A previously slumbering UK now laid on his back, staring at the ceiling and counting each specific tile ingrained in Soviet's room. He simply couldn't sleep no matter how hard he snuggled into the other's rising-and-falling chest and shut his eyes, no matter how limp he tried to become, and no matter how much he buried himself into the blanket. So, he had given up and mumbled each amount to himself.
...
Twenty two, twenty three, twenty four, twenty five...
Sudden memories flowed inside of his mind like a gentle wave, yet the memories in question weren't so. He was twenty five when he had divorced France. That face of hers when she had furiously locked the children's arms into her grip and yanked them away from behind him, one by one, swiftly turning on her heel when she had finished her beration, her dress blowing him into a distant future, and the children snapping their heads around with bleary eyes to turn to their father. To turn to the man they had once adored, and now were snatched away from with a warm hand which promised a better life full of prosper. Maybe it was for the better, he had thought after all these years alone, and even when he considered it was the opposite, he quickly reminded himself what he had done.
He was never good enough for her, and that's his crime against her. So it was completely reasonable to leave without a second thought.
Just like his children's eyes had been on that day, his had started to become misty, and his stomach began to stir. Yet the rest of his face remained utterly still, because he wouldn't dare cry and wake up Soviet. He has nothing to do with his personal problems, and it's not his buisness.
...
Tears streamed down his face, and he weakly covered his mouth to gulp down any saliva that had gathered in his throat. Some had splashed on the pillows, staining it with his sorrow, and he was yet again reminded of Soviet in his misery. So, like a good husband, he turned away from his lover's chest with his whole body and kept his stupid little sobstory to himself, his stupid little life to himself.
Through his silent cries, he slowly realised the true reason for his crying. It wasn't because of France.
It was because he was so fucking alone.
Even when others were in his presence, he still felt like a spotlight shone on him in an empty theatre, and even if there were onlookers secretly hiding under the seats, they didn't mean much to him at all. Unimportant. A background piece to his main action. In the past, he wondered if he was shitty for thinking this, if he was selfish, self-centered, but in reality, it was simply his defense mechanism to his past. His constant abandonment.
Maybe he doesn't need anyone anyway.
His cries became louder and louder, to the point where his throat felt clogged from mucus and spit and even to the point where it could be heard through his clamped hand. Eyes puffy, nose red and his hands shaking like leaves in the wind, he simply gave up, snivelling pathetically. Whenever he tilted his head ever so slightly, he realised he had sobbed so much that fresh tears sat dormant ontop of the soaked pillowcase, and that he stained his cheeks with his own melancholy. So what if the other woke up and found him crying? He would comfort him or atleast try to, right?
A strong hand snaked around his waist and turned his whole body around. It was Soviet. He woke up. Fuck.
Britain froze, his muscles tensed. He watched as, through exhausted eyes, the other scanned his expression and the wetness on the pillow. A brow raised, he question in a mix of fatigue and confusion.
"... are you crying?"
"No honey.. d-don't fret about me, go back to sleep-"
That same hand that was once around his waist slipped away, and up to his cheek, cupping it.
"Even I can see your tears through the dark.. what happened? Bad dream?"
UK wished it was a bad dream. How he wished that he could trick his brain into thinking that everything bad he experienced was simply a bad dream, a hallucination, not real, fake. But he couldn't, no matter how desperately he wanted it to be true. He sighed in defeat.
"... yes. It was a terrible dream, I apologise for waking you up, but please just go back to sleep!"
Soviet sensed the quick tone, the urgency in his voice and yet couldn't be bothered to delve deeper into this mishap. So he nodded, his hands now holding UK close into his chest.
...
But he knew he was lying. Nobody cries that much over something as trivial as a bad dream. Nobody.
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im gonna start recording word counts so this chapter was 780 words
<3 see you
