Chapter Text
Serbia’s migraine beat at his head in an agonizing rhythm as he rolled around on a bed that wasn’t his own. His hand reached for the “nightstand” (in reality, a box flipped over and covered with a patterned cloth), feeling around for his phone. God, where was it? A sad whine left him as his arm went limp against the gap between the bed and the stand. With minor resistance from the tired man, it slipped back onto the floor. Coincidentally, his fingers brushed against a smooth, cold surface. Ah, there it is. Picking it up, he checked for any damage. No, all clear. The crack in the screen might’ve spread a tiny bit, but not enough for him to care. Turning it on showed him info that made him sigh. 2pm, 26% battery, no service, 31. decembar. Obviously unable to save himself with mindless internet scrolling, he opted to think about how he got here.
Yesterday he, being the smart and proud man he is, got shitfaced and came knocking on Croatia’s door for help. Croatia, possibly searching for some form of guilt-trip material for the future, let him stay. Even provided water and spare clothes. The whole thing felt like pure humiliation, being honest. He could feel it–the pity. That useless, useless pity that he despised. The pity that was held for him, as if he was a kicked puppy. He’s a grown ass man, damn it. He knew Croatia pitied him heavily. Saw him as lesser. The thought thumped in his head in tune with the migraine. He rolled over with an annoyed groan, rubbing his temple.
There was an agonizing ringing in his ears that refused to let up. This always happened during hangovers, and it annoyed him so. Not even burying his face in a pillow helped. All it did was make breathing harder. And remind him of Croatia. Holy shit, his smell was ingrained into this damn pillow. He could almost feel his ancestors stare holes into his skull as he took in a deep whiff of the fabric. He held that breath in as long as his body let him, ignoring the cries for oxygen his brain shouted at him. He didn’t know why he liked his smell in particular. He didn’t particularly like the scent of the cheap deodorant he used, but god did he like how it felt on him. It was a particularly pungent aroma, the packaging bearing a large anchor on the front. It was all the same shit to him, anyway. Anytime he’d run across someone wearing the same deodorant as him, he’d be reminded of him. Usually to his own detriment. He was a very complicated topic in his mind, his thoughts on him being a heterogenous mixture of weird obsession and pure hatred. It’s not like he can talk about the issue to anyone, really. America doesn’t like him and can’t keep his mouth shut, his neighbors are similar and Russia would probably use it as blackmail. Man, he should probably get better friends. In any case, all he could do was talk to himself and hope that his obsession with him was purely platonic.
His spiral was cut off by a loud clearing of the throat, turning his attention to the very man he had been thinking about crouched by the side of the bed. His expression was a weird blend of concern and confusion that only intensified as Serbia let the previously held breath go.
“...Does the pillow stink? I can bring you a new–” he was cut off by an impulsive “no” that was probably loud enough to make the interaction instantly uncomfortable. Croatia grimaced, blinking once before shuffling through his pockets. “Well, the reason i came here,” he paused, placing a bottle of water and a sheet of about 8 Rapidol tablets on the nightstand “..was to give you these. I know how your hangovers can be, so I wanted to be sure.” Serbia glanced at the stand before going back to staring at him, mouth slightly agape. He managed to croak out a ‘fala, making Croatia crack a slight smile. Whatever he was thinking about was wiped away at the sight. His smile seemed to change some vital part of him. A part of him he really did not want changed. A lump formed in his throat as he stood up, giving him a full view of his… features. His eyes were fixed to him as he walked towards the door, against his own wishes. Before leaving, Croatia turned his head halfway towards him, leaning against the doorframe.
“By the way, be ready to go out by 10pm. I’ll do a quick grocery run before coming back, and I expect you to be at least out of bed by the time I get back.”
…What?
Before he even processed the request, the man had said his goodbyes and closed the door behind him.
Go out? Why would they go out at 10pm? On.. uh.. what day was it again? He checked his phone again. 31. decembar. He got the memo.
His left brain, the logical side, insisted on him following Croatia’s orders as instructed. He gave him a place to stay and even medicine, of course. It’s only fair for him to return the favor. Plus, if he did as told, he would possibly like him more. They’d go out sooner. His window of opportunity would open sooner. His right brain, the „fun” side, insisted on disobeying. Imagine his face, his reaction to him having been in bed for hours obsessively burying his face in his pillow despite clear orders. If he stayed in bed even against his demands for him to get up, there's a chance of him leaving for his cooler western friends. Then again, there’s a chance of him forcing him out of bed. Soft, warm arms would wrap around his body akin to a snake coiling around its prey. Chest against chest, he would quickly get used to the feeling of his embrace, feeling almost like a heated blanket. He would let go, but Serbia wouldn’t. He would stay stuck to him, shamelessly nuzzling his nose into his collarbone.
He burrowed his nose back into the pillow. Ever since he heard the front door close, he felt a little empty. Like how a dog whines when its owner leaves for work. That fact deeply, deeply embarrassed him. He had him completely bent over his knee, and he wasn’t even doing it on purpose. He felt a deep red build on his face as a humiliated cry sept into the pillow’s soft foam. Whatever thought he had about his feelings being platonic was crushed into tiny, sand-like particles that were then processed into the glass of a beer bottle that he oh so desperately wanted to smash over Croatia’s head. Or his own. Both parties irritated him equally.
His feelings for him were painfully, agonizingly romantic. He could tell by how he reacted to seeing the man from below. The t-shirt he wore was slightly too small for him, with there being a noticeable shadow under his pecs. The angle showed off a slight sliver of bare stomach, decorated with a thick trail of hair that he assumed spanned from his chest to his crotch. For some reason, when he was younger, he would tend to think about what he would like if he was gay. During those pondering sessions, the thought of him being into chubbier men had never crossed his mind. If he tried to tell him that he would be sniffing a pillow while thinking about a man’s chest in the future, his younger self would laugh like a maniac.
The logical part of his brain desperately tried to shake the thought of his bare chest out of his mind, trying to save himself from passing out. His head only got lighter as he imagined various scenarios with him and Croatia. Together. With him usually being shirtless. And incredibly hairy. And incredibly into him.
He didn’t even know if he was into him. All of this effort and he didn’t even know if he’d reciprocate. In his time of talking to him, he doesn’t recall a single time he’s flirted with him or anything.
With that thought, his brain fully fried and sent him back to sleep with his nose still inch-deep in that same damn pillow.