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[ no sleep 'til ★ closed ]
Who: MAD (aka ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bigstick and nyet)
When: after talkin' to a certain businessman and proceeding to get kinda mad about it
Where: CERES Gymnasium
What: a civil conversation between two old friends
Rating/Warning: violence and russia laughing in the face of social boundaries
[ sometimes it's really fucking annoying that the only guy who knows him here right now is... russia. they're not friends, not even acquaintances -- they're enemies plain and simple and no amount of glasnost or perestroika is gonna change that. he doesn't care what their governments say because he knows how it works, you smile in public and sneer in private. either way, they're not... there anymore and it doesn't matter so he's gonna do what he wants when he interacts with russia -- which usually means insulting the fuck out of him.
except then he's... still the only person here who knows how america functions and that's fucking annoying too. he's met a few people and they're all fairly nice but right now, he's mad and he doesn't want to talk to anyone, he just wants to beat shit up, beat someone up. just some sort of burning off of energy (and if he was honest with himself, he kind of wants to talk about it too but he's not that honest either).
anyway it leaves him here: asking russia to beat his face in but in a civil way at least. kind of civil. some sort of civility. whatever!!! russia seems to know what he meant which is why he's now waiting for him outside the gym, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets and bouncing up and down on his heels with impatience. dude better show up soon or he might just give up on the whole civility thing too. ]
bigstick and nyet)When: after talkin' to a certain businessman and proceeding to get kinda mad about it
Where: CERES Gymnasium
What: a civil conversation between two old friends
Rating/Warning: violence and russia laughing in the face of social boundaries
[ sometimes it's really fucking annoying that the only guy who knows him here right now is... russia. they're not friends, not even acquaintances -- they're enemies plain and simple and no amount of glasnost or perestroika is gonna change that. he doesn't care what their governments say because he knows how it works, you smile in public and sneer in private. either way, they're not... there anymore and it doesn't matter so he's gonna do what he wants when he interacts with russia -- which usually means insulting the fuck out of him.
except then he's... still the only person here who knows how america functions and that's fucking annoying too. he's met a few people and they're all fairly nice but right now, he's mad and he doesn't want to talk to anyone, he just wants to beat shit up, beat someone up. just some sort of burning off of energy (and if he was honest with himself, he kind of wants to talk about it too but he's not that honest either).
anyway it leaves him here: asking russia to beat his face in but in a civil way at least. kind of civil. some sort of civility. whatever!!! russia seems to know what he meant which is why he's now waiting for him outside the gym, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets and bouncing up and down on his heels with impatience. dude better show up soon or he might just give up on the whole civility thing too. ]
no subject
he arrives at the gym after america, of course, but only because he'd been following him there—at a distance, watching him steam, his body language warping to fit his foul mood. it's only after several moments of studying this that russia decides to show himself, bored of just looking.
he doesn't have to wonder why he agreed to this. any excuse to grind america beneath his boot is one russia will gladly take—yet he is curious as to the whys of this particular scenario, but also satisfied to know that he is still the one america will come to when he needs to be violent. in a place that so obviously caters to luxury, this is the kind of entertainment russia most enjoys.
as he approaches, he remarks, lightly: ] You have been so angry lately, America. Who was it this time?
[ he hadn't had time to poke his big fat nose into certain people's inboxes before leaving, but he has an idea. there's only so many 'ppl who run this place', after all. ]
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unfortunately for america, he's pretty caught up in his own head on the walk over, so he didn't notice russia following him. he was just so... annoyed, the whole conversation with julius left a bad taste in his mouth because there was something going on and he was going to figure out what. this isn't like that fucking jfk assassination conspiracy, this shit is fucking legit. like a pebble in his shoe, he's constantly irritated and he is going to find evidence eventually.
probably.
anyway, he jerks upright at russia's voice and automatically sneers in his direction. ugh, this guy makes him even more furious than being in cerealia. at least that doesn't change. ]
Oh, come on. You gotta know that half of that is seein' your ugly face all the time. You should probs try and fix it.
[ as in: the ugliness of your face. still, he doesn't answer the question yet and just nods to the door of the gym, heading inside. he figures russia has an idea already, if he hasn't gone look for it yet. guy's so fucking creepy that he wouldn't be surprised if he has cameras in america's bedroom -- which he doesn't. america checked for bugs on the regular back home, he's not stopping that habit now.
in other news, america's pretty dressed down for this. he has his bomber jacket on but underneath that is a t-shirt, paired with sweatpants and sneakers. he hasn't invested in a locker yet here at the gym and didn't really feel like carrying a bag so instead he'll get a towel from the gym and just fight in this. it'll work out fairly well, he thinks.
now, where is that boxing ring? ]
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Why would I do that? Your reactions are always so entertaining!
[ russia's smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, suddenly bright with amused irritation. him? creepy? lol.
still, they have a ring to find—so off they go, following the signs directing them to the correct training area.
on the way there, russia grabs a towel for himself and a bottle of water from one of the vending machines, then deposits them both on one of the pristine benches just inside the entrance. he had walked here in his usual getup, but underneath his coat, he'd opted to strip down to his sleeveless telnyashka, keeping his trousers, belt, and jackboots on. he pauses noticeably before unwinding his scarf and placing it gingerly on top of his coat, unwilling to jeopardize it; underneath, his neck is expertly bandaged with cream-colored wrappings, almost imperceptible against his pale skin. in lieu of more bandages to wrap his knuckles with, he keeps his gloves on, flexing his fingers until the leather squeaks.
with one hand, he grabs a turnbuckle and vaults up into the ring.
it's been a long time since he's done something like this, but it's all muscle memory—the motions never really leave. motioning to america to join him, he says: ]
It was Vincere, yes?
[ latin, that name... he forgets the meaning. if only italy were here, russia might be able to wring it out of him. ]
no subject
[ dismissive handwave in your direction, russia! he's got a towel slung over his shoulder and is off to the side at a vending machine, grabbing the cerealia equivalent of a gatorade. he'll open it up to take a quick sip before heading over to the same bench russia dropped his stuff off on. off goes his jacket, dumped much more messily onto the bench and he heads over to the ring to join him. he'll leave his gatorade in one of the corners before swinging himself over into the ring.
it's not been long on this end, he takes a trip to the gym every once in a while though he doesn't really have anyone who can match him hit for hit. he's tried to goad canada into sparring with him, but the dude's a bit too nice and it's kind of awkward hitting someone you like. so, he might be a bit rusty!
still, he can already feel the excitement hitting him and he bounces on his heels a little, rolling his shoulders and eying russia. it's been a while since he fought him, a decade or two? god, he can't even remember if the guy was still red at the time but it definitely wasn't as fancy as this. still, should probably lay down some rules. as he does, he pulls a roll of bandages out of his pocket to wrap up his hands. ]
Okay, human rules. And you know what I fucking mean, like, nothin' below the belt 'cause I'd like to still fucking walk tomorrow. No bone breaking too but you can bruise if you want. Stuff like that. Also, careful with the teeth. Those things take fuckin' ages to grow back and it's a pain in the ass.
[ wagging a finger at russia at the last part because he's hip to your tricks, fella ]
Basically, don't be a turd 'cause you're usually a turd and that shit ain't cool. Just, drop the turdery for a second and we'll be chill.
[ anyway!! getting into position in front of him, hands up and everything. he tosses the excess bandage to the side and is ready now. ]
Not using perestroika this time 'cause it's too fucking long but when I say stop, you better stop.
[ then he beckons him with a hand, ready to fight! he... still has not answered the question though. ]
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it doesn't really matter if america still refuses to answer him; his lack of affirmation is as good as yes, anyway, and russia can always check. he will, after this. ]
Whatever you say, America.
[ he manages to assume an innocent expression at the very insinuation that he fights dirty—why, he resembles that remark! besides, how many years has it been since he last landed a hit on america that he truly meant? twenty at most? his memory is a little hazy; he had more pressing things to worry about back then, but watching america getting himself worked up is escalating his own spirit of competition.
russia shifts his weight from foot to foot, raising his fists in front of himself. human rules. it shouldn't be difficult to hold back, but he'll see what sort of game america wants to play before gauging his own strength. he can't promise to stay entirely clean.
then america beckons him forward, and russia nods once, announcing cheerfully: ]
Начнем!
[ surprisingly fast for a man of his size, he feints right and then darts towards america's left with a mean hook aimed toward his ribs. ]
no subject
Fu--
[ he takes a swing out in front of him, reflexively and stumbles backwards. that wasn't how he wanted this to start at all. he angers, immediately, and despite his call for a fair fight -- he loosens his hands and reaches out to grab russia's hair before he could get too far back, jerking him forward so he could bring a knee up to his chest and push him down. if that works, he'll take a jump back and bring a hand up to press to his ribs.
god, he must be really out of practice. he lets out a grunt and mutters a little, ]
I just, I just don't get it is all--
[ pulling his hand back and getting back into position for russia's next move. ]
no subject
[ russia's breath leaves him in an abrupt, low noise. his heart throbs with the force of america's hit, pain suddenly flaring up behind his ribs as he nearly falls to his knees. stumbling back, he catches himself, raising his head as his lungs spasm and fill with new oxygen. playing dirty already, america?
well, if that's the game they're playing, then he's more than prepared to dance.
he wants to clench a hand against his chest, just to make sure america hadn't dislodged anything—but instead, he uses that hand to chase america's retreat, reaching out and grabbing his wrist—yanking him forward to deliver a sharp and devastating blow to his solar plexus with the heel of his other hand, returning the favor.
hissing pleasantly in america's face: ]
What is it that you do not get?
[ as he speaks, he hooks his right foot behind america's left ankle, pushing forward. if he can get america to overbalance, he'll send him to the floor—but with his own balance compromised, it might bring them both down. ]
no subject
... it wasn't really going to be a fair fight. no, it wasn't. when russia hits him, he lets out a wheeze and immediately grabs for the other guy, wherever he can. he's able to grab his shoulder, digging his fingernails in before russia's able to push him back. there's no way he's able to find his balance in time but the combination of fingernails, and his other hand grabbing a fistful of russia's hair, sends them both backwards. at the very least, there's now a long trail of scratches on russia's shoulder.
ugh, this guy.
still holding a grip on russia's hair, he makes a move to flip them over so he can get some leverage. after that, it's all just a matter of slamming russia's head into the mat under them. ]
Just, everything. Who ever heard of a company fighting a war? Vincere's all oh this is my company and when we got here there's the whole blah blah, we're all code, [ slamming his head into the floor again ] blah blah, these bad aliens wanna destroy us but mostly you. But it's a company. I mean, I like cash as much as the next guy [ understatement of the century ] but like, why isn't this like, an army base or whatever? Why is it headed by a CEO instead of some sort of general?
[ and slamming it again for the last time before he makes an attempt to get off of him! ]
no subject
how like america to leave a mark. now they're having fun! ]
Do you not think that your government is a company? [ russia's hold tightens against america's neck as he leans closer to his ear, punctuating his words with increasing pressure. they're a little slurred, rougher, more acutely accented. ]
And have you forgotten that your companies are considered people now as well, waging corporate wars with each other? I agree. It reeks of capitalism.
[ that julius vincere is running this place as a company shouldn't be such a foreign concept, considering its... nature. with a condescending laugh, russia releases america from his bruising chokehold and punches him right across the face. ah, but it feels good to do that at last.
stepping back, he presses a hand to his head to steady himself, trying to regain some semblance of coordination. blinking and flexing his hand, he adds: ]
I also agree that it does not make sense. [ his fists come up once more. ] If we are to be his soldiers, why does he not tell us more about our enemy?
no subject
that isn't the point.
he's drawing more fingernails across russia's skin and leaving more trails of blood in the process and he feels the air slowly start leaving him, which means russia's going to let him go soon. those are the rules, after all.
like clockwork, he lets him go and the punch sends him sprawling to the ground. he gasps for air, letting out a few coughs as he tries to pull himself back together. as his vision swims back into relative focus, he sees his glasses sitting right next to him on the ground -- how convenient! he picks them up and throws them out of the ring. time to get back to work. ]
Maybe, [ a gasp of air and he sits up on his elbows. ] Maybe they did? [ he coughs again, hard and scratchy before starting to push himself shakily up to his feet. ] This place doesn't look like it's been running long, couple months at most. Maybe they've spilled somethin' and someone's noticed. Stupid to have to ask for it though. Wanna help 'em is all.
[ and now he's going to make a run for russia to tackle him down to the ground. when he gets them there, he's going to start punching over and over. his mental score says russia's winning and that's just no good. ]
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every punch sends a stab of cruel nostalgia through him. he tries bucking up to dislodge america again, but it's no good; the punches just keep coming. he feels his lip split and his nose start to bleed, his skull echoing with the dull thuds of america's knuckles against his face. eventually, he manages to get one of his arms up, a gloved hand closing back around america's neck to press bruises back into his windpipe. squeezing again. without air, he knows america's focus will slip. ]
Ah, help. That is—very optimistic, да? [ he spits a mouthful blood at america, smiling to reveal red teeth. ] You are always wanting to be the hero.
[ russia understands—he wants to ruin the lives of those that killed him, his family, his everything, but not in the name of heroism.
pinned like this, he can't get the upper hand just yet, but he'll continue to struggle and grip america's neck until he can somehow flip their positions. ]
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I am, [ a gasp of breath! and he pushes off of russia, falling off to the side and landing on his back. his legs are still a bit tangled up with him so he shoves at him with a foot to put distance between the two of them. ] I am the hero! You not gettin' that yet is totes not my problem, dude. Says a lot about you instead.
[ when russia starts approaching him, because he will, he's going to give a shake of his head and call time with his hands. ]
Perestroika, perestroika! Give me a sec!
[ you said you wouldn't use that word, america. yet automatically he does and he's covered in bruises and blood and it's not really... the best. he looks behind him towards his gatorade and pushes himself up a little to crawl over to it, slumping against the ropes as he opens it up to take a drink. his legs are sprawled out in front of him and he drops his head back against the ropes, breathing hard. ]
I'm gonna ask people what's up 'cause there really should just be some guide for folks like us who get here and don't trust these fuckers. I mean, come on.
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These things you like to tell yourself, America! [ a high laugh. ] They are not always true.
[ the villain again. him and germany, always getting the raw end of the movie deal. really hurts a guy's feelings, you know?
still, he stops when america uses the safeword, catching his own breath. he wants to smile again at the sound of it but his face hurts a little too much; instead, he hauls himself up off the mat, aching. he'd left his water all the way over on the bench—why had he done that?—and he doesn't want to drag himself out of the ring and over to it, so instead he makes his way over to america to pluck the gatorade unceremoniously out of his hands and take a long pull. the taste is foul, as he suspected it would be, but it's better than nothing. wiping his mouth, he hands it back, sitting against the ropes with his arms crossed over his knees.
the mat is now spattered with their (mostly his) blood, and it continues to pulse sluggishly out of his nose and down his mouth and chin to soak into his shirt. he tilts his head back in an attempt to stem the flow, feeling it trickle down his throat instead. if there isn't some cereal-brand industrial-strength stain-remover, he will be very disappointed. he likes this shirt. ]
Да, do that, but do not be so obnoxious. You will become an easy target.
[ because that's what happens when you draw attention to yourself in a negative way! like you just did, with julius. like you always do. though... using america as a lightning rod for all the negative attention does allow for russia to do his own research on the down low, so maybe he is useful like this, for once.
and it's not like america will actually want to listen to him... ]
Ah, but then again... that may be too much to ask.
[ for his part, russia's employing the tried and true method of making nice and appearing as personable as possible! now, at least. it was a little rocky there at the beginning. actually it's still pretty rocky. okay, it's never not rocky for russia. except when it's ivan drago. ]
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[ they probably get into this same exact argument all the time. hell, they probably just got into it at sochi and during the sanctions too. it just never ends.
instead, he drops his head back against the ropes, closes his eyes and breathes hard. he's already feeling much better than he felt earlier, knowing that even with the blood and the bruises he will sleep like a baby tonight. that's what matters, right? his own personal comfort?
his eyes do open when he feels the gatorade leaving his hands and he cringes as he watches russia drink from it. what the fuck, man? you don't just take a guy's gatorade. ugh, now he has to deal with commie germs. ]
Ughhhh, too lazy to get your water? Gross, man. Now I've gotta deal with soviet saliva all over my damn drink. [ he's just going to wipe it off even more, frowning to himself. as he rubs it off, he answers to russia's warning. ] I know a thing or two about poking around without being caught, big guy! [ i mean, come on, russia. who won the cold war again? ] So, like. Shut up!
[ ugh, talking to russia is like hitting his head against a brick wall too many times. in response to that thought, his head throbs a little and he wonders if it's more of a literal metaphor. ]
Anyway, maybe I want them to catch me. It'd be funny.
[ and by funny he means he'll use any punishment as means to get back at ceres! obviously. still, russia. you seem to fighting to win but are you fighting for you? FOR YOU!!!
also this soviet spit sucks and america's taking a drink of his gatorade again. ]
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he leans his head forward to rest on one knee. his nosebleed seems to have stopped for now. ]
You were never very good at it. [ not like he was. pity about those atomic bomb plans and the us treasury office, huh? ] But it would be very funny, yes.
[ have another red smile! red like the commie germs in your gatorade; enjoy the vague taste of blood and backwash. ]
Is that what you are planning to do? Allow yourself to be captured and punished?
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so yeah, have a scowl in your direction, you big stupid jerk. ]
I'm good at stuff! Especially spycraft! Shut up!
[ ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh you
he's making a face down at his gatorade now, closing the bottle and pushing it off to the side. fine, he'll just get a stupid water. ugh. ]
They can't punish me anyway, you jerk. They're trying to appear like they're our friends and I already told that dickweed if anything happens to me, then it's obvious we're not friends. They want us to like them but I'm not dumb enough to do something like that. Come on, we both know better than that.
[ it's because you are both paranoid old men but sure, you can count it to being smart too. ]