Medicine = Magic [RoChu Fanfiction]

Chapter Sixteen

*This chapter is set before Chapter Fifteen and directly after Chapter Fourteen which is why it is all in italics (much like Chapter Twelve).

China was still in his kitchen thirty minutes after Russia left.

Still spinning the cup between his hands. Still thinking about their interaction.

He enjoyed talking to the Russian. He really did. It was sometimes nice to be able to talk to people other than himself or his bosses. Occasionally he spoke with the neighbors but he hadn't really tried to interact with them recently.

It was usually an internal struggle to talk with humans who he could get along with. On one hand, he was happy that they didn't have to suffer through near-eternal life. On the other hand, however, it was awful to see people he cared about go.

People he cared about.

The cup's spinning stopped with a hollow 'clack' as his nails hit the edges. It really was not healthy to keep thinking about negative things. Wasn't he supposed to be... what was the word. Ditzy? Light hearted? Not depressed?

A heavy sigh left his lungs. Did he really care if it was 'healthy'? No. No of course not. It didn't matter to him if what he thought about, or at least the light he viewed things he thought about in, was negative. He knew that if he didn't make an effort to heal he wouldn't. (He wasn't really sure if he was ready to heal even after all this time.)

Innocently, as if his mind was trying to get itself off of the topic, Russia drifted back into his mind. The white haired, violet eyed personification he had been sure he disliked. Had been.

At this point he was starting to appreciate the man. His visits (even if more times than not in the middle of the night) were a good way to not lose himself in loneliness. With company, even if it was such pathetic company as that, there were times he could get the pain of past experiences out of his head.

Sad? Yes, of course it was.

He had things to take care of, multiple human leaders to worry about, a dragon boss who hadn't contacted him in over a month. The dishes, meetings, paperwork and general selfcare. But what did that matter in the long run if something as trivial as trauma over two thousand years ago was still fresh in his mind?

He was fully aware that the others had been through awful things, and many of his other experiences in war (particularly injuries) should have been worse and more fresh in his mind. But those things happened far more often than misscariage.

Actually, did it fully count as misscariage? It had been through an injury after all, did that change the classification somehow? (In the back of his mind he knew it did not change the classification, it was just a question he asked himself quite often.)

This question roughly translated into, "but is it valid?" He asked himself aloud, head snapping up from the table to stare daggers at the wall across from him.

And really, was it valid? Did it count if no one but him was aware of it? If he was a guy and no one would believe him if he even tried to tell anyone? Probably not.

An impossible weight seemed to drop in his abdomen, the bitter taste of dull fear sticking to the back of his throat. What if people would blame him for it? He did of course blame himself so it would not be a far cry if others thought the same. He had been the one to agree to go into the battle. He had been the one to foolishly allow the injury to happen. He had-

Quietly, he cut himself off, "No," he whispered, slowly standing, "just don't think about it." (This was a horrible coping mechanism and he knew it, but with the rare will to care about his own well being it was the best he could do.)