Chapter 25: Six: Six
Gilbert smirked, lazing about on the couch he had stretched out upon, ruby eyes roaming the figures across from him. He and the human had returned to the Russian mansion about two hours ago, and since then it had been somewhat relaxing. Viktor wanted them to wait for Ivan and Ludwig before they watched what was on the DVDs, and Prussia huffed, but agreed nonetheless.
Now they were playing cards, a game suggested by Ukraine when she heard Gilbert complain about being bored. He thought poker or blackjack would be entertaining; but no, Italy happily asked in that adorable voice if they could play Go Fish…
How exciting.
"Give me your threes!" He cackled as the human beside him grumbled, taking cards from his hand and giving them to the smug Prussian. Whether it was a game he could benefit from or not, he still took a bit of pleasure in the competition.
He looked to the figures across from him, smiling a little wider. Ukraine and Italy were huddled up on the loveseat, giggling and talking about sissy things; Gilbert didn't care to listen to their conversation, but he was struck by the cute pair the two made. Ukraine was hot, Prussia would admit that easily (unless Russia was around, then he'd keep that comment to himself); she had a pretty face, big eyes, nice straight hair, and that headband threw in a cute-factor.
And, of course, the boobs… That counted for something- they had to be, like, double Ds.
Next to her was Italy, and despite the fact that Feliciano was a boy, he was cute and sexy like any girl would be. He had a small build, and was on the short side in terms of height, but his smile was radiant, his eyes bright, and his positive attitude was contagious.
"So," he drawled out, catching the attention of the other two nations. "Winner of this round gets to share a bed with the awesome me tonight."
Ukraine laughed. "What makes you so sure, Mr. Prussia?"
"I'm already sharing with Doitsu, though…"
Prussia gasped dramatically. "Both of you, so cruelly making me sleep on a couch, all alone, cold, without love-"
Viktor started to laugh. "Incorrigible."
Gilbert leaned over to drape himself over the human, pretending to cry. "These chicks just don't understand my awesomeness any more. You should have seen me in my empire days! A hot babe in my bed every night-"
"Brother Prussia is lying, Ve!"
"I am not, twerp!" He leapt across the table, catching Italy in a headlock and ruffling his hair; the boy yelped, yelling out apologies, but it was all in good fun, and the boy laughed afterwards.
Loud music interrupted the playful banter: some kind of rock song with German lyrics that clued them in to the fact that it was Prussia's. He rolled his eyes, flopping across Italy and Ukraine's laps, groaning in dismay as he answered the phone call. "West, I'm behaving, I swear."
The two giggled at his antics and Viktor shook his head, eyes on the ceiling as if asking the heavens why. Gilbert grinned at him, throwing him a little wink. Cause I'm awesome. "Preußen," The grin fell a bit, and he paid more attention to the voice on the other end of the phone; it sounded strange, almost like his brother was-"I want you to get things ready, I'm coming in with a badly injured Russia. He'll need emergency care-"
"What?" Gilbert asked. "Wait… what?"
"Gilbert! Listen to me!" Prussia straightened, pushing away from the two curious nations who were beginning to look at him strangely. Gilbert threw them a tight smile and walked around the coffee table, heading into the kitchen where they couldn't listen in on the conversation. "I need you to set up a room; find a first aid kit, needle and thread. I need bandages, peroxide- set me up a mini operating room, verstanden?"
"Ja…"
"Get Italy and Ukraine out; I don't want them seeing this."
"Okay. Sure, I'll do that."
"Be there in ten minutes." The call ended with a hurried click and Gilbert slowly blinked at the device in his hand. One of the shortest conversations he's ever had with his brother, and Ludwig wasn't much of a talker. He didn't understand the situation, but he knew his sibling was panicking for whatever reason, and when that happened, Gilbert simply went with it. Thinking of an excuse for the two nations in the living room, he returned to the group, trying to look casual.
"Hey, West said he'll be a little longer, and he wants you to go to bed, Feli. No need for you to wait up for him."
"Okay!" The boy was easy enough to sway, and he jumped up, claiming he was going to get ready.
Gilbert turned to Ukraine next. "You should do the same, huh? Your brother wouldn't want you to stay up late, either."
"Yes, I suppose." She stood, smiling at the two men remaining. "Thank you for the game, it was fun!"
Then, she too made her way upstairs, calling out a "Sleep well!" behind her.
With the two out of sight, Gilbert grabbed Viktor and pulled him across the living room, down the hall, and burst into the master bedroom. The human sputtered behind him. "What are you doing?"
"Russia is injured, West is on his way; we need to cover the bed with something."
Kozlov took a full minute to sort that sentence out; after all, Prussia had just stated an impossibility and an order in one sentence as if he was talking about the weather. "O-okay, why are we covering the bed?"
"So the mattress isn't stained with his own blood," Prussia said obviously. "Keep up, kid. Let's find the things we need…"
Prussia hadn't believed Ivan's wounds were so severe; Germany's voice sounded on the edge of panic, but in the end, Gilbert had just huffed and wondered What? Little Russia fell and scraped his knee?
When West walked in with a dead looking Russia, Gilbert's thoughts came to an abrupt stop, and from then on, it was a mad dash and a messed up game of doctor. The human had nearly fainted twice and Prussia was pretty sure Ivan had died on the 'operating table.'
Ludwig was no doctor, but he had known what to do, even without the help of modern technology. They had stitched the Russian up, repairing the damage done to his insides as much as possible. Despite how much blood and damage the puncture wound on his stomach caused, Germany had the most trouble with the head injury.
Ludwig claimed Ivan's skull was fractured, and he had to pick the broken shards of bone from the gash before Russia's healing factor sealed them within his head. A nation's ability to heal to the point of regeneration could come with consequences. The body made mistakes; it healed itself regardless of whether the bone was set correctly. If left alone, Ivan's body would heal, leaving the broken skull fragments lodged inside, and it wouldn't be very fun if they had to go back in to fish them out.
It was difficult for Ludwig to go in with a set of sterile tweezers, delicately extracting the loose pieces, especially when Ivan was suffering from "intracranial hemorrhage" (Germany's fancy way of saying "bleeding from the brain"). There was nothing he could do about that; none of them were brain surgeons, but even Prussia had to admit, it scared him to see Russia go into convulsions.
Like, violent shaking, epileptic seizure, foaming at the mouth convulsions.
Yeah, Prussia was a bit freaked out; even if it was nothing he hadn't seen before, one couldn't get used to death or completely disregard suffering, no matter how much training he'd been through. He certainly never saw Russia in such a position, and to know that this was from a stupid tournament, involving humans and not Nations…
He didn't know what to think. He'd never seen so much damage outside of war-times; in such a case, Ivan would have received these types of injuries on the front line, and that would have been acceptable. This was wrong; humans were never supposed to have so much control over their nation, nobody except their bosses could hurt them so. And yet, Dmitri Mihailov, not only a human, but also Russia's own civilian, did this to him.
Had Gilbert not known the reason, he'd sneer at the deplorable nation before him; however, as difficult as it was to explain… he respected Ivan for it.
He did it for Matthew.
Knowing the Russian cared so much, he started to feel guilty for blaming him earlier. There was no doubt Ivan truly wanted to save Canada, not after this. So much courage, passion, strength; in order to take so much damage for someone Prussia hadn't even thought he had been close to- it was honorable.
… Gilbert still hated him.
But his vision of the Russian's motives changed, and he felt relieved; Matthew was going to be saved, that was for sure. Ivan wasn't messing around, and Gilbert would happily stand by his side, watching that blunt silver pipe as it was used on someone other than him for once- and using a few of his own medieval torturing methods on the guy as well.
A familiar sadistic grin crossed his features as he sat in one of the overstuffed chairs beside Ivan's bed. He had been instructed to watch over the Russian in case he went into any more seizures, but so far, everything was quiet. The house was dark and he was the only occupant still awake in the mansion; he didn't see the point, but his mind was racing too fast for him to sleep anyway.
It was only when he heard a creak that he stopped his wild (and x-rated) thoughts on performing torture techniques. He turned to the bedroom door, watching it open slowly, narrowing his eyes as a thin form stepped through; snow white hair, short black dress, high heeled shoes that made little sound.
Belarus… didn't Ivan banish her from his house? He heard something about that- whatever, not his problem.
She shut the door quietly behind her, striding into the room, stopping next to the albino and staring listlessly at her brother's form. "Is he well?"
Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Uh, no; he was practically gutted, and then his head was beat in with a mace. I don't think he's well."
His sarcasm wasn't deemed worthy of an answer; she just continued to stare. Prussia rolled his eyes, digging out his phone, bored enough to surf through it and play a few games on the device.
"What do you think of Matthew Williams?"
Gilbert didn't glance away from his phone, starting up an old Atari game: Asteroids. "Birdie is awesome. I mean, not as awesome as me, but-"
"Why do you like him?"
"Huh?" He never considered why he liked the kid. "Uh, well, he's nice, fun, cute. He makes awesome pancakes. He's not stupid; actually, he's really smart and perceptive. He likes to people-watch, which he's really good at, 'cause he's kinda invisible. People forget about him a lot…kid's kinda lonely, so I try to visit him with my awesomeness as much as I can."
Belarus made a humming noise, stepping closer to her brother, reaching out with one hand to brush a stray piece of hair away; it was covered, as much of his hair was, in dry blood, caked on and turning the once soft tendrils into stiff, stringy strands. His skin was pale, loss of blood and stress showing. He looked dead; the slight rise and fall of his chest the only thing that proved he wasn't.
There was movement at the man's side, and her eyes locked on a ball of white, snuggled up to the Russian: a polar bear. The animal's head lay on the man's chest, looking relaxed, but the eyes were open, watching Belarus's every move with rapt attention, like she was a threat…
She wanted to laugh; it wasn't like she was going to hurt her brother. And yet, a small part of her told her that she already had. Her hand at Ivan's forehead paused, and then withdrew. She stood there, not knowing what to do, and just watched her brother breathe.
Trying to ignore the scene in front of him, Gilbert pressed buttons on his phone faster, sticking his tongue out in concentration.
The woman turned around to him, having had enough of the thick atmosphere. She placed a hand on his shoulder as she walked past his chair. "Please look after him," she said. Gilbert frowned.
"He can look after himself. Russia's a big boy; he doesn't need to be baby-sat."
Her grip tightened slightly. "I don't want to see him hurt."
"Yeah, well, it's his choice, just like everything in life is. If he wants to do something, the best thing you can do is support him."
Her stance tensed momentarily, and had he not been focused on his game, he would have seen her face break from its blank slate into a look of surprised anguish. "What if what he wants… is bad for him?"
Prussia snorted ineloquently. "Lots of things I wanted to do weren't good for me, but West backed me up one-hundred percent."
"And look at where you are," she replied.
He did glance up then, sending her a glare. "I put myself here; there's nothing Ludwig could have done to stop me if he'd tried, and if he had, I would have run him over like everyone else. Ivan is the same way: you try to stop him, he'll come back even stronger."
"But he-"
"Matthew is worth it to him," Prussia interrupted impatiently. "If that is what you're worried about. He wouldn't have done this for Canada if he didn't like the kid. The moment he wakes up, we're going over evidence; and we're going to get him back."
Their eyes locked: her coal blue with his bright red. "Do you like him?" she asked, then repeated to clarify what she actually meant: "Matthew… Do you like him?"
His expression turned slightly sheepish. "W-well, the other way around actually; he kinda likes me. I mean, who wouldn't? I'm awesome! Ha…" His laugh trailed off. "But he has particular beliefs… I'm not good at commitment."
"Does my brother like him?"
Gilbert scrunched up his nose. "No idea… I really don't want to know about his love-life. But, uh, anyone would be lucky to have Birdie."
Natalya glanced back at her brother, and then to Gilbert. She made another humming noise before walking out of the room, shutting the door silently behind her. Gilbert was left alone once more, a confused, slightly unhappy expression on his face.
Ivan and Matthew as a couple? Fuck, that would be crazy; Birdie's family would freak, Belarus would freak, that means I would have to come over here for pancakes- Oh hell no!
Damn it, it had better not be true! He wanted his pancakes without a side of stupid Russian!
…oOo…
Matthew was so tired; tired of being in the same position on the bed, tired of being treated like a child, tired of being weak, tired of crying…
He couldn't stop the tears from rolling down his face; not after what he had seen. Ivan, injured and angry, that spark in his eyes withering as he crossed the threshold. Matthew didn't want this- knowing Ivan cared, knowing that someone was at least trying to save him, it made him happy.
However, now, he just wished to be forgotten. He didn't deserve to put Russia through such pain- he wasn't worth it. How he wished he could just say that; just tell Ivan that he was okay, he would get out of this by himself… eventually. Sure, it would take a while; but he would much rather suffer the time in Mihailov's company than be forced to watch someone he cared about get hurt.
His eyes closed, another tear escaping, slowly making its way down the paths its brethren traveled before it; his cheeks were wet with them, residue of the salt drying on his skin. The burn mark he'd acquired not two hours ago sent out small slithers of pain every once and a while; it wasn't as bad as he first thought, though.
He couldn't see the wound, but he knew it was there, despite the numbness, and he wondered how bad it was; how long it would take to heal. A superficial wound would not scar, but he still feared the mark would forever blemish his face.
Not like he didn't have enough self-esteem issues with his body; he always thought he was too thin, not quite filled out, effeminate, wearing baggy clothes that weren't exactly top-of-the-line in fashion. He didn't have an outstanding presence, so why have anything more in appearance?
Average everything, that was him. Nothing to seriously fight for… and yet for some reason, Ivan found him worthy enough to practically die for (he'd come back, but still, such a gesture was huge). There was no ulterior motive, Matthew thought; nothing else Ivan would gain from saving him.
Did he really make such an impression on the Russian?
Well, Matthew knew being around Ivan had raised his confidence a few notches; he wasn't so tolerant of being ignored, and he stood up for himself when America insulted his military. Ivan influenced him; gave him strength, paid attention to him (even though it was mostly with contempt at something he had done, he never forgot him, in the whole time he'd been with the man).
They had helped each other, slowly changed their views; they both cared about one another, a bond that strengthened into … this.
Matthew didn't know what this was; what their relationship was dubbed as didn't matter, but he knew Ivan had been the only person to see him as he was. To be able to point out all the differences between he and Alfred; to honestly be interested in his culture- and Matthew returned it with all his might.
In half a month, Matthew found someone he could truly relate to and care about; someone he could, without a doubt, call a friend.
Friends or not, though, Matthew didn't want Ivan to hurt any more. He felt pathetic as it was; now he just felt guilty for wanting to be saved in the first place.
His dark amethyst eyes turned to the door, watching it open to reveal Alec Zaytsev, Dmitri's right-hand man. Matthew glared at him too, hating him almost as much. It was the first time to see the man's face properly since he had been kidnapped, and he felt a sliver of satisfaction at the man's injured state. His left hand was shoved in his pocket; the shoulder must have been hurting him. The stitched gash at his eyebrow and the ugly bruise on his cheek destroyed the handsome visage as well.
Alec glared back, obviously not happy with the captive; his voice was contemptuous. "You're quite a handful." He stepped closer, hand reaching out to test all the restraints. "We're moving you," he stated uncaringly. "Mihailov is quite paranoid, especially when two of our security cameras have been broken by unassuming rocks."
His lips twitched in a smile. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
Canada didn't. He was confused; did someone try to save him? Ivan had been at the fight the entire time…
A glint of metal in Alec's hand caught his attention: a small syringe, the sharp tip shining in the florescent lighting. It was filled with something from a bottle, and Alec tapped the tube to make sure there were no bubbles inside. He gave the watchful Canadian a charming smile before sticking the needle in his arm. "Sleep well."
Everything wavered slowly, the drug's effects seeped into his system, his senses dying one by one: his hearing, the feeling of the bed underneath him, the smell of Mihailov's lingering cigar, and then his vision of the Russian in front of him, smirking arrogantly.
His body seemed to have floated into pitch darkness, and his thoughts went blank.
…oOo…
"Don't!"
"Oh, come on!"
"I said no, you- bloody hell, Francis, I'm going to kill you!"
It was always a great show whenever the three nations of the United States, United Kingdom, and France got together- it was instantly chaos. They seemed to do anything they possibly could to annoy each other: America would be more hyperactive and ditzy than normal, England would yell and lecture more, and France was much more perverted.
It was a surprise they got anything done with the amount of bickering they did; but somehow, they were all able to finish breakfast, pile into the rental car, and drive the whole thirty-five minutes to the suburban mansion.
Arthur was driving, claiming he was the only one responsible enough, but he was regretting it now; maybe if France was driving, he would keep his dirty hands on the steering wheel and not on his ass. Consequently, the Englishman would have a free hand to smack Alfred with; the git had done nothing but whine about everything from the music on the radio, to going to Russia's house, to being hungry, and they ate just an hour ago!
He was going to have a stroke.
Or another murder on his record- "Francis! Move your hand this instant!"
He could feel the Frenchman's breath on his neck as the man in the back seat leaned forward, the hand on his thigh sliding up the pant-covered leg. "But why? You love it- Ow!"
Arthur hadn't been aiming when he reached an arm behind him to wave away the nuisance; but he snickered, incredibly pleased, when he hit Francis right in the face. "Serves you right, wanker."
"So cruel…"
"Hey, guys!" Alfred leaned back in his own seat, arms crossed in front of his chest. "We need a code word, in case things get too hot in here."
France chuckled. "It's termed safe word, and I don't think we do need one, otherwise Arthur would be calling it every second; I'm just too much for him."
A choking sound, and a red-faced Arthur squawked, "Shut up, you perverted frog! You- just- Ugh!"
America laughed, reaching back to give France a high-five. "But no, seriously, code word is hamburger."
Arthur glared firmly at the road, face still red from rage and embarrassment. "You say hamburger every two seconds. A code words is supposed to be uncommon, git, not something you can easily say in a normal sentence. Why do we need one, anyway?"
"If at any moment you start feeling communism seeping into your system, you can say a code word only we know, and then we can get the hell outta there!"
"Ça, c'est stupide, Amérique," Francis chimed.
"No, it's not! Communism is contagious!"
Arthur groaned in dismay. "Idiot. We won't stay long anyway- we just want to find… uh."
"Mattie!"
"Yes, Matthew."
"Mon petit Mathieu!"
"And once we find him," Arthur continued impatiently, "we'll be on our way. So there's no need for a stupid code word."
Alfred pouted. "You're no fun."
They pulled up to the house, wondering at the white SUV parked at the front. "That's Germany's, isn't it?" Arthur asked.
"Oui, so we aren't the only ones visiting. Oh! That means Italie is here!" With that, Francis jumped out of the car before the vehicle even came to a complete stop, and Alfred laughed loudly, opening the door and flinging himself out as well.
"Wait up!"
Arthur sighed, feeling the corner of his eye twitch in annoyance. "Idiots." He parked beside Ludwig, taking the time to turn off the heater and the defrost that kept the windows clear. He shut off the engine, unbuckled his seatbelt, and calmly (like a gentleman) followed the other two inside the house.
"You didn't even knock," he scolded the two in the living room, shutting the door behind him and stomping his shoes on the mat to get rid of the snow on the bottoms of them.
"Where is everyone?" Alfred asked, a childish frown on his face.
"Perhaps they went somewhere? They could have taken another car. We'll have to wait for them."
Alfred whined, "That sucks!"
Arthur sighed, "Can't help it."
"I'm hungry!"
"You always are."
Alfred continued to pout, until his eyes landed on the big screen television against the wall, and then he started to smile as he looked at the game system beneath it. "Oh, I wonder if he has any good games."
The nation of England grumbled, falling into an armchair.
Francis was left standing, watching as Alfred rummaged through a pile of games and DVDs in the entertainment center. He didn't want to play any games, and Arthur, as interesting as he was, didn't soothe his boredom at the moment.
Deciding to roam the large home of his Russian friend, he travelled up the staircase, humming to himself lightly. Arriving at the first door on the landing, he peeked inside. He figured it would be a guest bedroom, and he was correct; an elaborate one at that. The big windows were covered, denying the room any natural light; a shame, as the regal room would look so much better bathed in the golden sunlight.
France made a tsk sound, striding across the room and opening the curtains widely, smiling as the backyard presented itself in all its bright glory; fresh snow, untouched and pure white, blanketed the ground, pine trees and ferns scattered about. It was beautiful.
A moan sounded from behind him, accompanied by the sound of cloth shifting, and France jumped in fright, spinning around to stare at the bed in shock. Only now did he notice the lumps under the covers, and he tiptoed forward, blue eyes wide, to peek at the figures still asleep.
His jaw dropped at the sight of North Italy and Germany, the former spread across the bed messily, one arm slung across Ludwig's shoulders. The latter of the two rested comfortably on his side, facing Feliciano. It was he who had bemoaned the sudden light being brought into the room; he turned from his side, rolling onto his stomach, and burying his face in the pillow.
Cute. Francis struggled to contain his chuckles, and brought out his phone, taking pictures with the camera feature, swearing that Hungary would pay a fortune for them; Japan, too.
He slowly walked out the door, staying as quiet as possible, shutting it behind him. Once it was closed, he practically ran down the stairs, back into the living room. "Guess what!"
"What?" Alfred asked, even though his attention was consumed by the racing game in front of him, fingers mashing on his remote control. Arthur looked up blankly.
"Germany and Italy are upstairs, sleeping in the guest room!"
England's expression changed to confusion. "Why? They have a hotel of their own."
"I do not know…" He didn't think about why they were there, he was too focused on how cute the two looked all curled up together; they could deny it all they wanted, but France knew they were attached at the hip. They might as well get married.
"Perhaps everyone is simply still asleep!" Francis chirped happily. "I'll go wake La Russie." He skipped down the short hallway, opening the door without care, a smile on his face.
He took three steps into the room before he was suddenly hit with a distinct metallic smell, stopping him in his tracks. Strange, that out of all his senses, the smell would relate more than his eyes could properly see and translate in terms of the sight before him.
His mouth, opened to give out a cheerful "Bonjour," cut off in a strangled choking sound, eyes wide and uncomprehending. Blood, something he hadn't seen in a long while, and certainly not in such quantities, practically soaked the bed in front of him. Whoever lost so much fluid would definitely have died by now, surely.
France was not the type to feel nauseated by the mere sight of blood; it was impractical for nations who were so active in war times. However, Francis was certainly not expecting something like this: an image straight from the front lines of a battle, with dirty white hair and a face eerily similar to Russia's.
He shrieked, scrambling back out of the room, his back hitting the wall. "Arthur, Alfred," he yelled. "Come quickly!"
He took a second to breathe, getting his panic under some semblance of control. He had no idea what happened, but he had to help somehow! Dashing back into the master bedroom, he stared in horror at Russia, wracking his brain on what to do, eyes roaming the figure for the man's wounds. "France?"
He yelped again, the voice coming from his left; his head turned so fast he received whiplash. At first when he saw those ruby eyes, his heart skipped a beat; but he soon distinguished the face of his longtime friend. "Prusse?"
"Ja, what are you doing here?"
What a strange question, France thought, mentally freaking out. "What are you doing here?"
Prussia paused in his reply, mouth opening, brows furrowed; he looked conflicted, as if wondering if he should tell his reason or not. France was too impatient to wait for the answer. "What happened to him? Did you do this?"
Gilbert looked offended. "No! I didn't do this, are you crazy?" His red eyes began to lose their edge. "Francis, calm down."
"But look at him!"
"Yeah, I know, but-"
Heavy footsteps sounded, and Arthur's voice came, annoyance in his tone. "What were you screeching about, Fra-"
There was complete silence as England and America stepped into the room, their eyes on the figure of Ivan. For a second, there was only disbelief and bewildered stares, France's exact reaction repeating as both began to hold the same kind of panic.
Prussia knew this was going to cause a headache. He pushed at Francis, herding the three stunned men out into the hallway. "Out, we'll talk in the living room."
They shuffled obediently down the hall, their shocked silence lasting to the foyer where they turned to Gilbert, Alfred the first one speaking, though his voice was choked. "Was that Russia? What- How?"
"It's cool," Prussia held up his hands. "West patched him up good; he's just healing on his own now."
"What happened?" France asked.
America jumped to the real question: "Who attacked him?" He looked at England. "I heard nothing about this, didn't even feel it-"
"There was no attack," Gilbert interrupted. "Not against his nation, anyway; this is superficial damage. He was in a fight."
Arthur narrowed his green eyes. "A fight? With what, a grinder?"
"Humans… big ones with spears and swords." The three nations in front of him stared blankly. He sighed. "Look, let's talk about this-"
A loud thump came from the room behind them, and Prussia twitched, wondering what the fuck next? before he realized just where the sound came from: the bedroom they just left. His eyes widened; and a second later, he took off in that direction, Alfred, Arthur, and Francis following instantly.
Gilbert rushed into the bedroom, and was next to Ivan in a second. "Dude, West said you can't stand up yet! You shouldn't even be awake!"
Ivan was sitting up, legs hanging over the side of the bed. His face was pale, dirt and blood covered him, and his purple eyes looked hazy. "Нет. I can't."
"Ja, you can. Lay your pale ass back down."
"Where… am I?"
"Your house."
"How did I get here? I was supposed to be…" His words were slurred, and he winced, bringing his right hand up to touch his head. "I… did what I was supposed to. Didn't I?"
"Yeah, you did."
The Russian's shoulders sagged in relief. "Good. I don't want him to get hurt. I don't want it to be my fault."
Prussia shook his head. "You did fine. He got what he wanted, now it's time to rest for a bit."
Ivan attempted to shake his head back, but a moan choked in his throat, and his hand cradled his cranium. "Can't-"
"It's over, Ivan."
"No, it's not; he won't play by the rules." Russia shook off the Prussian's hand and tried to stand. "We have to find him ourselves. He won't just give him back." The man gained clarity through anger; his eyes sharpened and his slumped form straightened. "I don't think he plans to give him back at all, every second wasted is another second of hell for Matvey. Get the hell out of my way."
Gilbert narrowed his eyes at the man's attitude, but he couldn't be angry with him for wanting to get things done. In such a precarious situation, he knew it wasn't logical for Ivan to give his body all the time it needed to heal. He was right; time was of the essence, and the quicker they moved, the better things would be.
Dmitri was counting on Ivan to take time to recover; he wouldn't be expecting a quick comeback. "Fine, but get cleaned up first. I'll look at your bandages. Then I've got some evidence; I think I know where they are."
Ivan's eyes locked on his, serious. "You do?"
"Ja, while you were gone, I went to the house stated on the record. I poked around a bit, I'm pretty sure Matt's being held there. We'll go when you're ready."
Russia nodded, standing with difficulty, wincing as his muscles protested loudly. He moved slowly into the bathroom, the door shutting with a resounding click.
Prussia sighed, turning to the three nations just outside the room, suddenly inexplicitly glad Ivan didn't see them. He never wanted the trio of Matthew's warped family getting involved; things were tense enough as it was, and –he narrowed his eyes at America warily- he knew their reactions were going to be on the violent side. "Okay, debriefing time…"
…oOo…
Just as he had faded from the conscious world, he returned in the same manner. His senses were the first to function: he heard soft voices speaking casually and a low steady hum. He felt something hard underneath him; not a bed, but he was still restrained at the wrists and ankles. Thankfully, not in a degrading spread eagle position anymore, he was turned on his side, in a lax fetal pose with his hands trapped behind him.
Wondering what kind of material confined him (metal or rope), he slowly twisted his wrists, feeling for links or scratching thread. Rope, that's easy to get out of- wait… I'm moving!
His eyes opened, and then narrowed against the bright lights above him. Fighting against his groggy mind, he looked around slowly, seeing he was in some kind of office; a desk on one side, a couch along one wall. It was a small room, eight feet across perhaps, but the furniture was elaborate- deep polished cherry wood, tan leather.
He was laid haphazardly on the floor in a corner, as if they didn't want the pristine couch to get dirty. Despite that, two men stood in the doorway, their backs to him as they chatted, dutifully watching their hostage. He observed them for a bit as they talked lightly, not once looking back at him.
Trying not to garner their attention, even though they didn't seem interested in doing their jobs, he experimented with his drug-hazed body; moving his hands and feet, noticing the hesitance and strength it took to accomplish such meager tasks. It would have to do…
He started to pull his wrists apart; the rope holding them together strained, stress sounds on the restraints quiet enough. Thread bit into his skin, and the harder he pulled the sharper it felt, until it broke the skin and beads of blood welled; Matthew twisted his arm, feeling the rope tear across his wrist. With slippery hands and all the strength he could get from his weak arms, he pulled one hand free of the rope binding.
Letting out the breath he'd held during his struggle, he slowly attempted to sit up; the guards at the door hadn't even moved- they were talking about some kind of maid and food. Matthew knew it wasn't probable for someone to wake up from whatever kind of sedative he was injected with, especially so early. Obviously, his body was able to fight off the effects far sooner than expected, but he still didn't know what he could do to get away; just because he was awake didn't mean he had all his strength back.
His limbs were slow and they felt extremely heavy to his aching body. He wouldn't be able to take on all the guards (not just the ones in his room, there were bound to be more on hand). Recalling his earlier thoughts, his eyes closed, allowing sorrow and guilt to consume him for a moment; he was still so pathetic, but if he couldn't get himself out of this, he didn't want Ivan to continue trying.
Determined, with a new plan in mind, he looked the guards over more carefully, noting for the first time that they both had pistols strapped to their sides. He looked for a phone of some kind; everyone had a cell phone nowadays (if they didn't, his new goal would be impossible). Then, as if by magic, the one on the right conveniently reached into his pocket, pulling a certain device out; he pressed buttons, talking to his other friend on duty as he did so.
Matthew's eyes gleamed, and he turned to the rope holding his feet together. With both hands, he easily ripped the threads, wincing slightly at the pins and needles running through his limbs from the restricted circulation.
With the wall to support him, he stood, legs wobbling as they held his weight. He took precious seconds to get used to the position, until he was able to stand on his own. His bare feet made little noise as they dragged across the carpeted floor, and the red silk clothing that he wore slipped down his shoulder; he didn't have the strength to concentrate on pulling it back up. He feared that a single distraction would send him crashing to the floor, and then his plan would have failed- he wouldn't allow that to happen, not after everything…
At last, when he got directly behind the guards, the man on the left turned, noticing his form out of his peripheral vision, and spun around with a shocked cry. Matthew lunged, but his focus wasn't on the guard who had seen him, his vision remained on the man with the phone; with all his speed, he snatched the man around his neck, pulling the slightly taller male closer, back to chest.
A sharp twist, a loud crack, and he let the guard drop, finally turning his attention to the other. The man was a rookie- had to have been, because his hand never strayed to the gun holstered at his side; he had completely forgotten it in his panic and fear. He scrambled back, out the door and against the wall of the hallway outside.
Canada sent him a menacing glare, scaring him even more, but he didn't go after him; his hand instead pushed the office door closed, hearing it click, and his fingers fumbled with the lock.
Matthew's knees gave out from underneath him and he fell to the carpet with a thump, his hand reaching out for the phone in the guard's hand. He leaned against the door, as extra force to keep it closed, but it wouldn't do much good eventually. He didn't have a lot of time…
He started typing in a number he'd memorized over the course of his stay in Moscow: Ivan's personal cell. Pleading it would go through, he cradled the device in shaking hands, holding it to his ear, wincing as it touched the burn on his cheek.
Rings passed, anxiety building, fear and desperation overwhelming the Canadian. Please Ivan, pick up…
Tears gathered in his eyes. Another ring; what was it, the fifth? "Please, Ivan."
A click was heard on the other end, and Matthew jumped as a familiar voice answered dully, "Привет-"
"Ivan! Merci- I- please-" Damn it, now that he finally was able to talk to Russia, he choked, the tears in his eyes falling.
"Matvey?" the voice whispered, shocked. "Matvey! Where are you? How did you-"
"I don't know," Canada swallowed past his emotion. "We're moving, I think-" He paused as he took in a small window in the wall across from him, its size and shape eerily easy to identify. Rectangular, with rounded edges, a shade pulled halfway down. His stomach dropped as realization dawned, the steady hum of background noise making sense now. "I'm on a plane."
"What?" Ivan asked in disbelief. Then he cursed in Russian. "Where are you headed?"
"I don't know." A commotion from outside caught his attention. "Ivan, listen…"
"Are you hurt? Did he touch you?"
"N-no, Ivan, listen, I don't have much time. You have to stop."
"I promise, I will kill him, Matvey. I'll find you and he will pa-"
"Ivan, no, l-listen to me, stop trying to find me. Stop doing what he says." There was a slam at the door he was leaning against, and his panic worsened. "He's been s-showing me. The fight last night- everything. It's not worth it, s-so stop!"
There was a precious second of silence on the other end of the line, before Ivan's voice sounded, hard and angered. "Matvey, I'm not going to stop, not after all of this."
Canada whimpered. "I'm grateful Ivan, I r-really am. I'm so glad you didn't leave me be-behind. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I got you into this-"
"You did nothing! This guy is after me-" A gun shot, right by Matthew's ear, caused him to yelp in fright, and he looked up to see the lock of the door blown out. Amethyst eyes widened, and he dug his heels into the carpet, pushing his back against the wooden door as a body slammed into it from the other side. "Matvey!"
"I-I'm here."
"I'm not leaving you there," the Russian stated, his voice strong and confident. "You won't have to wait long, Matvey."
"But you- you're hurt enough."
"Worth it," he growled. "All worth it, and don't think for a second that I regret it-"
The boards behind him cracked as another body connected to the door, and Canada shut his eyes tightly, pushing back as hard as he could. Tears streaming down his face, he nodded imperceptibly, even though Ivan couldn't see him. "Thank you," he whispered.
Ivan's voice softened. "Da, for everything you've done for me- I'm sorry I couldn't keep you safe."
"You be safe, I can't watch you get hurt. I can't stand it."
"I'm fine, Matvey. Understand?"
"I-I'm… " Scared.
The door busted, wood splinters falling on the Canadian, an arm reaching through the gaping hole and snatching a fistful of golden hair. Matthew made a small pained sound as the hand hauled him back, scalp stinging with the treatment. His hand dropped the phone, coming up to clasp around the hand holding his hair, trying to pry the fingers apart, yelping as the fist jerked. The muzzle of a gun touched his neck, digging into his jugular with force, causing him to stop struggling.
The door opened; the hand and gun trained on him the whole time. Guards stepped in, followed by Alec and Dmitri last. "I told you, boss," Alec commented lightly. "He's a handful. I would much rather you do away with him now."
"Nonsense. Look at him; handful or not, he's one-of-a-kind. So beautiful."
"Whatever."
"Your place, Alec, remember it. Take that tone with me, and I'll much rather do away with you."
"Yes, sir."
Dmitri reached down, scooping up the abandoned cell phone, placing it to his ear with a smile. "Hello, Mr. Braginski. I apologize for that rude interruption; I told you to rest up, but that angel of yours felt differently. Do not worry, friend, it will not happen again."
His gold eyes flashed as he hung up the phone, looking to Matthew with a cold expression. Canada gasped as the hand holding his hair pulled, his eyes locking with Dmitri's as the man stepped forward, kneeling in front of the Canadian. "That was a very stupid thing to do, ангел. I am not happy with your behavior. Do you know what happens to you, when I am not happy?" Matthew's breath hitched as Dmitri smiled wickedly. "You're about to find out."
...Thank You…
Ha, six is the same in French as it is in English, what do?
Not as long as I thought it would be; sorry about that. I'm not too happy with this chapter, but it serves its purpose. I wanted Ivan and Matthew to get a chance to talk, and this is going to be one of the only opportunities there are for it.
Gah, dramatics.
Oh, I have to fan-art! Been a long time, too, so it's posted on my profile, in the Giving In section, Credit is given to all artists.
Translations:
Ангел (Russian): Angel
Merci (French): Thank you
Ça, c'est stupide, Amérique (French) : That is stupid America
Verstanden (German): Understand
Disclaimer: I'm tired of writing this… Prussia! Do it for me! "Uh… the sadistic author chick owns nothing… But by all means, sue her bitch-ass anyway, cause this story is unawesomely sad." Thank you! :3