No matter where Russia is, the cold always creeps up on him. It lies in wait at the edges of his awareness, watching, biding its time. There are times, during the depths of winter, when Russia feels he will never be warm again. There are times he even forgets what it is to be warm, to feel the sun caressing his face. During the winter, time is frozen. The cold is eternal. There is no summer; it has never been warm, and it never will be. That is how Russia feels, surrounded by snow and ice for endless months and years. Up in the barren tundra, there are some parts of Russia where spring never comes, areas that have been frozen for thousands of years. Russia can feel those places like an old wound that has never quite healed. The cold is cruel. It snakes its way into his lungs, wrapping its steely hands around his chest and stealing his breath away. Every inhalation is a million tiny knives tearing at his throat and nose. His lips crack and his fingers bleed. The cold settles into his limbs, beginning with a slight tingling and working up to stinging numbness that burns and aches. Russia knows that hell isn't fire. Hell is cold that never stops, always squeezing tighter and tighter until he feels as if it will never end. It presses down on him. He can't breathe, he can't feel, he can't even die to escape it.
Russia wakes up. Canada is pressed against his chest, a warm presence that seeps into his skin, melting the chill of his dreams. Under the blankets, bare skin against bare skin, they generate enough heat to ward off winter for the time being. Outside, the wind howls through naked trees, and frost creeps across the windows with icy fingers. Inside, it is warm. Canada's chest rises and falls in slow cycles. His eyelids flutter as he dreams. His legs are tangled with Russia's, and one arm is slung over the larger nation's waist. Canada understands. He knows the feeling of winter so harsh that trees explode and the snow falls fifteen feet deep in places. Canada has felt the cold hands of winter clamped around his heart. Yet somehow, Canada is warm. His hand is always warm in Russia's, and his smile is like springtime after endless winter. The cold does not seem to touch Canada's soul the way it does Russia's.
Russia gently brushes Canada's hair away from his face. Canada shifts, then slowly opens his eyes to see Russia smiling gently at him.
"Morning, Vanya," he whispers groggily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Good morning, Matvey," replies Russia.
"I don't want to get up yet," smiles Canada, snuggling closer to Russia. "You're so warm."
Russia wraps his arms around Canada. "Only because of you."
Hello, all! This is the first story I've posted on FanFiction since 2007, so I'm pretty excited to get back into writing after being away so long. This is more of a drabble than an actual story, but I'm still pretty proud of it.
Right now there's a blizzard outside where I am, so I felt like writing a fluffy little Russia/Canada fic about cold weather. If you can't tell, I'm not overly fond of winter. I live in Minnesota, and it gets balls-freaking-cold here. Summer, why you so far away?
(4/29/13 - Touched up slightly for grammar and clarity, shortened author's note.)