Title: Seconds to Centuries
Author: Areazel
Character(s): Russia
Rating: I dunno. Probably T...
Warnings: ;;;; ffff, none really.
Summery: Ivan BIrthday fic. Ivan Centric. Sad. This is my birthday fic. I purposely never mentioned his name. But the 'he' in this is Ivan. I don't know. I just wrote this now. It's more of an exploration of a mindset. If that makes any sense. Once again, it is barely fitted for a birthday.

It could have been moments. It could have been seconds, minutes, years. It was impossible to know, it was impossible to care. What was the point of time if it never ended? What was the point of caring if it would all be gone anyway? Everything would change at intervals, without flaw, generations would parish, and new ones would be born, there would be wars, hate, pain, love. All of which would become irrelevant when the world was restarted.

This was all he could see after a while; there was nothing deeper, nothing under the skin. Nothing. It wasn't worth it, after a certain point ripping yourself apart from the inside was too much. There were people who would solidify themselves, keep together, and strong. Letting the waters of time wash over them, seemingly unmoving, unchanging. Even if it was impossible to notice, they would fall apart; time taking them apart slowly, bit by bit.

Then there were those who let themselves be torn apart, let the pain of time rip them apart. Their pieces being taken, torn away from the self, lost forever. Leaving a hollow shell, with nothing stop the water of time from flowing through it, no longer having anything to take.

There was no way to control who one was, not at a conscious level. There was no reason two, either way in the end there was nothing left. The first would be worn down, living a lie, existing as an idea with a missing belief, and a question as to how they had become what they are. The second would know how it happened. Their belief had been that maybe, just maybe, they would get back those pieces they had lost, and they could rebuild themselves. By the time it would be realized that was untrue, there was too much gone, and not enough to be worth the fight and struggle that would be required to save what was left.

Which was he? Which path had he chosen? It was impossible to know. All he knew was that everytime he looked out the window it was different, but the same. The faces, the sounds, he sights were different, but the result was the same. Death, destruction, and obliteration. Eventually he stopped looking out the window, for fear he would see something he liked. See something he didn't want to loose, see something ibeautiful/i. He didn't want to look for something like that anymore, because it was impossible to hold onto. So he didn't look. Not anymore. He stayed within the walls of his home, the single room that remained unchanged. Somewhere, some time, that hadn't taken part of him. He was this place, this room; and this room was a place where time did not exist. Where the self wasn't expected to do more then what was possible. The objects there hadn't moved in years, decades, centuries. But they were familiar, unchanged, unbroken. If there was nothing left within him, he could always look and see what parts had gone, remember when each thing had come into his possession, find those little bits of him.

The only clock he had kept was a shattered one. The glass covering the face fractured the mechanics within it broken. The hands did not move, and they hadn't in years. He never got it fixed, within the room it was the same time, and it always would be. No time would pass, nothing would be lost, and nothing would be gained. Life would become stagnant, and soon it wouldn't matter if he was dead or alive, it would all be the same.

Seconds, minutes, years, decades, centuries. What did it matter? It was all the same.

Hurrrr