A/N: Whoever you are, reader, thanks for clicking on my story! I hope you enjoy my dabble into Russian folklore...which means, yes, there are technically no OCs in this. c: And is a three-shot a three-shot, or a very small story? O.o Confused I be.
Warnings: Swearing, some blood.
Summery: Three-shot: She is very old, older than some of the birch trees she looks after in the forests. But she and I know the truth. It is as burned into our minds as the frost braided through Siberia. Russia/America slash, past Russia/notreallyanOC. Please R&R!
Disclaimer: I, Trans-Siberian Railway, do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers, Russia/Ivan, America/Alfred, or Snegurochka. (She's a very popular character in Russian folklore, so while I've put my own spin on things, I can't claim her.) Please don't sue.
Russia should have known better than to challenge him, out here in the dead of night, in the middle of a Russian forest. How he managed to build a log mansion in the middle of nowhere and still get power was completely over America's head, and Russia spared him an explanation. Nevertheless, in place of a stimulating conversation on the wonders of electrical energy, Russia decided that a good ol' round of Let Us Pick On Each Other Because We Are A Couple And Nothing I Say Will Provoke Any Sort of Dramatic Response (Because We Are A Couple) was in order.
Oh, how wrong he was.
As hyperactive and fun-loving as America prided himself to be, his manliness stopped short of snide comments and low blows. He didn't care who it was coming from, his brother or his boyfriend, no one called him cowardly. And laughed at the same time. And then expected him not to take him up on that challenge.
Because when you're in a relationship consisting of two sets of balls, sometimes the battle is on to see whose are bigger, and America was no exception to this rule. Especially when the challenge was, in a distinct Russian accent, that Alfred "would not be able to walk across the yard and back without a rescue helicopter somewhere in tow."
Alfred felt the blow deep. So, he could go through civil wars, depressions, two World Wars, and come out as probably the best nation to ever exist—he thought he was pretty damn cool, if he said so himself—but he couldn't walk across Russia's yard? Who the hell even said that? Sure, it was freezing as holy Hell outside, and it was dark, and they were surrounded by an even darker forest, and there was about three feet of snow in the yard alone, and it was still snowing, for fuck's sake—But that wasn't exactly a death sentence in America's book.
So, in a fit of testosterone-induced rage, America commented that his rescue crew shouldn't quit their day jobs, grabbed his coat and boots, and proceeded to make the easiest trek—and ego boost—of his life. All with a big smile.
That is, until he got lost. ("Fuck my life.")
He had absolutely no idea how this could have happened. Where the hell did America think he was going? He just had to walk across the yard! But of course, Russia's magical electricity apparently didn't include porch lights, or any kind of barrier to separate his "yard" from the birch forest. America remembered on arrival that Russia had some sort of frozen stream at the top corner of his property along with a shed, so headed in what he assumed was that direction. If anything, he'd smack into the shed or break the icy river, but at least he would win, and he would have known where he was. Which, at the moment, he didn't.
Because after minutes of distracted walking, sidestepping trees, and plowing through snow, America turned back once, just to get his bearings—and, of course, could not see even one lighted window where Russia's house was supposed to be. At one point he tried following his footsteps back, but the snowfall was turning into a blizzard, so that didn't work. Then America decided it was within his rights as a pissed off nation to roar at the top of his lungs in complete, utter irritation and kicked at nearby birch tree.
Or, he tried to kick. Just as he raised his leg to inflict righteous anger on all things nature, a great gust of wind and snow swept him off balance, he fell and rolled. And kept rolling. And kept rolling. And kept rolling, until—
CRASHBAMSNAP
"Fuck!"
Who the hell put a hill here?
America forced himself to roll onto his back despite the red-blinding pain in his thigh and opened his eyes, tears of pain and rage almost freezing against his cheek. The sky, from what he could see through the trees and snow, was pitch black and studded with stars, just barely welcoming him to the wilderness as the blizzard raged. The little dip he managed to fall into offered some protection against the wind, but not enough to diffuse the real fear America was starting to feel. With a grunt, he forced himself up on his hands and tried to inspect the damage; a sharp breath let him know that walking would be torture, much less trying to scale a steep hill. His hand came away from his thigh warm and soaked and coppery. Blood. Great. And all over the new pants Russia got him for Christmas.
Russia. He should have noticed by now, right? Surely he would come after America after a few minutes of senseless waiting. His yard wasn't that big—as America learned, unfortunately. He would find him. Hopefully.
Hopefully…and now, America was scared. Really scared. And, he hated to admit it, really helpless. His thigh wasn't broken, he knew that, but it was bad enough that he doubted he could make it up the hill with one leg dangling behind him. If he even managed that, there was no way he'd be able to walk through the snow, or drag himself through three feet of it. If the blizzard didn't get him first, he wondered how long it would take for some hungry animals to smell the blood. Or if Russia could beat them to it.
Shit…Well, as screwed as he was, he knew better than to just sit in the snow and mope until the blizzard swept him up. Taking off one of his scarves—he needed, like, four out here—America wrapped it as tightly around his injured thigh as he could and felt around for the massive hollowed log that was unfortunate enough to break his tumble. Grasping the thick, frozen edges in the dark, America was able to haul himself inside, making sure to keep his hands just inside his coat sleeves and wrapping his remaining scarves around his head to ward off splinters. America kept to one side, keeping his throbbing thigh out of harm's way, and laid his head down against the hard, but dry, bottom of the log.
And waited. For Russia. Maybe for death. He didn't see how it mattered at this point, he was borderline stranded.
At least he wasn't being bombarded with wind or snow anymore, even if it was just as mind-killing cold inside the log as it was outside, the kind of cold that ripped teeth and nails through one's skin like wet paper. And the bleeding felt like it stopped, though that didn't explain the continued, internal throbbing…which meant, God forbid, he sprained something. And his femur, nonetheless.
Damn. He really was screwed. Worse…there wasn't much he could do about it, and the fear America had been harboring since that realization came to him was starting to spread from his mind to his body. His muscles, his limbs, his skin knew what was happening, what was bound to happen come morning. He was shaking everywhere, unable to ward off the cold even after he wedged his hands under his shoulders and tried to blow as much hot breath over his chest as he could in the small space he had. America couldn't even curl up, not with his leg the way it was.
He was never one to give up, and even as the resolve froze into his bones, America still had the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, he would get out of this. Russia would find him. Or he would still be alive in the morning, and he'd fight his way up that hill, injured femur be damned. He had worked too long and pined too hard for these weekends with Russia to let all his efforts go to waste because of one dumb move. He'd find a way to survive. He always did. But just for good measure…
America angled his head towards the end of the log, where the blizzard raged evermore and the birch trees cracked under its rage, and screamed until his voice cracked:
"Ivan!"
The blizzard stopped. No. It halted. Completely.
America choked, dumbstruck. "What the…"
He couldn't help but stare, trying to pick out some movement with what little light he had, thinking maybe the cold was finally getting to him, or maybe he lost more blood than he thought. But America's head felt clear, if numbed. He swept one hand gently over his makeshift bandage. No more new blood. No reason for him to be hallucinating. But also no reason for a raging Russian blizzard to halt without reason.
Maybe he was dead—
Snow crunching. Did America really hear that? Or was it a tree? But—no, it was definitely snow, and treaded snow, sounds that came bouncing back to his frozen ears in a perfect, two-step rhythm. His muddled brain went into overdrive—joy, confusion, relief. Maybe it was Russia. Maybe he really heard him. If only he could move—
America screeched, shooting up like a rocket with no where to go. His head slammed against the top of the log, and in his brief moment of fight-or-flight, completely forgot that his femur was a no-show when it came to running.
But what else was he supposed to do, when a face was staring at him through the end of the log? A face that was definitely not Russia's?
He had to calm down what blood he had left to get a good look at whatever apparition decided was necessary to scare him half to death…and was amazed that he could see it. Or her, more specifically.
America didn't know what godly mystique was making her glow in a pale sort of way, but he didn't mind as much as he thought. She was the first thing he had been able to see all night, and his survival-mode brain was appreciating the change. From what he could see in his wild-eyed onceover, she was breathtakingly beautiful. A small face, as luminescent as snow off a full moon, ice-blue eyes that were oddly warm—if just as confused as America's—and curls the color of winter sunlight, tucked under a silver fur cap. America was stuck between backing away as quickly as possible and falling to his knees at her feet.
She stared at him, her eyes wide, mouth open like she wanted to ask him many of her own questions. America swallowed.
She held out her hand instead. And, without one suspicious thought or another—what the hell?—America took it. Maybe he was dead, and this angel was just here to give him a hand wherever nations went when they died—
"You are not dead, американский," she said, and her voice jolted America once he got back to his good leg, so much that he had to grab hold of a nearby birch tree for balance. But she smiled at him, hiding a laugh under a silver mitten.
America's head swarmed with senses: dizziness from being upright, the new wash of pain as blood flowed downward towards his wound, the appearance of this strange young woman…
"Hey," America croaked out, trying to meet her eyes without losing his mind, "did you, uh…stop the blizzard?"
"Oh, yes," she said, smiling once more. America noticed she was wearing a very old-fashioned cloak, 1800s style, complete with fur-lined cuffs and a fox-fur cap that sparkled with the same kind of bluish-silver aura she seemed to emit. "I heard you scream. For a moment…ah, I apologize. For a moment, I thought you were someone else."
She waved her hand, as if dispelling the thought…or hope. Then America realized she was on the other side of the dip, farther from him than he realized.
Her soft, genuine smile was back, and America decided, weakly, that he liked this strange girl who came from nowhere. "Well. It does not matter now. Maybe it is better I found you, instead." She glanced down at America's thigh and winced. "Or you might not have survived the night."
"Yeah…" he murmured, "probably not. Thanks…"
"No need," she said, and her voice reminded America of bells in the wind. "But, if you do not mind…what is an American doing out here in the Russian wilderness?"
The Russian wilderness. Russia. Ivan. How long had America been gone now?
He didn't know if this stranger could help him back to Russia's cabin, but he couldn't find a single reason not to be honest with her. America was already baffled by the fact that he was so calm around her, despite the blizzards and the sprained femur and the frostbite. Telling her who he was didn't seem like his greatest concern, especially if he wasn't going to see Russia again.
That killed him a bit. The idea that he might not see Ivan before he passed out cold, here in the middle of a forest, in front of this ethereal girl who looked, physically, no older than a teenager.
"I'm…" swallow "I'm…I was just fooling around with my…my boyfriend, and—" fuck don't cry be a man fuck "—I got…lost, and, yeah…this happened. Oh, um…my name's Alfred F. Jones…United States of America…nice to meet you, ma'am…"
God, did he hate this sentimental bullshit. And in front of a girl, no less.
She gasped. "The…the United States of America? Ah…Mr. Alfred…I am truly sorry. Had I known there were people about, I might have eased the storm sooner."
He tried to smile. He really did, despite the cold. It was hard not to. "Nah, it's…it's all right. Wasn't your fault…"
"No, it is," she said. "I was not paying attention, even though Winter warned me…I will help you back home, do not worry in the slightest. Who is your lover, Mr. America? Where is he?"
"He's…" Yeah, where is he? Where are you, Ivan? "R-Russia. Ivan Braginsky. Heh, weird, huh?" He forced a chuckle. "Seeing your own nation with me—"
"Stop."
America looked up, confused. The young woman covered in silver was as still as the air, stiff, her eyes blown wide with emotions America could not identify this far away. He thought her lips trembled. Or maybe it was just the glow.
She opened her mouth, and America had to strain himself to hear her whisper, "Russia? V-Vanechka is here?"
Vanechka? America gaped.
Did…did this girl and…and Russia…They knew each other? Vanechka? The fuck?
"You know Van—Ivan?"
Before America could press her further, she waved her hand once more. Flippant. Which, in any other circumstance, America might have believed without a second thought; but America only acted so oblivious for the public and meetings. Now, though, stranded in the forest with a sprained femur, America felt it wasn't within his survival skills to ignore anything his potential savior was doing. That included masking the slight wavering in one of her hands, or the constant diversions, or the fake smiles.
"Do not worry…just a stray thought."
She was lying. America could tell.
He swallowed down the frozen block in his throat, forgetting, for a moment, that he had stumbled upon one of the fastest growing, strangest situations ever in his long life, and that said something. Because, for some strange reason, this girl's presence made him feel…light. Protected. Strangely human. And now he worried about her.
"Are you okay?"
She nodded, smiling gently, her blue eyes twinkling in the darkness. America found himself calmed by it.
"Of course, Mr. America," she said. "You have nothing to worry about. What is more important now is getting you home to your Russia, safe and sound." She lifted one hand, and the glow began to disappear. Then the blizzard, which had been going about its course around them like an inverted snow globe, descended upon America, and the strange girl in silver and white was lost to him.
America panicked. He opened his mouth to scream as what looked like a huge, impenetrable white wall of snow rose up from the top of the hill and encased him, and he thought—
She lied. She's gonna kill me, she's gonna kill me, she's gonna kill me—Ivan!—Ivan!—Help—!
And then he was falling. Again. He didn't even realize the snow wall had lifted him from the ground, so quick was the attack. But something—the snow wall, maybe, or the girl—had maneuvered his body to his side, on his good leg, and he didn't quite fall. More like he was placed in three feet of soft, log-less snow, the only pain in his femur from the quick sting-and-burn of rapid-fire snowflakes on his open wound. He wondered, briefly, where his scarf went, squinted in the dark to see if he could find it—and realized he had no idea where he was. As completely out of wits as he was at the bottom of the hill, the lightness of the snow, the placement of the trees he could see, the fact that he was on flat land with no evil logs…Where was he?
He snarled and beat at the snow, shouting, "What's that about helping me, huh?"
Then America was covered in a warm bar of light. He whipped around, not caring about the strain on his femur, and almost cried with relief.
"Alfred!"
Russia, standing in the doorway of his home, looked very much like an angel with the light shining behind him. But even in the welcomed glare that encased most of his body in shadows, America could still see Russia's eyes, blown wide with fear and love alike, as he sprinted down the porch and across the snow like a bulldozer. America didn't even care how much pain he was in; once Russia was down on one knee, America lunged upwards and wrapped his arms around Russia's neck and refused to let go.
"I'm sorry," he murmured as Russia lifted him, being very careful with his bad leg.
"Shush," Russia whispered, pressing his lips against America's temple. For once, Ivan was felt so warm against Alfred, so safe. So worried— "I have a medical kit inside. Let us get you warm, da?"
"Y-Yes…"
Russia jostled him, just slightly, with the barest hint of anxiety under his playful tone, but it surprised him nonetheless. "Now, now, my little Alfred. Do not fall asleep on me so close to home."
Home. America looked up, saw the beckoning, golden-brown warmth that was Russia's log mansion, and sighed as the first yellow flares licked at his frozen body. He could curl up there if he wanted to, close his eyes, defrost in Russia's arms. Sounded nice.
Which, it seems, he might have done, for not moments after they were both safe and sound in Russia's living room, America woke up. But not really. He might have been awake the entire time, body erect and moving on command to the distant echoes of Russia's voice, but it seemed the ice went farther down in America's bones. Into his blood. To his brain, where a young woman's lilting, silvery voice kept him half out of this world, and the only thing that jerked him back to full wakefulness was the sudden burning pain in his leg.
America hissed, tried to squirm away from whatever was hurting, but then Russia was there, clamping one hand on America's lower back, the other on his knee.
"Hold still," Russia said, "I need to check if you broke the bone."
America glanced around him, half-dazed. They were in Russia's bedroom, their bedroom, and America was sitting on the edge of the bed, Russia on the floor inspecting his thigh. Ah. Yes. He was out of the storm, and out of his head.
Russia, though, was very much in his own world. Kneeling between his legs with a jumbo-sized first aid kit, his violet-blue eyes were sharp, focused, always flickering about America's injury with a purpose. He looked nice like that, America thought. Trained on something without any malice. Moving with intent. No shadows lingering under his touch as he kneaded America's thigh, checking what was swollen and what was frozen. Despite the pain, America felt a sudden need to reach down and push his bangs back, if only to see his eyes more.
Russia took out a series of wraps, cold packs, scissors, and safety pins, and America remembered that he was a patient.
"D'you think it's broken?" he asked.
"Hmm, no. Very badly bruised, could be sprained. I cannot tell. But, thankfully, it is not broken. I can nurse a sprain, but I do not think you would take kindly to resetting bones." Russia smiled.
America snorted. "You're sadistic."
"Sometimes," Russia purred, tightening one of the bandages with a grin. But his voice dropped as he went on, as did his expression. "Consider it punishment for making me worry."
Worry?
America considered Russia with a slight frown, lacking any real fire since he was too cold and weak to produce any, but the ramifications were not lost on him. Russia's face had lost its handsome focus, his fingers their strength. He worked on America's leg half in the world, half in unknown possibilities. It bothered America.
"Why didn't you try to find me, then?" America asked, his ire dulled only by frozen betrayal.
Russia shook his head. "I was about to when you did not return after five minutes…but General Winter stopped me as I made my way out the door."
America lifted an eyebrow. "Why?"
Russia sighed, looking relieved if not a tad guilty. "He said you needed to be alone. And that he would take care of you."
"I…thought you hated him."
"I do," Russia said, kissing the uninjured side of his thigh with more reverence than America gave him credit for. It made him blush, that was for sure. "But my personal feelings aside, he has never lied to me. So when he told me you were safe, I believed him. Worried my way through three bottles of vodka, but I believed him nonetheless."
America gaped. "But…" That girl… "Um. Okay. But, uh…General Winter didn't save me or anything."
Russia cocked one eyebrow.
America swallowed, remembering Vanechka and a slew of other things he wasn't quite sure he liked. He fisted the old-fashioned quilts beneath him. "It was a girl. In the forest. I…don't think she was human." The shivers began, but America ignored them, opting instead to try and pick out every single little thought that flickered across Russia's face.
Right now, he only read suspicion.
He tilted his head. "An animal?"
"No…I think she was a spirit. She felt like one." America remembered the light she brought with her, the warmth, the purity. "Fur coat. Fox cap, I think. Blue eyes. Beautiful, really—"
There. The emotion. Waves of it. Eyes full of it. Poignant realization. Russia's face turned over on itself, his mouth hanging open with lost words, eyes flickering back and forth on America's face with reckless searching.
Checking if he was lying. Wondering what to say. And, perhaps, looking at someone else's face entirely.
Russia was shaking. America could feel his hand squeezing his knee, the bad-leg knee, and he tried to wince the grip off.
"She…what…" Russia stuttered.
America swallowed. "Do you know her? She saved me, yeah. But she called you, um…Van…Vani…
"Vanechka?" Russia stared at him under his bangs, violet eyes poisonously hopeful.
America deflated. He knew that look, so he nodded.
And Russia knew his looks as well. With a knowing glance, Russia's demeanor switched from twitchy to serious. He cut away a stray wisp of bandage, cleaned up the kit, and tossed a few logs in the fireplace Russia had built in their bedroom. Then, still stiff, he walked back to America and wrapped him up in quilts and blankets, throwing his jacket over him for good measure. America wished he was selfless enough to appreciate it.
Instead, he stared. And even when Russia sat behind him, pulled America against his chest, he still had to ask: "Who is she?"
Russia turned away with a frown, and America watched with childlike fascination when Russia's purple-studded stare burned a hole through the window; and it was then that America knew, in a burst of empathy that came with being a New World nation, that Russia did not look out of place in this huge, antique house in the middle of a storybook Russian snowstorm. As much as Russia hated it—and hated to admit it—his white-cloaked wonderland of a country was as much a part of him as the Wild West was to America. And America was learning that a nation could not force a change onto his people and hope for the best. That was their bosses' jobs, and nations did not have the luxury of reconstructive surgery. They changed with their people, and more often than not, were happy to do so.
"Snegurochka. Her name is Snegurochka."
America could hardly repeat the name in his head much less say it out loud. So he smiled instead. "She's beautiful. Like, gorgeous. Prettiest thing I've seen since Audrey Hepburn. She'd be a hit in the States."
Russia slowly turned back to him, leaving the blizzard to its holler. He wasn't frowning anymore, but he was almost expressionless when he fixed America with another one of those creepy stares—the kind that didn't smile but didn't provoke, and America was the last person you wanted to be ambiguous around. But whatever Russia was looking for he must have found, because the corner of his lips upturned and something bitterly amused shined in his eyes. America was uncomfortable with it.
"Yes," he replied, his gaze dropping to America's wrapped thigh. "She is very beautiful. She always has been."
There was something in Russia's tone. They hadn't been going out long, no, but America knew him long enough to pick out abnormalities, Russia's rare ticks could be called such. He was an abnormal man all around, America knew that, too. So maybe it wasn't so much a shadow of insanity that bothered America so much to stare, but that it was a shadow of…sanity. Real, normal pain that everyone knew and understood, the kind of pain that did not induce bouts of madness or unparalleled fear. The kind reserved for beautiful nostalgia, for people eternally wanted but understandably gone. It made America rage with jealousy, that someone—not he—could induce that kind of sad loveliness in Russia's eyes. A real, lyrical poignancy. And America really wanted to hate it, to hate this stranger whom Russia pined for…but he found his resentment was strangely liquid, and once Russia leaned over to adjust his bandages, America's mood calmed.
And he just had to ask: "Dude, just tell me now. Have you two shacked up?"
Russia looked horrified.
"Look, it's not like I'm jealous or—eh, fuck that. I am," he declared. "She was super sweet, and when I mentioned you she seemed pretty damn surprised. And—I'm not sure what else. And then your reaction, y'all must've been close, and—"
And he had to stop. There was no way around it, not when Russia's face fell so quickly America was worried he broke his mind, and he felt more like an asshole when Russia didn't tell him to stop. Just sat there with is head on America's shoulders, listening, getting lost in thoughts America wouldn't be able to touch with a mile-long pole. Grieving, maybe. America thought he saw something gloss over Russia's eyes. It could have been a trick of the firelight, or the reflection from the storm. But America swallowed nonetheless, and he dropped his voice to a whisper.
"What happened?"
Russia blinked at the floor. "I forget things sometimes. Like an old man, I guess, but then again, I am older than you. I forget how close you and England used to be. He and his imaginary friends and—" Russia tensed up, as frozen as the storm outside, then sighed when America laid a hand on his arm. "And you and your ghosts. Sometimes I forget. I should have known."
America didn't like the direction this conversation was going, especially the double-meaning that too often layered Russia's speech. Then Russia covered America's hand with his own, and America wanted to lean forward and press his cheek against that hand for no reason at all. No reason at all. Not even when Russia fixed a violet-blank look on a landscape painting by the door. America never noticed it before: a brown and white Siberian forest. Probably the same one outside. Miles and miles of birch trees.
"She died a long time ago, my Snegurochka."
America blanched. "Was she, uh…a ghost?"
Russia smiled. "No, not exactly. She was real, once, and very much alive. But this land," a sweeping gesture around the room, through the indigo-paned windows and into the birch forests, "fell in love with her, too. There was not much we could do, once the forests heard her voice.
"Her story has changed over the years," Russia began, breathing in fragrant wood smoke and plush quilts. "It is not surprising, of course. She is very old, older than some of the birch trees she looks after in the forests. But she and I know the truth. It is as burned into our minds as the frost braided through Siberia."
Even with three quilts and a too-big sweater thrown over him, America felt exposed. The swirling smoke clouded his head, sent winter pricks of the mind's eyes across his skin. Russia observed him through the colorless glass reflections, sitting on guard through the snow.
America leaned into Russia's shoulder, shaking against the still wind in his bones.
"I…What happened?"
Russia turned, pressing his forehead against America's neck. He breathed against Alfred's heartbeat, hot and fast against his lips. Russia opened his mouth for a second too long, debating between speaking and sucking hard on America's pulse.
His heart won.
"She was born," he began. "That is what happened."
And her story began.
A/N: So this puppy is, definitely, going to be a three-piece baby. And to dispel any lingering concerns, yes, Snegurochka is not an OC. Here's a famous painting of her, and what I used as my basis for creating her character: http: (doubleslash) lettersfromalaska (dot) files (dot) wordpress (dot) com/ 2011/ 11/ vasnetsov (underscore) snegurochka (dot) jpg (Just get rid of spaces and whatnot.) She has many myths, and she's very interesting. I'd suggest looking up her stories.
I know people get annoyed when writers ask for reviews, but I really wouldn't mind reading them, be it constructive criticism or just a stop by. c: Even a one word review keeps me writing at my best.
Thank you so much for dropping by!