Yay for my first Hetalia fic~ :) This is SEVERELY cut down from what it was when I wrote it late Sunday night, but still... it's so meh. I am aware that it's pointless, but it was fun to write. I'd love to hear what you think about it!
First person Russia POV, title is bad, no characters are mine and no profit is being made from this work. Contains personified countries- hence, potential for offense. You have been warned.
This environment is nothing you are accustomed to. You are used to humidity, you're born of crowded cities and neverending existence. This is vast solitude, everything frozen, halted, dead. Your body is lithe, of glass and fishbone. You are beautiful when you shiver.
You know death. You know of massacres, the silence after. We both know this silence of censorship, for permanence. But one does not know silence until they stand in the presence of General Winter himself. I believe the two of you would get along if you tried.
But you never could be expected to give in.
When I brush away the snowflakes caught in your ink-black hair, you recoil from my touch. As if I am of poison. As if I would ever wish to harm you.
"Well, what, aru?" you demand. The hand that batted mine away goes to rub life into your other hand. "There's nothing here!"
But of course there is.
"This General Winter… Who is he, aru? Where?"
I cannot help but smile. "This is General Winter." I illustrate my point by brushing my gloved fingers over your bare one, stiff with cold. I imagine you are numb to the sensation. You pull away once more regardless.
"That makes no sense, aru."
It does to me, taking your hand and pulling you close, before you grow numb and frozen in General Winter's constricting embrace. It makes even more sense to hold you still for one precious second and cover your lips, azure with General Winter's kiss, with my own, and it is both the greatest triumph and the greatest disappointment when you freeze. You taste of immortality and exhaustion and I touch my lips to the ice-cold shell of your ear, "We are just the same," murmured softly, like a secret, like a curse.
"We are not," you push violently from my grip as if my words are the most repulsive kind of blasphemy. Your coal eyes and rouged cheeks glow with indignation and finally, there are clouds that escape your lips, while moments ago I had not even the warmth of your exhale against my neck to prove you had not truly succumbed to the frost.
And I simply smile. You can deny the blood that slicks your hands, excuse it all you like, but our sanguinary actions have and need no excuse. The red of silence, of control and of our homelands remains carved permanently into our bones.