Trust is Dangerous- Russia x Germany

Leaving you behind

It was one of the last weeks of summer, when the balmy hot days became shorter, the mosquitoes stayed longer, the north wind trickled in, and I start to hear USSR's grumbling about his son, Russia, and his autumn melancholy setting in. Apparently, it was a problem that his son had every year, and would mean that USSR would spend two weeks each month never visiting me to coax Russia out of his mood and bed. He would just send me food by mail at that time. But this year was different, and in a way, for me and USSR's real family. He spent more time with me, helping to pack things I wanted to take along to the dormitory, and what he could sell off at the market. I also purchased all of my books and supplies ahead of time, and the Finance director sent a reimbursement check a day later. My father muttered something about me keeping it, but I stuffed it in his jacket pocket afterward.

I was going to fly by plane to Mr. UK's island, and even though I flew before, this was my first time travelling alone. USSR finished labelling the last box, and placed it next to all the others waiting outside my doorstep. The courier would transport all of the parcels to the dormitories, and all I packed into my suitcase were some clothing, essentials, a charger, my phone, a pen, and extra glasses, in case mine broke. USSR offered to drive me to the airport, which I accepted. He was going to rent the apartment out to other people who were interested, and said that I might as well live in his own home for the summer.

"Готов?" He asked me, standing outside and smoking again. This time he had a new pack, and he placed it into his black messenger bag that was slung casually over his shoulder.

"Готов," I answered back, and he made a bowing motion in the direction of his car. He stubbed the cigarette out on the driveway and signalled to the courier that they were leaving. I opened the passenger door of USSR's beaten up «Lada» and placed my handbag on the seat next to me. USSR haphazardly swerved out of the driveway and then rocketed down the street to the outbound highway. Surprisingly, today he didn't feel the need to break the speed limit, but he did merge lanes randomly, almost colliding with half of the cars on the road.

"Watch the road, idiot!" USSR growled at the car that just swerved out of their way in a matter of time. "I don't know what you're doing, daydreaming?"

The interior of his car was lined with old faux leather that was worn, stained and scratched. The handlebar had a bad Russian word written on it with a marker, and there was a crumpled piece of a дневник lying on the floor with a little 2 and a complaint written in red pen. When I shifted myself around, my hand came into contact with an unpleasant substance right in the middle of the two passenger seats. I sighed, and took out a handkerchief from my pocket to wipe off the awful stuff.

"Sorry Германия there might be some gifts Kazakhstan left for me to find. I'm sure you found them for me," he chuckled. "He's a bit car sick,"

"Heh, I guess so, but it's still disgusting,"

"Nothing I can do about it. Nobody except my three oldest likes my Greek style Kasha." I then silently forgave myself for being angry at Kazakhstan. I personally also wanted to get rid of the contents of my plate when that particular dish was on the menu.

"Cleaning this dump will be a pain," he said out loud, but I'm sure it wasn't for my ears. I mopped up the rest of the mess, which wasn't as much as I expected, and wrapped a cellophane bag around it, so I didn't have to touch it again.

The landscape changed gradually as we moved up north on the outbound. The cheery fluttery maples with green leaves turned to stout and prickly pines who only bent to the winds command. Every so often a rock or a cliff would be jutting out of the dark green land, the sharp orange and browns intermingling with the greens of the trees. It was putting me to sleep, the rocking of the car, the whistle of the wind from the window USSR opened partially, and the hum of the tires on the ground.

"We're almost there," He called to me, and woke me from my doze. Indeed, we were. The nice land of pines were gone to reveal a smokestack filled city clogged full of dust, dirt, smoke, swearing, yelling, swerving, hateful glares, cold shoulders, regret, sorrow, and of course, ever opportunity. The city was large, noisy, crowded, bustling, and with a sense of purpose. You couldn't stand in the middle of a city admiring the view or thinking. I knew that the IUUP was in a city too, but the city that I knew harboured bad memories. He took me and one of his children, Ukraine, to the city, and I immediately got a face full of mud from a speeding taxi when I wandered too close to the road. The traffic lights were like clockwork, and the tide of people harmonizing with the swells of the cars, the lights, the words, the signals and the life of the city itself. It was alive, it's heartbeat the cracking of shoes on pavement, it's breathing was the exhaust from the machinery, it's words were the ones of the crowd and it's actions the billboards flashing across the large skyscrapers.

"Don't worry, I'm not just going to drop you off," USSR looked at me through the mirror, his green eyes making contact with my auburn ones. He must have seen the fearful look as a scanned the surrounding area. He got off the outbound, and I heard the characteristic scrape of metal against concrete and USSR's swear as the car hit the curb.

"That's the second one today," he complained. The signs for the airport were near, and they whizzed past me, as my foster father decided it was time to break the speed limit. The airport parking lot was very close, but since it was with a fee, USSR circled around to find a free lot to park in. After two circles around, we found one, on the verge of collapse too. He parked his car in an empty lot and stopped the engine. All the sounds of traffic and people echoed across the lot and magnified the sound by ten. USSR locked the car as soon as I came out and we walked to the airport lift. It was made of thick glass and it bring us to the main, loud level of the airport. Terminal D, the sign read, and USSR pointed to the entrance where people started to gather around. It was the gate to the checkpoint where I would finally leave on my own. I was able to make a hard copy of my tickets, and the only thing I needed to do was say goodbye. I imagined this to be one of the easiest parts of the whole trip, but it turned out to be the hardest. For some reason, my hands felt cold and numb, and they clung to USSR's coat, and wouldn't let go. I couldn't tear myself away from him, and he smiled a bit sadly.

"I never had a problem getting away from my father," he chuckled. "I was actually happy to leave."

"I thought it would be easy," I whispered.

"Maybe not?" He smiled. "Since I'm renting your apartment out, you're coming with me in the summer."

I already knew that, but it seemed to calm me every time he said that. The sound of chatter reflected off the hard walls and reverberated through the tiled floor. Multicoloured plasma screens were on one wall, the advertisements kept scrolling one after the other about useless luxury items.

"Правда?" I asked again.

"Да, давай, you can't be late," He said softly, and pryed my fingers from his coat. I picked up my bag and adjusted my glasses, and left for the checkpoint. I could see USSR putting his hands in his pockets and then he waved to me one last time.

"До скорого, время пролетит!" He yelled to me, and then turned his back and left, becoming one of the masses of people bustling through.

"Bye," I said softly, and turned to the checkpoint, my adrenaline buzzing inside me. A new lifestyle was surely going to be implemented, and I had to mentally prepare myself for new demands, new people, and new places. This was going to be one ride for life. I knew it wasn't going to be the same ever again.

Готов-ready

Дневник- a daily grade record keeper book-used in Russia

Правда- really/truly

Да давай- Yes, come on

До скорого, время пролетит- see you soon, time flies.