June, 1953
He's been summoned to Russia's office, though he has no idea why. Behind the oak desk, Russia glares at him as he enters, holding the phone receiver in one hand, away from his ear. And Lithuania can hear why. Prussia – East, he quietly corrects himself – is shouting all manner of profanities. It's nothing new, but amid choice swears and garbled Russian, Lithuania distinctly hears "I've been trying to handle it! What the fuck do you think I've been doing!?" And suddenly Lithuania knows why he's there. Russia's eyes narrow at the look of comprehension Lithuania just knows is spreading across his own face. The look Russia gives him asks the unsaid question: You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?
Lithuania has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out at the absurdity. Russia knows the partisan fighters all but disbanded last year. The remainder gave themselves up after Russia offered another amnesty following Stalin's death in March. Lithuania thinks there might still be some diehards holding out in the forests, but he isn't about to divulge that information. But the partisan war (and the Baltics' defiance) is still fresh in Russia's mind and is something he likes to drag out to hold over their heads whenever situations arise. And he still, still has the problem of seeing plots everywhere – a regrettable parting gift from his recently deceased leader. So, it should not surprise Lithuania, really, that Russia has somehow connected the uprisings in East Berlin back to him and his failed guerilla war.
Lithuania sniffs, tries to appear nonchalant as his stiff posture relaxes into an almost bored slouch. Don't be stupid Lithuania's face says. You've kept me under such tight surveillance, he mentally adds, trying to keep that bitter thought from showing.
Russia eyes him a moment longer. The other end of the phone has gone quiet. East is waiting for his response. Slowly, Russia brings the phone up to his ear. He cups his hand over the mouthpiece, speaks so low that Lithuania can't see or hear what he says.
Lithuania's fingers itch. He's desperate for a cigarette, knows he should quit, he really should, but the truth is he'd sooner suck down that stinking Soviet shit right now than the alternative...though he hasn't completely discounted the notion Russia doesn't have something planned for later. The usual appeasement. Lithuania's mouth runs dry at the thought. Even though he hasn't done anything. This time.
While he waits for the conversation to be over, Lithuania feels his eyes slide out of focus, his face adopting a vacant look that makes Russia sometimes lash out and accuse him of noncompliance. But he is not trying to be disobedient. He is just too drained to care.
It is the second day of the worker's revolt in East Berlin. In all of East Germany. The unrest has spread beyond the capital, touching all major cities and industrial centers. But Russia's problems don't just end there. Ever since Stalin's death three months ago, there has been a power struggle to claim his vacant spot.
After what seems like an hour waiting in tense silence, Russia finally hangs up the receiver. It's only been about five minutes, but Lithuania knows from experience being in Russia's presence, time has the inexplicable ability to slow to a crawl.
Lithuania straightens his back, wondering (hoping) he's about to be dismissed when Russia rests his elbows on his desk and steeples his fingers, studying the Baltic with a serene look that doesn't quite hide his mistrust. Lithuania groans internally. He's familiar enough with their silent exchanges to know he hasn't done enough to assuage Russia's paranoia. Lithuania's eyes flutter closed. He clenches his jaw, steeling himself.
When he opens his eyes again, it is to find Russia cradling his head with both hands, his eyes wide and staring at his desk as if he could somehow see through it. Lithuania wonders briefly what's happening, wonders if it's another back-stabbing triumvirate falling apart, wonders who will emerge as leader this time. Russia, Lithuania suddenly realizes, is being pulled in eight different directions. He may have a right, then, to be paranoid.
Russia blinks, comes to himself, and dismisses Lithuania with the wave of a hand.
Lithuania gladly steps out into the hall, runs his hand over his tense neck, feels the pull of a metal chain. Shit. He should have taken it off that day Russia found it. He was lucky, then, that Russia had been in one of his more cogent moods. But today….If Russia had found it today, he surely would have sent the Baltic off to Siberia. Lithuania just forgets he wears it. It's a part of him. One of the last few things he can hold onto.
Lithuania closes his eyes again, presses his back against the wall. His head tilts up, his mouth forming silent words in a language he is forbidden to speak.
When he is done, Lithuania listens hard for any sound, any indication he may have been seen or overheard. But Russia's house is disturbingly quiet.
His trembling fingers fumble with the tiny clasp and Lithuania has to more than once stop himself from yanking the damn cross off his own neck. He finally manages to undo it and slips the thin chain into his hand. He curls his fingers tightly around it, the cross' small metal edges digging into his palm, and shoves his fist in his pocket. His need for a smoke has increased two-fold and he heads for the courtyard behind Russia's house, his fist still clamped firmly around the forbidden object in his pocket.
.
.
.
It is well after midnight, but Lithuania does not sleep. The reason is the loud breathing coming from the nation curled against him. Russia's breath is hot against the back of Lithuania's neck, his arm heavy as it rests on Lithuania's side. Even if the large nation had not decided to share his bed that night, Lithuania doubt he would have been able to sleep anyway. Russia is worried. And angry. And given the current state of things, has every right to be. Lithuania tries not to begrudge him that. Still, he wishes Russia could find a more…constructive…method for dealing with his issues instead of clamping down harder. A moment of confusion followed by blind rage and Russia was all set to head to East Germany that afternoon, ready to settle the uprising the only way he knows how, but East again insisted he had it under control. But Russia still demanded Lithuania dust off his old lieutenant uniform "just in case." Lithuania didn't much fancy making an impromptu trip (nor did he much feel like facing East) and was secretly thankful the German managed to somehow mollify their boss a second time. Lithuania knows how the rest of the Eastern Bloc countries see him: Russia's pet. The Favorite. He's even caught Estonia and Latvia watching him a little too closely and muttering under their breath when they thought him out of earshot. They have it all wrong, Lithuania thinks. If only they knew. He is probably the least trusted of all. That's why Russia keeps him so close.
Lithuania tries to adjust his position, but Russia's arm is so damn heavy. He gives up and just stares off into the darkness.
Across from his bed stands his bureau, and in it, his secret: his golden cross, hidden away. He should have just taken it to the Hill and left it with all the others when he had the chance. That's what it was meant for, why Poland gave it to him. But instead he stubbornly held onto it. Lithuania doesn't quite know why. Maybe because he thinks one day he'll make it back there.
Russia shifts in his sleep. The heavy arm has been lifted, and Lithuania can breathe a little easier. Lithuania shuts his eyes and tries to sleep.
