Speechless [RusAme Oneshots]

Drown in Warmth

Alfred nuzzled the crook of Ivan's neck more, shielding his freezing face from the snow and cold air of winter. Although clad in thick jacket and shirt, the winter still manages to seep itself into the American. 

Ivan ran his hand through Alfred's hair once more, huffing warm breath visible against the cold, chin perched on the golden locks under him. Eventually he stopped moving his hand and just lets it rest on the back of Al's head. It found additional warmth other than the gloves he's wearing. 

They were lucky it was late enough into the night that only the park lamps gave them a source of light, a soft orange glow that bathed them like sunset, highlighting the glow of gold even more. Only the quiet sounds of night winter air billowing like whispers of fairies accompanied the small noise he and Alfred made, which is mostly just huffs or small coughs. The occasional animals that somehow didn't gone through hibernation also present.

Alfred looked down to his and Ivan's feet, thinly covered in snow and buried about an inch deep. 'Must be quite sometime', he wondered since when did he and Ivan stopped talking and just stayed, silent, while watching the sky turned darker. Peeking his head a little to look at Ivan's side of the bench where a thin sheet of snow is covering the  visible wood must be a clear sign of how long they had been here for quite sometime.

Al resettle himself to the comfortable spot under the Russian's chin again, leaning back to the shoulder so his cheek can rest. Thanksgiving is in a few days, he would have to remember the turkey recipe Hungary gave him, as this year he is the designated host. Should there be extra potato for Ludwig, less wine for France, and a healthy amount of earl grey tea for England. He might have to call Matthew in just for preperations.

And reward him with a good plate of pancakes.

He huffs again. So much to do. And looked up, catching Ivan's gaze. It's not the usual look of 'kiss me', rather it was 'help me'. 

Last year had been dreadful, this year a slight worst, but Ivan would always come and stay whenever he can, though Alfred is sure his work with the Russian government isn't going to lessen. So they both agreed to change the guest room in Alfred's house to a study room specifically for Ivan.

Lithuania and Estonia had helped with the small move. Making small talks and stayed for dinner before going back to their hotel and prepare for their morning flight. Before they left though, a stare, kin to one of happiness but nonetheless an unspoken and unreadable expression graced their face. Perhaps it was content, or maybe proud?

Ivan wrapped his arm around Alfred's shoulder, covering the width of it easily and pulling Alfred closer. In all honesty, he doesn't know what bothered Alfred this time and no idea if even Alfred himself know what he needs help with. Yet he knew the way these things goes. Alfred would think until someone gave him a gesture of reassurance, he will relax and eventually talk if he can. Which most of the time happened while they were both watching muted TV show while on the cream coloured sofa of Alfred's living room.

Ivan kept his grip and Alfred nuzzled impossibly closer, breathing the scent of century old scarf and the metal stench of blood faintly still there even after numerous wash. It wasn't unwelcomed, just Alfred always ended up thinking.

Whenever he finished a war, he would always burn the clothes he used. Just to make him forget about what he had done, and whoevers blood was left on it. But Ivan, his Ivan, kept the scarf he had gone through with in countless wars, is still wrapped elegantly around his neck, while Ivan himself knew of the thousands of galons of blood it ever catches upon.

Sinfully he wonders if his blood is will catch on that scarf someday. 

They stayed silent for who knows how long. This time passing cars in front of them after late night shift greeted their sights, the noise of rubber against asphalt another faint sound. Ivan loosens his grip as his hand started to feel numb, Alfred moved his shoulders as well. Ivan looked at him, a silent question of whether the American wants to go home and enjoy their heater or to stay a little longer and let the winter air clear their minds.

It seems like Alfred chose the former as he stood up and stretched, arms above his head like waking up but this time standing, glasses beginning to show signs of frost. Ivan stood up, and wipe the snow accumulated on his pants and shirt, extending a hand to Alfred, who took it gladly.

And so began their walk back home, a few blocks away and the same hue of soft orange illuminating the sidewalk. Journey home. A simple combination of two words, but held dear to every personifications heart. Home was never defined for all of them, could be an actual.home, culture, memories, or even a person.

Journey, home, a person. Ivan, always there, whenever he just finished some bussiness in the white house or in a certain state. The first thing he hears after the words "I'm home" is always "Welcome home", before a pair of arms wrap around him. Encompasing him in comfort after stress, dweels it until there's none left.

The Journey is when the constant anxious of will he get home safely and the trip ended smoothly without any accidents involving himself or other will occur. Or whether or not Ivan will be home, ready to wrap him in those arms like how they use to.

Home, is when he uttered the words "I'm home", "I'm back", or just a creek of the door opening and a louder slam if the day is worse than normal echoes through the hallway. Always followed by hurried steps coming towards him and a cup of coffee served as he sat down by the dining table.

A person. The name utter itself whenever he was thinking, the smile, the too big nose, the loud and clear colour of violet ambers, dulled with slight sadness that he can't wait to wipe off, will greet him in a cheerful tone other would kill themselves if they were to hear it. Alred can never be more grateful to whatever deity is up there for giving him such gift. He stole a glance towards Ivan, noticing the Rusian busying himself with looking down to his feet, kicking small amounts of snow as he walks.

For now only his right hand that was warm.

But soon it will be all of him, curled up in a lap, holding a glass of hot chocolate while a random movie was chosen and muted in choice of a quiter night. He can't wait to feel that.

To drown in warmth.

----

I tried being descriptive as well as practice. And I might messed up some of the grammars and that needs a fix too.

So yeah, inspired by insomnia and nothing else.

ADIOOOOSSSSS