[CMC Event] October 19th
Title: Alone.
Prompt: Vulnerable
Rating: PG
Notes: This is simultaneously a fill for this prompt and fanfiction for The Chosen End. Russia's reminded of the times America would wash away the nightmares, while he himself cannot. I wrote fanfiction for a fanfic. Yes.
Alone.
He was so very-
Alone.
With a child's laugh he raised his arms to the sky, staring before him at the open snow and the pure nothingness that lay before him.
Alone.
And then he was-
Drowning.
And he couldn't swim, he couldn't reach the top and there was no one to help him because he was-
He was-
Alone.
Alone.
Alon-
Russia awoke with a jolt, clawing at the mattress, at his chest, a scream bubbling up on his lips. He held it back, swallowing it like medicine. The cool skin of the back of his hand brushed against his forehead, and he was reminded of-
America.
The golden hair, slipping in his fingers, the blue eyes shining in pleasure at being noted. The smart lips that always showed what he was thinking, saying- genuine or not.
He curled into his bed and stared at the tear stricken pillow (always, nowadays, with the nightmares), bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and tried not to think about the nation who wasn't here when he needed him the most.
But he had Stalin, right?
He didn't need America.
Right?
Prompt: Vulnerable
Rating: PG
Notes: This is simultaneously a fill for this prompt and fanfiction for The Chosen End. Russia's reminded of the times America would wash away the nightmares, while he himself cannot. I wrote fanfiction for a fanfic. Yes.
Alone.
He was so very-
Alone.
With a child's laugh he raised his arms to the sky, staring before him at the open snow and the pure nothingness that lay before him.
Alone.
And then he was-
Drowning.
And he couldn't swim, he couldn't reach the top and there was no one to help him because he was-
He was-
Alone.
Alone.
Alon-
Russia awoke with a jolt, clawing at the mattress, at his chest, a scream bubbling up on his lips. He held it back, swallowing it like medicine. The cool skin of the back of his hand brushed against his forehead, and he was reminded of-
America.
The golden hair, slipping in his fingers, the blue eyes shining in pleasure at being noted. The smart lips that always showed what he was thinking, saying- genuine or not.
He curled into his bed and stared at the tear stricken pillow (always, nowadays, with the nightmares), bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, and tried not to think about the nation who wasn't here when he needed him the most.
But he had Stalin, right?
He didn't need America.
Right?