WIP.
Not exactly an end of the world type fic but more of the humans finding out of the nations’ existence and not taking it all too well. This is a piece of it. I’m not sure if I’ll continue it and if I do where exactly fit it in, but I rather like it. Up until the last paragraph.
Spain slowly let out a calm breath, shutting his eyes as his head was dunked into the water harshly and with more force needed considering he wasn’t fighting nor had he ever been. He let his head float on top of the surface, gritting his teeth as latex-gloved fingers fisted through his hair, washing away the pigments of his chocolate curls. He held his breath as his head was pushed back up and a towel was immediately wrapped around his hair. Spain opened his eyes slowly, fixing his gaze on the wall as he roughly dried his hair.“We should have just cut it all off. It would have been easier,” spat England, snapping off the gloves with anger. He hated that he was the one who was put in the group that his brothers had managed to wriggle away to a different room without him. England was stuck in a room with Spain and Romano. Said Italian stood just an arm’s length from Spain’s side, watching over him carefully to make sure England didn’t try any funny business.
“Shut the fuck up. I’m not letting you cut off his hair,” he sneered, his icy glare only leaving England for a half moment to flicker to Spain. Spain who was oddly silent, the towel limp on his head, palms pressed into his eyes as he gave small shuddering gasps. Romano looked as if he was going to step closer to Spain and offer some kind of comfort, his torn expression showed this, but he merely stood taller and pulled the towel away from Spain’s head, gasping as he did so.
Spain’s bouncy curls hung damp, frizzy, and lifeless. The color was completely drowned out, replaced with an unnatural platinum blonde. It gave his natural golden glow a fake and cheap look. Sparkling eyes were dull and lifeless as he pulled his hands, those burned and bruised hands, away from his hands. Not a trace of a smile remained on his face. For once, Spain showed his true age as the second oldest European nation. And it scared England and Romano. Absolutely terrified them. Because if Spain couldn’t find a spark of hope or reason to optimistic, then who could? Romano slipped his fingers through Spain’s hair, trying to comb the curls back to life.
“W-well… D-don’t just sit there! We don’t have time for you two lovebirds to sit around! The humans might have picked up on our trail. Hurry up and get this bloody dye into your hair. We might not have much time,” England growled, snapping a fresh pair of gloves and dumping the dirty water out a crack in a window. Romano gently guided Spain’s head back into the cold water, holding his burned and bruised hands in his own scarred hands.
The three ran away as soon as Spain’s hair was a shade of auburn, not even taking the time to alert the others in the hotel of their run. They’d figure it out sooner or later when the humans began throwing the Molotov Cocktails though their windows.
