Chapter Text
As expected, America woke up with a splitting headache. It felt like an axe had lodged itself in his head, sending shockwaves of pain into his brain. He winced. The glaring light of his surroundings pierced into his eyes like a thousand angry wasps.
The capitalist shut his eyes tightly and tried to block out his surroundings. It felt like a cacti had lodged itself into his throat.
Frick, it’s so warm. The American waited a few minutes for his headache to subside to a dull, throbbing ache, then kicked off his blanket and stood up. And instantly regretted it. Waves and waves of nausea rocked him almost off his feet. America clutched his stomach as bitter bile filled his throat. Frick.
Breaking into a blind run and opening random doors, the American frantically searched for a toilet. Eyes barely registering that was behind the closed doors, He slammed open a door and almost impacted headfirst into a wall. Shit shit shit. He flung open the toilet seat and retched. His stomach was empty, and not much came out. It felt physically and mentally disgusting. Shit. America had forgotten how bad it felt.
When he had expelled the contents of his stomach, he slid off and rested against the wall of the squeaky-clean toilet. After a few tired minutes, he got to his feet and rinsed off his mouth. As the taste in his mouth receded, the white, buzzing noise in his brain washed away too.
Staring at his scraggly reflection in the mirror, it struck him like a lightning bolt.
Bloody hell, this isn't my house!
And these aren’t my clothes!
Suddenly very much awake and sober, America choked on his saliva. There was no mistaking. His mirror wasn't ever that clean. The toiletries were completely different too. And the walls of his apartment were not as beautifully tiled as the masterpiece reflected in the mirror. And- smoothing a hand down his chest, the material felt softer than he had ever worn. It was clearly too big, the neckline drooping down his chest like a sad smile.
He started hyperventilating, his heart beating out of his chest.
What happened last night? He had absolutely no recollection of what had happened. America’s head was in a whirl, and he didn’t know what to address first. He stumbled out of the bathroom. And what he saw made him completely forget about his dilemma.
The first thing that he noticed were the sunflowers. They were everywhere. There were small sunflowers in pretty pots on the table and shelves, big ones beside the couch that he slept on. There were even some flanking the television. They were all in full bloom, petals stretched exuberantly, a testament to the green fingers of their caregiver. He walked slowly, sliding his fingers past the intricate pots arranged orderly in a row. The house was beautiful, like those old houses with high ceilings and intricate wallpaper. It was all in earthy shades of beige, grey and mute green.
What is with this flower craze? He definitely hadn’t noticed them during his mindless run to the restroom.
He explored the kitchen. There were sunflowers everywhere, even beside the microwave. America knew that snooping around a strangers house was not exactly the brightest thing to do, but damn. This house was just too weird and abnormal. America glanced at the wall mounted clock. It was already eleven in the morning, so there was probably no one home. He could work on escaping later. Anyways, if they had a mind of kidnapping me… what did they expect me to do anyway? Sit still?
America hadn't found anything interesting except for the random flowers and he was kind of disappointed. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but hey- these kinds of situations don’t happen everyday: must as well make the best of it. He was expecting lots more interesting things, like a secret basement or something. He opened the door. A sort of storage room with rations? America didn't know and didn’t care. Then, he nudged open the last door.
It swung open smoothly. The room was dark, so America smoothed his hand against the wall until he found a switch. America found himself in a beautifully furnished room. It was not chaotically filled with sunflowers, but painted in neutral shades of blue and grey. There were shelves all filled with banners and posters of red and blue, and photo frames adorned the space above the bed. The white bed was messily done and…
There was someone in the bed. They were moving, shielding their eyes from the light with a pillow above their head. Eyes wide like blue saucers, America froze.
"Dad, five more minutes please,"
A deep voice groaned out, startling America, who jumped an inch out of his skin. Shit shit shit. The American's heart was beating out of his chest. Who the hell is that? It was definitely a guy, with the way he sounded. And he sounded big. America grabbed the metal lamp beside the desk for protection. At least he was now somewhat armed.
The country sounded asleep, but… just in case. He crept over. Gentle, muffled snoring could be heard below the fluffy white pillow, and that gave him a boost of courage. He would be fine. The capitalist slowly peeled back the covers.
Oh.
He took that back. America was probably not going to be fine.
How assumption was not unfounded. The country was big. Hell, not even big, but outright massive. He was like one and a half the size of America. He gripped his lamp tighter and reached out and quickly ripped the pillow off the red country's head. Not the smartest decision on his part, but he was not really thinking. Besides, he was curious.
Damn.
Russia?
He was not happy.
"Raine. I told you to not-" The Slav quickly sat up in his bed. His blanket fell around his waist and the American flushed quickly and looked away. Russia wasn't wearing anything.
WHAT IS GOING ON? WHY WAS RUSSIA-
"Blin, America, uh- get out. Get out, blin! What are you doing here? GET OUT!" Russia covered his face with his hands and flung one of his many pillows at the capitalist. It hit him right smack bang in the face. The Slav flopped back onto the bed, burrowing under the thick blanket.
America was staring numbly at the lump on the bed. Why the hell was he in Russia's house? He knew he should be freaking out just now, but he felt… Surprisingly, he didn’t feel much. Probably in shock or something.
But seriously, what was with him sleeping around with Russia? America didn’t mean that in an inappropriate way, of course! But… first it was on the train, then it was in his house??? America didn't know what was happening right now. His mind was in a whirlpool of worry and white noise and fuzz.
"America, are you still there?" A muffled voice came from the lump of Russia on the bed.
"Yeah? No I’m not- What- what the hell happened last night? Why the hell was I in your house?"
America floundered around. He tried to stay calm, but it looked like the situation had finally caught up to him. Everything was suddenly coming back to him in waves. Nauseating waves, almost worse than being hungover. "I was… drunk? Oh my god, did anyone see? Oh my god. My house exploded. Oh my god." He was now hyperventilating, his chest rising and falling sharply.
Britain is so going to kill me if anyone sees me! I can’t tarnish his reputation! I am going to be such a disappointment.
He knew Russia was staring at him out of his blanket, but he didn't care. His heart was palpitating louder and faster than before, and unconsciously, he could feel some tears pricking his eyes. He was having a panic attack again. Like when he was small. It brought back unwanted memories.
America needed his pills but he didn't have them! He didn’t have his pills! He shouldn’t have let his guard down. Even if he hadn’t experienced one of his fits in a long time, it wasn’t an excuse to slack! They were probably dust and ashes right now. That thought did not help his situation at all.
America haltingly backed out of the room, sniffing. Russia could see tears welling up in his eyes. It was strange, seeing the confident country crumble into pieces before his eyes. And Russia wasn’t sure if he liked the change. As the sounds of weeping ensued, Russia unwillingly sat up. Still groggy, he wrinkled his nose.
Fug, it’s too early for this.
When the whimpering increased in volume, Russia flopped back onto the bed. What have I gotten myself into? The Russian covered his eyes with an arm. What did I ever do to deserve this? He was too tired to babysit America. Where are his relatives? Isn’t America the golden boy of the family? Russia was sure that they were looking for him. Anyway, his bed felt particularly soft today, and his sheets felt so nice and cool, and-
A particularly loud crash split through the air. Russia immediately sprang out the bed and raced out the door.
Russia found the American pale-faced and staring at the floor, where a giant pot lay shattered. Tears sparkled on his cheeks. The pieces were glinting and seemed sharp, littered everywhere on the ground. He immediately knew that it was beyond fixing. Belarus gave me that. The Slav grumbled. Hearing that noise, the American’s face snapped up and he started staring at the taller country with his eyes wide with panic. Russia took a step forward, and the American flinched and backed away, repeating soft ‘sorry’s over and over. He looked like an animal staring down a shotgun. The tears were now flowing like a river down his face, and his chest was heaving in scared, silent sobs.
What made him that way? The Russian wondered. Breaking a vase was not a big deal and definitely didn’t warrant such a big reaction.
Is he okay?
The Slav shuffled forward, stepping softly and trying not to frighten the capitalist no more. But for every step Russia took, America kept backing up, until he was cornered in a wall. America was shaking and generally a quivering mess. Russia’s heart was torn to pieces. In these mere two days, his world was flipped upside down.
Why couldn’t America just be obnoxious and annoying and snotty like before?
I have to calm him down. Russia stepped forward and spread out his hands in a non-threatening manner. His sister Belarus used to have these… fits and this was how he usually calmed her down. He gently reached out and enveloped the smaller country in a tight hug. The Russian tried to make himself as soft and warm as possible like how he had done last time. America only reached to his chest. Clinging onto the Russian, The capitalist sniffed softly and buried his head into Russia's chest.
It seemed to work. The Slav waited until the capitalist had stopped hiccuping, and slowly detached himself from America. Holding up his hands, he calmly told the pale American, “You did nothing wrong. Just… walk slowly to my bedroom. Be careful… I will clean this up.”
The capitalist didn’t reply, just nodded hastily and scampered off to the bedroom. “Careful!” Bending down to pick up the stray pieces of ceramic, he sighed. Russia hoped America wouldn't trash his room too much.