The spider sat contentedly in the middle of it massive, silvery web, the full moon reflecting off of its smooth, yellow body. Lithuania watched it with hypnotic fascination as he sat curled into a tight ball on the stone bench among the rose bushes.
America's poetry book sat on the bench next to him, small and unassuming for all of the dark thoughts it had provoked in him, thoughts that had chased him out of his warm room and into the cool night of the garden.
His back was aching again. The fresh wounds had flared up during dinner as he and America were finishing up their last bites of apple pie, as if his body felt he was getting too close to forgetting. He spent the rest of the even with his back arched awkwardly in an attempt to avoid his shirt coming into too much contact with his torn skin.
Sleeping on his stomach proved useless. At one point, his face rolled over into the pillow, and when he briefly couldn't breathe in, he snapped up and screamed in terror.
After rationality returned, he sat in the darkness, listening desperately for any sign of America being woken.
Even as he sat on the stone bench, self-disgust gnawed at his stomach. He was a warrior. Before partition, he and Poland had been able to hold their own against Prussia, Turkey, even Russia.
So, what was he now?
Lithuania placed his hand on the poetry book, running a finger along the neat edge of the cover, feeling every fray in the binding.
Stop being ridiculous, a voice inside his head, which sounded very much like America's, chided him. You're free. It's not perfect, but you've got more working in your favor than you've had in a damn long while. So, just admit that you're scared as hell of Russia, and start moving on.
But, it's so hard, when I feel like Russia is breathing down my neck every second.
Okay, calm down. Deep breaths.
In attempt to quiet his internal dialogue, he picked up the book and flipped through it absently, not really focusing on any of the contents. He had read all of the poems already. Twice. Some of them more. Every word of it made him feel closer to America, and the other country's bold, sunny optimism.
Ah, good. You're already swimming in self-pity, and now you dwell on your unrequited love for your rescuer. That's a wonderful idea.
Yes, sarcasm, his familiar companion of centuries, whenever he was really in trouble. The rescue had rekindled his crush on America from his time as housekeeper, was now burning steadily and had no sign of stopping, rationality be damned.
However, acting on that fleeting, assuredly unrequited impulse would, he knew, be an utterly foolish thing to do, particularly so soon after his leaving Russia. How did he know that he wasn't just "in love" with America, because of gratitude at his release from the Soviet Union?
I know, something inside his head whined desperately. I want to be with him. He's beautiful and kind and he cared about me enough to come after me even when Russia was threatening death and doom. When I stayed with him, there was warmth and we laughed all the time and he was treated with respect.
I love him.
…Stupid.
Lithuania sighed and pressed the book tightly to his chest, looking tiredly down at his worn boots.
"Toris!"
Lithuania started, dropping the book and nearly falling over the bench as he whirled to face the source of the voice.
America was standing in the path by the rosebush, looking down at Lithuania in concern. He was dressed in a set of flannel pajamas, under the ever-present leather jacket.
"Sorry," America said quickly. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just… woke up and I saw your coat was gone. I, um, I was worried I guess."
Lithuania felt a surge of guilt both at being a disruption and at the nature of his thoughts before America's arrival. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you."
America shrugged and gave a slow smile. "Hey. Don't worry. I get up in the middle of the night a lot of the time too." He walked over and sat down heavily on the bench next to Lithuania. "So, what brings you out here tonight?" he joked.
Lithuania echoed his smile. "Couldn't sleep."
"Yeah, me neither. Sometimes you just need to clear your head, though." He cocked his head thoughtfully at Lithuania. "Aren't you cold?"
Lithuania shook his head. His smile widened. "My land's colder than yours, remember?"
America snorted. "I think you mean ridiculously colder."
Lithuania broke out laughing. America suddenly reached over and grabbed his hands, pressing them tightly between his own.
"See," he said. "You're cold as ice."
Lithuania couldn't imagine why America would think that. He felt like he was burning up. Trapped in America's steady, gentle grasp, his hands were almost painfully hot. He had to resist the urge to pull away, to hide his reaction from America.
The other country was still smiling softly at him. "You look a lot better than when I first found you. You're not as skinny or pale. And you're smiling." He looked away and laughed awkwardly. "I missed you smiling when you left."
Lithuania opened his mouth, but couldn't think of anything to say. He filled the silence with short nervous laughter.
After an awkward, cricket chirp filled moment, America began, "Lithuania, I don't think I've really told you how glad I am to have you back. I guess this is as good a time as any to try."
"Oh, don't worry, it's—"
America stopped him. "Hey," he smiled, "let me finish." He took a deep breath. "Okay. Toris, I really like you."
Lithuania's eyes widened and his breath quickened. "Alfred—"
"Let me finish," America interrupted again. He exhaled anxiously. "Man, this is hard. Okay. Here." He leaned in and pressed his mouth to Lithuania's open, questioning lips.
Oh…
America pulled back quickly, chewing on his lip. "I think you're really beautiful, Toris, and smart and fun, and I want to go out with you."
Lithuania was aware that he must have been staring stupidly, but he couldn't make himself stop or say anything halfway intelligent.
America made it seem so simple. Go out with me. All Lithuania had to do was say yes and all of this angst and unrequited longing would be over and done with. He could live in the warm, glowing light of America's optimism forever. He could enjoy America, without Russia hanging over his head, informing all of his decisions.
Yes. Just say yes, you moron. Say yes…
America was peering at him intently, concern flickering in his blue eyes. "Toris? Oh, man, I'm sorry. I really didn't… that was so stupid. It wasn't fair, and you're, like, allowed to shout at me or kick me, or whatever you want. I'm really sorry, and—"
"Yes!"
Lithuania was just as surprised by the outburst as America looked. He felt immediately nervous and looked down at his hands, still held tightly in America's grip. One of America's fingers was gently stroking along Lithuania's knuckle.
He swallowed. "I'd like to…" The words sounded silly even to himself. "…Go out with you."
The grin practically exploded across America's face. "Oh, God, that's great, Toris!" He dropped Lithuania's hands, but only to jump forward and pull Lithuania into a tight hug, burying his face into Lithuania's neck. Lithuania's heart was pounding so hard he almost felt dizzy. He wrapped an arm around America's back and fisted his hand in America's jacket.
"I'm sorry," he said without thinking.
America pulled back slightly and looked Lithuania in the eyes. "Why are you sorry?"
"I just… I'm sorry I've been so…"
America shrugged. He placed a warm hand on Lithuania's cheek, buried his fingers in Lithuania's hair. "It's no problem. I understand."
"…I'm trying to forget Russia, but I can't. It's…"
"It's okay," America said softly, his face intense. "I'll make sure that he never touches you again. I swear." America's look of brave assurance faltered. "He… hurt you."
It wasn't a question, but Lithuania nodded. "It got worse at the end. He didn't want me to leave. Thought he could, I don't know, beat patriotism into me." He smiled wanly, but stopped when he caught sight of America's expression.
"Toris…" he began in a quiet, pained voice.
"I'm fine," Lithuania assured him. He found America's free hand and wrapped his fingers around it. "Or, I will be fine. I- I don't really know where to go from here, Alfred. I've been in Russia's house for a long time."
His voice dropped down as he admitted ruefully, "Sometimes I forget that I'm not still there." He smiled. "But, then I remember you're sleeping in the next room, and I feel safe. Remember when I worked for you and we used to sleep in the same bed?"
America nodded, a smile creeping into the corner of his mouth.
"I thought about that a lot when I was with Russia. You… I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you, and I'm sorry if I take a while to get used to being safe again." Lithuania looked away awkwardly, only chancing a furtive glance to see how America was reacting to his long, tangled speech.
The younger country was still smiling, holding Lithuania's hand and cheek. "That's okay. Really, we can go as slow as you want. I'm just… glad that you're back and that I have you with me."
"Me too." Lithuania laughed quietly to himself.
"What?" America asked, laughing by reflex.
"You're so sweet," Lithuania said.
"Oh, well…"
"I like it," Lithuania said quickly. Putting aside any lingering nervousness, he slid closer to America, until their thighs pressed together. Lithuania rested his head against America's shoulder and sighed contentedly.
"Hey, Toris?"
"Hm?"
"If you're feeling up to it, do you want to go out for dinner tomorrow night? I know somewhere, you know, out of the way."
"That would be nice," Lithuania murmured. He felt suddenly exhausted, as if he hadn't slept for days. To curl up by America's warmth and sleep, without fear, seemed ideal.
He briefly felt America shifting around and then there was something warm being pressed around his shoulders. Blinking and looking around, he saw America's leather jacket wrapped around his back. America was tugging the jacket closer around his chest, smiling warmly down at the other nation.
"Can't wait," he said quietly, and pressed a gentle kiss to Lithuania's forehead. "Promise, I'll be an amazing boyfriend."
Lithuania laughed. "I bet," he said sincerely. He laid his head back on America's shoulder and stretched. "Alfred?"
"Yeah, Toris?"
"Could you kiss me again?" he asked quietly, looking up and curling his legs closer under the jacket.
"Sure," America answered with a little nod. He leaned down and pressed his lips gently to Lithuania's. Their noses fit together and they moved softly against each other.
The zipper of America's jacket scratched against his throat. He could feel warmth settling deep into the pit of his stomach.
It was so wonderfully simple. Easy, childish gestures like dates and an oversized jacket keeping him warm. America made everything easy. He didn't have to fear and doubt everything as he had with Russia.
America was simple, nice, not trapped in bitter absolutes.
Lithuania could live with that.
It took him a while, but eventually America made himself remember that Lithuania wasn't made of glass. They could laugh and joke and go into the open, without the smaller nation coming apart at the seams. Once he was back on his feet, at a normal weight, he began to return to the sweet, eternally cheerful Lithuania that had been his friend in the roaring twenties.
One brief, casual dinner date turned into a regular night out. When they weren't working, either on America's affairs, or helping Lithuania get back on his feet, they would sit together, watching old movies or records. Lithuania started cooking for America again, though he had to give up on any effort at teaching him the skill.
And, when they eventually slept together, it turned out to be America who was more nervous about getting something wrong, with Lithuania taking the role of repeatedly assuring him that everything was all right.
Their relationship was quiet and private. Following Lithuania's lead, America didn't go out of his way to hide the fact that he was going out with Lithuania, but also didn't go bragging about it to England, Japan, Italy, anyone who would listen, as he desperately wanted to. With all of the chaos surrounding the slow, agonizing crumpling of the Soviet Union, both of them had bigger problems to contend with, for the moment at least
Forty-five days after Lithuania achieved independence from Russia, he let America touch his scars.
It began as America casually suggesting that they take a bath together, then tensing in mortification as he remembered how insecure the older nation still was about the marks on his back, still thick, angry, and as red as Russia's flag.
Sometimes, he saw Lithuania sitting stiffly, with his back arched, and knew that the wounds were bothering him again.
By common consent, he didn't mention it aloud.
This time, however, Lithuania looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and then smiled.
"Sure. That sounds nice."
America sat awkwardly on the edge of the full, steaming bath, still dressed in his bathrobe. Lithuania entered a moment later. He wore a robe of America's, huge and billowing, with one sleeve falling off of a pale shoulder. A small smile touched the corner of his lips.
As America made himself echo the smile, Lithuania slowly crossed the room and sat down on the bath next to America. For a moment, they just looked at each other, America's insides twisting with awkwardness. Everything was done so carefully and solemnly, it reminded him of one of Japan's ceremonies.
"So," America said, desperate to break the silence. "Do you want to… uh?" He put his hands on Lithuania's shoulders.
Lithuania smiled. "Sure." He turned around slightly as America slid the robe off his shoulders.
He managed not to make a sound at the sight of Lithuania's back, despite the sympathetic pain that rushed through him. Lithuania quickly finished taking his robe off, and America did the same. He followed the older country's lead again as they both slid into the bath, Lithuania settling in front of America, who sat on his knees in the tub.
The bath was hot, and steam filled the air. The steam had a calming effect on America. He exhaled softly and moved close to the Lithuania's smaller form. "Do they hurt?" he asked quietly. His voice was mostly concerned, but he thought he couldn't conceal a dark hint of morbid interest.
Lithuania either didn't notice or didn't mind. "Not now," he answered calmly. "They don't hurt much anymore."
"Damn it," America muttered to himself, eyes fixed on a long, ragged gash stretching across Lithuania's lower back.
"What…?" Lithuania glanced at him over his shoulder.
"Him," America said clearly. Lithuania's silence made it clear that both of them knew whom the nation being spoken of was. "I swear, every time I see him now I want to tear his throat out."
"You shouldn't," Lithuania said. "He… I don't think he really understands. At least, not all of the time." He shifted around in the water slightly, pulling his legs closer to his chest, and his chin closer to his knees. "He wants everyone to be one big, happy family, and he can't understand why we aren't. That's why he acts… like he does. The world doesn't make sense to him anymore."
"That's no excuse."
Lithuania shrugged. "Maybe not," he sighed, curling further into himself. "It's what I tell myself, though."
This conversation wasn't going anywhere helpful, America could see clearly. "Well," he began brazenly. "It doesn't matter. He'll never lay a finger on you again. I won't let him."
"I know you won't," Lithuania said sweetly, with absolute assurance, absolute trust.
America wasn't sure what to say. His mouth hung open stupidly, and he could practically see Lithuania's quiet, little smile even though his face was turned. Finally, America just reached out and stroked Lithuania's hair, running his wet fingers through the soft, brown locks.
"You've got beautiful hair, Toris," he said lightly.
Lithuania's shoulder's jerked suddenly. America drew his hand away, racing to figure out what he had done wrong, how he had hurt the wounded nation before him.
After only a moment, Lithuania let out a long breath and his shoulders straightened.
"Toris…?" America asked quietly.
"I'm fine," Lithuania said, smiling wanly at America over his shoulder. "I… remembered something. It's gone now. Please, do that again."
America did his best not to dwell on whatever dark memory had been dredged up by his thoughtless comment. Hesitantly, he reached up and ran his hand through Lithuania's hair again. Lithuania sighed and leaned into the touch.
Heartened, America picked up a washcloth and dunked it in the water, before ringing it out over Lithuania's head, just to see the warm water roll over the silky hair and down over his shoulders.
Lithuania laughed as America rubbed the washcloth against his neck, feeling steady, but delicate muscles writhing under his fingertips, occasionally dipping back into the water when the cloth went dry.
The cloth began to move lower, down from his neck, to his shoulders, sliding onto his back, but Lithuania didn't object, humming tunelessly and running his hands through the water.
America began to wash the scarred flesh. He felt the uneven bumps and divots in Lithuania's skin, the lingering marks of a whip or boot heel. Some of the lashes were still red and inflamed, but Lithuania only sighed again as they were touched.
As he moved over the seemingly endless map of abuse, America wished with an almost physical desire that he could erase them. That some brave act or noble sacrifice could make any reminder of his lover's torture disappear.
But, he knew that was impossible. All that he could do was clean the scars, kiss them, touch them, cover them, and watch them heal as well as they ever would. Ever could.
When he had felt every inch of Lithuania's skin, America dropped the washcloth into the cooling water. He wrapped his arms around Lithuania's thin, chest, pressed his scarred stomach to the even more scarred back, and placed his chin on Lithuania's shoulder.
Lithuania turned slightly, just enough to press his lips to America's. He tasted clean and cool.
They kissed until the water became uncomfortably cold. America lifted Lithuania out of the bath and sat him on the counter and dried him like a baby, while Lithuania let him, because he knew it made America happy.
America walked hand-in-hand with Lithuania to the bedroom. They curled up on the bed, under the clean blankets and sheets, Lithuania's body pressed into the hollow of America's, equal parts chaste and erotic at once.
Lithuania's hair was still damp, smelling of soap and bathwater. America felt it leave wet streaks on his throat as he and Lithuania spooned like teenagers.
An exhilarating thought was rumbling through him, warm and exciting: this could work. It was just possible that nothing, himself included, would throw this off the rails.
It wouldn't be perfect. He wasn't enough of a child to still think that. They would have their beloved hours, and their sharp pittances of years, the keen and quivering ration.
But, it could work. He would make Lithuania the best that he could be again, and Lithuania would do the same for him.
He didn't need to fix Lithuania. Because, this was fixed. As fixed as it ever was going to get.
They could live with that.
