Prussia started out a bit anxious, triple-checking his harness and nervously laughing off Denmark's questioning. If the gun-maniac could do something this awesome, then he could definitely pull it off.
"Be careful and don't forget what we told you about steering"
He waved at the Nordic behind Switzerland, looking back down to make sure everything was in place. Practice was one thing, but to actually be doing this... His hands were already trembling in excitement.
Switzerland's growling voice cut over the sound of wind blowing past his helmet.
"I'm going to tape this, so I can tell you if you did anything wrong."
The blond gestured toward the slope, before reaching one hand to the strap-on camera atop his head.
Prussia shot a wild grin to Norway, who ignored him in favor of checking over his boot straps.
Wind whipped at his thick coat as he lunged forward, crouching slightly as he began the initial slide toward either an awesome ride, or a fairly awesome death.
His breath caught in his coat, cheeks already going numb from the cold. The swiss mountains really were frigid this time of year. He could hear the man skiing just behind him, Denmark and Norway patiently waiting for their own turn.
They agreed to teach him this sport, after he had claimed German sports to be more awesome than the Nordic ones. After all, what was there to do when ice and snow covered freaking everything?
Apparently, a lot.
He gasped sharply as his parachute caught the air, lifting him slightly, even before he reached the edge of the cliff.
Snow parted cleanly under his skiis and he felt a rush of weightlessness as the wind grabbed his 'chute, yanking it upward to the skies.
The earth seemed to fall out below him, leaving nothing but the wind and cold and the rushing of blood in his ears to let him know he was still alive. His hands were already cramping from gripping the ropes so tightly.
A flash of fear shot through him, and he shifted slightly, the thick cloth above him grabbing at the air just enough to pull him away from the approaching mountainside. Prussia's eyes were wide open, mouth stretched in a maniac grin.
He could feel the sky, writhing under the cloth that supported him. The lines connecting it to him vibrated slightly, tugging him forward, faster, faster!
He was one with the air, the heavens, part of the wind and everything it touched. Glorious!
Tilting again, Prussia swept to the side, darting between a ridge and a tree, already knowing that Switzerland would have his hide for being so reckless. But GOD it was awesome.
He swung up to the side, wincing as the straps jarred against his ribs. Too harsh.
The thick coat and pants seemed glued to his front, forward force alone keeping his iron cross pressed against the hollow of his neck.
His skis touched the snow. Too close!
Arching back slightly, he invited the wind to pick up the slack from his wild turn, swallowing as it ripped him back upwards. He jerked one arm, trying to keep control, and whipped sideways instead.
A (manly) squeak escaped him as he eyed the small space between a large pillar of rock and the rock-face he was now oriented towards. Not enough room!
Trying to align himself to work with the wind, there was a moment when he truly thought he would die, smashed against rocks and buried under snow.
Would Italy mourn his gruesome death?
Probably not. It's not like they could be properly killed by a fall, anyway. Perhaps empathize with the pain of being smashed apart by rocks? More likely.
Somehow he managed to right himself and smoothly slip between the rock faces, opening into unhindered atmosphere. He could see the swiss mountain range stretching out before him.
For the first time, he could see all of the details that had somehow escaped him during the trek to the top of the first mountain.
He could see flurries of fog pooling at the base, clouds gathering around the middle with sun streaking through it. It occurred to him that, perhaps artists had a damn good reason for calling this one of the top beauties of the world. When running in fear across the landscape, one had little time to ponder aesthetics. Especially when one's mind was occupied by plotting ways to escape gunfire.
This was gorgeous.
Dark rocks jutted up from pristine snow, shaping intricate patterns with the richly colored evergreens. The entire landscape was a blend of rough and smooth edges. Fog was pierced by rock, planes of snow with scattered trees clawing at the sky. Yet it somehow worked together.
Prussia marveled at the landscape as he floated down the last stretch, keeping one eye on the place where they were supposed to land.
A few minutes later, he pulled hard on the handles of his parachute, laughing madly as he barely missed crashing into the rooftop of a small shed. The snow welcomed him as he skidded to a stop, limbs shaking far too much to support more than the initial landing.
Prussia flopped down into the snow, fumbling with his straps before taking his helmet off completely.
He looked ridiculous with his silver hair spiked everywhere, freezing in place when the sweat-soaked strands met crisp mountain air. His chest heaved, everything shaking with adrenalin and exertion.
He watched as the blond country landed (neatly avoiding that shed, damn it) and slid to a halt a few meters from Prussia's spread-eagle body.
He, too, removed his helmet. Only a few flyaways had escaped the spiky ponytail at the nape of his neck, and the deep green eyes were brighter with what Prussia decided must have been excitement.
With his cheeks flushed from the harsh wind, eyes flashing, head proudly held as always...
He wondered why none of the nation people had noticed before.
Maybe no one had risked life and limb to jump off one of the man's ridiculously tall mountaintops?
This really was a beautiful place.
"If you want, we can go up again"
So freaking awesome.
Denmark and Norway slid quickly down the mountainside, a plan already in their minds for the trip.
It was not the first time they had used the blond's slopes for fun, and it probably would not be the last.
Norway led, with the wilder nation taking up the rear. It was the first who set the stakes in this course, sweeping dangerously close to rock faces and treetops. Denmark was happy to copy his actions, always attuned to the shifting winds. It was always an unpleasant surprise when a constant headwind suddenly died. The sharp dip was never fun to compensate for.
Denmark's eyes lit up as Norway whipped upward, twisting around into a sharp dive toward the earth. A voice in the back of his mind screamed "Do a barrel roll!"
Snow and sky swirled together in a maddeningly intense rush.
The cliff was suddenly ahead, and he banked hard to the left to avoid crashing.
Norway was already in the open sky, head thrown back as a sign he was enjoying himself.
The smaller nation applied a bit of drag, coming up even with his fellow Scandinavian country.
They exchanged smiles.
Denmark was always a bit irritated that heartstoppingly dangerous sports were the only time he got to see that smile.
Perhaps he should toss him from a cliff more often.