'Family is the warmth during cold moments.'
Russia missed warmth.
It is strange, he thought, to miss something that I never had. Mere snatches of other people's warmth - physical, spiritual, emotional - drifted by him, never for him, never with him. Yet he ached for that kind of love. He didn't used to. His first memories are of cold and darkness, of watching death before his young eyes. He only remembered terror in those early days, a drive for survival, living day by day. He remembered absolute hunger - a shrivelled stomach, parched tongue, unable to speak or move even as people beat him. His memories aren't clear of course - whose would be, at that age? But they are horrifying, scarring, and Russia prefers it fuzzy. He knows he never cried at night because no one would come. He knows he never asked, because no one would give. He knows he must look at the ground, never make eye contact, lest you get beat -
He shook out of his past at a loud yell. Of course, America, who else? Coincidentally, his longing began when he met America for the first time. He had been waiting to meet the upstart superpower, pacing up and down, wondering what first impression he would give. He had heard things - a nation barely out of revolution, the baby fat still fresh on his cheeks, climbing to power, but he hadn't really believed it. He had heard footsteps approaching, and the door was opened slightly, allowing him to hear the voices drifting through.
"And make sure you stand straight - no slouching, and keep the tie on through the meeting -"
"Angleterre you are smothering the poor boy."
"Yeah mom," came a muffled voice, then there was a yelp.
"Not even in the damn room yet and you're loosening your tie! Silly boy."
"I'm going in now," America said pointedly. The door opened a little more, and a tan hand appeared.
"All right. We love you," came two combined voices, spoken with such warmth, such human emotion, there was no denying the truth. America had parents. America had someone to call 'mom and dad'. America was loved and cared for by people who genuinely wanted him, treasured him.
Russia had felt rage spike within him, and though he wouldn't know it at the time, jealousy too. He settled for a stoic look on his face as America babbled on to him, then made a rude comment about children not knowing where they belonged. They had been enemies ever since.
What would America's first memories be like? He was born in a place of blue skies and golden fields. His first memories would be of England, gently sweeping him up into strong, warm arms. If he cried at night, France would appear with a bottle, a lullaby to soothe him back to sleep. If he got bored, Canada would play with him and he'd never be lonely.
He would never have to worry about where his next meal was coming from, or how many beatings he'd get, or if he'd even get to see the sunlight this week. All he would have to do is snuggle into England's warmth and let himself be comforted always.
Russia wondered what that would feel like, and felt colder than ever.