Winter, Snow and Warmth [5/?]
anonymous
November 27 2009, 08:08:38 UTC
I'm sorry about slow updates, and I think they'll probably continue for a while because I've got exams. But I will try my best, and I hope you enjoy this chapter too!
Russia lay back onto the snow, exhausted after his slightly unorthodox lesson in fencing with a pipe. 'Piping', he supposed. Somehow, it didn't sound quite right. He decided to think of it later.
The snow had cleared up, clouds finally fading to nothing, leaving a trail of stars, holes poked into dark, dark cloth. They shimmered, never still for something so far away. He took a long breath, savouring the crisp non-scent of the snow and the sting on his nose, the ultimate feeling of freshness. Пётр and Булат also sighed, safer in the knowledge that Russia was more equipped to cope with dangers in his life.
Silence reigned over the group, as they watched the stars and the odd wisp of cloud overhead, until a boot crunched through snow. Something else was dragged through the white layer with said boot, sounding like an axe or spear. Soon enough, a dark figure loomed over Russia, obscuring his view of the sky.
Russia however, did not complain, nor even speak. His face went sickeningly pale and he began to shake with the fear of one of his own.
Mongolia.
The Mongols were here two weeks early.
Now he thought about it, he could feel a dull ache in his body, and the faint smell of smoke. His eyes widened, until Russia knew he looked like he had seen a ghost.
Sharp fronds of long black hair fell down, away from Mongolia's face, which had turned up into an awful smirk, as his eyes - contrary to Russia's - narrowed to cat-like slivers.
The Mongol placed a heavy furred boot on top of Russia's constricted chest, and grinned.
"What'cha doin' here? Tryin' to die?"
"N-no. Trying to fall asleep. Sir." That turns a black eyebrow right up, and the smirk intensifies to such a level of confidence, Russia begins to genuinely be afraid for his life.
"Ain't that the same? And who were ya' talking to?"
"No one. Myself." He tries to not endanger the snowchildren by pretending they don't exist. He makes a mental note to apologise later when no one is watching.
"Really now." Mongolia sends a sweeping glance from Пётр all the way over to Булат, lazily watching Russia from the corner of his eye. The Russian squirms under the look, and he feels his face go paler as Mongolia meets the snowchildren's eyes.
A long moment passes, until finally he breathes again as Mongolia lifts the boot off and back onto the snow, standing up straight again. He gives an inconclusive 'hmm' before marching off.
It took a long time for the Russian to fully relax again.
Russia lay back onto the snow, exhausted after his slightly unorthodox lesson in fencing with a pipe. 'Piping', he supposed. Somehow, it didn't sound quite right. He decided to think of it later.
The snow had cleared up, clouds finally fading to nothing, leaving a trail of stars, holes poked into dark, dark cloth. They shimmered, never still for something so far away.
He took a long breath, savouring the crisp non-scent of the snow and the sting on his nose, the ultimate feeling of freshness. Пётр and Булат also sighed, safer in the knowledge that Russia was more equipped to cope with dangers in his life.
Silence reigned over the group, as they watched the stars and the odd wisp of cloud overhead, until a boot crunched through snow. Something else was dragged through the white layer with said boot, sounding like an axe or spear. Soon enough, a dark figure loomed over Russia, obscuring his view of the sky.
Russia however, did not complain, nor even speak. His face went sickeningly pale and he began to shake with the fear of one of his own.
Mongolia.
The Mongols were here two weeks early.
Now he thought about it, he could feel a dull ache in his body, and the faint smell of smoke. His eyes widened, until Russia knew he looked like he had seen a ghost.
Sharp fronds of long black hair fell down, away from Mongolia's face, which had turned up into an awful smirk, as his eyes - contrary to Russia's - narrowed to cat-like slivers.
The Mongol placed a heavy furred boot on top of Russia's constricted chest, and grinned.
"What'cha doin' here? Tryin' to die?"
"N-no. Trying to fall asleep. Sir." That turns a black eyebrow right up, and the smirk intensifies to such a level of confidence, Russia begins to genuinely be afraid for his life.
"Ain't that the same? And who were ya' talking to?"
"No one. Myself." He tries to not endanger the snowchildren by pretending they don't exist. He makes a mental note to apologise later when no one is watching.
"Really now." Mongolia sends a sweeping glance from Пётр all the way over to Булат, lazily watching Russia from the corner of his eye. The Russian squirms under the look, and he feels his face go paler as Mongolia meets the snowchildren's eyes.
A long moment passes, until finally he breathes again as Mongolia lifts the boot off and back onto the snow, standing up straight again. He gives an inconclusive 'hmm' before marching off.
It took a long time for the Russian to fully relax again.
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This is so cute, anon!
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