to Pearl Harbor.
The article I used as reference about the Moscow attacks is here. The title is a direct quote from one of the victims.
If you want to know about Healthcare in America, I suggest googling it. It's no less embarrassing, but at least it's quieter than watching it on TV.