Let's Just Be Human (Finished)

Chapter 6: How Not To Drink Starbucks

Slight TW; mentions of alcoholism and child abuse. it's mostly fluff, don't worry.

also, listen to the song. it's good.

Soviet was worried. Beyond worried. America had gone radio silent for the past week and a half. Well, not quite silent. He would respond to texts very late at night East Coast time, meaning he was exhausting himself and staying busy during the day. Even worse, he would respond with one or two word answers, or not at all. With the breakdown he'd had, it wasn't surprising, but it was worrisome.

Deep down, Soviet knew he needed alone time. America was a fiercely independent man, and needed his space when he was upset, but he couldn't stop the little voice in his head that whispered "he hates you now, you crossed a line" in the late hours of the night. It was frustrating to say the least, and he was irritable. Every small inconvenience pissed him off, at one point shattering a glass in frustration.

He hated long distances. He hated what he was seeing in the news, burning American cities and protestors being attacked by men in riot gear. He hated that he couldn't hold America in his arms and tell him всё хорошо, keep him safe, like he should've all those years ago.

That night when America had called him, a sobbing, terrified mess, Soviet felt his heart crack. He'd always been something of a softie when he wasn't stressed with the government and kids, and seeing someone in that state...it hurt. It made him want to reach through the phone and wipe those tears away.

It was late at night, almost 3 am. Soviet was staring at the ceiling, pondering everything. Should he have been making more of an effort? Should he call America? How was Ukraine doing, with the Chernobyl forest fires? Ukraine wouldn't speak to him, too bitter and distrustful of his father, but that didn't stop the worry. He seemed to occupy his days fretting now, over children and foolish loves. Wait, loves wasn't the right word. He wasn't in love. At most a crush, at least minor attraction. Wait, was it even possible to have a crush at his age? Was 35 too old to have a crush?

"You're the only option I have."

America had looked so scared and alone when he said that, blue eyes shining with a soft honesty. Soviet found that hard to believe, but it also made sense. America was the kind of person who shoved his loved ones away for fear of losing them. It was just his mindset, but a foolish one at that. Surely Soviet wasn't his only option. Surely someone else could've helped him, maybe Canada or Britain. But America had chosen him. For some strange, twisted reason, this made him happy.

Soviet grumbled and rolled over, blanket tangled between his legs. He wanted to talk to America. (Maybe more, but that was impossible. Too much distance and past between them.) So he grabbed his phone and texted him. Washington DC was 9 hours behind Yekaterinburg, so it would be 6 in DC.

Me: America, I want to talk to you.

America responded quickly, showing Soviet that he was either bored or on his phone at the time. Possibly both.

Capitalist: ?

Me: I can't sleep and I miss you.

America didn't respond for five minutes. It was an agonizing five minutes. Had he annoyed him? Was he coming on too strong? Maybe he'd misread America's advances. Maybe he was just an oddly flirty friend. But you didn't touch your friend's cheek like that, didn't stare at their lips like that...

Capitalist: gay

That took him five minutes to type. Good god.

Me: You're insufferable.