Søvn, lillebror

Emil wasn't sure what had gone wrong. How he somehow managed to find himself in this situation. Maybe it was just stress. Yea, that's right. It's just stress. Give it a few more minutes, and he'd be back to normal. But, he didn't really have a few minutes. Him and the Nordics were planning on leaving early for a meeting they had in Tallinn. And even if he was confused about his current situation, he knew for certain he wasn't going to let one of the others see him like this. So ungraded and vulnerable. So weak. His nails dug into the wood of the dresser.
“Hættu þessu hálfvitinn þinn, þetta er heimskulegt! Hættu!*.” He growled to himself, glaring at the red-eyed Icelander in the mirror. His face was red, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. He looked as weak as he felt. Trembling, a fist fell against the mirror. He didn't yell out as shards of glass punctured his skin, smaller fragments littering the untidy room. He watched, mesmerized, as a trail of merlot blood trickled down his forearm. Already the wounds had started to heal. He found a nauseating feeling grow in the pit of his stomach. He fought against himself as he stared down at the glass that littered the floor. He knew he couldn't kill himself. Most nations realized that fact quite early on. It took a lot to kill a nation. Even the ancient nations didn't really die, they just...faded away. They knew they were no longer needed, or that the times had changed against them. And for those like Prussia, mere memory kept them from disappearing. This made him angry. Why should they have to suffer through centuries of war and greed and hatred? What God did they anger? He never asked for this. To exist. To be apart of this damned world. Why couldn't it have been somebody else? Anybody else. Anyone but him. This was all ridiculous. Every part of their forsaken existence. It's was ridiculous. They were all blind. They went on like nothing was wrong. Like their existence was normal. But they were far from normal. His wounds were now almost completely gone. Yet, blood still trickled down his arm. The color was sickly. It made him ill. He always hated blood. He saw more than enough of it when he was younger. The urge to stoop down and retrieve a larger shard kept pestering him. But what good would it do? How would any of this help him? He wanted to scream, and kick, and cry. But the others weren't too far away. Packing in their own rooms, going about like everything was okay. But it was far from okay. Nothing was okay anymore. Knuckles rapped against his locked door.
“Island, hurry up. We have to leave soon,” Why? The meetings are pointless. Nothing ever happens. Couldn't he just stay here until he finally disappeared? He didn't respond to his elder brother. Instead, he let himself fall to the ground, sitting amongst the broken shards of glass. “Island?” The Icelander had taken interest in a rather large shard, spinning it between his fingers as light reflected of its crystal surface. It was almost perfectly diamond shaped. But the jagged edges were prominent, ruining something that could have been beautiful. He let one of its points run against his palm. Blood slowly erupted from his palm. Almost like a volcano. Almost pretty. He continued to drag its harsh edge against his skin. He had gone numb to the almost panicked calls from the others. Why were they so worried? He's not someone one should waste their energy on. A crack sounded through the room, like wood splintering under a large weight. Panic swelled as he realized Denmark had begun his attempt at knocking down the door. The shard slipped from his grip and he began to push the large shards of glass out of sight. He could lie. Say his mirror broke and he'd cut himself trying to clean it up. They'd believe a story like that, right? He found his vision blurring from tears once more. Trembling with anxiety, he tried to beat the Dane and clean up any evidence before the door came crashing open. But his trembling hands kept dropping the glass, and his blurred vision made it difficult to collect them. Idiot. Idiot. You're so stupid. Now they're going to ask questions and you'll never see the light of day. You worthless- The door had finally given way. Why didn't he just hide? He could have jumped from his window. A broken ankle sounded much more appealing than being confronted by his brothers.
“Iceland!” Panic was evident in his brother's voice. He had worried Norway to the point where his guard was let down. He had hurt his older brother. He was a bastard. A selfish, worthless bastard. He found Norway pulling him against him, prying the shards of glass from him with trembling hands. He kept mumbling in Norwegian. Emil was too exhausted to wrap his mind around the familiar words. The only thing that registered in his mind was his brother saying his name over and over again. He couldn't speak. It hurt too much to try, and every time he thought to speak up Norway would just hush him. He could see Denmark, Sweden, and Finland in the doorway. The trio seemed paralyzed. Their shock made him angry. His brother's worry made him angry. The soft Norwegian words of comfort that his brother couldn't seem to stop made him angry. The Icelander weakly tried to push Norway back. He simply held tighter, his face burying into Iceland’s shoulder. He hated how stubborn his brother was. He hated how he hid his emotions, and insisted that he baby him. He hated that he was doing it now, and that he couldn't do nothing about it. All he could do was cry like some child.
“Láttu mig í friði*.” The words burned his throat, scraping like knives. The pain brought a feeling of comfort. Maybe if he yelled he would feel better. But he couldn't seem to make his voice work. Denmark had joined them now. He was crying, mumbling in Danish as he cradled the brothers. Norway didn't push him away. Iceland wanted him to though. He had no right. Lukas was his brother. It didn't matter if the Dane had been with him longer. He had no right. But Denmark was crying. The rare act brought a deep feeling of guilt. Not only had he hurt his brother, he had pushed Denmark to tears, too. Iceland tightly gripped the Dane's shirt. Eventually, the five sat on the ground, each trying to comfort another. Emil had caused this. He had hurt his family. His sobs grew louder. He wasn't sure whether he was clinging onto Berwald or Mathias, or if it was Lukas’ lap he was in or Tino's. It didn't really matter. He had to fix what he had done. “Mér þykir það leitt. Mér þykir það leitt*….” He continued to mumble out apologies. But each time he did, someone would tell him he had nothing to be sorry for, that they were the ones that should be sorry. Emil found himself growing more exhausted, his eyelids becoming more and more heavy. He began to panic. He couldn't sleep now. He knew he'd find himself alone when he woke up. He couldn't be alone. He was tired of being alone. It scared him. “Ég elska þig. Ég elska þig*. Don’t…..please don't leave me.” Norway hugged him tightly, kissing his brother's forehead. “I promise we won't. I promise I'll be here when you wake up. Søvn, lillebror*.” Guilt and anxiety still overwhelming his system, Emil drifted off to sleep.

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Hættu þessu hálfvitinn þinn, þetta er heimskulegt! Hættu!-stop it, You idiot. This is stupid. Stop it.
Láttu mig í friði-Leave me alone.
Mér þykir það leitt. Mér þykir það leitt-I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
Ég elska þig. Ég elska þig-I love you. I love you.
Søvn, lillebror-Sleep, little brother.
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