Ever

by Kutsushita-Socks

Sometimes he touches them with his eyes, too. Russia/America, drabble.

the little boy ran all

here? he asks. here? is that okay? it's not snowing outside but it's not sunny either- he notices this and the shapes and patterns of the birds that fly past the window- his eyes zoom in through webs and tunnels of flesh and

the way to the

bone and tissue and living moving organs and cells, all the cells, they're shining. he closes a hand, one of his hands, one of whose hands? it falls and crumples. am i allowed? he asks. can i? am i allowed? and america

end

says yeah, yeah just- come on- yeah, you can, it's okay- and he likes it, the beating, the pulsing, the dance, movement. his fingers like it but he's

of the pier and

still not sure, he's not certain, he says can i? is it okay? here? america doesn't talk to him even though he's making noise, he wonders if he's done something wrong- here? america has little hands. he puts them in those ones, covers them and wonders if that's the dancing of one or two or three or four or five or

jumped off and floated away.