Lithuania is adorable and Russia is insane, so how could I resist? I love crazy people and angst, ah~ My favorite writing topic. Plus… gah, I want Lithuania. He's so… *explodes* Yeah. That is a totally legit adjective. I've been listening to "Winter" too much, heh. The title is actually a line from the song, translated into English, of course. (Dammit, I, like, sound totally too much like Poland!)

Yeah, freaking love Hetalia. Thank you, Nantook and Michi, for all your hard work in getting me hooked to yet another anime (I will KILL you.) But, it is awesome, don't you agree? Well, of course – you're reading Hetalia fanfiction right now. This is my first Hetalia fic, BTW! Hopefully I don't do too badly. The fandom is so big… I've been writing KHR stuff this whole time, and there are only 13000 or so KHR fics on this site. Now I'm playing with the big dogs, where absolutely nothing is original anymore! Oh well. I still don't know exactly what's cliché or not, so if you've seen this a million other places, please stop me. (I haven't read enough Hetalia fanfiction yet.)

I do not own APH. I'm not enough of a history buff to even pretend that I do.

0o.o0o.o0

A Fleeting Nightmare Covered with a Scarf

Cruel Russian winter seeped up through the thinning soles of his shoes as his cloak danced around him in the wind. The vast white surroundings were thick. Snow pelted his face relentlessly until he couldn't even tell whether he was conscious or not. His hair was wet and stuck like stinging plaster to his skin. Going so long without food or water out here in Siberia was starting to get to him – where were his legs? Were they moving? … What are legs? There were no legs or anything anymore, only the snow, only the cold.

He definitely couldn't say right now that he envied his Russian friend. In fact, he never envied him. That was what got him into this situation in the first place: that was the reason why he was out here in the middle of nowhere, answering a call that he couldn't ignore. But as he trudged on, he found it more and more unbelievable that he would go this far – leaving the warmth and comfort of his home with America on such short notice, without any provisions or even a second thought – for a friend.

The billowing folds of his cloak whipped his back over and over, reopening old wounds and painful memories. Even as the perpetual blizzard blinded him, he could never forget the red spatter on the snow that he had seen years before.

"Russia… What happened to you?"

His breaths were short; he was beginning to feel lightheaded. His skin crawled and he trembled all over. This was such a miserable situation. And this wasn't even his first time doing this. How could he keep up with this act? Why did he keep coming back? Questions bombarded his brain, and yet, no answers. He was too numb to think right now.

He was so relieved when he finally came upon the great big building that he literally threw himself onto the frozen stone wall. This was a house of dread. He had spent many of the worst years of his life cooped up in this hell. Just as he pressed his ear against the stones, he could hear the echoes of a thousand nightmares and a million screams. All the pain he had ever felt in that place that no self-respecting person could call home – but he did – radiated through him in an instant, and was gone just as quickly as it was absorbed through his skin. No matter what he tried to think or do, he always would belong here. This was the place where he had been crushed all those years ago, body and mind and soul altogether. But he was bound here by something he couldn't bring himself to explain to anybody else. In masochistic ecstasy, he touched his fingertips, burnt blue by the freezing temperatures, to the wall and let them fall slowly.

A sudden gust of wind pounded him against the wall, as if to push him inside, where he belonged and nothing or no one else could deny he belonged. He retreated through the door. After hastily removing his battered shoes and all the traces of snow he had dragged in behind him, he raced up the long spiral staircase light-footedly, unable to stop for even a moment to take in the heat of the house that would make him feel any better about what he was doing –

But that was just it: there was no love or meaning to this anymore. This was nothing but a stale, mechanical thing. Freezing, nearly dying just to uphold his end of the deal, he wondered if it was even worth it.

Upstairs, Russia was drowned in darkness. Two bottles of vodka sat beside him on his desk, one empty, one half empty. The doors to the office were shut tight and the windows were barricaded and blocked. An old knife covered in rust and dried blood was in front of him, but his pale skin was still intact. He held his head heavily in his hands, barely able to keep himself together until help arrived.

A lurching feeling at his chest – out popped his heart again. He realized it, and tried to catch it, but fumbled. All he could do was watch helplessly as it bounced away and landed limply on the floor. He gasped, but refused to let his composure get away. He covered his face again with his dark-gloved hands. The only thing he could feel right now was the pain around the gaping hole in his body.

Lithuania opened the door. A fierce wind blew at him for a moment; however, he knew to shut the door right away, to keep the light out of the room. This wasn't unusual. Although, like each and every other time, it demanded his immediate attention.

He began by cautiously approaching Russia, but he stopped when he sensed that he would almost step on the man's heart. He picked it off the floor, came up behind the man and gently set it back in the void in his chest, then holding his hands over the hole briefly to make sure it was securely inside.

Russia, his eyes shut, laid his hand on top of Lithuania's, his other hand moved into a fist on the desk.

"Thank you," Russia whispered. Lithuania closed his eyes, too, and a somber expression overtook his face.

This was his grave duty.

This was what he had promised to do.

God help him if he didn't keep it.

Russia let go and came fully awake, releasing a cascade of tears from each violet eye. He dipped his head and ran his fingers through his hair, choking out loud. He was crying.

"Lithuania, they killed them," he sobbed. "They killed the Romanovs – all of them. I have no czar. They've taken over the country. Lenin, he – they…" He couldn't finish. He was shaking all over, drunk, depressed, reduced to nothing in his will and his mind, and he couldn't finish. But he didn't need to finish. Lithuania had already taken the knife from the desk and solemnly placed it in Russia's hand.

Just like he had done so many times before, Lithuania slipped off his cloak and his coat and his shirt, placed his palms flatly against the wall, and braced himself for his end of the bargain…

And he wondered, what was it that Russia did for him, again?

He tried to think back, centuries ago, to when the deal was struck, as the first cut of the knife bit mercilessly into his flesh.

"Russia… What happened to you?"

"G-go away."

The metal edge slid down as if to tease him, to see how long it would take for him to react. He gritted his teeth. Blood rushed to the surface and pooled around the blade.

"But you're covered in blood. Are you sure you're o—"

"I said go away!"

At the end of the incision, Russia ground deep down into Lithuania's body, as far as he could go with that knife, practically straight through him. Russia grunted like he was getting some sick pleasure out of it – oh, of course he was. Lithuania screamed. Scorching tears of pain pushed their way out of his eyes. The withdrawal of the knife hurt almost as much, and Lithuania jolted. He knew the first lash could never hurt the worst, and tried his best to prepare himself for the torture yet to come.

The carnage: a dead man, a chained dog, and a little Russian boy with a knife.

Lithuania groaned at the second cut of the blade and at the realization. That's right, the dog. Centuries ago, when they were children, Russia killed a man to save a dog – Lithuania's dog, his closest friend and ally and companion.

"My God. Is there any way I can repay you?"

"… Be my friend."

And this was friendship – this, this grinding a knife into his back. Because friendship was hard.

Like he said before, Lithuania didn't envy Russia. He felt plenty sorry for himself, but he could never feel sorrier for anyone more than Russia.

The man had broken long before anyone should break. (Another line began to draw on Lithuania's back. He moaned, growing increasingly dizzy from the blood loss and from the near onset of hypothermia earlier. There was blood all over him now, even spattered onto Russia as well. He couldn't see it since he was staring at a spot on the wall to concentrate, but he felt it.) He had suffered more than anyone ever could suffer or even imagine suffering. The least Lithuania could do was repay his debt for a dog that died – not of murder, but old age – hundreds of years ago. He let his sympathy get the best of him, and his gratefulness, and agreed. At the time he was also agreeing to be Russia's torture outlet.

The boy was suicidal; he was insane and just plain sad. Lithuania couldn't just stand by and let his psychopathic "friend" kill himself, could he? Poland had always said to him that he was too nice. Now he was finding out how it meant the hard way.

Perhaps a life for a life… wasn't the best arrangement. One death plus one killing did not equal a solid friendship.

But how could he tell him, as the old knife dragged another future scar across his back? How could he tell him?

0o.o0o.o0

If you're confused, I don't blame you. I might rewrite this...