A/N: Dedicated to my friend, Russia/Spain… the most interesting accent you will find.

"Russia! Brother Russia!"

I could hear her calls-nothing more than screams, really-all the way from my cramped spot in the broom closet of the second level of the English building that the World Summit was being held in this month. The frigid cement floor was weathered from age and neglect as dust gathered in the small cracks, the flooring slightly moist, although where I had taken my seat had began to warm up from my body heat.

Shuddering in both fear and disgust, I leaned up against the wall of the broom closet, my knees still scrunched up to my neck. Normally, it would be me sending humans-and nations- in this situation right now. However, she is the one exception in history that will make I, Ivan Braginsky, hole myself up in such a dark, repulsive place such as this- Natalia Arlovskya.

Her obsession with me started when we were but children, always insisting that I play with her, would burst into tears if she didn't get to sit next to me at dinner, would always snuggle up to me while we slept.

Back then, I had thought it was very sweet. Cute even. But the insistence turned into kidnapping me, the tears turned into violent brawls, the snuggles into clutching, clinging grips of death. However, this all seemed to be a state of psychological upset to me. All the heightened signs of her care for me came after the Soviet Union disbanded, and everything had become so messed up. I can see it. She's hurt. She's hurt but she doesn't want me to feel bad whenever I begin to blame myself for everything that's happened, so she tries to recreate our older, innocent days when we were all a family. However, the attempts are so desperate, I can clearly see she went off the deep end a while ago. A state of pitiful insanity.

She loved me with all her heart, I could tell, it wasn't the "fake-love obsession" that most would dub it. No, I really love her as well. Truly and dearly, but I would never want to marry, or have children, or anything of the sort. I can see it in Belarus as well, can see the way she always grabs the seat next to me first in the cafeteria, but still saves the other for Ukraine. How she calls me frequently, but tends to ask if Ukraine is doing well. How she screamed profanity at me while clutching an unconscious, sickly Ukraine to her chest, damning me to hell for what I had done to her sister-her lands, her well-being, her conscience. Turning her good health of beautiful, fertile lands to illness of death, and barren wastelands.

I wanted to be a family again; the formation of the Soviet Union was partially a desperate attempt to recreate it. However, in the process, I ended up hurting those closest to me. Belarus has forgiven me, and of course, still tries to win me over with her antics, explaining the position I'm in currently. Ukraine as well, even though her boss has told her otherwise, I can see it in her eyes, the pain she holds as she looks at me, opens her mouth as if she wants, she needs to say something, before turning away to go converse with America or another.

I'm so amazed, so happy that they can forgive me for what I've done, but I can't help but be lost in hopelessness sometimes. I don't really ever think it can go back to the way it was.

"Brother Russia! Where are you? Let's get married!"

I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry. For everything that I've done to you.

"Brother Russia! Marriage awaits!"

But even if I apologize, that would just hurt you more, wouldn't it?

"Brother Russia! Don't you know?"

But even so…

"I love you!"

…I love you too.