Let's Just Be Human (Finished)

Chapter 8: Not Gay, But Maybe

Soviet was blushing. A lot. Thankfully, it was dark and America was asleep, so he wouldn't see. This was not how he expected watching a movie to go. He'd suggested watching a movie so America could unwind after the flight, but about halfway through America snuggled closer to Soviet's side and rested his head on his chest. Soviet panicked. What was he supposed to do? Did it mean something? Or was America just cold? I am such a mess, aren't I?

The credits rolled on the screen, but Soviet didn't have the heart to move, lest he wake America up. He looked so peaceful asleep, years of stress gone. He looked so tense all the time, like he was constantly walking on eggshells, and sometimes he'd space out in the middle of a conversation. Soviet noticed these small things, the way America's expression could change in an instant seemingly unprompted, from smile to frown. It worried him. What was going on in his head? If only America wasn't such an enigma.

He sighed, shutting the TV off. The arm that was around America's shoulder was tingling, asleep. Trying to be as slow and gentle as possible, he shifted America off his arm. America groaned and wouldn't let Soviet move.

"America," Soviet said softly. He really needed his arm. "It's late. We need to go to bed."

"I was sleep," He grumbled, pushing himself up off Soviet.

Soviet shook his hand, grimacing at the bout of tv-static feeling it gave him. "You were sleep?"

"Shut up," America grumbled, rubbing at his eyes blearily. His Southern accent was slightly thicker with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Eh..." Soviet glanced into his kitchen, squinting to see the clock on the stove. "2 in the morning." Good god, was it that late? He should've woken America up sooner, but then again, he was lost in the feeling of America snuggled up to him. It had been so long since he'd had physical contact like that...he mourned it already.

America said something under his breath that Soviet couldn't quite catch. He figured it was something he didn't want Soviet to hear, and if he did, then oops.

Soviet moved to get off the couch, hoping America would take the hint, but taking hints was not a strong suit of his. Soviet felt arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back down. Soviet's cheeks burned and he made a noise like a squeak. A squeak. He was a grown 35 year old man, and he squeaked.

He stared at America, bewildered. America had buried his face in Soviet's chest again, and Soviet realized he wouldn't be getting up any time soon. Resigned to his fate of sleeping on the couch, Soviet shifted so he could at least lay down. America grumbled, shifting so he was laying on Soviet's chest.

"Night, Sovi," America murmured, voice slurred with sleep.

"Good night, Ромашка," Soviet replied, heart fluttering in his chest.

———

Soviet woke up to the smell of pancakes and the sound of off key singing. He groaned, sitting up. He hurt in four different places, and his hair was a tangled mess. For a moment, he looked around the living room, confused. Why was he out here rather than his bedroom?
The memories of last night flooded back, and his cheeks burned. Oh. That's why...he'd let America sleep on his chest. He'd slept on that godawful couch so America could sleep comfortably. Or was it because he'd wanted to cuddle?

"You're up!" America said from the kitchen, flipping a pancake with expert delicacy.

"Morning, sleeping beauty."

"Shut up. I blame you for the fact that my whole back is sore." Soviet stood, stretching. Thankfully, this time America did not awkwardly stare at him, busy with his cooking.