Obsession
A Hetalia story.
Summary: A onetime encounter with a Russian man put Toris's life back on track. Things were starting to turn around and he had the stranger to thank. As Toris goes on about his days, he begins to notice the stranger reappearing again and again, and is getting eerily closer to his personal life. Borderline stalking, he begins to worry what will happen if the man tries to get what he really wants: Toris himself.
Warning: This includes violence, language, forced!RusLiet, and character death. Read at your own risk.
Chapter One: A Stranger's Face
It was a onetime encounter, and event that did not mean anything relative to his life. Things like that happen every day, and besides in the end all of it was a simple accident. Just like every other stranger's face, this one would fade away until no memory remained. His name would slip until all Toris could do was snap his fingers in frustration, knowing he would never be able to recall it. That's usually what happens when you randomly meet someone who casually throws out their name like that itself could grab your attention. Toris just brushed it off, cramming it into the furthest place it could occupy. It was random, unimportant, and did not affect his life.
Or so he thought.
After what has happened, to him, his friends, and his family respectively, nothing seems quite so random anymore.
"Can you tell us exactly what happened?" An officer of the law questions, glancing over at his companion, a rookie, doodling on the corner of his notepad.
It is three o'clock in the morning, and the policeman is more or less upset with being dragged out of bed to the station so early. The job should have gone to the on duty cops that had the nightshifts. Unluckily for him, they never answered any of the calls frantically left on all their mobile devices. He rubs his temple as the unwilling man across from him doesn't speak. First he has to deal with a sleep deprived kid, and now a problematic witness. Sometime he has to wonder if being an officer is really worth it.
The rookie beside him glances up for the first time, and the trained officer could instantly see his back grow ridged. His doodles of video game characters are forgotten as the pencil rolls out of his hands. It is the kid's first interview with a witness, but he could have never prepared for this one.
After all, the man before them was covered in blood.
Their only witness stares at the table with hollow eyes, whatever skin that is still exposed paling at the recollection of the events. The officer sighs, checking his watch. He would give the bloody and silent man ten minutes of his time. After that he is going home. One of his kids had an early baseball tournament. He needs his sleep.
"Okay, well start out with your name at least."
In a flash, those ugly lifeless eyes bore straight into the cop's sending shivers down his spine at the very coldness emitting from them. It reminds him of a scary movie, like the man has suddenly moved in a blink of an eye to stand right in his face. The rookie shrinks away, finding the gaze unsettling.
"Toris… Toris Laurinaitis." His breaths through clenched teeth.
The cop idly writes that down, noting the stiff and hard posture of the victim and his eyes. He makes a special note about his eyes. It makes him wonder if he is talking to a witness or a murderer. He taps the rookie next to him, expecting him to ask the next question. When he sees that that most likely will not happen, he proceeds.
"Do you know who was involved in this accident?"
"Him." He replies briefly, pinning the policemen to the chair with his gaze.
Gulping, rather loudly to his ears, the cop swipes his hair of his exposed scalp, a nervous tick he's developed as of late.
"Him? Can you be more specific?"
"Him. He followed me." His voice cracks as he digs his fingers in the upholstery of his chair.
"I can't help you if you aren't very descriptive."
Without warning, the man stands up, flinging the chair into the wall behind him. He pounds his fists into the table frantically like he could make them understand something that is beyond their comprehension.
"HE DID IT! IT'S ALL HIS FAULT!" He screeches into their faces, his eyes still captivating the veteran.
He couldn't understand what makes those eyes so dull and lifeless, yet reflect everything he's ever felt, what he is. Trying to figure out such phenomenon is what keeps him in his seat, even if his life and his colleague's life are in immediate danger.
The rookie scrambles from his own chair, running for the door. The policeman knew he would be finding a uniform on his desk in the morning.
"He did it." The man insists, his mouth reeking with blood.
The cop scrunches up his face, trying to put some distance between him and the person drenched from head to toe in mud and blood, smelling like a mixture of the two.
"Alright, alright. He did it." The cop writes something irrelevant on his notepad to make it look like he cares.
He is starting to suspect the man is mentally ill or legally insane. His story could totally be fabricated and untrue. If that is the case, he is wasting his time.
He checks his watch. Half past three. This man has warranted enough time. If he is going to be difficult, that is his own fault. The cop stands up, pressing his notes into his pocket.
"We will be following up on this Mr. Laurinaitis," He doesn't reach out to shake his hand, "We'll stay in touch okay."
He nods numbly, like he didn't hear a single word he is saying. Sighing once again, the cop finds his creepy eyes fixated on him.
"Nothing is random. Nothing is chance," He whispers, curling himself up in the chair as the policeman simply stands and observes, "Never trust a stranger's face."
For some reason, the cop thinks this man, as crazy as he comes across, could have a greater understanding of something that he couldn't imagine. Taking a minor step forward, he asks one last question.
"Why shouldn't I trust a stranger's face?"
At this, Toris lets out a bitter, ugly laugh that mirrors his eyes, "Because I did. Look where that's got me."
The cop doesn't quite understand. He quirks up an eyebrow that Toris is quick to answer.
"Sit down. Listen. I'll tell you exactly why you shouldn't trust a stranger's face." His demented eyes actually glisten with tears.
The first signs of humanity begin to trickle back into his body.
"But you have to promise to listen to the end."
"Ya... sure..." The cop sits himself back down, never taking his eyes off Toris.
His bed could wait. It isn't quite as interesting as this night has turned out to be.
Like any story, there is a beginning, an opening. For this particular case, the start is at the end. The end of Toris's job at least. He had been working diligently, bouncing back and forth between any secretary jobs that would accept a worker without a high school diploma. He regrets it now, but at the time, it was the only thing that could be done. His two younger brothers needed him, needed the financial support that at their age they could not have. As dysfunctional as their family is, it is perfect to Toris, and that's all he has ever needed.
On this particular day, he arrived to work late. Without a car, he has to walk everywhere he goes. He just so happened to wake up thirty minutes later than usual, so in a half made tie and untucked shirt, he sprinted the three miles, only to arrive at the office already fired, last check waiting on his desk and his things already packed away. His boss had been breathing down his neck, just waiting for the drop out to slip up.
Toris is devastated. All he needs is a steady job, and life for his brother's would be so much more enjoyable. He always tries his best to impress his boss, but it never works out. Collecting the check and the box, he dejectedly shuffles out of the office with his head bowed low. It feels just as heavily as his heart does when he walks out, unable to spare his place of employment a second glance. The sun is bright, burning into the back of his neck as he maneuvers the streets, heavy depression clouding around him. Every little thing seems to mock him. The people around him, the strangers he would never know, are all carefree and content with life. They couldn't possibly understand what he is going through.
The box in his grasp feels like a million pounds, weighing down his steps until it is nothing more than a little hobble. Any faster and he is for sure he would drop it. The strain on his mind, his emotions, are affecting his physicality. He needs a long break from life to say the least. People jog around him, wondering vaguely why the man with the box is taking his precious time walking. Some people have jobs to get to after all.
Toris wants to cry. He really does. He could feel the tears burning in their duct, aching for a release they wouldn't receive. All crying does is make things worse. Whenever he would cry, his youngest brother Raivis would start bawling, in turn making Eduard do the same. Toris has just grown accustomed to sealing away his tears, not even sparing them for the pillow. The last time he could remember actually crying was when their mother died. That was over three years ago.
The heavy city smog, combined with his already churning stomach makes him want to throw up. He is lightheaded, for sure one moment or another he would pass out on the sidewalk. Closing his eyes briefly, he counts to three.
On two, he is suddenly knocked over.
His eyes open instantly, watching as the ground welcomes him with open arms, reaching up to catch him. On impact, the box digs into his chest, before collapsing in on itself. His world takes a sharp violent turn, forcing him to remain on the ground a moment longer. Someone picks him up, simply plucks from the ground and sits him up right. Dazed, all Toris can do is watch with a blurry vision as the person ducks down to grab his things before anyone thought of it. Blinking once, then twice, he draws the world into focus, seeing the man who wore a scarf even though it is in the middle of July. When the stranger presses the newly reformed box into his hands, he smiles apologetically, his lilac eyes brightening Toris's day a little. The man is large, but not in a bad way. If he would describe it, he would use the phrase big boned. He has wide set shoulders, a neck tightly wrapped by an ivory scarf, a strong jaw line and a prominent nose jutting from his soft face. He looks almost childish, despite being in a grown man's body.
Before Toris can mutter a thank you and continue on his way, the man speaks first.
"I have to apologize, da." Toris is taken aback for a moment.
For one, he is expecting someone to apologize to him—because this place is almost as hectic as New York—and two, the man's voice is heavily influenced by some sort of foreign accent. He couldn't quite put his finger on it though.
"Why?" Toris asks meekly, pressing the box tightly into his chest, hoping the stranger couldn't hear the pounding of his heart.
"I'm the one that pushed you over," He chuckles quietly at such an obvious thing, "I'm afraid it was completely an accident. I feel terrible about it, da. Let me buy you a drink or something."
Toris shakes his head, his hair casting shadows on his face, "No that's okay-"
"I insist. I wouldn't be happy unless you let me buy you something."
Toris pauses, studying the harmless face of the stranger. He sighs in resignation. It couldn't hurt to have him buy something. Besides, now unemployed, it probably would be awhile before he could do something like that for himself.
"Okay..."
The man grins, taking the box back from Toris, "I'll carry it for you, da!"
Toris has no choice but to follow him now, since he is in possession of his personal belongings. He trudges slowly behind his long strides, quickly overcome by the crowd. Just when he thinks the man ran off with his things, a hand reaches out and guides him out of the throng of people and to the front door of a little coffee shop. Toris's stomach does flips, his whole body seizing up at the sight of the establishment's name. He could feel a panic attack coming, prowling closer, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
It is where his brother Eduard works.
If he sees him out and about, he would know instantly Toris has been fired. His spirits would be crushed, his work ethic would sink, and he is almost certain he would get fired on the same day. The man notices Toris's inability to move. He quirks up an eyebrow, watching him closely.
"Is something wrong, da? I come here all the time. They have good drinks I promise."
Toris shakes his head, hearing his own jumbled thoughts raddling in his head, "No... No it's not that..."
Carrying the box under his arm, the stranger gently grabs his hand and, like a mother would do to her child, leads him inside. Toris tries to ignore the steady stream of familiar faces just sitting outside his peripheral vision. He would take a room full of strangers any day than being with a bunch of people that know him, know his routine, and know he couldn't keep a job.
He climbs into a booth across from the man, the wood creaking as it tries to accommodate their weight. The baby blue paint is already peeling from the surface, although according to Eduard it had been painted last week. Mindlessly playing with a lose wisp of paint, he could feel the man's eyes watching him intently. It bothers Toris, more than being in the coffee shop his brother works in. He is beginning to wonder if accepting the stranger's offer had been a good idea.
"What's your name?" He strikes up a conversation, folding his hands under his chin and allows his elbows to dig into the table.
His eyes never leave Toris, even as he ducks his head lower so the shadows of his hair could hide his eyes.
"Toris…" He mumbles half-heartedly, feeling too ill to say anymore.
"That is a good name. Lithuanian correct?"
Toris nods. Not very many people knew the origin of his name.
"And what's yours..?" He looks up, feeling strangely at ease when his eyes light up, and his childish nature begins to reflect in his actions. When he would speak, he couldn't help but be animated with his arms. It almost makes Toris crack a smile.
Almost.
"Ivan Braginsky."
Toris finds it odd how he pronounced Ivan. He says it like it is ee-van, not Ivan. He can only assume it's a part of the country his voice has originated from. When Ivan notices the confused look Toris gives him, he can't help but chuckle again.
"It is Russian."
Once again, Toris nods his head, like he knew it all a long even though he really didn't.
"Are you moving?" Toris thinks the question is odd.
"Um… no…"
"I was just wondering why you were moving a box, da."
Toris doesn't want to offer up an explanation. He couldn't force it past his lips because the moment he is about to, their server arrives at their table, and his heart fills with dread.
Why did it have to be Eduard?
Hasn't he already suffered enough?
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his brother is taken aback. Ivan is no rocket scientist, but he could put two and two together. This must be the very reason he was so adamant to come in.
"Hey... Toris?" It is more like a question than a greeting.
Toris could feel his hands turn ice cold. As a nervous habit, he wipes them against his pants to warm them, focusing everywhere else than his brother's perplexed expression.
"Hey Ed. How's work today?"
"I could ask you the same."
A painful silence ensues, one that is silently screaming for answers Toris did not want to relinquish. His brother is intelligent. A genius almost. If Toris does not say anything, Eduard could still figure out, and would be twice as upset upon doing so. Biting his bottom lip for a brief moment, he chooses his words carefully. He can't help but ignore Ivan, who is now taking an interest into the conversation.
"I got fired today…" He mummers to the table.
He doesn't need to look at his brother to know he is heartbroken at the revelation. Before Toris can offer another faulty promise about how he would find something better, Eduard marches off, slamming the door open to the kitchen and disappears inside. The Lithuanian could literally hear his heart sever, and it takes all of his will power not to break down.
He has failed his brother's so much. They deserve better than what Toris can scrape up. He contemplates the table's surface, wondering if he should bash his head into it when something is pressed just in range of his vision. Glancing at it, Ivan gets up to leave.
"Call me whenever you need more."
Toris shakingly stretches forward, picking up the present the Russian man has left him. First, he sees a paper with a phone number on it, wrapped constricting around a bundle of green. Carefully undoing it, trying not to rip the paper, his eyes graze over a number that make his heard stop. 100. He unfolds the one hundred dollar bill, only to find another, than another, than another. Toris's eyes burn heavily with tears he has never spilt before, ones of happiness and joy. He turns to thank Ivan for his kindness, but he is already gone. Wiping his eyes hastily, smiling at the money he holds in his hands, he can feel his day brighten more. He whispers a silent thank you, hoping some divine figure would pass the message on to Ivan.
He is a stranger after all. There is no doubt that they would never meet again.
My idea for this story came from an ID show about obsession. I watch too many murder shows quite frankly. :D
-Soul Spirit-