We Don't Care (Gerpol)

Chapter 37

casually skips Poland's POV
slight language and blood warning

Germany's P.O.V.

Am I dead? It feels like I'm dead.

It's been almost a month since Poland's initial disappearance, and I don't think I've been handling it...adequately.

Sure, I've lost friends before. Some family, at that. But why does this mean so much?

I've puzzled it so many times I think my head might fall off. There's got to be some reason. I mean, other than the fact we met as kids and never saw each other again until a few months ago.

How, how how?

Maybe if I ask it enough times I'll finally find an answer.

_________________________________

Russia pulls into my driveway, but it feels like an empty shell. The flower boxes are empty. The windows are coated in frost. I even feel the truck skid a little on the asphalt.

Austria is at my side when we stop. She looks different from the last time I saw her. There are lines on her face, and her favorite bow sags a little.

"Let's go, Germany." She says. That wakes me up a little. When has she ever called me by my full name?

I walk through the front door, looking at my table. I remember when Poland was here; he would trace the patterns with his fingers. Sweden carved it for me himself.

My boots have tracked some snow into the house. Vague footprints follow me from the entrance.

Finally, I'm in my room. The curtains are drawn. Beer bottles are stacked on the nightstands. The covers are neatly made, the bathroom door ajar. The pictures on my dresser watch me like hawks.

I open a drawer to grab a shirt, and my eyes fly open.

The space shirt.

The astronaut holding a thumbs up brings tears to my eyes. I wipe my face with it. It still smells like him. I bring it with me, along with a black shirt in a backpack that's tight around my arms. Russia and the others are waiting in the car. It is quiet.
We drive back to the pawn shop, against Hungary's best efforts. We're pulling into the parking lot when we spot another car. It's a van, with grey paint and a dirty-looking interior. There's a flash of red in the backseat and my instincts kick into high gear.

"Russland," I say as quietly as I can. I motion towards the van. He nods. Of course he would understand, and thank God for it too.
He gets out, moving to the back of the van. I move to the driver's side, squatting down so whoever's inside doesn't see me. Russia nods at me, giving me the go-ahead.

I throw open the driver door. There's a country sitting there, playing on their phone and looking quite surprised. In the back seat, tied up and gagged, there's none other than...
"POLAND!" I scream, adrenaline pulsing through my veins at a thousand miles an hour. The country in the drivers seat is jolted awake, and they start wrestling me to the ground. I fall back with an oof. Russia comes up from the back of the car and tries to pry him off me, but another, different country appears and starts to grapple with him. Russia may be strong, but not strong enough for two combat-trained countries.

I try to push past them and get into the back seat, but a third country springs up from the middle row and slams my body against the seat. I kick them in the stomach with my boot, still trying desperately to get to the back. They slam me into the side of the car again, the door opening and causing us to both tumble out onto the pavement. Austria, Hungary, Lithuania, and Slovakia are there, holding down the two other countries and yelling at them. Austria spots me, and seething with rage, runs over and forcefully kicks my attacker in the ribs. They fly sideways, rolling on the asphalt and groaning.