America's boots thumped against cracked pavement as he walked, his neck often craning to cast wary glances over his shoulders. Freedom didn't taste nearly as pleasant as he had thought it would. It was cold and nerve-wracking, not at all the warm satisfaction he had been expecting. Every car that trundled by caused his heart to skip, sending alarm licking through his veins as he broke into a momentary run, slowing only when the icy air was too much for his lungs to handle.
He followed a straight path until the sidewalk dwindled into asphalt before stepping off the road and into the snow, his boots dragging as he struggled on, hoping to find a sign telling him how close the next town was. He'd been tempted to bolt right back to the grocery store when he'd snuck out the truck, but couldn't bring himself to go to the cashier for help. Heroes didn't make young women help them, they helped young women. Going to her would only cause trouble for the both of them, so he instead opted to skip town and look for a pay phone in the next one over, even if he had no spare change to speak of.
A sign loomed on the horizon, barely more than the smallest of squares to America's eyes. He forged ahead, focusing on his destination to keep his mind off how his shoulders shivered and his teeth clicked together for want of warmth. He folded his arms in a closely bound hug as a gust of wind whistled by him, slipping between his legs and battering his cheeks. If this was what the news considered nice weather, America didn't want to wait around for the oncoming storm.
He neared the sign, watching as it bent and wobbled feebly with the passing of nearby speeding cars. The numbers next to the names written upon it were all three figures long without fail. Fired up by frustration, America kicked at the posts that held the sign up a handful of times, his toes too numb to register any kind of pain. He followed it up by giving the innocent object a taste of his right hook, and a sampling of his uppercut, the fruit of his violence being a few solid dents. The sign retaliated by biting at his knuckles and slicing his skin.
"This is bullshit!" America yelled at the sign, but his words were whipped away before he himself could fully hear them. Blood trickled from his stinging hand and into the snow, blooming scarlet against white. America tucked it back under his arm and carried on.
He wouldn't freeze to death, even if he hadn't found shelter by the time the storm kicked into high gear. Not that he had ever stuck himself in what would be considered a life-threatening situation, but from what he had picked up from others who had been, and reflecting on the wounds he himself had received in the past, America was quite sure crummy weather couldn't pick him off.
Maybe he'd just curl up and turn into a hunk of ice or something. He'd thaw in the spring like a frozen creek, come out of hibernation like a bear. But he wasn't a creek or a bear. In all likelihood he'd break down into a pathetic, whimpering man who couldn't move more than a few feet due to the cold. If anyone found him, they'd call the hospital right away, and he didn't want to be there when they wondered why he wasn't dead yet. Then there'd be questions, so many questions that America himself would be unable to answer.
When they saw he wouldn't talk, the higher ups would be brought in, every self-styled man of science would want to run one test or another, and eventually it'd end up in the hands of the government. America didn't trust them to leave a memo letting his own government know they'd found such an interesting person, either. If even the slightest hint of luck shone on him, America would wake up in a hospital bed to face Russia, who might have enough kindness in his jaded heart not to allow anyone to use America as a guinea pig.
America's reasoning blurred as his feet tangled and sent him face-first into the snow. He made only the smallest effort to stand again, barely expending enough energy to get himself in a sitting position. When his best hope of running away ended up with him right back in Russia's grubby paws, what was the point of escaping to begin with?
He wondered if he could zip back to the behemoth mobile and crawl in before Russia came back. It hardly seemed feasible, since he'd left roughly a quarter of an hour ago, and it would take even longer for him to get back now that he was wearing down. On the off chance he did manage to sneak back in, he couldn't exactly explain the injury on his hand away as a paper cut. Too cold to invest in deep thought, he decided to wait, his mind numb and blank.
Several long drawn out minutes passed in the biting cold. America huddled in on himself, knees clutched to his chest as his vision glazed over. He rocked slightly in effort to gain an inkling more warmth, and the trees that lined the road rocked with him, bending to the wind. He rested his chin on his knees and let his eyelids flutter shut, miserable and frozen and just wanting to warm up.
The deep roar of an engine rumbled down the road, the far away bellow of the beast. America didn't need to look to know who was coming. Instead, he grudgingly scooted closer to the road until his boots scuffed gravel. Still seated, he held his hand out, thumb sticking straight up as he made the ageless gesture of the hitchhiker. The truck rolled up beside him, and he dragged himself into the passenger seat without a word.
America tried to buckle his seat belt, but found his fingers too stiff and frozen to be of much use. He tossed the belt aside and sighed heavily, coughing the rest of the cold from his lungs. There was a small humming noise and a click, and before America could stop to think of what the noise was, hot air was ushered from the small heating vents on the dashboard. He held his hands before them eagerly, rubbing them together as if preparing to receive something of great value.
"Do you think what you did was cute?" Russia's hand snapped out, cuffing America about the ear.
"No," America quietly answered. "It was dumb."
"That's right," Russia hissed.
America caught sight of Russia's hand moving towards him again and withered at the sight, curling away to avoid the blow. He quivered and waited, his chilled body shivering as he bit his lip, braced for the impact. In place of the firm smack he had prepared for, he felt a gentle tugging at his hand.
"What happened?" Russia asked, turning America's hand over, his eyes inscrutable as they took index of the cuts.
"Nothing." America moved as far as he could away from Russia, pressing himself up against the door, pulling his hand away. Russia moved to his arm, lifting it up.
"You got blood on your nice coat," Russia tutted callously before letting America's arm fall back down.
America didn't have the energy to answer Russia, nor the courage to egg him on further. If he could get away with a simple cuff, he'd certainly take it without question. All he could do was wallow in his own idiocy. To sneak out of the car and run off into the snow, such a stupid thing. It wasn't even in hindsight that it was such a bad idea, he knew it was stupid from the start, but nonetheless he had jumped at the chance.
Fat lot of good it had done him. If anything, it was discouraging. Any further chance of being let out of the house had probably been completely annihilated, destroyed by his own hand. All he had to look forward to were bleak winter days and a stupid little room with precious little to do. He lurched forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, his heels of his palms pressing against his eyes. He couldn't let so much progress slip away.
"I'm sorry," America murmured weakly, truth ringing in his words. He was sorry he had run in the first place, sorry that he had let himself be caught again, sorry he had ever tricked himself into believing he might be able to get away. "You have to believe me, I really am sorry─" he choked on his own breath for a moment in his rush to apologize.
He couldn't cry again. That was the promise he had made to Russia, 'no more tears', and if he broke that promise, Russia wouldn't trust him in the slightest, and getting back Russia's trust (if he's had any of it to begin with) was the most important thing. So instead of disassembling and becoming a giant, blubbering child, America carefully breathed in, out, in, out. He counted to one hundred, then back down to one. Soon his shudders and repressed tears faded, becoming nothing but a dull, saddening ache in his chest.
He raised his head, eyes bleary and bloodshot, and looked to Russia. There was no way to discern Russia's mood from his appearance. His sights were set straight ahead, completely focused on the road as he gripped the wheel between his fingers in a way that was neither casually loose nor unusually tight. The needle of the speedometer balanced at a comfortable pace without change. If anything, Russia seemed distant, his mind settled in a faraway place where his emotions could not be easily deciphered.
America went back to looking at his hand. The bleeding had all but stopped, the wound turning to a glossy scab. Every time he tried to get away, he always ended up hurting himself. There was no need to worry about Russia's pipe when he could already do himself in just as easily, even if by accident. He sighed and rolled his shoulders.
"Russia, you've got to believe me. I don't know why I did it─ Well I do know why I did it, but it was stupid. I saw these little kids and they made me so lonely. I just, I can't take it anymore." He laughed to hide his cracking voice. "I can't do this."
"Do what?" Russia questioned, his tone flat and uninterested, residing in the same space his mind was.
"All of this. Maybe you're used to being a lonely old hermit who shacks up in a crazy house all year, but I don't work like that."
"How do you work?"
"Like most sane people, I enjoy novelties such as going outside, maintaining healthy relationships, and engaging in friendly banter."
"I let you go outside," Russia said the words as if they were a terrible mistake, something he should never have done.
"And then you ditched me to go stare at balalaikas and accordions."
Russia hit the flat of his hand against the steering wheel, exasperation surfacing in his voice. "Yes, I did, and that was wrong."
"I mean, what were you expecting me to─Wait, hold up. What did you do wrong?"
"Leaving you alone like that. Your heart is too weak to handle such a temptation."
Weak heart my ass, America grumbled inwardly, though his hunched posture shed some of its tension. "Oh, well, in that case you're absolutely right. Running off and expecting me to sit tight." America sniffed and held his head high. "You know me, I always need company."
Russia nodded, reaching over to turn the radio back on. The ambient noise of a string quartet trickled from the speakers. "Would you stay with me if you had company?"
America was perplexed by Russia's question. Was Russia himself supposed to be his provided company, assuming America agreed, or was there another person lined up? Curiosity getting the best of him, America couldn't help but say, "Depends who we're talking about."
"Canada."
America blood froze in his veins as it rushed from his face, forming a jagged, clotted stream. "No, not Canada," he croaked weakly. "Don't take Canada as well."
"But if it makes you happy─"
"Leaving Canada out of this will make me happy." America clapped a hand to his forehead. "I mean it, buddy. I don't want anyone else to be in on this. And, c'mon, you can't snatch people off the streets for my own amusement."
"Society generally does not agree with such things, but for you I would do it."
The blood that had fled America's face returned to dust his cheeks. "Oh, hm. Well, that's very kind of you and all, but it's really not necessary." And it was kind, in a very strange, super villainy sort of way. Not that he would ever admit it out loud. "How 'bout we focus on getting back to the house before that storm comes chuggin' along?"
Russia hummed in agreement and turned the radio up. America made no attempt to keep track of the time as they made their way home. There was no embedded clock as far as he could see, and Russia had made a dizzying number of turns once they were traveling through the snow again. Instead he enjoyed the steady warmth that radiated from the heater, and soaked up the knowledge that Russia didn't seem particularly angered at his attempt to get away.
When the barn became visible, America was unable to stop the small embers of thankfulness from stoking in his stomach. He really hadn't enjoyed the outing at all, and was only too eager to put the catastrophe behind him before Russia could change his mind as to whose fault his escape attempt should be attributed.
The two of them dutifully lugged the groceries inside the empty home and set to the task of restocking the cupboards. America insisted that he help with the process, despite his lack of experience with what went where. As a result he was constantly holding up one thing or another and interrupting Russia's own progress to wave the food in his face and ask where it should go. Despite the exceedingly long amount of time it took for the job to be done because of that, America's eagerness to help out kept Russia's temper beautifully calm and even.
After a simple and uneventful dinner in which America learned that, no, there would be no drinking just yet, they retired to Russia's room, where America's thoughts overtook his tongue.
"Tell me if this is kind of, you know, too soon, but did you get anything at the music shop?" America flopped on the bed, wriggling in the air like a salmon leaping upstream.
Russia went to his writing desk and pulled a book from inside his coat, laying it on the table with a resounding thwack, the subtle wave of his hand indicating it to be his sole purchase. America rolled his eyes at the sight. No one really pulled things from their coat like that, it only happened in the movies.
"Sheet music, of course. I will play some for you once you let me treat that little cut of yours." The skin about Russia's eyes creased as he smiled, though not a hint of tooth was showing.
"This thing?" America looked at the injury as if it were the smallest speck of dust, unworthy of being so much as noticed. "What is this? Let me tell you, it's nothing, that's what. Don't even worry your pretty little head about it."
Russia ignored him, having already gone to the bathroom to retrieve some supplies as America prattled on about how he'd received worse and that a little nick wouldn't keep him down, though his voice faltered slightly when he saw the tell-tale bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
"America," Russia lightly intoned, though there was a certain irritation lurking in the back of his throat. "I told you I would take care of you. Do not try to stop me."
America sputtered and nodded as the mattress dipped, Russia taking a seat next to him with the bottle in hand. "Wait, you're doing it now? Like, on the bed?" It wasn't that he was scared, but he didn't want Russia to maybe, possibly, on the off chance, see the kinds of dumb faces he made when it came to hydrogen peroxide. That stuff always hurt worse than the cut itself.
"Yes, here and now. Hold out your hand."
"You'll get the bed wet."
"No, I won't."
"Can't we do this in the bathroom or something?" America stood abruptly as he watched Russia unscrew the cap.
"Wherever you are most comfortable."
"Why do you have to do this to begin with anyway?" America asked as he slowly ambled towards the bathroom.
"I don't want it to get infected." Russia was done letting America take his sweet time and made it apparent by nipping at the back of his bare heels with his own feet. America hopped instinctively forward and hurried himself.
America settled himself at the sink's counter, leaning on it using his forearm while he held his other hand over the mouth of the sink. His fingernails rapped impatiently at the marbled surface, eyes flicking to the mirror. His image reflected the same begrudging attitude as Russia sidled up beside him.
All pomp and pretense was quickly swept aside as Russia's hand encircled America's wrist, gripping steadily, twisting and bending it to the desired angle at which the peroxide would best be able to strike. America sucked in air through his teeth and stared himself down as the liquid splashed against the wound, bubbling angrily. Russia gently blew on the cut a few times before rummaging through the medicine cabinet.
America kicked at the floor with his toes and swayed his head from side to side. It was always the cleaning of injuries that was the worst, he was sure of it. When he'd punched the sign there hadn't even been a hint of pain, but then Russia had decided that was all too well for him and had to make it worse. And now he was bandaging America's hand with gauze like it was some kind of serious problem and it was really all too ridiculous.
"It's only a scrape, bub, nothing to get worked up about," America said as Russia inspected the bandage.
"If anyone is getting worked up, I would think it might be you." Russia bent at the waist, and before America knew it, the light pressure of Russia's lips were at his hand, kissing against the gauze, one arm hooked behind his back in a formal bow.
Every hair on the back of America's head prickled, jumping to attention to the sight. His cheeks flushed hotly as Russia peered up at him, the vivid violet of his gaze showing though dark, spidery lashes that curled so beautifully in imitation of Russia's bowed body, the light playing across the shimmering snowflakes that dusted them.
"Snowflakes," America sputtered witlessly, rooted to the spot.
"Snowflakes?" Russia repeated, righting himself with a smile, though he still held America's hand in his own.
"Your lashes─eyelashes, some snowflakes are stuck on 'em." America pulled back a few steps and gestured at his own face with a nervous enthusiasm that knocked his glasses askew. Russia politely fixed them before answering.
"They've always been like that." Russia gave himself a once over in the mirror and brushed at his lashes, his attempt to dislodge the snow proving vain.
"No they haven't, I would have noticed," America told him, surreptitiously inching onto his tiptoes when he noticed the size difference between him and Russia in the mirror. Not that it was overwhelming, or even noticeable. It only seemed worse because America had taken his boots off. He checked the floor; Russia wasn't wearing shoes anymore either. America frowned. Clearly, Russia had decided to have a very tall day to spite America's subconscious decision to have a very short day.
"I can assure you the snow has always been there, America." Russia rested a placating hand on America's shoulder and squeezed, signaling an end to their brief debate.
"If you say so," America remarked airily, hardly in agreement.
Having nothing to do with his hands, America rubbed his wrists together, as though attempting to slip them from roped bonds. Russia made no attempt to leave him, instead taking on a statuesque stance at his side. America could sense his gaze, feel it rushing across his body as it attempted to pick up some kind of reaction to what Russia had done, something more than a simple mention of snowflakes. America crumbled under his eyes and gave in.
"Thanks for taking care of my hand." America managed an awkward one-armed hug. "Again."
He instantly found himself wrapped in a bear-like embrace, his breathing partially constricted by the hold. "I am only treating you as I would a friend," he said softly, his chin settling atop America's head as he rocked him slightly. "Surely, if I were in trouble, you would help me as well, yes?"
"You know it," America answered without hesitation. He'd help anyone in need, no matter who they were. Russia let him go after being reassured and returned to his writing desk, seeming to have trusted the integrity of America's words.
America began his customary round of the room after that, not knowing what to do with himself as Russia leafed through the sheet music he had in his hands. The flutter of the pages filled the silence of the room, interrupted by the occasional noise of consideration as Russia looked over a piece he was particularly interested in.
"What instrument do you play?" America wondered aloud as he made his way over to Russia.
"I play many."
"Don't play hardball with me, I meant which one are you going to play tonight?"
Russia shrugged a single shoulder at the corner of the room. America's head swiveled as it followed the movement, ending when he saw the large black box that always seemed to be present.
"The body box?"
Russia raised his head and gave America a most peculiar look. "The what?"
"Uh, well, I figured maybe you kept bodies in there or something. Sure it sounds dumb but I couldn't figure out what the heck else it was."
"It's a cello case."
"Fair enough," America conceded. He'd never given much thought to the shapes cello cases could come in, but it was reasonable enough that they might be rectangular as opposed to the more common silhouetted cases. "Got any idea what you're going to play?"
"A basic one, yes."
"Anything I can do to make myself useful?"
"Sit."
America obligingly took a seat at the chess table, but, without so much as look up, Russia gave a disapproving grunt. America moved to the bed, and from the nod Russia gave to the book, decided that was the best place to wait. He lay back on the covers, ankles crossed and hands folded over his abdomen, staring at the smooth plains of the drab ceiling. He breathed in the oddly musty smell of a furnace stirring to life, a weary groan rattling through wrought iron vents.
"Did you hear that?" America sat up. The house had never made such ghastly noises before.
"I turned the heater on."
"Yeah, but it never made that noise before."
"I haven't turned it on recently."
America raised a brow at Russia's back. "So you sit here in Ice Station zero without heating unless you have company?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Russia didn't respond to America's question, instead taking a chair from the chess table and pushing it next to the bed, following the movement by fetching the cello case as well. He carried it easily in one hand, his shoulder neither tensing nor straining under the heavy weight of the instrument. America remained upright and leaned his back against the pillow that rested at the headboard.
The silvered buckles of the case snapped brusquely, their hinges well maintained and without the slightest sign of rust. Russia quickly had the cello in front of him, the fingers of one hand artfully perched along the neck of the instrument as his other loosely held the horse-hair bow.
"Don't you need the sheet music?"
"I can recall it without problem." The bow was poised against the strings, ready to strike its sweet melody.
"Wait." America held his palm up. "I want to be nice and comfortable for this." And it was true. He was getting his own very personal concert and by gum he was going to enjoy the living daylights out of it. But what if he enjoyed it too much and cried? Not that he often cried while listening to music, but sometimes when the notes slipped so seamlessly together and the inflection of the chords were so minutely perfect, he couldn't help himself. Judging by the way Russia's eyes gleamed with shy pride, America was sure he'd be a sniveling heap in no time at all.
He postponed his embarrassment by fluffing the pillow he was resting on for a good deal longer than was necessary, hands kneading the goose feather contents into a mushy pulp. He reseated himself several times, pushing off against the bed and thumping back down, wriggling about the make a comfortable cubby for his body. As he started to run perilously low on little things to do to prolong the performance, the most beautiful thing happened. The phone rang.
Russia didn't seem to agree that the noise was a Godsend. He didn't even blink at the sound, instead smiling a dizzying sort of smile that acknowledged the phone without really thinking about it, as if he had merely heard the bothersome buzz of a fly, but knew better than to bother with it.
America twiddled his thumbs. "Going to answer that?"
"No."
"You sure?"
The ringing stopped, and Russia's head nodded happily as America resigned himself to his teary fate. The ringing started up again before Russia could play a single note, and his dazed smile melted slightly, soured at the continuing interruption. It vanished completely the third time the phone blared, and he carefully set the cello to lean against his chair for a moment, the pointed stand balancing just so as he pulled the phone from the cradle and gave a short barking answer into the receiver.
America played with his socked feet as Russia spoke on the phone, his eyes straying to the floor and remaining downcast as the conversation carried on. Russia was growling in anger at whatever the person on the other end of the line was telling him, hardly allowing the caller to explain themselves before going on the attack. Tension slunk into the room like an invisible, smothering fog.
The heater continued to drone on in the background, warmth squeezing through the vents in a constant stream. America ran the back of his hand along his forehead to do away with the slight sheen of perspiration that was forming on his forehead before going back to pick at his clothes. Like a child in the midst of fighting parents, America had no idea as to what was worth arguing so ardently over, let alone how to stop it.
Russia finished the call with a few hissed words and slammed the phone down. America jumped, but didn't look up, instead training his ears on the heavy, defeated sigh trailing from Russia's lips, on the nearly inaudible pad of bare feet as they approached the bed. He snuck a look out of the corner of his eyes to see Russia solemnly putting the cello back in its case. America was rewarded with no sense of victory at the sight, only a guilty residue, as if he had been the one to make the phone ring.
"I need to make some phone calls," Russia informed him, his voice soft and saddened. "But I will play for you sometime soon."
"I'd like that. And don't worry about tonight, when duty calls, you gotta answer."
Russia smiled wryly. "That is true." He set the black case back against the wall and went to the bookcase, hesitating for only the smallest of moments before plucking a few choice tomes. He tossed them on the bed at America's feet. "Amuse yourself."
America mumbled his thanks and pulled one of the books to his lap. Its cover was plain and brown, the once sharp edges now rounded and dog eared from years of use. America opened to the first page. A small inscription was written, probably explaining what the book contained as there was no outward indication on the spine. America turned to the next, greeted by a plethora of black and white photographs, all with men in military apparel and pensive expressions.
Russia stood with them, off to the side in what must have been an attempt to not draw attention to himself, but still America's gaze fell directly on him. His face was partially blurred from the long exposure of the photograph, but his strong nose, kind expression, and gently upturned lips were easy to make out. Even in the fuzzy, colorless image, his eyes were piercingly vivid, as though he had been sitting in the photograph for decade upon decade, just waiting for America to open the book so that he could smile at him. America smiled back.
He flipped through in rapid succession, glancing off the meaningless and unrecognizable faces, lingering over the solitary portraits of Russia that were sprinkled throughout the book. The ironed and pressed dress uniforms flattered his handsome figure in ways that America could do nothing but envy.
He found his fingers tracing longingly over the elegant epaulets and twining braids that adorned Russia's clothes, the buffed buttons and crisp collar alike disappearing under his touch. But most of all, his fingers moved along Russia's face, the tip of his nail following the same simple curve that Russia's lips did. It was a stark contrast to how Russia was behaving presently, back on the phone and arguing with one voice after another, repeatedly hanging up only to dial another number.
America did his best to ignore it by studying the photos before him, but the task was proving itself harder with every minute as Russia's voice rose. The growing heat wasn't helping either, sweat beading on the back of America's neck as he hunched over the books.
He looked through the second book after finishing with the first. On every page there seemed to be a familiar face beyond Russia's. There was Ukraine cooking in the kitchen, Lithuania mending a torn sleeve, and Belarus sitting idly by, her face painted with an eerily passive expression as she stared at a point unseen. Seeing them all again unsettled America, stirred confusion and unwanted pain in his stomach. He didn't want to think about how others had freedom while he was trapped inside with Russia, forced to take their place.
America set the book aside and ignored the third in its entirety. He had no desire to see pictures of the outside world in all its splendor and the people who inhabited it. It was like having a fine meal set before him while he stomach growled away, unable to put even the smallest forkful of food to his lips. It was a self-imposed torture he refused to partake in.
America again focused his attentions on his clothes. The frantic flutter of fingertips at the hem of his jeans took up his vision, picking quietly as Russia continued in his arguing. America's vision became lazy and unfocused as he listened to the gritted words that came from between clenched teeth, the angered thump of a fist as it thudded against the table to stress his point.
The sounds frayed America's nerves as easily as he did his pants, stripping away the woven fibers until all that was left was raw material. His heart was tired from the long day, ready to be done with the overly-passionate conversations and smothering warmth of the heater. Only when the phone slammed again so loudly that he nearly yelped did he find the courage to speak up.
"Russia, I appreciate you trying to warm the place up and all, but it's getting kind of boiling in here. Mind turning it down a notch?"
Russia's back stiffened for a moment, and he turned to face America, a slightly bemused look in his eyes, as though he was surprised America had stuck around. "Ah, yes. I forgot about it completely..." he trailed off as he left.
America stared after Russia, even after he'd vanished from view. Russia's skin had been completely without the slightest shine, not a hint of sweat showing on his brow. Russia often mentioned in passing he was cold if anyone asked how he was, but surely he couldn't be unaffected by heat in general, could he? America resolved to spring the question just as soon as he took care of the phone.
Without bothering to listen for Russia's footsteps, America got on his hands and knees, noisily crawling beneath the table with a few knocks to his noggin. He pulled the phone cord from the jack, not enough to make the disconnection obvious, but enough so that there would be no more calls to rile Russia. America dove back on the bed in the nick of time, Russia returning the moment America's backside made contact with the mattress.
"Talk to me, big guy," America said, patting the space beside him.
"I would enjoy nothing more, I assure you, but I'm afraid there are things to attend to."
"C'mon," America coaxed. "Let them call you."
"I am sure they will any moment now."
"Deal with it when the time comes. Until then, sit." America thwacked the bed impatiently. "You can tell me all about it in the meantime."
"What is there to say?" Russia relented, taking a seat next to America. "Your stupid country with its stupid little citizens will not cooperate as they should. That is like them, isn't it? Unable to agree to deals not penned by their own hand." He shook his head in irritation.
America gave an embarrassed shrug, knowing he should be affronted, but too tuckered out to cultivate the emotion. Russia seemed to notice, and his tone immediately fell to an apologetic hush as his hand went searching for America's own. It was cool and comfortable to the touch, like the reverse side of a pillow.
"You know I do not really mean that. I am merely impatient."
"Why?"
"I want things to be better already."
"Me, too," America agreed with a sigh. "Me, too. But hey, these things take time, whatever they are. So why not relax a bit, maybe in the morning things will have straightened themselves out."
"I hardly think the situation could be solved so simply─"
"Shhh," America silenced him. "You asked if I would take care of you if you needed it earlier, I said yes. Well, guess what? You're stressin' all over the place so it's a good time to return the favor." He raised Russia's hand up and nonchalantly traced the fleshy web of lines on his palm, staring intently at them to avoid seeing Russia's reaction, fearing that he would be brushed off and the commotion would continue.
Russia made to argue, but his lips failed to do anything but smile kindly at America's concern. He gave a single nod of agreement and easily lowered himself onto the bed, curling on his side, his head resting lightly against America's thigh. Robbed of the partner they had been playing with, America's hands fell uselessly to his sides, his left arm draping casually over Russia.
America stayed upright, even when his back began to hurt. If he lay down as Russia had, he'd lower himself to fair game, inviting Russia to gather him up in his arms. Not that Russia needed any encouragement to begin with. As the minutes ticked away, and the casual stiffness of their bodies was stolen with the pass of time, Russia had, without warning or explanation, hitched a leg over America's own.
It was a puzzling advancement for America, stopping him from getting up without dislodging his bedmate. It didn't strike him as the same possessive act that was the makeup of an arm around his shoulders, but instead something that conveyed a silent request not to leave. America obliged, feeling he had no other viable option than to call Russia on the move, which would really ruin the whole tranquil vibe they had going on between them.
America absentmindedly patted Russia's shoulder in an irregular tattoo as his mind submerged in lazy thought. It wasn't a half bad situation living with Russia, the more he dwelled on it. There were no calls to be made, or meetings to attend, he didn't even have to do the dishes if he didn't feel like it. The whole experience was more like a very bizarre vacation he was not allowed to end. But maybe, if he played his cards right, he could stray from the itinerary. His hand was looking pretty strong at the moment.
"Russia, hey Russia," America whispered, shaking Russia lightly. "Are you awake?"
"Yes." Russia's voice was perfectly clear, missing the groggy rumble that those roused from sleep possessed.
"Can we go outside again soon?" America asked, his voice rising into a questioning pitch as his hand rubbed against Russia's back, giving it a friendly scratch.
Russia said a few words, mumbled so closely together they were indecipherable. They didn't sound particularly agreeable.
"I'm sorry, gonna need you to run that by me again." America shifted, slightly restless, kicking his legs in an attempt to shrug Russia's hold on him.
"We will talk about it in the morning, America."
"Why not now, though? Is it because you're sleepy? If that's the problem I'll skedaddle right back to my room."
"No." Russia's leg-grip tightened. "But I must think it over."
"C'mon," America whined softly, the low, unignorable request of a child. "It'll be fun. We can build snow men. Or hey, why not spread some equality? We can make snow women as well. Also, snow kids. There's always snow animals too. Golly, I didn't even think of the animals. Hey, Russia, what kind of animals do you have around here─"
America continued on in endless talk of snow and wildlife for a good while until his mouth was dry and throat parched. Usually his rambling bit would get him what he wanted, his incessant talking wearing the patience of others down to the point where they bowed to his desires and admitted defeat. If his longwinded speech was bothering Russia, he showed no sign of it. He was a tough cookie, America had to hand him that.
"Enough about me." America yawned. He hadn't been talking to himself but he was bored out of his skull and wanted to change the subject. "Tell me about you."
"I live in a house with a nice little man who thinks that if he talks enough he will get what he wants."
Busted. "It works most of the time," America admitted sheepishly.
"I'm sure with others it does, and I commend you for your tenacity, but I am rather fond of hearing your voice."
A faint blush crept along America's neck. He wanted to let Russia know that he could say the same thing, but the notion was heavy and bothersome on his tongue, clinging like a single drop of water that refused to fall. Needing to disturb the awkward silence Russia's compliment had left in its wake, he said the next thing on the forefront of his mind.
"Are you seriously always cold?"
Russia stirred, releasing America and propping himself up on one elbow to catch America's eye. "Yes," he said plainly.
"Since the beginning of time?"
"As far back as I can remember."
"What if you held a flame to your skin then, would you burn?"
Russia laughed, but there was a sad undercurrent rippling beneath the sound. "It would hurt, America. I can feel heat to an extent, but it is... far off, superficial." He scratched at his chin as he searched for the right words. "Are you familiar with how strange words sound when you hear them underwater?"
America nodded fervently.
"It is like that."
America stayed silent, his curious expression slackening off into a blank mask as he tried to understand the comparison. He couldn't complete the jump from how sound traveled underwater to how Russia must have felt heat. No matter the way he was feeling it, it certainly didn't sound particularly pleasurable. Almost taunting, even. Beneath the waves sound was obvious, but enough of a garbled mess that it was impossible to grasp a coherent understanding of the words. Was it like that for Russia as well, the concept of warmth tantalizing close, just barely out of reach? America shivered at the idea, slipping his legs from Russia's hold and drawing his knees to his chest.
"Sorry to hear that, buddy," he murmured against his kneecap. "But on the bright side, I guess you'll never have a fever, eh?"
"I suppose that is an upside, yes." Russia fell back onto the bed, though he had subtly crawled his way up so that his face now nuzzled against America's side.
America rested his hand atop Russia's head, his fingers twining, threading, and tripping throughout the pale tresses. He thought about fevers, and how they caused people to act, the strange behaviors, the unusual words that fell from their lips and their lack of awareness when it came to how outlandish their overall actions were. As America's touch skimmed from Russia's hair and trickled down to his jaw, he surmised that perhaps Russia had a similar affliction.
The cold messed with his head. He couldn't in all honesty be held accountable for the way he acted. America sighed and rested his hand against the cool, pale cheek of his captor. No wonder Russia never seemed to grasp why others avoided him, or generally found his personality rather peculiar. The poor guy just needed someone who could put up with his illness.
America stifled a deep yawn and glanced at Russia. His expression was smooth and serene, impassive to the waking world as his chest gently rose and fell. With the utmost amount of care, America fleetingly touched his index finger to Russia's lashes, attempting to brush away the trace of snow that resided upon them. The slight glisten refused to be moved, and Russia hardly stirred beyond the twitch of an eyelid.
Curling his toes sleepily, America continued to mindlessly stroke Russia. He had felt so warm the other day when he had hugged America's bare torso. America reasoned that, on account of how cold the room itself was to begin with, Russia had merely seemed warm. America shook his head, the memory of heat was nothing more than a mere trick of the mind.
The clock's numbers blazed a red message of midnight when America looked to them. He regarded the information with a certain suspicion. It had been only half past ten the last time he checked, which had been when Russia had joined him on the bed. Their little back and forth couldn't have taken up more than a quarter of an hour, and surely his internal debate about Russia's mental and physical health couldn't have gone on for so long. Then again, it'd gone on long enough for Russia to slip into a relatively deep slumber.
America shimmied silently away from Russia, trying his hardest not to disturb him as he stood. He wouldn't be spending another night in Russia's bed. He'd started to become too comfortable, he knew that without a doubt. Never before would he have been so docile and willing to spend time with Russia. Never before would he have been able to while away the hours petting his captor, as though they were close, mutual friends, content to be in one another's presence.
Pausing at the door, hand hovering over the light switch, America gave Russia one last glance. With his body sprawled across the sheets, clothes unchanged from the afternoon aside from the loss of his boots, he had the appearance of an overworked and exhausted man who had not the energy to crawl beneath the sheets. A pang of distorted guilt rapped against America's conscience.
He wanted Russia to be under the covers. It was unnecessary, he presumed, considering Russia had admitted to having no real understanding of heat as it did not affect him, but the obtuse nature of the sight continued to scratch away at America. While Russia wouldn't be nice and cozy beneath a thick layer of blanket, there was the chance he would at least be slightly less chilled.
That was all the reasoning America needed to pad back to the bed and begin to work the sheets back. He drew away to cobble together a plan of how to go about maneuvering Russia beneath the covers. He debated waking him up, but figured that wouldn't be of much help to either of them. He was a firm believer in letting sleeping dogs lie, especially when they looked so at peace. Maybe he could roll Russia to the side, finish pulling the covers down, and roll him back before tucking him in. Except he couldn't manage a way to make that work outside of his head.
In the end, after much useless flailing, hemming, and hawing, he opted to firmly yank the blankets from beneath Russia, as though he were trying to rip away a tablecloth without upsetting the assorted plates and silverware that pinned it down. For a moment he held his breath, eyes fastened on Russia's face, waiting for a sign that he had been woken by the act, but the sleeping man did not stir.
America pulled the covers back over Russia when he was sure the other would not wake. He thoughtfully tucked the sheets all the way up to Russia's chin, unaware of the gentle melody he was humming as he did so. His eyes continued to watch Russia, even after he had finished setting the blankets back. A lazy glaze descending on his vision as his eyes lost their focus, and he had to blink several times before getting it back.
"Sleep well, you big galoot." America gave Russia a singular pat on the head. It didn't feel like enough to him, though. There was something missing from the bedtime ritual; the age old goodnight kiss.
Glancing around, America fully expected to find a third party watching him. When none appeared, he quickly leaned down and pressed his lips in a chaste kiss against the milky white skin of Russia's cheek. His lingered for longer than he should have, the coolness of Russia's flesh mildly surprising, and almost refreshing, in its unusual temperature. He wondered if Russia could better understand warmth when it was pressed up against him. America was quite sure that if someone yelled right in his ear, even if he were to be underwater, he could understand them, so it didn't seem farfetched that Russia could feel heat in particularly close quarters.
Resolving to add the question to his growing list to ask when the time was right, America decided he had done all his bedtime duties and made to retreat, flicking the light off as he went. He gingerly opened his own door, wrinkling his nose at the bitter cold of the interior. He went for his dresser first, pulling out another shirt to go over his first. Bundling up was in order if he were to sleep in his own room tonight.
His next stop was the closet, hoping to find a forgotten blanket or two in the dregs of the space. He scrounged together a few stray wash cloths and one tattered linen, but found nothing more to aid his sleep. America carried on in his search of the closet, doing his best to ignore the bleary film that was consuming his sight. He floundered about for a few minutes more before deciding that he'd take Russia's extra coat with him. It wasn't like he was wearing it, after all.
Marching back to bed with his haul in tow, America threw the blankets upon his mattress. He admired his dirty work in the bright light of the moon that spilled across the floor. Seeing that everything was in order, he pulled his arms through the sleeves of Russia's coat and dived under the covers, burrowing beneath them with a certain sleepy vigor.
America tossed and turned restlessly as he attempted to attain the most agreeable sleeping position, settling in the end for a gangly pose that could turn any circus contortionist green-eyed with envy. His eyelids fluttered shut as he allowed his mind to wander, skimming the line between sleep and wakefulness.
Despite the cold of the room, America found himself relatively comfortable beneath the covers, and, while not toasty by any means, America doubted he'd be kept up by the cold once again. Russia's coat had proven itself worthy of being substituted for a blanket, though the length of it had become interwoven with America's legs, winding like insulating serpents. Ready to resign himself to sleep, America breathed a deep sigh of relief, a delightful smell tickling his lungs as he did so.
America sat up immediately, his arms flopping bonelessly into his lap as he sniffed the air like a dog. The distinct scent of vanilla was infused in the air. It was a far cry from the stifled, chemical scent America often found labeled as vanilla. His shoulders slumped sleepily as he fell back on the bed, still snuffling.
A subtle pinch of cinnamon trailed on the vanilla, warm and comforting. With his mind weighed down by the need to rest, America sluggishly pondered the source of the smell. He was sure he'd have heard Russia if he got up and cooked up a midnight snack or stirred a soothing drink. He pawed at Russia's coat, pulling the collar closer to his cold nose.
The coat smelled strongly of the sweet scents. America's eyelids snapped open, as though he would be able to see the aroma emanating from the coat. He nuzzled against it, indulging in the wonderful fragrance of the fabric, his eyes sliding shut once more, satisfied to have found the source of what had interested America's senses.
Allowing himself to revel in the stolen moment of comfort he had snatched, America was lulled to sleep by the placating smell of Russia's coat and the low howl of the wind outside his window. So deep was the slumber that he did not wake at the whimpering creak of the door hinges, nor did he register the added weight as more blankets were laid upon his body. The sole thing that stirred him, and only for the briefest of seconds, was the cool touch of a reciprocal kiss against his cheek.
A/N:
-HELLO. Do you have mixed feelings yet? Yes? Good.
-Also, why is this ending so fluffy? I don't know; I don't usually write fluff, so it came out of nowhere.
-To those who thought America would skip right into the music shop to tell Russia to get a move on, you should probably let the government know you're a psychic. "But Rose!" you may say, "He didn't."
Yes, that's true, but originally that was exactly what he was going to do. However, the night I was writing the beginning of this chapter I got food poisoning, and while curled up on the bathroom floor with a pillow and blanket, under the delusion that I was sharing my body with seven different people, I decided things really could not go off so smoothly. Also, by the time you read this, it's been at least two weeks since I had food poisoning, so I'm all better now.
-Anyone who points out typos gets a free scooter.
-Lastly, I want to apologize for how terrible I've been when it comes to responding to reviews. I am seriously sorry and will do my best to be better about it!