bits of my mind

forgive (rusame)

requested by Broes-before-hoes

america is trans ftm in this oneshot (sorry i misread your comment and thought you wanted trans ftm instead of trans mtf :'))

TW: mentions of war, mentions of suicide (?), loads of insults

--

"You have to be kidding me," America said, throwing the poker cards he had on hand to the table as Poland snickered, putting down his cards. King of Spades and Ace of Spades. A perfect 21. Russia had busted, and he revealed his cards, sighing and downing the remnants of his drink. He probably shouldn't have agreed to the outrageous idea of settling rooms by a card game of luck.

"So, Poland, which two people would you like to choose?" Ukraine asked. The Polish man's eyes glinted with pure delight at his power, a ghost of a cheeky grin on his lips. "America and Russia."

Well, he had always been the one to stir shit up.

Germany shrugged. "Well, as agreed, you two will have to share one bed. The rest of us can have whatever room we want."

Everyone at the table got up. America groaned and complained about the "fucking commie", muttering that "he probably wouldn't let either person sleep on the bed" and that he'd "be awake for the whole night."

"My God, will you shut up?" Russia growled. "Bloody bastard. I didn't even ask for this. If you hate me that much you can sleep on the damn floor. Fucking pussy."

America glared at him, a snarl in his throat primed like a weapon. "I will gladly sleep on the floor, thank you very much." Then, under his breath, "What a bitch. If I were him I'd just kill myself, how pathetic."

"Hey!" Russia shouted, as America stalked off towards the room they had to share. The American ignored him, speeding up. The former considered calling him again, but decided against it in case he'd say something he'd regret, and let him go.

He couldn't even remember when and why they started hating each other in the first place. If it was America and his father... sure, he'd understand, sort of. But the mutual hate was so strong, even though they had fought in battles side by side.

Even then something drew his eyes to America. As he looked, studying the way he talked with all his pride and confidence — something that had been stripped from him in humiliation and punishment, the ostracism he experienced because of his background... he couldn't help but feel jealous, he didn't know if he wanted to be America or with America. 

False pride filled him, telling him no, he wanted neither; he wanted to be better than America. He had to be better than America, he had to prove everyone wrong. Still, guilt and dissatisfaction plagued his conscience with every waking moment he spent in America's presence.

Rubbing his temples, Russia got up from the table, the last one back in their respective rooms. When he closed the door behind him, America was already making himself comfortable on the floor, one of the pillows propping his head up and using one of his bigger coats as a blanket. The Russian man rolled his eyes, making his way past America to the only bed in the room, plopping down and getting under the covers.

He lay in bed for a while, before muttering, "You know, my father is dead. There's no reason for us to hate each other anymore. Maybe we could be friends... or something. Anything but enemies. It's starting to get boring."

Maybe he had too much to drink. Maybe he was drunk. Maybe it was a bad idea; perhaps he should've just kept his mouth shut and went to sleep. Hopefully it was all in his head, like most scenarios were.