Ale passing out on the floor for an unknown reason
Part 2 to the previous oneshot
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âMerde!â France exclaimed as Mexico collapsed at his feet. Mexico had gone from looking slightly pale, and then he had passed out without warning. France was not sure what had even happened to cause him to collapse.
Mexico had said something about a wound, and that was the only thing he could assume. He crouched next to Mexico and put a hand on him to gently turn him over. As soon as he started to turn him over, he saw the red spot where Mexico was rapidly bleeding through his jacket.
France knew what he needed to do. He raised his voice and yelled, âGet the doctor!â
He could tell that the soldier outside heard him because he heard running footsteps. While he was waiting for the doctor, he turned Mexico carefully onto his back. The young man was clearly out cold.
France couldnât help but spare a glance at Mexicoâs face, which reminded him just how handsome the man was when he was not being a brat. He didnât have time to linger, especially not when Mexico was still bleeding.
He turned his attention to the young manâs torso. The first matter was untying his hands; the knots fell away easily. He then started by removing the jacket, his panicked hands shaking on the buttons.
Once he was done, he tossed the jacket aside. It was saturated with blood and would be unsalvageable. It would be easy enough, he thought, to give Mexico one of his jackets to replace it. They were about the same height and build.
France then ripped open the shirt, which revealed a jagged bullet wound across Mexicoâs side. There was a piece of torn fabric that Mexico had evidently stuffed against it in the heat of battle. For battlefield medicine, it was at least clever. It had imperfectly stopped the blood, but their little tussle had knocked it free.
He would need something much more professional to allow the wound to actually heal. France glanced at his face again and said, âYou are a clever boy. Youâd think youâd know when to save your energy. I donât intend to hurt you.â
The military surgeon came through the door. He took one look at Mexicoâs condition and said, âThat need to be sutured.â
He glanced around the room like he was looking for something, and his eyes lighted on the table. He added, âIf we can get him on that table, I will be able to see better.â
France guessed as much. He scooped Mexico into his arms easily. Mexico was surprisingly light, like he had been living on very little during the war. France placed him gently on the table before turning to the surgeon. He said, âDid you bring morphine?â
The man was already producing needle and thread from his bag. He answered the question by asking, âWhy? Heâs unconscious.â
France had asked because he had a feeling that Mexico was not going to stay unconscious, not with a countryâs abnormal vitality. And Mexico waking in the middle of stitches could tear open the wound more severely. He chose his words carefully as he said, âI want to make sure that he doesnât wake up while you are doing it. Believe me when I say he will wake full of hellfire.â
The surgeon looked remarkably skeptical, and tried again to explain, âWith how much blood heâs lost-â France cut him off, far too impatient to explain the nature of a countryâs existence, âDo it. Thatâs an order.â
The man did as he was ordered, though France noted how small the dose was that he pulled into the syringe. Mexico flinched as the needle entered his arm, even in his unconscious state.
As the surgeon went to work on the sutures, France walked around to Mexicoâs head. He stroked his hair comfortingly and spoke to him, âPretty boy, all of this strain does not suit you. You donât know it yet, but I have a plan that will take so much stress off of your shoulders.â
He could feel the grime clinging to Mexicoâs hair, which reminded him again that the young man really did need to wash off the battlefield stench. As the surgeon finished the sutures, France contemplated the idea of washing his face while he was unconscious. It would certainly be easier than fighting him.
Before he could act on the thought, Mexico groaned and stirred. His eyes slowly opened, and he looked up at France with a mix of confusion and rising hostility. France said, âWelcome back to the world, handsome. Now, Iâll give you the choice again: Are you going to take a bath or am I going to have to throw you in the river.â
Mexico barely looked awake, but he still had the determination to say, âI dare you to throw me in the river, asshole.â