Russia was, to put it simply, distressed.
America didn't like the expression the older nation had on his face. He didn't like it one bit, and before he could rectify the situation by noisily asking a neighbor for any sort of explanation ("Why is Ivan upset? Why the fuck is he upset tell me now -"), Russia intervened with an answer.
"I… I do not understand baseball."
It was said with a great deal of hesitance, and a little bit of stiffness, because no doubt Russia was embarrassed with this revelation, and America himself was utterly baffled. Like.
"What."
"Baseball. America's national past time, I believe? The sport with a ball and a bat where you run around like idiots around a diamond shaped playing field which I do not even understand because it is so stupid -"
"Whoah, dude, easy!" America interrupted before it could become a rant fest, and frankly, he didn't really want to hear his good-friend-and-not-so-much-enemy-now dissing one of his favorite past times. Though, now he was curious how exactly Russia's contempt for the sport came to be. "What brought this up?"
Russia's face tightened, his customary smile nowhere to be seen. America was immediately alarmed by the obvious fact that Russia was so bothered by this, he's not even giving his psychotic kiddie-grin.
"… Russia? Come on, big guy, what happened?" America asked almost gently, because he doesn't really want to provoke a Nation half a head taller than him equipped with a well-used pipe somewhere in his coat. He's not nearly that suicidal.
"That - I -" Russia pursed his lips, then frowned unhappily as he gave in to America's earnest, open look of You Can Tell Me Anything. It was becoming much too often these days, really. "Japan."
"Japan - wait, Kiku?" America looked bewildered, though his look was soon tinged with a bit of exasperation. "What'd he do this time?"
"He - I am not -"
America watched with morbid fascination as Russia stumbled upon his words, obviously struggling with an inner mental battle. Suddenly, America had the intense urge to touch Russia's arm, which he did, and it helped to calm down the other nation somewhat.
"He said that I was - he was mean."
The 'mean' was stretched out with a kind of childish hurt that America only saw fit to be in five year olds (or himself) when talking about bullies, but weirdly enough it seemed to suit, well, Russia.
Wait a minute.
"Kiku was being mean? What did he do? Hey, Russia, come on -"
"He said I didn't know what baseball was and I wouldn't be able to play it and - and I thought it was all stupid and childish before he challenged me in playing but I don't know how to and I don't understand the rules are so confusing!"
America blinked, trying to comprehend the surge of information, which wasn't really that confusing but, well, it was coming from Russia. The usually calm, cheerful-sadistic nation who scared adults in his free time. Why the hell was it bothering him of all people?
"Then he said - 'it is strange that a supposedly 'good' friend of America's doesn't know how to play baseball, Russia-san' -" Oh. Oh. America felt a sudden surge of annoyance directed towards Japan. They talked about this whole best friend good friend issue before.
For some reason, Japan thought that the presence of Russia in America's life compromised their friendship, and didn't take well to his admittance into America's (relatively small, not that he would admit it outright) circle of friends. He thought the whole matter was dealt with with a little 'private talk' (Leave him alone, Kiku) but apparently not.
Aghghgh.
On the other hand, Russia sometimes treated their friendship like a fragile thing: sometimes he was so insecure over the matter of their relationship that many nights were spent on the phone reassuring that, for the last time yes you big dumb Russian I am your friend, it's freakin' 3 o'clock in the morning for fuck's sake!
Ah, I am sorry, America - I - I forget the time difference -
That's a big fat lie and you know it, America grunted, but relented with warm smile Russia couldn't see. With the whole previous half a decade standoff hanging behind in their pasts, America has seen just about every side of Russia, from cold, calculating, manipulative, apathetic, pleased - insecure was something he wasn't used to. He guessed it was just a sign that Russia was warming up to him. It was, in a way, adorable -
not that he would ever ever mention it.
Just… You don't have to worry, 'kay?
"Does it bother you that much?" came out from his mouth before he could filter it.
And judging from the way Russia's face absolutely closed off on him, that was a totally stupid thing to ask.
"Oh - shit - Russia, come on, I was joking around - Russia! No, I didn't mean it, I'm sorry," America helplessly added, almost slapping himself senseless when Russia let out a soft, distressed noise and moved to use his beloved scarf as a way to hide his face. Read the atmosphere for once, retard, America thought to himself, berating.
He pulled the bigger nation into his arms, awkwardly patting his back in a show of more comfort. "It's okay, I'll teach you how to play baseball and everything you need to know about it and you can beat Japan up all you want when you become totally awesome at it. I promise."
Oh, what the heck.
"And… Thanks for not immediately beating him up with your pipe."
Russia shuffled, a bit startled with America's affectionate gestures, and that he noticed, but it was warm and nice and America was being nice about it instead of being mean like stupidly jealous for no reason Japan. They settled in that position for a few more seconds, before America felt it was time to pull away.
Thought, it's still not good enough to completely wipe off the traces of misery on Russia's face, so America resorted to a favorite tactic of his. "Let's go get some ice cream!"
A stubborn little feeling settled in the pit of his stomach like a hot weight, something Russia hasn't felt in a long, long time that he puzzles over the thought, even when a sincere smile graces his lips as America drags him away.
"How does good ol' vanilla sound?"
What was that?
"It sounds wonderful."
x
x
The next day, Russia was at America's doorstep at precisely four in the evening. Or was it afternoon? America sucked at telling the time, he mused sleepily, especially when it was during his days off where he had nothing to do and he spent his afternoon taking naps.
"Chill, bro," he called out in response to the second ring of the door bell. "I'm coming!"
"America," Russia greeted him as soon as he opened the door, as if almost relieved that the younger Nation actually wanted to go through with this. America grinned amiably, sleepiness rapidly dissipating.
"Come on in! What's in your bag?"
"Just a change of clothes. Did I - Was I supposed to bring equipment?" Russia asked softly, eyebrows furrowing in worry. "I was not sure."
"Seriously dude, it's cool. I've got a couple balls and stuff we could use in my basement, and anyway I gotta teach you a little bit on how it goes," America explained easily, pushing Russia by the shoulders to the sitting room. "You want a drink or anything before we get started?"
Russia flushed, then shook his head. "Um, nyet."
"Oh. Well. It's still a bit hot outside so let's just take a couple of minutes to chill. Must be a pretty long trip here eh, big guy?" America asked conversationally, plopping on the two-seater and fanning himself. Then he paused. "Well, I wouldn't actually know. Is it warm for you?"
"A bit, yes."
America shifted to face Russia, chin resting on his hand. "Huh. Any different for you when it's cold? Like, when I'm freezing my balls off, is it just a bit chilly for you? You look pretty comfortable when you're standing in the middle of a freaking blizzard."
"Not exactly… Maybe I dress myself more - competently? For the weather. Is that the word?"
"Dunno, man. But anyway," America announced, letting himself flop on his resting place, "'s not like you're fat or anything, that much I know. Maybe it's insulating muscle or something, but that doesn't make sense…"
The Slavic nation looked taken aback, turning pink. How exactly did he - America looked up at him from his upside-down view, and smiled lopsidedly.
"I'm pretty sure you've had a crapload of hitting practice with that pipe of yours, big guy," he said nonchalantly, then pondered. "Bet you could score like a Ruthian, or something; that'll be awesome."
"An - ah, Ruthian?"
"Babe Ruth. You know!" America exclaimed expectantly, before his expression dropped into disbelief at Russia's lost expression. "You don't know?"
Russia looked as if he just committed an Utterly Unforgivable Act of Unspeakable Evil. "I… I will search this 'Babe Ruth' on Yasha," he mumbled, embarrassed that he, once again, wasn't that familiar with America's references. Just what kind of friend was he, really? But at least he was trying… He hoped America noted that.
"He's just only the most awesomest baseball player ever! The heck's 'Yasha'?" America asked curiously, going off on a tangent. Russia's head almost spun with the sudden change of topic.
"Think of it as my own version of Gosha. I mean, Google."
America shook his head, chuckling. "You Russians and your pet names. I bet 'Ivan' has a lot, huh? I heard Vanya was one of 'em."
Russia's face warmed again. It was… Nice, that America took note of such things. "Yes, but it can also be Van'ka, or Vanechka - or Vanyushka, if you prefer, or even Ivanushka - I am rambling."
"Why d'you do that?"
"Yes?"
"You know, acting as if I'm gonna get crazy-annoyed with you or something if you act like yourself. I told you, you don't have to worry 'bout it." America sat up suddenly, grinning at Russia. "I've spent almost half a century on my toes when around you that it shouldn't matter by now, right? In fact, you're pretty much acting like Toris."
The comparison made Ivan's smile widen in an insincere way so quickly - that America laughed.
"That's the Russia I know. Let's go get the stuff from downstairs."
x
x
"Here, catch!"
Russia easily caught the smooth wooden club thrown at him, blinking at the weight.
"Strange. I always thought it would be heavier."
America answered from the depths of the storage room, behind some stacked boxes. Russia could barely see the top of his head with the kind of lighting down here. "Yeah, it doesn't usually go more than 33 ounces. That's uh…"
"Do you feel like changing to the metric system yet?" Russia asked innocently.
"You're so funny. And that's about one kilogram to you."
Another relatively comfortable silence passed, with the occasional shuffling of feet and sounds of things bumping against each other, before America emerged triumphant with an oddly shaped glove and two baseballs.
"I found my old mitt! I wonder if it's still as awesome as it used to be."
"You have not played in a while?"
"Yeah, well, with all the stuff we have to do these days it's not really a surprise. Flying every other day, running on caffeine - a crisis here and one conference there, it's crazy. No biggie though, I'm still pretty good." They soon made their way upstairs, towards America's backyard of open grass, full of lovingly maintained shrubs and trees, with bright flowers dotting the greenery.
Russia was almost jealous.
"So I was thinking, we should just start small. As with any other sport, baseball's pretty complicated in depth, but there shouldn't be any problem with the basic stuff. You're smart anyway," America said cheerfully, throwing a ball up in the air to test the weight. "You ready?"
Russia gripped the bat tightly, eyes blinking in nervousness. "Um. I think I am?"
"Relax, Ivan." The usage of his first name made his cheeks go hot, and suddenly Russia was very grateful America was preoccupied with putting on his mitt instead of paying attention. "I'm not gonna go ahead and throw fastballs at you right off the bat."
That didn't exactly made him feel much better. "I just swing the bat, da? When do I do the running?"
"If you manage to hit the ball, then go for it - but wait. Okay, pay attention." America got into position, with a grin on his face. "Welcome to the world of baseball! Hopefully by the end of the day you've got some basics down - well, if not, there's always a next time. The objective of this game is to score runs by touching each of those squares - or bases - and generally avoid getting knocked out by the fielding team."
"Fielding team?"
"Those are the guys who throw the ball at you, and try to return it to the home plate - that's where you start - if you score a hit."
Russia relaxed his grip, tilting his head slightly. "You do not measure points by how far he bats the ball?"
"How far doesn't actually technically really matter, as long as you run like hell to get to the next base before the other team catches that ball. If they do, you're out, and the next guy takes the bat." America rubbed his nose, and Ivan thought it was endearing, but he cut that thought off before it could get very far. "That's why it's a good idea to go for a home run, but it depends on the situation really. But you got it so far, right? Am I making sense?"
The nation in question nodded his head, face scrunched up as he processed the information. "How do I know how far to run? And do you score a point by touching one base, or running back to the home base?"
"Running's for you to decide. If you think you can go for that second base without anyone getting the ball back to the home plate, then by all means. As for scoring, one point is when one runner gets back to home base."
"So you would have to run the whole length to score one point?"
"Preeetty much."
Ivan hadn't had the heart to tell him that he thought the scoring system was a complete waste of energy. So, he gestured to the bat and to the ball Alfred held. "Let me try?"
"Hitting one? Sure."
They did a few test runs, and needless to say, at the end of it Russia was all too ready to hide his face in his scarf again. He didn't want to know how much of an idiot America would think he was that he couldn't even hit that ball - and after a few tries!
Maybe Russia had met his match, but why did it have to be a sport originating from America of all places?
Figures.
"No, Ivan, you're doing it wrong, bro."
Russia stiffened his upper lip in response, and after the eighth time he missed the ball, Alfred came up to him to give a little one-on-one about bat handling.
"Nooo, don't make that face. You'll be hitting home runs in no time if you don't make that face."
There was a pause, before Russia's psychotic smile faded slowly from his face. "Then what face I should make, rebenka?" he grounded out slowly, but America didn't call him out on it, because he was obviously frustrated.
"Okay, that was just plain mean. Relax! First you gotta bend your knees a bit."
Russia raised his eyebrow skeptically, but shrugged and did as he said. No harm in embarrassing himself further, he supposed.
"Nope, a bit more - perfect! Make sure they're parallel with those shoulders, buddy." America walked around him, then grinned. "Okay, hold up the bat."
He held up the bat.
"Mm, I think I see where's the problem. You're not holding it high enough. It's gotta be above your shoulders."
"You sound as if you've taught so many before." A simple observation, but it was one that America blinked at, taken aback, before smiling softly.
"Sometimes… When I'm free - I go down to the local ball park, give some of the kids a little run down on how to properly pitch, or swing a bat. You know?"
That was… Well, he shouldn't have been that surprised, but he still appreciated the pleasant surprise of having a little insight to America's life when he was just - being Alfred.
"You must be a wonderful teacher, then."
America's cheeks colored, and he grinned, embarrassed - quietly happy.
Before Russia could comment on that, America touched his arm, and whistled. "You have got to be loose, there ain't no way you're fast enough to hit a ball when you're tight like that."
"Loose - tight - what?"
America looked at him funny. "As in your muscles?"
"O-Of course." Of course.
"Plant your back foot and don't move it till the swing. And that's it, you're basically done. All that's left to do is have fun!" he chattered on, excited - then swung his own arms. "Try it."
And he did.
The feel of the wind was different when he moved his arm in an almost graceful arc. America fist-pumped the air in delight, crowing.
"Awesome! Almost perfect. You gotta - what's the word - shift your weight a bit when you pull your hands back to swing. Don't keep the bat down, you have to - hand it over," America said, finally giving up on explaining, because he was a better teacher when trying to show it instead. As he got into position, he twisted his hips a bit to shift his weight. "Like - this. You get me?"
"I think so…" Russia retrieved the bat and tried to emulate what he saw, but America simply shook his head.
"Like this." Before he knew it, America was behind him, putting hands on his hips.
As in, Russia's hips.
He immediately tensed, jerking away, and America struggled to move him where he wanted to. "Dude! Chill!"
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to show you what's the best way to stand - stop moving already! Do you want to beat Kiku or not?"
Russia struggled to hold still, hoping that America wouldn't notice his erratic breathing. Why does this lovable idiot needs to be so - so - oblivious?
"Good. And I swear this has got to be the last time I tell you to relax, because I've been saying it since forever for you to chill."
He struggled even more to loosen up, but when he did, America guided him to the proper position, firm and oddly gentle.
"There you go." The younger nation's voice left his ear - abrupt, that Russia blinked when America was on the other side of the field, already gearing up to go. "Kay! I'mma throw you a fast one, so be ready!"
"D-Da!"
In retrospect, he supposed it was only natural for him to panic and dodge the ball at the last minute when America threw it. Firstly, he was too busy looking at the way Alfred was pulling back - muscles already glistening with sweat under the summer heat, golden hair flying wildly - some strands sticking at his forehead - blue eyes with all their passion for everything he loved.
He's uncharacteristically poetic today.
That, and America put his full strength into that ball, where it whizzed past his body with an ungodly velocity.
woooshhhht - THUMP!
"Oh shit!" America winced when the ball hit the wooden wall of the nearby gardening shed, making a dent. "I'm sorry!"
"Are you trying to kill me?" Russia asked dryly - lips twitching in amusement, nevertheless.
"I - I guess I got too excited…?" Alfred pulled out the second ball he had, waving it in the air. "Again?"
Russia bent his knees, taking position as he remembered the way America guided him - gently -
The way Alfred started the motion, muscles tensing, was Russia's indication to simply move as he shifted his weight, hips twisting, muscles light and loose
and it was as if like
a reflex, a natural arc as he swung that bat as fast as he could and he was about to he it was so close and
THUNK
Russia's eyelids opened wider and he almost dropped the bat, at the last stages of the swing, when he was only holding it with one hand. Alfred was shouting - something, but he was too busy watching the ball sail off into the far distance, the infinite sky. There was a moment of static silence, as he tried to process what happened.
Noise returned to him, and there was Alfred almost shouting in his ear. Another realization - Alfred was hugging him, ecstatic.
"You did it! That was a goddamned homerun right there I can't believe you got it in your first hit!" Another squeeze, and it was enough to make his bones creak - but -
into the far distance, the infinite sky.
Ivan laughed, happiness bubbling in his chest. "Da!" Throwing all his inhibitions away, he gathered up the shorter male and almost lifted him off the ground. Alfred yelped in surprise, but started laughing too.
It was a bit silly, when he thought about it - but when you're in the moment, you can't bring yourself to care.
And when the moment was over, that was when Ivan hastily let go, looking at the grass where the bat was. When did I drop it...?
"I am -" He struggled with an apology, because that moment was ridiculously silly, and he even hugged Alfred until he was almost off the ground, and -
Well.
If Alfred continued to give him smiles like that even after ridiculously silly moments, Ivan reasoned that it wouldn't be that bad to have more of them.
"If you're gonna say sorry, I'm gonna kick your ass. No joke."
Ivan shut his mouth with a clack of his teeth, and Alfred laughed again, bumping a fist on the Russian's chest. He opened his mouth to say something more, but suddenly the American's phone rang.
Curious, Ivan watched Alfred's face change from pleased to 'Oh Shit' in three seconds flat.
"Heeey, Mrs. Fields."
Alfred grinned at the air sheepishly, scratching a spot behind his ear.
"Your window? A baseball, you say? Ma'am, you know I wouldn't - why, I would never…"
x
Alfred was sitting on the floor, near Ivan's legs, head resting on the seat cushion as he looked up to the ceiling. After an episode of profusely apologizing his neighbor and promising to pay for the damages (skillfully avoiding Ivan's insistence to pay for it instead), they retreated to the kitchen, with Alfred dragging him back by the wrist.
So now, they were having their respective preferred drinks, with a bottle of Jack Daniel's for Alfred, and Smirnoff for the other. Ivan was pleasantly surprised. ("I'm not that bad of a host, y'know.")
There was one question weighing on his mind though.
"Do you usually hold the ones you teach by their hips to show them how to swing a bat?"
Alfred almost spat out his drink, sputtered, and laughed. "Ew, no way man! I only do it to you, promise. Like, cross my heart. Not even Kiku."
Ivan settled back into the squishy couch of the more homely, first floor family room - a contrast to America's sitting room earlier, and he doubted that America knew the differences between the many rooms of the house, but his thoughts were going off in a tangent...
"… right, Ivan?"
"Hm?"
"You wanna try pitching tomorrow?" Alfred asked eagerly, looking up at him from where he was - and Ivan had this urge to simply tug a piece of hair head where his hand was resting.
Which he did.
"Ow!"
"I would love to, Alfred," Ivan deferred peacefully, even as Alfred pouted at him - the time when he realized, quite abruptly, that he was calling the nation by his given name.
And he felt perfectly comfortable doing so. At this epiphany, he smiled, making a mental note to send Japan a thank-you gift for mocking his skill in the game. If he had not, then he would not be enjoying this quiet moment with Alfred.
The blond's eyes lit up. "And then tomorrow tomorrow, maybe I could take you down to that ball park and show you how they really play it…"
He was looking forward to those tomorrows.
x
x
A/N: So it went from silly, to fluff as fuck in the end, but you know me. I like happy things! /sadface
Eh. Hope you guys don't think I was being too technical or anything, 'cause I'm explaining it from the perspective of someone who kinda knows what's going on, but not really. Sorry for any confusion, kk? This is for the SS 2010 event, for harusamemosuke: 'America teaches Russia the fine art of baseball'.
Merry Belated-By-Three-Days Christmas, bros. R&R?