Oneshots (countryhumans)

Winter Hell

America's legs were numb, yet they moved of their own accord, mechanically, step by step, as they had been for the past hour or two. He could no longer see the white puffs of warm breath leaving his weary lungs, which he concluded was likely not a good sign. The deafening howl of the storm had long-since melded with the dull roar of blood rushing achingly in his skull, like a beast clawing viciously at his temples. Keen winds ripped past his face, leaving raw, icy burns on his cheeks.

Fleetingly, he wondered if his fingers were still attached to his hands, unable to recall the last time he felt them. In truth, America couldn't recall the last time he felt anything. It was all so unbearably hot, and, had he any energy to spare, the fur coat tightly buttoned around him would have already been torn from his body.

His vision swam, drowned in white for what felt like eternity, the thin droplets of ice crystallizing on his lashes going completely unnoticed amidst the violent streaks of snow obscuring his vision. It was impossible to identify anything in the raging blizzard, he might just as well have stuck his head into the ground, it would have appeared no different. In fact, he only registered that he was no longer staggering forward when the expansive sea of blinding snow enveloped his torso and limbs, caressing his face with unnatural warmth.

Something deep in his bones bellowed that the snow should not feel comforting at a time like this, but he was too far gone to move anymore. If his fate was to become another missing foreigner turned cautionary tale, a frozen corpse forever lost in the unforgiving blizzards of the eastern mountains, he was powerless to change it. As he was with most things.

"But I don't want to die," pleaded a silent, tiny voice. The wind shrieked in response and the snow was silent. America let his eyes close and awaited a merited death, utterly alone.

~

America was unsure whether his first fragments of memory after the darkness were real or something akin to a dream. He remembered glimpses of sensations: the touch of something rough but warm against his forehead, a shadowy figure looming over him, a strange, calming sound echoing in his head.

After hours, maybe days, of slipping in and out of a dreamy consciousness, America finally awoke. The second his eyes pried themselves open, he immediately wished for death. His head pounded fiercely, as if he had been struck repeatedly with the blunt end of an axe, his limbs felt like lead and, with every feverish shiver that wracked his body, it was if he was being run over by a train.

He just barely managed a weak groan of agony, brows knitting together as he forced his eyes to remain open. America then felt a familiar weight on his forehead, but this time he recognized the touch for what it was. A hand. Rough with callouses but gentle with touch, pressing against his head and then cheek the same as a mother feeling the temperature of a feverish child. It was comforting. With more effort than it should have taken, he shifted his gaze up towards the person who the hand belonged to, head pounding as he willed his eyes to focus.

As America did this, he became cognizant of a strange sound, low and rumbly, but with a hint of softness behind it, emanating from the figure in front of him. Was it... a voice? His vision still wobbled and he felt as if his skull had been stuffed full of cotton, muffling any sound, and any hope of understanding what this person was trying to communicate to him.

But, he immediately recognized when the gentle weight on his face disappeared. In his delirium, America had decided that this touch was absolutely necessary to keep breathing, his only comfort in this hellish existence of pain, and to lose it would be the same as ripping his weakly beating heart straight out of his chest. No longer able to produce a coherent thought, America acted on instinct, hand shooting up from where it lay beside him to grasp at the retreating extremety. The figure let out a surprised noise at the sudden action but it went unnoticed by the American who, still gripping the person's wrist, pulled the hand to him, pressing his fever flushed face into the touch. A mix of a new sense of comfort and the familiar aching pain from his impulsive movement dragged him once again, into unconsciousness.