AN: It's been a LONG time since I last wrote on fanfiction... Anyway, this is my first Hetalia fic that I'm a bit unsure of- haven't got the gist of writing Hetalia fics yet- so hopefully it'll come out right and spark your interest!
Read. Enjoy. Review. :)
Warmth Amidst The Ice
Their winter was an everlasting coldness that ate through skin and dug through flesh. With the snow ever so clear and ever so white out of the frosted window, Belarus could feel the iciness seep through the thick walls and breathe into her, so much so it had become a part of her.
The hot water would never last long, yet wouldn't completely run out. She would roughly strip herself naked, from her bow down to her stockings, and stand in the solitary emptiness of the bathroom. She would stand, listening to anything that would reach her ears.
She could hear the tittering, unstable footsteps of Latvia, the hasty escape of Estonia and the jittery laugh of Lithuania.
Then there was then the dripping of the water in the lone pipes up in the ceiling and the ruffling of her clothes that lay in a lump by the corner.
Silence.
She took her steps, the sound of her foot's slap the ground, and pour the water down the white porcelain, letting her fingers stand in the way of the running water. They would numb from the coldness of the water- like ice- before warming down from the running heat.
She would always take a few minutes at the end to coat herself in the water, let it embrace all her contours, before suddenly standing. The water would drip down her skin as the gush of the cold air in the bathroom would slap against the warmth the water had provided her only seconds ago. She would shudder- feel spasmodic winces starting from her fingers down to her knees- before slowly stepping out.
Agonizing was the cold of the air that surrounded her.
It pierced like a hundred needles, teasing her pores and pricking her nerves.
However, she never stood covered.
She stood by her closed, covered window, not a towel sucking the cold drips of ice that trickled down her back and chest, and have the coldness eat through her. She stood, the freezing arctic grazing against her nude skin, feeling the numbness creep at her fingers. She gnashed her teeth against one another, not wanting her chin to wobble or her teeth to chatter, but knew her lips were fading to blue.
Brother would come. She would remind herself. Brother would come.
She had always believed that he would open her door and, when see her in such a state, would comfort her. Would care for her. Would fear for her.
That he would walk in and wrap his cloak around her pale, dripping shoulders, and tell her to warm up with some black tea or some poli′uka because she liked it so much. (1)
But he never did.
She lost count of how many times she had stood in this lone torture, waiting. But, she always had an inkling of thought- a small whisper- that today would be the day. She would tell herself that each and every time she would bathe and she would believe herself each and every time.
This time, however, was different.
A knock.
She tensed.
"Ms Belarus?"
Lithuania.
Downhearted, her shoulders slumped.
"Ms Belarus?"
Her numb lips made it hard for her to open and speak up- made it hard for her dry throat that had been infected by cold to tell him to leave. Slowly, the handle of her door stepped down and the door slightly slipped open.
Lithuania poked his head through the door way.
"Ms Bela-"
He immediately stopped, realizing upon what nude territory he had stepped into, and shut his mouth.
He did not stutter and splutter as he usually did, nor did he tense up and shakily apologize. He did not close his eyes. They were wide open- yet they never left her face. His green orbs did not travel down her neck, touch her collar bone, then set themselves on the rest of her skin- no. He scanned her face with a concerned surprise before completely stepping in.
"You're freezing," he said with surprise. "I'll get the towel-"
"Stop."
Her voice was as rough as her, harsh and robust- yet unstable.
For the first time, he did not heed to her. With a light glow of determination, he walked past her, his eyes not scanning her wet, nude form, and pulled the toweled cloak that hung by her coats. Walking towards her and standing in front of her, Belarus realized that, for the first time, he was much taller than her. He placed the towel across her shoulders that were dry with cold, and duly covered it across her chest, his eyes searching hers with a light of concern.
He rubbed her shoulders lightly before simply standing.
He was not Russia.
She took a sharp step back and strictly averted her head away from him, showing him clearly of what she thought of this little ordeal.
"It's not good to stand in the cold- it's better if you change straight away in the bathroom-I mean- it'll be easier to get sick- a-also it's very uncomfortable-"
"Leave."
He immediately stopped talking, his lips tightly pressed from her sudden word. He took a slight breath, ready to say something, before stepping back and nodding to her with a slight wince.
"I'll prepare some poli′uka, your lips are slightly blue," he said kindly before stepping out of the room and closing the door.
By the time she was in the kitchen, a hot bowl of poli'uka awaited her, steaming. Though she was clothed- her ribbon in her wet hair and her stockings up her legs- she felt the iciness still alive inside her. Sitting down, she scanned the emptiness of the room and picked up the lone spoon with unstable fingers.
The trickling of the soup slowly warmed her throat with a feeling so foreign. She was Belarus- an icy coldness in personification- yet she craved for the bright warmth that was like glowing suns inside her. It had been long since she had tasted soup so familiar to her.
"Is it alright?" asked Lithuania, "I'm not sure I got it right."
He was behind her, his small, friendly smile- slightly off- still on his tired face.
Tired face…
"You're miserable."
Blunt. She did not like him, Belarus knew, therefore she should hold no conscious for the way he reacts to her words. However, she felt a streak of guilt- something she had never felt scratch her- when she saw his smile falter and fall.
"You too."
His smile was smaller, yet still curling on the tips of his lips with familiarity.
They did not reach his eyes.
Setting down her spoon in the bowl of soup, she kept her eyes on his face, waiting for his olive orbs to meet hers.
He slowly stood up, pushing his chair back into the table, his smile wrapped with tire.
"I have a few chores to finish, if you don't mind. I hope you like the soup."
She heard shuffling in the kitchen that night- so late that the emptiness echoed the resonance of loneliness. A slight sting in her, making her stomach churn slightly, thought it was Lithuania.
He was sitting on the table- something she was not quite used to seeing- and unscrewing a bottle of what seemed to be some of the little antiseptic they had left. Next to him lay a mound of cotton balls, damp towels and tissues, all stained with the pungent odor and vivid colour of blood.
"Ah- Ms Belarus-" he faltered. "You're up so late. Is there anything you want-"
She grabbed the antiseptic from his hand and tweaked the cotton from his other. Taking a seat next to him, she dripped the dark liquid on the cotton and scanned his scarred, bare back for any fresh wound.
She dabbed the wound, feeling his muscles tense under the touch, and wiped off the drips of crimson blood that were leaking down to the dark wood. Trying her best not to let the iron scent sink into her, she kept dabbing the wound, her face averted from the large gash.
"Thank you," he said, cutting through the cold silence.
She did not reply.
She felt a slight flush of shame.
She didn't even thank him for the concern he showed her in her room or for the soup that he made for her.
It made her clean his wounds with a fresh determination.
By the time she had finished, he was corking in the bottles of medicine and he slipped on his shirt, rubbing by his shoulders from the piercing cold she knew he felt. She stepped towards him, standing in front of him, and placed her own hands on his shoulders, rubbing them as he had done to her.
She did not meet his eyes.
She felt his forehead touch hers with the lightest of breaths, and looked up to find a passive serenity crossing his face. His eyes were closed and the smallest of smiles- the most relieved of smiles- were on his pale lips.
Comfort.
"Thank you," he said again, a slight whisper that was only caught by her ears.
She could feel the softness of his skin underneath her fingers, his cheek fresh and raw and young- pure. Slowly, on her light tiptoes, she slight edged forward, her head craning ever so slightly. His breath was warm from his parted lips and she could feel- for the first time- a warmth in the air that surrounded her.
He loved her.
The tip of his lips brushed-
She pulled away.
"Good night."
Jerkily and hastily, she swiftly swerved away from the kitchen, never looking back at the lone man that stood waiting in the kitchen. Closing the door of her room and leaning against the icy wood, Belarus could feel the warmth of a thousand suns glimmer at her finger tips and revive her organs.
So agonizing was the cold of the winter.
She tried to sleep but the cold had eaten through her with more harshness than she could remember. She had been amidst the cold ever since she could remember, but never had she felt such a iciness pierce through her with such a force. She shivered, curling herself in the covers that she could unearth.
It was morning, yet the sun did not rise- it was too early for the sun to rise- too cold for the sun to rise.
Standing, her covers wrapped around her like a chrysalis of fibers, she tiptoed out of the room, the coldness biting at her feet as she stepped barefoot. The hallway was utterly dark and utterly silent- nothing but the light of the dull bulbs in the lone ceilings there to illuminate with a hapless glow.
Red eyes.
Her fingers clenched so tightly that they scratched her palm- she would not jolt and she would not flinch. Instead, she would tense up and have her blood drip down her palm.
Prussia walked past her without a word, his hand around his eye that was bandaged up once more, a dull redness spreading from his scarred wound. Now that she noted his presence, she had never actually talked to Prussia. He was always cooped up by himself with that ridiculous bird of his or talking to one of the Baltics –that or he was doing manual labor for her brother.
Her brother.
She was right outside the door.
She pressed down the handle of the dark door and pushed against it. For some reason, her brother did not spark an obsession in her head as it usually did.
All she could see now was the olive green orbs that held so much kindness on a face so tired- so much different than her.
The room was a cold as hers, but there was something warmer about it. It was small and simple, with only a bed under the cold window and a small, rickety closet that was meant to hold the little clothes he had. Wrapping the duvet around her shoulders, she edged towards the small bed where she knew him to sleep.
She stood, silently and solitarily, wondering whether she should carry on or simply turn back and act like her little intended jaunt had never happened. However, her fingers let go of the duvet involuntarily, and the cold started to lick her shoulders.
She let her leg slip under the covers before lithely curving into it completely. She edged in, ignoring the unstable shuddering of the bed and the high creaking, feeling the warmth radiate from him like a heater. She let her fingers silently weave under his arms and wrap around his torso, pressing her stomach to his abdomen. Her legs weaved around his comfortably- perfectly.
So warm.
It filled her inside with a relief that took away all the cold shouldering of ice. Under the crook of his neck she let her forehead rest, deeply breathing in his thick scent that sent tingles down her fingertips and toes.
She could feel him wake and she closed her eyes, not wanting to face any interrogation or any questioning while she was feeling utmost comfort for the first time in years. She felt him shift slightly before his arm cradled the small of her back. He let a tender kiss on the top of her head before breathing out heavily, letting her entangle in him all she wanted.
"Lithuania," she mouthed tiredly, tasting his name on her tongue. "Toris."
(1) After the 17th century, Tea was becoming more popular in Russia (introduced to it from China) and so Black Tea was the most commonly drank
poli'uka is a traditional Belarusian dish