A/N: Written for a music meme. This was written to the song "First Train Home" by Imogen Heap.
Lithuania wanted to believe, more than anything, that he could be happy at America's house. It was warm here, so warm, and bright, and welcoming – the wide-open skies (wide-open arms), and the promise that he could leave whenever he wished (more of a trap that he'd ever felt).
He needed to get home more than ever before.
Sometimes he wanted to leave his imprint on America; press himself close enough to leave the folds of his clothes as tattoos on the pale skin. Other times, he would just try to hold himself together enough to make it seem like he had finally moved on from Russia's tortures.
He wanted to play dress-up in women's clothing, wanted to get on with moving on, wanted to run in rye fields and fall in love again.
And he couldn't do any of that in this place.
America tried to make it okay for him. Tried to get tipsy off of the wine coolers he had make his Mexican friend by for him, laugh – "Look how fun I can be" – "Don't you want to stay with me, now?"
"Does this mean I'm not that much fun to be with, then?"
America would put his ridiculous Doctor Seuss hats on; "see, I can be as outrageous as Poland can be, too."
It didn't matter to Liet, though. America wasn't Feliks, and that was that.
What mattered to America – freedom, equality, this fake sense of friendship between them – it really didn't matter to Liet. What mattered to Liet was escaping this false security, this prison of warmth and smiles, and making it back home.
To his Feliks.
America wasn't enough to fill that gaping, aching hole in his heart that cried for a Polish touch.
I need to get out of here.