Dissolve
Bahaha, this was totally written at 3 am. So it might suck. Now that I actually have more than 2 active friends, maybe some people will read this! And comment! *nudgenudgewinkwink*
Atjee - I'm so sorry! I know I promised you a snow-free Russia fic, but the Soviet Union was dissolved in winter, and that was the request, so.
Title: Dissolve
Author: fallenxembers17
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: PG
Word Count: 635
Warnings: Angst.
Summary: It is late December, 1991. Russia is lost, broken, destroyed, covered in cold Siberian snow. America begins to put the pieces back together. Written for ghostofthemotif 's reverse request meme.
Dissolve
Usually, Russia knew many things. Usually, he was able to use his knowledge to his advantage.
Right now, all Russia knew was that he was very, very alone, and the knowledge was crippling him.
If asked, he wouldn't be able to tell you where he was - or who or what he was, for that matter, and he'd have a hard time responding at all. His mind was in a fog, white and heavy like his breath on the cold Siberian air.
He was simply so alone. He was lost, hurt, sad, betrayed, angry. The overwhelming maelstrom of feelings powered him even as it blinded him, and he was not aware of the searing pain in his hands. He didn't notice the earth around him - scraped bare of snow, scratched and torn and full of holes made by his own hands. He didn't notice the sobs that tore from his throat, loud and despairing and pained. He didn't notice the setting sun until it bathed him and his land - one and the same, yet separate - in red, the red he so loathed now, and that sent him into another fit of tearing up the earth.
Eventually, he was reduced to just sitting in the dark, unmoving, sobs quieted to silent tears. His mind was, by now, blanketed in not fog but snow, leaving him almost entirely unaware of the world around him.
At least, until it heard the footsteps. His ears heard the footsteps and told his brain, which decided it really didn't want to tell Russia that it recognized those footsteps. It was too late, however, because Russia knew that sound, knew who they belonged to, and even as he knew he wanted to refuse the reality.
He was forced to accept it, though, when the person he so wished not to be there spoke. It is barely a word; more a gasp, or the air whooshing out from a punch in the gut.
“Ivan.”
Russia did not look up. He kept his eyes on the ground, the ground that never registered in his mind, not even as the snow begins to melt from America's presence. He comes nearer, that warm, beautiful, cruel country, and he murmurs gently, as if to a wild beast. Russia wondered absently if America is not so far off.
“Oh, oh, oh, god, Ivan, what did you do?”
What did he do? What did Russia do? Russia did nothing. Russia was abandoned. When there is a soft pressure on his hands, he feels the sting and sees the cut and bloodied flesh, and sees the disturbed earth beneath him, and realizes that that was what America was talking about.
Russia had not noticed at all.
The murmuring continues, soft and comforting, some of it in his own language. Russia is slightly more lucid now, and he wonders when America learned his language.
But that was beside the point, as then America wrapped his arms around Russia, whose breath caught in his throat, who sat stiff and unyielding. He was, for no good reason, feigning anger at him, at the naïve young nation who was comforting him after decades of hating him.
Russia spoke for the first time in hours, his clear and coherent words marred by a voice torn from sobs and wails.
“Why are you here?”
“For you.” The answer was short, sharp. Sweet, simple. It shook Russia to his very core.
The fog descended again as Russia was led by America back to the cold, empty house, not lifting until the young nation forced some vodka into him.
Once he was lucid again, he realized he was back at his own house. His house was empty. The silence brought the hysterics on again, but this time America was there to help him.
To put the pieces back together.
Atjee - I'm so sorry! I know I promised you a snow-free Russia fic, but the Soviet Union was dissolved in winter, and that was the request, so.
Title: Dissolve
Author: fallenxembers17
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: PG
Word Count: 635
Warnings: Angst.
Summary: It is late December, 1991. Russia is lost, broken, destroyed, covered in cold Siberian snow. America begins to put the pieces back together. Written for ghostofthemotif 's reverse request meme.
Dissolve
Usually, Russia knew many things. Usually, he was able to use his knowledge to his advantage.
Right now, all Russia knew was that he was very, very alone, and the knowledge was crippling him.
If asked, he wouldn't be able to tell you where he was - or who or what he was, for that matter, and he'd have a hard time responding at all. His mind was in a fog, white and heavy like his breath on the cold Siberian air.
He was simply so alone. He was lost, hurt, sad, betrayed, angry. The overwhelming maelstrom of feelings powered him even as it blinded him, and he was not aware of the searing pain in his hands. He didn't notice the earth around him - scraped bare of snow, scratched and torn and full of holes made by his own hands. He didn't notice the sobs that tore from his throat, loud and despairing and pained. He didn't notice the setting sun until it bathed him and his land - one and the same, yet separate - in red, the red he so loathed now, and that sent him into another fit of tearing up the earth.
Eventually, he was reduced to just sitting in the dark, unmoving, sobs quieted to silent tears. His mind was, by now, blanketed in not fog but snow, leaving him almost entirely unaware of the world around him.
At least, until it heard the footsteps. His ears heard the footsteps and told his brain, which decided it really didn't want to tell Russia that it recognized those footsteps. It was too late, however, because Russia knew that sound, knew who they belonged to, and even as he knew he wanted to refuse the reality.
He was forced to accept it, though, when the person he so wished not to be there spoke. It is barely a word; more a gasp, or the air whooshing out from a punch in the gut.
“Ivan.”
Russia did not look up. He kept his eyes on the ground, the ground that never registered in his mind, not even as the snow begins to melt from America's presence. He comes nearer, that warm, beautiful, cruel country, and he murmurs gently, as if to a wild beast. Russia wondered absently if America is not so far off.
“Oh, oh, oh, god, Ivan, what did you do?”
What did he do? What did Russia do? Russia did nothing. Russia was abandoned. When there is a soft pressure on his hands, he feels the sting and sees the cut and bloodied flesh, and sees the disturbed earth beneath him, and realizes that that was what America was talking about.
Russia had not noticed at all.
The murmuring continues, soft and comforting, some of it in his own language. Russia is slightly more lucid now, and he wonders when America learned his language.
But that was beside the point, as then America wrapped his arms around Russia, whose breath caught in his throat, who sat stiff and unyielding. He was, for no good reason, feigning anger at him, at the naïve young nation who was comforting him after decades of hating him.
Russia spoke for the first time in hours, his clear and coherent words marred by a voice torn from sobs and wails.
“Why are you here?”
“For you.” The answer was short, sharp. Sweet, simple. It shook Russia to his very core.
The fog descended again as Russia was led by America back to the cold, empty house, not lifting until the young nation forced some vodka into him.
Once he was lucid again, he realized he was back at his own house. His house was empty. The silence brought the hysterics on again, but this time America was there to help him.
To put the pieces back together.