Title: The Taste of Shooting Stars

Author: The DayDreaming

Ratings/Warnings: Rated T…for TIMBUKTU! Extreme amounts of fluff, slight language. This is so disgustingly sweet, that I'm surprised my fingers haven't turned into cotton candy. Also, maybe confusing. I am not totally coherent at this point.

Summary: "All I'm left with is loud, empty noises. It's suffocating; a slow squeeze of air from burning lungs." xXx In which Alfred leaves a party, Ivan finds out why, and the world may have to be on the lookout for Nations-In-Space.

A/N: Uh. This was really fast. The Russiamerica comm on LiveJournal has just had its annual Cuban Missile Crisis event, aka CMC event. A prompt was given out each day at midnight, and people had a day to get a fic or piece of art posted. This is the first prompt, October 15th, 'Look to the Sky.' I sort of got around to it? It amused me to no end how many people did space and star-themed fills for the prompt.

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I used to be able to think.

The trail is dark, sugar sand collapsing at every step and moving aside, silken mountains back and forth to valleys.

I could have a thousand thoughts a second;

Carcasses of leaves wedge beneath the dirt, sound muffled to a distant buzz in the night.

Of the grass and trees, the coming season, a changing of the forest's coat to more fashionable fare;

The yellowed beam of the flashlight wavers, bright and dim, as the batteries jolt to his momentous walk, the shifting of fabric in sync with each tired breath.

Of the world, and the people in it; of other worlds, and those people, too;

Somewhere in the haze, he realizes that his scarf has caught on a branch, broken and dry, and that the wood trails behind him. He shakes it off.

Of dreams and impossible things, wishes on dandelions, ladybugs with seven spots;

His flashlight grows dimmer, barely enough to illuminate the trail. The darkness encroaches on his vision, all-consuming; he has never felt so eerie and alone.

Of…

Well, I can't quite remember. That's the thing with thoughts. They're not of much use after the fact. Best to just hold them for a bit and then let them go. Who knows; maybe someone else will find them and put them to use.

Ragged breath and sweaty brow; surely he hasn't done this in a while, this moving thing, this—this worrying thing. There hasn't been a need, merely the clot of acceptance at the back of his mind that he's not what he used to be.

But I used to be able to do it. Have thoughts and use them, that is. Now—

Now…

The end of the trail comes into sight just as his flashlight goes out. He stumbles about, groping and praying for an exit; walks into a low-hanging branch and must spit leaves from his mouth. With another lurch, he's out in the open, sand scattering under his feet as he slides down a dune.

Everything is too loud.

One million points of focus and only one me.

Only me.

But as the trail recedes, so does the darkness. He can see by the dim glimmer of the moon. A procession of lights in the distance indicates the toothy maw of a cityscape in dark-cloaked camouflage.

The openness of the beach is too welcome, sweet, briny air filling his lungs like fresh water to the thirsty, cracked earth. It almost hurts to breath.

So, it's just…stopped.

Like the flipping of a switch; the light bulb's off and the door closed, key thrown away and the open road a long, mindless snake that I foot with the ease of a weary traveler.

At first it's difficult to make out the shadows lining the beach, but as he squints, he can make out the thin, silvery form of his target, his ultimate goal.

I think I'm lost.

He walks, slow and steady, trying to catch his lost breath (it has been much too long, hasn't it?). Even before he reaches the other, he knows that his companion is deep in thought, body stock-still and quiet and all too small on this lonely, perfect evening.

Without hesitation, he slides behind the other and wraps his arms tightly around the other's torso, mouth gliding a direct course to take up a stalwart position, barely brushing against the defined shell of an ear.

But you…you never seem lost, do you?

You always have this smile, this posture, this look in your eye that screams 'I know what I'm doing, now get out of my way.'

"America…"

"Jesus fucking christ—Russia?" America attempts to jump and whirl around at the same time, only succeeding in knocking the crown of his head against Russia's chin, causing both of them a sharp instant of discomfort.

Russia groans but keeps his hold on America, linking his hands together over the other's stomach. He feels large in comparison to the body he's clamped around, a Venus flytrap wrapped around a fly.

It's no fair.

Why can you keep moving forward, when all I can do is stand still and fall behind?

"You left me alone," Russia imparts, hot breath curling into his captive's ear like a thick fog. He can still feel his heart jittering. He wonders if it might fall out.

"Ah—oh," America stutters out, surprised, even though he shouldn't be. By now, the fact that Russia always seems to know where he is and where he's going should be as ordinary as sticking bread in a toaster, if, perhaps, that same toaster shoots ten-foot tall pillars of flame to indicate that one's toast is finished.

Yeah.

Totally fucking creepy.

"Why?" Russia breathes into his ear again, eliciting a shiver that skitters up and down America's spine. He allows his hand to travel up the other's chest, fingers feeling for the steady beat of a heart underneath layers of formalwear.

All I'm left with is loud, empty noises. It's suffocating; a slow squeeze of air from burning lungs.

"They got too loud," is America's simple reply; and it's enough to appease Russia. They've done this song and dance before. But normally, America wouldn't go running out of a party (his very own, no less), to go stand alone on a beach. A quiet room suffices.

It is perhaps one of America's better kept secrets, one that only Russia is privy to; he's not even sure that the boy whose name he can never remember, America's brother, he thinks, knows. It was on accident, really.

It's a recent development, spanning maybe two or three decades since its advent.

An aversion to noise; a claim that his mind is expanding, exploding, mashed to pieces by noise oh god oh god why can't I think?

I used to be able to think.

Take things in, like holding in air, and breathe out inspiration and dreams.

But the well's dried up, hasn't it?

"But why out here?" Russia asks, beginning to rock on his heels. He likes the noise, the clamor of the other nations. It makes him feel whole, not so lonely. Then again, as he takes to rocking America with him, he knows that one person in his sphere of existence can be enough.

"The sky," America says, and finally leans into the other, resting his head against Russia's shoulder to get a better look at the dark abyss above them. "It—it helps clear my head a bit."

"Ah, but that maybe isn't a good idea, yes? Your head is already so empty; it may just collapse."

"Haha," but America wraps his hand around Russia's forearm anyways, even if he is an asshole.

Every time I try to put words together, thoughts and ideas, emotions and will and tenacity, I—

It feels like I'm drowning in a sea of static, blanking out.

"Y'know…I used to be able to look to the sky and just—bam. A million ideas. Right there."

Russia sighs and rests his chin atop America's head, taking in the scent of sweet hay and salt, "I'm not sure I understand."

America squeezes his hand, feeling the thick, reassuring presence of the other at his fingertips. It's okay to be open now. So often there isn't a time to get to know each other. He'll take the plunge this time. "I could just think when I looked at the sky. I thought about—about flying, and the moon, and what shooting stars tasted like. And I just got this urge to build and make plans, so I could go up there myself. I could do anything as long as I thought about it, imagined it."

"Ah," Russia says, soft and quiet, attentive. He looks to the sky, sees its expanse. It is dark, pinpricks of light scattered about like spilled sugar. "I cannot agree. The sky scares me."

"Scares you? Ivan? Big bad Mother Russia?" America asks, incredulous.

"Da, it does," Russia nods, releasing one of his arms from America's frame to point out into the distance. "It's too big, and cold. Space is a vacuum. Nothing can survive out there. The sky is the same.

"It is…lonely. There is nothing to be gained from going up there."

The sky has always meant freedom to me.

And there is the unspoken message: there is nothing to be gained from going away from me.

Maybe that's why I'm so enraptured by it, why I always feel the most lucid when looking up at that endless yonder.

America bites his lip before breaking from the other's hold, slipping under the loose arm and backing away. He steps out a little closer to the ocean, its quiet roar barely perceptible in the still night.

Before Ivan can attempt to pull him back in, Alfred turns around and smiles, holding his arms up as though to carry the weight of the sky itself, all spangled stars and dark sheets. The look strangely suits him.

"It's okay," he says. "If I'm up there, when you look out, then the sky won't seem lonely at all."

"Nyet, Alfred," Ivan says, conviction in his words. "It won't because you cannot. You—you must stay with me. We are one, da? Together? We cannot be together if we are—we are apart."

This static is killing me. All this noise.

Can't I have one tiny, little dream to myself? One moment where me isn't drowned out by them?

Russia grasps America's shoulders, brings him close to his chest and squeezes, plants his lips on the other's temple and tries to sear in his resolution. Stay stay stay.

The sky used to make me think.

Now—now I—

It's hard to think of anything through the haze. It hurts.

This isn't what he meant.

But, maybe—

His thoughts are jumbled, tongue tied up; what does he say, what does he do? He doesn't know doesn't know doesn't—

So he looks up.

The well isn't dried up yet.

The sky looks so perfect, feels perfect, in Ivan's arms. Warmth and stability in contrast to wind and celestial motion.

He takes a breath.

I used to be able to think.

And the static disappears.

Maybe it's not that I can't anymore.

He looks at the sky, than the jutting fringe of Russia's hair bordered by his scarf, and thinks of moon landings and billion year-old dust caked into shoes, of satellites and levels in the atmosphere, of peeling skin after a day spent out in the sun at a picnic, only for day to melt into night leading to holding hands and the touch of chapped lips in the dim glow of far-away constellations.

"Who said anything about me going away?" Alfred finally says, voice choked. He holds Ivan back, hands splaying on his back and molding to broad shoulder blades. "If I ever go up there, I'm bringing you with me, 'kay?"

The noise may smother my thoughts—

—but, one voice above all the rest can bring me clarity.

"I—da," Russia says, smiling and burying his hand into the other's hair. Not to be left alone, then. The only one willing to stay, wants him, him—and it's enough.

I only need one person to be able to look to the sky and dream again.

Everything else is just background noise.

Ivan can't help but acknowledge that looking to the sky isn't quite so scary with someone standing beside him. The silver and obsidian of the universe, cornflower blue smeared with cream—it's not as lonely as he thinks.

And maybe a part of him can't help but want to taste shooting stars, and know for sure if they're as good as kissing Alfred out on the beach, in the quiet of the night, sky an empty canvas above them.

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(This end note is from my LiveJournal post on the comm, so please excuse some of the weird language I use. This was done about two weeks ago, on October 15th.)

Buh. I have a terrible headache. The sap. It burns.

I didn't start out with a set idea, so the prompt is kind of scattered. I'm so sorry! I couldn't decide what you guys meant by 'look to the sky,' as that could have several meanings. I went with what I could.

It's just, I want to at least get something in for this event. Things are really heating up at college, and I may miss the opportunity to write any of the other prompts on time. As it is, I pushed off sleep and studying for a test to get this done. I'm exhausted and scatter-brained so please pardon the crappy quality. I just wanted something nice and fluffy, since I know that a lot of other people will have some lovely, delicious angst to kill off the disgustingly warm fuzzies this story may have incited.

Here's to hoping that I'll find the time to get some other quick writes done! As it is, I got this finished in about 4 hours, which is actually extremely good for me when dealing with a story of this length. (I am a weeber, I know.)

Anyone else catching on to my dandelion motif? Like, almost every story I write now has a reference to dandelions. Huzzah, a trademark!