"Liet…"

Lithuania averted his eyes and tightened his grip on the rifle.

"I trusted you, Liet. What happened to the days when I could trust you with my life? What happened to the days when I did trust you with my life?"

Lithuania bit his lip. "Those days are gone, Feliks, and you know it. You'll never forgive me and I don't expect you to. I don't want you to! I hate you, Feliks. All you did to me. You forced me into Christianity. You made me do so many things, I didn't want to—"

"I loved you then, Liet. What happened to you? They've taken you, broken you, torn out your heart. And for the record, you know I don't care if you hate me."

"You do care! You always have!" The way Poland was so calm, so fucking calm, irritated him. He raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

Lithuania awoke in a cold sweat. It had only been hours since his last nightmare, each time ending with him or Feliks dying.

He didn't know which hurt him the most.

"It's not fair for you to have to do this, Liet…"

"I loved you then…"

"Don't let them hurt you…"

"I still love you now…"

"What have I done…?"

"Kill me a million times over and I'll still love you, Toris."

What he had imagined haunted him. What his own dreamed self had said chilled him. He hadn't been forced, had he? He was pagan… He converted only because Poland wanted him to. He had put up a fight, and Poland had given up.

Poland had given up.

Lithuania knew Poland was capable, all right, perfectly capable of surrendering if he wanted. He also knew that he was certainly not going to.

Poland peered at him from behind the bayonet.

"Liet, I made you do a lot of things."

"Like rape—"

"Like, that's not what I'm talking about. You made me do a lot of things I never wanted to do."

Lithuania squirmed.

"They always said you would be the death of me," Lithuania said, steel in his eyes.

"And I will." Poland cut.

Blood bubbled forth from his throat; he crumpled and fell to the floor choking on his own blood. He inhaled—blood. He coughed, spitting the crimson out of his mouth and onto the ground, red pouring from his throat, down his shirt, onto the grass.

"I love you, Liet. Can't let you hurt yourself anymore."

Lithuania was covered in his own blood. In a final gesture of defiance, he coughed what blood he could onto Poland before collapsing.

He had let his imagination run away. Feliks wouldn't do that to him. And where was Russia? Where was Germany? That wouldn't happen. Never, ever, would Poland do that to him.

Of course, all's fair in love and war, he thought bitterly.