Prove Me Wrong (Rusame)

Under the Wraps

Trigger warning here guys. Please, if you have any suicidal/self-harm thoughts or tendencies please read at your own risk. I'll give a warning before the worst of it and tell u when it's safe. I'll also give a summary at the bottom of this chapter so you can still know key things that happened during the moment.

Narrator's POV

Russia was drunk again. It wasn't a school night, so he didn't hold back. He grabbed a bottle from the cupboards, made sure his siblings were okay, and went upstairs to his room. A few chugs in, the tears started to flow. The memories became fuzzy, but the feelings were still there. The pain of his father's passing, the pain of having to stay strong for his family, the pain of having to deal with everyone giving him shit for stuff they didn't understand.

He sat on his bed and took another swig of the bottle. He whipped away the liquid from his mouth and looked around his room. So many things he's let build up in the mess he resides in. Photos, stuff his younger siblings had made for him, trinkets from his short childhood, and some of his dad's old stuff. A few medals, and his unshaken.

Russia stood, almost losing his balance, and slowly walked to his closet. He opened it, starting to move like a rag doll, and grabbed out the wooden chest that sat at the bottom.

He opened the chest and hesitated to make another move. Inside, rested on top of everything, was a Soviet Union flag. It was neatly folded and put away. Russia grabbed it with careful, trembling hands and held it up to his face. It smelled of smoke, gunfire, and whiskey. It wasn't appealing, but Russia didn't care. He still held it close to him, wishing he could hold his father instead of his old flag that had once hung proudly in his office.

Russia set that down and took out more things in the chest. A broken mirror, in that he noticed how much he was crying at that point. Some old photographs of USSR in his uniform, talking to allies, and even one with him shaking hands with Germany's dad.

Third Riche.

That bastard.

Russia moved to rip the photo in half, but he saw his dad's face in the old image. He was smiling, his heart hadn't been broken yet. The pains of the war hadn't settled in then. He looked happy. He couldn't ruin that.

He gently set the photo down and dug through more things. They were all cold to the touch, packed away for a while. The metals had begun to lose their shine, his clothes had started to smell musty, and his notes still looked as they had years before. He took another drink of his vodka, so he could feel more numbed about everything.

America was in his room, door locked, and throwing up again. Black liquid trickled down his chin and he whipped it away. He had sat his sunglasses aside on his nightstand this time, so he didn't break them again. His stomach churned, but his body was drained of any energy so he was left with the urge to throw up, but no strength to do it.

He groaned and let himself fall to the floor. The tiles were cold but he could barely feel it. That one wasn't too bad. It was a good thing he was alone in his room this time. Now if he could lucky like that every time, it'll save him the anxiety.

America didn't move for about ten minutes. Then he decided to lay down on his bed and rest. Until he can make sure he's not speaking another language again.

He grabbed his bag and dragged onto the bed with himself. That notebook that Russia had grabbed when they first started the project. The one he didn't let anyone touch. He wrote down everything about his episodes in that book. The language he speaks, the feelings he got, and everything that came to mind during that. He couldn't let anyone see that. People would start to think of countless different things. Maybe even think that he was a bad country.