A little note for you (yes, you!):
1. Human names are used. Aurel is the name I chose for Moldova, Eliot is Luxembourg, Katya is Ukraine, Konstantin is Bulgaria, and I'm using Erzsébet instead of Elizabeta this time. Everything else is canon
2. Some relationships had to be twisted to fit in the plot properly
3. I use the word "gypsy" in this. I'm not encouraging anyone to use it, I don't think it's cool to use it at any time, and it is only being used in historical context
4. This story contains a lot of things you may not be comfortable reading about including: abuse, a description of a mass shooting, and suicide. This story is about healing, and to heal you have to have wounds
5. Thank you for reading through this list. You're great!
let's go crazy / bucharest, dec. 11, 1989
Vladimir comes home at seven a.m. with a chest covered in bruises, dried blood clinging to his face, and an unshakable regret.
He closes the front door behind him. The living room is empty, but the TV is on and yesterday's newspaper is splayed out on the table next to a half-empty cup of coffee. Vladimir takes a small step inside, pressing himself up against the wall. If he can get to his room and grab his wallet before his stepfather can get to him, he'll be safe for a few more hours. It isn't a lot: just enough time to clean up, sober up, and come up with a reasonable excuse for disappearing and returning with a black eye.
Taking a final precautionary glance about the living room, Vladimir runs down the hallway as fast as his tired legs allow him. His footsteps echo off the cramped walls like gunshots. By the time he notices he's making far too much noise, he's already at his bedroom. He throws the door open, slams it, locks it, and wedges a chair underneath the handle.
"Dad?" His little brother, Aurel, sits up in bed. When he opens his eyes and sees Vladimir standing there, gasping for breath and shaking, his face falls. "Oh. Vladi. Where were you?"
"Out. Where's my wallet?" Vladimir asks, going over to their shared desk in the corner. The desktop is separated by a strip of tape – Vladimir's side is an organized mess of cassettes, textbooks, and homework he's forgotten to turn in, while Aurel's side is a plain mess. Yesterday when he got home he'd thrown his wallet on the desk without watching where it fell. He grabs a piece of the clutter and starts pushing things off the edge of the desk. "I need my wallet, Aurel. I'm so dead."
"It's on your bed."
Vladimir turns on his heels too fast for his hungover head. The room spins and blurs and he staggers to the side and clutches the desk and prays he won't throw up or pass out. Aurel asks if he's okay. Vladimir shakes his head. After a minute or so he trusts himself enough to walk across the room, pick up his wallet, and collapse face first into the blankets.
"What did I do?" he says, his voice muffled in the blanket.
"I don't know, either," Aurel says. "You look bad."
"Yeah. I feel bad."
Everything in Vladimir is telling him to get up and leave before he's out of time. His stepfather must have heard him running (along with most of their neighbors, who will be sure to complain to the landlord about the Cosmescu boy) and will be here any moment to start interrogating him. This is the worst he's done in months and he won't be able to get out of it. And yet, he can't bring himself to get up again. His body is so tired, confused, and injured that he's starting to wonder if this is what death feels like.
He sighs and rolls over, looking up at the cracked ceiling. He hears the mattress creak as Aurel climbs out of bed. A drawer opens and closes. Aurel mumbles to himself as he pulls a brush through his tangle of dark hair, cursing his father.
"I need to go," Vladimir says without moving.
"Are you coming to school?"
"I can't go to school like this. I feel like I got hit by a train."
"Cool. Did you get your black eye at Gilbert's party?" Aurel asks.
"Yeah," Vladimir says. "Please don't tell Sadik. If he asks you, tell him I went out with Erzsébet and we went to the park and I spent the night with her and her boyfriend. Don't say anything else."
Aurel sits down beside Vladimir, putting his hand on Vladimir's shoulder. His school uniform, a hand-me-down from Vladimir, is still a size too big. The sleeves are rolled up enough that his fingers poke out from the cuff. There's a hole near the collar about the size of Vladimir's thumb. He makes a soon to be forgotten mental note to stitch it up sometime.
"Dad is going to kill you," Aurel says with the wisdom of a sage and the grace of a ten-year-old boy. "He said when you came home he would break your legs so you couldn't run off for a long time."
"That's illegal."
Aurel shrugs. "I'm just telling you what he said. He also said he wanted to kick you out."
"Great. Thanks for this encouraging talk. It's really helping me."
"Sure. You're coming home tonight, right?"
Vladimir hides his face in his hands. "Maybe? I could stay somewhere else again. I feel like Sadik is only going to get more pissed with me if I do. What do you think I should do?"
"It's not worth it. He's already so mad that if you wait, he'll kill you for real."
"Why are you right? You're like, ten." Vladimir pushes himself upright, tucking his wallet into his jacket pocket. "I'll see you tonight, then. See if you can calm Sadik down a bit before I come home."
Aurel reaches over to their desk and takes Vladimir's Walkman and a translucent purple cassette. "Here," he says, holding them out to Vladimir like an offering to a god. A useless, reckless, pathetic half-brother of a god.
A faint smile tugs at Vladimir's mouth as he takes the Walkman from Aurel's outstretched hand and puts it in his pocket next to his wallet. "Thanks. You're the best half-brother I could have."
"You're literally the worst," Aurel says. He's blushing. "I wish I could skip, too."
"Sadik would have a stroke," Vladimir says, preparing himself for the six-meter dash to the stairwell. On a regular sneak-out he'd use the fire escape; he can't make it down the steep steps this morning. It's less painful to run into Sadik than to slip on the steps, crack his head open, and die.
Vladimir pulls the chair out from under the handle, slides open the lock, and takes a few deep breaths. His head is already swimming and he still has three flights of stairs to run down. He turns the doorknob with a slow, even movement, pulling the door open inch by inch. When the gap is large enough for him to fit through, he steps out into the hallway and sprints for the front door.
He doesn't make it ten steps before his vision goes black and his legs give out.
He falls.
His head cracks against the floor.
Two strong arms wrap around his waist and pull him up.
It's over.
Vladimir lets himself be dragged into the living room, hiding his face from his stepfather. Sadik sets him down on the couch: not as gentle as he should have but not as rough as he could have, the perfect amount of "you-are-an-embarrassment-to-me-but-I-still-worry-about-you-so-I'll-try-not-to-hurt-you". Vladimir pulls his sweater over his head, knowing Sadik saw the black eye and the blood. His sweater smells like smoke, alcohol, and pine. It smells like a memory that doesn't belong to him. It's comforting, more so than Sadik could ever be.
He stays like this for minutes, his face buried in the sweater. Sadik sits down by Vladimir's feet, and through the little holes in the sweater Vladimir sees him trying to figure out what to say and how to comfort his stepson. His hand hovers above Vladimir's leg. He pulls it away.
How long will Sadik wait for him to speak? Vladimir can't see the clock on the wall. It feels like years have gone by. Vladimir starts to fall asleep and has to wrench himself out of it by forcing himself to panic.
Sadik is going to kill you. Come on, think of something. Find a way to leave.
"I have to go to school," Vladimir says. It's his last chance to get away from Sadik. It's pathetic. He pulls the sweater away from his face and jerks upright, reaching for his bag on the coffee table. Sadik eases him down onto the couch.
"Slow down, Vladi. You can miss school today," Sadik says. "I want you to stay here and lie down. Do not move."
Vladimir, despite his unconditional vow to never obey Sadik, obeys. He tries to tell himself he'll come up with a way out of this, knowing all too well there is no escape.
"He caught you!" Aurel springs over the couch, landing on Vladimir's legs. Vladimir slips his left leg out from underneath the boy and kicks him onto the floor.
"No. It's part of my plan," Vladimir says.
"I thought your plan was to not get caught."
"I'm revising."
"That's a stupid plan. You were too slow for Sadik, anyway." Aurel sticks his tongue out at Vladimir and heads off to the kitchen before Vladimir can kick him again.
"Vladimir is faster than me," Sadik says from somewhere in the back of the apartment. "I never would have caught him if he didn't pass out."
"You passed out? Lame." Aurel drags a chair across the kitchen, letting the feet screech against the linoleum, which in turn, makes Vladimir sick to his stomach.
"It's not lame," Vladimir says.
"It's lame." Aurel climbs up onto the chair, then onto the countertop to grab a box of cereal and a bowl from the cabinet. "Have fun getting yelled at," he says in a low voice.
"Enough, Aurel," Sadik says as he comes into the room. He kneels beside Vladimir and sets out an array of first-aid supplies on the boy's chest. "You'll have to go to school by yourself today. Walk with Erzsébet or Eliot and don't you dare skip."
"Vladimir skips all the time," Aurel says through a mouthful of cereal.
"He is not my son." Sadik smiles to himself as he says this, like it's some big joke that Vladimir has a different father.
He leaves Vladimir alone for a while longer while he finds Aurel's coat and gives the him his lunchbox. Vladimir closes his eyes when Aurel hugs Sadik and says goodbye. He can't block out the sickening, loving words they say in Turkish, words Sadik won't say to Vladimir. Vladimir digs his fingernails into his palms, wishing Aurel didn't love his father.
"That boy worries about you so much," Sadik says when he comes back. "He stayed up all night waiting for you."
"Cool."
"You should be thankful he cares about you. Aurel has every right to hate you."
"Like you hate me?" Vladimir says.
Sadik doesn't answer. He's staring at Vladimir's black eye, his eyebrows furrowed together in something resembling concern. It might be confusion. "What did you do last night, Vladimir?"
"You know what, I don't want to do this." Vladimir brushes the first aid supplies off his chest and pushes past Sadik, marching off for the bedroom.
"Tell me what happened," Sadik says without trying to chase after him.
Vladimir stops in his tracks. What's to lose in telling Sadik? He's already failed at escaping and Sadik will wrench it out of him eventually. "I got in a fight, okay?" he says. "I lost. It was bad. Not that you care, though."
He steps into his bedroom and doesn't shut the door. There's no reason to. Taking the Walkman out of his pocket, Vladimir lays down on his bed and puts the headphones over his ears. He slips the purple cassette into the Walkman and presses play.
A warm synth and Prince's voice greets him. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life."
Sadik appears in the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. "Who am I going to get a call from?"
"No one. I'm not telling you anything," Vladimir says.
"It means forever and that's a mighty long time."
"Listen to me, Vladimir. If you seriously hurt someone else and their parents find out it was you, I could –"
"I. Lost." Vladimir clutches a fistful of blanket, what little he remembers from the party playing over and over in his head. He sees himself pinned against a wall, feels the first punch sink into his chest.
"But I'm here to tell you there's something else. The afterworld."
"I don't care who lost. Tell me what happened, now." Sadik is standing over Vladimir. His shadow covers the boy and creeps up the wall. "Someone could take this to the police or –"
"It's fine! Why don't you listen to me?"
"Instead of asking him how much of your time is left, ask him how much of your mind, baby."
"Why don't you listen to me? It seems that no matter what I do, you won't stay out of trouble. I ask you to stay here and watch Aurel and you run off to somewhere and come back like this. You never treated Katya like this."
Vladimir's heart stutters. "Don't bring mom into this."
"In this life, you're on your own," Prince says, seeming to mock Vladimir.
"Why can't you just be good?" Sadik raises his hand over his head and Vladimir flinches in anticipation.
"And if de-elevator tries to bring you down, go crazy. Punch a higher fl-"
The Walkman is ripped out of Vladimir's hands. He gasps and lunges for it. Sadik holds it above his head, forces it open, and takes out the cassette.
"What are you doing?" Vladimir scrambles to his feet and Sadik curls his fingers around the flimsy cassette.
"You will tell me what happened last night," Sadik says.
"I can buy another cassette," Vladimir says. A bootleg Purple Rain is rare. A legit one like Vladimir's is nonexistent. He was lucky enough to find it at his favorite black market and paid too much for it. Losing it would be like losing a piece of his soul.
Sadik narrows his eyes. "Tell me."
"I went to a party in Dristor," Vladimir says. "I got drunk and got in a fight with someone. I lost, went home with Erzsébet, and stayed with her boyfriend, Roderich. There, are you happy?" He reaches for the cassette. Sadik holds it up over his head again.
"No, Vladimir. Give me details."
"How? I can't remember shit about it."
"Where was the party and who did you fight?"
"I don't know the address. It was in Dristor, by the metro. I don't even remember who I fought."
It was Gilbert Beilschmidt who pinned him up against the wall. It was his party. It was Vladimir's fault. He was told to stay home with Aurel and instead, he sent the boy to bed early and left. He shouldn't have gone with Erzsébet, knowing how much Gilbert hates him. He shouldn't have said he could take Gilbert in a fight. He shouldn't have run when he saw Gilbert coming downstairs.
Everyone watched Gilbert throw the first punch as he called Vladimir a dirty gypsy.
No one said anything about it until Vladimir kicked Gilbert and pulled his knife.
It isn't wrong until a "gypsy" does it.
A stranger's hand wrenched the knife away from Vladimir. Two boys who Vladimir didn't recognize dragged him out the door, across the street, and into the empty lot. Gilbert followed. His face, already colorless, looked translucent in the street lights. His red eyes were wide. He was scared, and Vladimir felt a bit of pride that he scared the unshakable Gilbert Beilschmidt.
The boys threw Vladimir down in the dirt. Gilbert stood over him.
Vladimir's memories stop there. It's black until Roderich appeared and yelled at Gilbert to go inside. He picked Vladimir up and half-carried him to his car. He cringed a little when he saw the blood on the seats, and yet he didn't say anything about it. They drove home in silence. Vladimir slept on Roderich's floor, until Roderich snuck him out this morning before his parents woke up.
"I think you do remember," Sadik says.
"I've told you all I remember. Sorry," Vladimir says.
Sadik takes a moment to consider this. He looks from the cassette to Vladimir, weighing some unknown options. Vladimir lets his shoulders slump and hopes he looks as bad as he feels. He picks at the hem of his sweater like Aurel does when Sadik yells at him.
Sadik walks out of the room.
"Can I have my cassette back?" Vladimir asks as he follows him into the kitchen.
"No." Sadik takes a frying pan from the stove.
"Hey, Sadik? What are you doing?" Vladimir watches Sadik set the cassette down on the countertop and hold the frying pan up.
Everything clicks too late.
Vladimir sticks his left hand out over the cassette. His fingers brush the smooth plastic and he tries to pull it away in time. Surely Sadik won't bring the pan down on Vladimir's hand. Sadik might hit him from time to time, but he'd never go this far.
There is a disgusting crunch of bones and plastic. Pieces of cassette scatter across the countertop. Vladimir's hand is consumed by a white-hot pain.
He glances up at Sadik.
Sadik looks down at him.
"Oh?" Sadik says. "You didn't move your hand."
a/n: I guess I'm doing this again?
Howdy!
It's been a few years since we saw each other. If you're new, great! It's cool to see you. If you're a returner, also great! A lot has changed since I last published here. I'm not as bad at writing as I was in 2016. That doesn't mean I'm great. It just means I cleaned up my style a little bit. I hope you like it. I really like it.
I'm publishing this today because it's the 100th anniversary of WWI ending. Which ties into this story. I promise. Also the Prince lyrics used in this chapter tie into the story, too. (I really like Prince now, too)
I'm writing this story specifically because Bulgaria was one of my favorite characters and honestly, he doesn't get enough representation. This story could've been written with any Hetalia character. But in this house we love and respect the Balkan nations.
I have some good news and bad news for you (the bad news is subjective)
Good News: this story will be updated every other week on Saturday. Hopefully. I'm out here trying my best, but sometimes my best isn't as good as it should be.
Bad News: this, along with one other fanfic and perhaps a half-project I'm working on will be the last things I'm going to post here. So, you have 2-2.5 more stories with me.
Anyway, here's a weird little idea I came up with this summer. It's named after a lyric in "Hero" from Ghost Quartet. It's really 80s themed because I live for that aesthetic. It's kind of depressing. Lots of things are.
Thank you for reading this, it means so much to me. If you like it, hate it, or are in a generous mood, please don't hesitate to give me a quick review. I crave validation!
I hope you stick around until the end of this. It'd be cool.
Here's Let the Dead Be Dead. Enjoy!
polski-doodle