^^^ I didn't draw that. I found it on someone else's book or something and I thought it was cute (and sad)
My friend said she ships Third Reich X Russia and I'm like
USSR: am I a joke to you?!
I think I might just keep doing the book in 3rd person from now on. My brain seems to find it easier so idk 👌🏻 this chapter is also longer than normal yeet
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When Russia opened his eyes, he expected it to be dark. He was already surprised when he didn't wake up in a panic or crying, but was even more surprised to see the sun was up. As he looked towards the window, his head throbbed in pain, causing him to immediately squeeze his eyes back shut. He felt some foreign weight on the bed right next to him, and as he focused on it, he felt something on his chest. He turned his head ever so slightly to the side, confused, and saw America laying there, his arm trapped under the smaller country's body. He hadn't been hugging America in his sleep necessarily, but he did have his arm around him at one point.
What the fuck happened? Why is he here?
He couldn't sit up because of America sleeping on him, and he grew nervous. He hastily tried to pull his arm back without waking America up, and once he did, he ever so slowly slid over to the side and sat up, trying to ignore the splitting pain in his head. He also felt lightheaded but didn't know why right then. He was dazed and confused, and couldn't remember anything. He remembered getting a phone call from the café, and everything afterwards was hazy.
The café.
Why did the café call?
He racked his brain, trying to remember, before giving up and looking around slowly. He felt his eyes involuntarily go wide when he looked down and saw himself in a different shirt, and no pants. His face started to go red, from embarrassment and anger, as well as confusion, as to why his clothes were taken off. He also felt the blood drain from his face as he realized whoever changed his shirt saw the bandage on his arm, and now he was wearing a short sleeve shirt that completely exposed them.
No, no, no, no...
He saw blood on the bandage from the deep cuts he'd made. They also would have seen the blood, right? Now he was really fucked. Someone knew his secret. He prayed to god Ukraine had changed his shirt. If America had done it he felt like he would tell someone, and he didn't want that to spread around.
God please, no.
He shot up from the bed and stumbled to the wardrobe, quickly but quietly opening it and tossing everything aside to find one something else to put on. He found the black baggy hoodie Kazakstan had mailed him a few years ago, and put it on without second thought. It had been a size too big, so the sleeves were extra long and the bottom hem of the hood went down to his mid thighs. Kazakstan didn't really know what size clothes Russia wore, as he didn't live with them anymore and didn't visit often... but it was the thought that had counted. He yanked the sleeves farther over his wrist and gripped the material hard between his fingers and palm, praying nobody noticed the bandages, although his gut was telling him there was not point because it was inevitable. He quickly slid on a pair of adidas sweats in a panicked state, and felt his hands begin to tremble. He just stood there, unsure of what to do now, and let his mind go racing.
I'm screwed. Everyone is going to hear about this. I don't want this, I don't want it. I can't deal with anymore shit right now.
He put his head in his hand, still standing in front of the wardrobe, and tried to calm down, but he knew it wasn't happening. He tried to take deep breaths as his body grew hot, but they were sharp and panicked and he couldn't stop them. He stumbled to his bag and started digging through it until he found two small plastic orange containers, labeled with medication names. He hated looking at them, because it just gave him reminders of how fucked up his life was, but he still used them when he absolutely needed to. He rarely ever took his depression medications because he didn't want to. He didn't want the treatment, it was like a complete confirmation something about him was fucked up, and people would judge him for it. But, he did use the anxiety meds whenever he was having a serious attack. Some attacks were worse than others, and if they were too serious he'd try to handle them on his own, but now, he didn't want someone walking in the room or America waking up and seeing like this. He didn't want to judgement, or the pity. Both of them sucked. As he fumbled with the container in his hands, trying to get his shaking hands to open the damn lid, he noticed America wasn't wearing pants either, and was dressed in one of the shirts from his wardrobe. He felt even more nervous of it was even possible, and more desperate to get the pill out. He finally popped the lid off, and didn't notice had stirred and was now leaning up to look at him, realizing what the noises where. He desperately got the pill from the bottle, and took it dry. He nearly coughed as he felt it stick in his throat for a moment, but he swallowed again and finally got it to go down. He then got the lid back onto the bottle and dropped them back into the bag, falling back against the wall with a shaky sigh, praying the medicine would take effect soon. He rubbed his head painfully and looked up in surprise to see America watching him.
