I was inspired to write a Russia x Lithuania fanfic, though this is nowhere near as smutty as the plotbunny that has been pestering me, it just ran away with itself. Still, I hope you enjoy it!
Disclaimer: Much to my sorrow I own no countries, nor the personifications depicted here.
ENDLESS DAYS, LONGER NIGHTS
Endless days. Longer nights. Cold. Biting, unforgiving cold. Glittering white snow shining with scarlet. A bitter, relentless wind. Lithuania experienced all these things in Russia's house. Sometimes he found the large Nation sitting alone and still, fingers running lightly over the metal pipe in his hands. His lips and fingertips were blue and every exhale huffed forth in a white cloud. Wintry eyes stared at nothing, face unreadable, thoughts untraceable. Lithuania would softly close the door and tread silently away.
Russia's bedroom wasn't private. He didn't mind that Lithuania would often go in to change the sheets, collect clothes to be cleaned and dust the pictures. Lithuania found that he liked them. The frames were of a deep, rich wood and the paintings depicted bright, golden-yellow flowers. They warmed him, filled him with a sense of peace, but after a while, a spasm of sorrow would creep in too.
Once, Russia brought a pack of seeds home and tried to plant them outside, scraping away the snow and hacking at the frozen soil until the trowel crumpled in his large hands. Another time, he came home with a freshly uprooted bunch, roots still heavy with clumped earth. Russia heated pails and pails of water to thaw the ground, dug deep into the earth, and planted the flowers tenderly. They lasted a day before the glossy petals shrivelled in the frost. Lithuania began to hate dusting Russia's room.
Often, Russia was cheerful and friendly. Lithuania feared those times above all. Anything, the tiniest thing, he knew, could make that jovial face forbiddingly wild. The serene smile would stretch into a ghastly grin, a crackling aura of insanity staining the almost warm eyes with millions of burst vessels. Russia would leave, weeping and laughing, and would come home late, clean clothes flecked with tiny, dark stains, dragging his faucet through the snow, leaving a crimson, crystalline trail in his wake. Without fail, he would call Lithuania to him, and Lithuania knew that it was wiser to go than wait for Russia to find him.
Morning would dawn, dark and pale, casting a grey light onto the fresh bruises and swellings Lithuania tried to ignore when cleaning the mirrors. In time, scars disfigured his back, criss-crossing with the marks of war. Russia thought them beautiful. Lithuania would look at himself in the mirror with hard eyes, willing himself to hate.
Sometimes, when he thought he was alone, Russia would fall to his knees and shed silent, streaming tears, fisting his hair in an agony so deep, lost in a despair so dark that Lithuania felt it too, wave after wave crashing over him as though it wanted to drag him down onto the stone floor alongside him. But, every time, Lithuania would creep away, shivering in a way he didn't understand.
He longed to escape it all. Twice he rebelled and twice he was crushed into the ground, forced to watch as his people and allies suffered bloody retribution. Poland's agonised, defiant screams still rang in his ears with every clash of metal against stone when Russia absently tapped his faucet against the floor.
But in spite of it all, feelings bubbled and rose, achingly, horribly strong. Pity. Deep, rushing pity for the Nation who insisted that he loved him. Russia's love was cruel, vicious, and painful but time and time again Lithuania found himself smoothing soft, light hair from the Nation's pale brow, murmuring promises that they both knew he could never keep.
"Lithuania."
Inevitably, he would gaze back, unable to break away, quivering inside, trying not to flinch from a blow he was certain would follow.
"Lithuania. Don't lie to me."
Feather-light kisses would ghost over his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks before more firmly possessing his mouth. Lithuania would cling to him, fingers tangling in silky hair, gasping as icy fingers traced over his burning body. At times it hurt, his screams driving Russia to move as hard and fast as the tears that they both pretended not to notice. Sometimes Russia moved in a mechanical, dispassionate rhythm, eyes glazed over, staring blankly down at the face below him twisted in agonised pleasure. Lithuania would stare into the empty eyes above him and feel his heart splitting.
Afterwards, every time, Lithuania entwined his fingers with Russia's and willed the flush of his body to take the chill from the Nation pressed against him. It never did, and Lithuania would lie shivering, draped in Russia's arms, tears pricking his eyes with pity for one whose love was so cold that it couldn't even warm his skin.
In case you were wondering, I've made a few minor edits to help this flow better. The review button is your friend! Click it, you know you want to...