❝ Frost ❞
@tsariniia | liked for a starter !
The conference meeting had let out a bit earlier than usual after talks had devolved into petty arguments. England, for one, always ended up with a lingering sense of irritation when no real progress was made, so he found himself outside in the chilly winter air to allow himself to cool off—both physically and metaphorically.
There was a distinct lack of snow, but a hard frost, and the grass cracked and splintered beneath his polished shoes. His breath collected in the air as he let out a stress-heavy breath...and then he saw it.
A lone football left, discarded, in the park—less of a park and more an empty field, really—called out to him. He wandered over, hands still snug in his pockets to protect them from the cold, as he caught the ball with the back to his ankle to pull it toward himself.
It was, perhaps, an odd sight seeing a grown man in a well-tailored suit and tie, shift a football from foot-to-foot, to bounce it off his knee into the air, off his forehead, to keep it from touching the frost-covered ground. The weather was cold and dreary, though, and hardly anyone was about walking the streets, so England paid it little mind.
That was, until he turned around, angling his head to punt the ball into the air for a third time, when his eyes fell on Russia, stood on the pavement; watching him. He froze in place and jolted when the football came down on his shoulder before meeting the ground; rolling away before coming to a slow, steady stop.
“Russia!” He baulked, before he cleared his throat and tried to collect some semblance of composure as he addressed her, “I didn’t realise you were stood—how, uh, how long’ve you been there, exactly?”
