Let's Just Be Human (Finished)

Chapter 4: Turns Out, Texting Sucks

"She died, you know. My mom."

Soviet turned to America, who was still staring into the flames. They'd been outside for a few hours now, just watching the fire die. Russia had gone in an hour ago, wanting rest for the road tomorrow. He thought America would have as well, considering he had both a long drive and a flight, but he didn't move to get up.
His voice was oddly sentimental as he spoke.

"The pox. It got everyone back then, but it hit Natives really hard. The Natives didn't have the antibodies for it." He paused, staring down at his lap. "I miss her sometimes. She was...amazing."

Soviet knew the pain of losing a parent. His was a different pain, however. A guilt, one he carried with him every day like a cloud of regret. He still remembered it like it had happened today. His father, jumping him as he entered the locked office. The sudden blindness, hot blood dripping down his face. The stinging pain not long after. A loud bang. A groan of agony.

He'd shot his father in the stomach without thinking. Some had said Imperial Russia earned it, jumping his son with a letter opener. Soviet was lucky he hadn't lost his eye (that would come later, on a snowy hill in Stalingrad). His father bled out later that night. Soviet hadn't been there, instead trying to aid the Bolsheviks. One wish, he'd always carried through his life, was that he could've been there. That he could've said goodbye, said I'm sorry.

He sighed, softly. "I miss my father sometimes too. I guess...it's just something we have to live with."

America's gaze softened. He reached up and ran a thumb along the scar on Soviet's cheek. It was a long, jagged thing, starting just above his eyebrow and ending just below his cheekbone. He used to cover it as best he could with an eyepatch, but now, he saw no point in that. He was no longer a country, he had no need to seem imposing and hide his scars. So he didn't.

Soviet leaned in to his touch, thoughts lost in sparks and ocean eyes. "I know I can't...quite relate...but..."

"You talk too much." The statement itself should've been bitter, but America said it with a smile. He looked beautiful in the firelight, ethereal.

"And what are you going to do about it?" Soviet said, voice barely above a whisper. Vaguely, he was aware of his heart pounding in his chest. He shouldn't be letting this happen. He should be slapping the pig's hand away. After all, they were only friends, and barely that. But...god, America was so pretty, and he'd opened up about his mother, so didn't that have to mean something? Couldn't Soviet let himself listen to his heart for once? Couldn't he just have this? Have him?

A piece of wood fell in the fire, startling them both out of whatever trance they'd been in. Soviet's cheeks burned. America pulled his hand away, staring back at the low-burning fire. "Sorry," he murmured. Soviet almost didn't hear it.

"Don't be."

America just shrugged in response, closed off again. They sat in silence until the fire was just embers. Soviet found himself touching his cheek, the ghost of America's hand still lingering. He shouldn't be letting himself feel this. These feelings were foolish and would only get him hurt. But he couldn't stop. How could he, when America looked at him like that? God, this is stupid.

He glanced over at America. He was half asleep, slumped over in his camp chair. His hair was falling into his eyes, which were glassy with sleep. How late was it? "America."

"Mm?" He looked up tiredly.

"We should go inside. It's late."

America yawned, standing. Soviet noticed him wobbling and just barely managed to catch him before he fell. He made a noise, something like a squeak but more weary.