This chapter's fairly Poland-heavy, but I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing... You know, there are only a few major scenes left in this fanfic, so maybe only two or three more chapters. I hope you'll continue reading to the end!
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Lithuania almost didn't recognize Poland.
Standing despondently next to Germany as the strict nation exchanged curt pleasantries with Russia, Poland was a mere ghost of his former self. His cheeks were sunk in, the bones high and noticeable, and his wrists were skeletal, too angular to be normal. He was clothed again in drab grey rags that hung loosely off his frame, creating the impression that the boy was even scrawnier than he appeared.
But most shocking was his hair, what was left of it: the blond strands had been sheared short, shorter than Liet's, shorter than Russia's, hell, shorter than Estonia's. And if the choppy lengths were any indication, whoever cut it hadn't really given a damn what he'd look like after.
Russia shut the door and turned to his reacquisition with an almost quizzical expression. "I am surprised; you look like a malchick for once," he said, ruffling what he could of Poland's hair.
The blond ducked his head but didn't pull away. Russia smiled, oddly triumphant, before shooing Poland towards the stairs.
The emaciated nation couldn't make it up the stairs to his room, even with Lithuania supporting him. They got about half way before Poland caught his foot on a step and tripped, cracking his knee into the hard wood with a darkly hissed curse, wincing as he forced himself back to his feet with a surge of determination. (Liet wondered abruptly if Poland was afraid of what would happen if he couldn't stand.) He stumbled again two steps later; Russia caught him, firmly detaching Poland from Lithuania's arm as he picked the blond up
—a mumbled, "Hey, put me down; I can like, walk on my own," to which the answer was a blunt "I am doubting this very much, Polshka,"—
and carried him the rest of the way to his room, Liet following doggedly behind. Russia deposited Poland onto his bed and covered him with a blanket before turning to leave, catching Liet by the shoulder as the Baltic tried to step past him.
"Nyet. Leave him be; he needs sleep."
"But—"
"Litva." The grip on his shoulder tightened painfully.
Lithuania followed Russia out.
Poland stayed there for a week, drifting in and out of consciousness, while life went on downstairs: Russia disappeared for work and the Baltics did chores. But in the spare moments in between one mind-numbing menial task and the next, they could sense Poland upstairs, a heavy weight pressing down on them through the ceiling. It was distinctly different from Russia, who was power and danger and lurking disaster—Poland was proof of disaster, evidence that something awful was taking place, and the Baltics felt it and wondered what on earth was going on; they feared the answer would defeat what meager hope they had left.
And during snatches of time around meals Lithuania would indirectly confront that fear, would reluctantly nudge Poland awake for breakfast and lunch, spoon-feeding him a watery broth at Russia's instruction ("Anything else is too heavy, would make him sick"). He tried not to stare as the boy gingerly sat up, wincing from aches deeper than Lithuania could see. Liet wanted to ask about the letters—did he get any them? Did they vanish into the abyss that was the Russian system? Did Germany intercept them? On the topic of Germany: what the hell was happening over there? He wanted to ask, the desire burned a dark hole in his chest, but he couldn't bring himself to force the questions past his lips, not the ones about which he really wondered. He settled for others.
"What happened to your hair?" he asked quietly, mentally cringing from the lack of tact.
A shadow passed over Poland's face. "Germany cut it."
"Why?"
Poland glanced away, shrugged. "He said it was a like, a safety hazard or something, around the machines. He has me working at a textile factory," he added, seeing Liet's confused expression. "Making uniforms. For his soldiers."
For his safety, sure. That sounded like one of Russia's nonsense half-truths. But, making uniforms for German soldiers? That was just cruel, forcing Poland to help supply the very people currently overrunning his land.
"Before I was like, working at a, a whatcha-ma-call-it… Where you make bullets and stuff? Ammunition factory," Poland continued, emerald eyes glittering, something dark and angry surfacing for a moment. "But I figured out how to rig up a couple a things of gun powder. It was totally the best explosion ever. He moved me super fast after that." The accomplished look dropped. "And cut my hair," he finished, deflated.
Lithuania gaped at him. He blew up an ammunition factory? He's lucky he only lost his hair! Liet couldn't even imagine doing that with anything of Russia's.
"Well, whatever. Can I have lunch now?" Poland asked hopefully, dragging the Baltic back to the present. The hope in his voice was hurt, like he wasn't quite sure if he'd get food.
When Russia returned from work in the evening, he took over Lithuania's self-appointed job and fed the blond dinner. Lithuania was quietly amazed, and slightly betrayed, to see Poland's unchallenging acceptance of this, but he reasoned that, by the looks of things, Poland didn't care who gave him food as long as he got food.
Oh Poland, what has Germany done to you?
A week after his return, Poland finally mustered the strength to come downstairs. Latvia and Estonia looked properly horrified at the state of the subdued nation, but Liet felt that the obvious changes, the loss of weight and the like, were not as frightening as the subtle ones. There was an odd tension in Poland that was evident just under the surface, a coiled spring, a sense of constant awareness in the hopes that the next threat wouldn't catch him off-guard. Liet wondered why he hadn't noticed it the week before and once he knew what the signs were, he began to see the same in Estonia and Latvia as well. He suspected he showed it too, though he couldn't see it in his reflection, and wondered how he didn't notice before.
Poland never stayed downstairs for long, lingering after meals for a few minutes before going back to his room. He still wasn't doing chores (and no one was going to demand that he start, especially not looking the way he did), so there really wasn't any reason he should be downstairs, but Liet still found it odd, and maybe a touch unnerving, if he was being honest with himself, to see Poland drift around the house, quiet and bored, rather than pestering him. Yet it wasn't completely boredom, Liet mused as he dusted, watching Poland out of the corner of his eye as the blond toyed absently with a matroshka; no, it wasn't boredom so much as… displacement? He looked lost, like he wasn't sure where he was or why he was there.
Still, the disaffected nation put a serious effort into appearing alright when he noticed someone watching, whining good-naturedly when Liet beat him at chess, complaining that he didn't have his 'totally awesome and, like, super cute uniform' to wear any more, instead being stuck with Lithuania's few spare clothes. But the haunted look in his eyes gave his statements an eerie feeling, revealing a yawning void behind them where natural unforced happiness used to dwell. He fell into the Baltics' habit of pretending that everything was okay as easily as they did; it was too painful to consider the alternative for any length of time.
When Lithuania saw Poland standing by the window absently holding his left shoulder, a gesture that simultaneously covered his heart, he had to forcibly stop the train of thought that wondered if Poland was going to make it out of this god-forsaken war.
--
Early April found them around the dinner table yet again, a simple meal of pelmeny and seledka pod shuboy; with winter done and spring yet to yield anything, the pantry was somewhat bare. Poland was still inhaling food like he was afraid he'd never eat again, leaving the table silent save for the clink of silverware on china. But towards the end of the meal, when Poland began to slow down, he stood and asked, actually asked Russia without having to be reminded, if he could be excused for a minute. Lithuania frowned; he hoped the blond wasn't about to be sick.
Poland returned five minutes later, delicately holding a kerchief-wrapped something and Liet felt a tight ball of worry curl up in his stomach. He tried to catch Poland's eye; what was he doing? But Poland stood by his seat and grinned widely, the mask of 'everything's-okay-I'm-fine' firmly in place.
"So, I like, dunno how you guys all, like, forgot or whatever, but like, it's totally Easter—"
Liet sucked in a sharp breath, shooting a gaze at Russia, who stared expressionlessly at the blond. Why, why did Poland's attempts to appear normal have to automatically include 'piss off Russia'?
"—and I made you guys all pisanki, even you Russia; here, aren't they so totally awesome?"
He plucked a fragile red and white egg from the midst the kerchief and handed it to Latvia, who took it with cupped hands, eyes wide.
"It's beautiful," he whispered in Latvian.
"Poland," Lithuania hissed, hoping to get his attention.
But Poland didn't hear him, or ignored him if he did, handing a blue, black, and white egg to Estonia, who accepted it silently, fearful eyes darting to Russia and back to his egg as if to ask, is it okay to take this? Will you get angry at me? Still, Russia didn't move.
"Here's yours, Liet; it's like, painted with all your colors and stuff." Poland turned the egg slowly to show him. "See? It's got like, chickens and ponies and wheat and stuff, totally like what we used to have, you know? I—"
"Poland," Russia said evenly from his seat; the room fell silent, even Poland bit back the rest of his sentence. The arctic nation carefully put down his fork and knife. "Go to your room."
"What?" The confusion in Poland's voice quickly morphed into annoyance as he passed Liet his egg; the Baltic took it for lack of a better idea. "Why? For like, giving you guys pisanki? That's dumb."
"Poland!" Lithuania whispered in horror, hiding the pisanka under the table.
Russia merely repeated himself in that same measure tone. "Poland, go to your room. Now."
"But I haven't finished din—"
"To your room!" Russia thundered, slamming his hands on the table as he stood, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. Everyone jumped; Poland recovered the fastest.
"Fine! See if I make you pisanki again," he grumbled, leaving the cloth on the table as he slunk from the kitchen. "Jerk."
Lithuania winced.
Russia didn't move until Poland's footsteps faded away; calmly, he picked up his chair and resumed dinner as if nothing had changed. The Baltics forced themselves to continue as well. Not wanting to display the egg on the table in full view, Liet kept it in his lap, half convinced that Russia would confiscated them anyways at the end of the meal. Estonia followed suit, while Latvia idiotically left his next to his glass.
The kerchief lay where Poland had left it, hiding the last pisanka from sight.
As the meal continued through the uneasy silence, Lithuania found himself wondering why Poland would do that. He had to know it was an awful idea; was it really only a stab at Russia? Liet had thought Poland wouldn't have the energy for that, it certainly didn't look like he had the energy for that. Was it worth it? Although...
If Poland really was dying, could Lithuania blame him for holding onto his traditions come hell or high water?
He shook his head, chasing away the thought and earning himself a questioning glance from Estonia. Don't think about that. Poland will be fine. Think about something else, anything else. He thought of the beautifully painted pisanka in his lap, they way Poland's odd personal style blended with the more conventional images to create a unique fusion. But really…
How on earth did Poland manage to make pisanki in the first place? Had he made them at Germany's and brought them back with him? No, he hadn't come with any luggage. Was that why he had been spending so much time up in his room? That had to be it… But, where did he get the dye, the equipment from? It couldn't be hi—
Lithuania nearly choked. It was Russia's, it had to been Russia's. Poland must have been poking around the house while everyone was busy with chores, either specifically looking for pisanki tools or finding them by accident, and had taken them without Russia's permission to make them pisanki as an Easter surprise.
If Poland had any sense at all, he was barricading his door with all of the furniture in his room.
Dinner ended. Estonia and Latvia began to clear the table; Lithuania collected the cloth napkins, studiously ignoring the kerchief.
Russia stood and moved to block Lithuania's path to the sink.
"Your pysanka," he said pleasantly, hand outstretched.
Lithuania repressed a sigh and retrieved it from his seat, handing over the egg with a resigned sadness. Russia smiled at him and collected Estonia's and Latvia's from the table as well, slipping them into the kerchief without looking at the last one that was undoubtedly his. He carried them carefully across the room; Lithuania saw where he was headed, his mouth opening partially in a voiceless complaint—
Russia crushed the kerchief into a tiny ball, a pleased little smile tilting his lips as he did so, the audible crunch thunderously loud in the silence of the kitchen. When he shook out the cloth, thousands of multicolored shards rained down into the wastebasket. All those hours of work…
Latvia sniffed.
Dropping the offending kerchief into the trash as well, Russia turned and headed for the doorway into the living room, that gleam in his eye, an almost-anticipation look—
"Russia Zimavich!" Lithuania blurted suddenly, cringing as the man's pale gaze swiveled to rest on him. "I—"
Please, please, don't hurt Poland, I'm sorry he made pisanki, I'm sorry he called you a jerk, I'm sorry he doesn't know when to be quiet, please don't hurt him, I don't think he could take it, he's too thin, please—
"P- Please have a good night," he finished lamely.
Russia blinked, then smiled; Liet suspected the huge nation knew exactly what he had failed to say. "Spasiba, Litva," he said kindly, stepping up to the brunette and planting a kiss in his soft hair. One last crooked grin and he walked out.
Lithuania swallowed thickly, clutching the dirty napkins to his chest like a shield. He looked up and saw Estonia and Latvia staring, expressions a mixture between frightened and worried. Liet flushed a deep red.
"I- It's not— He didn't—"
"Maybe we should start the dishes," Estonia cut him off politely, sparing his brother further embarrassment. Liet agreed gratefully and as they worked he listened, ears trained for sounds that Poland was… not okay.
They didn't come.
Lithuania thanked whatever gods might be listening.
--
Amazingly, there seemed to be no repercussions from the pisanki, as far as Lithuania could tell. He didn't know why, but he certainly wasn't going to complain. Poland, on the other hand, had complained and then sulked when Lithuania had explained, forced by the blonde's persistent questioning about where Liet's pisanka was, what Russia had done with them.
"What a jerk," he muttered, knees tucked up to his chest as he sat on the couch. Their conversations had been in Polish lately, the blond refusing to speak Russian unless said country was in ear-shot, whether from pride or rebellion Liet didn't know. "They're just pisanki. It's not like a couple of colored eggs could totally bring down the communist regime or whatever…"
Lithuania glanced up from sweeping the living room. "You know, he probably has the house wired," he said quietly.
"Yeah, well, Russia can like, go to hell," Poland groused.
"Poland—"
"Oh wait, he like, outlawed religion, didn't he? So then, capitalist paradise? That'd totally be like hell to him, wouldn't it?"
"Poland, the house? Bugged?" Lithuania insisted.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Poland waved Liet's concern away, but fell silent, wrapping his arms around his knees. Lithuania shook his head. He warned Poland the last time he was here, that Russia probably wired the house, sticking little microphones where people won't notice them. Lithuania had accidentally found no less than seven in his room over the course of his stay, and he suspected there were more.
He hadn't removed any of them.
At least Poland was looking somewhat better, filling out somewhat now that he had a steady supply of food again. Lithuania was grateful, but the fact that coming to stay with Russia was actually helping Poland only served to reinforce how truly horrendous living with Germany must be. He couldn't quite wrap his head around what could possibly be worse.
Cleaning finished, to the kitchen to make dinner. Poland tried listening to the radio and got sick of it, slamming it off and proclaiming that 'even his stupid music is like, full of communist shit'. Latvia looked like he was going to complain (about what? Poland? The absence of music?) but a meaningful look from Estonia kept him silent. Russia came home and anxiety descended upon the house; they had dinner, Poland didn't do anything stupid, Russia didn't seem interested in pestering Lithuania with random trivia-like questions about recent policy changes, and Estonia and Latvia remained as quiet as usual. Same old day, a normal day—
Lithuania cringed. Russia noticed, head cocked to the side in curiosity. "Chto, Litva?"
He shook his head. A normal day at Russia's house. He pushed his food around his plate, his appetite gone.
Russia vanished upstairs after dinner and the rest cleaned up; Poland couldn't dodge chores in the evenings, not when the arctic nation was around to enforce his 'everything is being shared' ideals. He still slacked off though, taking an inordinate amount of time with each dish, letting Estonia and Latvia put away most of them. When they were done, Lithuania retreated upstairs to the bathroom.
Yet again cursing the lack of locks in the house, he undressed and laid his clothes out next to the bath. Turning on the faucet, he climbed in and the hot water roared into the tub around him, drowning out the strains of Tchaikovsky coming from Russia's office.
A normal day at Russia's house… The phrase drifted back to him as he washed his hair. When had any of this been normal? When had an uneventful day—cleaning, cooking, servant's work at its most basic—become normal, acceptable? A small jolt of pain as he scrubbed down with soap, his eyes fixing on a bruise near his hip; Russia had shoved him a few days ago. Was risk of injury normal now too? Living in constant fear of his safety, completely dependent on Russia's good will and mood… A good day, a normal day, was not getting hit, was avoiding Russia's attention. All of it, he shuddered, recalling an arm around his waist, a hand slipping up his shirt. And there wasn't anything he could do to the contrary, nothing in his power to stop… The idea of staying here—
Lithuania took a breath and sunk under the water, watching tendrils of brown hair wave languidly in front of him. His heart beat in his ears, whispering the steady rhythm of his people's lives.
He wanted to go home.
Through the water, he heard an odd stream of noise, a far away echoing sound, low and quiet. Frowning, he came up for air.
"—That's mine, you jerk, give it ba—"
"Where did you get this?!"
Oh shit.
Lithuania scrambled out of the bath, drying himself quickly with a towel—
"You went through my room!! You totally went through my room! You can't do that!"
THUMP, a groan and Liet dragged on his pants, threw on his shirt—
"You have a room through my good graces, Polshka, and that's it. Now tell me where you got this!"
Another THUMP—screw it, no time to finish buttoning the shirt; Lithuania wrenched open the door and stepped out into the hall.
Russia had Poland pinned against the wall, one hand gripping the collar of his shirt, the other brandishing a… magazine?
"Liet!" Poland yelled as he spotted the Baltic, straining against Russia's hold. "He went through my room and stole my magazine! He—"
The huge nation jerked him forward and slammed him back into the wall. "This magazine is from America," he snarled, whacking Poland over the head with it. "How did you get it?"
Lithuania processed this information very fast: not only did Russia bug the house, but the paranoid nation searched their rooms as well. Liet saw the English lettering and could've cried from dismay— Poland, why why would you keep that in the house?!
Instead he pleaded, "Russia Zimavich, please, let him go, he won't do it again—"
"Why do you care how I got it? I have it, don't I?" Poland challenged, defiant in the face of Russia's fury.
"Who gave this to you?" Russia demanded. "Germany? Italia?"
"You can't stop us from reading, Russia—"
Oh god, Poland, yes he can!
"Who gave this to you?!" Russia bellowed, shaking him.
Liet took a hesitant step forward. "Russia Zimavich, please stop!" Why couldn't he do anything?!
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you!" Poland shouted. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you!"
Russia stilled, eyes searching the blonde's face, calculating. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.
Lithuania bit his lip. This is your chance Poland, don't mess it up, please, where is your sense of self-preservation…
"You really want to know where I got it from?" Poland taunted, chest heaving. "I got it from you, Russia. Yeah that's right," he added nastily, seeing the flash of confusion followed swiftly by angered understanding. "I got it from one of your own citize—"
Russia flung the magazine aside and punched Poland in the jaw, knocking the blond to the floor. Lithuania gasped, closing the distance between them, "Russia Zimavich!"
"From one of your own! Your own people hate you, Russia!" Poland announced in his native tongue.
Russia's eyes flashed and he hauled the blond partially to his feet. "In Russian!" he demanded. Liet halted, surprised by the revelation. Russia didn't know Polish?
Poland continued on regardless. "Go on and hit me, you jerk. You can't do anything! You're nothing!"
"Russian!"
"Screw you, you damn drunk! You're stupid and ugly and fat—"
Lithuania couldn't stop the snort of laughter fast enough. Russia dropped Poland and whirled on him, furious.
"What did he say?!"
The Baltic backed up, stuttering apologies, oh god someone help him—
"And your sister's a total psycho," Poland declared, abruptly switching back to Russian. "Which is like, really funny, 'cause she definitely wasn't that crazy when she was living with me!"
"Poland!" Liet shouted in horror as Russia turned back to the doomed nation. He took a step forward; hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him back.
"Stop, Lithuania," he heard Estonia say desperately; they, Estonia and Latvia, both pulled him down the stairs, nearly toppling over.
"But Poland!" He could he the blond cry out in pain, shouting obscenities at the stronger nation. "I need to—"
Estonia spun him around. "You can't help him," he stated firmly, grip tight on his shoulders. "I know, he's your friend," he continued, speaking over Liet's protest. "But we can't afford to have you both—"
A shriek of agony rent the air and Estonia flinched. "We can't stand to see that happen to you," he whispered.
Lithuania clenched his teeth, seeing the concern in his brothers' eyes, and couldn't hold back.
He cried. For Poland, for them, for himself: all helpless in the face of Russia's wrath.
Helpless in the face of Russia.
---
Oh Poland, why do you do these things?
Again I lament that the Soviet Union did away with religion; I'd love to go over Russian Easter traditions in more detail. My family made kulich (Easter bread), paskha (Easter cheesecake, sort of... You eat it spread on the bread), pysanky (the elaborately decorated eggs), krashanky (the solid color dyed eggs), etc. We brought krashanky to the graves of my great-grandparents, my great-aunt, and my grandfather, and played 'Trial of the Krashanka', where you tap an egg against your opponent's in the hopes of cracking theirs without breaking your own. You do this until there's only one krashanka left, and that person has good luck. (I lost in the final round, to my mother...)
Pysanky are elaborately decorated eggs made through a time-consuming process of waxing and dyeing the uncooked egg. You draw designs on the egg with hot wax using a kistka (kinda like a pencil) and dye the egg in sequence, progressively darker colors, and at the end you carefully melt the wax off to reveal the finished egg. When I say it takes time, I'm not kidding. I made two eggs this year, about medium-hard difficulty, and it took me nine hours. Of course, I had to share the kistka which ate up some time, but at best it would have taken six hours, so... Interesting note: Poland calls them 'pisanki' and Russia calls them 'pysanky'; pronounced the same, but different spelling. Lithuania uses Poland's spelling because they used to be the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Ukraine also calls them pysanky, and she's the one who taught Russia how to make them (it's originally her tradition).
Oh! The reason Russia didn't immediately react when Poland said "It's Easter guys!" is because to Russia, it wasn't Easter: Russian Orthodox Easter (of the Eastern Orthodox branch) and Polish Nation Catholic Easter (of the Roman Catholic branch) are on different days (usually--this year they were on the same day!)
Vocab:
malchick- boy
pelmeny and seledka pod shuboy- pelmeny are meat-filled dumplings, and seledka pod shuboy is herring with vegetables (it translates literally as 'herring with sheepskin/fur', because it used to be cooked in it)
spasiba- thank you (I can't remember if I've used this before or not...)
And for your entertainment, my sister made the pyasnky that Poland made in this chapter. I made two pysanky to represent the sort of work Russia would do, if he had made any. Please enjoy! http:// s11. photobucket .com/ albums/ a160/ KeeperofShadows/ Hetalia%20Pysanky/ (Please remove the spaces.)
Read and review, comrades!