[Alfred] stands in front of America's door, with a piece of paper clutched in one hand and the weight of a box sitting in his coat pocket.
Deep breaths-- one, two; one, two --and he knocks.
(( AWWWW MAN, LOVI, LOOK. THEY'RE GONNA BEAT US TO THE ASKING OF THE MARRIAGEY STUFFS. D8 ))
((...I assure you - the item within the box is anything but a ring.))
(( Th-they're not even on speaking terms yet orz ))
had been enjoying a rather warming cup of coffee. He stayed up way too late last night dealing with all the news, and he's just plain
exhausted. A little caffeine wouldn't hurt, he thinks. But he's stopped from this feat by a knock on the door, and with a small yawn and
a slightly irritated glance at it, he opens it... only to almost drop his coffee mug. "... I-Ivan...? What're you doing here...?"
Definitely not what he'd expected.
expels a short breath of self-annoyance, getting a delayed mental scolding of why are you here and what do you think you're doing-- but
he doesn't pay that much mind. It is safer to rely on himself, rather than put his trust to the mail-delivery people. After all, this
is-- this is-- of absolutely no importance. He grunts a little to himself, feeling his heart stammer in his chest when the door opens, and
calmly puts out the piece of paper he's holding in front of America's face. "Compensation." And that's all he came here to receive. Petty,
yes, but he's a very petty person. It's the receipt for the damaged sink and door that America had incurred on his...previous visit.
blinks uncomprehendingly at the sight before him, his mind far too muddled at this time to really make heads or tails of the
situation. But at the very least, he can understand that Ivan is on his front door, and he should be happy. A-and he is, but the purpose
of his visit is really what would cement this happiness... and happiness that fades almost immediately as it had come when he grabs hold
of the paper and skims it, eyes flattening into a look of complete apathy. "I see." He manages to stammer out. He knows he's... he's
recovered, but after all he'd gone through, this was the reward he got? Couldn't he, for once, get something for something?
Apparently, not. Skimming the paper with a flat look, he quickly glances at the other man - surveying. Not reading, just looking. "Thanks,
I guess. I don't have money on me right now, obviously, but I'll send it as soon as I can. Thanks. Really. Have a good day, Ivan." He turns
then, expression breaking utterly into one of complete defeat; Ivan was as stubborn as he was, and although he knows he can play this out,
Ivan won't... won't admit... He's tired. He's tired from all the shit in his country, and he doesn't need another thing to pull him down.
Hoping the other hadn't seen his pain, he turns and slams the door in the guy's face. Why invite him in? Clearly, he wants nothing to do
with him.
chooses to look-- stare --at his shoes instead of America's expression when the paper is taken out of his grasp. It would be prudent to
avoid all forms of eye contact, lest he unconsciously reveals something that he doesn't want the other to see. And with the way that he has
to forcibly make himself swallow around a ball of unease nestled in his throat, it's very much a likely possibility. The corner of the box
in his pocket jabs against his hip as he prepares to take a step forward-- it is only polite of America to invite him inside, is it not? But
the abrupt dismissal of his presence does something strange to his bodily functions, and he can only stare as America turns away from him.
"A-ah, good day--" He cannot stop himself from flinching at the loud slam that cuts through the rest of his sentence. What...what on Earth
had possessed him to even think that he would be welcomed into this house again? The weight of the box is heavy at his side, and he slips
his hand into his pocket to bring it out. He looks at it for a few moments-- plain, brown box with no decorations whatsoever; Russia is a
man of simplicity, after all --before he bends down to put it down on the ground in front of America's door. He can only hope that the blond
sees it on the next venture outside, lest it be stolen or blown away.
Who the fuck did that bastard think he was? What, that he could just waltz into his home and think it would all be okay. Alright, maybe.
Maybe it would have been okay if Ivan had chosen a different set of words - or word. Disgusting. Pathetic. Irritating. Is it... is it
so hard to even just say hello? A week had passed and the first thing he could think of was to demand money? What was he, China now,
too? Fuck. His ears belatedly process the sound of glass crashing and cracking - his mug that he'd thrown at the door after pacing a few
steps away from it. It's enough; he's so tired. It probably doesn't help that he's in a particularly foul mood that morning, but now, it's
just worse. He stumbles upon his knees, head drooped down as he stares at the floor. He half-sobs and half-spits out, "Why? Why can't you
just understand, you stupid son of a bitch? Why can't you understand how much I want you to be happy... happy with me...? You're..." He
gasps in pain. "You're so infuriating... Just stop..." Ivan's gone by now, he knows, so this is alright. He vents now, so maybe if they meet
again, he won't blow up on the guy.
remains in his squat, eyeing the box-- no, the present --with a weary yet contemplative gaze. It hadn't taken him much effort in securing
the object, but he does have doubts as to whether or not America still wanted it...after all, it has been some time since he was told of
the request-- the fact that he still remembers doesn't escape his notice either, though it takes a back seat to the fact that he had
considered buying a gift at all. But his thoughts derail at the sudden sound of something being thrown at the door and shattering, and he
immediately straightens up. He hesitates in leaning forward-- in the fear of another projectile being thrown --but pushes that away when the
sound of-- something filters through the door. It's unclear and muffled, and he strains harder to pick out any words. "America?" he calls
out, voice edging towards uncertainty and concern. The present lays forgotten for the moment at his feet, and he reaches for the knob. But
he doesn't try and twist it, not wanting to invade the odd sense of privacy that the door exudes. "Are you alright?"
doesn't understand why he's in so much pain again, especially when he'd thought he'd already buried it. But the key factors of having not
seen Ivan in a while, coupled by his extremely bad mood hasn't helped things in the least. He has the strangest urge to throw a tantrum
and break something - anything that he can get his hands on. Stupid, stupid. He'd said it all when he visited. Said it everything he
could, but it clearly wasn't enough. No, he's not going to believe he isn't enough, because goddammit, he is the USA, and he is more than
fucking enough for anyone. Any nation would be lucky to have him! But Ivan - no, Russia (it hurts too much now) - clearly doesn't see
the privilege that's been handed to him. It is evident in his voice when he speaks past the door, and although there is initial surprise at
the fact that he's still around, it's quickly overriden by the irritation and mounting desperation. "Go away!" He shouts, voice tainted by
his shaking. "I get it already, okay? You hate me. You don't love me. You want me to go fucking off myself in a hole somewhere because
that's how much you despise me, because that's how deluded you think I am. I fucking get it, okay?! You want money? I'll give you damn
money. I'll give you whatever amount you need, but just stop coming around my home like this if you're just, just -" A crack in his
voice. - "If you're just going to keep lording over the fact that you're over me. Okay? I got it! I'm the biggest idiot in the world. I
understand that. You just want my money, too." He slumps closer to the floor, covering his face with his hands. "I got it. I'll do it
tonight. And then you can be happy." He curls his fists. "I'll at least do that right."
Drip. Drip. Dripdripdrip-- He hadn't paid attention to the rain clouds when he left this morning, so he isn't going to start caring
that their tears are now fast drenching him completely. Though something inside his mind is nudging him to seek shelter of some kind
against the sudden downpour. It should be common sense, really, to avoid being stuck in the rain with no foreseeable end in the near
future-- but he doesn't care, not when America is throwing blind accusation after blind accusation at him with a ferocity that Russia would
have admired somewhat, had this been a different situation. The hand around the knob tightens with restrained affliction as the rant comes
to an end, and he closes his eyes. He has no retort and no reply, tongue curled hard behind his teeth; there is just too much wrapped up in
those (resigned?) words and responding to them would force him to consider and define something he had long lost the intention of naming.
But-- he has to amend some of America's misdirected despair, even if it means forcing the dead muscle in his mouth to move with pained
effort. "You are being absolutely ridiculous," he says, blatantly ignoring the shout to go away and any sentences pertaining to the issue
of his-- affection towards the blond. "When have I ever told you that I hated you, or given you any indication that I was after your
money? You broke both my door and my sink-- I think it is only fair that you pay for repairs, yes?" The drearily dull-colored box still
sits at his feet, sagging to one side as an effect of being rained on; almost amusing how he looks a similar state. It paints him a sorry
picture of disorientated, and he sloughs out a long sigh. "Nations cannot die, America. You should know that by now..." He shakes his hair
lightly, feeling his hair fringe stick to his forehead. "But if it is of any consolation, I will leave now." One last glance at the present,
before his hand falls away from the door and he turns away.
doesn't know what he's doing - what he's saying - and why he is. Perhaps it's because the last time he'd seen the Russian, he was far more
forgiving and... even gentle at his nudgings to get the man back in the right direction; that is, to admit that he still loves him,
despite what had happened. But now, anger has taken gentility's place, and he's suddenly tired. What was he doing? Force would clearly not
work in this sort of situation, but that's usually the solution that he's extremely accustomed to. But this time... With a resigned sigh, he
forcibly drowns away all the unbidden anger, focusing instead on relaxing. When he feels as though that's sufficient, that he won't fall
apart, he shakily sighs and stands up, tiptoeing over the broken shards as he goes to open the door. A small, resigned sigh on his face, he
makes a show of slapping himself gently and says, "Ah, sorry. Dunno what came over me I'm just tired. Come in? You can leave after the rain
Alfred
is
gone, I guess." Russia, he decides then and there, is the biggest coward he has ever had the misfortune of meeting.
nudges his feet forward one step at a time, sluggish and burdened with an unknown weight on his shoulders. Maybe it's the rain-- maybe it's
not. Maybe it's the fact that he's the one walking away again-- maybe it's not. But whatever it is, it is his choice to not do anything
to try and alleviate the weight; he was the one to create the problem in the first problem, he'll be the one to carry the consequences.
Honorable intentions, yes-- that are tainted by his ulterior motive. His steps come to a stop when the sound of a door opening echoes over
the pitter-patter of raindrops, and there is no facial reaction to the begrudging invitation as he half-turns to regard America. Except for
perhaps the glint of vulnerability that flashes passes his eyes at the prospect of the blond having seen the box laying nearby. No, no,
no; he cannot allow the gift to be found when he is still here-- that would, that would-- ! He cannot even start to comprehend the
possibilities of such a thing. He has to, take it back somehow without drawing suspicion. Deep, calming breath as he crosses the short
distance back and bends down to pick up the now-deformed box. "It is awfully kind of you to offer, but also unnecessary," he replies,
unaffected and indifferent to America's sudden change in demeanor as he pockets the present and hopes that the maneuver doesn't look too
haste, "for I am already thoroughly drenched."
(( WOW HORRIBLE PLURK DID NOT ALERT ME AT ALL D< ))
decides now that, at the very least, if someone is going to run away, it's not going to be him. He's already done his fair share of that;
although he had gone off to fight in another country and "assist" in moving the troops, he knows that even that is a facade for his true
intentions, which had been, of course, to erase - if, at least, numb - the pain in his mind from the thoughts of the one man that he has
never thought would infiltrate it so deeply. He has run away then, because how else could he explain his sudden leaving in the middle of
nowhere, leaving many to worry about him, especially his poor brother? Yes, he had run away, but he reasons that at the same time, he has
not. However, to fully ease his conscience and pride, he firms himself up. He won't run away here again, and he's fine. America's still
strong and Alfred's fine. This should be alright. "I have towels, y'know," he smiles, opening the door a little more. He doesn't quite see
the present, having been distracted with the raging battle within himself. "C'mon, before I drag you in here. Take a seat on the couch.
Ah! And be careful; there's glass on the ground. I'll be back, gonna grab me some brooms." With that, he dashes off, forcing his mind set on
cleaning, and not on the fact that Russia is in his house once more.
Ivan
wonders
why-- why his heart is thumping so heavily against his chest, why the urge to walk away keeps on dwindling the longer he stays. There is
probably some philosophical reasoning for it, but he doesn't have enough of his attention left to dwell on it; not when it's all focused on
not focusing on the person in front of him. He withdraws both of his hands back into his pockets, fiddling with the personal items that
one would find on everyone-- except the soaked box...and something else. Which is all sorts of confusing and frustrating, since he is sure
that he had left it behind before he left. A hard edge takes to his eyes as his fingers start to trail along the indented surface, mapping
out a mental image of something round and smooth with pointed edged that has too much meaning for him to keep holding onto it and yet unable
to throw away. Perhaps...he hasn't moved on as much as he thought he has. "I don't think you can," he supplies as an idle thought, a smile
of his own in answer to America's. But it's all wrong-- and he feels that America's isn't the right way to smile either --because it's much
too sharp and guarded. Like he can't enter the house he has no intention of entering without some sort of a barrier. He still takes a step
closer to the entrance, though, and then another-- until he stands in front of the mess of broken glass, which he contents himself to stare
at, instead of the other's retreating back.
rushes back into his cleaning closet, flipping through a myriad of junk and who-knows-what-else to find a broom and something to gather the
shards and pieces in. Ah, he must have been stupid; who just throws a glass at the door because they're pissed as fuck at somebody who
confuses the hell out of him and should just go away because it doesn't help when his mind can't think right- Ah, no. Calm down. He needs
to calm down. After a few more minutes of rummaging, he finally pulls out the desired items, only glancing a quick smile at the other who
seems to have only progressed a few steps inside. With a roll of his eyes, he gestures for him to come in. "Hurry up, already. I don't want
my house to be soaked." He shuts the door behind the man, kneeling slightly as he sets to work on cleaning up the mess. "Um... yeah! So,
what did ya' want to drink? I made some hot choc-" ... Pause. Take a deep breath, and continue. "Hot chocolate. Mhm. Did you want some?"
shuffles around a bit, for a lack of anything better to do-- all thoughts of escape have disappeared from his mind, leaving him with a big,
empty chunk of free-thinking that he wants to fill up. Hopefully with thoughts that aren't associated in any way with... He lets out a sharp
huff at that; what use is not thinking about it when he's doing exactly that? He pays no mind to the sounds echoing from somewhere else in
the house, instead finding mundane amusement at the shattered pieces of glass. But the sudden reappearance of America's voice causes him to
startle, shoulders tensing instantly before he forces himself to relax-- and he tries not to think about how that is easier than he wishes
it is. He takes a few more steps forward, giving the other sufficient space to close the door without having to touch him. There is a moment
of pause before he follows America's example and falls into a squat, helping to pick up the broken glass. His hand pauses above one piece,
the stumble in the offer throwing his off centre for a moment. Hot chocolate... "No, it is alright." He shakes his head slightly, the water
ricocheting haphazardly, and takes a small glance at the window-- all the while still picking up the pieces. "I do not think I will be here
long." At least, he hopes he doesn't.
begins to pick up the broken pieces, and it's only then that he's surprised with his sudden way of thinking. The broken pieces. Of course.
It's a symbol of his own individuality, of the fact that there is now no one left (has there even been anyone in the first place?) to help
him sort this mess out and fully heal his broken heart. He'd thought that he'd gotten over it when he'd visited the Russian with all his
smiles, confident of what would happen - what would inevitably happen. That ring of confidence still holds true, but now it has waned
considerably, dampened by the first words exchanged between the two of them. But he is ever so surprised when, in the middle of his musings,
another hand shoots out in front of him. He blinks once, twice, unable to comprehend why Russia is helping him... and he immediately
squashes that tiny ray of hope that maybe he would have helped, too... Especially with the dismissal of his offer. He laughs then,
brushing aside the rejection and finishes up picking the glass. "Yeah, you can control the weather now, can you? Don't worry about it! I've
already prepared some, so I just need ta' serve it. Won't take long!" With that, he stands and turns to dump the trash into the garbage
bin, completely confused beyond measure as to how or what he should feel as of that moment.
can safely say, at this very moment in time, that he has honestly no idea how he has managed to hold onto himself-- not when all he wants
to do is...is... Does he even know what he wants anymore? It's a daunting prospect, to know that he has been restrained to the point where
he is no longer able to need-- want --without being allowed to. But none of that matters, really, because he must do what is the best for
his country; and keeping away from America is the only way to accomplish that-- though that doesn't exactly explain why he had chosen to was
*waste his rare free day by traveling all the way to the person he had sworn to break any personal bonds with. He places each broken piece
onto the centre of his palm, states at the multiple reflections that he sees mirrored back at him. And he finds himself staring into eyes
that doesn't look quite like his own; the purple is a shade too dark and the usual gleam absent. "There are many things I wish I could
(doesn't = don't) control," he mutters, more to himself than America, and lets the words hang between them. He stares into the stranger's
eyes for a moment more before he throws the shards away. The notion is ridiculous-- Russia is Russia and always will be.
"Then it's all about taking charge and pulling the reins, ain't it?" He answers the question quickly and bluntly, for he knows what it's
like to "lose control". Of course, he's speaking strictly on nation matters, but the thought still counts! One merely needed to take a quick
breather or two, then jump right back into the game. It wasn't that hard, really. After all, he'd managed so far. With that, he turns to
invade his kitchen, pulling out the chocolate powder and pouring out the water into two mugs. Whistling nonchalantly (why does it still feel
so forced?), he stirs. "Will be out in just a minute!" he calls out. "Anythin' for food? Mostly got bread though! Haven't quite restocked
since I got back." He'd been too busy with other things, after all.
dusts off invisible particles from his coat, a light stinging sensation tickling the tip of one finger. He looks at the pin prick of blood,
and wonders where it came from. Perhaps, the razor edge of a glass shard? "If only it was as easy as you make it sound." There is the slight
edge of surprise in his voice-- that his self-mutterings were heard --along with something akin to aged resignation. For him, such an option
can only equate to more disaster-- and he really doesn't want to carry anymore on his shoulders. Now with effectively nothing to do, he maps
his way to the kitchen, in the hope of asking for directions to the bathroom. All the while ignoring the fact that he already knows the
way there-- possibly blindfolded. "There really is no need for you to be so accommodating. I only wish to use your bathroom." A polite smile
as he sees America mixing two drinks. "You did say you had towels, and I would very much like to take you up on that offer now."
doesn't expect the new company in the kitchen, nor does he notice it at first. He's far too concerned and hypnotized with the swirls that
the chocolate powder makes, along with the wafting scent that reminds him of home... and of so many other things. He forces himself out of
that state, however, when he hears that voice, turning halfway to allow a small quirk of his lips. "Uh-huh, well, I can totally be an
awesome host, y'know." His eyes scan the man's figure, eyes that stray despite his... his need not to, before he looks away again once
again, turning his back on the man. "First door on the right when you go upstairs is the washroom, and the door down from it to the
left is where I keep my towels. Hurry up, though! This might get cold.~"
twitches a bit as the dampness clinging to his neck (courtesy of his scarf) starts to harden, leaving an uncomfortable stiffness to one of
his most sensitive areas. Reaching up to loosen the suffocating knot, he averts his attention to the arrangent of tiles on the
floor-- careful not to stir up any unwanted memories of what seems to be the very distant past. And it works for a while, until his gaze
Ivan
is
brought back to the half-turned figure of Anerica's back; and he answers the smirk with a raised eyebrow accompanied by a uncommital hum.
He accepts the directions in much the same polite manner-- a small tilt of the head, maintained posture --but he allows himself the one
minute pleasure of continuing this...almost comfortable atmosphere. He knows better than to trust it's facade of invitation, but cannot seem
to draw himself away from it. So he turns, keeps his back towards the other and his voice light with amusement. "I am sure you will find no
qualms about drinking both cups, if that is to be the case."
only rolls his eyes at the so-called "insult", offering no rebuttal as the other leaves the kitchen. It's only then that he realizes just
how tense he had been, his shoulders unwinding and slumping as though the invisible weight had just been suddenly lifted. And here he was,
a feeling of relief washing over him as it never had before... along with a sense of emptiness that the now too-heavy void fills him with.
He can hear the footsteps up the stairs, but he pays it no mind. Instead, he focuses on the mug in front of him, the smile still eerily
stuck on his face, and he belatedly realizes this... and he drops it, almost as though it is the most difficult thing to do. Now he stares,
expressionless, at the soft caramel swirls in the liquid, wondering... wondering if this was really the right thing to do - inviting th
the* guy who has plagued him for what seems like forever, into his house.
makes his way to the stairs, staring at the elevated steps as his eyes glaze over with a bare tinge of nostalgia. He closes his eyes against
the-- almost --calming effects of the emotion, and ascends with firm steps. There is, of course, a certain sense of urgency-- to finish
whatever business is still keeping him here. He quickly grabs a few towels, shutting himself in the bathroom. The coat is the first to come
off, followed by the suit jacket. The shirt inside hasn't been drenched that much, for which he is glad-- though the same cannot be said for
his scarf. It falls into a wet lump of fabric on the sink counter, and the prickling sensation at his neck increases with discomfort. Which
he is quick to amend, by wrapping a rather long towel around it. He hangs his clothes up on the available racks, eyes falling onto his coat
as he reaches in to take out the box. There is a heavy moment of deliberation-- should he, or should he not? --before he sighs and slips it
back. He quickly dries his hair as much as possible, pointedly ignoring how this very bathroom was the point of beginning for everything, an
*and returns back to the kitchen with a barely restrained twitch in his left hand.
doesn't quite notice the entrance of his "guest" (in the nicest sense of the word; with the confusion that Russia plagues him with, he is
currently more a nuisance than anything else, really), as he wades about in the brewing storm clouds of purely mixed thoughts in his mind.
He wants to wallow, but the last time he's done that, the results weren't quite what he'd expected. He just wishes for some sort of
solution to step forward and present itself; at this point in time, he wouldn't have cared how unorthodox it was. Of course, there is one
voice that screams above all else, and it tells him that he should just forget about the guy and resume normal nation business. He's thought
of that, of course, but is that really the only option? He sighs, taking a sip of his chocolate bitterly, squeezing the handle none too
gently. With the way things are going, it feels like it will be.
finds himself at a lose of what to do, as he returns himself once again standing stiffly at the entrance of the kitchen. It doesn't seem
as if his presence has been noticed yet, and he lets his gaze wander across the other's figure. Seemingly relaxed, he knows that outer
appearances aren't all that and tend to give off vibes that are complete opposites of what is being held within. The earlier bout of mood
swing from America is as good an example as any-- which begs the question: why had he still insisted on inviting him in? Russia was no
stranger to been dismissed-- in some of the rudest manners, even. Unless, of course... He stops himself from thinking any further into the
red zone, clearing his throat. "I hope you don't mind that I have left...my clothes in the bathroom."
"Shit!" The invasion of sound in his private thoughts provides disastrous results, in that, where the mug is halfway up to his mouth, he
almost drops it in lieu of calming his suddenly beating heart; really, one would have thought that after two centuries of being in battle
after battle, he would be used to sudden noise by now. Luckily, he'd caught the offending object, spilling some of its contents on his
fingers and causing him to hiss softly. "Jesus," he oaths, fanning his hand to cool it down. Sucking on the chocolate, he nods at the other.
"Ah, yeah? Ya' know you can use my dryer. It'll get 'em done faster." And no doubt, Russia would take that offer. After all, there is
clearly no arguing how the man just wants to leave - and how Alfred... wants him to. There's no point. "Oh, right! Here's yours!" With a
small quirk of his lips, he walks over and hands the other mug to the other. "Not as fancy as yours, but it'll do to keep warm. Might as
well raise the temperature up, too." He passes the other and back into the living room, where he fiddles with the thermostat. "So, yeah.
How much do I owe you, exactly?"
raises an eyebrow at the startled jerk and curse word that his words produced, not quite sure whether or not he should be amused at
America's reaction or worried-- that is, before he realizes that he had taken two steps forward unconsciously, one arm stretched out in
front of him. As if, as if he were reaching forth to the other. Almost immediately, he corrects himself into an upright position. "I...had
no intention of scary you. My apologies." He accepts the offered cup of hot chocolate, idly slotting away that flyaway compliment and
(scary = scaring) finding idle interest in the fact that America is clearly trying to keep at least an arm's distance between them whenever
possible. "The dryer would be nice, but I do not wish to be any more of a burden." He waits for a few moments after America slips passed him
to follow behind, content to just feel the burn of the mug against his palms. A tentative sip."The amount is on the receipt I gave you."
snorts at what was supposed to have mollified him. "I wasn't scared. I was surprised. There's a difference. Ya' have to do a lot better
than that to scare me." The hum of the thermostat immediately sends a feeling of warmth surging through his body - although it may have
been more of his mind willing his body to do so. He plops on to the couch for lack of things to do, studiously ignoring the other's eyes
while keeping the conversation going. Quirking an eyebrow at the response, he rolls his eyes. "It's not like you're a stranger to usin' my
dryer, so really, I don't mind." He punctuates this with a light tone, well-meaning. Setting the mug down on the table, he rummages about
for a blanket, wrapping it around himself and tucking his feet close to his stomach as he does so. "Eh, well, I'll check it out later. Oh,
just lemme warm up and I'll set your clothes in! Gimme five minutes or so. Meanwhile..." He reaches for the remote, flicking it to the
Discovery Channel, a tentative smile on his lips. "Might as well learn about how a cheetah totally ownin' it's prey, haha.~"
Ivan
is
willing to admit that he hadn't expected his mind to latch onto America's words, drawing up a highly classified memory that he really
Ivan
has
no use in remembering anymore-- whispered words of comfort around gentle caresses as the sky outside rumbles with unrelenting anger,
and he thinks; this may just be Heaven. Yes, he really should have forgotten such a thing by now. Continuing to stand somewhat awkwardly
in America's living room, he bores his eyes in the dark liquid, watching the ripples skid along the surface whenever he blows. Never mind
that the drink has been procured from chocolate powder-- there is something that his doesn't have; something that makes him think of a
warm fire, covered in thick blankets. But most importantly, it makes his heart ache with an unknown sort of longing for...for that
particular brand of warmth that a body can give him. He cracks a crooked smile at the lump of a nation on the couch-- like he was trying
too hard to hide just how much he really wants to smile --and shuffles a bit closer. But he doesn't take a seat. "That is a rather
perverse thing to like watching, America. I had not taken you to be that type."
yawns, feeling a little bored. Despite the earlier tension in the room, he really isn't the type to have his attention span lingering on any
one topic for too long. Grudges, perhaps, are another story, but as of now, in the cool silence of the house broken only ever now and
again by the roar of the animals on-screen, it's quite boring. "What're you talkin' about?" he interrogates, barely paying attention to
the other. "It's all about survival of the fittest! I mean, if they don't hunt, then they die. Basic knowledge, though if they had burgers
out there, they'd totally be set for life." Finding that his body refuses to stay too still for now, he huddles the blanket around himself
and stands, stretching. He winces as the action accidentally irritates those burns, but thankfully, with his inhuman healing, they'd
been more or less forgettable. They were still visible, and the pain would shoot up every now and again, but it was bearable. "Time ta' dry
up some clothes, then!" With that, he marches upstairs and opens the bathroom door, surveying the mess. Something of a fond smile gathers
on his lips as he takes in the sight of the familiar clothes... before he forces it away. He's just here to be a good host. That's all. With
no more distractions, he scoops up the articles in hand - a task daunted by the blanket still around him - and begins his march down the
stairs. He should have known, however, that he is no female, and that he is more or less dragging himself around in a dress... and it's
thus no surprise that a misstep triggers that stumbling sensation and the feeling of gravity being pulled straight out from under him.
With the bundle in his arms, he has no choice but to shut his eyes and wait for the impending pain to come. Fuck. Everything was just
going wrong today, wasn't it?
drains the last of his hot chocolate, the lingering warmth traveling down his throat to his stomach chasing away any other traces of unease
on his face. He rolls his eyes at the completely nonsensical logic that spills from the other's mouth, barely able to hide it behind a mask
of indifference. "I do not think cheetahs-- or any animal, for that fact --can digest your hamburgers." The very image of such a thing is
ridiculous, though a few soft chuckles still escape. He pretends to not have caught that barely-there twitch, occupying his attention by
acknowledging America's enthusiasm with a small nod. The flashes of animals and the ferocious growls still playing out on the television
draws his eyes back to it-- and there is a quick flash of, Is America this altruistic to everyone? --before he belatedly registers what
consequences behold him if America were to, say, search his coat for any object that may end up being accidentally thrown into the drier as
well-- like, the necklace, the present. That thought alone spurs him into action, long, panicky strides taking him to the base of the
staircase where he idly notes how the blanket wrapped around the blonde resembles the flares of a dress. But the majority of his brain power
Ivan
is
too concentrated on the mass of clothes clutched to America's chest, how-- how it seems to be falling towards him, instead of being
carried down. And his heart lunges all the way to his throat, body moving on complete reflex as he rushed up a few steps to catch the other.
Nothing else seems to matter then, not even the way his arms automatically open up in what resembles an awkward embrace, not when the force
of America's fall causes him to topple backwards to fall flat on his back against the floor-- never once releasing his hold.
((let me just tell you-- if you see and typos, blame it on the fact that iPhones don't have DIRECTION KEY))
(( LOL okay no prob. XD ))
Alfred
feels
his heart skip a beat as his foot skips the step, sending him pummeling down to his certain - well, not doom, but it still sure as hell
would hurt. He braces himself for the impact of the carpeted floor, expecting something harsh, something bruising, something- ... soft...?
The feel of something sturdy yet still somewhat flexible compared to the floor pushes him to peek an eye open shyly to assess the damage;
maybe he had landed on the clothes? But his brain, thankfully high on the adrenaline, allows him to observe the surroundings quickly - a
scene that he would have never imagined. He finds himself laying atop the Russian, and his body betrays him when the flush of red strikes
his cheeks as his brain reminisces on the first time this happened... But the reality of the situation sobers him up almost immediately,
heart beating painfully for reasons other than adrenaline. To be this close to him, but only for the shallow reason of being saved... it
hurts. With a shaky breath and shaky arms, he wiggles around weakly in the hold, bangs covering his eyes darkly as he murmurs, "Let go."
Let go, like you just let me go.
doesn't understand why he had done what he did-- what was to say that America couldn't have landed on the bundle of clothes he was holding?
A strange squeeze closes around his heart at that first moment of contact between America and him, and it creates enough of a distraction
that he doesn't realize he's falling backwards until his back painfully collides with the ground below. He bites back a string of curses,
the sharp throb at the back of his head making his vision swim deliriously. He barely notices the weight sitting atop him, only holding
tighter to it as he screws his eyes shut and waits for the world to stop spinning. Gingerly pushing himself into a sitting position, he
momentarily loses himself to the wonderful sensation of having someone pressed so close to him, and nudges his head forward so that he could
feel the breath of another caressing his jaw-- before that murmured command snaps him back to reality. Disappointment clouds his eyes for a
split second, before he inches away, arms falling away from the source of heat very unwillingly. "I thought thank you was the correct way
to express your gratitude to your savior," he says, the underlying tone of teasing hidden by the rasp of soft embarrassment. He doesn't try
to catch America's eyes, content to just try and shuffle some distance between them.
What game is Russia playing at? Is this some new tactic in his arsenal, to play with him psychologically and twist him his confused mind
to a point where nothing will ever make sense again? He would admit grudgingly that Russia was good at that, and always seemed to be. But
right now, right now was not the best time. He finds, however, that it's the only explanation for his stupid actions; he has done nothing
but pushed Alfred away since his visit in Russia, since the moment he arrived here, and now suddenly, this happens? A wave of disbelief and
irritation threatens to drown him, and his lips can only curl into a spiteful smile, to hide the sadness and melancholy in his eyes.
"That's because I'm neither thankful, nor do you deserve to be called a "saviour" of anything." He pushes himself off then, attempting
to stand and wobbling slightly as he does so, but manages it in the end. "I'm glad you're enjoying your little game, though." A brittle
smile is one he musters before finally turning and heading down to the basement to prepare the dryer. Russia probably knows of his still
lingering attachment and is using it to his advantage. At this point, he doesn't know the man any more, and doesn't know what he's capable
of. Using such an accident to dangle the one thing that Alfred could never have again wouldn't be too low for someone like him.
Ivan
wonders
when it was that the world has turned this complicated and interwoven-- and why he wasn't of this before hand. It would have saved a
lot of pain and heartbreak on everyone's part, to be warned that whatever you do will always be dealt back to you. Perhaps it is the reason
that the confusion at the bitter and poisonous connotations of America's word hadn't lasted for more than a blink of the eye. He smiles in
response, perfectly straight and amused to hide the cracked corners. "No, I suppose not. You always were such a rude child." He allows
America to push away, mind swimming with the snappy comment that followed. It seemed to imply that he would always be the antithesis of a
savior-- the villain; and he finds himself agreeing to it. It's true, all he does is take beautiful things for his own selfish needs
and end up destroying them. Really, nothing's changed-- but for the other to put it in such terms... He squashes the minority part of him
that aches to reach forward and offer assistance-- America obviously doesn't want it, and he has no desire to have his aid thrown back in
his face. A shroud of hidden meaning covers the other's departing words, and though he has no idea what "game" they were referring to he
nonetheless smirks back. The early mask of nonchalant that America had worn before has now shattered, and he laughs to himself when he
realizes-- that getting America to hate him was easier than he thought.
Something about the... insult bugs him to no end, and he cannot just let it go without a comeback of his own. He pauses as with his back
turned to the other, fists tightening for a second as he grits out, "At least as a child, I'm able to freely express how I really
feel." He leaves it at that, shaking his head as he restores his facade of feigned interest. Making his way down to the basement, he wastes
no time in getting the dryer ready. He moves to toss them in, but with the fabrics so close at hand, and with the earlier incident, the
familiar aroma that wafts from the clothes stuns him, and he finds that already fragile mask of a smile breaking. Peering over his shoulder,
he ensures that no one - Russia, of course - is in sight, before he hugs the bundle closer to his chest, eyes closed shut as he blocks
out all other senses save for smell, drowning himself in that almost-but-never-forgotten scent of the other... - and the memories flow
and he lets them, because this is the sturdiest proof that what they had was real, that it existed - and just as quickly
as they had come, the memories cease, and Alfred shakes one last time. The dryer awaits him, and he opens his eyes to the loneliness of the
basement room. Loneliness... loneliness once more. Shaking his head to dislodge that thought - he must stop being weak - he begins to
discard the items in the pockets... but it seems the job is halfway done for him when a queer box (?) peers out from the jacket's pocket. He
blinks curiously at it, pulling it out to examine it. "Hm...?" He wonders what it is, tempted to open it, but decides it's probably
not for him anyway. He moves on and sets it to the side, continuing to rid the clothing of any other articles... and his fingers brush along
an extremely familiar cold metal... and without even looking at it, he knows what it is. He prefers to remain blind to it as he sets it with
the box, for he knows the reason Russia keeps it with him. It's to remind himself of what a pure mistake Alfred was. He smiles painfully
to himself; the man really was not kidding about not wanting him anymore. That settles that, then.
slowly pushes himself up, easing out of that almost possessive instinct to hold on and never let go again. The swell of ache that throbs
somewhere in his chest is of small importance to the larger scheme of things-- and he resolves to sever the last of the threads connecting
them emotionally before he leaves. Either that or he has to resort to drastic measures, and he really has no intention of exerting further
energy into this than he already has. "And who is to say that I don't always speak what I really feel?" It's an unintentional cryptic
message, laden with a confirmation for both the present and the past. Though he doubts that America heard them at all, by the way that he
(he = the) facade slips back all to easily. His own mask of indifference stays present, even as he is once again left to his own thoughts
and devices. There really ought to be something frustrating about that-- but he's too busy antagonizing himself about not reclaiming those
two crucial items, to care. He can't deny that he had ulterior motives in buying the present, not when there is no point lying to
himself-- he just doesn't trust America's unrelenting curiosity to not take a peek at what's inside the box. As he tries to convince
himself that he is not panicking, nor is he practically running down to the basement, he catches the soft jingle of something-- that sounds
dangerously similar to that of the necklace. He stops just short of entering, a sudden hesitation nudging at the corner of his mind-- what
would he say if America asks why he still has it on him? Would it just further concrete his conviction that the broken relationship could be
amended somehow?
tosses the clothes into the dryer, the low hum of the machine starting soon after. It would take just a few twenty to thirty minutes or so,
a time that he feels is too long for the other, and a time too short for himself. He sets that aside as he mulls over Russia's words; he can
see the lies so complicatedly dancing in it. For the time that they had been... together, it seemed that the guy was one to hold back,
and that even if Alfred could not always discern between whether the other had faked or not, there was definitely a difference when Russia's
actions and words were genuine. How should he describe it - intense? But the words back there just sounded weak without the conviction, or
that was just him, still foolishly clinging... His eyes wander to the two objects on the table, and he wordlessly approaches as he
studiously ignores the box, attention dead set on the necklace. "He would have thrown it away," he reassures himself out loud, attempting to
recover that certainty he had when he'd visited the guy in his home. "He would have..." Russia... Russia will come back... won't he? He
would fight for him, wouldn't he...? If not, then that whole saga of their relationship must have meant nothing to the guy, if he was so
willing to let it go. Sighing loudly, Alfred pulls up the sleeve of his jacket, a matching jingle resounding in the room as he holds up the
key. He moves to unlock the pendant, to at least reassure himself... but no. He stops himself as he slides down to the floor, back against
the machine. Pulling his legs toward himself, he huddles into a ball, burying his face in between his knees. It's tiring. He's so tired.
Why had Russia come in the first place?
starts to gnaw at his bottom lip, the mental fretting manifesting physically. When had he become such an useless vessel of emotions? One
taste of the forbidden, and he was tripping over himself for another-- especially when there is no possible hope of resurrecting what they
had. He steels himself against the barrage of doubt and second-guessing, one foot stepping forth as his breath comes to a pause at his
palate-- and it stutters out with a soft sound when the very hesitation that had worried apart the skin of his lip is spoke aloud. The rise
of confidence in America's voice is a danger that he does not want to face again-- not with the soft imprint of warm lips against the shell
of his ear is still so fresh in his memories. Another jingle resonates from inside, one is not the necklace, yet sounds so strangely
familiar. Where have I heard that before? It triggers something tingly to spark in his chest-- like a ember flame has taken up residence
there --and he has no idea why. His foot continues to shuffle forwards with the pace of a snail, until he is no longer hidden by the wall;
and he calls out "America?" before he finally crosses the distance and enters.
smiles secretly, despite himself, an optimistic outlook on his current dilemma. Granted, not all of his worries have been washed away; no,
they were far from it, but at the very least, some of his doubts have dried up. There is no other explanation for the necklace, after all.
There is no reason for Russia to keep it for "old times' sake", because truth be told, it would just be more painful than pleasurably
nostalgic. The uncertainty still weaves through, but he crushes it for now when he hears that voice, and he peeks up from behind his knees
with the smile still plastered on his face. "Twenty to thirty minutes, give or take." He says nothing as he reaches over and takes the box,
handing it to the other. The necklace, on the other hand, remains wrapped around his fingers, the key of his bracelet clearly visible as he
toys with the cool metal of the sunflower. "You still have this." He states plainly. There is no hint of teasing or maliciousness; nothing
more than straightforwardness can be heard. After a pause, he adds, "Why?"
comes to a stop a meter away from America, polite enough to give the other enough breathing space. Overbearing would only make the other
more defensive, and he'd rather get through this as smoothly and quickly as possible. "Ah. Not long, then," he replies, eyes weary of that
smile-- which doesn't look as false as it has just a few moments ago. And perhaps it just might be him over-analyzing that odd glint in
America's eyes-- which may or may not just be a play of light --but he sees a small amount of hope nestled in. A false sense of security
envelopes him when the box is handed back to him without any questions and still in what seems to be an unopened state-- but that all comes
crumbling down when the necklace is not given the same treatment. (jingle) He notices the odd bracelet from some time before, but the
connection between the key and the lock diesn't come to him yet-- instead, he bites back on a demand for America to hand it back, not
wanting to seem as if he still wanted the necklace. No, that's why he had come here in the first time-- (what of the present, then?) --and
wanting to seem as if he still wanted the necklace. No, that's why he had come here in the first time-- (what of the present, then?) --and
he's going to go through with it, no matter how resistance there is. "This is the other reason why I came today." He moulds his expression
into something neutral; and he can already see it-- that glimmer of hope he saw before dying right before him, if he's lucky. "I wish to
return it to it's rightful owner."
's smile lingers, not at all deterred by the presence in the room. He realizes belatedly that he's quite curious about the contents of the
box, but now that he's handed that back, he can't very well just take it. For the first time, it seems that he's finally able to meet the
other's gaze with confidence, once more reassured by the earlier presence of the keepsake. Now that he's here, high on the pedestal of
optimism, it'll take quite a bit to knock him off of it. He only tilts his head curiously at the answer to his question, before he chuckles
and straightens himself out, standing. Breaching that space that Russia has so willingly provided for them, he closes the gap and takes
the guy's hand, pressing the accessory into his palm. "Original owner?" He laughs at that, clearly amused. "If I recall, I gave this to you
as a gift, meaning you'd be the original owner. I'm not so tacky as to take back somethin' I've given away. 'Sides, that sort of thing
suits you more anyway." Pulling back, he gestures for the other to follow, eyes full of mirth. "Might as well get something to eat while
you wait? What'cha up for?"
narrows his eyes as complete ease radiated from the other, unwilling to bring himself into that alluring orbit. Clenching the hand wrapped
around the box, his muscles lock in place automatically when America moves to invade the bubble of space between them-- he will not give
the blonde anymore leverage to use over him. In lieu of that, he ends up biting down hard on his tongue, pain overwhelming the pleasant buzz
of the heat touching his vacant hand. If that small episode at the staircase was any measure of how willing he was to drop all inhibitions,
then the fact that America is very much touching Russia on his own volition would destroy everything. The carefree laugh causes his throat
to clench, instinct ready to just lunge forward and bottle up the sound forever. "If you do not take it back, then I have no other choice
but to throw it away." He is giving the other one last chance to withdraw the necklace, because the way that America is treating this
implies that he does not believe Russia will go to the extreme to prove his point. There is absolutely no doubt that he is fully willing to
destroy the accessory if forced.
"Then go ahead and throw it away." The tone of his voice remains playful and light, because of what he's already convinced himself. There
Alfred
is
no way he is going to back out now. He shrugs. "Like I said, it's yours to keep, so if you decide throwin' it away's the best thing to do,
then go for it." He gazes back at the other behind him, pausing at the stairs. "Your choice. Oh, and since ya' didn't answer me, I guess
you're good with cereal. I don't wanna have 'em deliver McD's in this weather. Come upstairs when you're hungry!" With that, he hums to
himself, all but skipping into the kitchen as he lays out two bowls. His bracelet laughs playfully, jingling with its owner's obvious lift
in mood. Now then, Russia would be alright with Cocoa Puffs, wouldn't he?
Ivan
feels
the corners of his lips curling in amused disgust-- direct at who, exactly, he doesn't know. There is a blob of discomfort and
regret crawling in his lungs, making breathing somewhat more laborious then it should be; but it doesn't stop him from pinning the fault of
everything onto that revoltingly optimistic figure of the nation who's beck he wishes nothing more than to be able to wrap his hands
around that flimsy neck-- He sucks in a sharp and sudden breath, the derailing of the serious conversation into something as ridiculous as
cereal. The grip around the necklace tightens to an almost choking hold, the pointy ends digging into his palm. A moment of silence passes
his mind as he unclenches and looks at the black shine of his favorite flower reflected back at him-- another few seconds, and he throws the
thing at the furthest wall from where he stands. "Дурачить," he scoffs to himself, straightening up and padding his way back up the stairs.
pours down the cereal into the two bowls, with his having a larger portion than the other's (of course). He whistled to himself as he
prepares the spoons, walking to the fridge to pull out the milk. This time, he prepares it only for himself; Russia can decide how much
milk he wants, but the guy better not completely drain it! He was too lazy to go to the store this week, and on top of that, the paperwork
had been piling up. Hearing the sound of footsteps, he greeted the man's entrance with a wave and a shining smile, pointing to the bowl.
"Here ya' go! I didn't your milk, in case I put too much or too little or, hell, you might not want the milk at all!" He doesn't question
the absence of the necklace, but instead focuses on the food that he promptly chows down on. "Oh, right! There's like thirty
minutes right, so we might as well play some video games! I'll pawn you, just wait and see." Precariously balancing the bowl in his hands,
he makes his way into the living room, cleaning the toys and wires scattered about, looking as though a whirlwind had struck . He takes
another bite of the cereal, before he calls out, "Any game ya' wanna play in particular?"
flexes his hands at his side, reconsolidating that particular sense of calm that always aids in chasing away all frustrations. There is a
small sadistic part of him that wants to go back down and see the damage that has been done to the necklace-- it would have broken, he
guesses, because such a thing could not have cost very much, therefore being of low quality. And perhaps, that infernal lock would have
cracked open to reveal the secret inside. Not that he can go and check, since America seems to have caught sight of him already-- the
consideration, though, catches him off guard for a moment. "My silence is not a substitute for a positive answer, you do know that, yes?" He
throws America an unimpressed look, at how the other can just shove that junk down without a care in the world. The invitation to play video
games is something he doesn't want to take America up on-- especially when he's sure that the majority of the villains in those said games
are of his own people in a period that he would rather not think about. "I do not play games, America. Especially not your variety."
Nonetheless, he reaches for his designated bowl of something brown, casting an all-unseeing eye over the horrid mess as he maneuvers towards
the television. He deserves a medal for still willing to be so civil.
rolls his eyes at the statement. "I'm takin' it as a yes since you're not really sayin' no, either." Hah! Take that, logic! With a
self-satisfied smirk, he turns his attention back to the tangled mess of wires in front of him, wondering where he should start. He hadn'r
hadn't* played his Xbox in a while, so it wouldn't be a bad idea to start with that. "Oh? Well, okay then! I'll just play and you can watch!
Then you can see just how bad-ass I am this, haha!" Scooping up another bite of his cereal, he finishes plugging everything in and
sorting the controllers and sockets out. Without further ado, he begins his game, the soft music of the console being turned on the
only indication of the game starting. A few seconds later, the loud eruptions of gunshots and explosions resound through his
bass speakers, and he laughs as he loses himself in the game.
allows himself a twitch of his lips into what can be interpreted as a smirk at the supposedly logical reasoning, placing his bowl down on
the coffee table. "Then you will have no qualm about having my share, for I do not want it." He moves back to a safer distance as he watches
America move around, the confounding amount of wires making him wonder what the point is in having so many devices that very much serve the
same purpose. And perhaps it's the odd interest he holds for them that draws him to the other's side, content to just stare at the extensive
collection rather than the violence playing out on the screen. The box moves from his hand to the space next to him, momentarily forgotten
in lieu of satisfying his curiosity. And by the new that America is jabbing at the buttons on the controller, he finds himself smiling the
slightest bit at the concentration he can see sparkling away on that annoying vibrant face-- before he realizes that he's holding his breath
and hastily turns away.
"That so?" he quips half-heartedly, waving at the man. "I'll have it then! Just set it on the table and I'll get right down to chowin' once
I own all these assholes." Face contorted into one of concentration, he finds himself lost in the mechanisms of the game, the loud, booming
sounds that are sure to bring the roof down with their volume. Luckily, he'd had his house completely sound-proofed, already having
considered this happening. Every now and again, his fingers pause in their rapid movements over the controllers, as he stares at the
guns on the screen. His face twitches; it really hadn't been that long since his actual live experience with them, and his thoughts delve
dangerously back into the negative direction... and he shakes his head, narrowly avoiding a hit. "Sure you don't wanna play, dude? You're
gonna be bored for twenty more minutes!"
rolls his eyes when, predictably, America accepts his not-quite offer, and ponders idly on why the other seems to have such an appetite for
violence. Possibly a side effect of being very repressed from the fields of war from an early age-- or maybe it is just the current trend
of the younger generation. "Boredom is a risk I'm willing to take," he says, making himself for comfortable in his current position. His
gaze eventually returns to America, the violent splatters of virtual blood keeping the blonde's attention away from the imploring eye in his
eyes. Discretely, of course-- it would do no one good otherwise. The stealthy scrutiny gradually moves to America's back, a part that Russia
had personally treated (even if it was with something as temporary as an ointment)-- and that unavoidable seed of worry sows itself into the
bottom of his stomach once again. With the way that the other was moving so freely and without twitches, he can guess that the pain seems to
have eased somewhat-- something that he can't help but feel grateful for. "It seems as if his back is no longer causing him pain," he muses,
not realizing that he is very much speaking it aloud; and he expels a soft sigh of relief. I'm glad...
finds himself dismissing the other's words in favour of blasting the head off of a nearby zombie, and he whoops victoriously at the perfect
head shot. Really, stuff like this was just a game, more so literally to him, a nation, than anyone else. This was beginner's stuff! His
points racked up quite quickly and nicely, and his brows furrowed deeper into concentration. He would beat his high score! Yes, today was
definitely the day! The game echoes with a small victory hymn, marking his achievement, and Alfred all but jumps up, barely restraining
himself at the last moment. Once he sufficiently calms down, he focuses back on the game... only to hear murmured words of... concern (?)
from behind him. Pausing the game and blinking surprisedly at his companion, he offers Russia an absolutely bright smile as he nods
enthusiastically. "Yes, yes it is! I mean, I had ta' get it all done and over with 'coz I didn't wanna worry bro and Artie. And thanks to
the med and our bodies' healing capabilities, I'm almost good as new!" He wonders what brought that on, but nevertheless, he grins
gratefully at the other. "Thanks for that, by the way! Couldn't have reached it myself!" With that, he turns back and unpauses his game,
attention once more diverted.
finds himself only minutely worried about the fact that he still cares for the well-being of the other-- ignoring feelings that have built
up over quite some time isn't the easiest thing to do. But he's quite confident that this time he will see success rather than failure. As
small as said success will probably be. The background of undead groans all but fade away as his mind continues to longer on the covered
curve of America's back. He still can feel ithem-- uneven and rough against his palm; and his expression shows an indulgent edge when the
other jumps in what minute victory the slaying of zombies has provided. "Ah?" He blinks as the blonde starts to speak instead of shouting,
tilting his head in confusion as he tries to locate the beginning of the conversation that he obviously didn't hear-- and what is this of
England and Canada? The confusion persists to nag at his kind; until those abrupt words of gratitude escape America's mouth... What? He
merely nods to acknowledge them, smile frozen on his face as it turns the lightest of rueful. That would explain the mention of the two
nations the other is close to-- Russia is nothing but trustworthy, especially when it came to secrets --and he feels nothing in the face of
having been left out of those that would have...worried. "There is nothing to thank me for. I was only acting out as a fellow nation." The
smile on his lips slip away to give way to something less defined-- a mix of uncertainty and disinterest. And he whispers to himself, as the
attention of the other is turned away from him, "I am sure you would done the same for me."
pauses the game once more to take some few bites of his cereal, chuckling to himself as the game freezes comically when a bullet is just
about to strike its target. Throwing the controller aside, he munches down a few bites of his cereal, whistling amiably before he realizes
that his bowl now stands empty. He reaches for the other's - minutely tentative at first, eyes flickering with something close to
uncertainty as he gazes at the other - and he grasps the rim of the bowl and resumes his pace eating, as though nothing had ever
happened. "Mhm," he mumbles, stuffing down a spoonful of cereal. "I don't think that a "fellow nation" would have really needed ta' do
that." He swallows slowly, as though munching on the words as well. "Especially one that..." He chuckles. "For someone that's repeatedly
said they hate me, that was an awfully nice thing of ya' to do." Eye contact is made from the corner of his eyes for a split second -
reproachful and apologetic. He means it, but he also feels the slightest bit of remorse for having forced the guy to do it. With nothing
more to add, he turns back to the game, immersing himself in the sound of violence once more.
rises his hand up to knead the base of his hand against what feels like the horribly timed start of a migraine. The abrupt fading of the
violence does nothing to abate the throb-- rather, it only serves to make the jarring silence all the more awkward, broken only by the
occassional chewing that echoes from beside him. He doesn't catch that fleeting look that is throw at him, taking in a deep, deep breath to
push away the unpleasant tingling. "I do not know if it is just selective hearing on your part, but never once have I stated that I hate
you." At least, not one that he remembers-- his peripheral vision catches that slanted look, and something stutters in his chest. And the
moment is all but broken too soon, the realization that he hadn't been the one to break it annoying him just a little bit. If he is to be
asked whether or not he regretted-- offering his services to the other, then he would have spoken the truth and said, no, I didn't.
An really, that should have worried him more than the restarting of the violent game-- but the current moment is just too nice to pass on,
and he relaxes to just; soak it in.
Alfred
wonders
where the hell that came from, and he suspects that they're still those lingering feelings of animosity from his last visit to Russia.
After all, it hadn't exactly ended on a positive note, and if the guy's appearance is anything to come by, things are still definitely far
from solved. He shouldn't be feeling bitter now, however, especially after having seen the proof that, even if the feelings don't seem to
be there, at the very least, a reminder of him is still kept around. That's what he needs. "But that's the opposite of love, isn't it?" He
chuckles, swerving and dodging an attack just in time. "Orrrr, we can go with dislike. Yup! That'll do! Shit!" Jumping suddenly from the
surprise attack, he stands, tense for a few moments as he maneuvers his way out of the tight situation. He breathes a sigh of relief when
his character survives the assault, and collapses on to the couch. "Whew! That was close. Almost had my ass whooped, haha! Alright now,
let's see..." A quick glance of the clock betrays that there are only a good few minutes of drying left, and he makes the best of it. No
zombie was getting him down!
Ivan
wonders
if America has noticed it yet-- the way that Russia's eyes constantly wander over to see him move with the rhythm of the game, the way that
Russia's hands start to sweat for no good reason, the way that... And it feels as if there is a cotton ball lodged in his throat, all fluffy
yet incredibly uncomfortable-- which multiples with the vigor of rabbits the moment that the word love tumbles out of America's mouth. It
does strange things to him, makes him want to relive that word being spoken in that way for as long as he can-- "There are many feelings
that equate to the opposite of love. Hate and dislike are just some of them..." The game makes him feel something that he really shouldn't
be feeling from mere visuals and hasn't felt in a long time-- intrusive, like he is somehow wasting the air around them be taking up so
much space. He has no idea where it came from, when he had no such troubles before; but it's all but too obvious that even his body is
starting to repulse his continued staying in America's house. So he pushes himself up off the couch rather abruptly, freezing as his head
swims with the quick movement. "I..." Swallow, slow and abrasive. "I will go check on the drier now."
makes no comment as to the other's rebuttal; while he may not have been yet able to return the words (yes, he still holds and clings to the
belief that there will still be a moment where he will allow himself to utter those three words that scare him much worse than that of a
bomb, although he would be quite unlikely to admit that), he knows at least what it generally means. An attachment... a strong one at
that, and the only contrast he can think of is severing those ties. He lapses into a second of silence, content to dreamily bash through
zombie armies... when the voice reminds him that he is not alone in the house. "Oh! Oh, awesome, alright! Lemme come with you!" He pauses
the game quickly, scrambling in front of the other as he makes his way downstairs. Just in time too, as it seems that the dryer has now
quieted. "Okay, next time, you're bringin' an umbrella," he teases, walking into the room. It is then that he catches a glint of something
sad and dented and half-destroyed on the floor from the corner of his eye, and he freezes. The smile that had been evident on his face
curls downwards; it does not take a genius to figure out what it is. So, that was it, huh? Despite the optimism that he brings about on
himself, it shakes now; it hurts. A slash against his heart, he shakes his head and almost robotically heads towards the dryer, scopping
scooping* out the clothes as though they were fragile things, setting them atop the laundry basket. "Hey, look.~" He manages half-
heartedly. "Now you're all set to leave! Too bad you never got to play, huh?" If there is disappointment anywhere on his face, he is
extremely careful not to show it.
Ivan
feels
his fingers start to twitch, and he quickly busies them by straightening out his shirt and fixing up the towel that remains curled around
his neck. He has never really dealt well to going prolonged periods without his scarf, and perhaps-- it's already started to show, through
that uncontrollable urge to always reach up and feel for the familiar fabric. He makes no response to the offer of accompanyment, knowing
that he has no right to deny America access to move around in his own home, and he remains trailing behind the other as they once again
descend down to the basement. But he pauses halfway-- and really, America has been doing nothing but surprise him as of late, because that
assumption that there will be a next time should not be there. "I would rather just come on a day that will not rain." And yet his voice
Ivan
is
light, trying to joke with something that he knows he can no longer fulfil-- (here will be no next time) --and he finds what small portion
of his uplifted mood sink. A rather abrupt halt to America's steps catches his attention, and he opens his mouth to ask is something
wrong, why did you stop, when-- his mind backtracks, then runs over the last thing that happened in this room --and. Oh. That. He casts
a pitying look over the broken thing, almost expecting the other to start pressing him for the reason he would do such a thing. Except it
doesn't come, and Russia feels as if something just slipped through his feeling with him knowing it. "Like I said," he says, voice sounding
too loud in this confining space, and he is all too eager to reach over for his scarf, "I do not play games."
Alfred
feels
his already controversial and unstable mood droop, and he's quite certain that if he doesn't gain some stable foothold soon, he might
actually go insane. He can't believe... that trinket that means so much to him, the one that he'd taken the time to buy just for the man,
the one that means something symbolic when paired with the key that he has not even thought of once removing from his wrist... he cannot
believe how the other seems to have so easily thrown it away. It takes all he has to begin sorting through the clothes, offer a soft chuckle
the other's words. "Always so serious, huh? You're going to grow old faster that way, y'know." How could you just throw it away? "Good
to relax every now and again!" It's broken, it's broken, do you want to push me away that much*? His hands absentmindedly finger the
still familiar fabric the scarf, pulling it steadily out of the dryer. He turns and stands - I can fix it though, I can fix it! - and
he begins to wind it around Russia's neck, eyes fixated on the spot on his chest where the locket would have been. It should be an
easy fix! He reaches over and pulls it from the other side, fingers brushing against that sensitive flesh, although he barely notices
what it is he's doing. The beautiful present... Deft fingers brush past that silver tresses, beautiful and willowy - and just as his
subconscious remembers it. "Even... even just a video game or two would do," he murmurs, eyes glazed in hazy disorientation.
cannot help but glance a look over to the fragile necklace as a reminder of this broken reminiscence to which the relation between America
and him has become-- shattered, opposites, replacable. Because there can always be a second necklace, and he may one day be able to
lo- like whomever it is that he wishes; though he isn't holding much hope for the latter. But yet he is still able to feel that tinge of
guilt at destroying a perfectly functional accessory in his moment of anger-- perhaps he shouldn't have thrown it that hard? Ah, no, no-- he
shouldn't be thinking like that. Not when the deed has already been done and the last string connecting them together personally has been
severed. Like an ironically tragic fairy tale, really. "Playing games does not stop the process of aging. Nor do I find anything engaging
about..." His words trail into a strained silence when the hand he offered out to take his scarf from America's grasp remains empty, despite
the fact that he can clearly see it. "America, what--" All words die in his throat when the blonde takes a step forward, then another, and
then-- then all that covers the span of his vision is impossibly golden yellow that shines despite the lack of light. The soft sound of
clothes ruffling and that familiar feel of over-worn fabric against his bare neck overwhelms him for a split moment, so much so that he
didn't register the fact that he had removed the towels for America's easier access until a shudder runs down the entirety of his body.
Someone-- someone is touching his neck with their fingers and he... The muscles in his neck tense, as if trying to reach closer to the
skin and feel more of that pleasant tingle that the soft scrape make. Breath coming out a little shallow now, he takes a moment to
re-orientate himself-- and promptly finds himself in danger of succumbing to whatever hidden pleasure that still strives for a survival,
especially with those gentle fingers kneading themselves into-- into-- what am I doing? He immediately makes a grab for America's wrists,
halting the unprovoked (ha) intrusion of his personal space. That blur in the other's expression and tone immediately puts him on alert,
as does the fact that he still haven't tried to dislodge the disconcerting contact. No, no, no-- and he eventually musters up enough of a
voice to complete his question from earlier, with confusion, question and suspicion that he vocalizes conveying just how jumbled up
everything is. And it used to be so simple too... His grip on the blonde's wrists tightens in apprehension-- before it firms. "America,
what are you doing?"
attempts to recall where he'd purchased that particular necklace, finding the memories of that day oddly hazy. He'd known that something
major had happened that day, although what it was, he couldn't quite pinpoint it. A store... a scarf... what was it? He furrowed his
eyebrows... and when the reality came crashing into him in little bits and pieces, a subdued gasps leaves his lips, along with a small
flush as he recalls the events that had occurred that day. Not only the scarf, but the necklace would have had sentimental value, then. No.
It could not be replace. He would... he would have to see to it himself, or find someone and get it fixed. To buy a new one would have just
completely wasted its meaning. Not to mention, the contents of the necklace were something even more priceless. No, no! It could be
fixed! A hero could fix anything! He refuses to let it go to waste, and he will find a way to have it around that cool neck once more-
"H-huh?" A grip on both his wrists startles him, along with that tense voice. Blinking dazedly and shaking his head to disperse the
confusion, he looks up to meet those startling indigo orbs... and something inside him just swoons. Although they now hold none of the
warmth as they once had, they are still Russia's eyes, the eyes that have had him hypnotized ever since they'd been together. "What?
What was I doing...?" He doesn't understand; why is Russia holding him? Why is he being immobilized? ... And why are they so close? "Uh...
What...?" Desperate for something to say to make up for his lack of comprehension of the subject at hand, he focuses instead on something
else, a small quirk of his lips accompanied by that unusual abashment. "... Your eyes... are still beautiful, y'know," he whispers.
belatedly wonders if his is all a dream of his twisted mind's creation; an envisioned possibility of what other foolish things he would do
in America's presence-- especially when there was only them. He narrows his eyes at the soft gasp that elicits from the other, and that
small blush encroaching on America's cheeks does all sorts of things to him that it shouldn't. But, he has not seen that sort of expression
in a while, and though he won't ever admit that he's missed it, it is somewhat unfathomable to say that such a look is an interesting
(is = isn't) variant to America's range of expressions. But the confusion that suddenly veils the other's eyes isn't, and only serves to
draw out his own confusion. Did America not know what he was doing? Because if he didn't, then there is no way that Russia would either.
What are you playing at... "I can put on my scarf fine by myself." The smallest slither of annoyance still somehow manages to escape his
tightly controlled tone, but the heat curling around the palms of his hands is far too distracting.
It's strange, he thinks, what a mere taste of another's body so close to his own can do. At this distance, he can almost see the individual
strands of America's eyelashes, and counting them serves as a distraction from reality-- until that unusual shyness steals over the
other's face, along with those words of compliment that he really...wants to just stow away in a small corner of himself to treasure. But a
wish is still a wish, no matter how hard he hopes for it to turn true-- not when he is the one that is that is destroying every opportunity
as he sees them. Slowly, careful, he pulls America's hands from lingering on his scarf, forcing them back to the man's side as he slowly
peels his own hands away. "And you," he replies, arranging his scarf into a more comfortable position-- pointedly ignoring how his hands
twitch for that blessed warmth, "are still a bad liar."
fully pulls himself out of the trance and from the memories that betray him. The very fact that they still remain ever so fresh, as though
having just been carved into his mind yesterday... it speaks wonders of his attachment. He had thought that he'd shed them on his little
recon mission, but apparently, it hadn't been as effective as he'd thought. On hindsight, it was probably a good thing. These memories,
now that they have replayed, are something that he would never wish away. They would be much like the history of his country; they might
fade, but never fully disappear. He offers no resistance to the other's firm coercion, noting the almost hesitant way he is released, and he
laughs. "And you still can't accept a compliment." He hums to himself, eyes trailing down and around the scarf now on Russia's neck - and
it is then, in the spur of the moment and his desire for the man that the following words spill from his mouth: ""Kiss me." His expression
Alfred
is
firm yet gentle, eyes probing the other's. "... If you don't feel anything, then I'll stop. But if you do, even the smallest bit of
something, then..." He heaves a sigh, a shaky smile playing on his lips. "Then we're good."
plays flimsily with the ends of his now dry scarf, and feels a large amount of tension in his shoulders easing away. Truly, the minutes
without having it around his neck has screwed his nerves around so tight that another few more moments and he would have snapped. Though it
cannot be said that it wasn't the prolonged stay that has been rubbing him in all the wrong ways. But now-- now there is absolutely
nothing stopping him from just taking his things and leaving like he should have done before. "I don't accept lies as compliments," is his
simple answer, feeling this conversation is bordering on dangerous territory within the realms of his memory. He takes in a deep, silent
breath, wondering why it is that he has to, essentially, force out the words that he needs to say; words of farewell and until next
time. But before they are effectively shoved out into the open, America's absurd demand makes his blood run burning hot and achingly cold
simultaneously-- and the coherent thing he can offer up for a few good seconds is, "What?" Before he realizes that, no, America was not
joking, and yes, Russia really wants to take up the open-ended ultimatum. He sees the blonde's eyes searching for something in his own, and
really, what else is Russia, but willing to do everything in his power to keep America from finding whatever it is that he's probing for. So
he keeps his expression painfully neutral, the only resemblence of surprise to the demand being a raises eyebrow. "Why does it matter so
much to you what I feel?" The slightest tinge of genuine curiosity evades his words, and he really can't help himself from wanting to hear
the answer. "You do not love me; it would not be hard for you to move on to someone else-- so why do you persist to convince yourself
that I love you?"
eagerly awaits the answer, that tiny bit of resentment from the depths of his mind that completely rejects this idea. It irks him to know
that there still exists some form of rebellion in the deepest recesses of his head, and he decides that then and there, this would also be
a test for him to see and decide whether the feelings he has still do linger, or whether they have also faded and all that's left is single-
minded obsession in the pursuit of what he can't have. After all, the harder something is to obtain, the more America wants it - and will
get, even if it completely wears him out. And so he waits, his mind on hanging on the hinges of eagerness and desperation... and Russia's
lips move, and he feels as though he is absorbing every single word. "Because you matter to me," he replies skilfully - easily, because it's
the truth. He says it with such fluidity that there can be no doubt about his feelings. "Besides, there's a lot of things you could've
already done by now, and the fact that you haven't outright said no to my request means that the probability's still there." He smiles
unabashedly. "And I don't really know what you're talkin' about." He leans in closer, not quite touching, but enough to bridge the gap
between them. His eyes flicker from Russia's lips to his eyes and back down; he is still waiting for the yes. "There is no one else."
cannot seem to grasp what it is that's still-- chaining him up and keeping him from freely walking out. Perhaps the fact that his clothes
still lay in the drier that is on America's side of the room and he cannot leave without them; perhaps the fact that his pride is not
letting him to be the one that backs away again. It is one of those kill-two-birds-with-one-stone situation, and really, there should be
no reason for him to refuse-- bar the awful thought of having to actually kiss America. "I matter to many people, and not for the best of
reasons." He rolls his eyes here to disguise the spark of bewilderment that flew across his face-- the possibility of him being someone of
matter to America is incandescent, and had he been in a better mood he would have schemed to use that to his advantage. But America had
sounded so sure of himself that Russia couldn't deny the big chance that it was in a good way that he mattered. He narrows his eyes at
the almost-accusations, a burn of anger behind his mind latching itself onto it and using it to fuel his next words and actions. "The fact
that I have yet to say no does not mean that I won't." He holds a steady gaze as Anerica decides to take the initiative and step
forward, and Russia has to bite the inside of his cheeks to stop himself from taking a step back. And he expels a soft breath, eyes
flickering shut for a few seconds. "I do not believe that there is no one else," he whispers, uncomfortable with hearing his own voice
bounced back to him, "nor will I agree to kiss you. Now, if you'll excuse me..." He firms his shoulders as he strides passed America,
towards the drier. "I think it is about time for me to depart."
belatedly realizes that he can no longer hear the rain drops beating against the windows upstairs; the shower has either passed, or it has
at least lightened. That means that now, there is absolutely nothing that is keeping Russia from leaving this house any more... save for
him, of course. At this point, he remains confident; he will get Russia to stay and admit his feelings after this kiss is settled! Yes, that
would probably be the fastest way to elicit some sort of... normal response from the guy, instead of all the sarcastic remarks that are
being barreled his way one after the other. And so he dutifully ignores them, waiting with bated breath for the other to just lean in and
close that gap- and his expectant face falls in lieu of the horrible turn of events. He watches wordlessly, gazing at the other's broad
back as he remains frozen in spot. Why... His heart clenches, and he bites hard on his lip to squash the torrent of screams and curses he
Alfred
wishes
to throw upon the other. Three times. Russia had done this three times. At the door, breaking the necklace, and now this. Alfred can
only take so much... not being a particularly patient person. He sucks in a deep breath, fists clenching and shaking as he continues to
stare and stare and stare. There is a limit. There is a limit to how many times he will allow himself to be hurt, and although his
confidence has just taken a huge blow, it will not recover today. It hurts. Russia... Russia is a fucking asshole - and how he longs to
scream it out. But as of then, his anger has already been dispensed from before, and he finds only scathing words allow themselves to leave
his mouth. "Fine." His fists shake, and he can swear he almost draws blood. He looks away, walking silently to the broken accessory still
on the floor. "You shouldn't have even bothered." If Russia hadn't come along, he would never experience something this agonizing. "Next
time, don't bother starting something you're not going to see through." He pockets the pendant, gripping it in one hand before shutting
his eyes, blocking out the image of the man in the basement. It's so painful, attempting to control his anger and the feeling of rejection
all in one go, but he manages - barely. He ascends the stairs, clinging on to the rail for dear life. "And next time, don't even bother
making promises you're not planning on keeping, you fucking coward." With that, he runs up and up, never ceasing until he flies up two sets
of stairs and into his room, slamming the door shut. Jumping into the bed, he screams into the pillow, effectively muffling it somewhat.
That is it. He's done. He's tried. There is no fucking way in hell that this is going to be a one-sided deal. He would try, yes, but at
the very least, Russia should attempt to reciprocate. But, this? When it wasn't even fully his fault? Even when Russia was supposed
to be the one coming after him, and not the other way around? This. This was just complete and utter bullshit. Coward, Russia is
a coward.
fumbles for his clothes, pulling them forward out of the appliance and into a bundle against his chest. The relief he feels at finally
having secured an escape does wonders to his patience, and he feels himself slip back into a more composed state of mind. Really, who would
have thought that America had such a large reservoir of patience? Certainly not Russia-- though he is willing to admit that, after doing
all that he has to destroy all traces of hope, the other had lasted longer than he had thought was possible for him. He started to shrug on
the suit jacket, promptly keeping his back facing America. The silence that hangs over them after his declaration is heavy, and he could
almost hear the crumble of America's confidence in those false beliefs. And the fact he can feel something inside of himself collapse does
not escape his notice-- nor does he try to hide the pained scrunch of his face as he comes to terms that, finally, he has broken this off
once and for all. The sharp inhale of air rings much too loud in his ears, and he prepares himself for the barrage of insults to come-- and
promptly feels somewhat disappointment when it doesn't happen. In the corner of his eye, he catches America walking over to where he
remembers the necklace lies, and that short glimpse of it's condition causes a tightening in his chest. He doesn't pay particular attention
to what America is saying, the thunderous beating blocking out all other noise. But he doesn't understand why... This-- this wasn't supposed
to hurt; at least, not this much. He clenches his hands around the coat that he hadn't realized he was still putting on, breath halting
somewhere in his throat-- and it stumbles out in a rush when America leaves, eyes burning with how hard he is forcing them closed. He
fumbles for his buttons, hands shaking with-- anxiety, excitement, something else? --and his legs robotically root himself to his spot, with
no intention of wanting to move. I... He moves his hands up to curl around his scarf. I...
Alfred
is
completely fed up. This is what people call the breaking point, isn't it? To be honest, he would have commended himself for making it this
far. He hadn't thought that he'd be able to last this long, but he is thankful that he had taken that break away from his country, after
all. If he had approached this with half a will and half a mind, he would have only lasted a quarter of the time he had. But as of then,
he is through. Never has Russia's rejection stung so deeply; if the guy had really wanted him out of his life, he should have screamed,
punched him - anything that would have discouraged him sooner to avoid this crushing blow. Alfred rolls in his bed, shakily tossing Texas
off his face and on to the bed, body instinctively curling up into a fetal position as he huddles his blankets closer to him. Shutting his
eyes, he allows the events to replay and overcome him, body violently shaking to hold in the dry sobs that threaten to escape. As he
scrunches his eyes closed and allows nothing to seep through, Alfred realizes... how stupid he'd been acting. Russia clearly wants nothing
to do with him any more - from the blatant rejection of his video game offer, to the kiss that is forever left hanging between them. Stupid,
he smiles bitterly to himself against the silk, because he really does not know when to give up. But he's not a masochist, and being a
believer of freedom, he realizes with a dull thump of his heart that maybe... it's really time to let Russia go. How much clearer
could the guy possibly make it? A cynical laugh filters through the pillows. He should feel pathetic for giving up, a word that usually does
not exist in his vocabulary. But oddly enough, he feels a sense of satisfaction, a heavy burden lifting. Is it because he's actually tried
with all his might? Yes, he gathers that that is it. There is no escaping the pain, yes, but even Alfred learns that a repeated no is a
no. So with another shudder, he curls up tighter, beginning the process of completely erasing the memories that should have never been
there, especially not when the other person in them will not even bother to try.
((8DDD))
Ivan
is
starting to have immense trouble keeping himself standing up straight, legs feeling as if they were blocks of jelly rather than bone. And
yet he is somehow able to drag his body over to the base of the staircase, leaning his entire weight against the cold surface of the wall.
It doesn't hurt, he tries to convince himself, drawing in another shaky breath as his eyes fall closed for a long moment. He finally did
it...broke through that infamous persistence of America's; and he should be feeling happy, proud that he finally one-upped the other-- but
he's not. The only rewards he's secured himself are words of appraisal from his boss and an eternity of bitter aching and loneliness. It
doesn't hurt...it doesn't. He had said he didn't play games-- but ironically, this was one of the biggest games he has ever willingly
participated in. Though he doesn't know if he is the winner or America, which is all sorts of confusing because this doesn't hurt. No,
the only reason he's in such a state is because he's too overwhelmed by the sheer delirium of-- of-- of what? Another rasp exhale pulls
out from his throat, bringing with it the last of his energy. Now left with only a growing pain in his head and the heavy weight of fatigue,
he feels it adequate to celebrate what is obviously his victory-- possibly with more than his usual serve of alcohol and somber music for
companion. Eventually the light filtering in through the living room windows fall once again upon him as he ascends the stairs, and catches
the box still sitting on the couch. His heart doesn't cringe from the visual reminder of what there was, because he has broken it off
and can only progressively get better with time-- something that he hasn't been able to do for all previous five times. How the Gods mock
him. He pockets the now useless present, idly rubbing it with a soothing gesture. And now, left with nothing else to do in this house but
feel like a stranger, he takes himself over to the door-- where he promptly stops and nudges his head to turn just a little. He should
probably announce his leave, since it's the polite thing to do, and America has been nothing but accommodating this entire time-- (only to
be crushed by his own futile hope) --which means Russia should return the courtesy at least this once. "America," he calls out, unsure as
to whether the blonde had actually gone. "I am leaving now. We shall see each other again at the next meeting, da?"
It all begins like a movie reel. From the darkest and brightest nooks and crannies of his mind, he forcibly pulls out any and all memories
that have come into hiding. The brighter days come out easily, but the darker fights and arguments require provocation to lure them out.
Eventually, he believes that he's successfully gathered them. He decides that it be best not to dwell on any single one, and that any and
all outside distractions must be tuned out for this to pass by more quickly and smoothly. His body relaxes from its visible tension, and
a mental checklist appears to begin erasing. He is stupid, now that he sees them laid out. How could he have allowed one person to invade
his life? What happened to being the land of the free and becoming tied up to someone? How could he have allowed his former enemy to open
him up and dissect his every thought and emotion? Was he being suicidal? How could he have allowed someone to touch him so intimately, to
see him at his most vulnerable? How do the disgusting caresses still tingle on his skin? How could he allow himself to feel pleasure for
pleasure's sake from them, any less? Can he erase the filth that clings to his body? And how, how had he allowed himself to shed tears
and agony and seemingly never-ending chest pain in lieu of one person who seemed to have mattered to him above all else? Rejection isn't
pretty. Erase. Erase. Erase. Everything must go. He can't allow anything to linger. Forgetting all the memories had been his last
resort; he had wanted to just talk it out and lay all the cards on the table. However, he hadn't planned on it being one-sided. If that's
the case, where Russia seems to have willingly forgotten all the memories of their time together, then he thinks it's only fair he
return the favour. A goodbye is in order.
waits for a response to his departing words with held breath, heart palpitating against his chest like a ferocious thunderstorm. It drowns
out every other sound, emphasizing the suffocation that suddenly surrounds him in this vacuum of silence. He narrows his eyes when no reply
Ivan
is
given forth, his own question hanging uncomfortably in the air-- though it doesn't really surprise him that America chooses to remain
sulky in the bigger scheme of things. They can finally return to what they once were; to stand opposite one another rather than next to;
to do and be what is expected of them... A pang of longing lodges itself in every part of his body, and he takes the sorrowful emotion with
stride-- let him feel all he can before he has to leave. He sucks in a long and heavy breath, finding enough of his bearings to turn the
door handle. I should tell him the truth...it's the least I owe him. But he is quick to squash that thought before he feels inclined to
carry it through. If he knows America as well as he claims, then the blonde would never concede to breaking this off if he knew. No; it's
better this way. Let America think that Russia was only using him, that every I love you was a lie... He nudges the door open, casting one
last look over the interior of the house he had come to adore-- I'm sorry... Before he tears his eyes away and closes the door with a
soft click.