It was that day again. The day she was burned at the stake.
France slowly opened his eyes. The day was already weighing on his bones and his hand reached for the only relief he knew.
The bottle was freezing in his hands (He had turned off his heater, and his morning were kinda cold) but he uncorked it nonetheless.
He didn't even raise his head as he stuck the mouth of the bottle into his lips, letting the smooth liquid swish down his throat and burn lightly to his gullet.
In a couple of minutes, the buzz would come and take him away. He prayed it would come before the tears.
He usually makes breakfast around this time. He usually showers and shaves.
He usually does a lot of things.
Not today.
Dragging his already tipsy body to the living room, he feels the tears. Hot mercury falls down his face, but he doesn't sob. There is no noise from his lips. He had learned not to, since the neighbors would worry. This usually happy and perverted man down in the slumps? That was something they should investigate.
He wanted to be left alone.
He doesn't even lay on the sofa. Just slips his aching body forcibly onto the ground, and begins to let the tears flow faster.
It hurts inside. He misses her so bad. He wants her back.
He can t have her back. That s what happens when your a country. You see people that are actually deserving of immortality, yet they slip through your fingers like water. But, instead of just drifting back into the rest of the world, it leaves you raw. It leaves you to bleed
It leaves you to die inside and regret every second of every moment when you didn t do something.
He swallows more of the red liquid, and sniffles. Wrapping himself tighter into the blankets, he stares at the darkness. The darkness is nice.
It s comforting. It s warm, it s lulling.. It s inviting.
It shows you nothing. Nothing bad. Nothing good. Something you can stare at with a clear conscious and not be judged or mocked by it.
He drinks more, to a point were he is hiccuping and there is no feeling in his heart.
Knock knock!
He doesn't move. No time has passed in his little cocoon, and he wants it that way. His nose is dug into his carpet, and he smells nice pine from his cleaning powder.
knock knock knock knock KNOCK KNOCK
He doesn't move.
There is a rustle, and the door swings open.
"Liebe?"
"Amor?"
Oh.. god. He doesn't want to think of love. At all. It s the reason he s in this slump anyway.
There is light footsteps along with heavy clunks. He recognizes them anywhere.
A sigh, and a gasp make him rustle himself from his makeshift nest.
"Que voulez-vouz..."
he sniffles and sits up. The light hurts his eyes, and he puts the bottle again to his lips. Instead of finding the reassuring liquid, he finds air. Even when he shakes it, nothing comes out.
Soft hands take his bottle, and he hears his refrigerator opening. His eyes adjust and soft red eyes are staring at him.
Francis Prussia leans in and kisses France s forehead. Spain comes out of the kitchen and hands him a glass of water.
"Fransisco"
Spain pulls him into a hug, and France clutches him. Prussia cooes lightly, and pets his hair. Spain peppers his hair with kisses and sings in spanish.
And France cries. He cries and cries and cries.
Because it doesn't matter how miserable he is
His friends understand His friends will hug him till he s better. Kiss the tears away.
They"ll always be with him
They now his secret
He s not the way he is because he wants to. He s the way he is because he needs to numb the pain.
And they're okay with that.
Because they love him.
They love him .
_ 000
Some B.T.T. friendship feels for you. Its fucking two a.m. im listening to My Chemical Romance
Fuck. I need a life
But i while post Prussia's angst and Spain's angst. Maybe later. Right now, I need to talk with Mr. Sandman