I wrote this a while ago, almost a year or so ago, but I'm ready to work on it some more. Sadly, I'm not sure at ALL where to take it. o3o Do you guys think that you can help me come up with a purpose for this writing?

The day had started out all blues and whites and sunlight, bathing the park in a happy, vivacious sense of joy. As the day wore on, though, that joy faded to apathy, and finally to distaste. The wind picked up, shoving at the last remaining leaves on the elm trees, pushing them to the cold stone of the concrete path that wound around the large river that ran through the gathering place. All around, the air was frigid and the wind didn’t help warm you up any; if nothing else, it made the small mist freeze to whatever it landed on, be it metal, wood or human. Even the few dogs and squirrels out were catching the brunt of this cold, cursing themselves or their owners for deciding today was a good day for a walk. Yes, while the day had started out like a daydream, it was rapidly turning into a nightmare.

And this went double for a young Russian, awaiting something beneath a tree, in which he could hear an unhappy squirrel chattering up a storm inside, probably losing a few of his well-gathered nuts to the man’s too-tall brown leather boots. A coat, black, long and warm, fell to the tops of these boots, insulating the man’s frame, despite it’s intimidating six foot length. To match the boots on his feet, warm, fur-lined brown gloves adorned his hands, and a brown scarf rest inside the neck of his coat. On his head was the ridiculous present from the very person he was waiting for; a hat with ear flaps, a fluff ball on the top, and two thin, braided ropes down the sides. The pattern was hound-sooth, a lighter brown with darker brown markings, which made it slightly more bearable, but not by much.

The tall, innocuous man didn’t seem like he had anything to fear, and he certainly wasn’t cold. So why was he trembling like a leaf about to be abducted by a mad wind current? He had a small problem with his nerves, watching and waiting for the tell-tale signs that the very person he was waiting on would arrive. They’d been dating on and off for a short while, now, spending some time together and buying meaningless gifts, they’d spent Halloween together, dressed up and ending the night drowning in a bottle of 100 proof vodka. Life was good and all, but today was a very important day, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Reaching into his pocket, he closed his eyes and uncapped the medicine bottle that rest there. Pulling out two pills, he knocked them back easily without water, tempted slightly to take them with the small flask of vodka in his inside pocket, but remembering that Klonopin didn’t do too well with alcohol, like most medications.

Those dark slate-blues scanned the area; they were still meeting here, right? He pulled out his phone and checked it for any messages, considering there were those often-times when he missed a call or text because he didn’t feel his phone vibrate. He would have left it on the ringer, but he wasn’t very good with technology, unlike the Frenchman he was waiting on, who had changed all of his ringtones to some inside joke or another, and he had no idea how to change them back to something normal. Therefore, he never used the ringer unless he was home by himself and expected no company. There was nothing new, though, on the Android, and the Russian huffed a little indignantly. Was he being stood up on their anniversary? That wasn’t very noble of Sacha...

But just as he had this thought, who showed up other than the man he had been waiting over twenty minutes for, shaking like a leaf in the wind? There Gabriel stood, looking around for the tree his lover had mentioned as their new meeting spot. Usually, they just picked the Starbucks between both of their houses, but the weather had looked more promising than this on the forecast (but you never could trust those stupid weathermen), so they had chosen the park instead.

“Borya! Zere jou are! I was lookeeng everywhere for jou!” That thick French purr left those plump, rosy lips and the Russian immediately felt his hands begin to shake like mad. Every time he grew near the brunet, he found himself nervous, sick, and absolutely at the other’s mercy. As a Russian dignitary, in the US for business and such, one would never think that there would be any fear in the man. Nothing could make him nervous, bust down his vocabulary, or do anything as horrifying as what rampaged in his body every time he caught sight of Sacha DeLorne.

While Borya was dull, tall, and pale in every sense of the word save for his dark eyes, Sacha was effervescent in comparison, in both senses of the word. The Frenchman was bubbly, easily excitable, and definitely stuck out in a crowd like a sore, green and purple thumb. His dress today greatly conflicted the dark colors his lover wore, his own coat flaring out at his hips and decorated with dark pink fur lining the seams and the inside, a nice, pretty lighter shade of pink taking up the leather body of it. The gloves the other wore were nearly highlighter yellow and polka dotted with orange, and Heaven forbid those socks. One was striped, green and yellow, and the other a red and purple polka dotted mess. While Borya loved his little French Fry, he was a little worried for what he would find beneath that coat; pants were hardly ever seen on the man trotting to him, so he knew some kind of frilly skirt or short shorts would be hiding beneath it, and the shirt? He didn’t want to think about it.

Perhaps part of what made the Russian so unnerved about the other was the fact that, together, they hardly looked like they would get along. People would find Sacha attracted and want to take him away, and it shot both anger and anxiety through the taller man’s body. Sure, he had done something similar, taking the little French bombshell from his previous lover with little to no force, but that didn’t mean the same thing was allowed to happen to him! Karma didn’t affect anything in Russia; why else would everyone do such horrid things and hate each other quietly?

But these thoughts were interrupted by a hand slowly sliding into his own, tugging gently at it.

“Are jou even going to tell me ‘ello, Borya?” Curious green eyes looked up into down-turned blues, and they blinked a little before a cautious smile worked onto his face.

“I apologize. Chhello, Sacha. Are doing good today, da?” This sent a shiver down Sacha’s spine that he would easily pass off as the cold air sliding down his mostly exposed back. Today was very important; the six-month anniversary of himself and his lover; November 14th. So, of course, he had dressed in his finest; he didn’t even think that his shoes had been looked at, yet. They were six inch heels, black, to set off the colors in his outfit. He scooted over and pressed a kiss to the Russian’s chest, still being rather short in comparison, even with the help of the shoes.

After taking that hand and leading the way off, the click-clacking of those shoes finally drew attention to them. The taller male gulped some; he remembered having bought those for him, and how happy they had made him feel. He almost wished he could take a few more pills in order to calm down some more, but Sacha had hold of his pill-grabbing hand; he couldn’t reach them in his other pocket with his right hand. He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath, relaxing a little into the touch as he was lugged around by the much smaller male.

“I made us some reesarvations...” The smaller added slowly, turning some in his excitement to talk to the other. “At a vary nice reest’rant.” It was one of the most upscale in town; something he was sure that his lover could afford, but he was somewhat broke. Sacha liked expensive things, and sometimes this came between him and eating for a few days to a week. Usually, it was Borya to come between this and marry man to food, though, for he forbid the other from starving himself ever again just so he could afford that pair of shoes or a nice, silken nightie. He’d begun to spend more and more money on the brunet, and it was almost looking like he was some kind of sugar daddy. However, he wasn’t quite sure why someone would call him that; he wasn’t made of sugar, nor did he have children. Americans were just strange, he supposed.

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