'in which your means are questioned'
You stare blankly at the man who sat behind the desk. The pen clicks in his hand several times as he stares up at you with a similar expression. You purse your lips stiffly, tapping a finger on one of your crossed arms.
"So..." America finally speaks, breaking the long silence, "What your saying is you don't know why you decided to run in the direction of the explosion?"
"I guess."
"You guess?"
"Do you blame me America?!" You grit your teeth as you slam your hands down on the table. "Its not like I had anywhere better to run at the time!."
The country sighs rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. America flips one of the scattered papers on his desk over, clicking the pen in his hand to the open position. Your nose crinkles with your annoyance as you watch him scribble out incoherent words in the margins and on the assorted lines across the page. How was anyone supposed to read that?
You shake your head, walking across the floor towards the tall windows. Outside, snowflakes float around in the air, occasionally spiralling around in the bursts of wind. The large flakes flit around, accumulating on any surface it can, until the weight becomes to much to bear causing the snow to slip, tumbling onto the ground below. You let out a long sigh, resting your forehead on the cold glass which fogs from your breath. You shut your eyes tightly.
When you open your eyes again, you keep your head pressed against the window. Unmoving, you watch as the ground below you remains unchanging in the stark whiteness that was so consistent of winter.
You were so tired. Even despite the fact that you had managed to convince America to let you stay in his clearly not lived in apartment, you hadn't been able to catch up on your sleep at all. In fact, you're pretty sure that you feel more exhausted now, than when you had been sleeping on the floor for a week straight. The space was soul-sucking, for lack of a better term. The plainness of the office followed into America's home. The walls were bare and white and the surroundings only decorated by the existence of a singular dead plant. It was so far from being considered a home, but at least the bed is soft. Small victories, you suppose.
"What are you looking at?"
You look at the country sitting behind the desk, "The snow."
"Just the snow?"
"Yeah?" You shake your head, returning to gaze out the window, "There's not much else going on right now."
You hear the sound of a pen clicking shut, tumbling with little plastic ticks on the wooden desk top. The sound of a squeaking chair was followed by the sounds of heavy footsteps on the wooden floor.
"You seem to do that a lot."
"Well," You glance up at America. He had an eyebrow raised, waiting for the rest of your response with an anticipation that was almost mocking, "I like the snow."
"That makes sense."
"And that means what exactly?" You watch as the snow billows around in the wind, placing your hands into your pockets.
"You're the one who laid down in the snow without a jacket on."
"Right..." You let out a quiet hum, fiddling with the paper in your pocket. You should probably just toss out this shopping list out now. You doubt that Justin is still looking for salad ingredient several weeks later. "I guess that makes sense."
You pull the paper from your pocket, smoothing it out to the best of your capabilities. The graphite you had used to write the list was smeared and smudged across the page and into the creases it had gained from its long life sitting in your pocket. The words were almost unreadable now but you read over it so many times that the contents of the shopping list were burned into your mind, despite its new irrelevance.
Smoothing the paper with the movement of your thumb, you glance back up to the snow drifting around outside. The size of the flakes had shrunk over the last few minutes, but the wind kept up its pace, tossing the small flecks around in an unhinged waltz of the elements. The sky was gray, shadowing over the ground in a solid blanket of dull weather.
You turn your head towards the door to the office as it creaks open. Layla taps the ends of a stack of envelopes on the palm of her hand. She smiles at you warmly when she takes note of you.
"I figured you would be in here," Layla tosses America's collection of letters on his desk, as she approaches you. You can hear America scoff as he walks back across his office. "These ones are for you."
"Thank you."
"Just doing my job." She waves at you, before taking her leave from the room.
You flip through the two envelopes, shuffling them in a repeated, redundant manner. You glance out the window again, staring intently at the small snowflakes that blow through the air.
The thicker of the two envelopes was decidedly from Vivian and Justin. The last letter they sent you was even thicker, several pages of double sided rambling. The writing had been a mangle of mismatched printing and smudged pen, results of what you can only assume to be a fight over the paper. Those two... How they haven't burned their house down yet is unbelievable.
The other envelope is much thinner. You couldn't imagine it holding more than a single piece of paper, differing itself from the nonsensical spilling of words from the Evans. You tap the edges of both letters, placing the thinner of the two envelopes on the top.
An estranged noise comes from your throat as you read the address, written in small cursive. Not that receiving a letter from this person is a bad thing, but its certaintly off putting to be getting one so out of the blue. You flip the envelope over, carefully ripping it open to reveal the letter stuck inside. You breathe in deeply, opening the folded letter to showcase the typewritten characters plastered in the center of the page.
Hello,
It's been a little while. I hope America has been treating you well. I'm sure I would have heard if he wasn't, but I still feel I should check in.
Life on my end has been well, if your interested. A bit chaotic all things considered. Washington specifically has been getting on my nerves. She can be a lot sometimes, but I've been managing.
Surprisingly, I got a message from Texas too. Told me about your little adventure to the post with America's mail. And about what Tennesse said about those friends of yours, and more about you. What you said to be more specific. Please don't push yourself too far, alright? If you ever need a break from the office I'd be glad to have you for a visit.
Another thing, now that I think about it. How has that bruise on your arm been healing? I'm sure it's not that painful to deal with anymore, but it was pretty bad when you first arrived. You never did tell me what he did to you.
Regardless, you best take care of yourself. You're a long way from home all the way in D.C..
Talk to you soon,
California.
You stood still, the letter held loosely in your hands. She was right. You were a long way from home. You were several decades away from home. Eighty odd years.
You glance around the room. The unopened letter and the torn envelope had fluttered to the floor, scattering uncerimonously around your feet without your notice. America had returned to sitting behind his desk, expression contorted into exasperation as he was burried into his own stack of letters, and outside the window the snow had stopped.
You feel like everything has stopped. Everything you have worked towards is so far out of reach and the things that are within your reach are the products of fear and your inability to keep your mouth shut.
Were your hands shaking? You glance down at your empty hands, with your eyes wide.
You don't register walking out the door, but you do. Leaving the small area that holds America's office, your steps take you across the dark carpeting of the hall. You stumble across the halls staggering expanse, pulling open the door to the stairwell. You step inside, feeling your throat tighten.
You think you pass a few people as you go down the stairs. You don't make much note of it as you struggle to retain your footing as you trapse down each stair. You grip onto the rail with both hands, vision spinning as you stand feet away from the exit door.
Pushing your way out into the hall, you feel the building of a tensing pain in your chest. You stumble towards the buildings exit with a hand clawing at your throat. Each breath that you draw from your lungs is more painful than the one before it. The wind that blisters through the sky cuts through your jacket with an unrelenting force.
A hand grips onto your shoulder, "Is there a reason you're trying to walk straight into traffic? Or am I just to assume you don't know again?"
"I..." You feel your shoulders drop as America's hand slips from your shoulder. Tears that you preiviously hadn't noticed were slipping from your space as you stare out at the traffic that speeds across the road in front of you. "What the fuck?"
"I'll take that as a 'you don't know'" You listen to his footsteps slowly dissappear into the background noises of wind and motor vehicles. His voice is the only thing that you can hear over it, "Are you coming?"
"I want to stay outside." The words fall from you in little more than a whisper. Nothing compared to the drumming of the wind the surrounds you from all sides.
"What?"
"No!" Is the only thing that you manage to speak, as your emotions begin to fill your throat, drowning your words as they attempt to surface.
You turn down the sidewalk, and take a seat in a familiar bench. You don't do anything really, simply staring straight ahead. The cars that pass by spray wet snow onto the sidewalks, consequently onto your shoes. You think a family member got these for you. A birthday, or maybe they were a gift you recieved when graduating highschool. You can't remember. It feels like so incredibly long ago. So inconsequential now.
You want to laugh.
You want to scream.
Both get caught in your throat, and you hunch over yourself, resting your arms on your knees, and your head in your hands. What you really want is to go home, but you can't have that either. You let yourself cry instead.
Your shoulders shake and your breaths heave with each sob that falls from your. Tears and snot drip down your face in a gross tangle of boddily fluids. The wind continues to whip your hair around your face, and your loose jacket billows with each gust. You're pretty sure you have snot in your hair now. Gross.
You sit up. Your tears still run down your face, and your chest shudders with the occasional sob. Your hands feel slimy and sticky as they lay there in your lap.
"Do you need a tissue?" You jump at the box that is suddenly sat next to your face. You keel over, struggling through an onslaught of coughing that resulted from the fearful hitch in your throat.
"What the hell, dude?"
"It was an honest question."
"Where did you even come from?!" America gives you an annoyed look, rolling his eyes.
"The exact same place you did." He shakes the box of tissue in front of you again. You take a few, blowing your nose.
"I thought you went back inside."
"I did." He sets the box in between the two of you on the bench, "I came back out."
"Why?"
"You seem to like running into danger. I can't exactly prove to you my apology is true if you're dead."
"Wow." You mumble, scoffing quietly, "And here I thought you cared."
"Ha ha. Very funny." The country crosses his arms, leaning back into the bench, "But seriously, what is it with you. You're like... Magnetized to the danger. The danger is the magnet to you."
"What does that even mean?"
"Beats me."
"You're the one who said it!" You exclaim, resisting the urge to jump from your seat.
"Doesn't mean I have to understand it. You're the one constantly running head first into trouble." America shakes his head. He glances over at you as you fiddle with the hem of your jacket, "Even before we met, you've had a track record of getting yourself into problems. Tennesse said you even got into a scrap with a cop over in Knoxville."
America laughs dryly, no humour in the act. You stare at him for a long moment.
"How did he know about that?" You didn't tell him, did you? Had he been following you for that long then? A bitter taste fills your mouth as you stare out across the street.
"He said he was the one who saved you."
"He... what?"
"In that first meeting after you arrived. That's when he told me." America looks at you for a moment, raising his brow, "Did you really not know?"
"No." You mumble, sinking down into your seat, "I didn't meet him until... A month or so after that happened. I guess I just didn't put two and two together."
"That's surprising." America hums quietly, "I assumed with how fast you picked up on him being Lucas, you would have thought of that."
"Yeah, well... It's not like getting harrased by a police office is a fun experience that I like to reflect on daily." You huff, "And besides, I had just seen him a week or so before you showed up. I would have had to been foolish not to recognize him."
"If you say so."
You sit back up in the chair. Night was beginning to fall, and the coating of clouds fails to provide any light from early dusk, leaving only the street lights to illuminate your surroundings. You yawn loudly.
"What about that letter set you off?" America speaks up again, "It was from California, wasn't it? I thought you liked her."
"I do! I just... I don't know..." You sigh, "It's silly. I just miss home."
"You're homesick?"
"Yeah."
"For what home?"
"What do you mean?"
"Home with the Evans? Or the home that came before that?"
"Are you still on that?"
"You couldn't have just come from nowhere."
"You'd be surprised." You mumble, leaning forward. You stare down to the snow laden ground, tapping the tips of your fingers together, "I guess its both."
The flakes of snow that fall into your gaze were tinted yellow. They were small, barely noticable. Likely, they wouldn't contribute much of anything to the amount of snow that sat on the ground, but it was something. And it was pretty.
"There really isn't a reason that I ran towards the explosion. I don't know what I expected to do once I got there but..." You begin with your voice trembling. You cough awkwardly, attempting to cover it up, "I didn't just want to sit there when I could have done something. Its... Silly. That's all it is. I just... Don't understand how someone could just sit there and do nothing when someone could be hurt. Especially when they have the means to help people! It's not fair to just leave people to their suffering for no damn reason. People deserve to be able to live.
"I mean... That's what I think anyways." You stare across the road. A car hadn't passed by in a long while.
"So you were just playing hero."
"If that's what you want to say." Your stare hardens, and your fists clench, "Then go right ahead. I won't stop you."
"What would you have done if I didn't stop you?" America shifts his body to face you, pushing the box of tissue out of the way, "What would you have done if when you were there, helping people or doing whatever it is you were doing, and another explosion went off. Then you would just be in the same postion as everyone else!"
"And that would be fine!" You stand up from the bench. You glare down at America, your fist shaking from tension, "If I died then, at least it would have been with a purpose! I don't want to die, just having sat there, doing nothing! I want my life to be something of my own making! Something I can actually be proud of! Rather than just bitching about paperwork all day long!
"I want to be able to be proud of myself." You voice quivers. Tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes. You turn your back on the country, "I'm clocking out for today. I'll see you tomorrow."
*thank you for 5K reads on this book. i appreaciate it<3