Winter's Sleep (A RusGer Fanfiction)

Chapter VII: Medicine and him.

TW: self-harm. please don't hurt yourself reading this chapter everybody!

It was drizzling lightly when he made his way to the teahouse.

The damp air clung to Germany's skin as he trudged on the empty street while avoiding puddles that slowly formed in every five steps he made. The sky was grey, and although it was not as gloomy as it was when he visited East's grave, it foretold him the high chance of having this gloomy weather last all day.

Another day, another rainy day, another gloomy day.

Germany took his time treading the usually busy street—of people walking to and from the other cities, children running around with their kite, and stray but tame dogs throwing smiles and gentle barks. He made a sharp turn to the road with even fewer people and fell into sequences of a familiar route.

The rain washed away hushed chatters of a group dressed in black and flowers laid on the wet ground. Minutes passed and Germany realized a beat too late where his feet had dragged his body to. His eyes were stinging from the lack of blink as he stared past the rustic gate of the public cemetery of the city.

A stray question arose in his head; why he came here instead of the promised meeting place, yet only a pregnant silence answered him. Sharp sobs broke somewhere from that group within the cemetery ground, and Germany pushed open the gate—rattling loudly against the cobblestone road, and perhaps startling the mourning lot. A hand that pushed it open was smeared with rust and dirty rainwater.

Unlike that day, today Germany barely had anything occupying his head. He glanced and nodded politely at the group who, in return, nodded back at him, before his legs made long strides across the solemn ground. Needless to say that, subconsciously, he was trying to find his brother first for reasons unknown.

(For reassurance maybe?)

Today he offered nothing but his lonely presence to East. No flowers, no words, and definitely no smiles. Standing in front of his silent grave was the best thing he could do unless he wanted to bawl his eyes out which was not a wise choice for his part.

Because surely, Germany wanted to have, at least, dignity with him—because courage had failed him—when he faced Poland later.

The navy-colored umbrella in his grip swayed as he heard thunder cracking somewhere far in the sky. Immediately, Germany was reminded of a piano piece he used to listen to together with East from a cheap recorder whenever it rained—Gymno-something number one. He found himself humming to that piece and maybe it became his offering for him today because his tombstone looked lonely amidst the other dreary-looking tombstones.

Watching at his silent grave made him remember how he almost died alone without no one knowing, without anyone beside him, without anyone listening to his last few words. So, the act of visiting his grave became something more like to make up for his six-month absence in his last few months of living than him wanting to meet him.

Or at least that was how Germany convinced himself so he would not be buried in the melancholy of missing his dead brother.

(Or be buried in an endless cycle of regretting and blaming himself. Honestly, he has had enough of those already.)

But he did not deny that his visit today, by accident or not, planned or not, was to pick up some sort of composure. Germany did not know if he had it in him, but he knew East had it, and whether he could pick it up by only gazing at his cold tombstone, it did not matter. He just did not want to march into his meeting with a mist-shrouded head—something that he knew his mind would turn into once she faced Poland.

Germany was pretty much empty-headed now, but it might change later, and as much as he wanted to stay empty-headed, he would have to use his head to maintain a proper conversation, discussion with Poland.