[Fanfic] Us and Them 1/1
Title: Us and Them
Author: saemi_mitsuwa
Rating: PG13
Pairing: Russia/America
Summary: Written for onikotsu, as part of a fanfic/prompt exchange. Russia starts to realize what a massive crush America has on him.
Note: I hope this is to your liking, oni! I enjoyed this exchange, and hope we can do one again :)
+++++
It started with a look.
Russia resisted the urge to tap his fingers against the wood of the table. He might have been one of the older nations in the meeting, but that didn't mean he still didn't get tired of hearing the same issues brought up again and again at the meetings. Boredom gnawed at his patience. The meeting was going well, if you counted no arguments or physical fights breaking out as a good thing. Japan was at the podium, speaking in low, measured tones about agriculture and new techniques being used to lower the rate of land usage, thus allowing more to be grown on a lesser amount of land. It was important and Russia took notes on the topic, as the technological advances affected him and his people...but he couldn't help the drooping of his eyes, due to lack of sleep and adjusting to differing time zones.
Russia felt his eyes droop again for what seemed to be the twentieth time of the meeting, when he caught glimpse of two searing blue eyes peering at him from across the room.
It was America.
Russia blinked in surprise, his glazed violet eyes suddenly refocusing. America noticed his reaction, and sharply jerked his gaze back to Japan.
...Why was he looking at me so intensely?
Russia frowned, thinking America was irritated at him.
I don't think I have done anything to annoy him.
Russia sat up and tugged at the tie around his neck, feeling a wave of constriction tinged with claustrophobia. He didn't like the tight, uptight feeling his professional suits gaze him, preferring the more relaxed clothing he wore back home, with wide necks and long sleeves, giving him freedom of movement.
There!
America was staring at him again. This time Russia kept his focus on Japan and used his peripheral vision on America. The teenager kept his eyes on Russia's face for a long moment, his eyes flicking up and down, studying him for a moment before they fell to the paper lying before him. Russia felt a wave of heat flush through him.
Why does he keep looking at me? Do I have something on my face?
Russia casually pulled out his phone and pretended to have received a text message, just to catch a glimpse of his face on the reflective screen before it flicked back on.
No...nothing.
He put his phone away and picked up his pen, deciding it might be best to write more notes on the topic Japan discussed.
And to get my mind off of America.
+++++
The meeting ended early, due to good behavior, and Russia stood from his chair and stretched for a moment, feeling his muscles move and joints pop slightly. America had already left, grabbing his northern brother by the arm and dragging him from the room, a look of fierce determination set on his face.
He must be angry with me. Russia decided. It is the only explanation.
He didn't understand why America would be angry with him. If the past couple years were anything to gauge, it seemed as if they were getting along better than ever. Relations had finally begun to warm between them, and Russia couldn't help but hope the good relations would continue, despite assuming the worst.
Obviously this wasn't meant to happen...but it still hurts knowing all of the work we've put into improving our relationship has been all for nothing.
He gathered his papers, stuffing them into a folder, tucked said folder under his arm and left the room. His shiny black dressy shoes struck the carpeted floor with muffled clicks, his pace neither hurried nor slow. He had no appointments for the rest of the day, and he felt happy at having the evening free to relax.
Perhaps I can eat at one of the restaurants nearby. I heard Italy speaking of a nice French restaurant just down the street from the hotel-
Voices suddenly registered nearby, echoing slightly. Russia continued on, thinking nothing of the voices...until he heard America's distinctive laugh.
Russia paused and turned his head in the general direction where the voices came from. The door to the mens bathroom was slightly ajar, the latch having not closed all the way.
“Come on bro', he was bored out of his mind!”
“That doesn't mean is was appropriate to stare at him like he was a steak dinner.”
“He was half asleep. He didn't even notice me, I swear.”
“If you want him to notice so badly, why don't you just go up to him-?”
“You know I can't do that!”
“Then why are you complaining to me about this??”
“Because you're the only one who won't say anything!”
A sigh was heaved with great effort. Russia assumed it was Canada.
“Arthur refuses to listen to me, Francis will just go and tell him the minute I say anything...you're the only person I trust!”
“I don't know why you insist on keeping this a secret. Just tell him already.”
“I can't!” America's voice grew shrill with panic. “I can't tell him! And neither can you! Oh god please don't tell him!”
There were footsteps. Russia stepped away with surprise and rushed into a nearby room, closing the door behind him - but leaving it open a crack. The North American twins exited the bathroom as America continued speaking. Canada followed close behind, rolling his eyes with great exaggeration and stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“I'm not ready yet.” America continued to insist, his words coming quick and panicked. “I can't.”
“You haven't been ready for decades-”
“I'll tell him when I'm ready!!”
Their voices disappearing as they entered the elevator, the heavy metal doors closing behind them. Russia stood in the empty conference room for a moment, mulling over America's words.
...Decades? What hasn't he been ready for?
+++++
Three Months Later
“So what do you think??”
Russia sat before America in a burger joint. Their bosses were nearby, both chatting in low, friendly tones.
“You do realize that...I have eaten a burger before?” Russia picked up the thick burger - with a hand formed pattie, fat sliced tomatoes, lettuce, 'special sauce' and grilled onions. America had insisted he try that particular burger. He bit into the burger - avoiding the dripping sauce that fell to his plate and spilled onto his fingers - and chewed, savoring the taste for a moment before swallowing. “It is...different? But good.”
A relieved smile broke across America's face.
“I knew you'd like it!” America bit into his own burger - the same exact one Russia was eating - and hummed his enjoyment. “This one is my favorite, so...I wanted you to try it.”
Russia watched him for a long moment. I thought he was angry at me...but then he goes and does this?
“You're...not very hungry?” America asked suddenly, his eyes filling with worry. “Or do you not like it after all? You're not eating...”
“Ah- no.” Russia refocused onto the burger. “I like it- I..ah-...was just thinking. That is all.”
America wasn't convinced, but didn't push the issue.
“Oh...alright.” He plastered on a sunny smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Well enjoy!”
Russia continued to watch him for a moment before refocusing on his food. This official visit was supposed to signify an 'olive branch' of sorts, as it intended to build on the warming relations between them. He and his boss were scheduled to visit San Francisco, Silicon Valley, and to continue onto Washington DC for meetings and conferences. At first, Russia wasn't sure what to expect from America. He had seen California before, and knew what to expect in that avenue...but the young nation had been acting strangely lately.
Especially at that last meeting I attended. What was all of that about?
He felt himself frowning, his eyes creasing as he continued to eat the tasty, albeit messy, burger.
He was acting so emotionally with his brother. Did I do something wrong? Did I say anything offensive? Is he still holding grudges?
He set the burger down and went to take a drink of his soda - Coca Cola at America's insistence - and let his eyes flick back to America. The teenager was peering at him with a sorrowful frown.
“You don't like it, do you?” America clenched the edge of the table, his fingers digging into the wood as it splintered and gave way beneath his supernatural strength. “I should have taken you guys somewhere more formal. With better food. Oh f-...darn...” America corrected himself, darting a glance at his boss before turning back to Russia. “I'm sorry. I insisted and really wanted to to try it with your boss and-”
“Calm down.” Russia admonished, honestly alarmed at the other nation's heightened emotions. “I am not upset. I genuinely think this burger is good - it's much better than those...fast food ones you made me try last time-”
“Well of course its better!” America grinned, seeming relieved at the positive turn in the conversation. “The fast food places are nice for grabbing something when you're in a hurry - but the best burgers are the ones where you take the time to make everything from scratch. Ohh man some day I'm gonna make you some of my barbequed pulled pork sandwiches-...ah...” America trailed off, his voice growing silent as he caught a strong glanced directed at him from his boss. “Yeah. Um-...sorry. About that.”
America blushed suddenly, his cheeks turning a vibrant pink in a matter of seconds. Russia couldn't help but admire his youth. A small, tiny smile tugged at the corner's of his lips.
How easily he blushes. How long ago was it when I blushed just as easily...?
America raised his eyes. Blue met violet, their gazes locking together for a solid second before America broke it with a fierce downward glance. He grabbed the ketchup and dumped a liberal amount to the side of his dish, grabbed four fries, dragging them through the pool of ketchup and stuffing them into his mouth. His cheeks continued to burn a fierce pink.
Russia watched him and pondered over America's behavior. A slow realization came to him, like watching water trickling through a crack in the wall. A sneaking suspicion, but nothing more.
...Can it be?
+++++
“Please come in!”
It was near the end of Russia's official visit. He decided to spend the last day of his time in America to visit America's personal home. It was nice, being given a free day to relax before traveling on another official visit to another part of the world. Traveling and politics wore on him after a while, and after doing much of the same thing for several hundred years, he liked to have a day off once in a while.
America opened the door as wide as it allowed and waved him inside.
“Please, just set your bags down. I'll take care of them.”
Russia stepped inside and set his suitcase down beside the door. The entryway was a marble tile, chipped and worn with age, but polished and well taken care off. The walls were all white, but pictures of painted nature scenes - most likely scenes from his own land - were hung in various places, bringing warmth and color to the plain white walls. America shut the door behind him, turned and exited the entryway, walking into the living room. Russia toed off his shoes, he knew America didn't care about wearing them in his home, but it was hard to break a habit.
He followed America into the living room, his navy-blue socks visible as padded silently after him. Loud screams, gunshots and wet moans came from the television. Tony sat directly before the huge screen, white game controller in hand as he clicked fiercely, his black eyes narrowed in concentration as he fought and killed the zombies on screen.
“You know the rules. Just make yourself at home!” America opened his arms and turned, waving in the direction of the entire room and house in general. “Guest room is upstairs, second door to the left.”
“Greetings, Commie. My room is the third door on the left.” Tony stated with a flat, no nonsense tone. “Enter my personal space and I will fuck you up.”
Russia regarded the alien with a raised eyebrow.
“Hey!” America turned on Tony, eyes wide with anger. “What did I say about that?”
“Say about what?” Russia asked, his tone pleasant.
“Nothing!” America turned and flashed his patented thousand watt smile and waved him to the kitchen. “Come on, I'll get you something to eat!”
Russia knew this reaction well, and saw directly through it. Despite this, he felt more amused than irritated. It warmed him, knowing America spent the time to possibly lecture Tony on his decorum and behavior. Humming to himself, he followed America into the kitchen, but stopped a few steps short of the doorway. A painting on the wall caught his eye.
It was a painting. Oil on canvas, the strokes, colors, contrasts and the entire scene itself so familiar to his eyes. It was a warm, pleasant scene set during the summer. Five children stood on the edge of a dock, water moving the splashing against the dock slightly. A quiet background, green hill with a small cottage stood off to the side, creating a contented scene fill of warmth and solitude.
He had the very same painting in his own home.
It was a copy, just as the one America owned was a copy - as the original was priceless and in a museum - but still. It captured the essence of the scene just as well as the original did. A very well done copy, Russia couldn't help but think. America has a far better eye for art than I thought.
He stepped closer, and noticed it was directly beside the dining table. Positioned so anyone who sat to eat dinner at the table itself would get a lovely view of the painting.
He keeps a painting...by my own people - from a time when we had such fiercely bad relations - beside his dining room table? A place where he eats every day? A place where his friends and family might eat, and see this painting? Russia stepped closer, and ordered himself to calm down. I am making too much out of this. It is just a coincidence. America didn't mean so much by placing a painting like this here, in a very public place within his home. His heart pounded against his rib cage, threatening to burst from his chest. Calm down. It means nothing.
“...Do you like it?”
Russia jumped in surprise and jerked his head around. America stood in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand on the wall as he leaned against it. Russia stared at him for a long moment, studying America's curious stare before turning back to the painting in question.
“I have the very same painting in my own home.” Russia felt himself smiling at the painting. “I have always liked it.”
Both fell quiet, with the sounds of gunshots and zombies moaning and dying punctuating the silence between them. Russia refocused onto the painting and felt himself become lost once more. The warm, peaceful scene of the children lulling him into a contented state of calm.
“I feel the same.” America finally spoke, his voice sounding much closer than before. “I first saw it - this copy, in fact - a few decades ago. I liked it so much that I had to have it.” America sighed - only it wasn't a tired sigh, but more of a pleasant, happy exhale. “I showed it to Mattie, and he pointed out that it was painted by one of your citizens.”
Here it comes. Russia felt himself stiffen. He is going to say something bad. Something like - I kept it put away until the bad feelings between us were gone. I just know it.
“But...I didn't care. It didn't bother me.” America let out a surprised chuckle, his tone slightly breathless as he exhaled. “In fact...I...” America's voice grew soft, the fierce blush that Russia knew was on America face was almost tangible in the air between them. “...It...actually make me like the painting even more.”
Russia felt his heart leap into his throat. He stared at the painting, but no longer paid attention to it. The nerves on the entire right side of his body felt on edge and sharp with electricity. America cleared his throat suddenly.
“Ah- um.” America stepped away, ruining the moment. “I made some of my beef stew - Cowpuncher stew, in fact. I'll grab you a bowl!” He fled from the room, his bare feet pounding heavily against the marble floor.
Despite the moment being broken between them, Russia's body positively hummed with slow realization.
...My suspicions were true?
Russia felt himself releasing a gasp of air.
That exchange America had between his brother - it wasn't about anger...but attraction?
America re-entered the room with a steaming bowl of thick beef stew. It smelled delicious, and was a far different fare than what he suspected other nations normally received.
Has America truly...'liked' me for so long?
Russia sat down at the table, and waiting for America to return with his own bowl before picking up his spoon and tasting the first spoonful. It was rich and hearty, packed with flavor and tinged with a spicy flare. He didn't realize how good a cook America was.
I should have known he could cook well. He might have been raised by England...but France also had an early influence...Russia shook the thoughts from his head and refocused the issue at hand. It has to be true. It makes sense - the strange looks, the special attention, inviting me to his personal home and going to all the work of making this meal...I have never known America to do this for anyone else.
Russia glanced up from his stew and caught America staring at him. The teenager flushed an obvious pink, but he didn't turn away. Russia held his gaze and let a slow smile cross his face. A rare, genuine smile that showed the creases at his eyes and the smile lines on his cheeks. America's blue eyes visibly widened with surprise before a rare, shy smile blossomed. It wasn't the flashy, wide, full of teeth, Hollywood smile he used all the time. It was smaller, his teeth unclenched but loose, letting a sliver of his pink tongue become visible. His gaze softened, his face relaxed, his glasses slid down his nose slightly. It was a rare, genuine smile of America's - a smile Russia had not seen for a very long time.
A silent understanding passed between them, their eyes locking together before America broke it and focused on his stew.
“I think I will stay for the weekend. Until Monday.” Russia stated.
He did not ask. Did not plead. This was something that was going to happen.
“I am sure you will make time for me?”
America raised his eyes, and the shy smile curled slightly, his eyes narrowed, turning playful.
“Oh yes.” America met the challenge with a sharp, narrowed flick of his eyes. “The spare time will be made.” He never backed down from an open challenge. “...But I only hope you can keep up?”
Russia felt himself smirk, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous shine.
“You will just have to wait and see.”
(end)
Notes:
1. The title of this “Us and Them” is a Pink Floyd song. (I can't use by reference titles and other things to their music and lyrics. They're one of my favorite bands). The title and the song itself is about war, the opposing sides, and how both sides don't really want to be at war, and that everybody in the end is essentially the same. Here's a link: http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/2812/
2. The painting I refer to in the fic is called “Children”. It's painted by “Sergey and Alexei Tkachev (b. 1922 and 1925). 1960. Oil on canvas. 121x200 cm. The State Russian Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia. Here's a direct link to the painting itself: http://www.russianartgallery.org/famous/tkachev.htm