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CHARACTERS: Russia & Heather
LOCATION: 002 » 183
WARNINGS: losers talkin bout music and ship things
SUMMARY: russia plays cello, heather listens, both get to bitching about the ship. a+ plan

The walls are not very thick here, enough to block the sound of voices but not enough to completely muffle the rich sound of the cello seeping through the door. It doesn’t bother him, sometimes Netherlands takes it as an invitation, sometimes Jack would show up bottle in hand and they’d talk about nothing in particular. But elsewise, he’s left to play in silence.

Which is why maybe it’s so surprising to hear the quiet disappointed groan when he stops in the middle of a piece, stuck in thought and not entirely finding it relevant.

With a pause he gets up, socked-feet silent on the ground as he heads to the door and pulls it open, quirks a brow down at where Heather sits cross legged like a kid at story time.

It’s a surprise it took this long, really.

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Hey, it's not like anybody could blame her. Being stuck on a spaceship where the outbreaks of sheer terror and fuckery are almost a welcome relief from the long stretches of boredom, it'd be a damn shame not to stop and listen. And it's not like she does it often.

... well. She doesn't do it every time she hears him, at least. Just. Most times.

It's the first time she's been busted, though, and the smart move would be to smile and tell him it's nice, or say she hopes he doesn't mind. Right? Right. So she looks up (and up, and up), and -

"What?"

...welp.

There's a blink, not entirely startled, and Russia snorts with laughter at her oh so witty response. Others less familiar with Heather might have just shut the door, or maybe might have shooed her away like a stray begging scraps at the door. As it is, Russia simply leans in the doorway, amused smile tugging at his lips.

"You don't have to sit outside, you know."

Not...a direct offer for her to join him but close enough?

"Cool." Not exactly a thank you, but she's pretty sure he'll get it. So she unfolds and flashes him a grin, bright and shamelessly cheerful once it seems that eyebrow tilt is the extent of the flak she's going to cop over eavesdropping.

"Figured if I knocked you'd stop playing. But since you have anyway..." Shrug. "I'd say you're pretty good, but you oughta be with how long you'd had to practice."

It's close enough he thinks, and with a soft laugh he moves so she can slip past him and enter the room finally. He can't really say anything about eavesdropping anyway, Russia is a terrible sneak.

"Yeah? Guess I'll take that as a compliment." He rucks hair out of his eyes, leaving Heather to close the door behind them. "How long were you outside?"

"It was." Well, it was meant to be, anyway, and it's cool that he gets that. Her smile gets a little sheepish as she shuts the door, still looking at Russia and wondering how it is that every time she sees him he seems to be at the exact same stage of needing a haircut. Surely there should be a before and after stage to the way it flops into his face, but if she's seen them her mind has overwritten the memory with that image of him. Jewel-toned eyes all but hidden by a fall of pale hair, and she can never tell if he's hiding or just hiding the fact that he's watching people.

"Don't know. A while, I think. I can't feel my butt." She shrugs again, but it's a one-shouldered half-hunch, an idle what-can-you-do twitch. "There's not a lot around here that's beautiful, you know? Can't afford to walk straight past when you find something that is."

A pleased flush settles high across his cheeks, the tips of his ears turning red. Beautiful, she says and while Russia's sure in his abilities, it's still nice to have someone compliment it.

"Should have told me earlier then, I like playin' for audiences much as I like just doing it to think."

Still, he settles on his edge of the sofa easily, cello bracketed by his knees. He idly draws the bow across the strings as he waits for her to join him, humming soft under his breath as he makes sure it's all in tune -- even if he'd only stopped playing a couple minutes before.

It's all the invitation she needs, following him over and settling with one knee pulled up, hitched sideways so she can watch as well as listen. She wasn't messing around when she called it beautiful (she may not know many Nations, but the ones she does are prideful enough that she's sure any attempt at flattery would tank horribly), and seeing it happen -- well, yeah. She should have told him earlier.

"What were you thinking about?"

It sounds a little distracted. Her eyes are on the cello, the grain of wood visible under the stain and varnish a reminder that once, it was alive. Kinda magical, the way he can make it sound like it is again.

The blush fades easily enough once he starts to pluck gentle tunes, head tilted as if in thought. He sees her watching though, curled up on the couch like she owns it and Russia can't help but chuckle under his breath.

"Life, I guess." A shrug, smile settling easily upon his lips. "Just whatever comes to mind."

Tunes and songs, memories and not-quite dreams. He hums softly and glances her way, the cello coming alive beneath his fingertips. Softly, softly, it's like painting pictures in the air with every draw of bow across string.

"Kind of a risky pastime around here. It's not exactly cheerful."

She says it dryly, a you-should know better sort of a tone to her voice, but it's somewhat at odds with the way she just settles further. Props an arm on the back of the couch so she can lean her head against it and listen. It's better closer, of course, and the sound fills the air in a way that makes her feel she could touch it if she tried hard enough. Maybe that's why it works; it's gotta be easier to deal with the situation they're all all in when he's cocooned in that sound.

"You know what I'm trying to figure out? Whether this quiet patch means something big's coming, or whether it's just bored with us."

"Sort of used to that, regardless."

Idly stated, it's a fact as cold and detached as someone talking about the weather. She should be used to that, really, or figured it out at the very least. Still, his smile is soft upon his lips and Russia lets his eyes slide closed as he plays, lashes a near white flutter across pale cheeks. He loves music for the very reason she suspects; it's a buffer, an outlet -- he can lose himself in the sound and memories it evokes.

"I think I like the first option better, really. If it's bored with us I'm pretty sure we're just going to start losing people left and right." A pause, bow drawing a sharp sound, "Might as well make the most of the lull before we get hit again. Might be all we have."

She's smiling too, and what starts out as a wry sort of reaction to his answer softens into something more pleasant in the swell of the music. It's hard to keep up a decent bad mood with the combination of the sound and how at ease he looks. Something about it makes the words seem so normal, easy everyday conversation. They might as well be discussing a book, planning a shopping list. That's good, it its way.

"Aren't we doing that already? Losing people? Maybe not all as dramatically as the big ones, but it's happening." Familiar faces missing or replaced, and in some cases missing and replaced and missing again. People going crazy. It's sad, somehow, but weirdly like what she still can't help thinking of as real life. Bad things happen and sometimes there just doesn't seem to be a reason.

That's... not so good.

He doesn't speak up, at first, just lets her know he's listening with a soft little acknowledging sound.

"I didn't mean that it wasn't happening." Jack, he thinks, remembering the friend he lost and gained again months later. There's a pause here, head tilting, brow furrowing, "I think I would be more worried if it didn't at all."

And that's...maybe not so good either. But he's never dealt well with so called peace -- because it doesn't really exist, to a Nation like Russia.

"Mm." If so short a sound can be contemplative and wry at the same time, there it is. "When things seem good, that's when you know you really need to worry."

Thinking, of course, of her father. How happy they'd been, how stable - an apartment in a building where the stairwell didn't constantly smell of piss and nobody tried to sell her drugs between the mailbox and her place, a school that she'd been at for a whole year. Maybe not great by regular standards, but you learned to take your joy where you could get it. Like a friend (they're friends, right) who plays like an angel and doesn't mind you creeping on it and turning the conversation all heavy. She reaches out, careful but not quite tentative, to trail her fingertips over the warm grain of the wood, wanting to see if she can feel the music swelling out of it.

He moves with her easily, shifts so she can see and trail fingertips feather-soft along the curve of his cello. It draws a muted smile from him, just a simple curl of his lips as the song changes -- familiar to him like the shape of his language upon his tongue.

It's, well it's quite obvious she's got memories to draw on here, thoughts to dwell on and Russia isn't without his own, but there's something curious in the expression lingering upon her face and he tilts his head, gaze flicking over to watch the way her gaze lowers, the way the thoughtful frown edging at her mouth smooths out into a nearly gentle sort of awe. And yes, he's proud of that, so maybe he shows off a bit, just because he can.

And maybe there was never really a chance they wouldn't meet and speak, because there is something similar in the way they think. He can't read her mind, but Russia's long become accustomed to taking what joy he could in the situation he was in -- even if he'd become spoiled with his empire, with the rise of the Union and the corrupt power that would be singing in his veins even now after it's fall. So he nods and the music beneath his fingers is owe of his own folk songs, sorrowful and longing. Russia would sing it, voice dipping low and maybe later he will if she asks but now he thinks: y bojtsu na dalnem pograniche and wonders.

"Things are rarely so good here," English, and his accent thickens, "But it is...disarming nonetheless, I think."

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