Unpromised Home

the prices of life

'in which your means are questioned'

You stare blankly at the man who sat behind the desk. The pen clicks in his hand several times as he stares up at you with a similar expression. You purse your lips stiffly, tapping a finger on one of your crossed arms.

"So..." America finally speaks, breaking the long silence, "What your saying is you don't know why you decided to run in the direction of the explosion?"

"I guess."

"You guess?"

"Do you blame me America?!" You grit your teeth as you slam your hands down on the table. "Its not like I had anywhere better to run at the time!."

The country sighs rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. America flips one of the scattered papers on his desk over, clicking the pen in his hand to the open position. Your nose crinkles with your annoyance as you watch him scribble out incoherent words in the margins and on the assorted lines across the page. How was anyone supposed to read that?

You shake your head, walking across the floor towards the tall windows. Outside, snowflakes float around in the air, occasionally spiralling around in the bursts of wind. The large flakes flit around, accumulating on any surface it can, until the weight becomes to much to bear causing the snow to slip, tumbling onto the ground below. You let out a long sigh, resting your forehead on the cold glass which fogs from your breath. You shut your eyes tightly.

When you open your eyes again, you keep your head pressed against the window. Unmoving, you watch as the ground below you remains unchanging in the stark whiteness that was so consistent of winter.

You were so tired. Even despite the fact that you had managed to convince America to let you stay in his clearly not lived in apartment, you hadn't been able to catch up on your sleep at all. In fact, you're pretty sure that you feel more exhausted now, than when you had been sleeping on the floor for a week straight. The space was soul-sucking, for lack of a better term.  The plainness of the office followed into America's home. The walls were bare and white and the surroundings only decorated by the existence of a singular dead plant. It was so far from being considered a home, but at least the bed is soft. Small victories, you suppose.

"What are you looking at?"

You look at the country sitting behind the desk, "The snow."

"Just the snow?"

"Yeah?" You shake your head, returning to gaze out the window, "There's not much else going on right now."

You hear the sound of a pen clicking shut, tumbling with little plastic ticks on the wooden desk top. The sound of a squeaking chair was followed by the sounds of heavy footsteps on the wooden floor.

"You seem to do that a lot."

"Well," You glance up at America. He had an eyebrow raised, waiting for the rest of your response with an anticipation that was almost mocking, "I like the snow."

"That makes sense."

"And that means what exactly?" You watch as the snow billows around in the wind, placing your hands into your pockets.

"You're the one who laid down in the snow without a jacket on."

"Right..." You let out a quiet hum, fiddling with the paper in your pocket. You should probably just toss out this shopping list out now. You doubt that Justin is still looking for salad ingredient several weeks later. "I guess that makes sense."