Tea time with a commie - Countryhumans SovBrit

Chapter 15 • Aftermath.

Soviet's POV:

My head hurts. The room is spinning. I have a hangover, don't I? Of course. Of course I do. I shouldn't have drunk at all last night. But, the last few days have been far too busy. I needed to relax – to take the edge off. Especially after last night's phone call. Apparently I have to go to that capitalist pig's land just for one last meeting of the year. I swear he said that last meeting. But, if it is, then I won't have to deal with him for another month (it's November).

Begrudgingly, I turn my head to the clock. Eleven in the morning. I've slept in. Raising myself up, with an ache that's splitting my head open, I stare out as mid-day light glares through the window. I burry my head in the palm of my hands, groaning out my headache. My vision is all-too blurry. Everything is spinning. But, I should just endure it.

Eventually, after God knows how long, I fianlly stand up and ready for what's left of the day. As I do, I notice small, fresh cuts along my hand. Did I break a bottle by chance? My memories are foggy at best, but I fully recall smashing it against...

Ебать.

I rush out my room soon after. Британия, I swear to the Lord above, if you died— the amount of trouble I would be in with America! He'll be hurt, definetly. That can't be hidden. Not a chance! And the week I've spent building up trust! I've definetly lost it all by now. For fucks sake! Why didn't he tell me to stop drinking? Why the hell did I even ask for vodka!?

Finally, I arrive at the hallway. Hundreds of shards of glass scattered the floor. All of them with a small smudge of red. The carpet beneath had small stains of the same, viscous colour. All of it mixed with the beverage within the bottle. That's going to be a сука to clean out...

The door was open by just an inch. Maybe he was alright. Maybe he managed to get to bed. But an irritating feeling guts me. I need to at least check on him. Just to see if he's breathing. And just to see the damage. Nothing else. I grit my teeth together, stepping over the glass with my boots, and place my hand against the door. Before I push, I hear two of my children speaking. What the hell are they doing in there? I recognise who is in there just by their voices: Украина (Ukraine) and Эстон (Estonia). I can't hear exactly what they're saying, they're too quiet. I suppose I have to enter the room, then. Don't I?

I take a heavy breath in and push the door wide. My two daughters jump up, startled by appearance. They're both tending to Britain – and too my delight, he doesn't look so badly injured. Speaking in Russian ((which the author isn't going to translate)), I ask,
"What are you two doing?"
They both look to each other, stuttering quietly until Estonia spoke up.
"He's hurt! We're helping him."
How sweet. But I'd rather they not try to interact with my guests.
"Hurt? How?" I ask, curiosly.
I know how. And I'm sure they do, too. Slowly, I step forward, noticing that Britain is either waking up or is very tired. It's hard to tell. My daughters back up from me, cupping their hands together or not making eye contact.
"In the head," Ukraine then explains, "and a bit on the arm, too."
They haven't done much to help him, only lightly wrap bandages around his arm and kept a cloth to his head.
"You two can leave. I can help him."
They both nod and hurridly leave.

Britain's eyes widen as he watches them both leave the room and watches me walk closer. He might not forgive me. I brace myself and speak in English,
"Британия, are you alright?" I ask softly. If I'm lucky, maybe he doesn't remember last night.
He shuffles back, raising his arm to his chest. Short, audible breaths could be heard. His lip trembles, unable to form a response. Instead, he shakes his head.
He definetly recalls last night. That twinge in my stomach begins again. It's hard not to feel bad when he's all bundled up like that.
"What's wrong?"
Again, he couldn't utter a response. He's shaking, badly too. Eventually, in a whimper of a voice, he stutters out,
"You...–" he doesn't want to speak further, but I tilt my head to encourage him. I need to hear what he remembers, "–you h-hit me..." He breaths in heavily. A tear falls from his cheek.

"Really? Where?" At least he's lucid. All I can do is speak softly and hope he calms down.
He shuffles back further,
"My head."
He held a white cloth, slowly soaking in pale red, against his head.
"May I see?" I asked. How bad is it?
His grip only tightens on the cloth. Clearly, he doesn't want to. That's fine. I reach my hand slowly towards him, to which he flinches. His eyes were shut tight and he held his head down, cowering into the covers. I doubt I'd be able to regain his trust. Eventually, my hand touches his as I pull it and the cloth away from his head.

...

Oh God. It's still fresh. What the fuck have I done!? If anyone else see's this – if the rest of NATO finds out – then I'd be deep in trouble. A small trickle of blood drips down onto sheets. That small twinge guts me once more. This time, I take that feeling in. Is it regret? Regret because of the trouble I'm going to be in? I can't help but feel horrible for even striking him in the first place. My hand jitters as my mind recalls what I did last night. Each time it does, it becomes more clear than water. Seeing the smile that Britain once had being worn out etches at my heart. I want to hold my hand out, ask him if he's alright, and see him happy. I'm sure he'd like the same. But I just can't bring myself to. I don't need to! He is – technically – the enemy afterall. I don't need to apologize. I shouldn't be upset if he never speaks to me again.

And through a trembling breath, he said,
"I think I need to go to a hospital–"
"No, no! You're fine, really!"
I'm not a fan of hospitals in all honesty. Nor do I like doctors. Surgeons? Yes. Doctors? No. As long as surgery isn't needed, Britain doesn't need to see a doctor.

As I place the cloth back onto his wound, he takes in a sharp breath.
"Does it hurt?"
Slowly, he lifts his hands against mine, trying to push me away.
"It stings," he says quietly, "and everything is blurry."
That's not a good sign. Not one bit. But I'm certain he'll live.
"You will be fine," I utter out half coldly, half sincerely.
The more I take in that twinge, the worse I feel about it. A tear wells up in Britain's eye. He must of only heard my colder tone. All trust I've built up with him ruined in just a single night. If he ends the relationship here, what does that say about me? A sense of shame washes over me. My feelings are forcing me to say something.

"Britain," I begin and he looks up at me, "I'm sorry."

He just nods. Hesitantly.

What else do I say? He won't just accept a simple sorry.
"I... I was drunk and I didn't know what I was doing – I was angry about something and ended up taking it out on you. I didn't mean to... I'm sorry." I don't except him to accept this as an apology, either.

With his head down, I hear him mutter quietly,
"It... It's fine.. you were drunk and didn't mean to," the speed of his voice picks up, "I forgive you."

He forigives me?

"I think I should go back, though..."

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((Short chapter but ehhh it's fine. The next one may be short too, idk. We'll get to that when we get to that ))