Sticky Notes And Trinkets (Rusame)

Rule Number Eleven: Looks Can Be Deceiving

Russia looked over to the bleachers, where he'd seen America go, scanning them to spot several people just chilling out and talking on them. It took him a bit to find America, who had opted to hide in a far corner of the bleachers, was covered mostly by a blanket.

He knew America was in a cheer uniform under the blanket - he'd seen it during roll call.

He'd say he wasn't complaining, but he was upset, because he liked seeing America well in the outfit and in general. He had to admit though, America was hotter in the outfit - if he had glasses he'd have steamed them up enough to warrant anti-fog on them at this point.

Glasses were interesting when it came to America though, he'd seen America knock his sunglasses off once- instead of just continuing on like a regular person, America winced and closed his eyes as much as he could. America had really pretty purple eyes with black sclera. He'd cemented those eyes in his mind, they were really pretty.

He'd asked Cuba about the wincing, and had gotten a small shrug and a response of: "From what I've been able to get, his eyes are really light sensitive - the sunglasses are a prescription. Don't know anything about the particular condition, cause he's the person I have the least on- sneaky little gremlin"

Out of curiosity and concern about America, he'd looked into that - the only thing he could really find was photophobia and a one off study that connected a fatal sleeping disorder to mutations with the senses- he doubted it was the sleep disorder, as most found to have it were dead before they were a month old. At least he had a better grasp of how he might be able to help America - if he could work up the guts to talk to him.

Or he could be entirely wrong about photophobia and it was just the fact that America didn't have white sclera, but black. Which he had no problems with, mind you! Looking into them was like looking at the night sky, they were fucking pretty, sue him. He knew he'd be able to see America's eyes if the lights were heavily dimmed- Maybe America could handle sunlight - though he probably couldn't, so closed curtains and heavily dimmed lights- if he wanted to see those pretty eyes.

He found himself extremely thankful for the lights in his room being controllable in brightness and color. It'd mean he might actually be able to see America's pretty eyes again.

He shook his head a couple times before going to find Cuba, figuring his friend would have some stuff they could do while they waited.

Apparently the best idea Cuba had for while they waited was practice - which was fine by him. He'd opted to use the Nyckelharpa this week, as he enjoyed his ability to baffle people with random instruments.

They ended up practicing until they were called to go, which happened when they were midway through.

Russia sighed and stretched, following Cuba to the bus, finding himself gazing ahead of them at America, who looked pretty despite the blanket wrapped around him.

"You are so down bad-" he heard Cuba whisper from beside him.

"Shut the fuck up." He whispered back, hoping America hadn't heard either of them.

The only response he got to that was a chuckle. He opted to lightly smack Cuba on the back of the head for that. He then decided to speed up a little and ignore Cuba while he got on the bus.

He opted to sit behind America, as he had last Friday, which he'd noticed seemed to have a positive effect on the cutie. He was entirely happy to do it again, as it didn't really do anything to him. It was a net positive, so he was happy to do it again. He looked out the window as he waited for the bus to start unmoving. He also opted to listen to some music.

He was pulled out of the music by a text from Cuba - all it said was "Guess what?" And there was a video attachment. Which he stared at for a long moment to process it.

He reluctantly opened the attachment, and heavily flushed when he realized what it was.

It was a fucking video of America, the innocent looking, painfully anxious (and shy) avian coming down from the top of a fucking pole. He was moving in a way that only lent itself to strippers. Then the voice of someone he vaguely recognized from a while back, someone he knew as America's brother, asked in a light and playful tone: "Know any other ways down lil bro?".
The response came in an almost pitiful quiet tone: "No, you know this Canada - only other way down is to jump... Also I'm older than you-"
"Still little" was the last response before the video cut.

Russia stared at his now blank screen for a long while, internally screaming. He was sure he was lit up more than a Christmas tree. His face was certainly redder than a tomato.

Russia stared at his phone a little longer before deciding he did NOT need to think about this right now.

He closed his texts with Cuba and sent his dad a text. Hoping he might be able to convince him to be able to attempt to catch his gift giver. He could tell there was probably some sort of romantic interest behind it, and he didn't feel like being that guy. The one who broke some poor mother fucker's heart. It'd be best to just let them know he wasn't interested in that way, but they could be friends.

After sending that text, he opted to listen to some music, ending up humming along to it.

He was snapped out of it by his phone vibrating with a response, which he promptly checked.

"Fine, you can Thursday, only if they're still doing it then" was the response he'd gotten from his dad. That prompted a mini internal celebration, he was very happy with that. It meant he'd cause someone less pain, and they'd stop being a constant question of "who the fuck are you" to him.

After a moment, he stared at the seat in front of him, wondering what America was doing. He'd probably never know, nor be close enough to America to be allowed to exist near him without causing anxiety in the cutie.

He sighed a little and looked out the window of the bus as they continued towards the game.