Countryhumans Oneshots

Svidetel' (1/2)

Russia was an incredibly good kid.

This was both a curse and a blessing, Soviet found. On one hand, he didn't have to worry about his son when leaving him unattended for any amount of time. Unless a dangerous situation arose in which self defense was inevitable, the house he returned to was always calm, clean and quiet (a necessity after any business trip).

It was also a very relaxing experience as well. Unless Soviet came home extremely late, he'd always let Soviet in, hang up his coat, and make idle, pleasant conversation. This, of course, was optional depending on Soviet's mood when he came home. On the occasion where Soviet came home irritated, Russia would simply take his coat and quietly stand to the side, waiting to see if his father needed something or to be dismissed.

However, Russia was also observant. Tragically so.

It was after Soviet returned from a difficult meeting that he first noticed the cracks forming on his father's dark red skin. He watched out of his peripheral vision while hanging up Soviet's coat as his father began his way down the hall leading deeper into the house, slipping off thick gloves as he did so.

Fortunately, the hem of his sleeve lowered just enough to reveal the faint beginnings of spiderweb cracks creeping up from his forearms into the palm of his father's hand. It was only a glimpse, but even that was enough to make Russia's heart nearly still in his chest.

Soviet didn't notice, or at least Russia didn't think he did, and simply disappeared into the depths of the house, presumably to his office to either drink his way into unconsciousness or finish extra work. Russia was left stock still in the front hallway, thoughts running a mile a minute.

Russia knew boundaries, but his proactive nature often contraindicated this trait.

Soviet's office was a rarely visited room in Russia's day-to-day life, due to it mostly being locked when his father wasn't actively in there, but also because Russia never dared enter without a clear invitation first.

He understood that it was a place of great importance and housed a plethora of delicate information that, if put in the wrong hands, would make everything his father had worked so hard to build topple like a stack of cards.

Luckily for Soviet, his son wasn't after those and instead was only going in for Soviet himself. And for that, the intricate oak doors slowly inched open at the dead of night, avoiding any possible squeals of protest from the hinges, and a small figure slipped through the gap.

The oddly comforting room was dimly illuminated, though it was just enough to make out the details of the room. It was all dark tones and tidy, dusted surfaces, nothing out of place. Bookcases and file cabinets lined the walls with a window sitting directly adjacent to the entrance, a large desk situated in front of it.

Creeping forward, Russia absently noted that the curtains weren't fully drawn, the source of the light being snowglow from the moon. His gaze drifted down to the hunched figure nearly curled up in the worn leather chair behind the desk. A near-empty bottle of vodka sat next to his father's prone form along with a discarded cigar in the ashtray.

Russia painstakingly picked his way to his father's side, not taking any chances even as his footsteps were muffled against the carpeted floor. Once he finally reached him, he stilled as Soviet shifted slightly, burying his head further into his folded arms before going calm once more.

Letting out a soft breath of relief, Russia continued his efforts, creeping up close to his father's makeshift pillow, attempting to get a clear look at Soviet's hands. Unfortunately, they were both obscured from view, unable to even get a small view of them. In fact...it was reminiscent of a wounded animal keeping their injured paw close to themselves-