🌻 rusger oneshots | countryhumans 🌻

36 | real

🇷🇺:male
🇩🇪:male
angstangstangstangst sorry
i obviously know how to do title
kind of a vent? maybe? who knows
as usual, be careful w reading, don't force yourself read anything that makes you uncomfy or triggered or anything
⚠️big sad, implied character death, disassociation/wtf is real???⚠️
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       the sky is at it's grandest underneath the shadowing stare of the moon.

       the universe is deafening.

    how sickening must the world be, for your shelter to be gloom,

how blind must man be, to find joy in the dark.

russia was not a poet. it would be unfair to take that title.

he just hated the city. there was no peace there.

and he hated himself, for not finding pleasure in his pitiful garden of chamomiles, who so greatly longed for his care. he hated himself, because he couldn't grow flowers, and when he did, they brought him nothing. really, it was a poor excuse. he hated himself for not romanticizing his pain.

he wished he could climb a mountain and yell to the skies that he knew, he knew, but he was just so alone, he wished he could admit his faults and finally be forgiven, he wished he was sinless, he wished he had a proper garden, he wished he had a family, a friend, he so badly wished he wouldn't be alone.

but he was not a child. he knew that it could not be as simple.

russia grimaced slightly, breathe faltering as he shifted his head backwards to look up at the sky. it was long dark - only traces of his surroundings seeped into his enlarged pupils. 02:18, his watch read. the man snuck a glance once more at his chamomiles, before breathing in heavily and opening the door to his house. he didn't turn on the light.

how blind must man be, to find joy in the dark.

after all, what good would the light do? he's the only one home, and he doesn't give a flying fuck. he's been the only one home for years.

           everyone he has ever loved is gone. everyone he as ever cared about has left, or died, or somehow ceased to remain a part of russia's life. he was the largest country in the world, yet he was so small.

he wished he could talk to ukraine. he wished his dad wasn't dead. he wished belarus wasn't convinced he was good. he wished germany was still here. he wished he had the guts to pick up the phone and call his friends. he wished he could apologize to the world. he wished he could let go.

but he was a coward, and therefore, there was no escape.

          it was all a cycle. wake up from a rest you never got, drink, pity, work, drink, cry, pity, garden, then curl up and cry yourself to insecure sleep. if russia were anyone else, he would have left too. it was only rational.

          he was so, so small.

          russia blindly took off his shoes, trudging into the living room before collapsing on the couch. he had forgotten to count the days in which he did not manage to bring himself to even go to his own bedroom. his father would have killed him for being such a worthless slouch.

           worthless, worthless.

           the house's silence was overwhelming. his thoughts were too loud. he couldn't breathe. who knew, who knew it was so possible to suffocate on the very air supposed to make you live. the irony would have made him scoff out a humorless laugh, but he lacked the energy to use his muscles.

            germany - the notorious land of poets and thinkers. russia never quite understood it. the world is war, not poetry. not art.

            if the world is so beautiful then why is everything grey? if there is so much worth living for then why do i want to die?

            what germany never understood was the difference between coincidence and fate. things are always intertwined. there is not always a second story, russia presumed. germany would have looked down at him in shame now. a miserable man, victim to his own torture. the both of them, that is.

           god, he didn't even know how to cry anymore. he hasn't been able to sob out his agony in ages. years.

           there is no life here. only russia's subconscious body refusing to let go already. as if there was some string of hope to hold on to, one ray of sunlight to shine on his face that will stop the world from collapsing.

          but that was gone.

          germany was gone.

         and it is empty here. the house does not feel home, and his life had long fallen apart. he did not belong in his own body. perhaps he would have, if there was another pressing against him, simply to confirm that he was real. it was real.

         it used to be.

         russia hated himself. so, so, so much. he despised the very essence of his being, the physical and conscious presence of him. scum. he was filth. there were no words to degrade him as such to an accurate level.

         with his face pressed into the stiff material of the couch, he let out a shaky sigh that he did not know that he was holding in. water pooled in his eyes, and without a peep of noise the tears fell, and fell, and fell. the lump in his throat grew steadily, the couch was soon soaking.

         and for a moment, russia was real again.

       
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925 words
yikes idk what that was sry
hope u enjoyed
have a great day ilysm <333