I don't even know what this is. Seriously. Like, can someone tell me? Please? Because I don't even know what the hell I just wrote.
Russia dipped through the large mass of the audience, the dark lighting providing for less than easy maneuvering He brushed past the final person, finding himself in the left center of the stage., hands drifted down the sides of his coat, straightening out the small wrinkles.
America patted his case softly, his hands tracing over the edges in the dim light. He pulled it closer to his chest, cradling the object with a sense of admiration. Glasses slid lightly down past the bridge of his nose as he edged himself back against the wall, listening to the sounds of excitement on the other side of the curtain. There was a pause, an intake of breath, and then show time.
The lights made his eyes shine in the darkness, and America tapped his foot on the ground to start off the rhythm. Bringing his hands up to grasp his instrument he began to play. Sounds poured out of him in a tempest, finding every corner and drenching it in the sweet melodies radiating from his voice, his precious guitar in his lap.
Russia watched silently, as did everyone else. He reached back slightly farther than what he wanted, hindering his vision of America, but it was not a large problem at this moment. He was rather joyed that he was taller than most of the other patrons.
There was something about his eyes, Russia had decided, that made his performance so memorable The way they spoke louder than any lyric in that song and shown emotions one so fair should never have. The ways his hands worked effortlessly, how he seemed to loose himself.
America mostly did covers Russia found, and the crowd did not mind. They actually preferred it this way, and they way he sang, it made them never seem as if it was actually someone else's song. He made them his own.
"— And they say, she's in the class A Team, stuck in her daydream, been this way since eighteen," America's face changed, now looking straight at the audience, taking on a more somber look, "But lately, her face seems, slowing sinking, wasting. Crumbling like pastries, they scream, the worse things in life come free to us . . ." America looked away, back down to the floor, moving his head to the beat now.
Russia was found in a rapture, unable to tear his eyes away from the melancholy nation, finding his heart racing. America, the witless, naive bubbly American should not be capable of this. England was a far more likely candidate, and yet, here he was. Russia found his feet straying, taking steps closer to the stage, but withheld.
"It's too cold outside, for angels to fly," America held that same look in his eyes, that harsh, fiery coldness of pain that torched Ivan like a brand, "An angel would die, covered in white. And hopping for a better life. And this time, we'll fade out tonight..."
Ivan found his throat going dry, and was shocked to come to the realization ..that he had not felt like this in a very long time. Perhaps too long. He laid his hands in his pockets, feeling strange having them just hang there.
America finished up his song, standing, making sure to be very careful with his guitar and bowed to the audience. "I'd like to thank you all for having me, and to go on having a great time, alright? Promise me you wont leave here unsatisfied " He smiled towards the crowd, though it seemed like he was purposely keeping his way from Ivan's direction, his eyes catching the light again. His voice was followed by a long, grateful applause and hurried whispering.
He bowed once more before disappearing behind the curtain. America wiped the slight moisture of sweat from his forehead, laying his instrument back inside the case. He clasped the handle tightly in his hand, throwing on his jacket and walked out the back door. His hair caught the falling snow, a fusion of the breeze rushed towards him. He smiled, breathing in the dark air.
Russia watched America leave, clutching the insides of his jacket with crushing force. He stayed still, even as the other audience members began to disperse lost deep in his thoughts, or lack thereof. He regained himself, running dizzingly out the door to find the other nation.
Russia rounded the corner, finding America leaning lightly against the building wall, his face lit up from the cigarette in his hand. Russia stepped closer, his boots thudding against the newly snow covered ground. America looked over with a small smile, bringing the cigarette to his lips.
"You came to my show, huh?" He curled an arm around his own jacket, the case pressed protectively against his legs.
"I was curious. I assumed that you being so..." Ivan trailed off, not finding any words to finish his sentence, which only drew a bitter laugh out of Alfred.
"Go on, say it. It's alright. You've never stopped before." America took another drag from his cigarette . Ivan licked his chapped lips.
"I do not believe it would be appropriate to say these things...after what I have just seen." He gazed, something unreadable flashed across his eyes.
"Russia, stop being like that. I sang a song, I got some money. That's all it was." His eyes were somewhere else, far off into another world Russia decided. Far off— too far off. Ivan stepped closer, the wind blowing through his jacket. He leaned against the wall, chills crawling up his arms in a pleasant way. Blinking almost dazingly, he tried to read Alfred's expression, only to be greeted by a flick of a wrist, America closing his eyelids with cold fingertips.
"Take a moment to see without these hindering your sight, Russia." His fingers lingered, perhaps too long, before lightly removed to be twisted around his coat once more. Russia opened his eyes, trying to find something — some indication that told him America was still...America. Any trail of this was lost.
Alfred lifted his chin to catch the next breeze, letting his shoulders relax in the wind's wake. Russia let his hand stray, catching America's fingers from bringing the cigarette back to his lips.
"How long? How long have you been able to sing?" Ivan twisted his index, catching the object and pulling it towards himself. The wind bristled around them again, snow catching in their hair. Their gazes locked— eyes both searching for a sense of familiarity Russia pulled America back into his world — stretching his existence — dragging him back. America let his eyes drift, down to look hazely at the snow covered ground, his hair illuminated by the street lamps.
"Ever since I could remember " He lifted his head, his eyes now white hot, far back into his memories. Russia let the cigarette drop, bringing his hand up to smooth the snowflakes in Alfred's hair. He let himself take a single step closer, boots clinging to the wetness of the street.
"How old are you, Alfred?" Ivan asked, but the real question rang true, cutting them both in the stinging air. How long have you drifted in the shadows? Alfred paused, drawing in a soft breath.
"You could not be older than four thou— "
"Over fifty thousand years old." He closed his eyes with the breeze. Russia stopped, his blood running cold. His mind halted, eyes gazing down at the other nation's placid expression. The breeze picked up once more.
"This...is surely a lie. You could not be so old. The other nations had never— " America ripped himself away, clutching at his sides with an intense fury.
"The other nations are fools! While they grew in the east I was alone in the west. Canada was the first to find me. He...he was the first I'd ever met like me. We didn't age, Russia. We changed, but we never aged... My people. My people held me as a god, I thought— I thought that I— I never knew that..." America could not find the words, and doubted he ever could. Blurry, flashed, scorched memories of the past were far too difficult to remember And perhaps he no longer wished to know.
Russia's gloved hands clasped onto America's shoulders, eyes trying to drawl America's up towards him. Alfred's chin tilted and Russia found knowledge hidden far back in the endless blue.
"They say how quickly I excelled. Those ignorant fools said I was too young," America's hands gripped into Russia's coat, almost tearing the fabric, "they don't know how long I waited for power." Russia opened his mouth, trying to force some collection of words, trying to make sense. He had lost sense. He had lost understanding. America. The young (old) America had...changed along with his land. As had they all.
But this was different. This was far too different. Russia felt familiar. Russia could relate. He understood. For he had also been far in the shadows. He pulled, drawling Alfred closer, who he half expected to resist. The nation's body went lightly limp, being pulled into the embrace, wind flying around them. Russia buried himself in America's snow speckled hair, while the other clasped himself around Ivan's neck.
"I understand. I understand." Russia said, grasping tighter, trying to pull America away from the shadows of his memories. America felt chilled tears soak into Ivan's frosted jacket. The wind's drum roll continued.
Well. That escalated quickly. This is just...yeah. I don't know. I found information today that people have actually been inhabiting North America before the Ice Age. While the evidence isn't set in stone, I know I wanted to express that. But. The hell.
This was supposed to be a short oneshot about how well America can sing, not some over-load of angst. I guess, if you're wondering, I could try to explain my headcannon for this.
America, is actually one of the oldest of the nations. And it's another headcannon of mine that the 'nations' are actually a representation of the land itself. Not just the country. I took some early Indian myths about the spirits of the earth and sky. I based Alfred around this. Before anyone knew he existed he was a medicine man. The tribe members noticed how he never aged, how his eyes were as blue as the sky above, and how closely connected to the land he was. So— instant godship. (I also believe their appearances changed. Like they changed to the majority of their people. Most early people known to have inhabited America had dark chestnut hair and tan skin.)
He didn't understand why he never aged. He just went with the centuries, and then Canada found him. They connected. As brothers and friends. Then Europe got wind of a "New World" and barged right in. Driving America's original people out. So he changed. He shrunk, going back down to a child's age, but he never lost any of his memories. I like to think of it as repression. You get told something so many times, you start to believe it. So England raised him. And you know the rest...
If anyone likes this idea, I guess I could write a story about it. An actual one. Other than mixing up two oneshots and twisting them together to make...that.