I can't help but love him. Everything he does, he does in his own special little way. Even the little things, like when he squirms when Mr. Russia 'plays' with him, or when he brushes past me in the hallway. He writes a diary, I have seen him. Not that I have looked inside - that is beyond invasion of privacy - but he carries round a little notebook, occasionally scribbling down the odd sentence. Or maybe verse of poetry. He is a poet, I have avidly read the little drafts he shows Estonia and I. He often writes about nature, the beauty of it, and capturing beautifully in verse, say, the sparkle of sunlight on a deer' s coat.

I have told nobody about my feelings towards him, for fear of being told they are wrong, like the voice inside my head yells at me every second. For start, he is years younger, and we are of the same sex. And he considers me an elder brother, of course this is the reason I do not refer to him in such context. And yet it feels so right, so natural for me to love him, as the little voice in the very back of my head tells me. There are so many voices in my head that if one other than myself were to experience it, one would think they were dissolving into madness.

I want to run my fingers through his platinum blonde hair, to gaze into his violet eyes, and to embrace him, hold him tight and protect him from this cruel world, for he is fragile, and to be handled with care.

If only he knew how I felt. If only he felt the same way. If only if only if only.


Haha, random Lithuania/Latvia drabble in the middle of the night. This sucks ass, I will probably delete it tomorrow. Obviously Lithuania PoV. Review is appreciated, even if just to tell me how much this sucks.

Note to self: Go the fuddering shuck to sleep, it is 1am.