Flowers and Brambles

ch3

America groaned as he rolled around in the bed he lay in, before his eyes snapped open. Clutching onto the bedsheets, he jolted upright, panic arising in his chest.

Where was he?

There was a pain in America's neck. He hissed, his hand reaching up to where it hurt. His breath hitched when he felt a gaping hole; even though it had made itself apparent, America could still easily breathe, easily move, the strangest fact that he felt much less pain than it should've.

America bunched his fist, biting his lip. None of this was happening. America would've been dead by then.

Feeling his face for his glasses, America huffed when he didn't find them. He looked over to the set of drawers that were pressed against the bed, they were nowhere to be seen.

"Hello?" A deep, smooth voice from across the house called, America froze all over, "You are awake?"

America didn't respond, watching the doorway closely in anxiety as he heard the footsteps near.

Soon enough, a man entered the room. He was tall, a simple t-shirt failed to cover up his bulk. He wore beige trousers, followed with a pair of black socks.

The both of them stared.

"W-who are you?" America asked, his tone higher than it normally was. He backed up against the wall the bed was against.

"There is no need to be afraid," The man spoke, his hands beside his head and his palms out to America, "My name is Russia. I will explain whatever you decide to ask-"

"—Where am I?" America interrupted immediately. The man, Russia, blinked, leaning his weight against the wall behind him.

"You are in middle of forest," Russia explained, making various unrecognisable hand gestures, "If you are from city, city is around an hour away."

America winced at his statement.

"Is there power or anything here?" He questioned, searching his pockets for his phone. Russia simply shook his head, meanwhile crossing his arms.

America rubbed his eyes and groaned loudly, pouting at the world.

"Look," Russia tapped his neck, then pointed at America. America looked down to his own, the gap still highly visible. "I cannot let you out of here and back into city with hole in neck. I do not want to imagine what they can do to you."

"I can wear a scarf or something?" America complained, rubbing his neck.

"Is middle of summer," Russia chuckled, taking his time to walk to the foot of the bed. He sat down, and faced America. "Scarf does not help in summer. Is strange to wear scarf when it is warm."

"So?" America huffed, his face turning red while he crossed his arms. "I should be allowed to do what I wanna. Just give me the directions to the city, and I'll be outta here."

"No," Russia blinked, averting his gaze to across the room, "Until I work out what I will do about wound, you are staying."

"Don't act like my mom," America snarled, digging his nails into his arms, "Why are you so... Strict. Jeez."

"Because you are my responsibility," Russia glared at America from the corner of his eyes, "You are in my house, on my property. If you get hurt of go missing and I was the last to be seen with you, I will be in trouble."

"Why should I care?" America retorted.

"Because I worked hard for this place!" Russia snapped, having America flinch, "I do not want to lose it. Somebody shot you in the neck, and I so happened to find you! If I left you there and people had found me, I would lose this place, I would face fines or go to prison. I cannot care less about you. I care about what I have worked for, what I have achieved, and what I want to keep."

America nodded hesitantly, nodding slowly. He didn't quite understand the effort and pain that had gone into Russia's property, but he'd picked up that it was a lot.

"I do not even know your name," Russia continued, a million times quieter, "I want you to leave as much as you want to go. But that cannot happen yet."

America sighed, "My name's America. Sorry.. about that."

Russia nodded, fiddling with his fingers as he stared down at the boarded floor.

America noticed that Russia wasn't quite the most patient. Less torerating. He didn't understand why, though; maybe Russia wasn't the most social. And that'd make sense, too - why would he be living in the middle of nowhere if he loved to visit his many friends every day?

"So I was dead then?" America hummed, switching subjects. Russia opened his mouth slightly, before shutting it again, trying to search for the most appropriate phrase he could use.

"I will not lie," Russia finally spoke, "When I found you, you were dead, yes. You were not breathing. But suddenly you got up."

Russia skipped over the bit about the flakey black plants that'd died when America had come back to life.

America stared down at his palms, "Maybe countries can't die. Maybe for a little bit, but not forever.."

"Yes, they die," Russia dismissed America's idea, "When I first woke up, a man was with me. He was taller than me. He was..."

Russia awoke with a start. A figure tapped him on the forehead, with a sorrowful expression across his face. He was close to Russia, kneeling in front of him. He wore the same hat Russia did, but his face was completely red with a set of golden tools on a patch over one of his eyes.

"You do not remember," He muttered, tears stinging in his eye, "Do you?"

Russia backed up against whatever he had been leaning on, slightly uncomfortable.

The room they both sat in was illuminated by a single lamp, beside a mattress on the floorboards. Russia was pushing his duvet away, afraid of the newcomer.

"Rosiya, please," He begged, his hands began to crack and crumble, "You are the last one who remembers me. Please."

Russia shivered violently, fearing what he watched.

"Please..." They pleaded weakly. Their face cracked, small pieces of it drifted down onto the bed and disappeared soon after.

Russia shook his head slowly, covering his face with his arms. Russia was pulled into an embrace.

"Please remember me," The figure sobbed, their arm had completely vanished, "Rosiya, remember your father."

Then, he was gone.

"..he wasn't anyone special."