Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own Axis Powers Hetalia, or anything else for that matter. And I'm poor. So if you try to sue me, all you'll get, possibly, are a few quarters, but mostly pennies and nickels. In other words, it's not worth your time.
This is just a little one-shot fic. The concept was originally meant to be a bit... bigger, but hey. There's probably a crapton of errors and inconsistencies, and it's rather vague; don't skewer me.
Takes place after the fall of the Soviet Union, blah blah blah. If you've seen episode 43 of the anime, it's some time before Belarus comes back.
The wind outside howled relentlessly, and the windows, despite having curtains drawn, were shrouded in a veil of white beyond the glass; snow, whose coldness seeped through every pore of the large dilapidated house. Its icy fingertips crept along Russia's flesh, despite the heavy layers that he wore-and as a result, he paused to shudder. The sound seemed to echo in the silence, and it served as his only greeting.
Home. The Soviet Union. Once a proud, lively home, but now...
The striped wallpaper of peach and light gold, in all its faded glory, had begun to peel from the walls. There were large, gaping holes scattered about, exposing the cold foundation beneath. Violet eyes scanned around and took note of this. Framed pictures, both paintings and photographs of deceased rulers and a few of scenery quite unlike that seen in the harsh country he resided in, hung crooked, and in some cases had been knocked to the floor. Shards of glass littered the dingy burgundy carpet near their resting places. To his quiet dismay, he knew this would be only the beginning of the aftermath he would uncover.
The Soviet Union had collapsed. And as a result, so too had their home-albeit not in the literal sense, thank God.
Booted feet stopped abruptly in front of a doorway, and automatically the rest of his body turned to face into the room-in-question. The dining room. Chairs pulled out and untouched, as if loyally awaiting their rightful occupants. But for a moment, Russia saw them seated there, the five others who'd once shared dinner with him. Belarus with her usual unhappy, annoyed expression, while Lithuania stared at her across the table like a lovesick fool. Estonia would now and then heave a sigh or adjust his glasses before resuming conversation, trying to ignore the other Baltic's hopeless antics. Then there was little Latvia, keeping primarily to himself yet still managing a furrowed brow. When Russia entered the room, all eyes turned to him. The three Baltics scrambled to nervous attention. Belarus's eyes seemed to light up. And Ukraine, nearest to where he stood, turned with the brightest of smiles to wave him over to join them.
As soon as he took his first step, the pleasant illusion faded back into memory. The warmth and welcomeness he'd felt was replaced with that same bitter cold, and the room returned to its true grim state-dusty and abandoned. The gloved hand that had raised to greet them trembled then slowly lowered. The smile, hidden behind his scarf, began to falter.
Back in the hall he moved, where slow footsteps scuffed and rustled amidst the carpeting. Just as he was beginning to lose hope, the large blond man's ears picked up on something-familiar laughing. His pace quickened, until he was outright running. But once he skidded to a stop outside of the large room the sound had originated from, there was nothing; no signs of life. Only the whistling of the wind, mistaken for human company.
It was then, standing there, that Russia finally realized, with a sad softening of those childishly round eyes, that everyone truly had gone away. And for the first time in ages, Ivan Braginski was lonely.