Disclaimer: I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia.
Papeleo
Written January Twenty-Ninth, 2009
It is May.
There's something, that could be houses. Fields. The people are too small to be seen from here, [where the world is an illusion,] where the snow is cotton-soft. Maybe they don't exist, after all - maybe, that is his fault. He shivers despite the heating, wraps his scarf tighter around his neck, adjusting and readjusting. Fingers pale, calloused, hard to bend.
"Iceland." He says. "Iceland, are you cold?"
The man is looking away from him, at the ground underneath their plane. It is afternoon, or morning, and there is the humming of machinery as the aircraft stays in motion. Emptied plastic wrappers tucked into the pockets of seats. Precautionary magazines, with glossy images. [The two of them might as well be alone.]
For Russia the earth is meaningless, at this point. And for Iceland they are miles and miles away, and the clouds are milk-white blurs against his view, and:
"In my country," A pause. A moment of thought. There is no need to rush his words, after all, and he is feeling almost comfortable. The book resting in his lap speaks of Alice Liddell, but the pages are bent and the translation is mediocre: just something to pass the time. His feet stretch against the suitcase underneath the seat in front of him. "the weather is mild." Falls quiet, returns to the window - this is the first time he has flown. He doesn't look concerned, merely bored - And, perhaps, unexpectedly, Ivan slips their hands together. Feels his comrade stiffen under the touch, the temperature, and he knows better than to lean close, now.
He has nowhere to go.
"Only twenty percent of your land is habitable." Iceland doesn't understand what he is saying, and tells him so, and Russia laughs. It doesn't matter. [He would like it, if they were to become one, because] this man is neutral. The ribbon at his collar is messily tied, one end longer than the other. As if he doesn't care. Iceland shuffles closer to the window, rests his forehead against the glass, but doesn't pull himself away. He can't.
"We are alike." A lie, perhaps. Can't they be friends? Aren't they, friends? Russia kisses him, awkward and out-of-place, as if he is unused to people, and to warmth. Just once.
Hands withdraw, and he glimpses [blues and greens and muggy purples, electrocardiographic] on the inside of his wrists. Iceland seems uncomfortable, confused, looks at him, brings the tips of his fingers together at his chest.
Russia's giggle is vitriolic, and he shivers in the cold, and he leans against the armrest; There is four hours left of travel, and Mashen'ka lays unopened by his side.
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Written for a kink meme, and fukkafyla. Original prompt was:
Something sweet with Russia/Iceland or Norway/Iceland
"Mashen'ka" is Vladimir Nabokov's "Mary".