I do not own Hetalia, Hidekaz Himaryu does… I don't own any of the characters, places, habits, cooperations, people, or anything. Please review!

3. In Snow, You Will Find…

"It's cold," America shivered, gripping his forearms.

The young nation's face was entirely unfeeling. Occasionally he took his hands from Russia's deep pockets and poked his face, but it was hopeless after about five minutes of trudging around in the snow. This was nothing compared to what he had remembered of his northern regions that experienced negative temperatures- or of the visits taken to his brother, Canada.

The thick collar was turned up so that only his eyes (that were rarely open more than half a centimeter) peeked out from it. The coat made him sort of…squelch. And he knew he should really be running into the wind for Belarus and not thinking about a creepy coat, but it's color, it's scent, it's feel all made him sort of want to peel it off and run back.

But he couldn't even see behind him. He knew he had gone dead ahead, no turns or anything, but he was afraid he'd turn around and wander off into the wide white Russian blizzard.

And with that thought, he started to panic. He would've been more comfortable if he had wandered out in a completely blank path with someone. He wouldn't have minded walking alongside Russia for goodness sakes, as long as they could get lost together. He wanted his alien friend, Tony, more than anything. Tony would be irritated and unhelping, but like England's imaginary friends, he meant something to him.

With that, he broke into a run for the lost Belarus, running, screaming her name into the white. His voice was torn to the side from his lips, there was no hope in her hearing him over the wind.

The cold nipped into his books. He jumped up and down in circles, scanning the horizon, trying to warm himself up. White to the left. White to the right. Then, he froze, realizing his mistake. He had turned around, not going straight. His eyes squelched. He hugged himself on the huge wide white, alone.

Completely alone, and extremely cold. His teeth clicked. "Belarus?" He yelled into the wind. "HELLO? BELARUUUUUS!"

Nothing.

He looked behind him, remembering the warm yellow light that had greeted them into Russia's house- which was now concealed by the ugly blanket of white that was knee-deep. He felt like his was sinking…sinking…

"Dude, get a grip," America pinched his own face. He felt that, which made him a little happier. With a step forward, he went forward. Again, and again. Nothing was in sight, but maybe he'd catch up to Belarus before he got completely lost…

Meanwhile…

England sat in the hallway couch, his hands folded as they were propped on his knees. He waited for a moment, then his hands went into his forehead. There was a thin line between modesty and worry. He wanted to wait for Russia to come so that he could at least explain to him what he was doing before he went out for America- but he also didn't want America freezing to death out there just because he was being polite.

"Oh, come on, Arthur," France said leeringly. "Really. America's butt might be a little nipped when he comes back in, but that hasn't done any bad to anyone ever, right? Personally I think we can just as the cutie-pie Lithuania to have a pot of hot chocolate or whatever America drinks ready for him when he wanders back inside. We can just have a hot hamburger ready and he'd smell it miles away and come running."

"France, I'd appreciate it if you grasped the danger in this situation," England sighed. He rubbed his unkempt eyebrows. "America is out there with some stupid idea that Belarus might find it attractive of him to go out and rescue him. But all that's really going to happen is-"

"And when she sees his adorably flushed cheeks from the cold, and hears how he ventured bravely into the cold to save her, of course she'd find him at least sort of attractive. Even you can't say he doesn't look cute when he grabbed that coat and went outside, no?" France crossed his arms over he chest and leaned against the wall, smirking. "He's not so stupid as to not come back, England."

"You're not making me feel any better, France!" whined England. He stood up and paced around the doorway. "He's got to be lost out there. What will Canada say when we find his frozen body out here? He'll be so devastated, France…"

England knew he was getting ridiculously ahead of himself. He was already picturing the funeral, then burial, the continents that would claim America's lands one by one… Russia taking over America because everyone else wasn't as strong as he to stand before him. The world becoming almost entirely Russian, oh, how dreadful-

"…and since we're in Russia, we can always blame it on him," said France, in continuation of something England missed.

"What? Are you crazy?" England suddenly added something worse to the list of horrible. "Oh goodness! France, what if Belarus attacks him or something? What if he runs into someone horrible, like…like…"

"What, Latvia?" France laughed loudly, hoarse and ragged. "Have some more tea. And calm down, England. Once the wind dies down a bit, we can take my car and look for him. Thanks to Italy I have the gorgeous thing, and it runs like a humming bird…" France got lost for a moment as his eyes wandered out the window in longing.

England sighed, his shoulders sagging. "You're right." He stood, and went into the dining room to pour himself a third cup of tea.

"Bad idea-aru," China said simply. "The snow is too deep. You will have to wait for tomorrow if you want to look for that stupid country-aru."

"Ah…" France glanced in the dining room, where England was oddly slouched over the couched. He pulled a smile onto his face. "You're really looking adorable today, China," he said, to make up for his falter of personality. He winked mischievously at the Eastern nation, who's mouth clamped shut, stiffened, and blinked motionlessly before turning into the living room with England while muttering something in Chinese.

Meanwhile…

Canada had checked the weather. Russia, being a country that only a fraction of the land was occupied, was not unlike his own country. They both had equally cold northern lands, both of them still in the silence. Canada would probably be blown over with the same winter storm that was on the radar for Russia today, so he had come prepared. Decked out in a dark red coat and snow pants, heavy boots and thick wool squeezed his toes. He was warm as he stepped off the plane, but his exposed eyes and nose and lips tingled with the cold temperature. The sky was a light gray, and filtering down was little white specks of snow that he was so familiar. He smiled to himself, slung over his pack and started for the exit to the airport.

Being a country, he didn't need a passport, if it had been like old times and he had road in a plain of his own. However, human security and a travel-agent booked flight, he had been required to use one. He showed him the picture of a bored-looking self, his first name "Mathew," and not "Canada." People had trouble wrapping their heads around what they were, however, they had a sort of knowledge, and usually kept their distance (except in France's case). The guards passed him by as he nimbly told him he was just on a business trip, and would probably be out of the country in the next two days, proving he wasn't an illegal alien and trying to escape into Russia. He already had a hunch that he would have to spend the night because of the weather, though he wasn't looking forward to it.

Mr. Kumajirou fit in his backpack, which was often used like a baby carrier in a case such as this. He was an hour late, he knew this, so he hastily strapped on his skis as he made his way out of the city as quickly as possible. It hadn't taken more than a couple hours to fly to his destination, which was Moscow. Russia's house was in a forest outside of Moscow, which would take him longer to get to.

The flight had been delayed an hour, or he would've made it on time. He was always late for everything, really, but no one really noticed him enough to care. On the flight, a woman had almost accidentally sat on him in mistake for her own seat, so he had been squished next to a lad who had constantly been forgetting his existence, and leaning over only to fall asleep on his shoulder. This was nothing, because the coldness of the airplane and the curious clear liquid served had made him rather sick- he was dizzy, and it was cold.

Once he was out of the city, a long winding forest path stretched out to Russia's house. It was only fitting that his home should be right outside of his capital, though the snow was too deep and the window was about to kick up once he got into the country. Thought he didn't mind. He grabbed his orange-tinted goggles from the top of his head and let them suck to his eyes- the air didn't bite so much this way. "Alright," he said to his pet, situated on his back. He positioned the poles to his skis and pushed off, into the winding pathway.

Winter sports was one of the many things Canada exceeded at- and maybe since the Olympics were held in one of his provinces, he thought, that the world might notice him a little more since he'd done well. Skiing compared to things like ice skating and the bobsled were nothing- on the inside he loved the sports and the cold, though his whenever his brother, America, his suggestions to show him the sports were often turned into sessions of laugh-at-the-Canadians. Maybe he'll see me like this, Canada thought with hopeful determination. He was looking rather heroic, in a sort of sporty wall, the way his poles and feet clawed at the ground for more speed, and the way he navigated his way through the wintry storm like he lived there.

The woods opened up into a big, wide field that had recently been blown over with snow. Canada could feel through his coat the bite of a storm. The snow was clawing at his coat and his cheeks started to turn red. He hoped to get inside soon and have something warm to drink, someone to talk to. Perhaps Russia might be polite enough to give him a blanket to snuggled up with, and maybe even a seat by a fire. He knew he'd just have to ask, though Russia, the few times Canada had invited the almost-neighbor to his house, had always managed to scared the very little warmth out of him. However, whenever he had met with Russia, there had always been a sort of understanding air about them, which had probably kept him alive, now that he thought about it. Russia had once mentioned he could barely tolerate America, and Canada assumed it was probably in a way different to his own brotherly annoyance, though he had hastily agreed, which had caused him and the large country to be…sort-of-friends…?

No sooner that Canada thought this, something tugged him from the ground, and into the air. His legs buckled and bent as the skis lifted, hurling him several feet. Landing left his legs bent because the skis prevented him from falling the right way, so the way his legs mangled together was extremely painful. He struggled to sit up, clicked the straps off and stood up.

"That was weird," he said breathlessly, in his whispery and airy voice. He straightened his hat. "Mr. Kumajirou, are you alright…?" Of course, the bear didn't answer, but Canada didn't check to see. He was too occupied with the uncovered lump of creamish-white outlined in darker shades of orange from his goggles; it was too strange to be a peculiar mound of snow, and it couldn't be a rock the way it sat up from the fortress of snow it had laid in.

Russia held his head with a dizzy look about him. Canada heard him mutter "ow" and sort of curl inward.

A second later, he realized he had just rammed into his host at full speed with skis. He started to panic, and babbled an apology. "I'm really sorry!" He said breathlessly, and ran over to where Russia sat cross-legged in the snow. "I didn't see you there, I'm sorry, I was kind of spaced out. Are you okay?"

It took the nation a moment to lift his head to Canada to look at with a doped smile. Canada kept his distance. Russia made a sort of dreamy noise, hiccupped, and said: "I was the first to go into space, da?"

It didn't take much for Canada to notice that something was wrong with him. He didn't quite figure that he was drunk, it was probably sleepiness or sickness or the cold. "Uh…" He said, pausing to think. "Um, yes, you were. Do you need some help?"

"No need," Russia said cheerfully, raising a hand to stop Canada from helping him. "I was just taking a nap." His foot hit the almost-empty bottle of vodka that was frozen next to him in the snow. He stretched, wobbled, then almost fell into the snow again. He would've, if he didn't smother Canada with his body in a drunken strut.

Canada, now squished under the only nation larger than him, positioned himself so that Russia wouldn't smash Mr. Kumajirou with his massive body. "Uh…" He said breathlessly. "If you need some help getting home, I can take you there."

The weight of Russia was really starting to make it hard to breath. Canada grabbed one of his arms over his shoulder so he at least positioned him to make it possible to breathe. "Listen, I can take you home but you've really got to walk just a little. Please."

"I think home is that way," Russia said, completely ignoring Canada's question. "When we get there, you'll have to become one with me. It's the only way I can really thank you for waking me up."

"Sure…" Canada forced out. He took a step, not realizing what he had said, and started to drag Russia in the direction he had said. "What's your place like, anyway?" He asked hopefully. "It's got…something, right?"

They walked a couple yards, Russia limply stumbling along with Canada's help, singing something in his native language as he desperately tried to figure out why the frozen liquid in the vodka bottle wouldn't move.

Canada was carrying his bag in one hand as Mr. Kumajirou walked behind them, his eyes trained on his owner as he dragged a man almost a head taller than he across a windy field. It was hard to really say anything, but Canada didn't ask where they were going just in case Russia might think he was doubting him. So he marched straight forward, hoping that his house was close. The snow was about knee-deep, proving that the many times Russia mentioned snow in his country was very much true. Canada didn't sink in the mass nearly as much as Russia, though Russia was too tall and too drunk to care.

Canada mostly worried about the new pair of skis he had left in the snow. They would rust and probably ruin, and that would be that. It would be impossible to show off in front of America, which disappointed him more than anything.

"Are we almost there?" He finally wheezed to Russia.

"Nope," Russia said happily. The bottle finally slipped from his hand, but he didn't notice. "We have about a mile to walk yet."

"That's great," Canada said, though he didn't mean it. "I mean. There's nothing like taking a walk with a friend, right?" He forced himself to laugh.

Russia laughed- this made Canada a little more relaxed. But then he said, "You and I can never be friends. But it is fun walking with you."

With that, a ridged Canada hauled Russia silently over the field.

Meanwhile…

The wind was slowing down, America could feel it. He wasn't so cold in his coat anymore, not with the wind, and he could see better. But his glasses, which were just metal-rimmed, seemed to be frozen to his face. His teeth no longer clicked together with the chill, he was used to it by now.

In the distance, he could make out a figure. His heart leapt at the thought of Belarus, so he sped up toward her. The thought of her relieved face, acknowledging him for saving her, gave him new energy. He jumped through the snow, triumphant, until the figure morphed against as he got closer.

When he and the blob got closer (at this point the was hoping it wasn't a bear or something) he slowed down.

"Canada?" He asked breathlessly as he and a distorted-looking Russia came into view. "Oh my gosh, man, I am so glad to see you!" He ran toward his brother, who was equally relieved. America gave his younger brother a running hug and made Russia have to let go, who was standing on his own now.

"Is that my coat?" Russia asked in a creepy happy tone.

America ignored him, or didn't hear him. "Dude, where have you been? You're totally late."

"I know, my flight was delayed and I tripped over Russia, so we were walking back," Canada explained. He sounded exhausted to America.

"You are wearing my coat," Russia stated again. America failed to respond a second time.

"Well, that's okay, I guess," America said. His chest heaved. "England dragged me with him. Aren't you, like, freezing?"

"Yeah, but we have a long walk to Russia's house," Canada told him.

"Aw, man," America sighed. Then he perked up again. "Hey, have you guys seen Belarus? She went out looking for Russia. And, dude, where have you been? The guys back at the house are waiting for you."

But when America had lifted his face to look at the country, Russia wasn't smiling anymore. His eyes were peculiarly dark, the shifty purple color of them like shades of an eggplant. He stepped forward, somehow steady again, and held out his hand.

"Give me," he started, his voice still light with the air like he was talking to a good friend. "My coat. Or I'll twist it off your weak little neck. How does that sound?"

Yeah.

That was Russia's Soviet coat America took.

Sorry it took my so long to get this chapter up, things kept getting in the way. I try not to write if I'm not in the right mood, and I continuously was talking to a friend and trying to write at the same time, so I lost my train of thought really easily. (also I was just lazy about it for a week)

Thanks to those of you who have put this story on their watch list- and especially to my reveiwers! I'm glad you like this, and I hope you'll be equally satisfied with this chapter. Because it's the weekend, I'll probably be able to get another chapter up before it's over.

Please keep reading and reviewing!

The next chapter will start in 2nd POV again.