Winter's Sleep (A RusGer Fanfiction)

Chapter IX: Unanswered Questions and Empty answers

Germany was one soul teetering on a fine line between the somnolent wakefulness of 6.34 am and consciousness submerged in the timeless ocean of memories named dream.

He drifted in further, deeper, down to the memory's lair, and air bubbles popped around him one by one. The course of water shifted and created a gentle nudge of dull echoes in his ears. Germany turned and the vivid sensation of holding East's warm hand dispersed into the humid air and thin scent of smoke.

Golden eyes cracked open, taking in the penetrating yellow light from dawn long gone through the cracks of the beige curtain. Tuesday rolled lazily into the mind nestled on a sunny smile, dark black hair set aflutter, and waves crashing the shore of a far-off beach. The clock sitting on the bedside table told him it was 6.35 am.

It was a weird time to wake up to, but Germany took it all in through blurred vision—the sight of the longer hand settling atop of 7 and the shorter hand pointing at the lonely gap between 6 and 7. Dawn had really long gone and this was not supposed the time he woke up.

4 am. Germany was supposed to wake up somewhere around that time.

It could be sooner or it could be later, but he never exceeded the break of dawn; never exceeded the way deep violet sky bled into a washed-out red hue and melted into pale orange bordering white. Germany never woke up to a blue sky. It was always either deep amethyst or shy vermillion.

Or lately, it would be when the sky was still blanketed by the darkness.

Outside, the azurite sky was adorned by scattered white clouds, accompanied by the thin gossamer veil of rain. Pitters and patters of water hitting the ground were muffled by the window with bright sunlight fell to the floor. It glowed, catching his eyes, then it finally sunk in him.

It was a sunshower.

Someone, maybe a good person, died today. East used to tell him that; folklore from somewhere he could not remember but often heard back when they lived in the orphanage. That was what came to mind instead of the postscript of him wonder about a missing piece in his unusually tranquil rousing.

Maybe he was still stuck inside his dream, after all. However, the dryness hanging around his mouth was too real and the ache inching from his lower limb was too sharp for a dream.

His dream did not feature a smoke-scented room with a cup knocked over by the leg of bed and ash spilled from there, nor did it had a half-used cigarette floating inside the plastic basin. His short dream consisted of him sinking, drowning deeper into the depth of a bottomless ocean. And with his sank, a memory of East and him walking on the subtle overlap between ocean and beach flashed in and out.

Here was not the dark ocean, here did not have those soft echoes of a lull of the sea, hence this was not a dream. However, it felt like reality had yet to grab ahold of him as his mind barely processed anything more than what he saw and felt.

Germany wondered why.

It could be caused by the rain, as rain always brought a sense of intrusive melancholy and sluggish movement with it. Or maybe a part of him was left sinking further in that ocean, or it could be simply caused by the lack of sleep.

Maybe it was a mixture of them; all become one bad cocktail of a heavy body, tongue aching for the bitter taste of coffee, and mind stuck in the depth.

A hand rubbed the heaviness away from his pale eyelids and the other helped to push his body into a sitting position. Everything spun slightly before it stilled after a moment of rubbing the temple lightly with hot fingers. The floor was cold under his bare feet when he slid out of bed.