Today we have a very long chapter that took a lot of editing for me to even feel like it was worth sharing. It took about four full days of work to write, so I hope it doesn't suck, as that'd be a total waste. I'm on winter break right now, so I MAY be able to update this sooner than practically a month after the last update, but then again I work nearly full-time right now, so maybe not. We will hope, cross or fingers, and see what the world awards me!

These Wounds Won't Seem to Heal – Chapter 11

The man awoke slowly, leaving a state of dreariness with extreme difficulty. His eyes would not open in spite of his efforts, and his eyebrows scrunched closer and closer together with each banging throb of the head. He wished he was still asleep. The squeak of the bloodshot eyes he did manage revealed near, total darkness. It was not an indication of the time, as the tiny window a height and a half above him would not have offered much light in the daytime either. The only thing he had to see with was a dim light hanging by a thread in the middle of his small cell, that was currently flicked off, and he couldn't even try to force himself to make it all the way over to it. This was okay though because there wasn't much to see. An entirely concrete room, a steel door, the occasional blood spatter or spatter of some other unidentifiable substance, a few cracks, some dirt, some dust, and hooks all about. These hooks where used to connect chains, such as the ones connected to the ceiling, shackling the Prussian by his arms in a standing position. He'd slept like that, his wrists digging into the chains as his body weighed them down, and he'd successfully chaffed off some of his skin, leaving painful rawness touching the shackles that were both hot from his constant contact with them and cold from the surrounding, near freezing-temperatured air. At the remembrance of the temperature, a shutter hit the Prussian's spine, and he shifted from one foot to the other, desperately wishing he was wearing shoes, or at least socks, on this icy concrete. Shifting of his feet ended very quickly when the pain in his body kicked in. He would have pulled his hands down to clutch his head - where they not firmly in their shackles- at the sudden intensity of his already established migraine. It seemed all he could do was close his eyes tight as every slit in his skin stung at the temperature and bruise on his body ached at being rubbed against the thin fabric of his jeans and t-shirt. He shivered as his body's natural combat to the cold, and regretted it. His muscles screamed in pain at being forced to move.

He was cold. He was sore. He was hungry. He was cut. He was bruised. And he was tired. So. Very. Tired. He had been up from lunch the previous day, to well into the night with Russia. The taller man armed with his pipe, and shorter armed with fear, engaged in an extremely vicious fight. Prussia had put in a valiant effort, but the last good injury he recalled giving the other was a bleeding bite on the arm followed by a punch to the throat. Russia faltered with his pain for only a moment, before striking back with triple the force. A few more blows of the pipe, and Prussia's body had lost all its will to fight. By what felt like midnight, he was a crumpled ball on the ground, struggling not to cry, (as while his body had given up his mind was determined to at least not give his attacker the satisfaction of seeing him completely destroyed) waiting for the next painful strike. Instead of issuing any, Russia chained him to the ceiling such that he was still on his feet, but had his arms up, removed the man's socks and shoes for added sadism, and left the room with his pipe, making sure to lock the door after himself.

The same door that's knob was now jiggling; perhaps the sound was what woke the Prussian in the first place. He looked to the shaking door, too tired to dawn an expression on his face, but an anxious fear bubbling in his stomach. A click was heard. The door squeaked open.

A woman, a little tall for her gender but still manageable, with platinum blond to her waist, a perfect figure, glowing, blue eyes, and a silk bow tied in her hair stood, scowling, with a large bowl containing cloth, gauze, bottles of various substances, and a jug of water. She walked in, shut and locked the door back behind herself, set the bowl on the ground, and walked up to Prussia. She stood on tip toe and raised her right hand, with one key on her key ring held out, to the shackle. Rather, it was as close to the shackle as she could get but she was not quite tall enough. Belarus settled then for leaning against Prussia and standing as tall on her toes as she could now that she had him to support her. The key went in and clicked with the shackle, releasing its hostage.

"Here," the woman said, stepping away and handing the Prussia the key ring, "undo your other one yourself." He did as he was told, wincing at the stiffness of his muscles, but willing to ignore it for escape, and brought his hands together to look at the damage. A fair bit more skin that he'd thought was rubbed raw from his right wrist, and it was even still bleeding. The left only had one, deep cut in it with surrounding skin that was turning purple.

"Sit," Belarus commanded, taking her keys back. Prussia'd decided that passivity was his best option at the moment, and again obeyed, taking a cold seat on the concrete. Belarus sat in front of him. For the time being, she remained the only one talking.

"Raise your arms." He did, wincing again. Belarus then removed his shirt.

"Stand again." He did, finding it to be a great effort with lots of groaning involved. Belarus now rolled down his pants. Prussia had to fight, very, very hard, his primal urge to pelvic thrust at her.

"Sit back down." Prussia did so, shivering at the cold touching his bare skin, but quickly got used to the chilled ground and actually appreciated the feeling on his bruised thighs. The Belorussian woman emptied out the contents of her bowl before adding a drop of something from one of the bottles, presumably soap, and half the jug of water into it. She took the cloth, dipped it in the water, rang it out, flipped a lock of hair behind her back, and began to clean the still opened wounds. She'd decided to work from the top down, and pressed the fabric to the area right between Prussia's silver eyebrows where a small nick was still bright red. She worked with great focus, rubbing gently over the spot before taking another cloth to dab it dry. She took a third cloth and poured some substance from one of the bottles onto it, before pressing that to the wound too. Rubbing alcohol. Prussia pulled back instinctually.

"Oh, man up." He continued to let her dab and do her work, scooting herself and the bowl closer to him for easier access. Even if this bothered him, he had no strength to get her to stop; every inch of his body was throbbing so intensely, that in the few moments when he wasn't shivering profusely, he could actually see the muscle's pulsation under his skin. He had to focus on something else every time she touched one of her cloths to his skin, and reminded him why he was begin treated in the first place. Something else. Anything else.

There was a dark brown stain on the wall behind the woman. Prussia breathed in all too hard and it upset his shoulder, causing another wince and shutter of pain. Perhaps it was nearing being dislocated. He stopped breathing regularly and settled instead for a shallow breath every time he was in dire need, unsure if the pain of suffocating himself or the bolt of misery in his collar bone every time he did end the suffocation was worse. He tried again to shift his focus, this time gazing absent-mindedly at the door-knob. Even if the door where wide open, he couldn't realistically see himself taking one step, better yet actually escaping. His left temple pounded, a vein making its way to the surface, and Prussia tried again to re-focus, this time settling for studying Belarus. There was an intensity in her deep, blue eyes. They stood out from the rest of her face, as if her pale skin served only as a backdrop to God's real focus, those striking eyes. Prussia decided he liked them, as they were similar in that respect to his own crimson eye color on a white as snow backdrop. He stared into her eyes while they stared at their work and for a couple seconds, the two were silent like that, just focusing, pain forgotten. For a few seconds, he recognized the woman's dread-filled expression and deep-set frown as the baby blue orbs swirled in sadness.

Only a few seconds though, because, Prussia quickly realized it was kind of awkward. The man snapped his head away from her all too fast and reactivated the despair in his shoulder and a new strike in his left side. It felt like bolts of lightning moving up him, which caused a harsh intake of breath to combat the pain, which caused all new pain. He groaned, slowly settling back into a proper sitting position so the girl could continue her work, and then decided to speak his first words of the day as Belarus swapped focus, returning again to the soapy cloth, with plans of pressing it to a bloody bruise on his left peck.

"What are you doing?"

"I am cleaning your wounds, Prussia."

"Worried about me?" Her face said she was not. "Why then?"

A somber expression accompanied her explanation. "6pat [2] asked me to."

"What, do you just do whatever he says?" Prussia had asked the question with a malice and disgust in his tone, but regretted it when Belarus looked up at him, frowning, a pitiful blue meeting shocked red. She looked back down at his chest, seeming to be ignoring the question, till she said:

"I really care for him."

"...I see." They were silent for a moment. Belarus blinked twice, slowly, and Prussia watched her with growing concern.

"I wonder if he will kill you." The comment took Prussia aback, almost enough to make him move, but he was not one for repeating mistakes. Their eyes met again, and she smiled at him through her apperant despair. "I know 6pat is strong enough to. What I wonder about is you. Will you die or regenerate?"

He had no answer, as he was unsure himself. This displeased Belarus, and she jammed her knuckle into the space between his breasts, rotating it side to side and sending jolts of stabbing, throbbing, pain to the Prussian's form. He grunted, and attempted to lean away, but her hand followed him, twisting and winding.

"Will you regenerate?" she repeated.

"I don't know!" The twisting stopped, and Prussia raised his arm that was now more so just dull than in any pain to press soothingly on the affected spot. "I don't know if I'm still a country, or if I still have my nation's strength, or immortality. I tried to be cautious last night, but, you can see where that got me."

"I think he will kill you."

"Oh."

"I'm jealous." Prussia hoped his face did not form into his original reaction of 'what the holy hell', and now held it firm and blank.

"Of course!" she enthused, "6pat should only be able to kill me. And himself. Then we could die together. I think he will love me better that way! Maybe he will stop spending so much time with Latvia, the silly eldest Baltic, and even now you, and instead focus on me, as he should."

"...You really want him to murder you then?" The smile on her face died.

"No. I just wish...I...do you ever wonder why we live forever, Prussia?"

"We don't. Just until our land and people are gone. It just takes a long time."

Her eyes down cast as her work slowed. "I don't want to do this for such a long time anymore."

"Do what?"

"This," she gestured to him, "that," she now referred to the cleaning materials, "everything," her arms flopped to her side in dejection. "I don't want to live for seemingly ever pining for 6pat. Caring for idiots like you just because he likes me to. I just want...him to..."

"Uhm," Prussia began. He did not get to finish speaking as suddenly, Belarus was excited all over again. She grinned ear to ear and raised her cloth to work again.

"When I become one with 6pat he will see! He will see how great we are together!" Prussia smiled lightly at the woman's excitement. If his sister could love him so much, then it at least meant Russia had somewhat of a heart. The poor woman was probably just lonely, missing some familial affection and depressed she'd been sent to the damp, dark dungeon instead of given praise. He understood. How many times had he tried to bond with his brother, only to do something to annoy him, and be sent away? How many times had he tried to hook up with Austria or Hungary only to have them literally avoid him? Clustering is for unawesome losers, but that didn't mean he didn't from time to time want- "6pat and I are destined to be married someday!"

"..."

"...!"

"...Oh." What was he supposed to say to that? Really? "When's uhh...when's the wedding?"

"The date is not yet set. 6pat doesn't know yet that he's in love with me."

"..."

"But someday, he will stop spending so much time with others. He will stop avoiding me." Her work got more and more intense as she spoke, what was once gentle patting of a towel became dabs, then pokes. "He will not again say 'go away'. He will not be scared...or, no... cautious, around me. He will see. 6pat will see that he loves me and we will be together. Forever even if we have no choice but to live these extensive lives. Forever!" By now, each touch of the towel forced the Prussian back a bit, the one on 'forever' knocking him onto his back. It was cold on the ground, and he wished he'd held himself up a bit more insistently. He sat himself back up and decided again not to speak. He wasn't really interested in discussing how amazing Russia was, or in getting pushed over again. And so, now with a wide smile on her face, Belarus continued her work. Prussia watched that smile slowly fade into a neutral expression, and that neutrality into a bit of sorrow. He wanted to ask, but was afraid of what the neurotic, incestual woman would say next.

Belarus had left two days ago. Since then, Prussia had only had one other human interaction, that being a silent Lithuanian man feeding him a bowl of celery soup and saltines while avoiding eye contact. He munched greedily on the crackers and slowly swallowed the soup, enjoying the warmth that spread to all of his shaking limbs. It filled him for a day, but now, his stomach growled angrily all over again. Prussia doubted for some reason that a meal would come, or that anything good at all would come.

It was an odd amount of quiet in his cell. No one spoke, and it wasn't so hushed he could hear himself breathing or his heartbeat in his chest, rather, he could hear light things: the hint of a bird's chirp, the slight rushing of a slight wind, footsteps overhead padded by layers of flooring, the faintest of murmurs that could have been voices. The near-silence wrapped itself around him as a heavy cloak, and coupled with the darkness weighing down as a scarf on his neck.

The cold, he could feel, but had come to ignore. His body had already passed the state of getting so cold he was hot; that had happened yesterday morning. It started randomly in the first joints of his fingers. He rubbed them against the backs of his hands, and only made the burning worse, a heat, almost searing in pain, intensifying at the feeling. He tried then to simply rub his palms together to warm them up, hoping to warm his fingers by extension. It worked, until his hands started to burn with the chill as well. Slowly that morning it spread through his body until all of him was burning, the slightest sensation of friction boiling his skin, and then it all died out. He'd grown numb to the cold, his body giving up on shivering, and the spot his feet where standing on having grown hot from what little body heat had to share with it, so it no longer discontented him. His arms had lost all their blood circulation being up for so long, but once painful wounds were now nothing more than dull aches.

Prussia's maroon eyes stared intently at the ground before him. The floor appeared to be moving, gliding away from him. He knew it was not actually going anywhere, but for the last few minutes, (or lots of minutes, or hours, who could tell?) he watched it pulsate in a hopeless attempt for retreat. He felt bad for the ground at this point; it was trying so painstakingly to escape him, but had made zero progress. It probably just wanted to wonder off back home and be with its floor friends who hadn't betrayed it and its floor brother who would welcome it with open arms. The floor brother would be overjoyed at seeing it, and not annoyed but tolerating as usual. The floor brother would have the floor's pet prepared, perhaps a cat, or a snake, or maybe the floor was fond of a little bird, it made no difference. The floor, and the floor brother, and the floor friends, and the floor's pet would all live happily ever after; if only the floor could get away. But considering it was chained to the ceiling, it was not going to be moving more than a couple inches. It was sad. Really, it was. Prussia genuinely pitied the unmoving slab of concrete below him.

Suddenly, his head jerked up. He was sure he'd seen movement, but there was nothing there. Slowly, but surely, he looked back down and studied the ground's persistent attempt at departure. He looked up again, there was movement now of the doorknob, accompanied by sound. Keys. Jingling. A click. The door unlocked and swung open.

Why was Prussia scared? Why was all the fluid and air in him pumping around in ways they shouldn't? Why was this feeling growing stronger, deeper, making him forget the dull pain in his re-shackled wrists, ignore the stinging in his now re-located shoulder, and stilling his chest's rise and fall of breath, as the Russian man stalked closer? He made his way slowly from the hall, to inside the cell, to turning from locking the door, to five feet away from Prussia, to four feet, to three, two. He reached the point where it seemed logical for him to stop, and didn't, continuing to inch closer and closer to the other man, forcing his heart to race and eyes to widen. That creepy ass face was two inches away from Prussia's own, smiling cheerily, when the albino stopped thinking. He leaned away, but with his arms entrapped, really how far could he go? His heartbeat was incredibly strong, he could feel the organ beating through his ribcage, fueling the fear he wished he could kill. Russia just continued, closer and closer, at what felt like an unbearably slow, yet fearfully quick pace, until:

Their lips touched. It was nothing too scandalous, just a quick and simple peck that left the Prussian disoriented. He stepped back wearily, and Russia's smile intensified. Wha- Why? Red eyes scanned back and forth between two violet ones for some kind of hint. Why would he...? He wouldn't try to...to...with me...!?

"Good Morning, Prussia. I see you are patched up and feeling better now!"

What?

"You must be cold. Do you want a blanket?"

Huh?

"Or maybe you would like to be released from the chains?"

Uhm...?

"Wouldn't you mind answering me when I ask you questions, Malyutka?" An all too familiar, deep, purple cloud of dread swirled about the Russian as he said this, snapping the Prussian from his confused state and back into his fearful one.

"Yes. Yes to the blanket, and the releasing." Instantly, the cloud vanished, and Russia happily obliged, pulling a key ring from the inner pockets of his coat and using it to easily unhook the two shackles. Limply, the free man sat down. Russia sat in front of him, chris crossed, and rested his hands on his ankles, putting himself in ample position to start rocking back and forth playfully. Prussia watched the spectacle of this grown man before him acting like a six-year-old, and remained thoroughly confused. What then? Is he just going to act like nothing from the previous nights happened? Is he just going to sway around like some freaking, unawesome idiot and force me to sit here and look at him? A scowl started to form on his face.

"No 'thank you'?" The taller of the two remarked.

"You're the one that chained me up in the first place," Prussia snapped in a fit of anger. Russia stopped rocking, and his smile faltered, going from an expectant gleam, to a shocked sorrow, and then some form of pitying grin.

"Oh Prussia," he said in a tone very similar to that of a mother, challenging her child's intelligence, "you know I had to do that. You would not listen to me, and I am just trying to show you that it is important to do so. When I, out of the graciousness in my heart, bring you into my home, you have to obey me. You did not. I can't have you doing things like that, Malyutka." Prussia's eyes squinted into slits and the left side of his lip curled downwards. A fury of absolute disbelief and resentment coursed through his veins. The Russian man continued his speech.

"Now that you have seen, and now that you understand, I am sure you want to leave here, right? So all I ask is that you apologize. Say you are sorry for interfering the other day at lunch." Prussia did not apologize. He simply blinked, long grey eyelashes brushing against the cool air. He took a breath in, to prepare himself for his answer, and then pondered in a matter of reality-milliseconds but mental-minutes how he would do it. Should he scream? No, he was still too weak for that. No reason to over-exert himself considering what was about to come. Should he be short and curt? Maybe if he could manage to make his face look menacing...but would Russia find anything other than his reflection menacing? Maybe he just not answer at all, or perhaps apologize sarcastically? No, no, he didn't want there to be any confusion about what he was feeling. Irritated and...and...and belittled! Like the Russian man thought he was some kind of naive fool able to be persuaded with simple, empty words. He breathed out, furrowed his brows, and gave his answer. Loud, but not screaming. Curt, but not meant to scare. Not sarcastic, but certainly a jab in and of its self.

"nein!" he said. Russia didn't respond at first in any way; he just continued to sit on the ground, facing his challenger, with a half sympathetic and half mocking smile on his face.

"We've talked about how I don't allow that language here, Malyutka."

"nein! I am not saying a word of sorry or showing the slightest regret for standing up for the child you were abusing! You sicken me!" Russia pursed his lips. And then he pursed them harder, smile falling to a blank expression. He stood up.

"I come here, Malyutka, I greet you, I release you, and I ask for one, simple thing, and this is the thanks I get?"

"I will not be thanking you!" the Prussian cried, making his way to his own feet as well. He snarled at his opponent, rage painted all over his face. "Don't act like you've done me any favors!" He took two steps forward, closing the gap between himself and the bulkier man, before curtly shoving him backwards. "You took me from my friends!" another shove. "You keep me from my home! My brother! Gilbird!" A shove with each exclamation. "You locked me in your rotten basement!" shove. "You hurt a cute, little boy! You denied him food! You keep calling me out of my damn name, that, Malyata garbage! You made Hungary and Poland act all weird!" By now he was so angry tears were welling in his eyes and he was screaming so loudly he was hurting his own throat. Goddamn this Goddamn Russian. Might this next push just send him to the floor, out of my sight, off a cliff, I don't care! "Sie sind verdammt ekelhaft!" [1]

The next thing Prussia saw was the ground, and what he felt was the unbelievably painful throbbing in his cheek, caused by a metal pipe connecting with his jawline. He was ripped off the floor by his hair, and grunted at the tearing pain.

"Nyet." [3] A purple gazed intensely into red. "You will not disrespect me like that. I did not have to be this nice to you."

"Nice how?" Prussia could see that Russia had the clear advantage of having his full strength, not being freezing cold, and not being half-held up by his hair, but that was not going to stop him. He spat in Russia's face, his Germanic roots of aggression taking firm hold on the situation as he then kicked outwards, his bare foot knocking away Russia's left shin, and faulting his balance. Russia released Prussia's hair in the shock of being kicked, but only for a second as he quickly lunged for the other man, enraged.

"NYET!" He grabbed Prussia by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him closer, and swung again, this time connecting the pipe to the other side of his jaw. Prussia grabbed at the cold metal, and tore it away from his attacker, sending it clattering into a corner of the room. Now both sides of Prussia's face were throbbing so strongly he was sure it could be seen pulsating from the surface of his skin. They couldn't just hurt near his jaw either, the thudding throb trickled up to his temples, putting his entire face in a state of agony. He flexed his jaw, fairly surprised nothing was broken. Before he had a chance to properly react, the dirty blond grabbed Prussia by seemingly his favorite place – the neck. His grip was tight with his large hand easily surrounding the front and sides of the Prussian's only chance for air, squeezing tightly with nails digging into the skin. Weakened state or not, at risk of dying or not, Prussia refused to just grovel there and choke. They struggled for dominance, the dusty-blond gripping both hands onto the other's neck as Prussia fought to pull away. Accepting this, Russia reversed his forced and threw Prussia at a wall, his mid back landing right atop one of the hooks for chains. Prussia clenched his teeth in an effort to not cry out in pain as a hand instinctively moved to cover the affected area. He ignored his pain, brushed it off life a leaf in the wind, and charged the advancing Russian into the wall. He hoped some part of him hit a doorknob, hinge, or out of place nail as the loud thud of the Russian body colliding with the surface reverberated through the small room.

Using an unexpected force, Russia grabbed Prussia off his torso by his shoulders, tossing the smaller man to the ground, and straddling him before he had time to move. He delivered one punch, two, three, straight to the face. He grabbed Prussia now by the biceps with a grasp so firm he could feel the bone shifting under the skin, and lifted him up forcing him to a wall. Russia was head-butted, Prussia kneed in the stomach, Russia's arm bit, which caused him to release the Prussian on one side. Using his new, free, and swollen arm as leverage, Prussia reached for his opponent's wrist, and pulled it as far back and upwards as he could. There was a pop and a grunt as Russia's shoulder as it shifted out of its proper position. In retaliation, Russia kicked Prussia in the gut and released his other arm to issue another set of punches to the face; the man's nose was now bleeding.

The issue keeping them from ending their fight was that both were mad. When mad, Russia had to be right. He seemed not to even notice the injuries he was accumulating as his only focus was on showing Prussia why he was wrong. He had to be trained, and that was no issue, he had trained nations and humans before, but he would not stand to be disobeyed and disrespected in his own home. He did not have to feed Prussia. He did not have to clothe him either, or have his sister tend his wounds, or even provide this room for him. He could have buried him in the snow and left him there to rot, dying and resurrecting repeatedly as a nation would, but he had not. He had been kind. He would have to teach Prussia how to return this kindness.

Prussia, when angry, was inflamed in every way. His ego, his strength, his emotional sensitivity, his determination, his stubborn qualities, his drive, his honest to God love for fighting – all much bigger than they should be. This swelling is what propelled the fight, as every injury burned more than the last, but rather than discouraging the Prussian, it encouraged him to want to do more damage. To want to come out on top!

This standoff, irritation vs rage, vanity vs fortitude, was getting ridiculous. Russia did not have time for this. He had a ballet show he wanted to watch at festival a couple towns over, he still hadn't assigned anyone the cooking of lunch, and he himself was getting the slightest bit winded, even a little sweaty, in his trench coat and scarf. This fight needed to end, so, he needed a weapon. Considering his pipe discarded, the Russian used his good arm to pull a switchblade from one of the many pockets lining the inside of his coat. Before the other even saw the glinting silver, it was inside his shoulder, and when Russia twisted it to the right without removing it from said shoulder, Prussia finally screamed aloud. The knife was quickly removed from the quarter-circle hole it had now made in the flesh and repeatedly jabbed sending a set of stabs all down Prussia's left arm, one by one. Russia finished his knife work by sliding the blade along Prussia's neck, not deep enough to kill, but still able to scare and hurt. He would not, of course, be that careless. He would not kill his soon-to-be comrade. He grew tired and weary of the blade and tossed it to the side, where it clattered and landed near his beloved pipe. He punched with great force at Prussia's leg, earning another scream. He punched the other knee, and unfortunately nothing broke, but it bruised quite nicely, quite quickly. He wanted more skin, more pretty, ivory skin he could change the color of. He rolled the Prussian on his back, diluted the little bit of restraint he got from the man, and with his bare hands tore away the thin fabric of a cotton, white t-shirt, effectively choking Prussia at the same time. His back needed to be marred, it didn't deserve to be this perfect when it's beholder was so poorly behaved. What could he do to- oh, that's right. Russia stood from his victim.

"Malyutka," he began, making his way to the corner of the room. He recollected his pipe and knife while Prussia scrambled to get to his feet, "didn't you request a blanket from me?" For fear of what would happen next, the red-eyed one didn't answer, not that Russia needed an answer to his rhetorical question. He pulled a black, fleece blanket out of his jacket, kicked the other man back onto the ground, and threw the blanket over Prussia, effectively covering his head and back. "It may not, however," he pulled a matchbox from his pants pocket and removed one, "be warm enough for you," he struck the match, "so," he tossed it onto the blanket and watched it quickly erupt into flame, "there you go."

He left his chamber listening to the sweet sounds of screaming insolence and huffing in the smell of burning flesh. Next time, surely, Prussia would be more cooperative.

The little, blond boy scooped another spoon of porridge onto the brass utensil and held it up. His hand was shaking, but the spoon went into the mouth it was supposed to and the recipient swallowed.

"Latvia," he said after swallowing, "don't cry." But it was too late for that. Latvia was already crying. He may as well have said to the wind, 'don't blow'.

"I'm sorry, Prussia," the boy blubbered. As he sucked in a large gulp of air, one of his tears slipped into the porridge bowl. Latvia stirred the mixture and then held it farther away from himself – Prussia would probably not appreciate a salty meal. He took another scoop (he was trying to work fast, as once he felt the familiar chill of that basement he wanted to quickly feed the other as long as the food would stay warm) and ushered it into Prussia's mouth. Prussia swallowed.

"Did you get hurt again?"

He sniffled, "No." It was a lie, and both parties knew as such. The red-purple mark under the Latvian's left eye was testimony to this. He had not done anything so bad this time, just a small slip of his words, which earned him a slap to the face because of disrespect. When Russia slapped him, Latvia supposed he had forgotten he had been forced by his sister to wear an engagement ring, and the uneven band of steel and diamond was not so kind to the boy's visage. But that was not why he was crying. He had already sobbed over the pain and squished his cheek in an attempt to soothe the throbbing. He'd already dabbed away the flecks of blood and foolishly tried to put ointment over it, ointment that only made it burn worse and had to be quickly removed. He had already frowned at his marred appearance and he had already been scolded by one Baltic and coddled by the other. He had no reason to cry over that.

Now, these tears of his fell and they wouldn't stop. He had tried to get them to stop; he had tried biting his lip, holding off his breath, squeezing his eyes shut, and blinking repeatedly. But Latvia knew two facts about himself to be true: all he knew how to do was cry and be fearful. This was what his life had become living under Mr. Russia, an endless cycle of those two states of mind, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much his chest burned, no matter how ashamed he felt, and no matter how much he desperately wanted to stop crying: he could not.

It was just too much. Too much to look at for him to stop crying. Each time he scooped the porridge, he was forced to look up and find the mouth to feed it to, and each time he would see. He would see a pale man with a chain so rightly coiled around his neck it was nearly strangling him, he would see him slumped in a half laying, half sitting position to try to minimize the amount of choking he was doing. The man had cuts all up one of his arms, so much so that the shoulder on what remained of his shirt had a large, red stain. The rest of his shirt was in a similar position to that of the Prussian himself; scorched. It had all turned brown and black and flecked away in shreds of ash and char. It left exposed the mangled, bloodied, bruised, but worst of all, burned skin of that pale man. So, every time Latvia looked up, he burst into a fresh wave of tears.

"You did get hurt again," the Prussian protested between bites.

"I did not."

"Yes you did," his hand twitched. He tried to raise it, but the energy he needed just was not there, "you did right under your eye."

"It d-doesn't hurt."

"Latvia, breathe." He had his eyes closed, and was biting his tongue. He didn't want to breathe, because if he did it would give his body fuel to rack more sobs from his system. He wanted to hush, as instructed. He shook his head and held out the next spoon. Prussia accepted it and then spoke again.

"Latvia please." He continued holding it in. "Come here then." So, the boy leaned forward. He did not actually touch Prussia, as he assumed any contact to his skin would be painful, but he got close enough for Prussia to reach him. The man rested a hand on his head, and began to pat. To rub back and forth. Latvia let his eyes lull shut as those gentle fingers massaged his scalp. He let himself breathe again, as he was turning red from trying not to, but his sobs were less frequent now, and less harsh. His tears rolled off his chin and into the neckline of his shirt, but nothing seemed to matter so much as the soothing feeling on his head.

"You did good," Prussia said, "you've done very well and don't deserve to get hurt. It's okay to cry as long as it's not in front of the one who hurt you. You're okay, Latvia." His voice was barely a horse whisper, and it pained Latvia to hear it. He wondered how long Mr. Russia would wait before sending someone to tend to his wounds.

"Please don't do it again," the boy stated.

"Do what?"

"Don't… don't act out again."

"I was standing up for you. I don't mind."

"But I was wrong, Prussia. I-"

"Latvia, no, you-"

"You got hurt because of me!" he pulled away from Prussia's hand, and looked him in the eyes. Those dull, rose-colored, half-lidded, tired eyes with tears from the cold air collecting on the brim. He looked instead then at the porridge and took another scoop before offering it up. "Please, j-just don't… I can't… please."

"Okay, Latvia, okay, hush now," Prussia swallowed, "just don't cry. You will be alright."

Latvia wanted to believe that statement, but looking at the peeling skin on his new-found, stubborn friend, who he subconsciously knew would keep fighting so long as he was alive, was deterring him from doing such. He looked back down at the bowl.

[1] - German: You're fucking disgusting!

[2] - Russian: Brother

Nine (wow. I literally just typed that. Wow. Not "nine", but ) [3] Nein and Nyet both mean "no" in their respective languages if you were unaware.

MWUHAHAHA! IT ONLY TOOK LIKE A CENTURY BUT I WROTE THE NEXT CHAPTER! BOW TO YOUR MASTER, MY PRETTIES!

Okay, but seriously, this took forever to write because I didn't know exactly what I was doing. I've realized a lot of what I want to write about going on in Russia's house really has nothing to do with Prussia, his emotional state, and his fading away status. It's mostly about giving him a new culmination of friends, which isn't bad, but, it isn't extremely focused. I just wonder if this will bother you readers. In the next chapter I'll be sure to touch more specifically on Prussia's challenges.

Another question I want to ask is does my depiction of Russia bother anyone? I mean I know it's probably not his biggest fan's cup of tea, but can you get by it? Do my explanations of his emotions and motives make sense or does he just seem OOC? Again, all the characters here are based on what I read in their wikis, so I think Russia's behavior is an exaggerated canon, but what do you think?

Final question, does this chapter stack up? I feel like the start of the story had better chapters than what I've been releasing lately, so I'm trying to get back into it all, but I don't know. Is this any good?

Let me know your answers or anything else in the reviews, thanks for reading, and see you next time mi amigos! :D