Peter isn't quite sure what to do with himself when it dawns on him that Denmark is crying. A large, obvious part of him knows that he should be offering some kind of comfort, any at all, but he's still stone shocked from before with bits of skin and streaks of red all over his neck and face, and Denmark is still coughing up more and more blood into his palm between sobs and Peter just doesn't know how to handle it. He's scared. Terrified. Scared that the people might still be looking for them, scared that Belgium and Netherlands are dead, scared that he has the brains of a complete stranger all over his coat, scared that Denmark keeps repeating Netherlands' name over and over again like it's the only thing keeping him in one piece. He's scared by the steadily increasing pool of blood between the roots of the tree and the fact that they only have one bullet left and barely enough food to last a week if they're lucky. Everything has crashed into him at once; every fear and morbid thought he has had over the last several years slowly but surely becoming a reality.
And he is suddenly very, very aware of just how small he actually is.
He brings trembling hands up to his face and tries to wipe his cheek clean. His skin is sticky and hot from running and when both palms come away thick with red, he spends a long moment just staring, wide-eyed and hyperventilating, before he lurches forward and grabs Denmark around the waist, burying his face between his shaking shoulders and screaming into his back. It's selfish. He knows it's selfish. Denmark is torn between mourning and sickness and all Peter can do is cry for his own fear. He want to be mature and he wants to comfort him and he wants to be as brave as Denmark has been for him, but he has someone else's blood all over him and he doesn't know what to do.
Denmark looses his balance when Peter crashes into him and falls sideways onto his stomach in front of the tree. He tries to brace himself, tries to push back up, but his arms buckle and all he can manage to do is lie still with his forehead pressed into the crook of his elbow, eyes pinched shut as he struggles to get his breath back.
"Peter," he wheezes. "It's okay."
Peter shakes his head and pulls off of him, his fists clenched into the front of his coat while he watches Denmark turn slowly onto his back. His lips and nose are stained red and wet and still running slowly in little diagonal lines down his cheeks into his ears. His chest is heaving and his pale face is streaked with tears, eyes barely open, and he makes absolutely not a single move to sit up.
"D-Denmark get up, I need your help." He grabs the sleeve of Denmark's coat and tries to haul him upright. "Please, I n-need to get it off..."
Denmark's hand comes up to rest on top of his own, but he says nothing. He's too winded still. He has an arm wrapped around his chest where Netherlands' boots came down, empty, wet breaths pulled in and out, in and out, and his eyes are too unfocused to possibly be able to see properly. He's blinking, so irregular and sluggish, and he's too shaken and thin and weak and leaking too much into the ash...
He's dying, Peter realizes suddenly.
He's been dying the whole time.
Peter grips his coat and tries again to tug him up. "Get up!" He cries. "P-please get up, please, I need your help!" He manages to shake Denmark several times but he's far too weak himself to pull him upright again. He pitches forward and presses himself to Denmark's hitching chest. "Please... please, please, please get up..."
He can feel Denmark swallow and bring a hand up to the back of his head. "I will," he murmurs. "Just... give me a minute, okay?"
Peter just curls his fingers into Denmark's lapels and cries into his neck.
He isn't sure how much time passes before Denmark finally plants both hands on the ground and pushes himself into a stiff sitting position. He sits still for a moment, just pulling in slow breaths before he carefully seats Peter against the truck of the tree and, keeping a hand on his shoulder, picks up their bag and rummages around until he finds an open bottle of water. He uncaps it with his teeth and tips it into his bandana, turning Peter's head to the side and gently pressing the wet cloth to his bloodstained cheek. He doesn't say a word while he works- just silently clears his skin, pausing every now and then to rinse the bandana, and picks pieces of bone and flesh from his hair until he is clean once again and only sniffling.
