Book 1 - Puppets

XLVII - The Waiting Game

When he finally calms down, he pulls away with a wince. His chest feels lighter, but with the overwhelming anger and sadness gone, shame takes its place.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's all okay," America replies, brushing off his shoulder.

Russia looks away and wipes his face. He glances at the others in the surrounding cells and notices all of them had looked away. His eyes return to his lap.

Then he hears someone walking in. Heavy footfalls ring out from the hallway, but he can't see whoever is coming.

He hears something being thrown at Canada and Finland. It sounds like cloth.

"Now that yer done screaming, I can give you your change of clothes," a gruff voice mumbles.

A soldier walks out with some kind of cloth in his arms. He shoves some of it through the slats of the gate. America gets up and picks it up skeptically.

"Why are you giving these to us?"

"Do you want me to take it back?"

America doesn't reply. Instead, he straightens one of the pieces of cloth to reveal a dull brown tunic. He begins to put it on and tosses Russia the other one. Russia pulls it over his head. It's baggy, and the material is itchy, but it's dry. If he were to stand, the fabric would reach his knees, and the sleeves cover his arms.

Russia sighs, and tucks himself into a corner of the cell next to one of the cots and away from the bathroom utilities and the bars. He sits for a few minutes, listening to static-y thoughts.

"Hey, Russ."

Russia looks up.

"Sit with me? It isn't any softer, but it's at least a little warmer than the floor," America offers, sitting on the cot next to him.

Russia hops up and loses the little isolation he had cultivated. He can now hear talking from the people around him, but he doesn't bother to listen in on their conversations.

He sits quietly on the end of the cot, lost in thought when America inches closer. He doesn't think too much of it until they are nearly shoulder to shoulder.

He looks over, curious, and sees America look away with a blush.

"What is it? Is something wrong?" Russia asks.

"No. Nothing's wrong," America says.

...

"Can I ask you a question?" America says, and his voice cracks.

Russia nods and looks over, meeting America's eyes.

"Can I kiss you?"

Russia's mind bluescreens. He shakes his head as if to reset it.

"Now?" Russia whispers.

America nods with an embarrassed look.

"I know it isn't a good time, but," America sighs, "please?"

Russia nervously glances at the states and Philippines and sees that they are talking among themselves.

"Yes," Russia answers, his heart pounding out of his chest.

"Really?" America mutters.

Russia nods. America closes his eyes, and Russia does the same. Russia leans forward, tilting his head, and their lips meet.

The second they touch, fireworks go off in Russia's head. He feels like he's flying.

His body is fuzzy and warm and electric. He presses closer into the kiss, and America laces fingers through his hair. Russia grabs America by the hips and pulls him into his lap. Russia pushes, trying to get a taste of anything he can. America straddles him and begins licking Russia's lips.