Russia wakes up slowly the next morning to an empty bed and shadows behind the half-closed bedroom curtains. He sleepily turns over and reaches to the rumpled sheets.
He finds that they're cold.
The alarm clock offers a time of 4:37 AM. Russia stumbles up, throws on a shirt over the painful to rub against burn scars, and sleepily goes downstairs.
He looks around through squinted eyes and spots America sitting on the couch, watching TV. Russia couldn't hear the audio. Russia grumbles. He wanders over and America jumps when they make eye contact.
"Oh. Sorry if I woke you up," America stammers, "I'm just too fidgety to sleep long."
Russia shrugs and crawls onto the couch.
"Can I sit with you?" Russia asks, not bothering to adjust his accent.
"Sure," America replies.
Russia reaches too far forward, and he recoils as he feels the scar tissue across his chest throb as it's stretched.
"Are you okay?" America asks, panicked.
"Yeah," Russia hisses, "the burn is just tighter than normal."
America nods before standing up. Russia grunts in frustration and pain. He resists the urge to scratch at it, knowing it would only damage the area more. America disappears into the kitchen. If there is any rustling in the other room, Russia doesn't notice most of it. He does jump when something is dropped onto the counter.
America reappears soon after, holding a tub of something. America sits down in the corner of the couch and opens the package. It doesn't smell like much, but it does raise Russia's curiosity.
"What is that?" Russia asks, curled into a ball on the cushions.
"Some petroleum jelly. It'll help with some of the pain. Come here, I'll help you."
Russia relents, and sleep clouds his thoughts. He shuffles forward and lies across America's lap. America pulls up his shirt and rubs the stuff onto his chest. Russia shivers and closes his eyes. The irritation begins to fade, and the itchiness vanishes. Russia's shoulders relax and he sighs with relief.
Russia squirms a little when America prods under his arms with the cold gel. America laughs at the reaction, and Russia playfully scowls. America sticks his tongue out. America tugs the fabric of the shirt back over Russia, and Russia relaxes easily.
Russia sits up a little when America begins shaking a little. He looks up to see America staring into the distance, wringing and scratching his hands.
"Meri?" Russia asks.
"I need to go wash my hands, okay?" America blurts out.
Russia pulls away, and America rushes off.
'Huh.'
Russia waits, almost falling over. His eyes close, and he feels the warmth of sleep fill his limbs. Then, two calloused hands guide his head down. He lays back and smells the air. It smells like America, so he doesn't bother opening his eyes.
He turns over and curls around America as much as the back cushions would allow, and he smiles when he hears America laugh. The vibrations of it feel nice on his face.
"You really are a cat," America teases.
Russia begins purring to prove the point and America coos. The purring only speeds along his drifting off.
'It's soothing. I might start doing it more often.'
He drifts in and out of sleep as motion fills the home. He catches snippets of conversations. Eventually, it gets loud enough for him to wake up. He sits up a little and looks around. America is sleeping under him, and Russia smiles.
YOU ARE READING
Book 3 - Retrievers
FanfictionWith his brother still in danger and magic on the fritz, Russia must keep himself together enough just to survive. With people behind him and monsters to chase, will he be able to bring his brother back safe?
