It was snowing.
It was beautiful, naturally. Delicate tufts of white floated down from heavy clouds into the breezeless gray sky, dancing without a tune but somehow keeping in beautiful rhythm with one another.
Thousands of little snowflakes.
They all eventually gathered on the ground, fusing together as if they were being stitched into a blanket. However, they needed no seamstress; it came naturally, as if the act of becoming one whole instead of maintaining their sense of self was their very nature. Nothing more, nothing less.
Perhaps it was.
Either way, Ivan Braginsky was jealous.
The Russian stared out his window through violet eyes, watching as his world fell about him without contempt. He had his head propped up on his fist - it had gotten heavy after a while, most likely due to the unnecessary amounts of thoughts in his head (or at least, that was what his father used to tell him, back when he was younger). Of course, Ivan couldn't stop his thoughts from coming.
So he just held his head.
It was amazing, how everything could go from chaotic to silent in just a few hours. Not long ago, he had been yelling, crying out, furious. And now, there was nothing. Just the occasional sound of the fridge turning on and the dull thud of his weary heart.
Ivan had kicked him out. Well, not exactly - he had left on his own, angry and frustrated and willing to rather fight through the snow in his kitty pajamas than stay near the Russian any longer.
It was funny, in a sick sort of way, how Ivan always managed to make the warmest things cold.
He had always been like that, though. At first, he used to blame his father. The man kept the house cold at all times. It saved money, he claimed (which was good, because the family had little money from the beginning and any they could spare was well-received) but that didn't make it much easier on the Russian when he was left to shiver in his room under a thin blanket and seven layers of old clothes.
He didn't blame his father anymore, though. No, this was his fault. He knew it was.
After all, who else was there that could make him cry in such a way? He had never been prone to tears, but one word from Ivan and he had been set off into a fit of agony that had pulled Ivan's heart taut and cut right through the strings.
Strings which were left dangling in his chest without an answer.
A breeze suddenly blew against the house. It whistled as it smacked the boards and tossed snowflakes about his window, as if trying to get his attention.
Ivan slowly rose to his feet, walking over to the window with slight reverence. He placed his hand atop the glass - then quickly retracted it, for the chill had been sharp enough to bite, had he left himself open to attack. The wind continued to call wildly, drifting the snow about like the sands in a desert. They blew to the right. Ivan followed their path with his eyes, then froze.
He didn't even spare any time to get dressed for the cold weather. The most he did was put on his shoes before tearing his door open, instantly being ambushed by the howling wind as he stepped away from the safety of brick walls.
There he was. Standing alone in the snow, in front of his house. Red eyes narrowed, accented by the pale blush of his cheeks as the wind kissed them, dark brown hair swirling about from the underneath of an old hat that he didn't ever go without. His dark coat was firm against his lithe frame but the tassels whipped about in the breeze, eventually coming to rest as the wind sensed Ivan's presence and died down again.
He could only stare for what seemed like hours and seconds all at the same time. Hesitantly, Ivan took a step forward.
He didn't move.
"Ivan," he announced in a voice that, while not above its normal volume, felt like a scream, a cry against the world, against him.
The Russian swallowed nervously before taking another step forward.
His ruby eyes never left Ivan's violets, not once. His gaze shot through him in a way that both warmed him up inside and chilled him to the bone.
Another step.
"You're back," the Russian whispered, uncertain if he was actually real or not. "Mao, you came back."
"Damn right I did," he grumbled. Ivan was close enough to Mao now that he could hear him clearly. "Why? Did you want me to leave again?"
That was all it took. Ivan ran forward, his walls crumbling as he threw his arms around the smaller man's body, pulling him close. Mao stuttered in shock, not accepting nor rejecting the Russian for the moment. That was okay.
"Please, don't leave," Ivan whispered weakly. "I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of it, I'm sorry, don't leave me alone again, please…"
Slowly, arms rose up along the Russian's back, embracing him at last. Ivan felt ice prick his cheek, and he buried his face deeper in his love's shoulder.
"...You're a real mess sometimes, Ivy. You know that?" The Chinese chuckled softly, easing into a warmer hug as he stood on his toes to hold him closer. "As if you really thought you could get rid of me. I doubt that's even possible."
Ivan didn't have anything to say to that. Words would have made light of the relief he was feeling, of the agony and joy and fear pouring out into the snow around him. Into the silence.
"..." Mao closed his eyes, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "...Don't you start crying on me, you hear? It's cold outside. I don't want to stay out here longer than I have to."
The Russian nodded once, pulling back just enough to look into Mao's eyes. He didn't even bother trying to hide how much he had missed him in such a short time. How much he feared he would really lose him. After a moment, Ivan gathered Mao's face in his cold hands and drew him forward, leaning down to kiss him.
After a quiet mumble from the Chinese, he pulled back again, although he didn't move away in the slightest. Mao stared up at him, cheeks flushed (from the cold or from the kiss, it was hard to say) and a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "...Let's go inside now, Ivy. Your hands are freezing as hell."
With a sheepish grin, Ivan nodded and lowered his arms to Mao's waist. In one motion, then, he picked him up safely into his arms. Mao gave a startled squeak at first, but quickly relaxed, allowing the Russian to do as he wanted with a sigh.
"Love you," Mao mumbled with a faux expression of exasperation. This only made Ivan smile wider. Despite the falling snow, drifting lazily about the two of them, gathering at their feet, Ivan was warm.
"I love you more," Ivan whispered, sending a silent thanks to the sky above him before carrying Mao once again to the safety of the indoors.
Not sure how good this actually is. I haven't had much confidence in my writing ability as of late, but I want to let you know that I'm still alive. This is in response to a writing prompt titled "Outside the Window", the prompt being as follows.
"What's the weather outside your window doing right now? If that's not inspiring, what's the weather like somewhere you wish to be?"
Forgive me for writing this thing instead of my other stories, or ships you actually like. I don't want to put something up that's utterly horrendous.
Hetalia - Himaruya
Story - Me