Deliverance

"Oh, Toris. What have you done?"

It is a gentle whisper, soothing and concerned all at once.

Flaxen hair brushes against his clamming, pale forehead as Poland leans over him.

Lithuania closes his eyes as a soft towel is pressed over his forearm - releasing a shuddering sigh and leaning into his companion's touch; no longer feeling.

Nothing but warmth.

Wool sweaters and blood and the hissing radiator.

Crimson is smeared across the bathroom tiles and his blue jeans.

He mumbles something incoherent into Poland's collar, and his friend lifts a hand to press him closer, repositioning the towel as it soaks through with life.

Lithuania's fingers uncurl to reveal the pocket knife resting there.

Hours pass, and now he is lying on the sofa, head in Poland's lap while the television performs for a vacant audience. Poland fiddles with the white gauziness of his forearm; it had taken four towels and an envelope of sutures to stave off the bleeding.

"It hurts."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

There is a comfortable silence, and Lithuania focuses on breathing, because he is nauseous and weak and tired.

Poland brushes his hair idly with the comb he carries in his pocket, and he turns - the single movement leaving him reeling and ill - to press his face into that wool sweater.

He listens to his breathing, feels his heart, watches the rain.