A/N: Okay, this sucks. But I'm so sick of it and it's been so long since I posted that I'm just going to put it up. The chapter I'm working on now is much better.
In one corner of the living room, the air conditioner grumbles discontentedly, producing a stream of cold air directly in front of it and nowhere else. The sun sneaks through the blinds and lands on the carpet.
Russia is lying on the couch on her side, legs folded together and one hand behind her head, paging through a book of baby names, occasionally writing one down in her spiral bound notebook. Squeezed between the couch and the coffee table, America is performing a more animated version of the same routine. He taps the pen against the page, exclaims loudly when he finds a name he likes, and attempts to shift position in the tight space.
America already has several names written down in an unorganized scrawl on the pages of his battered composition book. Russia looks up from her Cyrillic list and glances at it.
"Kennedy?" She inquires, pointing to one name. "Like your president?"
"I was thinking more of the family," America admits. "But yeah, kinda."
Russia shakes her head. "And what makes you think that I would agree to name our child after one of your presidents?"
"Why not? What's on your list?" He grabs for her notebook. "Aw, come on , it's in Cyrillic."
"So you can't read it," Russia tells him, grabbing it back. Taking pity on him, she points to the names. "Nadezhda, Fyodor, and Fedora."
"Fedora? Like the hat?"
"It's a name as well."
America looks surprised. "I didn't know that. What about the others?"
"What about them?"
"Do they mean anything?"
"Nadezhda Mandelbaum is one of my favorite poets. And Fyodor was Dostoyevski's first name."