Prove Me Wrong (Rusame)

Long Over Due

Narrator's POV

"So, you don't know?"

America shook his head.

"What about hallucinations?"

"Those are recent. Cryptic shit, I usually don't understand them until later."

Russia nodded. The two were sitting at the kitchen table, in what could be called their normal spots for when they were left alone. Sitting across from each other, America kept his head lowered. His eyes were still showing, black as ever. His sunglasses that had been dropped by Russia were broken in his frantic rushing to save his life. He was happy Russia wasn't scared of them, at least that's what he keeps telling him, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was lying. An annoying underlying feeling to have, but one that kept persisting.

"Does anyone else know about zem?"

"The hallucinations or my eyes?"

"Both."

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, his tongue feeling dry. "Well, hallucinations, you and my family. I guess they found out the hard way, I may have accidentally attacked them a . . . Few . . . Times."

Russia nodded once more.

"And my family knows about them, of course. But outside that, you and Germany. You two found out by accident." He mumbled the word 'accident' as if it wasn't the correct word to use in that sentence.

Following along wasn't hard for Russia, what he had trouble understanding was why certain memories that seemed key for him were fuzzy. He had brought up the caves again, and he saw his face contort in confusion as if he had forgotten the whole ordeal. When he went further into detail, America suddenly went blank. Then persisted that they talked about something else. It was clearer than to him that America clearly wanted to forget. He always ran away from the issues, getting into other people's business maybe to forget his own? To distract himself? The exact reason wasn't entirely clear, but Russia managed to get a good grasp on it.

"Why do you zink you have zem?"

America shrugged. "I thought it was because I didn't really have an original culture. I mean, I take ideas and traditions from other countries, and everyone else has their own stuff. I'm a melting pot, remember? But then vomiting that black stuff and everything else? It feels more like a punishment."

He crossed his arms and lowered himself onto the table, almost curling up into a ball. Then he glanced up at Russia. "Why? Why do you think I have them?"

Russia blinked, not ready to answer such a question. His first instinct was to suggest what he had thought: America is forcefully forgetting past terrors. But how that correlated with his eyes and the physical responses didn't add up, so he shrugged instead. "I don't know."

He noticed America rub his arms lightly in what looked like a shiver. "Arrre you kold?"

"No. I just got a weird chill down my spine." He explained, telling the truth. Russia had turned down the heat slightly and stopped trying to pile blankets on top of him. So they settled for Russia's big sweater and some extra clothes he could wear, like sweatpants. And since Russia's sweater wasn't covering up his neck, America could clearly see the hickeys he had given him in his drunken stupor.

"How's your neck?" He sat up and leaned against his hand. "They look like they are clearing up, you want me to fix that?~"

"Don't change subject," Russia said flatly, but America noticed him twist his hands around themselves nervous. America smiled at that but decided to file it for later.