Never Let Me Go
A/N: Just cute RusAme stuff. Please leave comments/critiques and I'd love you forever.
*I don't own Hetalia, blah blah blah.*
The air was unimaginably cold. Dark, dense clouds littered the once-bright sky, slowly letting loose small hordes of snowflakes upon the ground. This was not a rare occurrence, and was actually quite common in this part of the country. The rare part of this day was the man who was trudging through the snow. He kept his gaze on his feet, and his crystal blue eyes couldn't be more determined. Writhing his hands around in his pockets anxiously, he released short, quick breaths. Each pant was visible; white and hazy before dissolving into nothingness.
"I don't understand," the man huffed, taking a wide step over a particularly thick heap of snow, "why I'm even here." He had, after all, decided to make the journey on a whim. It was a nonsense urge that had developed, and he just couldn't shut it up. No way, no how.
Realizing he had reached his destination, he lifted his head to stare at the building. This was it. Shuffling up to the door, he took a deep breath. No turning back now.
A tall house sat upon the white-coated hill. Each window was covered in thick layers of frost, so he couldn't tell if a light was on not. It would suck big-time if no one's home, the man muttered to himself angrily before banging on the door with a balled fist.
"If you're home, Snow-Man, now's the time to get the hell up!" He yelled, leaning on his arm that was propped against the door. He could hardly feel his feet due to the cold, and his breathing began to slow as he waited for what seemed like an endless amount of time.
And then the door opened.
Having practically fallen into the one who had opened the door, the blonde man scoffed as he was pulled to his feet. As he regained his balance he was greeted with a childish smile and shimmering violet eyes.
Russia.
"Hello, America." Grinned the man standing in front of him, who took a step back and gestured for the one called America to enter. "Are you alright? You look troubled." Russia said, eyebrows knotting together to form a concerned expression.
Walking in somewhat reluctantly but altogether careless, America rolled his eyes. "Always happy, aren't you?" He retorted, not really wanting to divulge his true motivation quite yet. Scanning the foyer of the large, empty house, he scratched the back of his head. Empty was really the only way to describe it. The white walls were barren, and the shiny wood floors lacked rugs. There were a few side tables stacked high with books and potted plants scattered around, but nothing really noteworthy. The only truly interesting thing was the amount of paintings hung on the walls. Various works of different styles and colors were displayed throughout the house in a cluttered manor, but they seemed to tie the overall blankness of the decor in together fairly well.
America, for some reason, was instantaneously attracted to a gold-framed painting of a faded sunflower. It appeared as if it were once bright and vibrant, but the colors had long since faded, leaving only pale yellows and the faintest blues. Four long scratches ran along the canvas, which made America wonder why exactly Russia still kept it up. Wouldn't his house look a whole lot better if he didn't have this depressing thing sitting around?
Suddenly, America felt a hand on his shoulder that caused him to jump up a bit. "Is something wrong, America?" A heavily-accented voice asked, but America just shrugged. "Nah. Not really." He replied, rolling his shoulders as a hint for the hand to be removed. "America…I know you did not come here to have a friendly chat. I can hear it in your voice." Russia spoke in a gentle tone, placing his free hand on America's other shoulder and attempting to turn the shorter man around. Not wanting to take his eyes off the painting, America simply waved a hand and held his ground.
"I'm fine. Don't worry 'bout it." America answered, but Russia wasn't that ignorant. Lifting a hand, the tall man pointed at the painting of the flower. "I painted that when I was young." He said, which finally seemed to snap America out of his daze. Shifting his attention to Russia, he cocked his head to the side with sad eyes. "What happened to it?" He asked, voice lowering into a sad whisper. Russia, however, seemed unaffected and continued to smile.
Nudging America out of the way so that he was closer to the piece, the Russian sighed. He ran gloved fingers along the canvas, a hidden sense of nostalgia welling up inside him. "It is old, and the exuberance has faded. Quite some time ago, it was different. However, I quite like it in its current state." Explained the man, who was now running his hands along his thick scarf.
Curiosity not yet satisfied, America crossed his arms and slumped back. "Yeah, but the scratches… How'd those happen? Belarus get ahold of it or something?" He joked, immediately regretting the words as he said them. "No, I don't mean to be disrespectful to your sister or anything! I was just saying tha-"
America's rambling was cut off by the clearing of Russia's throat. "It is alright. Do not fret about that." He said, which caused the younger man to exhale in relief. Definitely dodged a bullet there! For a second, America was sure he was dead meat! Instead of continuing on in their conversation, however, an awkward silence arose in which neither of them spoke. It lasted for a couple minutes, and then it was broken.
"I scratched it. I was feeling rather upset and lonely, so I decided to take my anger out on this painting. I was such a foolish child." The words seeped from Russia's mouth like water from a stream. Beautiful, graceful, and cheerfully spoken; the reality of what he had said was harsh, however. How could he possibly show no emotion over something like that? If America had torn up a beautiful painting he had worked so hard on, he'd probably not want to remember, or much less talk, about what had happened to someone he wasn't exactly friends with.
Seeing that Russia's smile had faded and that he had stiffened his posture, America patted his shoulder reassuringly. "So!" He coughed, trying to change the subject away from the grim topic. However, it appeared Russia wasn't yet ready to move on. Not even turning to look at America, Russia spoke again. "Do not worry about that. I do, at times, still feel lonely, but I know that I have many friends who I can turn to in my times of need and that they will always be there for me when I need them the most."
The words crashed down on America like sledgehammers. Who exactly were said friends? Was America considered one of those friends? He probably shouldn't be, considering he surely didn't deserve that honor by any means. It wasn't even reasonable! They weren't really friends! The two fought like cats and dogs, but then again…America's first thought in his own time of need was to turn to Russia…
Maybe they thought of each other as closer friends than America had first intended.
Sensing the buildup of tension between them, Russia cleared his throat once more. Taking hold of the American's elbow, Russia led him into the living room and sat down on the couch. Feeling as if he had to sit down as well but at the same time not wanting to be that close to Russia, America decided to sit at the far end of the couch. Not liking his decision, Russia scooted over so that he was shoulder-to-shoulder with America. Unable to move farther away, America just sighed under his breath and decided to stay.
Unclear of what Russia's goal was in leading him to the couch, America shifted his gaze away from the Russian's face. He hadn't come here for this, but there was something he needed to say. "You know…I'm sorry if I haven't exactly been a…good friend all this time. I guess I kinda let our little arguments get the best of me." He mumbled somewhat awkwardly, soundlessly clapping his hands and entwining his fingers together nervously.
For some reason, America felt as if he was talking to a child. Russia had such an innocent- yet somehow intimidating -air about him, and it made America want to protect him for reasons unknown. Perhaps it was due to the story regarding the painting, but maybe there was something else backing it up...
Not affected by America's words, Russia simply nodded. "I know. We have had our quandaries, have we not? But that is not why you came here. Something else is bothering you." Ah. There it was again; that question. Russia wasn't stupid, they both knew that. Opening his mouth to speak, America found himself at a loss for words. Surely Russia wouldn't want this stranger– or would 'friend' be a better word now? –to come in and complain about his problems when his own life was quite troubled!
A reassuring arm wrapped around America. "You can tell me whatever troubles you, America." Said Russia coolly, a smile on his lips. Relaxing, America leaned against the back of the couch. With a deep exhale, America looked into Russia's wide eyes. After receiving yet another encouraging nod, America decided he'd better start talking.
"I got in a fight with England." He breathed, flipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. "It's stupid, I know, but I-I just don't like to fight with him, you know? It's like fighting with your spouse or something! You know how really want to be right but you don't want to hurt the other person at the same time? That's how I feel." Said the American, who kept his eyes locked on the glittering chandelier. Rubbing his hands against his forehead, America's uncertain tone turned into one filled with sarcasm and concern. "I really hope I didn't offend him or anything, but he was being an ass..."
Russia remained quiet. As America ranted on and on about how England treated him like a child and things of that sort, Russia simply listened. He provided nods when looked at, and the occasional pat on the back.
"He's such a jerk sometimes! Like honestly, how selfish can you get? Always bossing me around like that!" Suddenly, America fell silent. Looking to Russia expectantly, he rolled his eyes and groaned before falling back against the couch. "I hope he isn't mad at me. Do you think he is mad at me?"
"I do not know, America." Whispered the Russian, who could sense America was beginning to get emotional. It was not often that America cried, but when he did, it was a big deal. The younger man didn't like to cry, so he just didn't. However, sometimes he just couldn't help it. The emotion would flood over him, and the tears would start to fall. Nobody would ever bring up the times when America cried, not even Russia when the two were stabbing insults at each other. It was a sensitive subject, so everyone assumed it wasn't to be gossiped about.
One drop. Two drops. They slid down from America's cheeks slowly, leaving trails behind them. Covering his face with his hands, America began to whisper to himself. Don't cry in front of him. Don't cry, period. It's weak. You have to be strong. He prodded, trying to convince the tears to stop flowing.
Taken aback by the sight of America on the verge of sobbing, Russia wasn't sure what to do. Yes, he did have his emotional moments, but nobody was there to comfort him. So, how exactly was he supposed to comfort America if he didn't know how? He'd have to do the only thing he could think of. Wrapping his other arm around America, Russia pulled him closer into a hug. Without hesitation, America placed his head in the crook of Russia's neck. Russia found it odd that America made no sound when he cried. No hysterical sobbing; just a steady flow tears.
Running his fingers through America's reddish hair, Russia began to hum a tune under his breath. It wasn't exactly a real song, but America didn't know that. It was soothing, and that was all he cared about at the moment. "It is okay to be sad, America." He hummed, searching for the right words to say. Finally coming upon a decision, Russia pushed America away from him and forced the younger man to look into his eyes. Taking a deep breath, Russia wiped the tears from America's face with his thumb. "Everybody has times when they simply cannot control their feelings, and this seems to be one of those times for you. You are a very independent and unprejudiced person, and that means you will have your quarrels. If England cannot grasp the concept that you are no longer under his control, it is he who has the issues."
The room fell silent; the loss for words settling over the two like a thick blanket. It took a moment for the words to reach America, and their thoughtfulness caused a few warm tears to cascade down his cheeks. As he looked deeply into Russia's eyes, he swore he saw some escape from Russia as well. Opening his mouth to speak, America found himself unable to do so. Falling limp onto Russia's chest, he began to mutter words under his breath. He reached his arms around the other's neck and hugged him tightly, burying his face against his thick scarf. "Thanks dude. I don't know what I'd do without you, ya know." The America whispered, having overcome his tears.
After ten minutes had passed, Russia tapped America on the shoulder to get his attention. Looking up with groggy eyes, America raised an eyebrow. With one arm under America's knees and the other placed at his back, Russia lifted America off of the couch and began to head in the direction of his bedroom. Once they arrived, Russia set America down on the bed. Kicking off his shoes, America burrowed under the blankets. After doing the same, Russia reached for America's hand and pulled him closer. Resting his head on Russia's chest, America smiled. This wasn't how he had planned to end his day, but it certainly wasn't a bad thing.
They laid that way, nestled against each other and absorbing each other's warmth, for hours. Having picked his little tune back up again, Russia managed to hum America to sleep. Eventually, the alluring idea of a nice nap seemed to overtake Russia, and he drifted off as well.
Sometime in the middle of the night, America woke up. He let out a deep yawn, stretching his arms into the air. Slowly, he scooted himself out from underneath the covers. Grabbing his shoes, America tied the laces and walked around to Russia's side of the bed. He had slept like a stone, it seemed, as he hadn't moved an inch. A small smile creeping onto America's lips, he sat on the edge of the bed and planted a lingering kiss on Russia's cold forehead.
"Goodbye." The American muttered, standing up and shoving his hands in his pockets. He felt as if he should say something else, but he simply couldn't think of what to say. Deciding it was best to leave before his friend- was that the right word yet? He still didn't know, –woke up, he walked quietly to the front door.
Reaching out to turn the doorknob, he froze. Slowly, America turned his head to look at what he'd seen out of the corner of his eye. It was staring at him. A daunting presence that he knew he wouldn't be able to shake. That was what it was, and something had to be done about it.
When he awoke the next morning, Russia wasn't surprised. America was gone. He'd left, just like everyone else. Initially, Russia wanted to be mad about it, but he just couldn't. Not after what had happened the night before… No. He couldn't let it get to him. America probably had something important to do, and he most likely didn't want to wake Russia up. Yes, that was it. He would just have to forget about it for now and call America later. There really weren't any other options, at this point.
As he walked to the kitchen, Russia sensed something was different, but he just couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe it was his newfound feelings for America, or maybe it something else.
Something else. It was most definitely something else.
Russia's cup of tea hit the ground, shattering instantly and splashing the bitter liquid all over the clean wooden floor. He stood there, just staring at the wall. Tears were welling up at the corners of his eyes as he stared at it.
It was his painting of the sunflowers. That was what was different.
Reaching an arm out, he began to walk towards it. Placing his hands on the frame in a careful manner, he exhaled slowly. The long scratches were hidden by pieces of masking tape, but that wasn't all. A bright coat of paint was slathered onto the picture, and a torn slip of paper was taped onto the frame. Upon further inspection, Russia discovered a hastily-written message scribbled on the paper. Ripping the paper from the frame, he clutched it tightly and held it against his chest.
"You don't have to be alone anymore."