Tʜᴇ Pᴀᴛʜ Tᴏ Hɪɢʜɢᴀᴛᴇs

Bʀɪᴛᴀɪɴ's Fᴀᴍᴇᴅ Tᴇᴀ Pᴀʀᴛʏ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 60

You knocked on the door you had been led to by the specific directions you had been given.

There was a moment of silence, before someone on the other side called through with a quick, 'Come in!'

You pushed open the door slowly, heaving under its weight— shoving with your entire body, before peaking your head through.

Russian Empire sat on a loveseat by himself, a cigar in one hand, Vodka in the other. France was seated on the floor, his back against the dresser behind him, a collection of unopened bottles by his feet, his hands held the same as his Russian companion. Britain was seated on the bed, lounging back comfortably against a throne of pillows, the same in his hands as the others.

They had ditched their formal attires for something a little more comfortable. Basic uniforms and suits not far from what they wore before— yet giving them some extra comfort as they sat to themselves. Though, Britain still wore his crown for some reason.

The Brit smiled at you as you squeezed through, and into the room. "Oh wow, look what the cat dragged in." He joked, bringing his cigar up to his lips.

You clicked your fingers at him, then pointed. "Never say that again."

He laughed, choking a little on the smoke in his throat. Before he gestured to a chair in front of France, inviting you to sit without words— which you did, clumsily hopping on top and shifting to get comfy.

"Did your little dinner date not go well huh?" Britain questioned, giving a sly look as he drank— his face already flushed. They must have been drinking for a while at that point, and it seems they would be drinking for the rest of the night, if the large collection of bottles at France's feet were any indication.

"It wasn't a date and how do you know about that?" You asked, giving Britain a weird look.

You and Soviet had talked for hours— all about nonsense and little things you remembered. Jokes and moments in time solidified in your mind as memories you told yourself you would never forget.

You were still a liar.

Every time he tried to ask you how you ended up here, you gave him a fake story. A remnant of the coffin ships you recalled from your history classes— telling him all about the harrowing story of how you boarded a liner in America in order to reach Europe. Days spent at sea— sick as the waves crashed and pounded at the ship's stern, reaching up with razor claws to pull it down into the depths of the unknown.

He seemed to have believed you, how could he not? You remembered those stories so well, they stuck with you. It seemed like the worst place on Earth. Trapped under deck, as the sea called for its fee, the Sun baking you alive, the vast plane of nothingness that seemed it would never end.

You had Soviet on the edge of his seat when you retold it. Even if it was all fallacious make believe in your life.

"I walked past the kitchen and saw you and Red Russia having a moment," Britain explained, as France leaned towards you with a bottle outstretched by the neck. You took it from him— it was one of German Empire's posh whiskeys, you had a sneaking suspicion they weren't given these, but rather stole them, but you didn't mention it.

You cracked off the lid and opened it— just as Britain handed you a pack of cigarettes and a lend of his silver Ronson lighter.

"You had dinner vith Red Russia?" Russian Empire asked, taking your attention as you flicked the lighter— a fervent clicking emanating in the air. "I did." You mumbled through the paper in your mouth— taking a pull before you lowered it. You settled comfortably in your seat, lounging back with your legs crossed, knowing full well you wouldn't leave this room until your mind was gone.