Winter's Sleep (A RusGer Fanfiction)

Chapter XI: Russia's Apology

Germany remembered drinking and stumbling over a chair.

It was somewhere around 3 am, a moment where the night ran on ambivalent tilt edging into dawn, sweet dandelion wine pumping in vein, and bitter nicotine stuck at the roof of his mouth. There was a half-empty bottle of liquor casting absinthe hue to the kitchen counter and a dirty makeshift astray glinting under low light. Next to it, an empty beer bottle sat idly, catching a figure walking away in its reflection—out of the kitchen and into the shop area.

When feet stepped into space, traces of what happened hours ago materialized in fleeting phantom figures; repeating a series of actions, eliciting unsightly feelings that ate away him inside. A flinch broke like one deep jab into the gut and the scene faded into the shadows of the unlit room. Those pair of molten gold orbs blinked, and there was nothing then.

Cloudy eyes were dragged away from the table with wilting pansies to the floor, and half a sigh brushed past his lips. So much for drinking in moderation. He could imagine Italy frowning at him suppose he knew.

But he needed this.

This freedom.

Freedom of mind, at least, because physical freedom was something he could not afford and utterly out of his reach. Yet even with liquor pounding his head, memories seemed to refuse to go away. Or maybe he refused to let it go. Whichever it was, it did not change the fact that the beer had failed to do its duty of keeping them at bay.

A beat passed together with his walk to the door. His shadow danced together with the dull ring of bell and flickers of orange light from a lampion hung at the closed store across. A soft click of lock permeated into his ears. Germany's hand captured the coldness of the door handle before letting it go almost hesitantly. One last fleeting gaze cast on tremulous hand and then he turned away.

At the prolonged minutes filled with heavy steps trudging on the empty street, Germany swore the air was hotter than it was back inside. And although he believed there would be nothing more than getting some fresh air to the stroll, somehow he ended up with legs dipped in saltwater and a beige knit sweater shivered from the cold ocean breeze. Hooded eyes framed in the glisten of ocean under the moonlight.

The scene was familiar and oddly nostalgic with a snap of bitterness gripping by its shore. It was both startling and not, like something that had happened yet failed to rekindle. Germany felt as if he was revisiting a crude idea; crossing a boundary he set himself, rolling into an echo of motion across time.

Maybe this had actually happened somewhere previously.

Shrill drunken laughter pierced the still harbour, interrupting erratic heartbeats and occasional rumbles of waves crashing against docked boats. Everything was still a blob of mushy white in his head—a heavy mixture of reality muddled by intoxicating mirage—and Germany took a step forward. The shift sparked a ripple and distorted his reflection in the water, bringing him a step closer to sobriety, but not enough to determine why hesitation swirled around him.

Then, he remembered—a couple of weeks after East's funeral, at 3 am, at the exact same place of a half-sunken dock close by a boat where an old man used for fishing. Even without fully understanding why he could easily guess that this time he might have the same reason and intention for standing there.

Yet as much as Germany wished he could remember more of what happened after that or how he returned home with just one shoe, he could not help but somewhat regretting how he did not take more steps forward. Into the dark, into the depth; plunging far and deep into the sea and—

Poof.

—disappear.

(Brother will be sad, you know.)