Airling
A/N: So! This one was inspired by a song I absolutely love: Snegopady, by t.A.T.u. (I would provide the Cyrillic for this, but I'm currently too lazy to get it…sorry). It's a very good song, so look it up if you'd like. You'd probably understand why I got the idea better if you looked up the lyrics. It explains quite a bit. Anyways…I hope you enjoy this. There's a chance I might make a continuation with this, if people like it enough. It has slight potential. But God, this is horribly short…sorry about that. It seemed like it'd be longer when I began, but actually ended up being…well…shorter than I anticipated.
Axis Powers Hetalia and all its characters belong to Himaruya Hidekaz.
Rating: T, for death, swearing and blood and…attempted suicide. Really, it's not that bad….
Summary: Something inside him wells up - like a great wave, the surf washes over him, and someone shouts: ESCAPE.
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Russia sits at his desk, reading over the papers before him. A pen hangs loosely in his grip, a glass of vodka left half-emptied to his left. He does not feel the drive to read this document—in fact, he feels very little. As of late he has felt lackluster, like just another person on the streets, lost in the daily flow. He is hollow on the inside, with nothing to fill him. It takes him quite a while to realize that he has not smiled in a long time. At least, not a real smile. For a moment he feels trapped, and he finds that his chest is constricted, his eyes fixed on the wall ahead of him, littered with pictures of himself with other nations, or sunny places he hopes to visit and take over one day. The pen falls to the floor. Russia stands, grabs his coat, and walks out the door.
The streets are busy at this time. Rush Hour, he supposes. Cars and bikes streak by; people push one another out of the way. Russia closes his eyes and breathes in the chilly air. He walks with his people and takes his time, hands stuffed in his pockets, thinking only of his current situation. How to remedy such a thing? To do so, drastic measures must be taken. He decides upon doing something new. Anything to break the monotony. But no matter what it is, his momentary contentment does not last long. The plain feeling creeps upon him minutes later, and his frown deepens. By the time night is blanketing him, he makes his decision.
Once again, the streets are filled; only, this time, more vehicles streak past. Russia takes a thoughtful look in each direction – his head turns to the left: cars rush forward on one side – he turns his head slowly to the right: more cars rush forward on the other side – and he wonders how fast the cars are going. Tilting his head back when the light turns red, he looks up at the sky and slides his eyes shut. His heart is pounding, he notes. Adrenaline pumps through his system while his mind throbs. He thinks clearer than he can ever remember. His breath is coming quicker now in anticipation. The people around him cast strange looks or angry glares upon. He thinks he must be a sight to behold. When he opens his eyes, he looks upon the black, rain-slicked asphalt. His reflection is presented to him in a puddle. A transparent Russia stares back at him with a lackadaisical expression, and he must turn away. 'No, that is not me…no…I shall fix this.'
A wave builds up and surges forward, crashing down upon his mind, driving him forward. He raises his foot and moves it towards the black river in front of him. The world seems to pause for just a moment, waiting with its breath caught in its throat, before he slams it down in the puddle just in front of him, the droplets splashing up onto his pants. He takes off at a sprint just as the light turns green.
Cars screech and their drivers swerve one way or attempt to use their breaks. Russia narrowly avoids them and runs between the lines, the ecstasy he currently feels building up until he can feel it pounding in his ears. It keeps him going. The noise that the traffic around him makes is nearly inaudible to him. All he hears the resounding beat of his goal, so close yet dodging any advance he makes upon it. His chest is shaking; he becomes aware that he is laughing. At what? What is there to laugh about? 'This! Oh yes, this! Ah! Wonderful! Splendid!' Everything around him is moving, alive and wonderful – the beating of his feet gives the road a heartbeat. It can call itself alive. But he cannot, not yet. No. Despite his excitement, his constricted throat allows him to know that he is not truly living.
Sirens doggedly pursue him. Wreckage is left in his wake. Russia turns his head and glares at his stalkers. 'Fools! God save you – I will not be caught!' He rolls his head forward, glowering still. As he comes to a halt, he stares ahead, just waiting. Patiently waiting. While he has been running for quite some time, he is not tired. That has not caused him to stop. He sees something that interests him, and he pauses to wait for it, knowing full well of what it will do. And his excitement is in full bloom. He is laughing once more. In the final moments of his consciousness, he finds himself happier than ever.
A semi collides dead-on with the stolid nation, its brakes having complied with Russia's will, presenting to him his motivation. The driver gets out the moment his truck has stopped and stares in horror at the mangled corpse before him as the authorities press forward, block the way, and emerge to assess the situation. One of them calls, "Someone get a medic!" Onlookers from the sides chatter between one another, stare or avert their eyes. A corona of blood surrounds Russia's body – an unholy aura. And he can't help but smile.
"Dammit, this guy must have been really off to do something like this," a policeman shakes his head at the scene before him.
"I know. Where the hell is that ambulance?!" his partner screams, a wailing siren answering him. Anyone walking in the streets clears the way instantly.
When the paramedics clamber from the truck and lift an Ivan Braginsky from the bloody pool around him on the asphalt, pull him onto the stretcher and strap him down, haul him into their truck and secure the door, they see the smile that graces the nation's face.
He has escaped.