Challenge us, with whatever you want.
vodkakol asked hetaliaexchange: RussAme, angsty but with a happy ending? If you could ;w;~
America was always told to keep away from the Russian. “Never get too close to him,” his boss would tell him with a warning finger and critical stare. “If you get close to him, we will lose.”
Stay away. Keep away.
Only exchange acknowledging nods and smiles here and there. He had to be careful to keep himself from flinging at the Russian like they were old friends from the world war. Things had been unstable. It’s been like that since it started. Their connections had been shaky since the end of their alliance.
His boss told him that Russia was actually a criminal, a man who was building up his weapons of mass destruction. He was against justice and he would destroy America.
“Get close, but not too close. Don’t forget he is our enemy.”
America didn’t question. He kept a distance. He ignored the Russian’s attempts to make small talk. He watched the Russian when his back was turned, wary of his actions. When will he threaten? When will he poison the minds of other nations?
Even after the collapse of his nation, America didn’t stop treating Russia with a cold shoulder.
Don’t get close. Keep away.
America no longer knew why.
—
When Russia slumbers down the occasion world meeting halls with bottles of vodka in his arms, he hums a deep tune. America passes on the other side of the hall, manila folders packed full of documents in hand — he wanted to pretend that he was doing something important—, and sends him a wary glare.
Russia’s hum breaks abruptly. He asks, “Care to drink, Amerika?”
“No, I’ve got work to do,” America would reply stiffly, lifting the manila folders up. Russia would nod, as if he had expected the answer before he asked.
In the back of his mind, he wonders which nation stays behind to drink with the Russian. But he nods in return, knowing that if he accepted, then Russia could take the chance to insert commie ideas.
They both continue their ways.
—
America is tired.
He’s tired of acting cold to a nation without a valid reason. Even his boss had stopped spouting about commies for a while. Every often or so, Russia would pop up in their conversation, nothing said had reinforced America’s previous belief that Russia was an evil, vodka-drinking commie.
Their passing in the halls had become a regular happening at every meeting. Russia is always humming a tune, cradling various bottles in his arm. America is always stiff, trying to walk on the other side.
Russia offers. America declines, but out of habit.
After a while, Russia stops asking. Stops noticing the American that awkwardly stalks down the other side of the hall. He just keeps walking, humming, content.
America feels a bit disppointed when Russia ignores him; after all he had made up his mind, perhaps after the first few times, to not decline Russia’s offer.
—
He’s gloomy today.
The meeting has ended as usual. England has left early because of business back at home. Canada had disappeared somewhere. France… well, was France. The other nations have made dinnner appointments with each other, for fun or for further talks of diplomacy— whatever it was, America wasn’t invited.
He was ignored and alone again.
He feels deflated and decides to finish some work, maybe grab some fast food somewhere.
The halls are desolate. The other nations, whether in groups, pairs, or by themselves, have slowly left the building. America walks down the same halls, manila folder in hand.
He sees Russia walking at a distnce, no one could mistake his large frame and black suit. He was probably carrying his usual bottles of vodka. In the back of his mind, he wonders which nation stays behind to drink with the Russian.
America directs his gaze down and away. He suddenly found interest in counting cracks in the aging wall.
“Amerika.”
The voice jerks America out of his stupor, forces his gaze up. His heartbeat is suddenly in his ears and he wonders how it got there.
Russia stands, on the other side of the hall, his hands cushioning one bottle of vodka, and—
“Care to drink?”
The crackle of a certain fast food paper bag and clink of ice in a paper cup made America’s eyes wide.
He didn’t know why or how his voice cracked when he squeaked a “S-Sure.”
But it sounded so pathetic that Russia laughed, a genuine and hearty rumble from his chest.
And maybe, America thought, it wouldn’t be so bad.
-
(OOC: I can’t write for my life, and my ‘a’ button is deciding to hate me, so please excuse some words or places that are missing the letter ‘a’. )
Mina1914’s request for Fruk hugging. Sorry, I accidentally deleted it. @__@;;;;;;;;
Lyrics by Chris Brown.
Most thousand apologies but I think I need to take a break. I have some offline projects to finish, I also have school, and I also like to draw some things for leisure as well. So I’ll come back occasionally to fulfill requests. C:
-Kyun~
Francis is quiet, focusing.
He is busy mixing colors — surveying the man sprawled across his couch and determining the reds, yellows, whites of Alfred’s skin. Sunlight plays across the dips and curves of Alfred’s body and that is so many more colors: the lighting, the atmosphere are so complimentary to his form; Francis reflects that he is a very lucky man, to have such an opportunity.
“Are you done yet?”
“…Alfred.”
Alfred whines and kicks at the white sheet draping his lower legs, ruining the drape of it. Francis frowns. “I’m bored! Can’t you take a picture?”
A variety of responses come to mind, but Francis doubts what usefulness lecturing Alfred on the significance of art-history would have. He does not bother. He does dip his paintbrush into red, however, and cross the room.
The splat of pure red looks good on Alfred’s cheek.
Alfred, unfortunately, does not seem to agree.
“Hnnnggg” the American groaned as he clutched his stomach.
He was currently on his kitchen floor, surrounded by piles of empty burgers and donuts boxes. After having a quite busy and stressful week, he had decided to reward himself by indulging in a big quantity of food. However, he realized too late that this might have been too much, even for him, and he now had to face the consequences of it.
The worst for him currently was that he didn’t even feel like throwing up, which would at least have eased his stomach in some kind of way. America felt bloated and he was sure that his stomach would explode if he attempted to move, so he simply lay there in hope this would pass soon.
Suddenly, Alfred heard someone knocking at the door. He didn’t dare move to see who it could be, they would come back later if it was that important. The knocking eventually stopped, but he could hear some shuffling from behind the door, followed by the clicking sound of the door opening.
“Amerika?” called out Russia as he stepped into the house, looking around.
He walked toward the living before turning back and heading in direction of the kitchen. There, he saw the American laying on the floor and knelt beside him.
“Ah, there you are” he said in an amused tone. “Did little one eat too much again ?”
Alfred simply nodded in answer and looked up at the other man. He knew that Russia exactly knew what to do in such situation to make him feel better; it was far from being the first time this happened. Russia offered his hand to him, which the American gladly took, and he helped him to the living room.
Once in there, Russia sat on one end of the couch and let America lay beside him, his head on the Russian’s lap. Lifting Alfred’s shirt, Ivan started to gently rub his stomach, making the American let out a soft hum in appreciation.
The tummy rubbing went on for a while, and Alfred gradually felt better, but also drowsy.
“Thanks, big guy,” he said softly with a smile, before falling asleep.
“You are welcome, little one,” replied Russia, leaning over to press a kiss on his sleeping boyfriend’s forehead.
