Canada: ForbiddenDreams would like to welcome you to her latest one-shot: Dead Flowers. *re-reads line* Dead Flowers? That's a little dark, don't you think?
Forbidden: The fic itself is dark. Dark fic calls for dark title.
Canada: Oh...I see. Anyway, she would also like to state that she does not own or claim rights to Hetalia. The credit for the show, manga, and web-comic go to its creator: Hidekaz Himaruya. Hey, shouldn't you be saying all this?
Forbidden: You wanted fic time, well I'm giving you fic time. Besides, you'll have a role in another fic. Sometime...I'm not sure when.
Canada: *sigh* Please enjoy the fic. The only warnings are angst and creepiness. Also, this fic makes references to The Losing Bet, Let Blow the Icy Winds of the Frostbitten War, and Where Were You. You don't have to read all three before reading this fic, but it is recommended if you want a full understanding of what's going on.
High-pitched wails seeped through the walls as the wind struck the house again and again, crying out in anger when it could not find a way in through a drafty corner or a sliver-cracked window. The freezing gales moaned in discontent when they passed over closed doorways. Drifts of snow hissed as they were stirred from their slumber by the wind, lashing out in their agitation. Inside, sheltered from the cold, Russia sat in a high-backed red chair. The hearth in front of him blazed; the base of the flames lapped at the logs, oozing orange, gaseous drool on the wood. The tips licked the air, slurping down oxygen. As he watched the fire feed off both air and wood, a thought stood out in the Slavic nation's mind. Why were so many people against him? He had been contemplating on it for weeks and weeks, but could never find an answer. He sighed. It just wasn't fair. All he wanted was to spread happiness to everyone. Analogous colors clashed as violet stared into orange, hoping to derive an answer from the fire. Unfortunately, the blaze on the hearth offered no token, only snapped and popped.
America balking his ideas was no surprise. The way Russia saw it, America thought he had no need for any world-based ideas save his own. He was positive that although Estonia, Lithuania, and Latvia posed as loyal servants, dedicated to his cause, they were denying his dream behind his back. Not even the socialist countries like Britain and France had taken his side. No, they had gone with America. Even Canada, who hated getting into governmental disputes, had taken a position against Russia. Prussia abhorred him, Germany was leery of him to a fault, Ukraine refused to speak to him after their discussion in his study (even though things had healed up within her land, she still tried to avoid her younger brother as much as possible), and now he wasn't even sure Belarus could be counted on to be loyal. Ever since he had sent her back to America after their argument about the results of the Cuban Missile Crisis, her reports on American affairs had been either negligent or vague.
Why, why, why? Why was he the object of their rage? What was he doing that was so wrong? All he wanted was to bring forth a world where the sunshine would be eternal and sorrow a thing of the past. His eyes drifted over to the small end table on his left. Atop the oak surface sat a dusty, dirty vase full of withered sunflowers. Ugly gray-brown stains blotched the once vibrant yellow petals. The fuzzy black heads that once stood proud and erect now drooped, stalks too weak to support the large heads. Full, thick leaves that were once the most dazzling shade of emerald had since curled in upon themselves, edges laced with the same gray-brown sickness. They had died weeks ago- shocked from being brought into a climate far too harsh for them. Ravaged by the constant chill, lack of sun, and far too little water, they had given up on life. To the outside observer, they looked pitiful-those poor little flowers whose only wish had been to blossom in full glory in their home soil. The outsider would wonder why they hadn't been discarded. The poor things were dead, why keep them around? They only served to add further gloom to a room that hadn't seen a smile in years, why keep such sad things?
The answer was simple: to Russia's eyes, the flowers were alive and well- a testament to his great vision. If he could keep such beautiful trinkets in his home, then he could fill the world with them. They would blossom and spread like his vision. They represented the happiness that he would soon spread around the world, these vibrant, striking, and simple flowers. Each one planted would be a beacon by which he would light his way and announce his powerful presence to the world. In doing so, he would be living out both of his dreams: world-wide Communism and living in a world surrounded by sunflowers. The two were interlinked like the finest of chains, sunflowers and Communism. Both provided happiness, both symbolized a glowing vitality that could not be erased from the world.
Russia reached out and touched one dried up, rotting petal. His mind projected the feel of soft fibers, the image of the brightest yellow contrasting with the ebon leather of his glove. In reality, the petal hissed at the contact, edge scratching Russia's fingertip. In a fit of defiance, it broke free from the head of the flower and dropped onto the table, lying still in the dust like a little corpse. Russia plucked three from the vase. The brittle petals rubbed against one another, cracking or breaking off entirely. The stalks had become slightly mushy; the green flesh slowly dissolving in the inch of unclean water in the vase that now housed all sorts of microbes from drowned dust mites to what could have been dangerous germs.
He gripped them in a tight fist and caressed his face with the dead petals, inhaling a scent that no longer existed. Yes, these beautiful flowers. These beautiful, vibrant, lively flowers would bring so much happiness. A sick grin wound its way onto the large country's face, the ends twisting upward and seeming to curdle like spoiled milk. The flowers leaned into his embrace. Their petals whispered to him in soft, comforting voices.
We believe in you. We love you. Fill the world with us. Fill every corner of this sad, angry, bitter planet with glorious golden sunflowers.
Russia closed his eyes and gripped them tighter. The flowers shriveled within his grip, crumbling to tiny pieces, ultimately destroyed.
Just like the countries trapped within the dark walls of his house.
Canada: Wow...
Forbidden: I think this one's pretty cool. In my mind, there seems to be a parallel to actual history, where Russia announced it would spread Communism world-wide, and Hetalia, where Russia's dream is to live in a world surrounded by sunflowers, so I had Russia compare the two. The way I see it, since sunflowers can't survive in Russia, they'd be more like the countries under his rule: sad, withered, shriveled husks of their former selves