Winter's Sleep (A RusGer Fanfiction)

Chapter VIII: Patching up.

TW: suicide, read only if it does not upset you. please take care of yourselves please don't hurt yourself by reading this everybody!

There was a deep sense of reminiscence when Germany gazed at the unconscious man resting on his lap.

Gray jacket marred in half dry maroon blotches was discarded somewhere, maybe sitting on the stool or table, while Germany failed to find wounds befitting those blood on him. Slightly tanned torso was scattered with old scars; four small but deep cuts on his back, two long uneven ones on his left side, two stitches somewhere around his shoulder blades, and one next to the belly button. All but fresh wounds.

A swirl of confusion mixed with worry manifested in a gentle brush against damp hair and blanket draped over the feverish body. Care was something he would gladly pour to this man if only he could ever show it during his wake. Maybe he could, but then he would hope for something in return.

The flower shop at 11 am smelled no different from when it was at 5 am, 2 pm, or 9 pm. Always the subtle scent of fresh flowers mixed with paper and plastic wrappings and lemon-scented furniture cleaner. But the addition of 70% rubbing alcohol and a faint tangy scent reminded him of those afternoons spent in Ukraine's house with her, tending to her injured siblings or a boy who had fallen unconscious in the rain. That was another poor soul, burdened with the unrequited love just like him.

But he's already dead.

Memories flashed in and out—of pained groans when alcohol-imbued cotton pressed against charred skin, a string of curses fell from the patient, and Barbara's pinches to silence those potty mouths. Back then, if only Germany was not too deep in thought of the unknown whereabouts of his parents, he would have heard the reason behind those injuries. It was either an adventurous story or a stupid reason.

Those memories were soon got overtaken by an abrupt realization that this was not the first time he had seen Russia in this state. No. This was his second time and the first time had happened weeks ago, marking his first encounter with him.

It was some time ago; three or four weeks after East's funeral and his failed attempt of drowning in the sea at 3 am. Back then, Germany was—and still was—one restless soul drowned in tangled mind and empty feelings, sitting alone on the edge of a dock in his country.

Ocean howl filled the ears and wide eyes watched the faint glimmer of dark saltwater in its hypnotizing sway through welled up tears. Legs dangled back and forth, hands balled into tight grip against the wooden dock, and shallow breathes caught in the throat. The wet pants were dripping saltwater from its hem and a pair of shoes sat behind him.

Five minutes into 4 am and Germany begged for seconds to tick slower. Determination had long gone with the cool ocean breeze and rationality kicked him into thinking; 4 am was the point where he should return, lock away the stupid idea, and never visit it again. Slow blinks pushed out tears sitting on lower eyelids, and when he glanced at the wristwatch laid on his lap, it was 4.03.

Germany remembered trudging back through the empty street with a rivulet of tears staining cold cheeks and shame sitting on his shoulders weighed like tons. And amidst those tears and everything in-between, golden eyes spotted a hunched figure in front of the dark shop.

Unlike the present, back then Russia was pretty much conscious albeit injured everywhere. He shifted weights to fully leaning against the window when he noticed him. For no clear reasons, his feet dragged his body to stop in front of him and he threw a grin at him followed by "Don't worry about me. I'll be gone in the morning."

The click and clack from the unlocked door and merry jingle of bell bounced around the vacant shop. Germany hated how he could still see East's shadow walking past him, carrying a heap of flowers in his arms even in the low light. Once the lights were flicked on, East was gone.