"Actually literally sitting alone in the dark, Russia? Seriously? I mean, are you trying for symbolism or what?"
"Are you?" Russia muttered under his breath, as Poland ruthlessly tugged curtains open in showers of dust.
"Hm?"
"What are you doing here, Poland?"
This was a apparently a casual visit – Poland was dressed in jeans and an obscenely orange pullover – but the heap of luggage he had dumped behind the sofa on his way in seemed to suggest he intended to make himself at home. Which was more than a little ironic. Poland threw his coat onto a sofa.
"A guy can't pay a friendly call on an old pal and soon-to-be-former overlord?"
Russia didn't rise to it.
"How did you get in?"
"Oh, that. Actually I gave some money to the guys on the door and it was super-easy. You probably want to look into that."
Russia didn't rise to it.
"Don't you have somewhere to be?" he asked quietly. "Don't you have television to watch?"
"Hm, well," Poland mused, "I kinda don't have to. 'Cos like… I think we both know where this is heading. Which makes it almost like one of your elections. Only not." He smirked. "But basically, I figured I'd be more use round here…"
Without further explanation, he continued his assault on the window dressings.
"That's better. Wow, these are filthy, seriously!" he exclaimed. "Glasnost, but not as applied to windows, right? Get it?" He laughed at his own joke.
Getting no response from Russia, he cast a quick glance in his direction and wrinkled his brow theatrically.
"So, philosophically, and just as a general point, Russia? I think now is a good time to remember that, like you always and so rightly say, I have been – ahem – independent and self-governing all along. I mean ever since those elections in '46 and 7, each round totally more free and fair than the last? So like, what's changed? What's to get upset about? Maybe, we all just feel like a bit of change, you know?"
"How you must love," Russia growled, "the sound of your own voice."
"The sound of my own voice?" Poland repeated, striking a dramatic attitude. "The sound of my own voice. Yeah, you know something? I really really do." And suddenly, the artificiality had dropped away and Poland was simply himself, as Russia had stared up at him as a boy hundreds of years ago; in his ridiculous outfit he was proud and cold and uncompromising. "It's just still so novel, you know? I mean, maybe I'll get over it in another two hundred years or so, but for the moment? You bet I do."
After a moment, Poland relaxed into a shrug and he was skipping off about the room again, picking up objects and examining them and putting them back in the wrong places.
"So you're feeling all confused and sorry for yourself, and you and your boss don't quite see eye-to-eye anymore?" he went on, "Wow, welcome to our experience of the last fifty years."
"…Do you prepare these little speeches, Poland, in front of your mirror?"
"Hm? As if. You know me, I'm just completely impulsive and stuff, never plan a thing…"
"Liar." Russia was entirely sick of the calculated naïf act.
"Well, whatever. Annnnyway," he drew out the word, tilting his head to the side with exaggerated casualness. "You won't have to bother about me pretty soon – I'll be out of your hair at last and won't that be nice for us both."
Russia didn't reply.
"Oh, come on, Russia, like this didn't stop being fun ages ago."
Russia didn't reply.
"For you, I mean."
He didn't reply.
"I mean, it's just habit and too much hard work now, and sure you're afraid of change, like, fair enough, I guess everyone is, but we've all got to deal with it, you know? And, you know, times changes, empires rise and fall and bla bla bla and for serious you've had a much better run of it than anyone expected or, and don't take this the wrong way, than you frankly deserved. But, whatever, life's not fair, am I right? And as completely platitudinous as this might sound: I know you can't see it at the moment, but, sweetie, it's just not working between us and we really should see other people. Especially me."
That cheery, insufferable voice scraped on Russia's nerves like a knife on glass.
"Apparently, Poland," he said icily, "I can't do anything about your presence in my house because you're corrupting my staff but you could at least tell me what the hell you're really doing here."
Poland flashed him a brilliant grin, as if nothing would give him more pleasure. "Okay. Here's the story. Honestly, I had a feeling you would find it tough to be quite so upbeat as all that. Soo, I thought, stop by, take your mind off things. Stop you doing, you know, anything you'd regret."
"So you thought that I needed a babysitter?" Russia spat, "Or a suicide-watch?!" He knew he'd lost, let himself be riled, but Poland had just always been able to get under his skin…
Poland stopped flitting about the room and looked right at him.
"I thought that it couldn't hurt," he said. "'Sides… I wasn't just thinking of you. The thing is, I totally can't have you beating up on Liet and the others just because you're pissed off at me."
Russia in his chair was absolutely still.
"How very noble. Tell me, Poland, do I look angry to you?"
Poland shrugged. "You look to me like you're drinking yourself into orbit, so all bets are off," he said coolly.
Russia rose to his full, impressive height, stepping forwards towards Poland in the same motion, pleased at the flash of alarm, quickly suppressed, that shot through the other's eyes.
Poland swallowed, but his tone when he spoke was low and quite even.
"Like I say, I'm just here to keep your mind off things for a bit. So, if you really want to pound me into a bloody mess all over the carpet just for old times', then, sure, we can do that. Although. A whole bunch of my people do know where I am, and you so do not want a diplomatic incident right now."
Still tightly gripping the neck of the near-empty bottle, Russia swept past Poland and strode over to the door.
"Lithuania!" he called, "Lithuania, come here."
Poland let him wait.
"Lithuania! Latvi—" He turned slowly back. "What did you do?"
"…Yeeeah," Poland drawled, "they're kind of not here at the moment. Completely nothing to do with me – or, hey, no, whatever, you want someone to blame, sure, everything to do with me, I told them they needed a holiday and shoved them out the door, would you rather believe that? They're at a singing thing," he added helpfully, "at Estonia's."
Russia took a deep breath. A singing thing at Estonia's. Well, of course. He walked back into the room, trying to ignore Poland, which was naturally impossible.
"If I'm not supposed to strangle you where you stand," he said at length, with great restraint, "what exactly did you have in mind to keep my mind off things?"
"Well!" said Poland grandly. "Since I was all bribing and corrupting anyway, there was one more thing I did ask about…" He walked over to retrieve something from behind the sofa then straightened up with the object in his hands.
It was Russia's violin.
"Give that here!" Russia demanded, hot and cold and furious beyond what he would have believed possible.
"Alright! Of course. You're gonna have to put down that b—"
Russia slammed the bottle onto side table.
"Give it to me."
"I said, alright! Sheesh…" Poland carefully handed it over and then stepped back again.
Russia held the case in both hands. "...What are you looking so smug about?"
Poland was rocking on the balls of his feet, a furtive smile growing on his lips. "Mh, just that my secret plan is totally going to work."
There was a pause.
"Aren't you going to ask me what my secret plan is?"
"I have a creeping feeling you're going to tell me anyway."
That was almost teasing. If they were other people, if they were friends, it could have been a little gentle banter, an awkward attempt to make up for the aggression earlier. As it was, Russia wasn't sure what had compelled him to play along.
"Do you still have that adorbs little music room?" Poland asked, jolting him out of his daydream.
"What?"
"My plan is, I was thinking we play some music. Remember how that used to be fun?"
Whatever Russia had been expecting – and he never knew what to expect with Poland – it was not that. Arbitrarily stealing his violin for no reason at all seemed almost more likely.
"I've been drinking," Russia said automatically.
"And?" Poland shot back. "Puh-lease. I remember you that night when you suddenly decided ANYTHING PAGANINI CAN DO and then you were literally like: play a variation – drink – variation – drink – variation – and I swear you got better as the night went on, right up until the part where you passed out."
"I don't remember that," said Russia, and he was drawn in despite himself.
"Yeah well, that is no surprise, trust me, you did drink about an actual sea's worth but it still happened. So? Is that room still go? Come on!"
Poland chattered on as he bounded down the corridors. At this point, the thought crossed Russia's mind that Poland was free to take his silly country and leave if it would only let him have some peace and quiet.
"Here," Russia grunted. "It's not locked." Poland probably knew that, had probably snuck in earlier and checked everything out.
Poland let out an appreciative sigh as away as he pulled the heavy dust-cover from the piano and traced a finger over Bosendorfer. "You better have kept this tuned, it's way too nice an instrument to be all abandoned."
"It's tuned."
"Good." Poland looked accusingly at him as he stood still in the doorway. "Come on then, you need to get your violin out. And you're wearing your coat indoors by the way, who does that… Come on."
Russia shuffled in and put the violin case down, looking at it like he wasn't sure what to do next.
"Mm, Russia? …like… listen, because I'm definitely not going to be repeating this anytime soon..." Poland's hands worked restlessly in the velvet of the cover, and his eyes flicked back and forth. "Back when, when I heard you play violin, I thought: the guy is freaking good. I mean specially the sad stuff, it got me right here, every time. I was inspired. So, you know what, I'm not just here on selfless grounds after all; I really quite badly wanted to hear you play again."
That was a blow. The un-asked-for, unexpected compliment, high praise, and the fact that Poland wanted something of him. No one spoke to him in that way now, no one. He desired them all but no one desired him. And, oh, of course there had been plenty of times he could make his subordinates say anything he wanted, anything at all or else, but it was not the same... And for Poland to dance in here—to be gloating, laughing at him, that was probably his right, but to show admiration? pity? kindness?
- What happened next was only an intrusive thought, of the kind everyone experiences from time to time.
Poland had turned away, shy after his strange outburst, and Russia thought: it would be so easy. He could have Poland by the throat in an instant, have him on his back struggling frantically and futile beneath him, eyes wide, wrists smashed and a necklace of bruises. Everything could be straight-forward again, he could make him choke out any damned form of words he chose – yes, even proud Poland! – or if not, if he couldn't make him talk… well, he could at least shut him up, hold him down and strike and strike and squeeze until the struggling ceased altogether—
His stomach rolled.
"—So, I brought some music," Poland was saying, as Russia surfaced half-choking from the thought that had become an actual memory, "case you didn't have any to hand. Here. Okay, there is some Polish stuff, but I don't mind if you're not in the mood, we don't have to play that. Got one of your guys' sonatas… Or – " he looked sidelong at Russia and smirked, "what d'you think of Shostakovich nowadays? Are we okay with Dmitri this week?"
Shostakovich had been dead for fifteen years now; it was a very stale joke.
"Or some Beethoven," Poland continued, setting down more booklets of sheet music, "if we want to play it safe."
"Beethoven is not safe."
"Heh." Poland treated him to an approving smile. "He's pretty awesome though, right? Even if Ludwig and oh my gosh Roderich never shut up about the fact. Oh oh oh, hey, Ivan do you remember? When both you and Arthur gave him like posthumous honourary citizenship so his music could be allowed? That was hilarious."
"We're not playing Beethoven."
"Okay. Shostakovich?"
"No."
"Bacewicz it is then, she's great, you're gonna love this piece, serious—"
"No."
"Dude, Russia, I told you!" Poland exploded, stamping his foot like a child, "We! Are! Going! To! Play! Music! for the sake of your health, it's therapeutic, so stop wimping out! I can't keep chivvying you along if you're not gonna make any effort whatsoever, okay?"
"I have music of my own."
"Fiiiiiiine." Poland let out a put-upon sigh and perched on the piano stool with his legs crossed. "So?"
Russia went to the bookshelf.
...Forget diplomatic incident; he could start a war right here right now and who was to stop him?
"This piece," he said tersely, because he was still catching his breath.
…Himself, only himself. Here they were and instead of fighting they were going to play a duet...
Poland took the booklet and looked at it. "Arvo Pärt. This is… is this Eduard's?"
"No. I bought it."
Poland flicked through a couple pages. "Too easy. Something difficult, I want you focussed."
Russia shook his head. "We are playing this. It does make you focus, in a different way. Trust me."
At that, Poland arched one scornful aristocratic eyebrow. "Hmmm. Well, I guess we can try it."
Russia opened his violin case up on top of the piano, and Poland was finally, blessedly, quiet, as he tuned up. By all rights the strings should have snapped, probably, it had been how many years since he'd last played?
The first touch of bow to string sent a shudder right to his heart. Too long. It had been too long.
Poland had quietly and without making a fuss set up a music stand for him, laid out the sheets for them both and now sat still contemplating the keys.
"So, you ready?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Okay. So, like… da da da, da da da – that speed?"
"Good."
"Okay."
…Was Poland nervous, now?
Was Russia?
Poland began to play.
During the first bars, simple, sentimental, Russia perceived the moment when Poland almost stopped as he suddenly understood just what the music was. And as Russia sounded his own first notes, a tremor ran through them both: it felt far too intimate, raw, not quite decent somehow. Maybe this wasn't a good idea, but there was no stopping now. He looked over the stand at Poland, who looked straight back at him, only glancing at the music for split-seconds at a time. He wasn't smirking now.
Did he, Russia wondered, making an effort not to grip so hard on the neck of the instrument like it was the only thing keeping him afloat, Did Poland ever have these violent flashbacks, these intrusive thoughts, when they were near each other? And if so, why, and how, how was he here now?
The music gradually took over, impossible and beautiful music in which one and one was one, not two. It was a far more terrifying notion than Russia had ever realised.
Was it possible? Could they ever be—friends? Was there any way in another five-hundred years to put things right between them, to look into each other's faces and not see distrust and hurt mirrored there?
They drifted, heartbeats slowing down, floating on the sounds of thousand delicate bells…
In the end, Russia couldn't lose himself in the music, not entirely, not anymore. But it was bringing him closer to that blessed oblivion than anything else had in years, and for that he was grateful.
End. .
Notes:
oH okay yeh there are *ahem* a few, feel free to ignore all or most!
Pärt is Estonian. The piece they played is Spiegel im Spielel (Mirror in the Mirrror) which you can look up. Tintinnabulation, the "bells" style of Holy Minimalism composition he made up: there are some really evocative quotes on the wiki page, about seeking for something in dark times, and unity, which I think Ivan would kind of relate to a lot. Also, as an addendum, Pärt has had an ongoing concern about life in Russia, dedicating his 2006-7 work to murdered investigative journalist Anna Politkovskaya who he said "staked her entire talent, energy and—in the end—even her life on saving people who had become victims of the abuses prevailing in Russia."
Shostakovich – yeeah, I want to write a whole nother thing about him and Russia-the-character because, wow, drama. If Russia's reflecting official attitudes towards the guy he's going to come across as positively schizophrenic ;;;
Grazyna Bacewicz was a 20th Century Polish composer, also a violinist.
Glasnost – policy of increased openness and transparency...
The Beethoven becoming an honourary citizen of Britain and Russia I heard in a lecture a bit ago; this was during/around WWI I think. because, obviously, otherwise he was an EVIL GERMAN and you can't have evil german music, but now he's British/Russian citizen so therefore absolutely fine do you follow because I don't.
I've been a little vague about exactly when this is set. But baSICALLY what we're dealing with here is Poland pulling away ultimately completely from Soviet influence, which is a pretty awesome story which I'm still picking up in bits and scraps. This visit is just a hetalia-character thing, it doesn't particularly reflect anything that happened— as far as I know.
Ivan… oh he is a one, isn't he? Still figuring the ways to write him. Whatever else, somewhere inside he feels terrible and traumatized about the things he has done this century and the things that have been done to him. (We see him with the leadership in the Bloody Sunday strip, but… I don't know, I think enough of him is identified with the people of his country that at the very least in really vivid dreams he's been shot and starved and carted off and killed by the Siberian winter over and over again…)
MEANWHILE we've got the Baltic States starting – especially Lithuania – to declare and, - especially Estonia – to SING their independence, even if it takes a while for anyone else much to accept this.
Point is, Gorbechev especially was really letting this happen, in the end. Not rolling in the tanks. Which is why the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the Eastern Bloc happened a lot quicker and with a lot less violence than e.g. America and Britain would have expected.
APH Russia's always been desperate-for-friends/majorly possessive, and so naturally right now he feels it's all falling to pieces. But at the same time, somewhere deep down again he's going to accept it, and like I say, especially, weirdly, he can't quite resort to violence now … and he must be feeling extremely tired. What with his actual history with Poland his kind of equivocal feelings at the moment and the kind of Hetalia canon/fanon that he's… not.. quite.. entirely sane, even moreso than the rest… that's why I have him kind of wrestling with himself, and the sudden intrusive thoughts and flashbacks. As to what he wonders about whether Poland ever experience a similar thing? Yeah, I expect he did. I expect sometimes when he looked at Russia he felt betrayal and blind terror and the barrel of a gun pressed under his chin.
Which is why ugh I love Poland so much, because STILL we see him acting as if he has no fear, like in that first ep just heedlessly jumping in between Russia and Lithuania like what else would he do.
Oh, yeah, and the starting point of this was violinst!Russia which is a thing I've become attached to and kinda want to write more episodes of… Pianist!Poland I consider pretty much canon now ;;;; And it was so nice to write something where Poland's really got the power in the dynamic, rather than just bravely making the best of a very bad job - which of course he's done brilliantly…