handelaar | it's a violet way we have

it's a violet way we have

CHARACTERS: Russia, Netherlands
LOCATION: 002 » 183
WARNINGS: D U M B
SUMMARY: Insomnia's a bitch.

Something like three in the morning finds Netherlands softy rapping against Russia's door, clad all in black - generic ship t-shirt, generic ship underwear, generic ship crew socks - too rumpled and exhausted to bother with bringing Lodewijk along. He'd showered hours ago, picked through a few items in the kitchen before giving up on food, finally tucked into bed with his rabbit and ended up keeping the poor fuzzball awake as he tried to shift into a position that didn't remind him of being watched.

He was hoping that a few weeks of sleeping elsewhere would be enough. Apparently not.

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His gaze is caught by that movement, and flickers over, rests upon the tense line of hands at thighs. But in the end he looks down at his own hands, curls them into fists. There's a long pause as he takes time to come up with a decent lie, fails.

So Russia shrugs and lets his fists uncurl, fingers tapping against his knees. "Haven't slept consistently in a long while." He means decades, maybe a century or two, and maybe Netherlands can pick up on that now.

To say that he's surprised to get a straight answer is an understatement, but he doesn't move despite it but for another swipe of his hands before he loosely clasps them, thinks on how to proceed with a genuine response. It's only fair.

It's - also kind of a minefield, kind of, potentially, overbearing - but if it works it might pay off for both of them.

Still, he doesn't look over as he proposes it.

"Would you if... someone else was there?" Of course he means him, though he figures that's not a thing he needs to state outright.

There's a long stretch of silence, both because he's startled by that offer (offer? was it an offer, it felt like one but---) and because actually considering it takes effort. Eventually there's a slow sort of hum and he settles on, "Don't know."

Which isn't helpful at all in the end and he knows it. So Russia perches at the edge of his bed, rests elbows at knees and pushes fingers through the long fringe of his bangs as he expands. "Sometimes it helps but not always. Doesn't matter if I'm tired, half the time I can't sleep."

He rubs the bridge of his nose, looks up at Netherlands and settles his gaze somewhere past his shoulders just because he doesn't want to set him on edge any more than he already was.

Don't know only gets a small twinge back of his shoulders. It's the expected response and he mirrors it back in kind, ready to roll it off both of their backs and go on to a different thing. Elaboration, though.

It sends him looking at Russia's feet, because he knows that eyes can be too difficult but wants to let it be known that he's paying attention. Strict attention. Ultimately, though, it doesn't matter. His scowl at the floor says it for him - why can't it always help, at least that would make shit more simple.

So he attempts it himself, still staring at boot laces.

"Howbout now."

He's relieved when Netherlands gaze settles somewhere at his feet, because all of a sudden it would be too much to meet Netherlands' gaze and answer honestly. Or promptly for that matter. As it is, Russia ponders over that, hands folding together.

Russia might have Netherlands' attention, but he's not sure what to do with it all of a sudden. So the silence drags out near uncomfortably before he nods to himself and looks over, follows the fall of light hair, watches that scowl grow.

"Maybe," A faint acknowledgement. "Would it help you?"

Because he does remember why Netherlands is at his door so early in the morning after all.

"Not what I asked," he gripes, immediate. He's tired, and dodging and being careful is tiring. At some point it had to snap, but as soon as he does he sighs and sinks a little more into himself, still doesn't look up.

He's also too tired to argue much. It's a bad combination. He scrubs at his face, answers the question.

"Prob'ly, yeah."

He hums to himself, smiling a bit at Netherlands' griping. But they're both tired, rubbing at eyes and still not meeting gazes. It's probably wearing them both down, in truth. So Russia gives in and shuffles his little games off to the side.

"Okay," he shifts backwards, rucks hair out of his eyes and worries at his lip. "Y'alright?"

One exhausted, are-you-shitting-me look up and that's all he thinks he needs. No, not really, but none of them are and it'd be a lot fucking nicer if they were speaking while fading in and out of sleep, asshole.
Funny how it's so much later and he's only now making a connection to Denmark.
Or maybe not. The only similar thing is the style, not the steps, and the stakes are much higher here.
In fact, he might bring all of that up. After they're both in bed and the lights are out, of course, and on that note he - doesn't sit up and move so much as flops from one place to another, with a few paces in between.

"Too bright."

Russia would be surprised at Netherlands practically falling into bed, but really he's not. Instead he nods and gets to his feet, pads over to flip off the lights before he's nestling in next to Netherlands and curling close so he doesn't wind up falling out of bed. That would really just be his luck, wouldn't it.

That's if he does manage to sleep, of course. But considering the fact that Netherlands is a warm presence, Russia sighs and shifts close enough to rest his cheek on a shoulder, more content than he'd thought.

Curling close in a bed this size, with the two of them their size, is a necessity. A necessity he didn't fully realize that he wanted right up until it happened, but now that it's happening he's immediately wrapping himself into it, close and tight and furled as he can without sacrificing any of the softness.

He thinks about saying thanks. Thinks about commenting about them, thinks about finally answering that question, thinks about how loud his heartbeat might sound that close to it.

What he does say.

"Feels like they're watching me. When I'm in there."

There's something of a relieved little noise and Russia is instantly pressing as close as he can, nosing at the line of scars at Netherlands' jaw as he wraps his arms around him and shifts to get comfortable. This close he can feel the steady beat of his heart, relaxes in that little pitter-patter of a tune.

"'s why you sleep in the gardens." It's not a question, because he understands, but Russia likes confirmation anyway. His hand settles across shoulder blade, offers up some of his skant warmth in a silent way of saying 'I'm here', as if Netherlands didn't know. There's not much he can say to that, not much that wouldn't push it, so in the end maybe he's just a bit blunt too and that's all Netherlands' influence right there.

"How long's it been like that?"

A grunt for confirmation, but that's as far as sleeping in the gardens goes. At least what he'll say; it's nice in some ways, because he spends more time there than anywhere else on the ship, but there's a question and he's content enough to let conversation slip in and out and go where it will. He doesn't think anything he says will drive the feeling away - will drive Russia away - not when they're like this. So he answers without any hesitation, a low, sleepy murmur.

"Used to talk to... used to fall asleep with it on."

The mask, of course, and sure he knows that Russia's more than dabbled with his own after that conversation over the sinks, but that's not really what's on his mind. He's telling a story before bed, and they're both used to the darker versions of those. It's easier to talk about it like that, anyway, keeps them both distant from it even if the story might be about themselves in more ways than one.

He doesn't need anything else really, because it was more of a rhetoric question, something to fill the silence as he pressed close. Netherlands is really warm though (not that that's difficult, because Russia always was colder) and so there's a soft little murmur of understanding against his neck and little else.

There's something of curiosity though, because Russia wants to know how the mask affects someone other than him.

"Did it help?" He assumes not, because well, Netherlands is in his room after all, but still. A story is a story, in the end, and Russia had always held darker tales close to his chest. It's part of the reason he's still somewhat wary of his mask, even if he uses it increasingly.

"Good for sleeping. Mornings sucked." And now, of course, it sucks. One long drawn out perpetual hangover of a morning after a fever dream haze of drugs and addictive escapism. He should probably clarify that, too, but as he starts a yawn comes to the forefront and all he ends up doing is pulling Russia closer. Or at least attempts to.

"Fuckin' cold, asshole."

It comes out like a goodnight.

"Mm, sucks." Yeah, understatement of the year right there, Russia. But Netherlands doesn't have to elaborate, can keep some measure of secret close to his chest even if anybody on 002 could have spelled the weed. The yawn has a smirk tugging at his lips and he easily yields to the attempt at tugginh him closer.

He still snorts at the cold comment though, "Can't help that."

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