The long awaited epilogue! Well, not really long awaited, but you get my drift ^_^
I hope it's alright. I wanted some other nations interaction, and I hope i got it right.
Enjoy~
i have edited most of this as i realised there were some mistakes. thanks for the heads up about them ^_^
Epilogue
The days passed slowly. New Year came but was not celebrated, it was barely acknowledged, and it mildly shocked Ivan when he glanced at his calendar to realise it was the next year.
Without his sisters, the house was empty, quiet and far, far too large. There was nothing he could do to warm it up, there was always an abominable cold, and he found himself nearly permanently in his coat, his scarf hitched up tightly, as he tried to create the illusion that he wasn't so alone in the house.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, and Ivan found himself cursing it, scowling as it fell past his window.
There was once a point when he considered this gentle, delicate snow a beautiful sight to behold, but without his sisters, nothing held any beauty to him.
What did it matter anymore? Now that he was alone, nothing seemed important. He didn't quite know what motivated him to actually get up every morning, but he did, as if he wasn't controlling his own feet.
Katyusha's letter, the one that had caused so many tears, despite how Ivan had tried to hide them, had taken up residence on his bedside table, so it was the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning. He had placed it there, to serve as a constant reminder of what he had done. Not just to Katyusha and Natalia, but to Toris, Eduard and Raivis as well.
To so many people, and up until the point his sisters had left him, he was barely aware that he was doing it.
But now, the smiles, those sickening smiles that had only emerged when he heard Toris crying, they seemed filthy to him, and he wondered what had possessed him to act as he did.
However, as he glanced at himself in the mirror, trying to recreate that supposedly terrifying smile, he couldn't ignore how natural it looked on his face, how it fit in with the long, pale scarf and the gleaming metal pipe that was kept in the umbrella stand by the front door.
This, he eventually supposed, was what he was, and he couldn't do anything to change it. And he hated it, because it had driven away everyone he had ever loved, and it was no one's fault but his own.
He read that letter from Katyusha at least once a day. Sometimes, it was when he woke up, or when he was going to bed, or sometimes, he would feel himself gravitating to his room, to allow his eyes to skim across the page.
There was one line he hated perhaps the most.
You'll be angry with us, and that is something I can understand.
Angry? At his sisters? Katyusha didn't know him as well as she thought.
Ivan knew there was nothing his sisters could do that would make him angry. He loved them far too much for that, even though Katyusha was too prone to bursting into tears, and Natalia was completely obsessed with him in a way that was just terrifying. They had their faults, but then again, so did he, and together, they formed some semblance of a family that worked.
And they did, they worked. No matter how worked up and agitated Natalia got, Katyusha was always there to calm her down. No matter how much Katyusha cried, Ivan was always there to put an arm around her shoulder, whispering comforting words. No matter how angry Ivan got, his eyes so clouded with rage he could barely see, his sisters were always there, albeit at the sidelines, watching with wide eyes, their mouths forming 'o' shapes. And sometimes, if they were feeling especially brave, one might call out, and Ivan's hand holding the pipe might stop, and Toris' cries would quieten. They worked. They helped each other. They relied on each other, but Ivan had not realised it until they had left, until it was too late.
Ivan would never be angry with his sisters because they had left him. Sad, yes. Lonely, definitely. But angry? He could hardly bear to think about it. He didn't want to be the one to put fear in the eyes of his siblings. As their brother, it was his job to make sure that fear never entered their eyes in the first place.
As with most things, however, he had failed with this, somewhere along the line.
Only a few days after his sisters' departure, when he was far too full of vodka to be able to think things through properly, he pondered the idea of being angry with his sisters. After all, they had left him. Their own flesh and blood, they had left like he meant nothing to them. They left him alone in that immense, cold, empty house that they knew he hated. They had left him alone. That thought resounded in his head for many hours afterwards.
Alone.
And he was. He still attended meetings with his increasingly desperate superiors, who were well aware that their precious Soviet Union was about to collapse. He still ate, slept, did meaningless paperwork. For the most part, his life carried on as normal. Except for the fact that Ivan refused to open his mouth and say anything, to anyone.
In meetings, he would sit at the back, tight lipped, guarded eyes surveying the room. The other men there had become quite disconcerted, and several had asked him questions, trying to break him out of his silence, but as the question was asked, the answer was delivered in the endless staring of his eyes, as he refused to say a word. He just sat, his arms folded over his chest, his breathing slow and steady. Many of the men in the room had to look away.
He felt like without his sisters, it was easier to retreat into himself, instead of having to face other people, who wouldn't understand him, who wouldn't care. He found it was better to stay quiet, to shut his face down, belaying none of the despair raging in his head.
It was, he decided early on, his biggest fear, to be left alone like this. it terrified him to the very core that every day he would wake up in that big, empty house, and stare out of the windows into the harsh, unforgiving world. He began to see shapes in the darkness, movement out of the corner of his eyes.
His house was so big, any intruder would have no problem hiding. Not that he couldn't take on any intruder, it was just the thought that there was someone unwelcome in his house. He began to hear things at night, creaks, clicking, and for the life of him he couldn't tell if it was the house settling in its foundations, the trees outside blowing in the wind, or soft footsteps in the halls.
It began to frighten him, because all of a sudden he was so uncertain of everything, and nothing seemed the same as it had before.
He was perfectly willing to withdraw completely from the world, and become a recluse, never leaving the house. He rather liked this plan, and probably would have carried it out, had he not received a message, telling him that Alfred F. Jones, America, the hero, was calling a Summit, and he was required to attend.
A good few nations had been invited, though perhaps that is the wrong word. Invited implied they had a choice in the matter. These meetings were always strange, always had an air about them that just wasn't right. Maybe it was because he was the nation that people were truly terrified of. They flinched in his presence, conversation died and the atmosphere became thick and suffocating, like perfume hanging in the air.
The morning of the meeting arrived suddenly, too quickly for his liking, and it was with reluctance that he got out of bed, got washed and dressed, and got into his car, to make the journey to Paris, where Alfred had called the meeting, much to Francis' grumblings.
Ivan was the last of the nations invited to arrive, and as he entered the room, it fell silent, and many pairs of eyes fell on him, wide and watchful. He blinked, and looked away hurriedly, taking his seat beside Arthur. He didn't miss how Arthur tensed, and stared down at the papers in front of him intently, so as not to accidentally look at Ivan. This Summit seemed to have less people attending than any other time, Ivan couldn't see his sisters, or any Baltics. He scanned the room, looking at the people averting his gaze, and noticed that the Nordics and most of Asia weren't even present. He figured that this meeting didn't hold a lot of significance, and he wished he had stayed in bed.
Ivan listened to Alfred talk, half paying attention, half wondering how Katyusha was doing. He wondered if Toris still had nightmares about him. He wondered if he was happy with Feliks Łukasiewicz. He wondered if Natalia was still as obsessed with him.
All of a sudden, he chuckled, because it would be a sight to behold if Natalia no longer proposed to him daily. At the sound of his soft laughter, Alfred fell silent, looking at him with impatience in his blue eyes. "You got something to say, Braginski?" He raised an eyebrow, eager to launch back into his speech.
Ivan's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, choosing his words carefully. It must have been days since he had last spoken to someone. It almost felt like no words would even come out if he tried to speak. "No." He said eventually. His voice sounded strange to him, unfamiliar. "Nothing. Continue." And that order, no matter how softly spoken, caused Alfred to frown nervously, and he shuffled the papers in his hand awkwardly, clearing his throat before continuing in a somewhat timid tone.
What Alfred was saying was barely registering in Ivan's mind, he was staring down at his hands, that were folding and unfolding on the table. This meeting, whatever it was about, was going exceedingly well, he noticed. It seemed that what Alfred was saying held some semblance of a good idea, because Arthur had yet to interrupt, scolding him as he was prone to doing. The green eyed man was listening to what Alfred was saying, writing down notes occasionally, much like the remaining nations. Ivan, however, simply sat there, feeling detached from the room, from his own body. He felt like a ghost, who had wandered in to observe proceedings. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure up pictures of him and his sisters in happier times.
Again, he became aware of the silence. He hurriedly opened his eyes, and looked at Alfred, who had stopped talking, but this time he had a concerned look on his face, and Ivan was rather startled to realise that Arthur, Francis and Yao, who were sitting nearest to him, did as well.
"Are you alright, Braginski?" Alfred asked, leaning forwards slightly.
Ivan was caught off guard. "I…" This was wrong, this was wrong, he knew it. Only his sister, his dear Katyusha, only she was allowed to care about him like this. Natalia, too, if it took her fancy, but it had always been Katyusha who had inquired as to his happiness and his wellbeing.
But, now that she was no longer around, the task had fallen to other people, people who were reluctant to go within a ten mile radius of Ivan, but who had to, because they had been ordered by their respective bosses. And that thought stung. Ivan closed his eyes again. "I'm fine." He eventually said.
"You don't look fine." Arthur said. "You're very pale. Are you ill?"
Ivan shook his head, suddenly despising the feeling of all those eyes on him. "No. I'm always pale."
"Not this pale." Francis proclaimed from across the table. The others nodded in agreement. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Ivan's hand curled into a fist on the table, an action that was not missed by the others. "I'm fine." He shot a defiant look at Alfred. "Carry on with your speech. Don't pay any attention to me."
"Right." Alfred said, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "I…er, right."
Thus the meeting continued, until eventually, Alfred was finished, and the others began to pack up. Arthur went over to talk with Francis, Yao was talking with Alfred. Germany, who had been sat at the other side of him, left first, eager to get an annoyingly cheerful Italy out of the room. Others filed out as well, each one colourful, with bright, sparkling personalities, and people who loved them. Ivan stood on the sidelines, on the perimeter, watching the other nations, who had yet to leave, converse normally. He closed his briefcase suddenly, decisively, with a loud click. Yao noticed, and held out a hand to silence Alfred. He complied and followed Yao's eyes, until the both of them were looking at Ivan.
Yao came over to him suddenly, and Ivan felt himself panicking, unwilling to let anyone intrude on his personal space. "You are missing your sisters." Yao said in a soft voice. It wasn't a question, he knew well enough, but Ivan, eventually, nodded nonetheless.
Alfred came up and stood next to Yao, the both of them scrutinizing him with unreadable expressions. "You shouldn't be so afraid." Alfred said eventually. "You'll see them again."
Ivan cursed under his breath and scowled the tiniest bit. It was easy to hide the reason for his unhappiness from his superiors and his boss, because they were only human. But these men before him, they were nations, and it was like they could see right into his soul, pinpoint his fears and spread them out on a stone slab for everyone to see. He nodded, eventually, realising he needed to give some sort of response. "Da." He said. With a last, cursory nod by means of a goodbye, effectively cutting off the conversation, he left, and before too long he was on the road, heading out of Paris, out of France, towards his home.
As he drove, his hands were clenched tightly around the steering wheel. Beneath his gloves, his knuckles were white. "Damn them." He said, slipping out of English and into his beloved Russian. "Damn them!" He suddenly cried, loud enough that he would have shocked someone, had they been riding in the car with him. "How dare they tell me what to do!" There was silence for a few moments as he glared at the road ahead of him. "I'm not afraid!" It was a faint protestation to what Alfred had said, but Ivan knew it was a lie, and had Alfred been there with him, he would have, too.
By the time he was back in Moscow, the sun was setting, and his shadows were long as he stalked through the corridors of his house, wanting something to do, so he would be less inclined to start crying again.
Despite his protests, Alfred had gotten it in one, Ivan was afraid, he had always been terrified that one day, everything he loved would leave him. And that is just what had happened, and because of it, Ivan was miserable, inconsolable, terrified that he would end his days just as alone as he was at that moment.
He settled on the sofa in the living room, his hands pressed against his eyes, frowning viciously. His hands were clenched into fists, and every now and again his fingernails would tug at his skin, almost painfully, but he didn't do anything, because there was suddenly an overwhelming feeling of despair and loneliness seizing him, and he couldn't do anything about it.
He knew that somewhere, out there, in the big wide world, his sisters were slowly getting their countries back on their feet, starting to make their own ways in the world as independent countries. His sisters were so far away, and he wanted them back, because he loved them and he needed them, and it scared him to be away from them. And suddenly, seeing the others surviving so well on their own, it made it so much more clear to Ivan, how incapable he was.
Incapable of being apart from the people he loved, the people he needed. This was his weakness, and he despised himself for it.
He retired to his bed, but as expected, he got very little sleep.
The next morning, to his mild surprise, it was raining, the raindrops hitting against his window weakly, waking him from his sleep he'd somehow managed to acquire in the early hours of the morning.
He stared up at the ceiling, decided that he hated the dull grey light that was filling the room. Vaguely, he heard a noise, a clicking noise.
He dismissed it as the house, settling in its foundations, or perhaps just an illusion of his sleep deprived brain. He rolled over onto his side, no longer having the energy, the will nor the inclination to get up. He stared out of the window, watching the rain fall, its constant hum filling the room.
Click.
There was that noise again, and Ivan's ears perked up a bit. This was not an invention of his mind, this was real, and he wasn't sure it was just the house settling. He sat up in bed, before swinging his legs over the side and getting up with a sigh. He pulled on his dressing gown, tying it tightly around his waist. Rubbing his eyes, he left the room, sticking his head out into the empty corridor, to see if he could see anything or hear anything strange.
Creak.
He knew that noise. It was on the staircase, the third step from the top. It creaked, meaning someone was definitely coming up the stairs. Panic gripped him for a moment, before he remembered he was six feet tall and as strong as his immensely large country. He stood his ground, waiting for the intruder to round the corner and come face to face with him.
The footsteps were light, barely audible, but Ivan could hear them as they came closer.
And suddenly, the figure turned the corner, and Ivan drew in a ragged breath, because Natalia, Belarus, his little sister was standing there, her hair dripping wet and plastered to her face from the rain.
"Natalia?" Ivan's voice was quiet, disbelieving.
"Brother." She said, just as softly.
Suddenly, she rushed into his arms, and though the wetness of her clothes and hair permeated his own garments, he didn't care, and he held her tightly, hardly daring believe this was real, lest he wake suddenly in the middle of the night to find this was just a cruel dream. "Natalia." He said again. "What are you doing here?"
She looked up at him, her blue eyes so painfully familiar, and it was with painful realisation that Ivan saw a shine of something in her eyes, and it wasn't recognisable to him because it seemed almost…healthy. That shine meant that Belarus was getting back on it's feet, Natalia was getting healthier, happier, stronger. It pained Ivan to think he was never able to make her like this. "What am I doing here?" She said eventually. "I've missed you, so much. It was Katyusha's idea to leave, you know. I wanted to stay, and I'm so, so sorry we left you." She held him tighter for a second. "Sorry. I didn't answer your question." Silence, as if she was mulling it over. "I came back to see you."
"Really?" Ivan said, finally releasing her, allowing her to take a few steps back. His vision was oddly blurry, and he suddenly realised it was because tears were filling his eyes, and he blinked hurriedly, embarrassed to be seen like this in front of his little sister.
"Yes." Natalia said, obviously not having noticed her brother's tears.
Ivan beamed at her, and it was his first real smile in many, many weeks. He strode down the hall suddenly and descended the stairs, two at a time, finding her suitcase by the front door. He brought it up for her, and she smiled graciously. "This isn't very heavy." Ivan commented, and Natalia nodded, her smile fading somewhat.
"Yes, I can only stay for a couple of days. I hope you understand…" She trailed off awkwardly, looking at him uncertainly.
His smile vanished, the joy in his eyes dimmed a little, but he nodded. "Of course I understand. It's fine, Natalia."
She tilted her head to the side, smiling. "I'm so glad to hear it."
And so, the day started, and this time, Ivan wasn't alone, he had his little sister, and although she had proposed to him three times in the space of four hours, Ivan was happy.
His heart had broken a little to realise that this was only a temporary visit, and that she would eventually return to her own country. Despite this, Ivan smiled, and he talked with her, and he laughed with her, because even if Katyusha was absent, and Natalia was only there for a few days, it was enough. This was so much more than what he deserved. He had been given a second chance, an opportunity to atone for his sins, and make it up to his sister.
And Ivan felt blessed because of it.
Days, weeks, months went by, as they do. And Natalia came and went so frequently that Ivan wondered how he had never noticed before, that shimmering devotion that shone through as she smiled at him, a smile void of lust and want. It was a sisterly, caring, beautiful smile, and it become more and more frequent as the days passed.
Ivan, for the most part, was wonderfully cheerful, in high spirits and full of a cautious optimism, a secret hoping that maybe, maybe, things would be like how they once were.
Natalia spent as long as she could with him, arriving in the early hours of the morning, leaving in the dead of night a few days later. Sometimes, her visits were short, her superior calling her back, allowing her only to stay overnight. But sometimes, when her boss was feeling especially generous, he granted her leave, and brother and sister spent a good few blissful days lost in their own naivety.
They talked about everything, only avoiding things that they both knew would upset Ivan. Neither mentioned Katyusha, neither mentioned Lithuania, Estonia or Latvia. Neither talked about the bad things, and they focussed solely on the good, the happy, the cheerful.
And despite the fact that Ivan still felt so lonely, and despite the fact that Natalia's laughs were strained and her smiles slightly forced, they were happy, because even though it had seemed like their worlds had crumbled around them, they had found solace in each other, a little haven containing just the two of them, safe in each other's presence.
Of course, Ivan knew he could never remain in this paradise forever. Reality was harsh and sudden, and in Natalia's absences he found that he felt incomplete, as if he was missing a limb. There was so much to do, to rebuild. So much turmoil to smooth over, in the hopes that Russia could emerge from the wreckage of what was once the Soviet Union, a strong and proud nation. Ivan knew it would take some time, as all things do, but he was nothing if not patient, and he knew he could wait until the day that Katyusha would willingly return to his door, just dropping by, and take him out for a coffee.
Alfred still called meetings, and Ivan still attended, and Arthur, Francis and Yao still gave him worried looks when they thought Alfred wouldn't notice and overreact, as he was prone to doing. In these conferences, Ivan felt like Alfred had done it purposely, because it was like they wanted some nostalgia, to revel in some familiar, comfortable memories, because when they had been the Allied Forces, they had worked, and now, when they were just their own nations, they seemed to gravitate to each other. They sat together and worked together and discussed things together, because after having spent so much time with each other, they relied upon one another to help them cope with the strain that came with being a nation. And although Arthur had Sealand, and Alfred had Canada, and Yao had numerous family members, they all made time for each other, and although they loved and hated, and their emotions were as fluid as water, they never seemed to despise being near each other. And Ivan had never noticed it until then.
When he noticed them staring, it annoyed Ivan, to some extent, but there was a little voice in his head that spoke up, telling him that they cared about him, in their own, twisted ways, because they themselves were not without problems.
He figured that these problems, these eccentricities, these oddities, they were what kept the nations going, because, had they been sane, rational people, they would have died out long ago, grudges sour on their tongues, bullets bitter in their chests.
And these people, these Allies, as they once were, with their hero complexes and their hallucinations, they cared about Ivan, they looked past his violence and his cruelty, just as he looked past their own failings. These four were the closest he was going to get to having friends, and he figured he could do worse.
"All right. That about sums things up. Any questions?" Alfred's voice was annoyingly chipper, considering the sweltering summer heat and the broken ceiling fan.
"No." Arthur snapped. "Can we go home yet? I want to get into the freezer and go to sleep."
Francis chuckled, and the sound was muffled, as he had his arms crossed on the table, his head buried in them. His hair was pooling on the table, and Arthur simply batted his hand in Francis' direction, dismissing his remark.
There was silence for a moment, suffocating and pregnant with words wanting to be spoken, but finding it was just too damn hot. "I can't take this any more, aru." Yao moaned, running a hand over his face, his eyes closed.
Alfred nodded, sinking back down into his chair, the top two buttons of his shirt undone in the hopes it would help him cool down. "Arthur, can't you do anything? This is your country, making it cooler."
Arthur's eyes closed. Eventually he spoke. "I don't think I've heard anything more ridiculous. I'm the country, not the fucking weather."
Francis laughed again, and Alfred sighed. "Alright, whatever, man." Alfred said, standing up, aimlessly shoving pieces of paper into his briefcase. They crumpled and bent, but he didn't seem to care. "I'm off back to the hotel. It has air conditioning."
Yao agreed, sluggishly gathering his belongings in order to leave with Alfred. Francis finally raised his head from the table and did the same. Arthur remained where he was, content on seeing them all out before heading back home. He watched them all, before his disconcertingly green eyes flashed over to Ivan, where they lingered.
Ivan was sitting there, his hands clasped on the table in front of him, fiddling with the sleeves of his coat. Despite the heat, he had refused to take it off, including the scarf, however he had undone the buttons, so it hung from his shoulders, pooling at his sides. He was warm, there was no denying, but he wasn't prepared to take off his clothes, as Alfred and Francis seemed so happy doing.
Ivan was sure Alfred had done this on purpose. After all, it was only the five of them. Although it was no longer the time of the World Wars, Alfred had decided that a conference with just the five of them would be beneficial, and Ivan was inclined to believe that it certainly wasn't doing any harm. It felt nice, sitting next to Yao, with Arthur and Francis sat across from him, Alfred gesticulating wildly as he talked, his glasses nearly sliding off his nose with his enthusiasm. It was almost like the old days, when Russia had been powerful, and the others had been happy to call him their ally.
"What's wrong?" Arthur asked suddenly, making Alfred, Yao and Francis pause and look at him, personal space ignored in the small room with just the five of them.
"Nothing." Ivan said. "Just wondering when my flight is."
"Oh, are you flying out today?" Arthur stood up grabbing the coat that was slung over the back of his chair. "I assumed you'd be staying another night."
"Nyet." Ivan said, shaking his head lightly. "I've got a lot of work to do. My boss insisted that I returned as soon as I could." Arthur nodded his understanding, finally ready to leave, ushering Francis out of the door.
"Well, I guess this is goodbye. I'm driving this stupid frog to King's Cross, so we've got to get going, lest we miss his train." Francis grinned at him, glad he was being a disturbance, and allowed himself to be dragged from the room and down the corridor, towards where Arthur's car was parked, some floors below them on the pavement.
Alfred and Yao stood side by side, watching Ivan, who was still sat at the table. "Ivan?" Yao asked. "Are you going?"
Ivan nodded eventually, getting slowly to his feet, towering over the both of them. Alfred's eyes widened fractionally. "I could give you a lift to the airport, if you want it." Alfred asked, his fear seemingly gone.
Ivan opened his mouth to say something, but he faltered. Alfred was treating him like an equal, like a friend. He was willing to do something for him, a favour, of his own free will, not a chore, not something he dreaded. It was strange, Ivan decided. Eventually, he realised he needed to give a reply. "No, thank you, Alfred. I've got a hire car that I need to return."
He didn't smile, but he nodded at the two nations cordially, and he left, making his way along the corridor that Arthur and Francis had left via. "See ya!" Alfred called, and this time a smile did slip onto Ivan's face, because it was nice to think that people would notice his absence, miss him, even.
That night, many, many hours later, Ivan lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was bizarre to think that he was being affected by these people so much. He had done so much to them, he had made so many mistakes, and yet they were willing to forgive him and move on, and accept him as their friend.
For so many years, Ivan had had Katyusha and Natalia; he had no need for friends. But now that his sisters were gone, and only one was visiting him, he had suddenly welcomed these four nations into his life, willing to let them talk with him, laugh with him, as if they were his family.
They were all nations, after all. Maybe they were all just one big family.
It took a while for Ivan to be seen by the other nations as a respectable country. He had committed crimes, done things that were disreputable, and for those sins, his mighty empire had fallen, leaving him with nothing. He worked hard to rebuild what he had, but with different morals, different goals. He had changed, and everyone knew it. He was still intimidating and cruel, still naïve and childish. But, this time, there was less malice in his smiles, less hate in his eyes. And although it shone through every now and again, for the most part it was barely visible.
He was no longer the head of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, a monster to be feared and hated by so many people. Now, he was just Russia, someone to be respected, someone who advice could be sought from. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and done so many bad things made so many people hurt. But now, that Soviet conglomeration was gone, and in it's place was a boy with pale blonde hair, violet eyes, soft features.
He wore a coat and a scarf, and on occasion he carried with him a metal pipe. He had two sisters, one older and one younger than he. He liked vodka. He liked sunflowers. He liked vast empty plains, mountains rising out of the horizon, glimmers of snow at their peaks, glinting vaguely in the light of a setting sun.
This was who he was. It took him a long time to realise all this, but when he did, he knew he was Russia, and Russia was him, and the two were interwoven, never to be separated. He decided that he wanted to be known as Ivan, not Ivan the communist, not Ivan, the one keeping Baltic countries in his basement. He wanted to be Ivan, just Ivan, because that was all he was, it was all he had left.
And it would take an even longer amount of time, but sooner or later, the others would see him as Ivan, just Ivan, too.
END.
i hope it didn't suck. kindly review, and get a cookie. or some vodka. or both~
~~Allie xx
