Written because the world needs a lot less weepy and traumatized Soviet-era Lithuania and a lot more recklessly dramatic and nationalistic Soviet-era Lithuania.
Warning for attempted suicide and complete historical inaccuracy. I did a sum total of zero research for this. It's just a thing.
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
He takes his flags up with him. Kneeling on the roof of the cathedral yields a terrifying exhilaration while he fastens the red banner to the edge, draping it carefully so everyone can see the hole where he's cut out the star and sickle. Beside it, a hot summer wind catches gold and green and more red and he sees some of the passersby do double-takes and their bodies infuse with nervousness and uncertainty. His hair is tied back so his face is clearly visible, clearly recognizable.
Everyone who sees him is going to know exactly who he is and why he is doing this.
His shirt is dark, because he doesn't fancy waking up to the prospect of hours washing bloodstains out of his favorite clothes, and his feet are bare, for better traction on the warm shingles. Lithuania rises carefully to his feet and shades his eyes with a hand, scanning the people in the square below. Most of them are watching him out of the corners of their eyes, attention caught by the brilliant flags, but too afraid to directly acknowledge him. He reaches out with the little tendrils of his Nationhood and hooks into one of the bolder ones, a man with a large, neat frame and a nondescript face.
"Hey!" Lithuania shouts, in his own tongue, and pulls a little at the citizen-bond. The man looks up, looks him full in the face.
"What's your name?" calls Lithuania, leaning out a little over the edge of the roof.
The man looks around, a bit nervously.
"Jonas," he says. It's a common enough name, hard to connect to a surname. Such a need for caution, these days, especially in public—surely even the Russians must hate the constant undercurrent of fear that cuts through everything in this cursed place—
"Do you know who I am, Jonas?"
He doesn't really need to ask, or to hear the affirmative answer. Jonas is his.
"There is a very high probability," says Lithuania, "that what I'm about to do is going to incite a riot. I would really rather none of my people gets hurt or arrested today. I want you to try to keep everyone calm. Get help if you have to, just make sure the police don't have to come out."
"Yes, sir," says Jonas, standing up a little straighter. Lithuania nods in approval, falls back against the chimney, and leans casually on the sun-soaked bricks while he sings. He's pitching his voice for volume, not for beauty, drawing air from deep within his chest and belly and casting it out into the square where it rings like a metal gauntlet.
He doesn't have to wait very long at all.
"What are you doing up there, Litva?"
Russia peers up at him disapprovingly, ever-present scarf tucked carefully into his suit jacket so that he looks clean and professional and intimidating. His expression says that he doesn't really want an answer, so Lithuania gives him one, kicking at the defaced red flag with his bare toe to make it flare outward with a defiant snap.
"Well, I was thinking of jumping," he drawls. His accent thickens deliberately, because Russian is not his language, will never be his language—he wants the bystanders to understand him and if that means letting Russia try to take back some power then he's going to have to, for practicality's sake, but they can all hear the sing-song edges of centuries' refusal to assimilate. "Since I really don't like living with you and so far everything else I've done to convince you to let me go hasn't worked."
There are a lot of possible responses to that. Russia chooses the most infuriating and smirks.
"I thought suicide was a mortal sin?"
"And I thought you didn't do religion."
"I do not. But you certainly do. You have never even tried to hide that rosary of yours."
"If a bit of basic integrity was good enough for Daniel, it's good enough for me."
Russia laughs patronizingly.
"You never do anything by halves, my Litva—"
"So why does it still surprise you?" Lithuania asks pointedly. The crowd has cleared a wide circle around Russia, but they're still milling at the edges of the square, staring in terrified fascination. He should really hurry before someone works up the nerve to call the police; that's probably what Russia's waiting for.
"—that is why I like you."
Lithuania takes a deep breath, steps to the edge, and summons every bit of the composure he is starting to lose to anxiety and impatience.
"That feeling is not mutual, Russia," he says loudly, and out of the corner of his eye sees several people start, and Jonas with his hand on someone's shoulder whispering to her. "I don't like you. I hate living with you and I hate working for you. You forced me to accept your "protection" and then annexed me. People don't like that, as a general rule."
Russia's face contorts in childish confusion and anger. He is right at the base of the building, between the flags, where Lithuania had been intending to land, but—his mind races, calculating trajectories and yes, if he jumps a little sideways it will take him almost over to the other side and Russia, who is strong but does not move quickly, won't be able to reach him in time to catch him.
"One way or another," and he keeps his voice steady, "I'm leaving. If it has to be this way, then I'll do it this way. You won't give me my sovereignty? Fine. You won't let me have control of my country, but I can at least take control of my own life!"
Oh, he is not looking forward to waking up.
Lithuania shrugs mentally and takes the step.