March, 1948
He's been summoned to Russia's office, and he has every idea why. Each clack of a booted heel against the highly polished wood floor is a death knell…is a nail being driven into his own coffin.
It's the partisans, Lithuania knows. He was ordered to quash their guerilla rebellion shortly after it started. The resistance was little more than an irksome gnat to a nation as large as Russia even though it was decimating Lithuania's population. At the time, Russia probably arrogantly thought his own forces could easily overcome the rebels and left it at that, turning his attention back to considerably more important things, like crushing Germany and his pact-breaking Führer. But what began as disorganized groups hiding in the woods, resisting Red Army conscription and Soviet repression, has become something more. The fly buzzing around Russia's head is proving more bothersome than originally thought.
Lithuania tries not to sweat, tries to retain his composure as he nears the office door, but his skin itches beneath his uniform shirt. The cuffed sleeves feel like manacles around his wrists. The starched collar digs into his throat. Lithuania pulls at it, trying to loosen the stiff fabric, as he pushes open the door. He doesn't bother to knock. Knocking would imply his visit is friendly when it is anything but. He is there at Russia's behest.
Russia sits behind a heavy oak desk. His eyes flick up the moment Lithuania enters. The rest of his head slowly follows until the deadened purple gaze is fully locked on the Baltic standing in front of him.
Spread on the desk before him are various files and folders. Paper-clipped to the topmost of which is a black and white photograph of the bloodied face of a captured partisan staring lifelessly up.
Russia folds his hands on the desktop, leans forward ever so slightly, his gaze never leaving Lithuania's. Lithuania realizes the much larger nation has not blinked once since he stepped into the office. And then it hits him….
Russia's eyes aren't dead, Lithuania thinks. They are alive-alive and watching and trained on his prey. The eyes of a snake. No. Not just a snake. A viper. They are steady, hypnotic, demanding the truth.
Lithuania's shirt collar is tight again. He is afraid of what will happen if he tries to speak, but is blessedly spared croaking out any perfunctory acknowledgements by a low rumble from Russia.
"I offered your people amnesty, did I not?"
It is a rhetorical question Lithuania knows not to answer.
Russia studies Lithuania some more, the unnerving quiet broken only by the long, audible breath Russia exhales through his crooked nose. It had been broken in the war and Russia, for reasons known only to him, never got it fixed. Not only did it cause Russia's breathing to become louder and more resonant, it also became a source of amusement for the three Baltics – Latvia especially, who calls Russia "The Walking Picasso" behind the large nation's back. Oftentimes Lithuania finds himself staring at it, wondering which nation did it. For some reason his brain always conjures up alternating images of Prussia or Hungary smashing the butt of their rifle into Russia's face….
Noting his words have not yet spurred a reaction in Lithuania, Russia wets his lips indifferently, lets his gaze shift down to his desk, and picks up the top file.
"And now we have this." Russia's eyes scan the document. "It seems your partisans have organized into something they call – " Russia's lip curls up in an awful sneer – "'Freedom Fighters'." He tosses the file with lazy disregard back onto the desk and laces his fingers once more.
It is this act – this marked act of disrespect – that triggers something in Lithuania as he stares down at the black and white photo. His collar no longer feels as tight.
"Well?" Russia prompts.
Lithuania lifts his gaze to meet Russia's. "Well what?" he says. His voice is small but there is temerity behind it and it surprises him when he speaks.
Russia huffs in a momentary loss of composure. "Do you know why this is distressing to me?" Lithuania's impudence is testing the limits of his already limited patience. It would be much easier to reach just across the desk and throttle him….
Lithuania keeps his face impassive, offers no answers.
Russia sucks in a noisy noseful of air. "Aside from your deliberate disobedience, you sought to undermine Soviet authority – my authority – by aiding and allowing these actions to continue, unchecked, while my back was turned."
"How can I control what my people do when I'm not even allowed to live among them? How can I control what my people do when they are hardly my people anymore?" The words tumble out of Lithuania's mouth before he can stop them and hang in the dead air between them.
Russia cocks his head to one side, looks at Lithuania as if he is some mildly curious specimen. His eyes narrow, ever so slightly, daring the Baltic to say more. And Lithuania does.
"You've changed them. You've taken my language, my culture, and left me with nothing. This falls on you – "
Russia is on his feet, his hand flying across Lithuania's face. Lithuania stumbles to the side, his hand automatically reaching for his smarting cheek. He keeps his face averted, the stinging weal hidden behind a curtain of brown hair.
Russia is about to sit back down when he sees something glinting against Lithuania's neck. "What is that?"
Lithuania picks his head up, wondering what Russia is looking at. Before he can move, Russia has come around the desk, leaving barely a foot of space between himself and the Baltic. His thick fingers lift the golden chain sticking up out of Lithuania's shirt collar.
"What is that?" Russia says again.
At the end of the chain is a small gold cross. Russia holds it flat in his palm, eyes narrowing slightly. His breathing is loud and grating and Lithuania wants so badly to punch him in the nose, to break it again and again, but he just stands there, muscles tense and alert, his flight instinct taking over.
Russia closes his hand around the small cross, his fist dangerously close to Lithuania's throat. He tilts the Baltic's head up with his other hand. Lithuania clenches his jaw and swallows past the jagged lump growing in his throat. It is a funny shape, he can almost see it – a ragged hill covered in crosses of all shapes and sizes. He desperately wants to look away, but to do so would mean instant death. He must hold the viper's gaze. And he does. Somehow, he does.
Their eyes lock once more. And Russia's contain a depth – one that Lithuania has not seen for over a century. The cold, calculating look of a viper ready to strike has disappeared and in its place is a memory. For a moment he is a child again. A child surrounded by books and books and books. And monks. Living in one of Yaroslav's monasteries centuries and centuries back. Before communism, before imperialism, before the invasion of the Golden Horde….
Russia closes his eyes, presses his forehead against Lithuania's. His breathing, Lithuania notes, has quieted.
Russia pulls away moments later. He opens his eyes. The cloud of Communism and secrecy obscures them again.
Then he does something wholly unexpected. He pulls Lithuania close, embracing him with one arm while the other holds onto the golden cross.
"You know these are forbidden," he says in a low voice, his lips barely moving as they brush Lithuania's ear.
The Baltic suppresses a shudder. Every nerve is focused on what Russia will do next.
Lithuania feels the chain tighten. He flinches, ready to feel its bite as Russia rips it from his neck. Instead, Russia flattens his palm and stares at the cross again, briefly, before tucking it back down Lithuania's shirt. He adjusts the collar, further hiding the chain, and Lithuania can't help but flinch again as Russia's fingers brush his throat.
Russia frowns, steps back, and looks at him. Lithuania stares resolutely at some invisible spot on Russia's overcoat, refusing to meet his gaze. Russia's eyes shift from Lithuania's emotionless face, coming to rest on a point just beyond his shoulder. He lets out a heavy breath and utters one colorless command: "Go."
Lithuania obeys.