You hated hospitals, and insisted to not go to one. Russia didn't want to force you, but convinced you to come back to the hotel Germany is staying in to get your wounds treated. At first, Italy and Germany invited you two inside casually, until Russia sat you down and showed the large blood stain you left on his coat. Italy ran to your side crying, grabbing a hotel face wash with water to wipe it as Germany emptied his luggage case for a first aid kit. Italy takes a blanket off the bed and wraps it around your waist.
Shyly, you lift your dress. The graze is right in the middle of your hip and breast, and as you hold the dress up you feel the dried blood. Germany placed glasses on and took the wet towel from Italy to wipe away the dried blood. He smiles, "You'll be fine, no stitches required, the bleeding has stopped as well." He starts digging through his kit.
"Germany knows how to dress wounds properly! He's always doing it for me," reassures Italy.
"You have anymore scrapes?" you check your palms noticing the skin peeled off and raw when you fumbled on the ground. You show your hands to Germany, "You also have a scratch on your cheek." You see him pour a little bit of soap and water over another towel before he starts wiping your palms, cheek, and wound. "Rubbing alcohol is actually bad for the wound," he explained.
Thank god.
"How did...you get there Russia?" you ask as Germany gently places bandages on your hands.
"Honestly, I was walking to the conference building, and America stopped me to offer a ride, that's when we heard the shots from the school."
Italy holds up different band aid boxes to you, "Hearts? Smiley faces? Oh! I'll give you the Italian flag!" He places the green, white and red band aid on your cheek happily.
Germany starts to dress your main wound, "You should probably get your coat washed quickly Russia."
"Oh, it's okay, I know how to get blood stains off clothing," he responds, but proceeds to take the coat off. "I'm going to rinse it though."
"There," Germany begins to put his gauze away.
"Thank you so much," you stare blankly at your hands. "I hope there are not a lot of casualties."
"I hope so too," says Germany.
Italy kneels before you and squeezes your hand with big concerned eyes, "Are you feeling okay?"
"Y-Yes," your lips tremble and you squeeze his hand back. "I-I'm o-okay," you remember the feeling of the gun against your head. Your sobs trickled out in small spurts as you whispered, "I almost died." You wrap your arms around Italy and buried your head in his neck as he rubbed your back. You hear the door open and close, but continue to hold him.
You trembled as he softly said, "You're safe."
...
You stared at yourself with only your bra, tights and underwear on in the bathroom. Your dress was tossed at the side. You didn't want to look at it any longer. Did not want to attempt to sew it up, just throw it away. Russia came back to give you a beige coat which Germany gaped at asking why he kept it for such a long time. His response was that he couldn't just give it away. You tug it on, seeing that it nearly reached your ankles and button it up. Italy's flag waved back at you in the mirror and you giggle to yourself. You scoop up the dress and fold it tight.
"What were you thinking Russia, it's huge on her!" exclaimed Germany.
"I love it!" you still had arm flaps and spun around with it until you hit the corner of the couch on your bad side. "Fuck, fuck me."
"Stay still!" scolded Germany. "Don't be like Italy," he returns to talking in a gentle voice as you sat down on the couch next to Russia.
"I wore that mostly during the 1900's," said Russia. He pets your head, "It looks cute on you as a dress. Do you want to go home now?"
You sit up immediately, "Y-Yes." You hold out a hand to shake Germany's hand, but he grasps your shoulder and pats your head. Italy gave a loving hug before you left with Russia.
...
"_!" you are astounded to see America waiting at your doorsteps. He grabs both your shoulders and looks over you, "Are you okay?! Sorry I didn't check on you, I wanted to keep the guy down until the police arrived."
"Dude, it's fine, you're a total hero," you give him a one second hug. "Thank you so much," you voice begins to shake again. "H-He was, the gun, uhm..." you suck it up and blink your eyes, "Thank you."
"Don't worry, that's what heroes are for!" he pats your back. "Here," he returns your cellphone. "Take as much time as you want to recover," he walks to his car.
"Oh, Russia, I can return this coat right away, would you like to come inside for a bit?"
He looks at you with eagerness, "O-Okay."
"It's really small," you warn and dig for your key in your bag that had the dress stuffed inside.
Click.
As you enter the hallway slash kitchen you realize you had no seats whatsoever, the only chair you had was in your room. "Well, uhm, sorry there's a chair in my room," you hop over the ledge and wait for Russia to step inside. You stare down and see him being totally unaware of the elevated ledge, "W-Wait!" He caught himself by holding onto the frames of the doorway, but his lips brushed against your forehead when lunging forward. "Sorry, sorry! Please sit!" you grab the chair from your desk and motioned him towards it. You grab a random shirt and long pants and run to your bathroom to change.
Coming back you see him flipping through an history book you kept around during high school, sitting on your bed. You place the coat next to him and pull the chair in front, backwards, and lean on the back support. You see him turning the pages to the tabs you left on, "The westernization of Russia was one of my favorite units. I don't know why. Maybe because Peter the Great was so ambitious."
He chuckles and he points at a sentence stating how Peter would personally cut beards off, "I remember. He was already an ambitious young boy. He played dangerously though with real cannons and battle formations." He frowns when he flips to the next tab, "I remember the Romanov family too." He stares with sorrowful eyes at a family picture printed in the book, "Those children were innocent." He decided not to look past those pages and shuts the book, "I'm sorry, I was just curious." He places the coat on his arm and stands up, "I hope you sleep well, _."
"Uhm," you walk behind him as he shows his way out. "W-Wait," you tug on his arm coat as he steps outside. You decided not to wait for him to turn around and slip your hands through his arms and hold your wrists. Your right cheek pressed against his large back, despite him claiming to be as buff as Germany his back felt soft. You feel him stiffen at this surprise hug, but did not loosen your grip. Just like a teddy bear. You held him for about five seconds and let go. You didn't wait for him to look back as you take a step backwards in the apartment and quickly say, "Bye!"
You peek through the door hole like a creeper seeing that he still stood there. He moves his hand towards his face and you see a shade of red on his cheeks. You slide down against the door trying to hold your girlish squeal in.
What are you doing? He's a country.
You sigh listening to his car start and touch your bandaged side. "...so much shit happened today."
...
"Day four of being a house hobo," you talk to yourself as bacon sizzled in your pan. Four days have passed since the incident, four smooth boring days. The mail has been organized, flights checked, and room cleaned. The only time you stepped out was to fill your sad mini fridge and cabinets up with snacks, bacon, rice and whatever you grabbed.
You hear a knock on the door, "Mail!"
"You can slip it through the door thingy!" you yelled from the stove and turned the fire off after placing the bacon on napkins.
"I-I don't think I can for this one ma'am."
"Hm?" you approach the door carefully and peek out the hole seeing a white bear with a red scarf. Immediately you open the door and the mail man places it in your hands. It appeared to be about half your size and as you hold it, it felt as if your hug was being returned by it's fluffy arms. After thanking him you grab your phone and see a message from Russia.
"Hope you like him, my Kotyonok."
...
"Day fucking seven of being a house hobo," a week already. You yawn and check your cork board, "G8 meeting? Did you send the emails out?" you ask yourself. "Yeah, two days ago...Russia's going to be there..."
You hop out of bed excited to try on the new clothes you bought for conference meetings. Formal ones, lady-like, boring. On the models they looked slimming and beautiful, but on you it seemed awkward. Their legs were much longer than yours, and they wore heels. You bought heels, but only two inch ones. Any more and you'd find yourself crying.
A black pencil skirt covering up to your knees and a long sleeved white blouse with a cute bow around the neck satisfied your taste. You roll on the bed pulling your black tights on, then the skirt, then the blouse and a thick grey cotton sweater. You stare in the mirror with your hair nice and brushed, and your heels giving you two more inches of confidence. Completing the look you put a black and white plaid scarf around your neck and the glasses you thought you lost. You smile at yourself, "I'm so hot I can kiss myself."
The stiletto heels click as you made your way outside, "Bye Ivan!" You wave the bear sitting on your bed a farewell. Your handbag is the least formal thing you carried, but it was the largest to carry your prints and laptop. Although it didn't match your outfit, it was decorated with Sakura trees and a calico cat at the bottom left corner.
For once, you felt good, until the cold wind ruffled through your hair. You look at your reflection in the car window, "Dammit, why can't nature let me look good at least one time."
...
You sat in the car, the clock inside said 10:01 a.m. You came one hour early in order to prepare the conference room for them once more. Same building, same staircases, same door, same desk. The rose wilted.
Your heels continued to click clack in the empty corridor as you made your way to the kitchen. You didn't have your coffee yet, why not help yourself. You dig in the cabinets and found an Italian ground and excitedly poured it in the filter. Cream and sugar was already conveniently placed next to the coffee maker. You tap your foot anticipating coffee heaven when your phone buzzing in your bag.
"America?"
"Good morning! I'm on my way over the conference building, so you be-"
"Beat you dude," the coffee bubbled.
"Oh c'mon! I wanted to at least be like, 'You're late,' to you or any one of those guys!" you could tell he was driving as you hear the screech of wheels. "It's only gonna be eight of us today, so you think you can prep beverages?"
"On it," you reach for teabags and start a kettle on the stove.
"Thanks, see you then."
Beep.