AN: Hi *waves shyly* first Hetalia fic so please, be gentle. I honestly have no idea where this fic is going, it'll probably be your generic fixin' up poor old Russia with heaps of angst and Russia/America to boot. I'm working on a more interesting fic but you know, wanted to try this one out first.

The sunflowers on the wall are cracking and faded and it's getting harder and harder for Ivan to pretend they're real. But still, he lies spread-eagled on the floor, head and heart and mind fogged by vodka and memories and loneliness, so lonely, he stretches his hand out towards them.

There's a voice in his head that laughs at him; another that's crying, begging for warmth.

It's cold in his house, so cold, always cold.

There are other voices too, whispers, memories but he's drowned them out with too much vodka (they're still there though, he can feel them tugging at him, crying for food and warmth and shelter and help and help) He groans, presses the heel of his hand to his eyes- he just wants them to stop, just for a bit, just for a little bit- curls in to himself (he just can't get warm)

(If he closes his eyes he can imagine the house is still full, maybe Lithuania will come to find him, drag him in to bed, flinch if Ivan raises a hand he doesn't mean to hurt them, he doesn't)

They won't, he knows they won't, but he can dream, he can wish, he can beg.

The General is pacing outside, rattling the windows, howling through the rafters and Ivan clamps his hands over his ears with a whine, "Go away, go away, go away."

He owes the General, as much as he fears him, he owes the General so much.

(There's a riot in Moscow, leaves fifty dead, the blood oozes through his coat, drips down his side like red paint on a moonlight canvas, he feels them all as they die)

He can feel their terror in his mind, he can hear their fury (how could you let this happen?) it's all going wrong, again. He tries, oh gods, he tries, he's tried so hard this time and it's still all gone wrong.

"It's not my fault," he mumbles, "Not my fault..."

(The crops have failed, the General's been particularly cruel this year, they're starving, freezing, democracy was supposed to change things)

"Sorry, sorry," he moans.

There's something he's supposed to be doing today but he can't remember what, can't think straight anyway.

(He's weak, so weak, he's supposed to be strong, supposed to be formidable- he's not anymore, barely able to breathe on his bedroom floor, shaking and bleeding and crying)

Ivan wonders if he's dying.

If someone invaded now, if someone decided to start a war he'd fall, he'd fall so far and so fast and god, not again.

There's a knock at the door and Ivan curls further in to himself, "Go away, please." He wonders blearily who it could be but then there's a booming voice.

"Hey! Russia, dude! You're like, two hours late for the meeting big guy!"

Amerika.

"Russia! I know you're in there!" he calls, pounding on the door again.

Ivan sighs, shakes his head, tries to think clearly. If he doesn't answer America will probably break the door down and find him like this and god knows what would happen then. He stands up, swaying slightly and stumbles down to the front door.

(Slips his smile in place like if he pretends long enough maybe it'll come true-maybe he'll be happy)

When he finally opens the door America looks an inch away from breaking it down. "Finally," he says, "Thought you'd left me out here to freeze!"

"Amerika," Ivan greets (smiles, smiles) "What is it, comrade?"

America narrows his eyes, "You're like two hours late, dude. Germany almost had a frigging aneurism and we've been waiting around all day for you."

"Ah, apologies, my friend. I lost track of time." (Drums his fingers on his pipe)

"It's okay, big guy, you've got a lot going on right now." America is watching him closely and Ivan remembers too late that he hasn't changed his coat-that it's still bloodied from the riots.

"We shall go to the hotel now then, da? Or perhaps we will reschedule?"

"Well, everybody's still waiting so now is good, I guess. There's a cab waiting," America says smiling brightly and Ivan nods (he can clean up when he gets to the Kremlin...) "Let's go then!"

Ivan follows (drags his feet, one foot in front of the other) and it starts to snow. He can feel the General's grip on his nation- on his heart. Somehow he doesn't think he'll make it to the meeting.