A/N: A Cold War RusAme (could be something else, not much romance here). Don't judge, I know it's horrible. :P
In times like these, people forget.
They forget many things, each more precious than the last.
But most importantly, they forget their nation.
The nation is supposed to be the embodiment of the people, the fraternization of citizens under one flag.
A nation is not supposed to feel pain. A nation keeps itself above such human sensations.
A nation is not supposed to shed tears. A nation accepts what its people tell it to.
A nation is not supposed to make friends. A nation makes allies.
And yet, their eyes meet on the battlefield, brilliant sky blue battling with deep amethyst. They are nations, and their blood burns inside of them for every one of their children that falls to the earth, their earth. Their eyes blaze with the fierce fighting spirits they share, championing different ideologies.
Their weapons are bloodstained, not with each other's blood, no. Because both are too powerful, because a battle between them would only end when one of them fell forever. Russet stains are from other nation's children, used and thrown away like pawns.
One stands tall, glasses flashing in the weak sunlight, filtering through solemn clouds. He is young and full of a youthful beauty, his forget-me-not eyes bright with pride but dull with pain. The frozen, blank look on his face looks out of place, as if he might peel off a clever mask and reveal a smile that rivals the sun and laugh, a bright melody Nature would be envious to recreate. In his hand is a black handgun, an old friend. He knows every bullet that passes through its muzzle, knows every little piece of metal that makes it tick. He hates it, because of the blood he has shed through it. He loves it, because it gives him power.
(because at night when the wind howls outside his window America curls up like a child and pulls the blankets over his head, when the rain shatters on the roof he cries he cries like the child he is like the child he used to be like the child he may never stop being and he knows it he knows it all too well even as images flash before his mind of bodies of burst balloons that lay on what used to be beautiful green fields that turned blue-grey and gold in a sunset and so many fucking bodies but he is a nation he is a nation he is a nation goddamnit and if no one wants to see that for themselves then he'll make them by God, he will show them and he will make them acknowledge him because he really is just a child and he really is wrong a lot of the time because he is also human maybe he's stronger and faster and smarter but he is still a human like any of them but he is also a nation and it hurts it hurts so much when they don't believe him don't acknowledge him but he'll make them by God he'll make them see when he but no not right now you're the land of freedom the land of heroes and the nightmares oh god the nightmares there's nothing to keep the nightmares away
nothing but my gun)
The other is straight-backed, light hair rustling in the furious wind. He seems as if he is old inside, as if the fresh youth on his face is only a thin veneer that will disappear with a single touch. Depthless purple eyes blaze with the love and pain of his people, but loneliness forces a thin glaze over them. A small, worthless smile curls his lips, worthless because it can never convey what he feels, worthless because it is only a shield, because without it everything might pour out of him and he could rival his opponent in beauty. His hands cradle a metal faucet pipe, a token of his innocent days. He knows every bump and dent by heart, knows just where to grip to get the perfect crack of the children's skull. He hates it, because it has made him feared. He loves it, because it gives him power.
(because at night when the moon shines coldly into his windows Russia hears he hears the ghosts of the people his people some of them killed by his own hands and briefly he wonders if that was how Ivan the Terrible had felt in his old age terrified and unable to do anything because they were ghosts how the fuck did you run from ghosts and he closes his eyes tighter and buries himself in a nest of blankets and pillows because the ghosts are all looking at him with grief and fear and anger but most of all love they still love him after everything he did to them of course they love him but why why why all he wanted was to be strong all he wanted was someplace to be safe and warm and for there to be sunflowers and oh God he wanted sunflowers so badly but then the ghosts remind him that there are no sunflowers not for anyone and he will never admit it in a million years but he cries because there is that want that silent need and he but no history's put paid to wants put paid to need put paid to dreams of warm sunflowers and no no but yes and he curls his hand around something cold something metal something familiar because there is nothing to keep the ghosts oh god the ghosts nothing to keep the ghosts away
nothing but my pipe)
They are watched by the rest of the world, with cold eyes. Now and again, a few may stand up with them, but in the end it is only them, there can never be more than just them two. They are separated by their most basic beliefs, joined by their alienation.
(because the rest of them can't care because all they can see is one big dick fight whose is longer and bigger but they don't understand they can't understand because they don't want to because they don't want to see that don't want to hear the desperate cries for help both countries are silently screaming to them don't want to know that the two most powerful nations are deeply unstable and that the world just might end and oh god don't think about that they'll get over it because it's just a childish fit they can't really go through with what they say we just have to wait and bear out the tide soon everything will be the way it was but they know they don't want to know but they know that both countries are really just children inside Russia is still that little child who sucks on the tattered ends of his scarf and trips all the time because his clothes are too big and too tattered but he is just so excited to see someone who puts on little fur hats and runs around pretending to be a bear and dreams of endless fields of sunflowers where he can run and play and be warm inside America is still that tiny blue-eyed boy who climbs trees and plays with his buffalo and wants to touch the sky and he nearly broke his leg the poor thing and he wants to run forever in his beautiful fields and he dreams that one day he'll reach the sky and he can play with the sun and the moon and every one of those pretty stars a child who just wants to be picked up and held and protected and loved but they are nations and they cannot feel love cannot afford to feel love and so they turn their heads and ignore the cries of the children that they had just seen bid goodbye to and thrown off a cliff to make their own wings they abandoned these children and they are abandoning them now and they know that even though they have wings bigger and better and more powerful than any of theirs they know the children know that they were abandoned that they could have been happy and safe maybe because all Russia wanted was freedom and all America wanted was freedom not suffocating hands to strangle him, not proclamations to cripple him all they wanted was love but they were tossed aside like dirty clothes and by god they were not going to let that happen again even if they have to step on every one of their fellow nations they will not be abandoned again and they know that it is their fault)
And when the war
(was it ever a war was it neither of them fought didn't touch each other couldn't touch but just danced in that odd and graceful way fighters have right before a fight but touch no they didn't touch couldn't touch wouldn't touch because because because not because they were too powerful not because of the bombs fuck the bombs fuck the rest of the world because they looked at they saw, they looked at each other straight into each other's eyes and saw themselves reflected right back at each other America who was only a child less than 200 years old a fucking child and yet he was already so powerful like a firebird something untouchable because he was so fucking high and Russia desperately wanted to touch him wanted to look at the world from the same heights that America did because that view had to be so beautiful just looking at the crystal world beneath them Russia because he was so much older than America because when he looked into the eyes of the other countries there was something there when they talked about Russia, something that wasn't fear wasn't anger was something close to respect and he was fucked if he hadn't admitted to himself a long time ago that no one had looked at him like that, no one spoke of him like that, that while they talked of Russia in softer tones they laughed they laughed at him behind their hands which were painted in smiles and America wanted that he wanted that he wanted for his name to mean something to the other nations and Russia's did and oh it must be so nice to know that everyone respected you but no it was this was America's fault and that was America's fault and he just fucking hurt.
They both did.)
comes to an end, it is a relief for both of them.
A/N: WOW that was long and overdramatic and just wowhowcouldiwritesomethingth atterrible. I'm sorry. D: