Ivan knew cruelty.
He had experienced it as a child, had watched his leaders inflict it on his people, had raised his own hand in it to strike the people he had dared called friends and family. He had watched as almost every aspect of his life was soaked in it, whether it was on him or by his hand.
Cruelty was the sting of the snow on his bare cheeks, the way his feet should have contracted frostbite and stopped hurting but didn't because even though he was a child in the winter forest with rags instead of shoes, he was still a country, and countries couldn't die. It was the way the arrows bit his flesh and the icy embrace of the lake from which he was drawing his attacker out of that if he was being truthful, he wished he could sink into forever. It was the curl of his fingers around a whip that he didn't want to hold, the fire hot blood that dripped from the skin of the people he cared for, and the punishments he had to employ over those that disobeyed. It was the hatred in the others' eyes as his government had failed and his country had rebuilt itself but he had remained, not dying along with the Soviet Union, not yielding up a new immortal to represent the new country, Russia.
But this, by far, was the cruelest.
It was years past his last major mishap. The Soviet Union had collapsed. He had a new leader, a new government. He was trying to fix things, fix relations. And sometimes it worked. Sometimes at meetings he would be able to talk to someone without being turned away, sometimes he could manage a few words in without being immediately thought of as someone not to be trusted. But that was not always the case.
Another meeting had just come to a close. It was in Ludwig's home, and as such he had conducted the meetings. The last remarks had been said and they had adjourned for a lunch break, everyone gathering up their things. It seemed to be a good day, and so with a hopeful smile, Ivan turned to the person next to him- Alfred.
"Where are you going to eat?" he asked, standing as the American did. He hadn't really brought anything, so had no need to gather it up. "I can join, da?"
He wasn't expecting the blond to turn to him with an exasperated, borderline irritated expression. "You're not serious, are you?" he asked. "Dude, I'm eating with my brother and with Arthur. So no, you can't join." There was no remorse in his tone, and Ivan wasn't really expecting any. It wasn't exactly a surprise, though. Alfred wasn't one to open so easily to him- decades had proved that much.
"Oh! That is fine," he reassured. For what, he wasn't sure. After all, Ivan wasn't exactly in the wrong. ...At least, he didn't think he was. "I will find someone else to join!" He watched as the other man slung an arm around the Englishman as he walked out, obnoxiously talking in his ear. Ivan turned to the next closest person, hoping to have more luck there, his guarded smile back on his lips. "Francis!"
The Frenchman paused mid-step and looked back. "Oui?"
Ivan hurried over to him, his hands curling in his scarf. "I can join you for lunch, da?" He watched as Francis looked between him and the door. An apologetic smile spread over his lips, and the Russian didn't need to continue listening to know what the answer would be. His smile didn't fade, though; he had worn it through wars, arguments, wins, losses, and everything else that he had weathered. That didn't mean this didn't hurt, though.
"Ah, I'm sorry, Ivan, I plan on tagging along with Angleterre." Francis gave him a small pay on the shoulder, almost as though he was trying to comfort him. The Russian couldn't bring himself to see any sincerity in the gesture.
Unable to connect any working thread between his brain and his mouth he simply nodded, watching as Francis started for the door. He turned. "Ah, Gilbert! What are-"
Before he could so much as finish his sentence, the albino rolled his eyes at him and fell in line behind his younger brother. "Yeah, right. Suck a dick, Braginsky." It garnered a sharp look from Ludwig, but no vocal reprimand. Ivan simply laughed and looked the other way.
"Lovino! Little Feli!"
The Italians turned around. Lovino stepped in front of his brother, acting as a barrier, refusing to let the Russian any closer than he already was. "Oh, no you don't. We don't hang out with big scary bastards like you. Find someone else to torment, for fuck's sake." There must have been a flicker of emotion of Ivan's face, for all of a sudden he swore he could see pity in the man's gaze. A soft sigh released from his chest. "If you want to go with someone so badly, your dumbass Baltic friends haven't left yet." And that was the end of his kindness. His fingers wrapped around Feliciano's wrist to tug him along and out, hurrying as quick as their slender legs would allow.
Ivan was still for a moment, not bothering to look as the two brothers disappeared from the conference room. It took him another minute to scout out the three he had called family for so many years. Feliks was with them, laughing and chattering away, an arm flung around Toris as the latter attempted to pack all his documents and notes up. Ivan's chest seemed to freeze at the sight. He felt like he couldn't breathe all of a sudden, face to face with the sight of smiles on everyone's faces, no matter how small or indirect. They were genuine smiles, ones he had never been able to coax out of them before. And why did they smile now? Because they were free of him. Because they weren't under his iron fist and his watchful eye. Because they hated him. Of that, he was sure.
But they were happy now. Happy like he had never given them. Happy like they deserved. What right did he have to intrude on that?
The others had trickled out by that time. The only reason the four were still there was because Feliks was still trying to decide to eat, and Toris was just taking his packed briefcase. Ivan avoided contact as he leaned over his papers, making a show of straightening them out and fixing some last minute details on his notes. His pen scribbled nonsense on the sheet of paper until the group made their way out the door, voices disappearing down the halls of the meeting room.
Once the heavy doors slowly shut again, the handle clicking softly, Ivan shuddered. His shoulders fell and his fingers curled around the edges of the papers. Before he had any time to comprehend the emotions that choked him and kept him silent, a couple of teardrops splattered on his documents, the ink slowly dispersing in the feeble drops of water. Ivan brought a hand to cheek, feeling the way his skin seemed to burn from them, the trails hot and angry over his pale skin. He could find no consolation, no relief, no options in his mind to make things better. This was the way the world worked now. This was how he was to continue. And it hurt.
He barely managed to sink into his chair. Elbows tucked to his chest and his forearms pressing against the edge of the table, he buried his face into his hands, little sobs making his large frame tremble. His toes were turned in and his knees knocked; had he not been so large he might have resembled a child, upset over an issue that it did not yet understand. The only difference was that Ivan understood. Ivan knew.
He could take punishments. He could take whippings and beatings, could handle stopping tanks with his bare hands and surviving a winter so harsh that it had protected his country for centuries against invaders. He was strong, and could receive and then deal any damage done to his person, no matter how long it took to finally gain revenge. But there was one thing he couldn't handle. One thing he couldn't brace himself against. One thing that would never go away, for they were countries, and they did not forgive. And that was loneliness.
Loneliness was the worst cruelty of them all.