Trust is Dangerous- Russia x Germany

My Beginning

(The chapter is inspired by the song  Storm - Eric Radford. I highly recommend to listen to it while reading the chapter.)

"Россия! Вставай, быстро!" My father yelled, throwing the curtains of my bedroom open, letting the dawn light filter in from my large window. I rolled over and groaned, knowing that it was about five o'clock in the morning and that soon he would open the window to let the cold air in. It was as if summer only lasted until August, and when September arrived, so did the cold, the changing leaves, the days shortened, and so did everyone's temper. I was usually very sad during this season, and father dubbed it my 'autumn melancholy'. As if he knew. I even had my own psychologist to talk to, who was also my older brother, but I didn't feel the need to talk to anyone at all. Then I felt the cold air on my skin as my father took the warm blanket off me. It was like ripping skin. I hate autumn, and I've never told anyone but my father, why. He would wave his hand and laugh.

"Ай! Папа, what for?" I protested. "I'm freezing!"

"As you should," my father crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow. "How come you can't get up by yourself?"

"Well, I like my sleep," I huffed, and swung my legs off the bed so that they came in contact with the floor at the same time. "I'm not a morning person like you or Belarus,"

"Well get used to it," he said. "Ukraine can't seem to lift himself off his bed, so I helped him. You can both go run together,"

"Ура," I grumbled and crossed over to my closet to get dressed. I put on some sweatpants and a тельняшка, took my ushanka off my dresser and made the bed.

My family was one like clockwork. We woke at five o'clock, no excuses, then wash, stretch, run, have a sit down breakfast, grab your things, and off to school either on public transport or father's car. I usually walked to the троллейбус stop, then get to the outskirts of the city, then take the metro to the school I go to. Then, after, I could freely roam the city until eighteen o'clock or I could go home by either metro and trolleybus or by begging my father to come pick me up. That was my day to day life, nothing very special. I made a few friends, I made quite a few enemies, but I never did anything stellar or unique. Today I definitely would. I went down the creaky stairs to the double doors of our home. Ukraine was already standing there, his yellowish orange eyes were screwed up from the sun glaring from the windows. He wore some black sweatpants as well and a branded tee shirt. I placed my ushanka on the table next to the doors along with the box full of rocks that Kazakhstan collected and a flower vase with a wilting weedy plant that nobody bothered to take care of.

"Come on Россия," Ukraine muttered at me. "I'm starving," He put on his running shoes on already, and was tapping his foot impatiently on the wooden floor. I took my own worn tennis shoes out of the shelf in the mud room, and slipped them on. They pinched at my toes, and the laces were reduced to stubs, but they didn't fall apart no matter how much I've abused them.

"Let's go," I opened the door and he went out first. Then I closed the heavy wooden doors and we started to run. The wind blew in our faces as we made our way down the steps and on the dirt path of the trail we ran. Father made sure we did so every day, same distance, same time. Our home was large and far away from people on a piece of land that father uses for himself. The house is more like a manor, and it stood alone on a wide expanse of wheat fields that slowly turned to wild grass, then to a dirt road that led to a thick forest and more fields. On the outskirts of father's large territory were little villages of human beings who helped my father in many things, so we remain very friendly with the local folk.

"Oof, why are you running so fast?" Ukraine complained annoyingly. "I can't keep up."

"Украина, stop whining," I huffed. "I'll slow down a little bit." The little path that went from our home to the far edge of the forest. We ran through the field of wheat in silence, the only thing that I heard was the chirping of the cicadas, the patter of our feet and the rough breathing of my brother as we made our way on the small dirt path winding to the forest, where the path became wider so Ukraine and I could run side by side. The roots came up from under the ground, and mingled with the rocks and twigs that littered the ground, along with a stray empty Pepsi can or a cellophane bag from chips or the likes. It was colder in the forest, away from the sun, here the pines crowded together. When we emerged, I saw the apple tree where we would turn around and make our way back. I stopped and tried to catch my breath.