This fic was originally written back in 2011 for the kink meme. There will be allusions to heavy historical matters and content that some may find disturbing. No offense is intended.

Russia thought that Serbia had the most unusual eyes he'd ever seen.

Serbia had never been considered the most beautiful or desirable Nation by the international community; few other than his neighbors or Slavic kin thought much on him. The Western Europeans seemed to think him a smaller version of Russia; those outside Europe were glad not to think on him at all, once the Balkans settled down.

But Russia himself liked to think on his little cousin Serbia, when he had the time, and right now he wanted to linger over Serbia's eyes. Those eyes were pale grey, the color of fine marble, his pupils so large and so black that they were disquieting. Many disliked Serbia's eyes; Russia thought them outstanding.

"I've heard a most interesting thing, little cousin," he told Serbia jovially one day as they relaxed over breakfast at Serbia's house.

Serbia flicked an errant strand of hair from his face, black hair shot through here and there with strands of white. "And what have you heard, big cousin?"

Russia steepled his fingers together. "That political party - they say they wish to become one with me. They wish Serbija to become one with Russia."

"And suppose," said Serbia, breathlessly, "suppose Serbia does wish to become one with Rusija?"

Russia thought of Belarus, and cringed a little before he could stop himself. "Such a thing would be a great endeavor," he said. "Something not to be taken lightly. It must be considered carefully."

Serbia had a way of moving without seeming to move - his hand now rested warm on Russia's knee. "Is it not all that you have dreamed of, big cousin?" he asked. "To have one perfect union?"

"Unions are rarely perfect," said Russia regretfully. His memories came to him like an old movie reel, black and white, an endless grainy loop of Nations turning their backs on him. Finland. Lithuania. Estonia. Latvia. Ukraine.

"I will be nothing you've ever seen before," Serbia promised him. Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded outlandish, or arrogant. But Serbia spoke with such perfect conviction, and his eerie eyes did not waver.

"But is it what is best for you? For us both?" Russia asked. "I must think on this. I do not doubt your sincerity, little cousin. You will see that I do not take this lightly."

Serbia looked at him askance. "You know that this is all I have ever desired. Perfect union. Perfect faithfulness. A more perfect... marriage."

It seemed natural enough to start with Russia's other little cousin, he who had been Serbia's first friend so many centuries before.

Bulgaria greeted him warmly when Russia dropped by his house. "You must try my banitsa!" Bulgaria told him, seating Russia at his table. "Fresh from the oven."

It smelled heavenly as Bulgaria began placing pastries on his plate. "Cousin," Russia said. "I must ask you something. It is about Serbija."

Bulgaria's fork clanked against Russia's plate. Fumbling for it, Bulgaria snatched the fork back up, and viciously stabbed another banitsa with it. "What are you wanting to know?" he asked.

Russia waited until Bulgaria took a seat. "He has told me he wishes to join with me," Russia told him.

Bulgaria snorted. "Forgive me, cousin, but he only says such because he has dreams of empire."

"As you did once?" Russia asked pointedly.

Bulgaria glared at him. "If you think he loves you," he began, and then shook his head, as though even the thought was laughable.

"You knew him before almost anyone else did. You were friends for centuries."

"He was an ungrateful little upstart," Bulgaria said, almost writhing with fury.

"I seem to remember it was you who attacked him and Gretsiya about a hundred years ago." Russia smiled serenely. "You weren't satisfied with the spoils of war, you had to squabble over little Makedoniya, didn't you?"

Bulgaria's pale skin flushed. "It was not so simple as all that. Serbia is a vicious little sadist -"

"-Who didn't give you what you wanted," Russia finished for him.

"No," Bulgaria said in a whisper. "Nothing you ever gave him would be enough. If he says he loves you... remember this." He turned his head, then parted his hair, silently urging Russia to look. There, on the nape of Bulgaria's neck, were silvery scars, tiny and shaped like crescent moons. It took Russia a moment to see them for what they were - fingernail marks.

Without another word from Bulgaria, he saw it in his mind's eye. Serbia stroking his hands through Bulgaria's hair, so close their breaths mixed - before digging his nails in, deep enough to draw blood, deep enough to leave scars.

Serbia sighed when he saw Russia. "You should not have gone to him about me. Bulgarska is black-hearted and bitter."

"I expected as much. He has little good to say about anyone. All those wars he started with you... did you give him blood?"

"More than he could drink," said Serbia grimly.

The next Nation to be visited was another cousin, but one Russia had never known so well. Croatia was Serbia's sister, and perhaps once his lover, although Russia did not know for sure and did not wish to ask. Like her brother, Croatia was grey-eyed, but hers were steely-grey, the eyes of Pallas Athena, and like the warrior goddess she was ever the strategist. Croatia only agreed to meet in public, on her own terms.

She sat at an outdoor cafe, sipping a fashionable coffee and wearing a smart, fashionable suit. Croatia nodded to acknowledge his presence but did not smile and did not uncross her legs.

"I have come to talk about your brother," Russia told her.

"I have nothing to say," Croatia said without a moment's hesitance.

Russia narrowed his eyes. "Is that the truth, beautiful cousin? You have nothing to say about Vukovar? About the war?"

"Not. A word." Croatia held firm.

"Ah." Russia closed his eyes. "Interestingly, for your brother has much to say about you. About the UstaĊĦe, and the dead Serbs."

A low hiss through clenched teeth. The first crack in Croatia's defense. "That is old, old history," she said. "We do not live in the past. I was not myself then."

"How many died - 400,000 or so? Not an insignificant number, for such a small nation as Serbia." Russia cracked open an eye, wanting to see Croatia's response.

"Hmph." Croatia cleared her throat. "Does my brother think that justifies his actions? An eye for an eye? A tooth for a tooth? Did he preach some primitive notion of justice? Does he think death can pay back death?"

"He told me nothing of the sort," said Russia.

"Did he tell you of the massacres? The refugees? All in the name of 'purity'?"

"I was thinking we did not live in the past!" Russia shrugged his shoulders.

Croatia fixed him with her steely gaze, taking his measure. "I have not spoken to my brother in a long time," she said at last. "Nor will I speak of him."

"A regrettable choice," Russia told her.

"But when you see my brother..." For the first time, Croatia seemed to stumble over her words. Her mouth moved for several moments without making a sound, and when she spoke her words came a little too fast. "Tell him I have forgotten him. Tell him I have forgotten the way to his house, the rose-bush that sprawled across his veranda. The walls, the bed, the blankets. I have forgotten everything he ever told me in every language he ever spoke to me. The way his breath painted my skin like ink. I have forgotten every memory of him."

"Tell him yourself," Russia snapped, and he stood and left her behind.

Serbia was asleep in the chair on his veranda when Russia came to see him. Stretching in the sun like a cat, he yawned and said, "What did my beautiful sister have to say about me?"

"She would not speak of you," Russia admitted.

"Ah." Serbia did not sound surprised. "Some people are not worth suffering for."