After writing this chapter, I realized that I'd have to bump the rating from K+ to T, so please consider that your warning.
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The Baltics were deathly quiet for the remainder of the sisters' visit; they didn't speak unless spoken to directly, and when they answered they mumbled, eyes to the floor. Gunshots and red snow haunted their nightmares, and by day they flinched at loud noises and at Russia—shortly after the snowball incident the huge nation thought it funny to suddenly shout "Fire!" and watch as the Baltics jumped so badly they dropped their dinner plates, china and food splattering across the kitchen floor. Russia had giggled and remarked that 'his countries were so adorable', while Ukraine frowned unhappily at him from across the room.
The last night of the sisters' stay they had another festive dinner; Russia cooked stacks of golden blini, which they ate slathered in butter and topped with red and black caviar, smoked salmon, cheese, sour cream, and various fruit jams (not all at once, of course). And as usual, Russia did his best to get everyone completely smashed before dessert, which was Ukraine's so-sweet-it-hurt medivnyk and steaming mugs of thick hot chocolate made with heavy cream and egg yolks. His plan partially worked: Ukraine was rather drunk by the end of the meal, Belarus slightly more than tipsy, Estonia probably drunk but not showing it, Latvia definitely drunk and showing it, and even Lithuania felt warmed and nearly at ease—impressive, considering the company.
Russia himself was also most likely drunk, a surprisingly pleasant sort of drunk. He ushered them all into the living room after dinner, telling the Baltics to worry about dishes later. They played Darok and he didn't turn it into a drinking game, although he and his sisters (and Latvia, to Lithuania and Estonia's dismay) continued to imbibe. Around one in the morning Estonia and Liet returned to the kitchen and did the dishes, leaving Latvia curled up in an armchair asleep, and by the time they returned Ukraine and Belarus had drifted off to bed, a long day of travel awaiting them in the morning. Russia took one look at them and pronounced Estonia dead on his feet—the particular phrase making them wince—and sent him to his room as well. Lithuania, he said, could sit a while yet.
Whatever moderately pleasing feelings Lithuania had vanished as his brother glanced away and collected the sleeping blond before leaving the room without a word. Liet swallowed, and sat down on the couch next to Russia.
"You had a good evening?" he queried, taking a shot. Liet had lost count of how many that had been since the start of dinner. Over a dozen, at least.
"Da, Russia Zimavich," he answered, staring at his hands clasped tightly on his lap.
"Xorasho, xorasho…" Russia mumbled. "I worry we will not be having these nights for a while soon."
Eh? He couldn't decipher what sort of warning was behind those words. The alcohol clouding his judgment?
"Germany's planning to invade England," the huge country continued, leaning back to recline on the sofa. He slowly swirled the drops of vodka left in the shot glass, contemplative. "War with him is inevitable, I think. His boss wants to swallow up all of Europe…"
Liet was silent, wondering why Russia was bothering to tell him this, Russia who never told him anything. Was he… worried?
"But he will not attack me right away, I don't think," the Russian continued, shifting his position against the arm rest, one leg on the couch, the other on the floor. "Nyet, it is still too soon after our nonaggression treaty. Even Germany wouldn't do that. Pass me that bottle, Litva."
Liet surrendered the vodka immediately; Russia took yet another shot—from the way he exhaled, the Baltic suspected that he might actually be reaching his limit.
"He has said he will attack England first, and that will take some time," Russia mused, watching the last bit of vodka fill up his glass. He put the finished bottle on the floor. "A year at least; England is stubborn," then, beckoning, "Come here."
The brunette hesitated, rapidly decided against trying to resist, and scooted slightly closer. Russia sat up slowly—Liet realized abruptly that Russia was trying not to startle him—and placed a hand at the base of Liet's neck, who quivered from the cold, noticeable even through his shirt, but he didn't dare pull away. But when the shot glass touched his lips he leaned back, protesting softly, "Ah, no, I can—", but Russia insisted wordlessly, tipping the drink back; the small stream burned all the way down, there was a reason vodka was downed in a single gulp. When the glass was empty, his inhale sounded more like a gasp.
A ghost of a smile curved Russia's lips and he stretched, putting the shot on the table, the quiet click of glass on wood in the silence of the room loud enough for Liet to tense. Russia made a sympathetic noise, rubbing his back in what Lithuania supposed was meant to be comforting, but it was all he could do to stop the shivers. When Russia's hand shifted to his shoulder and gently pulled, Liet's heart fluttered nervously, anxiety gripping him; and then the arctic nation hugged him, somewhat awkwardly, burying his face in Liet's brown hair. Chills raced down the smaller nation's body at every exhale.
"Oh Litva…" Russia murmured, and Liet heard sadness and concern and protectiveness and possessiveness and a half a dozen other things he couldn't identify in the time it took for him to process that Russia was indeed trying to be gentle, that whatever it was that he wanted he was willing to try and coax it out from the reluctant Baltic rather than simply take it by force. The smallest of whimpers escaped him at the awful thought—what would happen if he refused in spite of that 'kindness'?
Then Russia released him, moved to sit on the side of the couch as he turned, pushing down on Liet's shoulders, who threw out an arm and caught himself, stuttering "R- Russia Zimavich, I—" but what could he say? I don't want this, go to hell? He figured that much was obvious, and yet there he was.
Russia took him by the wrist and pulled slightly, "Lie down." And without the support, Lithuania fell sidewise down onto the couch, his stomach twisting into knots.
Kicking off his boots, Russia swung his feet up onto the sofa and laid down as well; Liet shifted as far away as possible, flattening himself into the sofa cushions, wondering wildly if there was any chance in shoving Russia onto the floor and making a run for it. But even his alcohol-soaked mind knew that was a stupid pointless plan, he was trapped between the back of the couch and Russia, an indifferent place and horribly dangerous one.
Russia adjusted, looping an arm under the trembling country and pulling him closer, flicking the tail of his army coat over them like a blanket.
"Relax," he soothed, his hand settling on the small of Liet's back. Pressed against his broad chest, head tucked under his chin, Lithuania could smell frost, that crisp just-before-snow scent; if he ignored the small circles Russia was tracing along the curve of his spine—impossible, he shuddered weakly at the completion of each one—he could almost imagine that Russia just wanted someone to hold, that he was content to just lie there on the couch with him, and that as long as Liet didn't-- didn't-- he couldn't even define 'what' it was, didn't draw attention to himself? Then the night would pass, he'd be okay, maybe Russia would even let him go up to his room and sleep. Desperate hope, pathetic rationalizations of events completely out of his control, but Liet clung to them as if they were the last thing he had (his pride had already been trampled underfoot).
Then Russia slid a hand up the back of his shirt, icy fingertips resting against bare skin, and Lithuania couldn't help it: he burst into terrified sobs.
"Please stop, Russia Zimavich, please," he pleaded, burying his face in his hands.
To his amazement, Russia did, removing his hand to lightly catch Liet's chin, tilting his tear-streaked face upwards, amethyst eyes meeting emerald ones. Lithuania couldn't find anything in Russia's cool gaze, a blank void that appeared to contain nothing, which he knew wasn't true, which only reinforced how well Russia lied. He glanced away, unable to bear that look for any longer.
"Please, Russia Zimavich," he repeated softly.
Russia searched his face for… something, then leaned forward and kissed him.
Lithuania froze, heart pounding, a jolt racing all the way down to his toes, hoping that the arctic nation would get the message if he didn't respond, but when he felt Russia's tongue flick against his lips, questioning, he jerked his head to the side, stuttering, "R- Russia—"
"One kiss," he whispered huskily, vodka on his breath, trailing a thumb along Liet's jaw. "You won't kiss me, so I'll just have to kiss—"
Lithuania's lips crashed into his, cutting him off mid-sentence, Russia's tiny sound of surprise allowing Liet to slip in his tongue; recovering from his shock, Russia kissed back, a warm noise rising in his throat as he shifted his weight for leverage, pushing the country down further into the cushions, wedging a knee between his legs--
Panicked, Liet broke off the kiss with a gasp, "Russia, stop, you said one—" but it had been a risky gamble and he knew it and as Russia tangled a hand in the brunette's hair, pulled his head back to plant kisses along the soft skin of his throat, Lithuania knew it had been exactly the wrong gamble to make. The drunken nation fumbled with the buttons on Liet's uniform, unfastening the top three to reveal the sweep of a pale shoulder, but Liet shoved his hands away, twisting under his weight, but there was no way—"Stop it, Russia!"—Russia moved, pinned him to the couch—"No, stop!"—biting just above the collar bone and Liet felt Russia's fist tighten in his hair at the pained cry; he tried pushing him away but he wasn't strong enough, Russia caught a wrist and pressed into down above Liet's head at an agonizing angle. Lithuania sobbed, turning his head away as Russia's free hand roamed farther down—his dignity, when had it come to this?—and his eyes widened, oh god, "Stop, Russi-ah! No, stop it, Russia—Belarus!!" pointing widely to the side.
Russia lurched back as if shot. Standing in the doorway in a white nightgown, long hair tussled from sleep, was Belarus, staring silently at the scene before her.
No one moved. Lithuania spared a swift glance at Russia, who at least had the decency to look mortified, though probably not because of what he was doing so much as who caught him doing it. God, if it had been Estonia or Latvia, hell, even Ukraine, he probably would've just-
Russia wet his lips, his face scarlet, and started, "Belarus, I—"
She darted between the plush chairs, hands curled into fists, screeching "You bastard!"
"Wait, sestra!" Russia cowered, flinging his arms up to shield himself against the expected blow, but Belarus shoved him aside to punch Lithuania as hard as she could in the gut.
The air rushed out of his lungs with a whoosh; before he could take a breath, she was on him, straddling his hips, hands at his throat, crushing his windpipe, "How dare you fucking touch him, he's mine! I'll kill you!" Red spots popped up in his vision, a flash of metal-
"Belarus, nyet!" She was wrenched away, Russia hooking his arms around her shoulders and hauling her off, a knife clattering to the floor. Lithuania gasped, coughing, tried to get air into his lungs as he rolled off the couch, swaying as he stood, staggering into the coffee table.
Belarus was still shouting, kicking out violently, trying to slip free of her brother's grip. "Is this why, Russia?! You won't marry me because of this little bitch! This- This- twisted soirée!" She lunged and nearly broke free. "I hate you!" she shrieked, straining against Russia' strong arms. "I hate you! I hope you fucking die!"
"Go, Litva!" Russia ordered over her screams of fury, jerking his head towards the doorway. Belarus snarled, a vicious, desperate sound, as Liet fled, almost slipping as he rounded the corner and flew up the stairs, but something forced him to a stop. He paused, torn, then crouched down on the steps and listened, ignoring better judgment's demand to get the hell out of there.
The sounds of a scuffle lasted another minute, before a cry of anguish from Belarus and Liet could tell, from what little he could see of their feet from his vantage point, that Russia had released her.
"How could you, brat? How could you? We're going to get married and yet—"
"Sestra, we're not getting married—"
"And yet you're fooling around with that spineless weakling?!"
"Belarus, unless my boss says otherwise, we're not getting married. You are already one with me, why do you insist on—"
"So are they, Russia! So are they! They're one with you too, Lithuania in particular, apparently!"
"Sestra—"
"I just want you, only you, brat, to myself. I don't want to have to share you…"
"But everyone's going to become one with me." Lithuania shivered at the certainty in his voice. "You'll have to share."
"Is he your favorite, brat?" Practically a demand. "The little ring-leader of the Baltic trio; if you can have him the others will just fall in line?"
"Sestra." A warning.
Lithuania saw Belarus turn away; a steely silence, then Russia stepped up behind her, her weight shifted, Liet imagined Russia was wrapping his arms around her.
"Keep your perversions, then," he heard her say faintly. "I'll marry you in the end, and no warped bitch of a country will get between us."
She stepped away, walking towards the—
Shit! Lithuania scrambled up the steps, rushing to his room as quietly as possible, shutting the door and diving into bed, feigning sleep. He heard Belarus's footsteps up the hall, a pause, then his door clicked open and those soft steps came across the floor. Nothing…
"You're lucky he wants you able to work," she hissed suddenly, right next to his ear. He barely suppressed a flinch, eyes remaining closed.
Something sharp flicked against his throat and he twitched, totally blowing his cover, not that he thought Belarus believed it in the first place. But he managed not to move any further, despite the sensation of wetness trickling down his neck.
Belarus made disgusted sound, and Liet heard her walk out. The minute the door shut, he threw off the blankets and clicked on the bedside lamp. At the sight of blood on his fingertips he kept pressure there and, after a short battle with indecision, crept down the thankfully empty hall to the bathroom. Latvia was passed out there, propped up against the cool ceramic bathtub—an obvious victim of too much vodka—Lithuania left him alone, inspecting his neck in the mirror.
A shallow sliver of a cut, barely an inch long, right over a bruising bite mark from Russia. A negation, a denial of what she saw, a warning that Russia was hers and hers alone, a reminder of how little force it would have taken to open his whole damn throat and watch him bleed out before anyone could have stepped in.
She was never going to go on a date with him, was she?
"Litva?"
He jumped. No, he'd had enough; he couldn't take anymore of this. He turned, unable to conceal the tremors raking his body.
Russia frowned, brow knitting in concern as his violent eyes trailed down to the cut, still uncovered. He stepped forward—Lithuania couldn't stop the impulse to step back, his heel knocking into the edge of the bath—and reached out; Liet didn't resist, letting the lightest of touches tilt his head back, exposing his throat, the steady trickle from the scratch. His heart sped up, his breath shortened, but an odd resignation slipped over him. He didn't want to say he was surrendering, but he knew that was what he was doing; he was too tired, his head too fuzzy, and fighting too futile. Russia leaned down, and Liet kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, blinking back tears.
Russia kissed his neck lightly and when he drew back there was red on his frozen lips. Without a word, he turned and left.
Lithuania stared at the spot he had been, frightened, exhausted, and utterly confused.
--
When he came downstairs the next morning, Ukraine and Belarus had already left. Russia was slumped into an armchair, head bowed forward, having presumably passed out after escorting his sisters to the station, if the boots still on his feet were any indication. Liet crept past the slumbering time bomb carefully into the kitchen. Judging from the empty plates on the table, they had grabbed a quick breakfast first, probably before dawn.
After he had finished dishes and started on breakfast, Russia half-stumbled into the kitchen, blinking in the artificial light. He frowned groggily at the lack of food on the table before walking over to the stove where Lithuania stood, casually looping an arm around the smaller country's waist. Liet stiffened instinctively; Russia didn't react, inspecting the sizzling eggs with mild interest—oh god, what possessed him to make an American breakfast?!—lightly tugging the spatula from Liet's trembling fingers to poke at the forming meal. Liet accepted the returned spatula automatically as Russia released him to go rummage through the pantry.
Lithuania swallowed and found his voice. "Good morning, Russia Zimavich."
Russia grunted, dumping bread, sausage, and chunk of hard cheese onto the table before packing them into a messenger satchel slung over one shoulder. From the cabinet he added a bottle of vodka for good measure and turned to leave.
"Going to work," he said shortly over his shoulder. "I'll be back late."
The front door opened, then shut.
And it went like that for several weeks as the snows melted into a slushy, muddy March. Russia left just after dawn, no time for breakfast, and returned hours after sunset, face streaked with grime, boots caked with mud. With the advent of spring, all the construction programs that had been halted because of the frozen earth—hospitals, schools, bridges, railroads—recommenced with a vengeance as Russia's boss continued his relentless march towards progress, heedless of his nation's growing fatigue.
And Russia was getting tired. He hid it well, unwilling to show any sign of possible weakness in front of the Baltics, but they noticed it: the sag of his shoulders, the hollowness of his gaze, they way he collapsed into his seat at dinner, wincing at the ache in his bones. One day Lithuania accidentally caught him hunched over the bathroom sink, gritting his teeth as he submerged his hands in freezing water, wincing at the raw blisters gained through long hours handling shovels and pick axes, hauling wheelbarrows of dirt, laying miles of track. The exhaustion had the odd effect of making him more docile, almost; the sudden flares of temper, terrible and more frequent, were much briefer, as if he simply didn't have the energy to stay angry at them.
On the bright side (and they had to look for a bright side, otherwise they didn't have the strength to keep going), the Baltics had the house pretty much to themselves during the day. After chores were finished they were able to spend their free time reading, playing chess, or simply relaxing, knowing the impending threat that was Russia wouldn't be back until night fall. (No one suggested the obvious, the dangerous, the hopeless desire to run, quickly, quietly, as fast as they could, while he was away.)
The pattern broke in late March, when the crocuses were just beginning to bloom along the edge of the house. The Baltics were in the kitchen trying to decide on breakfast, each suggesting national dishes, when Russia walked in, casually cuffing Latvia upside the head as he walked passed.
"Russian," he reminded them as he began cutting up a loaf of black rye bread.
Lithuania bit his lip; they had fallen back into the habit of speaking their own languages while the huge nation was out of the house for such long stretches of time. It was a stupid mistake to make; they were lucky he hadn't reacted violently, well, more seriously violent anyways. A whack off the back of the head was Russia being nice.
"Good morning, Russia Zimavich," he said, switching back into the now familiar tongue. "No work today?" He thought he did a good job of keeping the disappointment out of his voice.
"Not today," Russia nodded, deciding that they would have cold sandwiches for breakfast.
Well, it was nice while it lasted, Liet thought, wondering what had Russia home instead of performing back-breaking manual labor for his people. He couldn't imagine that his boss would just give him a day off for the hell of it.
A sharp knock at the door later that afternoon answered his question.
Poland was back.
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Yay, Poland's back! Also, Belarus kinda, accidentally to the rescue, sorta? ^^;
A note on what Belarus said: yes, her words are somewhat homophobic. That's intentional, to reflect the overall attitude of the era; it is not my personal opinion.
brat- brother (no, Belarus isn't calling Russia a brat, as funny as that'd be)
medivnyk- Ukrainian honey cake; it's so good, ridiculously sweet, requiring a cup of dark honey and a cup of brown sugar.
Contrary to popular belief, Stalin did expect Germany to attack Russia. However, he didn't think Germany would break their treaty so soon, especially when Russia kept picking up German army broadcasts about invasion plans against England. Unfortunately, Germany was broadcasting those specifically to trick Russia into believing Germany would attack England first. ^^;;
Read and review, comrades!