Shivers wracked his spine as the wind roared and screeched against the walls that separated him from the unforgiving chills of Russian winters, even in a bright day such as this. Despite the thermal comfort and soothing weight his trenchcoat and scarf had promised him, Ivan still found himself drenched in miserable isolation, reminded only of his own mistakes by the familiar outfit he adorned. Even his considerable stature was unfit for the cold that was seeping through his skin, licking his bones and chilling him at his very centre. Paired with the small amount of food he'd willed his own self-corroding brain to allow his pathetic body, he was freezing in his own home.
In what he had diagnosed a desperate need to be alone, Ivan had fled his home in Moscow to a small cabin he kept in deep Siberia, preserved for internal crises such as these. He could not face people. He could not let on to the self-loathing that encapsulated him, nor the dwindling self-control he retained. Isolation was his only solace. He had locked himself into the dark, cold cabin, food limited, and sanity even moreso. He could be real here. He could be raw, and broken, and he could do so without waking the next morning to find bruises and shattered bones staring back at him. He was safe here. They were safe if he was here.
In a meagre attempt to bring himself warmth, not enough for the comfort he didn't deserve, but enough to continue to wallow in self-pity without the risk of hypothermia, the trembling nation harvested a small blanket from the cupboard and wrapped it around his shoulders with a weak sigh.
A fire… He could start a fire to warm himself- No. He did not need it. He did not deserve it.
Wind shook the humble structure, and with it, the man's crumbling, fragile sanity. His stomach growled desperately and his limbs shook weakly with the need for sustenance, but his body had long been bested by the depraved mind ruling over it all - over him.
He was losing it; the small dose of stability he savoured was swayed with his subconsciously rocking frame. Light was leaving, not that Siberia saw much of it this time of year. Noon had only just rolled by, and sunset was upon him, taunting him with the darkness it brought, the uncertainty that night thrust upon him.
The lantern… Where… Where had he put it? The day had become blurred - he'd had it earlier, surely. Yesterday? Perhaps only this morning? It was the one source of comfort he allowed himself in his icy exile. He needed the light. The dark invited too many of his demons out to play. People suffered at his hands when it got dark, and thus, so did he. He needed it. He needed it. He needed it.
WIth a clumsy stumble to his feet, Russia found himself stretching from his balled up form in the corner to his full height, glancing around desperately for his refuge. His joints cracked and his hands shook horribly from the winter that had painted them a pale blue. Managing to reign in the focus he needed to shift from the loathing consuming him, to finding his lantern, Russia straightened out and adjusted the wooly blanket on his shoulders. With staggered, throbbing steps, he crossed the cabin to the small stove where the lantern had been stashed behind, safe from harm. Safe from him. He clutched the frigid lamp tightly, his hands quaking and the frost on his breath becoming apparent. It shook with his hold and the cold metal screeched in protest as its rusted handle moved about.
A match… He needed a match. Numb fingers managed to fish the small matchbox from a bin of firewood he had neglected, and left to protect the small bringers of light he valued so dearly. He had become so accustomed to protecting anything he held dear from himself… Except people. They didn't stay put, like his sanity begged them to.
Slow, deliberate movements eventually managed to open the box despite his shaking and near inability to voluntarily move his fingers. Setting the lamp down on the stunted table with two chairs tucked under it, Ivan picked up a match and opened the glass door sealing the oil in the lantern. Striking it along the box's side and failing multiple times, as his shaking put out the flame, the matches, one by one, went up in smoke. He tried again. Again. Once more. Finally, he had only one match, as opposed to his previous ten.
Last chance.
Holding his breath, and blinking back cold tears of frustration and pain, Ivan struck the match desperately, cupping the small flame in his other hand to prevent it from going out. Heaving a sigh of relief, he led the match to its wick and set flame to it. In his relief, his shaking increased tenfold and the heat chased away his freezing hand so quickly…He tried to catch it, his entire frame shot forth in an attempt to save the lantern from its demise, but it fell. He tried to catch it, to save his saviour, but it fell to the floor from its perch, and the globe shattered on impact, and with it, died the light- as fast as he had gained it.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Perhaps, it was better this way - he deserved this. He'd been so selfish.
Light fading, darkness encroaching, glassy violet eyes met the shattered mess littering the floor that swayed beneath him. Knees crumbled. Wind howled. He was falling - had fallen. The blanket he had clung to so desperately slipped from his shoulders, trembling hands too cold now to reach for the abandoned comfort. His lungs heaved out frantic gasps and tears slid down his cheeks, freezing on their way down and clinging to his lashes, willing his eyes to stay shut. He could see no further than the vapour of his own hiccuped breathing, and the glass just slightly beyond it, confirmed by its biting into his skin. It was only now that he realized he was reaching for the glass, trying desperately to piece the globe together, but his numb fingers could not even register the blood coating them.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't gather the pieces. He could not even see clearly enough beyond his own tears and laboured wheezes to identify the edges that needed to meet. His heart clenched in his chest, as if threatening to burst through its confining walls. He couldn't fathom how he could mess up so badly - how had he gotten here? When did he become so alone..? The walls had turned unfamiliar and the cold that rocked shivers up the column of his spine faded, replacing the painful throbbing with promising warmth… Russia closed his eyes, frozen tears sealing them closed. His form collapsed in on itself and doubled over. Gone, gone, gone.
Safe here. Safe... Alone. They left him- for he was a monster. They couldn't get away fast enough. Monster. Insane. Gone.
The building he had once called 'home' had become so detached, forsaken, utterly lonely. Sometimes, when he drank, Ivan could still smell the furnace running, food cooking in the kitchen… He could hear the sound of voices down the hall, of laughing and mutual merriment, of music. If he really tried… If he focused, he could see them… There they are...
The gentle gaze that could only be spared for him belonged to none other than sweet Lithuania, and behind him Estonia, and behind them, Latvia. The Baltics stared back at him wordlessly - Russia reached out for them in surprise, the cold having left his fingers, as if it had never been present. His mouth scrambled for the correct words - for fitting words. What could be said? Gentle smiles, inviting eyes and quiet laughs morphed before his very gaze into grimaces, crying, and pleas for mercy… Leave them alone, monster… Their broken, bloody forms, shattered where they had stood. Their pale skin chipped away, cracks seaming themselves into the fragile beings, until they shattered, their cries and screams for mercy the only semblance of evidence they existed. He tried to run for them- tried to save them, but his feet ran in place.
Come back. I'm sorry. Please… It's…. It's dark.
Ivan didn't notice the blood that soaked his palm as his cheek hit the cool wood floor, glass gripped tightly in an attempt to make it stop. To bring himself back... but the torture his mind had developed persisted, giving no regard to his crimson sleeve.
We can't talk anymore.
What had happened to her? To Ukraine? She had always understood him- she used to. But.. the image of her betrayed countenance was seared forever into his brain, her hair caked with blood, cheek bruised, frame trembling and bracing for the next hit…. The next insult… He tried so hard to stop… She was crying. She screamed- he tried so hard. What monster could do that to someone so dear…? Who would it end with? Who else needed to suffer at his hands for this madness to end?
The glass he had landed himself in embedded itself into his frosted over skin, the trembling had overtaken his nerves, and it took Ivan a moment to realize that the screams ringing in his ears were, indeed, his own. His breathing was laboured, his limbs spasmed. He would die like this, he was sure. Part of him craved the sweet release of death, but no, he didn't deserve that… were he even capable of death. He could only describe this helplessness as utter malfunctioning, as withdrawing from any sanity he'd preserved.
Blood seeped into the floorboards where he laid, the blood stemming at the wounds the glass inflicted upon the Russian. His quaking hands relished the small amount of warmth caked blood brought. Plagued by shivers and hiccuped, delirious sobs, Ivan curled in on himself, around the mess of glass, and oblivious to the subtle roar of an engine outside. It cut off and died behind the screeching of the wind hitting the cabin walls. Darkness had lifted due to the gradual presence of approaching headlights, that were only vaguely present upon their disappearance. Taking no notice, however, Ivan lay muttering quietly to himself as he braced his unprepared form against the harshness of his land.
A cold blast of air jolted Ivan from his mess of thoughts, pressing an agonized whimper from his lips. The door to the cabin closed once more, taking the stinging temperatures with it and leaving behind the dull sound of winter boots on wood, and a disturbed gasp. The sight that met his rescuer paralleled the shape of his home abandoned in Moscow, which had likely secured the hasty visit to Siberia. Ivan's chest tightened as his shallow, yet laboured breaths provided the frigid air with further tension. His head seemed to spin, and his eyes refused to open… Weak. Pathetic.
Soft, anxious murmurs echoed through the quiet room, and accompanying them came a light Ivan could almost see. Mustering the will to open his eyes only to slits, his bloodshot gaze met those of his lover, their owner knelt down beside him. Canada's lips moved, but he sounded so irrevocably distant. In a hazy panic, Russia tensed, and shook his head. Not again. No more. He could not handle watching Canada quake at the sight of him - at the very notion of his violence. This was not him. This could not be him. He was sick of these images torturing him, burning into his memories despite the falseness of their origin. Ivan had never hurt Canada, never intended to. He had done everything in his power to keep him from leaving, like the rest. No use. No use.. Monster.
Considerably warmer fingers tenderly met his cheek, stroking the coldness from it. Another met the other side of his head, ever so carefully lifting it. Panic seized Russia. It was too real. Too much. He could not differentiate what was real any longer. He could not take this.
Without a moment's hesitation, slowed only by the ice that seemed to close his veins, Russia sent a loaded fist at the distant dream, at the mocking image that seemed too utterly prevalent. It was not fair for his illness to tease him this way. It was getting worse - flesh met flesh again, and a sickening crack paired itself with a pained gasp from a voice that was unmistakably Matthew's. Russia's mangled hand flopped to the floor weakly, and the small breaths he had managed diminished moreso. What had he done?
Gentle, hushed coaxing prevailed the hit sent to it, and with a short pause for air, continued. The figure continued to emit warmth, to whisper soft nothings to the mess that Russia had become. It did not morph into shattered porcelain. The image did not call him crazy, or monstrous.
Russia managed to make out a stilled "...'re alright, Ivan… M'okay, eh?" Deflated, Russia let his head loll back and his freezing body go lax. Canada's voice was shaking. Unable to put up anymore of a fight, and not really wanting to, Ivan surrendered himself to this Matthew, whether he be real or imagined. Warm hands cupped his face once again, lifting his hung head from its resting place, into a much softer lap. Soft lips briefly met his own blue ones, and familiar digits stroked through his platinum hair.
In the dimness that followed, Russia's consciousness wavering catastrophically, the lap that rested his head was replaced with a pillow from the bedroom, and the artificial light that had accompanied his lover was replaced with the ambient glow and welcomed warmth of a fire lovingly set in the stove. Russia did not remember being moved closer to the source of heat, but the small amount he could force his eyes open showed the hazy orange that fire brought. A toque now hugged his temples, and the weight of blankets enveloping him steadily increased. He did not deserve this… He was too powerless to stop it, though.
It seemed Russia ceased to exist for a moment, as the next thing he knew, his disfigured hands were being bathed in warm water, and opening his eyes a little further, he saw Canada sat by the stove, the bather. The water was a deep crimson, and beside the bowl that held it was a plate and a first aid kit. The plate held the glass that had embedded itself in his palms, and the first aid kit had supplied the tweezers used to take the glass from him. Blinking slowly, his breathing evening out, and his head slightly less murky, Russia met Canada's concerned gaze. He swallowed thickly.
"I…"
"Shh," hushed a gentle voice, "I'm alright, Ivan. Just rest. I'm here. I love you. And I'm not going anywhere."
That was all Ivan needed to succumb to the sleep that threatened to overtake his weak body once more.
When he awoke, Russia found himself alone by the fire, hands wrapped in bloody gauze and tucked carefully into the blankets snugly fit around his frame. In a panic, he attempted to sit up, disrupting the blankets atop him, and whipping his head around frantically and clumsily to meet Canada's position hunched over the mess of glass behind him.
With patience and precision, Canada sat hunched over the abandoned shards of the globe, gathering them up, plate at the ready. Russia relaxed, turning himself over, his back to the flames as he laid back down and watched Canada work over the mess. Knelt in a puddle of blood and oil, hands still and patient, Canada picked up the pieces, and Russia relaxed back into sleep.