Winter's Sleep (A RusGer Fanfiction)

Chapter XVI: Despair

There was an ache Somewhere in Germany's chest, a small crack on the surface of a glass pane standing before him, an acute sense of discord between him and reality. He tapped it lightly, a small nudge of fingertips, and the crack spread like a creeping web.

When everything shattered, the scenery morphed into fuzzy images and sculpted shapes. Splashes of colors danced in a flurry and faint cracklings echoed in the ears. There was an odd sensation of being trapped in a room full of water—a thick blanket of quietude encapsulating him in a heavy embrace, all senses dulled, and time marched slower. The room was a cold space missing its means, distant to him like a far-off memory, yet not all that foreign. Amidst the hint of familiarity and trying to discern the crackles, the lingering discordant diminished. Minuscule fragments of clarity lulled the ambivalent sways of mind to tranquility. Realization permeated and brought him back from his aimless wander in a daydream.

Somewhere, there was a murmur of a voice that chased away the reverie. Maybe his silence invited confusion, but he could not deny how the growing lump in his chest robbed him of his attention. Aureate irises blinked, erasing the remnants of the vague images of a woman to capture a sight. There was someone in a familiar uniform standing in front of him. Brown hair and hazel eyes, tall figure, and firm stature. A person. A man.

A police officer.

What was he doing here?

Images of a person rose to the mind immediately, one who sauntered onto him in a high fever and mind barely holding onto consciousness. A whole weight fell on him and all else was silent with his slumber—the man who once again occupied his room in a similar manner for reasons unclear.

Russia.

"Welcome," Germany mustered a small smile along the late greeting before turning around and walking to his messy workstation, "please take your time to look around."

That was a different line from the one he said in the morning after he patched Russia up. Back then, his "May I help you?" sounded to be a good question as a citizen of Germany. Then, the "I haven't" was said in a tremble in response to "Have you seen a young man with purple eyes and orange hair recently around here?". They were two different lines, and yet, the intention behind them was still the same. The feeling that accompanied those words was still the same.

But would it be fine for him to shield him? To feign obliviousness to whatever chaos Russia might have caused before dragging himself there?

Was he making the right choice?

"Miss."

His foot halted mid-step. He caught himself from flinching at the stiff voice resounding in the cold space. His heart skipped a beat and breaths hitched in his throat. His head ached, thumping a bit too hard as he made him quick turn back at the police officer. He prayed, then, that he would make it quick and not see past his lies.

"Yes? Do you need—"

But his question fell short at noun. The rest barely left Germany's throat with shades of blue filling his field of sight. Maybe there were white and green too. Uncertainty mingled until a blink cleared it.

This...

Aquilegia coeruleas, three of them, held by the officer as if he was offering them to him. They looked vibrant and fresh, swaying gently on the shaky but firm hold. Golden eyes shifted from the flowers to the man; a wondering look accentuated by the slight tilt of his head visibly seen.

"Oh, these..." he caught on, clearing his throat, "aquilegia coeruleas. For you. From earlier this morning. I-I mean—"

Germany stared at the flowers—flashes of pictures of tender sunlight landing on a figure with a smile like a sun rose to mind—and then his gaze quickly fell back to his hands. They were clenching his apron, fingers digging into the fabric, all staut joints and almost white knuckles. Blood rushed to the fingers when he let go—an odd sense of warmth and tingle washed over and it decided to stay. The sight of those three aquilegia coeruleas made his stomach twist.