The knife was back. He wasn't even sure why he was surprised by it at this point. Russia calmly twirled its point between two fingers as he surveyed the captive nation.
"OK, where should I start?" he asked with the voice of a child helping mommy carve the turkey.
Lithuania wouldn't answer. Instead, he considered his surroundings. The dark concrete cell dripped with water. The door was closed, but a single bare bulb hung from a string illuminated the room well enough. (Given how long it had been off, the light seemed abnormally hot. Come to think of it, it probably was.)
Whether he told the truth or lied, Russia would know exactly where to do it, precisely where to hurt him. Of course, not answering could be worse, as Russia's slowly darkening expression would attest. The larger nation repeated his request, clearly upset that Lithuania didn't want to play.
"WHERE." The not-quite-question, not-quite-outburst startled him out of his reverie. Terrified of Russia's growing impatience, he blurted out the first thing that popped into his head:
"Not the face!"
Had he been strong and present-minded enough to move, he would've slapped himself. As it was, he focused on digging his nails into his palms, certain that the pain in his hands would momentarily serve as a welcome distraction.
Russia let out a low laugh. Lithuania tried desperately to contain his shaking as the larger nation drew closer and cupped his cheek in one hand.
"Open your eyes… Open them!"
The startling violet eyes ('violets' violence' flashed through his mind) were looking directly into his.
"Now why would I hurt such a pretty face?" he asked with a pleasant smile. With that, he released Lithuania's face with a gentle pat. He rose to his feet. "I'd like for you to clean the dishes tomorrow." He didn't wait for a response.
It wasn't until after he'd left that Lithuania noticed the slender slice down his left side.
…
Poland had begun to notice that something was wrong with Lithuania. That meant something. That he had progressed from "Hey, what's up with Lithuania today?" to actual concern meant that it was time to worry.
Of course, even without Poland as a gauge, it wasn't a hard thing to spot. He didn't eat, in public or at home. (He hadn't even been to the grocery store on Poland's behalf in weeks.) He showed up to every World Meeting with bags under his eyes. At the meetings themselves, he sat off in a corner taking notes. In some ways it was as if he'd never stopped being Russia's secretary. Even Russia seemed to forget at times, asking him to write things down before remembering and politely apologizing. The only things that Poland could really add to the conversation were reports on the nightmares.
Searing, heartbreaking, nightmares, every night since he'd left the USSR. The harsh commas and colons of whimpers and muttered pleas steadily marked the night's progression, coming faster and faster together until the sharp gasp of awakening drew the phrase to a close. Period. The paragraphs of the dreams seemed to follow the paragraphs of the reports, running on and on until they no longer seemed significant.
The other Baltics were little better. Estonia celebrated his two Independence Days in subdued cheer, trying to make as little fuss about Russia as possible even as he tried to draw his sparse population into a real party. Latvia had stopped going to World Meetings altogether, too shy about his lack of height and power to risk facing the larger nations in a formal setting.
The nations could almost overlook Prussia, who had his brothers to look after him. It was no surprise that his reintegration and economic redevelopment went well, but it was the psychological side of things that surprised the others. Germany and Austria were powerful, loyal, intelligent… but it was hard to think of them as warm. There had to be some secret to it, so they called a special World Meeting sans the Post-Soviet states.
True to form, it was America who brought the topic up, and who asked point-blank. (Equally so, it was England who thoughtfully elbowed America in the ribs for being rude.)
"I don't see why it surprises you," replied Germany, calmly ignoring the interruption. "We German nations have always been known for our mental health." (The next elbow was undoubtedly warranted.)
"What my brother means," interrupted Austria, "is that Austria-"
"Germany."
"- was the home not only to a number of great musicians, but also to some of the world's most respected psychiatrists, among them Sigmund Freud and Alfred Adler." There were a few seconds of confused silence. "Chief proponent of the inferiority complex?" Relieved nods assured him that he could continue. "And even those, such as Carl Jung, not originally from Austria –"
"Germany."
" – did their best work in my –"
"- my –"
"Shut up!" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "The point is that I know something of psychology."
"OK! That's good then, right?" chirped America, seemingly oblivious to the look on Switzerland's face. "I mean, the Baltics have been acting weird ever since they split off from Russia."
"So I take it that you want me to do something for them?"
"If you think you can," said England with a singularly annoying smirk. (America felt a little bad about the tea on England's shirt, but he had to have known that he was asking to be kicked in the shin.)
"Of course he – we – can!" snapped Germany. "That isn't the question."
"The Baltics are the only buffer between you and Russia," France remarked calmly.
It was strange to think it, but none of them had ever seen Germany flinch before. Austria didn't seem too surprised, though, and after the two exchanged a short glance (probably thinking of Prussia, whom they'd wisely left at home), he turned back to face the others.
"I prefer afternoon appointments. Can you have them come at around three?"