I'm Not a whole person, and I Don't Think I Ever Will Be. || RUSAME

2; You Threw Me Straight Into Inarticulation

The stunning, golden bird drifted out of sight, its wings releasing ethereal glows and its sillhouette slowly fading, as it left behind a stunning purple tint across the horizon. There's a sensitive silence between the two of them as they walk side by side along the sidewalk. The neighborhood has calmed, dogs bark in the distance, snow crunches beneath their feet.
The type of silence that engulfs someone in a peaceful haze.

There's really nothing to describe the feeling that has dug itself deep into the pit of Russia's stomach whenever he glances over towards America, America who lights a room with a sly smile. It's something familiar, comfortable.

America breaks the silence by continuing the one-sided conversation they were having that related to the project. "What should we write about? I was thinking.." Russia listens in to the first bit of that sentence before hazing out. Russia's a little tired, a little hungry, and his mind feels minutes behind. He stares at Ame yet again, pretending to listen and nodding at certain intervals of his words.

America stopped talking, Russia looked away. The silence entered again, this time not as calm as the last, he wasn't really listening but the absence of America's voice leaves him feeling hollow, the silence foreign even as the barking grows louder. He knows they are about to reach his home, and he fastens his pace and motions for America to do so as well.

As soon as they reach the front door Russia mumbles something and he pulls out a key from his pocket and unlocks the door, He glances back at America and they enter.
"Sorry for the mess." Russia walks over towards the kitchen table and he sits, motioning for America to do so as well. They both sit down as Russia takes off his bag and leans it against the chair .

"So.. How about we start with the writing portion and then we can work from there?"
"Sure."
The two sit in an uncomfortable silence for a couple seconds before taking any action. Rain patters against the window and glances are shared between the two.

---

To be born in this world is innately unkind. It's a struggle really to provide man with the empathy deemed appropriate, It's at least what Russia thinks..

Except Russia isn't a cold-hearted fool - although he likes to pretend that he is - he knows that feelings waft on the wind and that this evolutionary bullshit he's thought up is to justify the hatred he feels, the cover-up for the far worse deep-seated pain he's been brought, is just a bullshit reason to avoid the guilt that lurks.

It hasn't even been an hour and America is already distracted, focusing rather at the rain pattering at the window and building up puddles at the windowsill, focusing rather at talking about some stupid story.

Russia sighs lightly and looks up, discontent spread across his face, he places his face in his hands, America taking no notice and continuing to talk.
Despite eye bags beneath his eyes and heavy eyes, Russia never finds him to be seeming tired.
America laughs at his own joke, "Anyways man, I think I'll get going now." He turns his head towards Russia with a pleated smile across his face, cheeks tinted red due to the cold.

The way he rants.

"What.?" Russia sits up, surprised at his own distress about the other country leaving.
"Yeah, It's getting dark soon and I need to get back home." America lets out a soft chuckle and stands, putting his thin laptop in his bag, papers crumpling.
Russia hums, he takes off his ushanka and stands as well.
"Okay." He finally says as America slings his bag over his back and makes his way to the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Sure."
-

He lets out a breath. Cold crisp air bites at his fingers.
"Should've left sooner" He huffs out, a stray twig snaps beneath his shoe. All in all, the night is quiet and the enveloping darkness makes it quieter, still it's peaceful really.

Throughout the two hours spent at Russia's house, America noticed that he stared at him for long periods of time but decided not to take notice in order not to embarrass him in any way. Still strange though. There's a strange immanence about Russia, the fact he wears coats and a fluffy hat during warm seasons? The fact he never talks? His sudden emotion when America was leaving? He's not sure.

The gangly bastard.

-

There is a sudden sting in his arms causing his face to scrunch up when he scratches his forearms, he lifts two sleeves, his coat, and his shirt. There's gauze stuffed underneath the bandages that wrap his arms, a new thing he's tried. Clouds belong in the sky, not in the earthquake fissures of the slits on his arms. He stuffs his fingers under the bandages and rips them out onto the floor, he's still standing where he was when America left.

He stares down at those bloodied puffs that lie on the ground. He stares down at the laptop and the spread out papers on the kitchen table. There's a flimsy black pen that immediately catches his full attention, He left his pen.

-

America is reading, tries to. There's a strain inside his head like electricity buzzing from the streetlamps outside and over codes anything else. Serviceberry petals scratch at his window and lie strewn about on the floor due to him sneaking back in through the window. It worked though, slinky like a cat.

-

A/N; Not sure if I like this one very much. sorry

time taken; 34min

edits; 1