🌻 rusger oneshots | countryhumans 🌻

32 | numb

🇩🇪: male
🇷🇺: male
hi <3 (notes at the end will explain some stuff w/ posting and if im back or whatnot btw)
this is more abt russ
kind of inspired by that one part in где твой идол, u know what im talking abt
angst, please son't read if you are not in a good place right now or if it might trigger you!!
⚠️smoking, drinking, self harm, talking abt death but not actually, blood, anti depressants, overdose, attempted suicide, extremely dark!!! pls be careful ily⚠️
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nothing surrounds him - absolutely nothing.

enveloped in oblivion, enclosed in mesmerizing void, as russia's quivering fingertips curl into themselves to feast on the little body heat left.

he falls deeper into the darkness, numb to the pain of gravity, to the agony of living - even done so subconsciously.

piercing eyes refuse to wander off strict territory, glaciers form at mere words. his outline nothing more than traced white, as pitch black circles everything it can. static resumes, his twitching heightened as if he were run on electricity.

but the numbness lasted.

half awake but hasn't slept in three weeks, his eyebags now the most visible thing in his appearance - though no one would know. one day he would simply leave, and nobody would bother to come after him.

maybe that's okay.

maybe he was meant to be alone.

shit, where's your idol? must be gone.

every day he returns home from work and the first thing he does is drink and smoke, slicing through his very flesh as if it were paper. counting coins and digging through his tethered wallet, hoping maybe here to find a reason.

to think he used to be people's role model, their idol.

"sir, maybe the reason you're upset is-"

bullshit.

shot, feeling the burning liquor slide mercilessly down his throat as it ate him alive from the inside out, months of short, empty breaths; they told him they could have long since heard the rasp.

shot, daring to wipe the alcohol off his filthy mouth with his sleeve; but "mind your manners, sir, you'll find they are essential to your living." after hearing that statement, he does it more often than ever.

shot, cigarette butts lay in the ceramics that much too quickly became ashtrays, draining rationality from his head, minute by minute as he stalks the hallway, searching for his prey.

shot, drain. can't recover from a loss you refuse to accept you've suffered. drowning the glass, he glares at the reflection he sees in the mirror. it's been punched before, the cracks still show.

hell, where's your idol? look at him, he's losing himself.

and he's still falling from the gracious heights he couldn't stand on. spill the damn blood and move on, there's always more to mop.

spilled so much of the bastard blood he forgot how to stand, stumbling to his knees before he's falling again, withered rose in hand - petals now crisp, gentle maroon now almost brown.

lock your doors, seal them tight so no wedges can be smuggled into, winter is on it's way and the snow is without mercy. do nothing but pity the ones who never managed to retreat - falling into nothingness as the cold takes over.

and 3 weeks turn easy to 3 years and quickly lose track, can't count. it's been so long since he felt something, anything. neither joy nor pain could possibly wash over his fate, nothing except nothing, the end is every day and every day is the same: numb.