For Our Freedom (CountryHumans RusAme)

13

America slowly blinked himself awake, only to wake up to darkness. He was warmer than he'd normally be - turns out he had used his own blanket, with Russia's on top of his.

Then, America sat up; Belarus slept soundly a few mattresses down, facing away from him, with both Ukraine and Russia missing. America frowned, as he silently stood up, and left the house, careful not to disturb Belarus.

He groaned, several places over his body hurt; he felt a long gash down his calf and his ribs hurt more than ever, he hugged himself, and shuffled forward.

Once America had shut the door behind him, he looked ahead; the stars and the moon reflected in the lake, a dark silhouette sat at the water's edge. America assumed it to be Russia, his ushanka was too recognisable.

"Ruski," America croaked, limping over to him. Russia jolted up, and muttered several slurred Russian words. He turned around, to see America out of bed, hugging himself and standing lopsidedly.

"You should not be awake?" Russia tilted his head and rubbed his eyes. America sighed, and sat down beside Russia with a blank expression.

"Neither should you," America looked up to Russia, and realised his glasses were probably inside. "What are you doing out here, anyways?"

"Ukraine started argument," Russia started, "She tried to make me throw you out. It did not work, I think I win argument. She ended up storming off.. she has not yet come back."

"So you're just out here waiting for her?" Russia looked down to America, looking right back into America's eyes.

"Yes," He responded simply, "We are close as proper family. Ukraine is sibling to me, and I cannot leave her behind."

America nodded, "I get that. I'd do that, except I have no idea where the hell I am and I dunno where Canada's camp is."

It was then silent between them. America yawned as Russia looked down at him, he tilted his head and leaned back.

"You should go to bed," Russia suggested, "You are not yet healed, and sleep will help. I will not be going to bed until Ukraine comes back."

"No, Ruski," America hummed, "You haven't slept tonight, I bet."

"No, but-"

"No buts," America interrupted him, furrowing his brows, "Sleep, Goddamnit."

"But Ukraine?" Russia stressed, as America groaned in frustration.

"Would you think she'd be awake at this time of night?" America asked, "And she's independent, right? If she comes back, she can jump straight into bed."

With hesitation, Russia nodded slowly. America grinned and patted Russia on the back, Russia stood, and helped America up. America stumbled forward against Russia's chest, but quickly steadied himself and looked down to the ground. Russia smirked as he wrapped his arm around America, helping him back to the small cabin.

Once they were inside, Russia sat on the edge of his mattress as he placed America on the other mattress. America had dozed off before he could argue with Russia about the blanket situation, how America had both his and Russia's, but Russia didn't mind.

Russia lay there, awake, and stared up at the ceiling with his arms crossed over his chest.

Ukraine was somewhere out there, and Russia hadn't a clue where that was. The previous day wasn't a good one, that was for sure. Nevertheless, Russia would stay awake, though he'd promised America that he'd sleep.

So, Russia kept his eyes open, awaiting Ukraine's return.

*

It was busy. Very busy. Unusually busy.

He pushed away from the many people who were shouting at each other. He hated it here, that was for sure, but he knew he couldn't leave. They'd kill him.

He growled and backed up against a wall, waiting for a swarm of people discussing their discovery to pass. Suddenly, it was quiet again, and he could finally get somewhere else.

He wandered down the streets of the worn down, degraded city, admiring its beauty. Vines crept down the walls and the old brick and stone crumbled, lichen and moss grew in cracks and upon windowsills. The windows themselves, if they were still in tact, were foggy and cracked, almost impossible to see through. He wondered what life was like before this.

He stopped and his gaze flicked to the building beside him. It had a clear staircase behind a set of doors with holds in them that were made by a hatchet many years ago, the staircase went in only one direction; up.

He grinned to himself as he climbed through the frame of the window, stepping over wooden beams and discarded bullets and shards of metal. He pushed the doors down, and started up the staircase.

It wasn't long before he'd reached the very top. It was on the roof of the building - he looked around to the city all around him, and tried to imagine the buildings pristine and new, lights shining from immaculate windows and cars and people down the old streets.

However, all the city was now was rubble, the windows had been boarded up, previous life that had flourished before, gone. Gone because of the war the generation before him fought, the world that was meant for his generation to inherit completely destroyed.

He shuffled to the edge of the building, and cringed at how high up he was. He took a step back and rolled his shoulders. His dark grey t-shirt blew gently in the breeze, his knee-length jeans exposed his legs right down to his plain trainers. He tipped his cap further down over his eyes, ashamed of the place he was in. The side he was on.

New Zealand huffed as he realised he had to leave before his parents found out he'd left in the first place. But, he doubted they'd notice, they were too busy closing in on the opposite side, the Freedom Activists.

New Zealand sat in the grey area. He didn't want war, he didn't want to fight on either side. Even so, he was nine when the war started, he was too young to be with his brothers and too young to leave his parents.

He turned around. New Zealand held his head up, as he turned around and left the place he stood.