America’s eyes snapped open to a blue room, staring at the ceiling as he placed the feeling to memory. It felt like dying. Damn it, he hated that feeling. America twisted, looking about the room in confusion before laying his palm across his bare chest as he thought in silence.
It looked like his guest room, the one that no one really used other than England on the odd occasional visit. There was a single window looking out at the deep blue night and America blinked out at the night. He turned slowly in the bed, listening to the house and the whisper of the bedding against his skin. The sheets tugged at his chest and he looked down at the white canvas of bandage there. He fingered the gauze and medical tape and the dark butterflies of memory swooped around. He had died, he was pretty sure about that. America lay back down, flopping his arms out and glaring at the ceiling as all the aches began to voice their presence. Damn dream had killed him. He’d managed to survive wars without being killed, and he got a pipe through his chest from a dream! America huffed and continued to glare at the ceiling. Below the muted TV turned off and the house sighed with a small stir of wind.
He ran his tongue against his teeth, grimacing at the coppery and dirt taste that coated his mouth. A creak came from the front of the room and America turned his gaze to the doorway, tilting his head with a crooked smile as he saw a blurry outline of Russia standing by the door. “Hey,” he croaked, and cleared his throat.
He heard more than saw Russia cross the dark room, and hummed when two arms curled around him carefully. Nose tucked against the older man’s shoulder, America breathed as deeply as he could before his breath hitched with the lingering pain in his chest. Neither said anything. America listened to Russia’s breathing and shut his eyes as his hand roamed comfortingly across the other’s back.
“I hate you so much right now,” Russia said softly.
“I figured.” America rested his chin on Russia’s shoulder and looked into the dark inky shadows of the room. His hair smelled like America’s shampoo, and America blew at the strands of hair tickling his nose. They fell into silence again; listening to each other’s steady breathing and the chirrups of crickets and rhythmic croaking of frogs outside. Russia’s broad palm floated over the gauze tape on America’s back and the younger nation turned his face into the other’s body. “I’m sorry for scaring you,” America said, his words muffled.
Russia’s thumb trailed down America’s spine. “It hurts,” he gritted out, “because I am so angry at you and yet I cannot be.” Russia turned his head, looking down to America somberly. What little light seeped into the room made his eyes seem to glow.
Kissing his tense jaw, America scooted back slightly on the bed, making more room for Russia to sit comfortably on. He could feel the impending storm of a talk coming and he pulled the blankets of the bed up higher to stave off the cool night air. “Why am I in the guest room?” America asked.
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Here and Now 74
(Anonymous) 2012-04-16 09:23 pm (UTC)(link)America’s eyes snapped open to a blue room, staring at the ceiling as he placed the feeling to memory. It felt like dying. Damn it, he hated that feeling. America twisted, looking about the room in confusion before laying his palm across his bare chest as he thought in silence.
It looked like his guest room, the one that no one really used other than England on the odd occasional visit. There was a single window looking out at the deep blue night and America blinked out at the night. He turned slowly in the bed, listening to the house and the whisper of the bedding against his skin. The sheets tugged at his chest and he looked down at the white canvas of bandage there. He fingered the gauze and medical tape and the dark butterflies of memory swooped around. He had died, he was pretty sure about that. America lay back down, flopping his arms out and glaring at the ceiling as all the aches began to voice their presence. Damn dream had killed him. He’d managed to survive wars without being killed, and he got a pipe through his chest from a dream! America huffed and continued to glare at the ceiling. Below the muted TV turned off and the house sighed with a small stir of wind.
He ran his tongue against his teeth, grimacing at the coppery and dirt taste that coated his mouth. A creak came from the front of the room and America turned his gaze to the doorway, tilting his head with a crooked smile as he saw a blurry outline of Russia standing by the door. “Hey,” he croaked, and cleared his throat.
He heard more than saw Russia cross the dark room, and hummed when two arms curled around him carefully. Nose tucked against the older man’s shoulder, America breathed as deeply as he could before his breath hitched with the lingering pain in his chest. Neither said anything. America listened to Russia’s breathing and shut his eyes as his hand roamed comfortingly across the other’s back.
“I hate you so much right now,” Russia said softly.
“I figured.” America rested his chin on Russia’s shoulder and looked into the dark inky shadows of the room. His hair smelled like America’s shampoo, and America blew at the strands of hair tickling his nose. They fell into silence again; listening to each other’s steady breathing and the chirrups of crickets and rhythmic croaking of frogs outside. Russia’s broad palm floated over the gauze tape on America’s back and the younger nation turned his face into the other’s body. “I’m sorry for scaring you,” America said, his words muffled.
Russia’s thumb trailed down America’s spine. “It hurts,” he gritted out, “because I am so angry at you and yet I cannot be.” Russia turned his head, looking down to America somberly. What little light seeped into the room made his eyes seem to glow.
Kissing his tense jaw, America scooted back slightly on the bed, making more room for Russia to sit comfortably on. He could feel the impending storm of a talk coming and he pulled the blankets of the bed up higher to stave off the cool night air. “Why am I in the guest room?” America asked.