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Belarus was patient. He really was. But he had never been lenient. If someone fucked up, he'd let them know in plain letters. God, he'd really lay it down hard. And then he'd help them fix whatever their mistake was. Everyone messed up, they simply needed to learn from it. So why was it that he allowed this specific bullshit to go on so long?
One of the car doors were open, letting in the biting cold air of the night. Belarus was looking ahead into the darkness, not being able to focus on anything, all the shapes so blurry, only slightly illuminated by headlights. His disc of old Soviet jazz played faintly in the background. Although it was very hard to focus on any of the aspects he so appreciated about it, as it was periodically interrupted by a gag, an uncomfortable cough, then the noise of throwing up.
The country sighed deeply, setting his head against the car seat's headrest, his body stiff as he looked to the side. When did things become like this? Russia had always been a trouble child. They were almost the same age, but Belarus couldn't help but see him as a child. Russia would be a bully to their younger siblings, he would lie and lie and lie until it all became too outrageous and bit him in the ass, he'd skip his ballet lesson with no remorse of wasting papa's time, he had even smoked in secret once...
But he had never been this bad. Drinking until he couldn't even keep himself up or coherent, disappearing for hours in seedy clubs doing God knows what, saying horrible things about women - which went so against the way they were brought up, in fact, any minority he had arbitrarily decided he didn't like, just... How hateful he had become. It was hard for Belarus to swallow. It was such a deterioration of who Russia was when they were younger. A Russia who, albeit immature, still cared. About himself, about the people around him.
When they were friends, when they talked about their favorite war movie, a time when he knew Russia was there for him too.
He supposed it didn't matter. Belarus should focus on the present - one he didn't like, but that was his. For whatever reason, regardless of what dumb scumbag shit his brother decided to do, Belarus still helped him. Helped him try to get back on his feet, no matter how many times was necessary. Unfortunately, it just seemed like Russia really liked being facing down on the mud. Sometimes on his own vomit.
Fuck, he'd need to wash his car tomorrow. Just as he had pulled over hastily when Russia asked him to, his brother puked at the exact moment he opened the door. And therefore, filling up the little compartments at the bottom. Belarus' nose wrinkled.
Why did he put up with this? Why did he put up with being called in the middle of the night by a number he didn't recognize so that he could pick his brother? His brother, who was very difficult, adamant that he was just fine and could stand to drink a little more! Why was he so patient when they arrived at Russia's apartment and had to explain that he needed to change out of his piss soaked pants?
Why did he subject himself to this when he well knew he shouldn't?
Because he cared. And that was Belarus' biggest sin.
Unlike all their siblings, who had completely given up hope of Russia ever being decent, he stuck around. Sure, sometimes he didn't have a choice - their countries were allied. But even when he did have a choice, he didn't turn it down.
- Hey, Russia, are you alright? - Belarus called out, feeling exhaustion bog down his body.
In response, Russia just put his hand up to signify he was still alive. Belarus was going to ask if he was about done, but as soon as he was about to, his brother convulsed. They'd have to stay even longer.
Belarus leaned forward, crossing his arms across the steering wheel. Then, he rested his head on it.