Well, this one is considerably longer than the last chapter, and Belarus actually shows up! XD
Chapter 2- Beach Days
America shivered violently as the wind ripped through him, stealing his warmth away for itself. Snow swirled away, adding his visible breaths to its ranks. All in all, America was slowly freezing himself into Russia's cold, rocky land. It hadn't been his first secret mission to the Commie's land for a little espionage, but after the night of frozen terror he had been subjected to, he was sure it would be his last.
How did Russia stand the cold? Years of experience?
Forcing his weary legs to trudge on through the thick blanket of snowy death, America rubbed his parka-covered arms in an attempt to warm his thickly gloved hands. It was too cold.
The scenery around him slowly grew darker and darker with the nightfall, adding a new layer of eerieness to the wasteland around him. However much America wanted to turn around and run back to his plane and thus back home, he knew he couldn't- at least, not without some new information. Russia was building his military, but America did not know to what extent. Not that he was particularly afraid. He had more nukes than Russia had snow.
America entertained himself with the thought as he walked, focusing on his achievements instead of how hypothermia must have been creeping up his toes and fingers to his legs and arms.
He kept walking in a straight line, shaking with every step. America paused when his foot sank deeper into the ground. Curious, he kicked the snow aside and crouched down to look at the soft mud below it. America uncurled his hands from under his armpits and scooped up the mud. He was surprised to find it grainy, like frozen sand.
Standing, he peered through the fog and storm at the darkness before him. The white snow ended abruptly with the slosh of waves against the shore.
What was this supposed to be? Russia's sorry excuse for a beach?
His mind went back to the beaches on his land. There was sunshine aplenty and laughs resounding with each crash of waves against the warm shore. Colorful myriads of fish swam around between one's legs, almost blending in with the bright shells that littered the sea floor. The only thing bluer than the endless oceans was the sky. Perfectly white clouds lazily flew by, not providing much shade, but being sunburned was just another part of the experience. America felt a rush from the memories of countless hours surfing on these beautiful seas, each wipeout and each laugh thereafter fresh on his mind.
It didn't seem possible that any beach any where, even Russia, could not hold the same splendor.
Before America knew what he was doing, he stood at the shore, just inches from the water's reach. The dark sea looked cruel and unforgiving, just waiting to pull him under its frozen depths and steal him away forever. So unlike his beaches, where fun and happiness were anywhere and everywhere one looked.
"Your hand will freeze if you touch it," a harsh voice resounded behind him.
America swirled around, pulling out his pistol. When he saw Belarus, her pale hair furiously whipping around her even paler face, he knew there was going to be a fight. She would try and shove him into the water, screaming at him for daring to step foot on her brother's land.
But contrary to this thought, Belarus simply stepped past him, carelessly pushing his gun out of her face. She quietly stood beside him for a moment, staring out at the sea. When she next spoke, America strained to catch her words before General Winter stole them. "It truly is a wonder how something so pretty can be so dangerous."
Like you? America's traitorous mind wondered. He scowled out at the world, angry at himself. She is Russia's sister. She has tried to kill me multiple times. She is anything but pretty. She is-
Belarus suddenly flicked her navy eyes to him, cutting his mental rant short. Murder was back in these eyes, making America involuntarily gulp. They weren't but a step apart from each other. If Belarus had a knife (actually, he knew she had a knife; she carried, like, seven around with her at all times), she could easily swing out and slit his throat. But then again, she was, at the moment, unarmed while America still had a death grip on his pistol. He would get her first.
Her eyes searched his face for a moment, finding indecision and confusion mixed with longing and nostalgia. She wondered why he hadn't already took off running, casting silly American threats and waving his gun around in the air like it was actually something to fear. That was what countless other bouts had resolved in.
But today… today was different. America shook something fierce, trying his hardest not to let his discomfort show to the girl. Belarus had already seen enough of his pathetic shivering whilst she trailed him, easily following his elephant footsteps through the snow. She had had the intention of sneaking up on him and stabbing a knife or two in his back, but seeing him stop at the sand had somehow erasing the intention from her mind. Belarus and stopped and watched in wonder as the American discovered that Russia, too, had beaches and sand. She had practically felt the heat radiate from him when his own beaches no doubt came to mind.
America was her enemy. She hated America. She wanted America dead and under her brother's foot.
But he was so warm. So warm and so full of hope. He was untainted by the centuries of hardship and sorrow Belarus had been subjected through.
He… he was everything her brother was not.
They were both strong, yes, and both filled with ambitions. Yet America had a different kind of strength. He was strong from his own past hardships and sorrows, strong from having so much faith within his people and their freedom.
She respected him for that.
Respect. Nothing but cold, traitorous respect.
If Russia found out she had "respect" for his sworn enemy, he wouldn't bat an eyelash had throwing her into this icy water. Because that was wrongful thinking. That was disloyalty. That was rightfully deserving of death.
Belarus was not stupid. She knew her brother no longer loved her like he once had. She knew her brother loved power and control much more than his crazy little sister.
Crazy? Belarus was not crazy. She was merely following her brother's wishes. She followed his wishes, became his perfect weapon, because she loved him. There was nothing Belarus loved more than her beloved Russia.
Nothing but the feel of sun on her face.
Long ago, before General Winter consumed her soul in icy dread, Belarus had longed to be in the sun. She would spend entire days draped over the ground, smiling up at the sun that had graced her with its presence. The ground was always so cold, but the sun kept her spirits high and her face alit with unimaginable happiness.
What had happened to those days? The days she would smile and laugh and revel in her life under the sun's happy rays?
Looking at his bluing face, glasses foggy and askew on his nose, Belarus realized that he was just like her.
This man- this America- lived under the sun every day. He was not plagued with the icy chill of death each day. No, he was happy. Always laughing. Nothing could bring him down.
Belarus flinched back when America reached his hand for her face. She hissed and swatted it away. "Don't touch me!"
He was grimly silent for a moment before dropping his gun, grabbing her wrist and wiping off the tears she hadn't felt coursing down her cheeks. America stunned her yet again by suddenly pulling her into him, her frame a stick between his marshmallow arms.
"It is beautiful," he agreed. "But don't you think it'd be better with smiling people? People who are free to come here and see how beautiful it is?"
It would be.
But Belarus wouldn't- couldn't- accept that.
Snarling, she kneed up in his gut and shoved him away from her. "Don't. Touch. Me. Again," she threatened, flashing one of her knives in his face when he doubled over.
Belarus turned and stalked away.
When America's obnoxious laugh was heard over the howl of the wind, Belarus gritted her teeth and threw a knife that whistled a centimeter from his ear. America straightened and gave her a crooked grin. "Your aim's a little off, toots!"
"Call me that again and I swear I'll land a knife in your-"
"You'll have to come by my place sometime," he interrupted. "I've got pretty beaches like this two. But, like, with water that won't eat you."
Belarus exhaled slowly before turning away again.
She did not tell him she would like that.