Tʜᴇ Isʟᴀɴᴅ Iɴ Bᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ

Dᴇɴɪᴀʟ Asᴛʀᴏᴘʜɪʟᴇ

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 18

Russia's eyes blinked open— groggily.

His mind pounding in his skull. Muscles weak and inflamed as he pushed himself up, groaning and holding his head.

He wasn't in his bed. He had fallen asleep on the floor of the kitchen. His body freezing in the open air— arms and back aching from having slept on the hard ground.

He couldn't remember why he was there. He couldn't remember how he got there.

Everything seemed a million miles away as he pushed himself to his feet— a copy of a copy of a copy, a repented image relaying an incomplete story, halfway finished, halfway began.

He couldn't remember anything of what had happened. Of why he had slept on the floor— his stomach began to burn. Twisting and cramping, rumbling as it squeezed, sickening him to some great extent.

He cupped his mouth with a fist— his other arm around his stomach, and ran. Down the winding stairs, down each floor, down to the door and out into the world beyond.

His muscles cramped, his head reeled— heart beating wildly in his ribcage, punching desperately at the walls, cracking and shattering the breath in his chest.

He rushed through the grass— feeling a sickening liquid crawl up his throat. Chunky and bitter, sharp in taste, staining his throat as slabs of old half-digested food clogged his oesophagus.

He threw the outhouse door open— dropping to his knees he began harking up his insides into the toilet. Finding a disgusting grip on whatever was available, the flaps of his hat dangling toward the water— gagging rolled his eyes back, constant spasms of his throat shook his body and forced him to vomit more.

There was nothing he could do to help himself.

He hardly noticed when you came in. Awoken by his sudden springing, following to find him vomiting alone.

You stepped up behind him, dropping to your knees also and taking his hat from him. Resting it on your lap.

You rubbed his back as he finished, pulling his head back up and attempting to wipe his lips— though before he could, you grabbed his wrist and moved his hand away, wiping them yourself with a clean bit of toilet paper— much to Russia's surprise.

But he was too ill to do anything else. To say something more. He merely leaned against the toilet bowl, his head bowed— eyes closed, waiting to see if that sickening feeling would crawl back up again.

"How are you feeling?" You asked, shuffling to get comfy. Before you handed his hat back out for him to take. "Like shit." He mumbled. "What happened last night?"

You looked away. He was trying to fix his hat on his head— shuffling it constantly. Seated just inches in front of you, folded knee brushing yours, the afterglow of whatever breath he had bushing against you.

You hadn't forgotten last night.

It was one of the worst you ever had.

For hours— you were forced to listen to the sound of him crying, on repeat. For hours, he sobbed, sniffling all the while. Whilst you laid in bed, eyes to the ceiling, covers to your chin, listening— and wanting to do the same.

You didn't want to explain that to him. So you chose to remain silent. Rather, standing back to your feet— Russia keeping his eyes on yours all the while, before you turned to leave.

You didn't want to relive yesterday.

You didn't want him to remember what you had done to him.

Though before you could, he grabbed your wrist, drawing his torso a little higher. Hope ablaze in those sad heavy eyes. "Do you vant to go somewhere vith me? I'd really like to see rest of island."