Everything is Hetalia

Cold

The snow swirls.

Around and around in freezing gusts of wind that hurtle through the barren land. The trees, the grass, the nearby houses have vanished.

The blizzard lashes about the land, brutal.

No one is outside.

They aren't stupid.

They would freeze to death in this white-out.

They all huddle inside their houses, crouched in front of the fireplace.

Seeking heat.

"Hey! Mommy, look!" A young boy points out a window.

"What is it darling?" A soft female voice.

"There's someone outside!" The boy looks on.

"Oh dear," the mother gazes out, hand on the boys shoulder.

 Her voice is filled with astonishment and worry.

The figure outside is tall.

 It isn't curvy, presumably a man.

 What appears to be a scarf flaps in the winds.

The only thing they can see clearly are his sad purple eyes.

Russia can't feel the cold.

 He is the cold, technically.

 Russia is cold, so he is cold.

Because he is cold, he isn't warm.

 He can't feel the softness and comfort of heat.

 It is all lost to him.

The blizzard is nothing but flying particles to him.

Cold.

He was cold.

The aching need in his heart for warmth.

Constant

He tried to conform to the irreversible coldness.

But, no one can get used to loneliness.

No matter now hard they try, of what they say, or what they do.

It will never be something they crave.

But, he was a country, right?

Not a human?

Yes.

He was the country.

He was the country as a human.

 With emotions and feelings.

 Treatment toward the country is treatment toward him.

He was cold.

And still is.

Being in this blizzard won't help.

So Russia slowly walks towards his house.

Alone and cold.

Like always.

Like always...

The cold is like an icy shadow following Russia's every move.

Yet, Russia doesn't completely  mind.

The cold is his own friend; his shadow.

As he walks through the blizzard, he despises the cold.

Cold snow kisses his cheeks and blue, frail lips.

Russia shakes the frozen kisses off.

The snow is an unwanted lover of his.