He was always so strong. He always wanted to protect first Austria, then Lichtenstein. He had a big heart, even if he pretended to be an asshole, but the same was true for himself.
They're on better terms now; maybe not as close as they had been in those glorious childhood days, but they were getting there. Roderich and Vash are finally burying their hatchets and becoming closer.
It sounds perfect, doesn't it? Austria and Switzerland reunited? But, although close, they have their tensions.
Never will they say they resent each other. No, not anymore. They stress over each other, their politics, governments and their own personal problems; but they talk.
They won't reach breaking point again.
Vash tells himself this again and again, but bite marks purple on his arms and scratches from scissors, rusty nails and tarnished drawing pins stretch along his thighs and abdomen.
It's just a reaction to stress, nothing more. He's ok, will be ok. He's just like an old rag doll, losing his stuffing in places but still in one piece; those dolls are tough if you'll let them be.
But Roderich keeps trying to convince him to let him be the strong one now, to let go and trust.
He can't do that, won't do that; Roderich is a doll with even less stuffing. It'll eat him from the inside out, like acid; and Vash isn't so sure that isn't happening already.
He's pulled up against a warm chest, and his back is imprinted with the bone bars of the heart's cage. A poetic and possibly melodramatic way to put it, perhaps, but the one he was being pulled against could certainly be those things; and his heart could certainly be caged.
Long, dexterous fingers gently eased the pale flesh of Vash's arm from between the Swiss man's teeth.
"You were biting yourself again," Roderich informs, but his tone is as soft as could be.
Purple crescents, almost making a circle, mar his skin. He sighs and scratches the back of his neck.
"Sorry…" He mumbles, eyes cast down to the worn floorboards so that his gaze won't meet worried violet.
He can feel the weight of that gaze.
"I made Dobos Torte," The Austria sighs. There's a small smile in his voice, somewhere, and he rubs up and down Vash's arms with that smooth touch, running over bruising bite marks of various colours and ages. The tick tension lapsed for a moment, until Vash felt those clover lips pressed to his neck; he knew he'd have a mark from Roderich's makeup.
"Will you eat any?" Vash asks.
Silence echoes through the room and the lips on his neck freeze. The bony grip loosens, and Vash stands.
The cold strikes him first. The Austrian gives off heat like a radiator, having little insulation to help him keep the warmth within his own body.
The second feeling is something akin to loneliness; which is ridiculous, because Roderich's only on the floor, he's only standing.
"Vash?" Roderich inquires as the man in question turns towards the door.
"I've told you before; I'm fine, no cosy allowed," He huffs, but he feels an icy pang in his chest.
He leaves and closes the bedroom door behind him. Not their bedroom door, they're still working towards that. He wishes to hear a retort, a protest, anything.
Thanks to that cold dismissal, they may be even further away now. There are times where they are perfectly loving towards each other, but this is not one of them.
Vash walks down the worn hallway, pretending he can't hear the choked down sobs emanating from behind the bedroom door.