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Post by America on Mar 28, 2012 18:39:29 GMT -5
"I am not crazy, Amerika~"
It took America a few moments to register the snapping sounds steadily escalating in volume, but when he did, any snippy retort he may have had in store was forgotten in an instant. It was then that he glanced down and noticed where the sounds were coming from.
Oh. Russia was breaking the table. That was a new one. He was definitely holding up to his claim of not being crazy.
The younger nation didn’t so much as flinch when the doomed piece of furniture was overturned with what would have sounded like a loud and distressing crack to someone else. He was far too preoccupied with watching the way the wood splintered and snapped under the Russian’s vicious ministrations, something churning inside of him as he surveyed the dust and bits scatter and dissolve the way sparks do.
Him taking full notice to it or not was something up for debate, but he was now sporting a wide grin of his own. As he eyed the psychotic nation motioning to whip the table in his general direction, his ordinarily bright sky blue optics seemed to darken a shade or two. Now that he was taking the time to entertain the idea, it occurred to him that maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing, the man’s creepiness aside. It wasn’t every day that he stumbled upon an open chance to punch a communist bastard in the face, after all. Who knew when he’d have another opportunity like this?
Anything regarding his obligations and promises might as well have been tossed out the window. He couldn’t care less in the moment. If anyone asked, he would simply say Russia started it. Yes, that’s what he would do.
“Oh, that’s how we’re going to play?” The blond pulled himself to his feet, his grin growing just a tad bit wider. “Go ahead.” He went on in a singsong tone, making a great display of cracking his knuckles. “Do it. I dare you.”
It wasn’t like America needed to dare him, in turn, because the next thing he knew, the table was whizzing towards him—probably intended for his face. It was no great feat on his part grabbing a hold of it before it smacked against its intended target. Peering over the top and narrowing his eyes at the one who had swung it, smile still intact, he dug his own fingers into the wood, holding the made to be weapon firmly.
“Nice aim, Russia.” He offered in sarcastic compensation. “You should give it another shot!”
With that, he pushed forcefully at the end of the table he’d caught a hold of, hoping the other would stumble backwards. It wasn’t much of a strong move on his part, but he was just getting started, after all.
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Post by Russia on Mar 28, 2012 19:43:30 GMT -5
The wrath seared his veins when the table was stopped. America seemed to know where this was going. Good. Russia's own brain was starting to slip out to lunch, but forgot to lock the door because wrath just climbed into the driver's seat. Unfortunately, that table needed to go through America's face, not stop just before because that brat caught it.
He growled slightly, the sound feeling weird coming through that odd grin, similar to the one America now sported too. Maybe he and America were more alike than they gave each other credit for. Now wasn't the time for introverted, deep speculation. Now was the time to smash things.
Russia continued to shove blindly on the table he'd intended to use as a bludgeon, before his thoughts were snapped back into focus by real opposition. At America's push, the table wrenched itself from Russia's hands, leaving only splinters clenched in his grasp as was forced back some. Tripping over his own foot, he landed squarely on his rear, still holding the splinters and wood chips tightly in his hands.
The shock of being knocked off balance forced wrath into the passenger's seat, yelling directions at Russia's mind when it got back in. Such a backseat driver, wrath was.
“You should give it another shot!”
Just maybe he would take that challenge. America had stepped on all of his nerves today and he just needed... to release the anger, to let every strike drain and satisfy the burn the anger brought to his body.
They were supposed to be trying to get to know each other better and maybe be more friendly; that had been the purpose of this stupid meeting, along with figuring out what they were going to do in Vietnam. Another failed peace talk, that's all this was. Russia huffed under his breath, still smiling with that dangerous twitch before he threw the corpse bits of the table from his hands to the ground.
Another shot...
Already being on the ground made that all too easy. A slight weight shift and there was a boot heading for an American knee. Maybe if he broke it thoroughly, it would bend backwards like an ostrich. That would be pretty fascinating. Maybe America would be grateful that Russia gifted him with new functionality. Of course, that brat would never see it that way. On the plus side, that would hurt.
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Post by America on Mar 29, 2012 19:57:23 GMT -5
America almost wound up sniggering in triumph when Russia succumbed to his shove and ended up landing flat on his behind. He settled for confidently tossing the table aside instead, not so much as glancing in the hunk of wood’s direction as it thrashed down the hall.
“Come on, now. You can do better than that, can’t you?” He practically sighed, still all smiles.
He didn’t see the flat of the Russian’s boot extending with rapid speed toward his knee until the second it was surely too late to make an attempt at dodging. Needless to say, the kick made contact. The blond’s opposite leg buckled as he yelped, and in less than a second’s time, he was unceremoniously hunching and dropping to the ground. He only managed to kneel lopsidedly once his other unscathed knee had hit the floor, a bit of a thud resounding. Now he would be finding two bruises later on—surely more once their little squabble was over and done with.
Well, he supposed he had asked for it, but it wasn’t like he was going to act happy about it. That would just be bizarre, and besides, it would ruin the mood.
Hissing in pain, the blond retracted the palms he’d subconsciously pressed against his aching knee. Upon lifting his head, a flash of gritted teeth appeared between his parted lips.
“You—”
Before he knew what he was doing, he was lunging forward, latching onto a handful of Russia’s jacket with one hand, his other clasping into a fist with the capability and dynamism to bend an iron beam over backwards.
Pitching anything at someone who was down was normally against America’s morals, but at the moment, he was far too blinded by his anger and throbbing leg to care. Besides, this was Russia he was dealing with. He and the older nation seemed to be constantly teetering over the edge of the precarious cliff that overshadowed pure hatred, so what could be wrong with this? It wasn’t something that came as any surprise. Right now, there were no rules, because it was Russia.
It wasn’t like he was thinking clearly enough for any part of him to have any objections to that. He bared his fist. Without another thought, he threw a punch aimed square for the center of the man’s face.
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Post by Russia on Mar 29, 2012 20:34:41 GMT -5
"Come on, now. You can do better than that, can’t you?"
Indeed, he could. The crunch of the other's knee against his boot was oddly satisfying, but that wasn't enough to assuage the burn. By the time Russia pulled his foot back, America had already crumpled to the ground like paper. That brat deserved what he got for calling him crazy.
Once. Maybe twice. Three times at most in one meeting could Russia tolerate being insulted in such a manner, but no, America liked to imply it rather frequently that there was something wrong with Russia's head. There was not!
He chuckled under his breath at America's new-found injuries. With any luck, he could make more. A pretty pattern of bruises would certainly add class to that little brat's idiotic face.
"You—"
Russia had just gotten his feet back under him, planning to stand up as he had no such qualms against hitting someone while they were down, America certainly being no exception to the rule. Fighting fair was stupid. Fighting fair was just a way to potentially lose. It was always best to guarantee the win.
Apparently though... Russia had been too slow.
A fast hand snatched him by the jacket and yanked. Jarred forward from his crouch to his knees, Russia looked up at the clearly... furious American holding his clothing, feeling slightly stunned.
This was not- Was America pulling back his fist? He was pulling back his fi-
This.
Was.
Not.
Good.
Russia saw it coming, time slowing down. He knew how strong America was physically... He was swinging buffalo around by the horns when he was just a hatchling, but... that same fist was coming right... for his face. Expletive.
His eyes widened slightly as he tried to lean out of the way, stuck in place his own stupid jacket. The moment he felt the tug of the fabric indicating that he could go no farther, Russia put his arm up, wishing for a moment more of time while trying to deflect the punch.
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Post by America on Apr 1, 2012 20:32:56 GMT -5
America had been about to hit him with full vigor. He was going to, with no remorse, because it wasn’t something he’d decided on or given process to. It was only thoughtless execution. He didn’t need to think about it, he just had to do it.
Then, seeing the way Russia’s eyes widened in the least bit, the way he lifted an arm up in a impractical sort of defense, the blond’s elbow suddenly went lax. He hesitated. His fingers broke from their tight ball, still twitching from the pressure. All indications of anger had up and vanished from his features, leaving him looking shocked and perplexed. He glanced to his flinching fingers, back to Russia, and once more to his fingers.
How had he lost his temper so fast? He flat out detested the kind of anger he’d just been a split second from exhibiting. He’d experienced it far too often, being on the receiving end of that anger. He didn’t want to become that. He swore to himself and his people that he wouldn’t become that, not in a million years. He just couldn’t.
Once more, gaze flickering back to the man he still held in his fitted clutch, he remembered why exactly he’d stooped so low.
It was because of Russia. God damned Russia. Of course it would be Russia.
“You—” America grit out a second time, unsure as to how else to make his recovery more convincing. He hoped it didn’t meet the other’s ears as toned down as he thought it sounded.
Hardening his expression, he wasted no more time and hurled a punch despite himself, landing it just above Russia’s jaw. He wouldn’t ever in any arbitrary circumstance admit that it was thrown with a mere fraction of the strength one of his normal punches would contain.
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Post by Russia on Apr 1, 2012 21:07:03 GMT -5
Russia waited for the blow that he probably deserved, but it never came. No fist knocked out his lights or scuffed across his arm. Nothing. He'd clenched his eyes shut to brace himself for it. If there was one thing he'd learned how to do in his youth, it was how to take a hit. Once upon a time, he had been the kicking bag of North-eastern Europe. They'd all line up for a game of "Kick Muscovite Russia across the Steppes." Keeping his eyes closed in that brief moment that he waited, bits and pieces flooded back, washing away the initial suffocating wrath he'd felt burn like fire in his veins.
Jeers and laughs echoed in his ears as he remembered his bigger neighbors finding unending amounts of fun in discovering new ways to teach him how to fly. They never did quite get around to teaching him how to land. How rude.
Forgetting where he was, his shook slightly, wishing that whoever was about to give him his usual round of beatings would just get it over with. It was probably Denmark... Or Lithuania... Novogorod or Golden... Horde... Russia tried to curl into a protective ball to lessen whatever pain was about to come but he found he was stuck sitting up on his knees. "Пож-жалуйста..." he mumbled, still quaking a bit. Please let it be anybody but Golden Horde... He always draws blood...
"You—"
The memory shattered. Russia opened his eyes to see America above him. It took a second for him to recall exactly what was going on, but when he did... he couldn't... fathom why America stopped the blow, no longer looking even remotely as furious as he had before.
This was just America. He had no reason to be scared of this kid beyond the fact that his punches could probably kill a regular human. Granted, Russia wasn't looking forward to potentially being knocked unconscious. God knows what that chicken molester would do with him out cold.
Yet, he couldn't quite... figure out what smothered the younger nation's rage. That was until knuckles met his cheek, whipping his head to the side. Honestly, Russia expected worse, but... the sharp, throbbing sting welling up in the side of his face reminded him that he should probably be grateful... this time.
Spitting out a bit of blood, he gritted his teeth. This wasn't over. A flash of internal fire fueled a shove with the arm he'd tried to save himself with to America's chest. "Get off!"
(( Пож-жалуйста = P-please ))
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Post by America on Apr 16, 2012 6:52:42 GMT -5
America’s eyes widened, everything methodically muddling in his mind at the sight of Russia—Russia—was he shaking? Russia of the proclaimed as great Soviet Union was quivering in his hold, mumbling something in Russian he couldn’t quite make out. It wasn’t like hearing it would help him, because the blond knew the very bare minimum of Russian in the first place, but even still, he found himself tilting his head onward just marginally in an effort to hear, as if he’d repeat himself at any given moment.
He would label it sheer curiosity, if anything.
The next thing he knew, this curiosity was swiftly and abuptly diminished, and he was thrust backwards by the very same arm that had been serving as a mediocre crack at protection moments previous. He’d anticipated it after he threw his punch, and to some degree allowed it to happen, but even still, it served to knock a startled gasp from his throat.
"Get off!"
The moment the other’s detestable accent was ringing in his ears, he was landing on his back with a thud that made his body shudder along with the soreness it would surely provide the next morning. His head now rested several inches from the couch he’d originally seated himself on. It dimly occurred to him that this wasn’t so long ago. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes previous that he’d lagged through the doorway, huffing and pouting. Really, it just went to show how much of a bad idea this conference was in hindsight. At the very least, it was a bad idea for their leaders to drag them along as well. No, he could go so far as to call it dumb, but now wasn’t the time for that. He was still in a bit of a situation with the man he was supposed to be making idle but friendly chit-chat with, after all.
It took a bit of restraint not to burst into laughter right there. The idea of he and Russia talking like normal people really did tickle him.
America lifted his head, disregarding the throb in his knees and now back, molding one of his more charming smiles.
“Is that really the best you can do?” He egged on, propping himself up on his elbows. Just because he had a little slip of sympathy didn’t mean he was about to flat out resign himself. He’d end up looking like a total pushover, and he would never willingly do that, especially not in front of this particular adversary. “Gosh. That’s real disappointing. I sort of expected something more.” His borderline grin widened a fraction, taking on a darker tone. “Are you really all talk underneath your bully persona and silly little supply of A-bombs?”
((I'm not gonna' get into a lot of detail with this, but I figured I should include a simplified little note 'bout it anyway. Neither side actually knew who had the larger supply of nuclear weaponry during the Cold War. They came out with the statistics later that anyone could easily dig up nowadays, but mutually assured destruction in place as it was, no one had any idea about the numbers, at least coming from the enemy. America's just assuming he has more, 'cause he's headstrong like that.))
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Post by Russia on Apr 16, 2012 16:50:19 GMT -5
The almost unfitting scowl on his face twitched back into its old self, the smile that seemed to mean nothing at all, when America fell back. With a low groan, he drew himself back up onto his feet, not desiring to be in a remotely vulnerable position any longer, not front of that brat.
"Is that really the best you can do?"
He forced himself to keep smiling as he took a step closer to the more or less prostrate nation. Oh, now he was being taunted, how typical. Sometimes he wondered if America knew how to do much else beyond taunt and aggravate him. Alas, though... that was getting old.
"Gosh. That’s real disappointing. I sort of expected something more."
He sighed with mock sadness, now leaning over the other nation after walking the remaining paces to reach him. He clasped his hands behind his back, asking in the most sugary voice he could find, "Like what, dearest Amerika~?"
"Are you really all talk underneath your bully persona and silly little supply of A-bombs?"
It seemed America was having fun, if his face was to be believed, nothing but smiles and playful, enigmatic eyes."Is it so wronk to not always try to paint the walls with you~?"
A bully? Well, he didn't think of himself as a bully but he wouldn't be surprised if others did. They may have seen his attempts at protecting them as some sort of intimidation tactic. Then again, was it possible, he wondered, for a bully to realize he was one? It didn't matter though, considering America was still trying to antagonize him.
"How silly you are~" he hummed, still leaning over the younger nation. America thought he only had a small supply of nuclear weapons? How absurd. America having more weapons than himself? That was downright laughable. Sure, he didn't know for certain, but there was no way it could be true, was there? It seemed though... that would be a logistics question for another day.
If Russia was honest with himself, now that all of fury from earlier had slid away with horror of memory only for that as well to be suffocated by reality, he just wanted to go home. All of the energy he'd initially felt circulating in his limbs was gone... He felt drained and exhausted but not from the altercation itself. The urge to fight today had been murdered with hardly a whisper of protest.
Russia absently rubbed the new sore spot on the side of his face, wiping away the blood that didn't quite make it to the floor from before. "Amerika, this is gettink olt..." he said, smile flattening into a line.
Perhaps, he thought, they might get back to... whatever they were supposed to be doing. Then again, they did kind of all but destroy the table that was here.
Oops. Oh well.
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Post by America on Apr 18, 2012 9:26:20 GMT -5
"Like what, dearest Amerika~?"
God, did America hate that mock gooey tone with a passion. He loathed when anyone happened to take it on, so with Russia spitting it his way, it was a thousand times worse right off the bat. He flat out loathed it, but for some obscure reason, it rolled right off of him, like rain onto a window pane.
He had ended up slugging Russia, albeit throwing a weak punch—right in the face, no less. Maybe that was all he needed to vent his pent up anger. In fact, he felt a lot better now. He’d call it bizarre, but he didn’t really know if that would be appropriate, considering most of his stress from the past fifteen years or so have been supplied by the man seeming to take great amusement in hovering over him at the moment.
"Is it so wronk to not always try to paint the walls with you~?"
The blond merely snickered, not dignifying his smart aleck remark with a response. Just because he felt better didn’t mean he was about to act genuinely sociable with him. As a matter of fact, it probably wouldn’t be long before he was frustrated with him beyond help once more.
"How silly you are~"
At that, he couldn’t help but laugh again.
“Silly, huh?” He settled for, busying himself with dusting invisible debris off of his dress pants. At this point, he was more or less crouching, because he wasn’t just going to lay there on the floor. That was just senseless. His position wasn’t at all an ideal one, not with the Russian in the room. “Well, at least I’m not out of my tree.”
He had to marvel then as to whether or not Russia even listened to himself talk sometimes. It was more than blatantly clear that he had a boat load of issues, and that much was made all the more obvious by their little quarrel that had just transpired. Maybe he should have felt guilty, but he didn’t. They each got a shot at each other, and there was nothing unfair about it. There was nothing left to feel unreasonably guilty for.
Strangely enough, the American wasn’t quite sure how it happened anymore, though he was confident that it wasn’t his fault. When someone up and whips a table in your direction, it’s not exactly something that’s going to fly over your head like some garbage insult. It’s obviously aimed straight for your head.
"Amerika, this is gettink olt..."
The other’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he eyed him for a brief moment before expelling a sigh he may very well have been smothering. The way the man was wiping the blood he’d drawn away didn’t have any kind of effect on him. He watched as if he were viewing a movie—as if it were something fake.
His lips were once again curving to his characteristic smile.
“Yeah.” He automatically agreed, deciding it was high time he started on pulling himself back up to his feet. “I guess it is.”
Once he bounced back up, he was glanced about, sizing up the damage. Well, it wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be. The floor was unscathed, save for a few spots where the rug had bunched, but that was something easily remedied. He trailed one of his feet over a spot close to him, more or less smoothing it over. As his gaze dawdled along, his eyes lit up with realization. Oh, there was that bit of Russia’s blood. That wouldn’t really be noticeable, right? As a matter of fact, they could just put the table back into place and—oh. Right, the table.
The American directed his attention to said table, or rather, what used to be a table, which lay a sizable distance down the hall. Rest in pieces.
“So. What are we going to say about that?” He inquired rather casually, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the mangled piece of furniture like it hadn’t been aggressively hurled at him just minutes previous.
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Post by Russia on Apr 18, 2012 12:30:31 GMT -5
Russia leaned back standing up properly, now that they'd both sufficiently calmed down, at least seemed to be calmed down. He knew he himself was unpredictable, but sometimes had to wonder if America was really just as all there as he liked to pretend. Still, they'd had their "fun", per se, smacking one another around for what was... Russia guessed about thirty or forty seconds of actual physical altercation, maybe fifty seconds. His sense of time tended to be a little less than trustworthy.
"Well, at least I’m not out of my tree."
Here they were again, with America encouraging him to climb sanity trees... with cows strung up in the boughs. Now that he thought about it, it would be easier for the cows to eat the leaves if they were held up in the tree like that. Maybe they could imagine that they were giraffes and have a nice little fantasy.
Maybe he'd visit one of America's tree cows and see that they were actually happy. Russia couldn't just let America torment more animals like the brat did the chickens. Was this some sort of invitation to check on his animal treatment policies? Huh, maybe America had a sense of nobility after all.
"I think I may neet direction to your cow trees..." he said with a sigh, idly readjusting the glove on his hand. He didn't like asking for such a thing from the younger nation but he'd surely get lost otherwise and getting lost was no way to start your inspection of animal treatment policies pertaining to cow-giraffe fantasy-realization protocol.
As much as he hated it, Russia now felt a twinge of remorse for just leaving America lying there on the floor, despite it being an oddly amusing sight. Still though, the fight was over and they were at least now not slinging insults and tables at one another. Now was the time for civility. He leaned forward and offered his hand to the American to help pull him up... only for the brat to get up on his own. "Fine~" he chimed, retracting his hand. "I will not be helpful~"
"So. What are we going to say about that?"
America seemed to be skilled in changing the subject. Russia lolled his head to the side to get a better view in the direction of the rather... Well, "beaten up" would be a near criminal understatement. That table didn't really stand a chance did it. It'd been thrown across the room and swung at someone's face. There had even been chunks of wood, not ripped, but crushed out of it.
"We will tell them you were on your monthly bleet." He forced his mouth into a line, nodding with certainty. That would work. They'd probably believe it too, he thought, what with America having such... mood swings and all.
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Post by America on Apr 20, 2012 11:42:05 GMT -5
"I think I may neet direction to your cow trees..."
At Russia’s words, America sniggered, then full out laughed—honest to goodness laughed, his normal, bubbly laughter—because it was funny! He couldn’t believe he didn’t realize how weirdly hilarious it was before. It was Russia, but even still. Maybe he was just tired of being exasperated with everything.
“I’ll draw you up a map then, huh?” He offered, bits of snickers resurfacing. “Can’t have you getting lost on the way there, can we?”
The blond reached up to scruff through his mussed hair, flattening it back as best he could, his opposite hand lingering at his tie. He never was good at the whole ‘dress to impress’ thing, especially not as a colony, but he figured he should make an effort to look presentable, at the very least. He didn’t want his boss complaining that he looked like a slob. Though, when he thought about it, his appearance was the probably the least of his worries, as well as the last thing his boss would complain about, considering the wreck that still deliberately presented itself a ways down the hall.
He was pretty sure the Russian was saying something about not being helpful in the meanwhile, but he couldn’t really bring himself to care nor pay attention. As a matter of fact, he merely waved his hand dismissively in response, pursing his lips at the jumble of wood.
Pushing Texas back up the bridge of his nose, he had to wonder. Could they just.. get rid of it? Would their bosses actually notice? Maybe they would forget there was a table there. It wasn’t like they were lingering in the hall all too long anyway. They might not have so much as spared a glance, as far as sizing up furniture went. They’d all be long gone by the time those who actually used the college frequently noticed, so what would that matter? It wouldn’t. Maybe they really could just dump the rubble off somewhere.
"We will tell them you were on your monthly bleet."
That he most definitely heard.
Gaze flickering back to Russia, he huffed, quirking his lips into a small pout. He did not just call him a girl. A girl on her period, no less. Through his brief sparkle of amusement, he was reminded how much of a jerk he was, like usual. The older nation was probably just ignorant, because he didn’t seem to express any emotion other than creepiness. It wasn’t like the American was all that emotional. Not at all. He was entirely normal on that scale, completely and utterly normal.
“Why don’t we just tell them you crushed it with the awesome potential and capability of your government?” He flung back, his mouth tugging up at the corners.
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Post by Russia on Apr 20, 2012 16:05:13 GMT -5
"Can’t have you getting lost on the way there, can we?"
Russia sighed, crossing his arms as America laughed idiotically at some dumb thing or another. What was he laughing at anyway? Whatever. It was probably unimportant, considering it was America doing the laughing like that obnoxious punk he was.
"Да, Amerika, that woult be bat..." He mentally rolled his eyes, unwilling to give the American that satisfaction after all of the weaknesses he'd shown him today. At least they'd gotten the worst of it over with, or so he hoped, He didn't have the mental energy anymore today to devote to fights over pointless things.
He tapped his fingertips against the surface of his sleeve, not wanting to really put effort into thought. He'd rather have a nap by now, perhaps, maybe a shot of vodka and a mug of hot tea. Perhaps a cigarette would go along nicely with that. He could really use one right now...
"Why don’t we just tell them you crushed it with the awesome potential and capability of your government?"
Raising one eyebrow at him for a moment, Russia smiled, almost brightly at America, despite the base of the expression being completely fake. "I am sure you do not mean that as a compliment, but I shall take it as such anyway~" There was a contented sigh in the air. "But I do not think we shoult use that excuse. You bleedink makes more sense~"
He dragged his arms apart, hand brushing by a bump in the sleeve of his coat. Wait... He paused, sliding his hand inside the sleeve and unhooking the device. Russia pulled his hand back out, holding a small recording device in his palm. He'd... left that on... the whole time... that they were- This could not be allowed to live. He'd completely forgotten about it.
Bouncing it in his palm some, Russia smiled at it. "Amerika, do you smoke~?"
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Post by America on Apr 21, 2012 14:00:33 GMT -5
"Да, Amerika, that woult be bat..."
“It really would. You don’t even know. It’s a real big country after all.” America peppered on with a mock sagely nod as well as a bit of a smirk he couldn’t quite help.
Was Russia really still taking him seriously, even with him having laughed like he did? That was probably funnier and more amusing to him than it should be. Did he honestly think that there was growth labeled as sanity trees scattered around? He was as clueless as a little kid! With that, he couldn’t help but ponder just how far he could take it. It had been a long while since he fit a good prank in his schedule, and what better a fatality than Russia?
His playful smile all but widened as he moseyed a bit closer, still keeping his eyes locked with the mess they’d made.
“They close them up at night, too. You know, so the cows can get their peace of mind, and all. I think around this time of year, they’d be shutting up pretty early. You might want to hustle, whenever you find a spare minute to head on over.”
Even if he was going to have some fun with Russia in this way, he figured he should at least pay a small portion of his indecisive as always attention to the task at hand, or better put, the thing he’d been keeping his eyes but not his mind focused on. Well, he’d already worked it out. He figured the most he had to do was get the older nation to agree with him. That seemingly presented a challenge, but he couldn’t be too sure. It wasn’t like they were discussing politics here, it was just dealing with a smashed up piece of wood.
"But I do not think we shoult use that excuse. You bleedink makes more sense~"
With that comment, his pout had returned at full force, near well a scowl.
“You know what I think we should do?” He mused aloud, doing his best to bite his snappy tongue in restraint. For once, he didn’t feel like hurling further insults back in his direction. They’d never get anything done that way. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t really want to get yelled at for wrecking a table.” He eyed the man as he spoke, hoping he wouldn’t put up an argument. “But the thing is, the wreck is in plain sight, where anyone can see it, right? I think we could take it and dump it somewhere, maybe. I don’t really see anybody noticing, or remembering that there was a table there to begin with. There has to be somewhere—oh, well, we could just shove it anywhere, really. So long as nobody here sees.”
It was the perfect plan. They’d have to do some sneaking around to avoid unwanted confrontation, as far as being in the college still went, but it was relatively flawless. There was no way he’d have anything to say about it, was there?
"Amerika, do you smoke~?"
Oh, there was a way. Not that it had much to do with anything in hindsight.
The blond raised an eyebrow, turning back to him to better size up what he’d just said. Why was he asking him if he smoked? Did he want a cigarette? A lighter? He didn’t want to set the wood up in flames, did he? That was just crazy, even if it was Russia potentially advising it.
“What are you going on about?” He inquired. His expression grew all the more quizzical when he finally took notice to the small, questionable device the Russian seemed to be taking enjoyment in bouncing with his hand. In a flash, his paranoia was prodding at all sides of his mind. “What’s that you have there?”
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Post by Russia on Apr 22, 2012 22:36:10 GMT -5
"They close them up at night, too. You know, so the cows can get their peace of mind, and all. I think around this time of year, they’d be shutting up pretty early. You might want to hustle, whenever you find a spare minute to head on over."
Russia tilted his head to the side, holding the small recording device more firmly in his palm. "I haff a feelink you are just messink with me~" This feeling was one he certainly didn't appreciate by any means.
He wasn't going to be that child's plaything. He hated feeling used, a feeling he'd had a lot during his life. America wasn't the first and he probably wouldn't be the last to think he could take advantage of Russia for his own amusement. If America wanted a toy, he wasn't going to find it here.
Yet despite Russia's irritation, he just... didn't have the mental energy to get upset. He'd brood about it later over several bottles of vodka and think of all the ways he'd like the throw America out of a window, but right now he'd just settle for a light scolding. "I am not some toy for you, Amerika~" Despite it all, he still managed to just keep smiling while he clenched his hand more tightly around the recorder.
Oh, now look at that, America was upset. Oh boohoo. The poor child has lost his pacifier. Russia tilted his head to the side, still smiling gently at the far younger nation who was now giving him a lecture about how they ought to dispose of the table that bore witness to their misbehavior. It would surely testify against them, with this he could agree, but, America seemed to think they could just remove it from the room.
Russia had a better idea.
Looking back down at the recorder in his hand, his smile evolved into a tiny smirk. His plan for this little device could very well extend to the table. Both witnesses could now be kept from potentially testifying if anyone were to question what they had been doing.
"What are you going on about?"
"Do you haff a lighter, dearest Amerika~? I feel we may neet one~" He'd been a bit dense this morning and forgotten to bring his. He really should have known better. Russia should have known he would have been struck by the desire to have a good long smoke. Still though, for the moment, he needed the lighter for another purpose.
"What’s that you have there?"
Holding up the device, since it was not condemned in his own mind, he made sure it was near enough to America so he could see it. "Recordink device~ Has been on entire time~" He felt a childish giggle escape his throat. "Now we neet to set it ant the other witness ablaze~ It will be such fun, do you not think~?" Watching things burn was always oddly satisfying, he wasn't sure why. Maybe America would like it too. He assumed he would since the brat lit off fireworks every damn year.
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Post by America on Apr 28, 2012 1:04:54 GMT -5
"I haff a feelink you are just messink with me~"
America sighed, somewhat wistfully. Dang. Well, at least he could say he tried. Maybe he went and made it a little too obvious. He always did have a bad habit of getting a little too excited with his pranks. As disappointing as this was, he knew should probably be concerning himself with other things anyway.
“Looks like we’ve got a regular ace detective over here.” He retorted with something of an eye roll. “I might as well just give up now. How will I ever get anything past you?”
He ignored whatever it was that the Russian followed up with, pretending to be immensely interested with the floor. It didn’t matter. He was just rambling. He didn’t have the patience to deal with it now. It was pretty amusing how quickly and predictably Russia managed to continue grating at his nerves, even after settling one of their more intense squabbles.
It really was a hopeless case. Russia would never cease to piss him off and he himself would never cease to piss Russia off. It was probably the stupidest cycle of hatred he’d ever had the displeasure of being in—or better put, the only one he’d ever been in. He’d gotten on plenty of nation’s bad sides, but not quite like the way he’d somehow wormed his way onto Russia’s, and seemingly overnight, at that. It was kind of impressive.
"Recordink device~ Has been on entire time~"
Though, it most certainly wasn’t without reason.
With that, his head was jerking back up, eyes widening and locking sharply with the older nation’s. For a few seconds, he had to wonder if he’d heard that right. Then, he wondered why he was thinking twice. Of course he’d heard that right. This was Russia, after all. Anything regarding the table they needed to hastily dispose of was dispersing from his mind, replaced with this confirmed purpose for his deeply set paranoia.
“What the—” The blond began, face contorting with shock in affirmation of his suspicion. In hindsight, he really shouldn’t have been all too surprised. He should have expected something like this from the sneaky Communist bastard. He’d already had his people infiltrate the country for information once and now he was trying to do it again. What could he possibly want this time around? His fingers were trembling just thinking about it. “Are you being serious right now? What the hell were you trying to do?” He snapped over whatever insignificant kind of thing the Russian was spouting about witnesses and fun, any hints of amusement fleeing from his features, clenching his quivering fingers into tight balls. “Out with it! What do you want?”
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