Sunlight:

Russia's heels clicked against the wood flooring, loud and echoing. The noise made him smile. Because the hall was empty, free of citizens, of politicians and ministers. With exception to his the family and satellites, free of nations—of Germany. Admittedly, when he learned that the German would be in his territory, Russia wanted to keep Kaliningrad as far away from him as possible. But the little snake found his way to her anyway.

His smile faltered at the thought. In a slightly darker corridor, Russia followed the trail to the door at the end.

There was a chance that she could run. Flee back to that ratchet country with its vile personification, but he could feel her.

Cautiously, Russia cracked the door open. By virtue of the moonlight he could make out her bundled frame amidst the pile of pillows and sheets. Kaliningrad was warm, sunlight over a vast winter dessert. Unlike Lithuania or Poland or Austria and Hungary who were just extensions of him, the Oblast was Russia, was him. Him. His. His.

She was asleep, barely uttering a sound. If one didn't know any better, could hardly tell someone was in the bed. Russia leaned forward to get a better view, the smile returning to his features. She had not left him, though the opportunity presented itself. Not like Stalin or Lenin, she didn't betray him like others whispered of doing. She was still there, still in him house, still Russian. So warm and inviting like when she held his hand. If he could just feel that warmth again, just one more time…

As darkness deepened, the thought sent a thrill of excitement through him that he had not felt since the March on Berlin. He eased under her covers with great care. Kaliningrad hardly stirred and Russia found her trustfulness almost as comforting as the heat radiating from her body. Edging nearer, he sought more contact as his arm circled lightly around her, and to his astonishment, Kaliningrad rolled toward him.

Automatically, he fit his body against hers, and it was heavenly warmth. A fit of blonde sprawled wildly across her face, covering most of it from his view and for some reason it irritated the Russian to no end. But moving it could prove fatal so he lay still and just watched. Kaliningrad smelled of light, of summer and flowers, of comfort, temperateness and the saltiness of the Baltic Sea, Russia drunk it all in with closed eyes.

Perhaps any minute, the woman would wake but he had no such worries. She was sunlight. She was Russia. She was his. His.


A/N: Because, how long has it been since I've updated this story? Days? Months? Years? Don't judge me, lol.

-CeCe