In the coat pocket was a thick stack of letters, loosely tied together with string. They were unmarked. They were unsealed. None of the envelopes bore any inscription.
Timeframe: 1857. Shortly after the end of the Crimean War.
Premise: Lithuania accidentally finds letters that Russia has been writing to him.
He put the envelope back, staring at it for a very long time rather timidly, and guiltily, knowing he shouldn't be reading love letters whose sentiments he really didn't return. He didn't know why he had read them, other than perhaps dumb curiosity, or some subconscious desire to be flattered, instead of taken for granted as a combination footman, laundress, and cook. Whatever the reason, he wasn't sure he wanted Russia to know. He retied the string as best he could, though admittedly not very well, and returned the letters to where they had originally been. Lithuania went out of the room like a ghost and did not look back, but he knew that the footsteps counting the stairs were Russia's and, a few minutes later, the entire first floor smelled like paper, burning.
It bothered him. It did. Wondering if Russia knew he had been reading his mail. He didn't say anything, didn't hint anything, when Lithuania brought him tea later that afternoon, nor did he the next day. With him, it seemed to be business as usual, even as Lithuania berated himself for having let his curiosity get the better of him.
Often now, he'd catch himself looking across the dinner table at Russia with a perplexed sort of frown. If Russia met his eyes, the imperative to look away became greater all of the sudden- as did the unsettling feeling that the other nation might find it hurtful. So, he would come up with an excuse for staring at him to save face with their housemates, who sat within earshot: "I was just wondering if you needed anything, gospodin," or "Your boss wanted to see you about something..."
And Russia always replied with some amiable answer. After two or three weeks on his toes, Lithuania finally began to feel slightly at ease. He put the incident out of his mind and made a point of avoiding any papers of Russia's which were not directly handed to him. It was a pleasant system that worked- until time came to clean out the fireplace.
Because fragments of words kept turning up.