Trust is Dangerous- Russia x Germany

City

"Russia," Ukraine whined. "Your arm is touching my side!"

"Oh I'm sorry," I said crossly. "You're whole left side is touching me."

"Its not my fault that you're so big." He whined. "You take up all of my space."

"Well, I can't change that. Deal with it." I saw my father smirk from the rear-view mirror. We were in my father's «Lada» on the Шоссе to the city for three things: to visit a relative of ours, to "buy things" and my departure. I don't know which of my relatives lived in the city, but father was probably out of cigarettes and decided to kill three birds with one stone and get cigarettes, see me off early, and go visit one of his children, all the while emptying their refrigerator of food.

"I have a lot of space, Украина," Kazakhstan chipped from the far right. "You can move closer to me."

"Um, thanks Казахстан," Ukraine looked at his younger brother awkwardly. "But I'm okay now." I laughed quietly. Kazakhstan was very kind, and would make sure everyone was comfortable before he was. Us brothers were squished together in the right car with Ukraine in the middle and me on the left. Not a good combination, since we would always fight. It didn't matter how old we got, or how we wanted to set Kazakhstan an example, we had to prove who was right over the other. Belarus, on the other hand, sat in the front, away from the ruckus and tightness of the back. She always got preferential treatment, even if my father tried to make it subtle, we still saw throughout the facade. But she was a girl after all, and we were all boys. It made sense.

"Were almost there, boys," father said calmly. "So don't fight anymore, alright?"

"Papa, I don't like this song." Belarus whispered. "Can we change it?"

"No," father smiled in Belarus' direction. "I like this one."

"It's weird." father laughed when Belarus shuddered.

"I'm serious, Papa!" She said indignantly and crossed her arms.

"Oh Belarus," father laughed. "It's not a weird song. It's just not what I usually listen to."

"Okay."

"We're almost there anyway," he said, haphazardly swerving to the left, meaning that he almost missed the correct exit, and the car careened over on one set of wheels very dangerously. Even though we all knew father was a very experienced driver, he was reckless on the road, and it seemed we could crash into everything. Thankfully, none of us experienced that. Father's Lada was made for those kinds of dangerous careens and turns. It was small and compact, with a steel fender and chipped red paint on the sides. Not a pretty sight, but it was built to last and to withstand neglect and abuse from the driver. Not that he did so, but the car had seen better days. He did make the car from scratch by himself, using the parts from his old car that was more fanciful than practical for my father's use.

"Are we there yet?" Ukraine whined. "Russia and Kazakhstan are rubbing against my sides."

"Yes, Ukraine," father sighed. "In a couple of minutes."

"If we're lucky," I loudly whispered to Kazakhstan, who giggled in turn. Ukraine looked at me with his eyes narrowed.

"Not funny, Russia," he growled. "Not funny at all."

"Lighten up." I said to him. "We are almost there."

The shocce morphed into a large highway, which had six lanes in both directions, hundreds of freeways and even more bridges and exits, all of which were clogged with cars. My father cursed softly under his breath and when our car reached standstill, he let out a small laugh and took out yet another cigarette. Belarus looked at him with a very mother-like glare.