Trust is Dangerous- Russia x Germany

Life before it Started

Three words made me jump for joy today. Three. As I scrolled down my email inbox, I found an insignificant letter from my dream university. It seemed strange, since I already accepted my fate of going to my foster father's technical school to become a mathematical analyst. I had to admit, even to me that sounded dull. Since I was never good with my hands, I wanted a job dealing with numbers and calculations rather than running from the chalkboard to the workbench like my foster father, who insists I call him whatever I like. I would constantly fumble with numerous equations, not because they were particularly hard, or I didn't memorize them good enough, but knowing that I had to apply those equations to a piece of metal or use tools to transform that equation into a physical thing....I didn't know how to, or where to start. He seemed to be tired with me, and I would drain his energy faster than his job would, so I meekly said I'd rather do something theoretical, and he surrendered to my plea.

In truth, I wanted to be an economist, one who deals the market, and runs the economy of a land. I would never tell my foster father that, since he thought I applied for mathematics. He told me that it would be better if I had just gone to his old school, but he nevertheless let me try, again, because I had asked. The university was the top of the whole world. It had state of the art facilities, programmes, internships, and professors. Only the best were allowed to the International University of Unified Partnership. IUUP, as it was called, was revered by all, and if accepted, people said, your life was practically paved in gold. It used to be for aristocratic children from all over the world, but then let in other students of high capabilities and intelligence. One flaw, and your out of the game. IUUP was not a joke, and the exams and interviews were the harshest. You would apply for a specific major, and pass the exams needed for that major. I barely passed my own, but made it at the ninety sixth percentile, which earned me a small smile from my foster father, who rarely smiled in my direction at all. The interviews went less well, and since my foster father was with me at the moment, I thought the interview went horribly wrong. I made sure to look the best in the light, while he glowered and hissed at anyone that came close, giving off a threatening aura. I thought that he killed my chance, and he did so on purpose, but he later apologised for being hostile and was genuinely sorry. And even though the interview was disastrous, the email before my eyes confirmed that they wanted me there. I was ecstatic, and the fact that I finally had a wish come true was comforting to know. I never had anything come true before. At the same moment, I heard the door to my apartment click, and three loud knocks signified that my foster father came. I jumped up and ran to the door, almost tripping over a stack of books I left in the middle of my room.

At the same moment, I saw his burly and large figure in the doorway, in the same outfit he wore every time he came, which consisted of black slacks and a faded brown light jacket with a strange symbol on the sleeve. The brown ushanka on his head remained there, winter and summer alike, and I wondered if he ever got hot in it.

"Good morning, Germany," he saw me from the flight of stairs. "Как дела?"

His efforts to speak Russian to me failed, and he just gave me fragments of Russian in his speech, so I could learn a bit of it as well. English was the universal language that all the countries spoke, and it was the language taught in schools, used in meetings, and when countries of different nationalities spoke to one another. The fact that he used English around me made the connection between us feel fragile, since he didn't know it as well as he should. He had a very distinct accent, and sometimes it felt like he was always mad. When he spoke in Russian, he had expression, softness, and a warmer tone of voice.

"Хорошо," I said, trying to show that I did in fact know what he said, even if it was minimal. He looked at me and cocked his head to the side. A sign that something was good. I never respond in Russian if I feel sad, lonely, or just tired.