He was used to sound. Not particularly loud noise, no, but… something. Some kind of sign that he wasn't alone here, alone in this wide and cave-like house, just a small sign that he didn't have to sit here by himself.
He was used to hearing hushed whispers of his Baltics. Perhaps the sound of Latvia's chattering teeth, of Estonia's knees knocking together, of… of Toris, the sound of Toris cleaning or cooking or telling the other two to hush, keep quiet, Russia's sleeping.
Toris never called him Ivan. Not once.
He missed them.
Ivan missed them because his ears strained to catch even a fragment of noise – perhaps of Ukraine's apologetic sobbing or Belarus sharpening that knife of hers, sisters, family, someone to keep him close and something like sane.
Ivan missed them because they weren't here anymore.
His Soviet Union was no more, and as he sat here in this huge and empty house, he cursed America's name and wanted to cry. His sisters, his toys, his lovely soft Baltics, they were gone, gone, gone! All around him there wasn't any sound at all, no sobbing…
No shaking…
No chattering teeth or knives or cooking or cleaning or a timid little Lithuanian accent whimpering his name as he straddled his lap.
No breaking noises that he would have to beat somebody for later.
Not even echoes of "Ivan, aru" echoing through the house.
No visitors, no sisters, no Baltics.
There was just Russia. No Soviets. Just Russia.
Just Russia, and his empty, sad, quiet winter home.
A/N: Oh em gee, Russia ficlet. Weird. Don't know where this came from. Up next: Quirks, in which Poland counts everything he loves about his Liet.