Let's Just Be Human (Finished)

Chapter 9: Records Are Still In Style

"Sovi, do you have any alcohol?" America asked, standing on his tiptoes to dig through Soviet's cabinets. He didn't look over, but he had the very strong feeling Soviet was giving him the world's most exasperated look right now. "Like, whiskey or anything other than vodka?"

"There's kvass in the fridge, but that's hardly alcoholic." Soviet said drily. "If you want something stronger it's too late for me to go out."

"What? Why can't you go out?" America shut the cabinet, masking his disappointment with confusion. He didn't want to get drunk, but he'd been craving a hot toddy since it first snowed. They'd almost reached the one-week mark and it had been fairly uneventful. One of them was always busy, and by night time neither of them were in social moods.
However, today there was a feeling in the air, one that felt of possibility. It felt like something would happen, and America loved it.

Soviet glared at America over his book, disgruntled that he'd been interrupted. "It's past 11. All of the stores won't be selling liquor right now."

"Hmph. I want a hot toddy." America crossed his arms over his chest like a child, leaning on the counter. Soviet just rolled his eyes and returned to his book, looking extremely comfortably in his armchair, covered with a fluffy throw blanket. He looked so cozy and focused on his novel. I want him to look at me as intensely as he looks at that book.

The thought gave him an idea. An extremely stupid idea, but a fun one. Purely to see how the uptight communist would react.

Before Soviet noticed him and had the opportunity to put his book down, America jumped on him. Really, more like a pounce-tackle hug combo. Soviet grunted from the force of America rocketing into his chest, and America laughed.

"Христос, America, you could've just asked for attention." Soviet said awkwardly, attempting to put his book down on the table next to his chair. America grabbed his wrist, and in the moment where Soviet froze, he snatched the book out of Soviet's hand. "Hey! Give that back!"

"Why? Is it something dirty?" America smirked, flipping through the pages. It was a worn book, the notes in the margins written in Soviet's delicate handwriting. He realized that this was a copy of the Communist manifesto, and by extension, a journal of Soviet's. "Oops. I didn't realize...sorry."

Soviet took it back gratefully when America handed it to him. "It's fine. Just...ask before you grab my stuff, please."

"Yeah, of course." America suddenly realized just how he was sitting. He was laying on top of Soviet, propping himself up with a hand on either arm rest. If someone were to walk in right then, they'd immediately back right out. America's cheeks burned, but he didn't move.

"Your glasses are lopsided." Soviet said with a smile. "It looks ridiculous."

"Oops. I need to take them off anyways, they're disgusting," America replied, taking his glasses off and setting them on the table. He crossed his arms over Soviet's chest and rested his head on them, content where he was. This was nice.

America found himself staring at Soviet, finding little details that hadn't been there before. He had more freckles than America remembered, gold speckling his cheekbones. There were flecks of blue in his otherwise grey eye. He was definitely attractive, there was no lying about that. He had that sort of effortless beauty that drew people in. Mix that with his wilderness wastrel vibes, deep Slavic accent, and sheer strength, and you had a man straight out of a romance novel.

Soviet's hair was down today, falling in crimson waves to his shoulders. Before America realized what he was doing, he reached up and twirled a bit of Soviet's hair around his finger, almost absentmindedly.
Soviet blushed, making it look like his freckles were glowing. "What are you doing?"