Прощай моя любовь

chapter 6

The sight before him stabbed him straight through the heart.

Cowering behind Russia's own crazed sister, was Canada, the life in him visibly draining. Russia's lilac, dilated eyes darted to Belarus' s raised weapon.

The emotions in his head suddenly churned as if they where in a blender. He sprang across the darkened corridor to the blood-drenched scene. Drunk on fury, he swiped Belarus away from the now inanimate Canada aggressively, causing her collide with the floor behind him with a disturbing crunch. His attention was switched to Canada. Silently kneeling next to the crippled country on the glass-peppered carpet, Russia gazed at him through his thoroughly sodden eyes.

He had suffered wars where seeing strangers, acquaintances, friends, comrades, sometimes family, in life threatening danger was simply commonplace. You would notice suffering men, like Canada, with both feet in their graves, and just continue with day-to-day business.

But Canada was the first and only person the smash the ice concealing Russia's emotions. And how did he do it? How did he, the supposedly innocent wallflower, manage to see behind Russia's conterfeit smile? Why did this callous, scarred man, feel the need to fling his own sister away from him on instinct?

Russia gently snaked his broad arms around Canada's torso and legs, circumspect of the harm he could cause, and lifted him out of the fresh, blood stained patch that was botched on the wall and floor.

"Canada? C-can you hear me?" Russia called, his voice trembling. Hearing no response, his tears escaped and slowly cascaded down his cheeks as he carried the other man's limp body to his lounge, where he gently lay him on his sofa. After rushing to retrieve his first-aid kit, Russia fumbled about, trying his hardest to patch up his companion' s wounds through the veil of salty tears that blurred his vision.

"Even if you c-can't hear me, Canada," Russia whispered, leaning down to deliver a feather-light kiss to Canada's forehead. His lips still lingering on his skin, he mumbled, "from n-now on, I won't let be-Belarus... no, anyone... hurt you a-again..."

The next morning, the golden sunlight poured in from the windows, bathing the room in it's glorious, warm aura. A small figure stirred, peeling open his deep blue eyes. Adjusting the familiar pink scarf enveloping his neck, and wondering how it arrived there, he was greeted by the intoxicating scent of soup, mingled with a strong smell of coffee which made him sit up on the sofa in excitement. Unfortunately, a biting pain on his side forced him to freeze in place. The memories of last night flooded in: Belarus' s ambush, the reckless thrashing, the bucket loads of each other's blood, the fatal blow... what happened after that?
Why am I still alive?

His question was answered within the neatly folded slip of paper seated next to a delightful china bowl of soup. A mug of coffee accompanied these on a broad tray that was set on the coffee table beside Canada's bandage-clad form. Tentatively, Canada stretched his acheing arm and grasped the note pulling it into his view. It read:
Dear Canada,

Good morning! I hope you slept well!
I'm sorry I couldn't stay, but lithuania, Estonia, Latvia and I are all going to visit Germany, but feel free to stay here however long you like.

Two lines had been completely crossed out in the centre of the paper.

Love, Russia

P.s.

Another abolished line.

>>>>>>>>>>>>time scip<<<<<<<<<<<<

The Baltics had often wondered how Russia, despite the many hardships he suffered, could manage to keep his constant smile on his face. But they didn't know what it felt like to have someone truly precious to them in their lives. Their trip to Germany had been a success, in Russia's opinion, and they fortunately managed to enjoy their stay despite Japan's constant interruptions.

Now, after the monotonous train joeny was over, Russia and the Baltic states had finnaly arrived at their towering estate once again. Naturally, the trembling trio escaped to anywhere that didn't contain Russia as soon as physically possible. Russia chuckled as Latvia half strode, half scrambled through a wide doorway, tripping slightly on the floor as he did so.

A tiny spot of white in the corner of Russia's eye caught his attention. On the coffee table where Russia had left a tray full of breakfast for his secret admirer, a second slip of paper was on display. Beaming beside it was a vividly coloured, fresh-looking sunflower. Curious, Russia wondered over and read over the words that had been hastily scrawled across the price of paper:

Meet me there at 3 o'clock tomorrow

Russia knew exactly what to do.