Well looky here...another depressing Russia one-shot...or is it?

If you thought this was an update, I'm sorry. I've been warned that unfortunatley, song lyrics are not allowed if Fics! Ah well...you will just have to 'keep the song in mind', as the 'warner', so to speak, said.

It was a cold night, the sky clear, and Ivan, looking up at the sky, felt as if gravity was all that stopped him from falling into the bottomless pit that was space.

Of course, in a way, he was right.

In this particular night, Russia walks his streets alone, the only roads he truly know. As he lifted his hand to adjust his scarf a small, intricately designed snowflake fluttered, and fell onto his hand.

Soon, Petrograd was covered in a white fluffy layer of the coldest snow. Russia smiled sadly at how much more joined together the city seemed at winter.

Have I really come out here to admire the work of General Winter? He thought wryly.

An image of the Baltic's faces flashed in his mind. The utter confusion as he put them on a plane to America, reassuring them it was all for the best.

Crying as he watched them fly away.

Quickening his pace, the beat of his footsteps echoing his fluttering heart, Ivan thought of backing out, denying any request.

Nyet…I am Russia, and I do not give into temptation.

As he came to a dark alleyway he heard a scuffling, and a familiar face came into view.

"Vladimir," he rasped, voice suddenly failing him. "You have what I asked for?"

The figure before him bowed, nodding him head, and brought forth a small bottle containing a cloudy liquid.

As Ivan reached to take it from him, the man cradled it protectively to his chest.

"If master has payment…?"

Russia snorted, and produced from inside his coat a ten rouble.

The two men, dealer and nation, made their exchange, and Ivan walked back on his way.

Slowly, as he approached his house, he took out the bottle and studied it.

The liquid looked no better illuminated by pale moonlight, and Russia could make out a tiny label that read:

CYANIDE: DEADLY POISON.

HANDLE WITH CAUTION.

At least I got what I wanted.

Russia sat at the gates of his house in the snow, and unscrewed the top of the bottle, and rancid smell reaching his nose.

He was faintly aware of shouting in front of him, but as he raised the bottle to down it, a hand smacked it away, and cyanide spilled out onto the snow.

Carefully, slowly, Ivan raised his head. A blue-eyed, blonde haired face came into view.

"…Francis?" he whispered.

The Frenchman simply took his hands, held them, and kissed his mouth. Russia wouldn't have pulled away for the world.

Oh my! A happy ending!

Review?

Flames will be used to stoke your funeral pyre...