[RusAme] Unrest- Chapter 2
Russia peered between his fingers, feeling steam fog against his skin and looked up to see Canada holding a cup of coffee for him. Russia accepted it and Canada sat down next to him. He tossed off the pillow tucked in the corner, and Russia bounced slightly with the motion. A few drops spilled over the lip of the blue speckled enamel mug and he watched it dribble to the floor. A problem for later. Russia sat back, fingers too hot from the drink and nearly burning. He took a sip. Too bitter. Not enough milk. He stared at the coffee table nearby where morning light illuminated years of milky water stains encircling each other.
“How’re you feeling?” Canada probed quietly. Russia glanced at him, turning away when France’s quiet French filled the room as he walked in, house phone tucked to his ear and shoulder. He balanced two plates of pancakes in his hands, setting them and some silverware down softly to the coffee table before walking out again. Russia translated France’s mutterings in his head, We do not know. We still have not heard. Canada grabbed the closest plate and handed it to Russia.
“Still tired,” Russia finally admitted as Canada gave him a fork and knife as well. He took another sip of the coffee, although it was still at a scalding temperature. The pancakes were golden and perfect in the center of the plate. Russia wanted to see patchily burned and chocolate chip smiley faces instead. He poked at the pancakes with a fork. France came back in, a bottle of maple syrup in hand and placed it deliberately in front of Canada. He glanced to Russia as he walked back to the kitchen and said with a smile as he covered the phone, “You really do not wish to see Matthieu without maple syrup.”
“Well, just be glad it was the Benadryl and not the sleeping pills in there,” Canada muttered after giving France a mild glare. He cut the pancake apart with the fork deftly and muttered, “Or the knife.”
Russia straightened at that. “I do not think he is dangerous.”
Canada frowned, moving his bite around in the amber syrup. “Why?”
“He drugged you,” Canada reminded him. He glanced at his cell phone as it buzzed and then turned back to Russia, “That’s bad enough isn’t it?”
Russia glowered at his food and cut into his food. France returned, phone call ended, and sat down in the opposite arm chair with a sigh. “England just arrived. Should be two hours before he gets here, and to quote him,” France raised his voice and gave a horrible rendition of a British accent, “Get some idea of where the fuck he went.” France took a bite of the pancake before leaning over and grabbing the syrup, drizzling it lightly. “He hasn’t called either of you?”
Canada muttered a sour ‘no’ and Russia just shook his head. “I have tried calling and texting him. No reply.”
“He changed his password,” Canada said and stabbed the pancake. “I tried to look him up on his phone’s location app.”
“When did he do that?” Russia asked.
“Do you think he even has his phone still?” France questioned.
“Alfred would toss his phone away immediately,” Russia said.
“Alfred would,” Canada said. When both France and Russia turned to him, he added, “Is he even still Alfred? Has whatever it was that attacked him taken over some how?”
“He’s not gone,” Russia growled. Canada glanced at him from the corner of his eye, but he continued on, “He’s not. Alfred is still there. It would be dangerous to think otherwise. I know you doubt me,” he added, turning to Canada. He paused to push out the ire from his voice. It would do no good to make Alfred’s brother mad at him. Not during a crisis. “But if he were gone, why give me Benadryl? Why not the sleeping pills? Why not poison? Bleach in the water? He could have grabbed a knife. He could have smothered me at night with a pillow.” France looked out the window thoughtfully and Canada pushed his food around with a grating rasp against the ceramic. “His aim was to stop me from stopping him. Not to kill me. He could have done that easily. He’s strong enough.”
They all fell silent and France set down his plate. He stood up, brushing off his jeans and said, “I need more coffee, if we are going to be discussing things so grim.”
Russia finished his breakfast and said quietly as he dragged his fork through the remaining syrup and made swirls and patterns in it, “Do you think we are already too late?”
He knew Canada was looking at him, but he did not look up to meet his gaze.
Russia’s phone buzzed loudly against the coffee table, clattering as a call came through. The dish fell to the ground and coffee tumbled onto the couch as he lunged for his phone. Canada stared, frozen hanging in the air. Russia’s fingers slipped as he answered from the coffee and syrup but he held the phone to his ear and said, “Alfred?”
France came running back into the room and hung onto the doorframe. Canada stood up, putting the plate down and stopped in front of Russia.
“Russia?” Alfred asked breathlessly on the phone.
Russia’s eyes flickered up and he nodded once, before focusing on his boyfriend’s voice. Breathy and high pitched, like he was trying not to cry. Russia swallowed. His throat was tight. “Are you okay?”
“Am I o– What about– Icouldhave!”
“Alfred calm down,” Russia said, voice lowering gently, “Breathe,” he murmured in Russian.
There was a pause of static where Alfred took in a shaky breath. “I’m in Boston,” he said.
“Boston?” Russia said and looked up at Canada who pulled out his own cell phone and walked to other side of the room. “Where are you?”
“I’m near Copley Square. I don’t…” Another rush of static and Alfred’s voice pitched as he squeezed out, “I don’t know how I got here. I was talking with you about England coming early and then…I don’t know. I just woke up here.” Alfred was silent again, but Russia listened to his breathing. It was reassuring in its own way. “Are you okay?” The words were cold.
“I am fine,” Russia reassured him. France was on his phone as well now, arguing boisterously in French that Russia didn’t bother translating, and Canada was still speaking quietly on his phone as well.
“Are you sure?” Alfred begged.
“Alfred, take a deep breath…breathe again, Zaichik,” he murmured and turned to the window. Like he could whisper it to him right next to him. Like they were right there together and nothing was wrong.
“Did you just call me a bunny again?” Alfred laughed, hysteria edging his syllables.
“I could call you a cute fish?” Russia said.
Alfred laughed again. “That would be terrible, God. That would be awful. Please don’t.” Another pause. Then Alfred cleared his throat and muttered low and painfully, “I dreamed I killed you.”
Russia looked down at the bustling city through the window. “Tell me how.” He could feel both men’s eyes on him, but he stared down at the city steadfastly.
The hysteria was gone when Alfred responded again. “I slit your throat with a knife,” Alfred said slowly.
“Where? What does that matter–?”
“Where?” Russia asked again.
“In the woods,” Alfred muttered.
“It did not happen,” he reassured. Sometimes that was all you needed to hear. That it didn’t happen- that everything was going to be okay. Even if it was threadbare illusion. Sometimes that was enough. “ I am still in your apartment in New York.” Canada was pointing at his phone, showing he was talking to England. He held up finger and drew a question mark and pointed at Russia. “And I am going to come find you,”
“Russia–,” Alfred said shakily.
“Near the Public Library at Copley,” Alfred said. There was a loud sound, like a truck going by.
“Stay there. We’re all going to find you. Everything is going to be okay, Alfred.”
Russia tubbed at his head as there was silence.
“Alfred?” He asked. When there was no answer he swore and hit the wall with his fist. The lamp near him rattled. The line went dead and Russia stared at his phone. Russia took a long breath and then turned around. “How soon can we get to Boston?”
Canada turned and walked to the kitchen, grabbing his coat that was hanging there. “An hour flight. It’ll take us 40 minutes to get to the airport, but the car is already waiting. I called in a favor or two”
“I have the airport notifying England to redirect to Boston once he lands. He’ll only be an hour or so behind us.” France put his phone away, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he bundled up. A bitter North wind was already clawing at New England.
Russia nodded, looking down at his phone again in faint hope Alfred would call back. “Let us go, then,” he said, only stopping long enough to grab his own jacket, passport, wallet, and keys before striding out the door.
Boston was more gray than New York, and a chilling fog rolled off the harbor and the Charles, dimming the city even more. It was late in the afternoon, and the street lights had already sprung on. Russia stood at the top of the stairwell for Copley, looking beyond the green line banner and searched the crowded street. Canada stood next to him, looking around as France finally walked up the stairs, adjusting his scarf to cover his chin. “This is where he said he was,” Russia told them.
“Where do you think he went?” Canada asked and turned around to look at the grand stone face of the Boston Public Library.
France pointed to a building on the other side of the street. “That is a church, no?”
Canada turned to glance at it and then turned back to the Library. “He’s not religious.”
Russia nodded his head, not bothering to look. “The only time he goes is for Easter and Christmas,” Russia said, looking away towards the busy street.
France frowned. “I think you are dismissing this too quick.” When Russia turned to face him, France gestured to the Gothic facade. “He has always searched for comfort at churches.”
Canadas brow furrowed. “I don’t know about always…”
Russia studied the tan and brown building before him. “He has never mentioned that to me,” Russia said slowly.
France checked both ways before darting though the busy street, grabbing Russia’s hand as he did so. Canada’s curse was muffled by the cars, but he jogged behind them, waving in apology when a car honked at him for delaying traffic.
France was already walking to go inside, looking at the visiting hours briefly and muttering, “If he is not here, we will check the library. He has always been a boy of science, but this is a matter of the heart.”
was it a matter of the heart? Russia had his suspicions. This was ghosts. Lore. Demons.
Perhaps a church was better.
The church was dim as they enters, quiet as visitors looked at the architecture and stained glass windows. France moved deftly through the few visitors there, heading towards the stately pews lining the center of the cathedral.
And there in the far left, where there were few people and the shadows seemed thicker, was a head with mussed blond hair, bowed down in thought.
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