A one-shot on Russia and female!England. Russia's pov. It's quite metaphorical. My apologies if there are any mistakes in there. I'm not native English and this was not beta-read. Remember to show your appreciation or any comments in a review! It matters!
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There were few things that could truly get to Russia. Winter, unfortunately, was one of them. The forest carried it every year, and so did he. It was a matter of accommodation, until the difference was perhaps not so different anymore. Admittedly, the dead branches that reached for him like fingers were not as hospitable as the crisp greens of spring, or the lush flower dresses of summer. But they were at least as familiar. A home was a home, wasn't it? And this was his home, no matter what.
He had his hands tucked deeply into his pockets and a scarf tightly around his neck, but the cold bit in his skin and pinched his cheeks. It used to bother him, he remembered. And that was all he remembered. He scraped some of the whitish powder of a tree trunk and clenched his hand into a fist. It melted until it dripped from in between his fingers, slowly freezing onto the back of his hand. You couldn't fight the cold.
A seemingly endless meadow stretched before him, flawlessly white. What he loved most during summer was what he despised most during winter. Everything was so empty and cold. Everything. So badly that it followed his everywhere until it had cornered him. Now was that moment. That moment in the beginning of winter where he could feel the cold not just biting his skin but ripping it apart. It melted into his veins and settled in his bones. And it remained there, claws of ice around his ribs, until spring's prude kisses warmed him up. Just a little bit. Just enough to keep going. Until the next snowfall.
It was in summer that his fingers curled like blooming flowers. They curled around hers and around the steaming cup she had made him. He had long believed it was merely the sweet hot tea that burned in his belly. Long believed it were but roses whose sticky scent clung to his nose and only strawberries he tasted on his lips.
If this was what summer was like, he mused to himself one golden evening, he did not want to return. She filled the space in his arms and told stories of knights and dragons. He listened, believing it was just the foreign adventure that made it worth echoing every word in his head. So much like summer bells of honey that chimed all night long.
But centuries had sharpened him too much, and his scars burst of memories. The sun peeked over the horizon but it's light didn't seem to reach him. He gazed over the once again forlorn land. The cold approached him, encircling him like a predator. Summer was as beautiful as a bubble of soap, and just as short and empty. It popped soundlessly before him.
Goodbye to the caress of sunshine and the taste of heat. Farewell to the hymn of fingertips and the shared spark of bliss. The absence of her eyes hollowed out every room. Even the forest seemed too quiet without the edge of her voice.
How he missed her eyes. So green and so busy. Busy with searching, always a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions hidden behind them. How he loved catching their look and watching the storm quiet down. And in that moment it would always seem as if she had just found what she had been looking for. As if she found just what she had needed.
However familiar he was with the place, it withheld a sort of cutting cold that made him shiver. It had been a long time since home hadn't felt like home anymore. He turned his back and decided that perhaps this time he could wait a little longer before giving in to winter. When he snuck back into his house and took of his shoes, he felt a burn. A burn he recognised, that nestled into his belly. Yet his mouth was dry and the taste of tea long gone.
He found her curled up on his couch and the fire of summer spread in his body. For a long moment he stared at her, one hand on his stomach, because he still didn't understand.
England stood up and embraced him like the sunshine used to do. She had discovered a home in his hug and buried it in his chest. And he realised, quite frankly, that she had never heated up the space between his arms. What he had felt back then had been the warmth of the ice around his heart thawing. So he pressed her closer to him and inhaled the roses that intoxicated him. Once more he tasted her lips and it was a sweetness that brought out the bitterness in strawberries.
And he learnt that there were things warmer than summer.
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