Crossing Borders [Hetalia]

пять - an influx of absurdity

His head is still spinning.

Toris sits, alone, in the luxorious seat that threatens to swallow him whole if he so much as relaxes a fraction of his tension-filled muscles. Well, not quite alone; Valentina has fallen asleep in the seat beside him, worn out from her first venture into the outside world.

What China told him has not left his thoughts, not even for a single moment, in the hours since boarding the private jet. He debated at first whether he should keep it from the others, thinking the information too volatile to be divulged; but he was never very good at keeping secrets and - under threat of "punishment" from Ivan - he repeated what the Asian country had spoken to him about in the empty meeting hall.

Eduard had expressed his shock by raising a brow.

Raivis had begun to tremble horribly.

Ivan had only smiled delightedly, as though this news brought him great amusement. Just like a child.

Valentina had been asleep and therefore is still ignorant of the revelation - and Toris is still agonizing over whether or not he should tell her the truth. The supposed truth, but a very justifiable and credited form of the truth, nonetheless.

Would she be better off without the knowledge that she may, in fact, be a country? Though there's always the possibility of her being a city or a province of some sort... Whatever she may be, it doesn't change the question: Would she be better off living without her memories?

He breaths out a quiet, weighted sigh, his head in his hands, shoulders slumped forward, once more under the influence of condenming hands. The others are no help, too absorbed in their own activities to lend the hopeless Lithuanian a hand. They don't seem to care one way or the other, whether she's told her origins now or never. Eduard, in particular, reasons there's no point in telling her now, as she'll be able to fill in the blanks herself the moment her memories are returned to her.

But what if the first step to triggering the return of her memories is informing her of who she is?

Resigning himself to his lonely thoughts, Toris' wavering green eyes stray to her gentle form, lost in her dreamscape world, a tender smile touching her lips. Peaceful. 

Ignorance is bliss, he muses silently.

As he watches, her face contorts, a flare of something darker flitting over her features. Beneath heavy lids, her eyes flicker back and forth, searching, searching for something or someone or anything. Her lips part, then close, part and close again, as though she's fighting for something say. 

Nightmare? he guesses. Concerned, he reaches out to shake her shoulder, hoping to wake her, but the moment passes before his fingertips touch her sleeve, and her face slackens in relief. He drops his hand, settles it back in his lap. She's strong, he knows, strong enough to handle the truth. But is he strong enough to deliver it?

Time passes. Toris, still lost in his ever-spinning thoughts, abruptly feels something tickle his hand, a wisp of movement that shoots up his head, eyes scanning frantically for the source, only to realize it's a stray strand of Valentina's ashen hair. Her head has begun to loll, her body relaxing as she delves further into the realm of sleep. He shifts closer, wanting to give her a shoulder as support so that she doesn't bang her head and startle herself awake unnecessarily.

A second goes by, then two, then a third, and so on, until Toris, confused, raises his head again, wondering if perhaps she's shifted the other way in her sleep. He pales, his eyes widening, as he notices the gloved hand cradling Valentina's drooping head, keeping it from resting against Toris' shoulder. 

"Time for you to get up, da?"

He's moving, scrambling from his seat, before the sentence is even finished, giving the hulking Russian man room to slip into the previously occupied seat (all without removing his hand from Valentina and, subsequently, causing her to stir). The moment he's settled in comfortably, his hand falls, and the girl wilts, head head dropping instead against the Russian's shoulder. 

Another smile, another wisp of amenity, gracing her features. Her body twists, curling up in the seat, allowing her to cuddle closer to the source of breathtaking warmth she's experienced before, the warmth she (even in an unconscious state) knows she would be dead without. 

"U-Um... Mr. Russia," Toris manages to mumble, flinching as Ivan's violet eyes alight on him, "w-why...?"

"No reason," he unexpectedly smiles; Toris cringes again. "I wanted to sit here. The view is prettier. There isn't a problem, da?"

Toris furiously shakes his head, slinking away to collapse next to Eduard, who's been blocking out the current proceedings by immersing himself in one of the many books brought for the journey (he insisted on bringing ones of his own collection so that Valentina wouldn't be too influenced by all the Russian propaganda plaguing their home). "Are you alright?" the blonde asks, taking a moment to look away from his novel and glance worriedly at his brother. 

"M-Maybe..." Toris mutters, reclining into the plush seat. "I just don't understand Mr. Russia... I've never seen him act so oddly before..."

"Don't take it for granted," Eduard advises as he sweeps his gaze back to the yellowing pages in his lap. "He may still scare the living hell out of us, but he hasn't done anything openly aggressive in weeks, and I very much think it has everything to do with Valentina's arrival."

"You could be right..." 

The view is prettier, he said. But isn't the view the same no matter where you sit, so long as you're on the same side of the jet...?