'It is easier to build strong children than repair a broken man.'
Not for the first time, Russia wakes with a final scream dying on his lips. Behind the deep violet of his eyes, if you could see past it, there is the fading splash of blood on pure white snow, a scene already forgotten from his early childhood, but forever ingrained into his memory. His shoulders seize, pull forwards as though he is being stabbed. His hands are half curled into the mattress, digging away from the pain. His entire body jerks, painfully, fitfully, overworked muscles screaming for release.
Then there is a noise - the sound of running feet and the glimmer of a green robe as they come hurtling in, making for his bedside. Russia's immediate instinct is to lash out at the intruder, but England deftly catches his wrist, meeting his eyes sternly yet maternally. He sinks into the mattress next to Russia as the man himself begins to relax, exhaustion winning over.
He is not ready to sleep just yet though, the blood behind his eyes not yet sunken into the snow. With languid eyes he watches England take out a handkerchief and wipe his forehead of the sweat. Russia wants to say something, anything, but his body is pulling itself down into the ocean of sleep, and all he can offer is a weak mewl, one that has England shifting a little closer, more concern alighting his eyes. England pulls Russia closer so the wintry nation can nestle into his side with a soft sigh.
This is unusual. Ever since this (and by this he means England) his body calms down almost immediately after his nightmares. Before it was hours before the visions would stop, before his head stopped swimming, before the dark reds and purples finally gave away to the weak light dragging itself painfully through the window. Now however, all he needs is a burst of green and suddenly the world rights itself. It's unnerving, upsetting... But comforting.
Somewhere in his mind, as his eyes drift closed, he knows he will be terribly embarrassed in the morning when he wakes to find his head in England's lap, the man himself reading some novel or report. But England will not say a word, just smooth his hair back as he leaves the bed (taking, Russia thinks, most of the warmth with him) and remind him of whatever meeting or obligation he has on for that day.
He knows the nightmares will not stop. They won't ever stop. But suddenly, the prospect of that doesn't seem as daunting as it was before.