Saudade | CountryHumans RusAme

47 ‎ ‎ ‎ The Third Rome

AMERICA
They landed early, as China had promised, and he scrutinized Russia for his expression for longer than he would let on (but so was everyone else, so it went unnoticed). The guy barely seemed to notice the first few minutes of gathering their things and giving a pleased farewell to the attendants, and it only when he finally raised his head did he seem to gain a strange, almost staggered expression contorting his face.

"This is... is this—" he stumbled over his words, and America's eyes lingered on the veins on his hands loosening as his grip on the suitcase dared to break. Germany caught it as it fell. "Moscow?" he said, lifting his glasses up with a smile and a wave of a hand, treading carefully, sharing the others' sentiment of confusion.

"No," Russia muttered. There were no tears to collect, only what seemed like an obligatory emotion. "China. Why would you pick here? We should've gone to— we wouldn't even find much here—" His voice trembled, and stretched into a guilty silence, yet still tempered by his admiration for the land. There was nothing but pride and regret in his eyes. 

China laughed softly. "There's a reason. There's always been a reason. You don't trust me?"

"Of course I do—" 

"Then don't feel bad for it," he replied kindly. "Let yourself enjoy it. Who knows if we'll be out here again." 

There was a shift and Russia was suddenly racing forward, stumbling over the tracks in the pavement as he wrapped China in a tight, suffocating hug, arms wrapped, head buried, heartbeat aligned. He resurfaced and his expression had brightened considerably, and, without a word, set off on the narrow pathway of cobblestones weaving through the buildings of lilac blossom and chestnut air. Golden domed churches hung high in the skies.

Ukraine caught up to his pace, and the rest of the group gave them a berth. No doubt were they discussing Soviet. Modern-day Russia held traces of his history everywhere, quiet remains of a nation foundered. 

Canada fell back to walk side by side with his brother, and suddenly America was seized with an impending sense of death by interrogation.

"Well." he said quietly, matching the volume of the others. There was a quiet understanding that had taken hold. "How's it, then?" 

"How's what?" 

Canada hummed. "A lot of things," he said, and closed his eyes, tilting his head back slightly to feel the wind wash over his face. A picture of peace, even as his feet continued to stride forward.

The words left him before he could clasp a hand over his mouth. "I don't know," America replied, truthfully, surprised at the result. "Must I decide now?"

"Never." When he blinked, trying to source the noise, China had his head turned, addressing him. He gave him a knowledgeable tilt of the head, and when America skeptically blinked a second time, harsher, he caught North quickly pretending to be looking somewhere else. Canada left and struck up a conversation with Italy. 

In the far distance was a flower field, rolling gently beyond the skies.

★ 

The expanse of flora were looping through cycles of swaying left and right with each passing gust of wind, brushing against the plush green and liquid yellow. The scene seemed to be boundless. The sun climbing the horizon, warm and invitational, smog left far somewhere behind, lumbering through treacly nature and leaving rows of broken stalks. 

America didn't quite find it in himself to do much of what his friends had opted for. And no, it was still surreal, to give them the title friends, as accustomed as it was, as it had become, as it felt now. He watched Canada tackle Ukraine to the ground and collapse, giggling, fisting grass and shaking hair out of mouths.