Next chapter! Sorry this took so long to post; as predicted, school and finals and moving and such distracted me... I'm hoping to continue with the weekly-ish updates (considering there is so little left), but currently I'm going to be teaching Japanese and color guard part-time for the next three weeks, while living with two of my Russian friends (we're all one with Russia, da? XD). So I don't know how time will work out for me. I will do my best.
The next day Russia acted like nothing had happened, as usual, which suited Liet just fine. Estonia made no mention of what he saw either, and Lithuania hoped that he had also neglected to tell Latvia. Poland was released from solitary confinement a day later and tried to demand pony cakes again, but when Liet explained that they were out of food dye and the only way to turn them pink would be to put beets in them the blonde backed down, claiming that beets were for borscht, not pancakes. Liet agreed.
Breakfast, chores, errands, free time, avoiding Russia's wrath. Life had an almost predictable pattern to it, the structure as comforting as it was soul-crushing. The only random variable was the last one, fickle moods ever-changing as Russia tried to keep up with his boss's rapid demands. One particular evening he returned home in a foul temper; the Baltics stuttered their customary greeting and Latvia made the mistake of asking how the country's day was, to which Russia snarled 'horrible', flinging his hat at the coat rack as he kicked his boots off.
"Arrests, arrests, the whole day—arrests!" he shouted, throwing his hands into the air. "Dozens of men, all spies and saboteurs and anti-Soviet conspirators! I'm sick of these traitors! To the Gulags with the lot of them; I hope they rot there!"
Even Poland had backed into the corner with the others during the tirade, and wisely kept his mouth shut until Russia stormed up the stairs to his office, slamming the door behind him.
"Geez, you'd think he'd take a hint," the blonde muttered.
When Russia came down for dinner he was back to his 'normal self', pleasantly liquored up and cheery, his earlier rage forgotten or more likely submerged under the soothing balm of alcohol.
But it was outbursts like that which kept the Baltics quiet and cautious, for fear of catching Russia's attention when he was in such a state. Only Poland had the nerve to grumble under his breath when Russia was furious, sometimes within earshot, leading to a number of frightening stand-offs that ended with Poland acquiring fresh bruises to replace the fading ones. Russia quickly realized that the rebellious blonde only got louder when struck so he altered his tactics somewhat to avoid the sort of careless backhand he routinely dealt the Baltics. Instead, he seemed to coil his displeasure into a tightly wound spring, mentally tallying Poland's sarcastic jabs over the course of a day or two, until finally he whirled on the blond, grabbing his shoulder and sinking his fist into Poland's stomach. A crooked little smile would tilt his lips as the smaller nation crumpled to the ground at his feet, either unconscious or dangerously close. Either way, his verbal rebuttal was effectively silenced for a time.
"Take him up to his room, Litva," Russia instructed as Liet rushed to Poland's side, the boy making odd croaking gasps as he tried to drag air into his abused lungs. "I think he needs a chance to calm down, da?" He smiled condescendingly, triumphantly, and walked away.
Poland watched him go, eyes dull yet glaring as Lithuania helped him to his feet. "Whu- what a- bastard," he spat, wheezing.
But the abrupt violence apparently spared Poland any more solitary confinement, allowing the blonde a chance to get out of the house, usually when Russia was away working.
"You know, Russia's place is just like, really depressing," he remarked, waving towards the dreary apartment buildings lining the street. "I don't even think painting it like, pink, would help."
Liet glanced up from the shopping list as they walked along. "If anything, he'd paint them red."
"Ugh, yeah. He's totally ruining that color for me," Poland complained. "Which is like, such bullshit, because it was totally one of my colors first, you know? His stupid soldiers, when they invaded, they like, fucking ripped all my flags in half, hung the red back up and used the white for bandages." He made a face. "How's that for like, totally disrespecting a country, right? Symbolic though; of course he trashes the color for purity. He ruins everything… Like my house! You know he painted over everything? What a jerk! He—"
Lithuania just let his friend rant, figuring it was better he get it out of his system now rather than say any of this to Russia's face later.
"Oh! Hold on a second, Liet," Poland broke off suddenly, running across the street and narrowly avoiding a car which blared its horn; he flashed the driver a rude sign and disappeared into a dubious-looking bar.
Lithuania stood there, confused, before following, crossing the street in a safer manner and entering the tiny establishment. He blinked, eyes watering, and peered through the smoke and dim lighting, spotting Poland standing in the back, chatting with a man tucked into the corner. The Baltic picked his way around the crowded tables, factory workers on their lunch break stepped up to Poland's side, "We should go—"
The bespectacled man with whom Poland had been talking hastily hid a sheaf of papers under the table, worry creasing his face like a well-worn mold. Liet opened his mouth to apologize for whatever he had done but Poland cut him off, "No, he's okay, don't worry about it. Toris, this is Timofei; Timofei, Toris," introducing them in Russian.
Timofei shook his hand, still cautious, "Pleased to meet you."
"Likewise," Lithuania responded before switching to Polish and muttering urgently, "Feliks, what are you doing? We have to—"
"Relax, Toris. Give me like, five minutes," he replied before shifting back to Russian and addressing Timofei, "Sorry about him; he's such a worry-wart." Poland explained, sliding into the booth across from the man, gesturing for Liet to do the same. "So like, did you find that copy of Bulgakov I wanted?"
Timofei cast another untrusting glance in the Baltic's direction before answering, "No, it seems a lot of people are after his work. I might be able to get someone to type up another one for you though; we need more in circulation anyways."
"Damn. Well, okay, that works I guess. Nothing by Pilnyak either?"
Lithuania realized what was going on. "Drugi obieg?" Poland nodded.
Timofei ignored the random Polish. "People are just copying Pilnyak. His execution scared folks." He shuffled though the stack of papers and selected one, scanning it before he handed it to Poland, saying, "This one I think you'd appreciate though. Mandelstam's sixteen-line death sentence."
Lithuania leaned over curiously, trying to read over the blonde's shoulder, but Poland shifted and blocked his view, silent as he read. He whistled softly when he finished, handing the slip of paper to Liet as he quietly exclaimed, "Shit, that's brilliant! Mandelstam was the one that said Russia was the only guy—the only country that respected poetry, right? Because it could get you killed."
"The very one," Timofei nodded. "Do you want it?"
"Hell yes," Poland said, pulling out a few folded rubles. "Do can you find me his Moskow Notebook too? I—"
"Feliks, you cannot bring this in the house," Liet stated, neglecting to switch into Polish, eyes wide as he stared at the poem. "Ivan will kill you."
"Who's Ivan?" Timofei asked, caution creeping back into his voice.
"An asshole, works for the government. Don't worry Toris, it'll be fine—"
"No, he'll find this and—where did you even get that money?" Liet demanded as Poland paid for the copy and plucked it from Liet's fingers, tucking it away in a breast pocket as he stood.
"I hawked something of Ivan's on the black market a few days ago, no big deal—"
"You what?" The Baltic gasped, jumping to his feet.
Timofei shook his head, half-amused. "You Poles are all crazy," he said with a look of incredulity.
Poland stood straighter, head held high. "And damn proud," he announced, before grabbing Liet's hand and pulling him towards the door. "Thanks again, Tima!"
Out on the street Lithuania rounded on Poland, demanding, "What the hell was that? Are you insane? Russia will kill you if he finds that!"
"Mind your own business, Liet," the blonde snapped, starting down the road. "It's not going to hurt you, right? That's what you're really worried about."
"Poland, you are asking Russia to beat you," Liet said, matching his pace. "Think of your people!"
"I am thinking of my people," Poland retorted. "They want to fight. So I'll fight. "
"It's suicide!"
"Well then, at least my people are brave enough to do it."
Lithuania stopped dead in his tracks, then quickly recovered. "Don't you dare insult my people; we're fighting our own way. Forgive me if that doesn't involve throwing myself under the nearest Russian tank!"
"Whatever, Liet," Poland huffed, dismissive. "Let's just get the stupid shopping done, yeah? That way you can get back to licking Russia's boots—"
"Fuck you!" Lithuania shouted, shoving him. "I do not!" Poland staggered back a few steps and Liet realized, "Ah, Poland, I'm sorry, I didn't—"
"Jerk!" the blonde yelled, returning the favor, shoving him back with each declaration. "Fucking Russia wannabe! Commie sympathizer! You're nothing since we split!"
It stung. "Hey, I'm not the one that got my ass kicked by two countries!"
Liet caught a glimpse of the fury on Poland's face just before the fist collided with his jaw.
They descended into blows, shouting obscenities, grappling, trying to knock the other down; suddenly, shouting, strong arms grabbing Liet and hauling him back, his arms twisted behind him. Across from him Poland likewise struggled in vain against a second officer, cussing out the man up and down in Polish.
"You again?"
Liet twisted to see the man restraining him—Vasnetsov. "What the hell's going on here? You drunk in the streets?"
"What? No!" Lithuania said desperately. Not this again! "Just— We had a disagreement, nothing serious, I—"
"Nothing serious? Disorderly conduct, disturbance of the peace—"
Poland slammed his head back and caught the officer in the mouth, wrenching himself free and bolting down the street. The office swore, blood already pouring from his lips.
"Get back here!" Vasnetsov cried, unholstering his pistol—
Liet's eyes widened, "No don't shoot!"
The shot rang out, clipping Poland in the calf; he toppled mid-run with a shriek of agony, the bloodied officer racing up and pinning him to the ground.
"Don't bother, kid, you're down," the officer said, handcuffing Poland as the nation thrashed beneath him. Vasnetsov jogged over, Lithuania in tow. "You're under arrest for disorderly conduct, disturbance of the peace, and attempted assault of an NKVD officer—"
"Nie mówię po rosyjsku," Poland managed through gritted teeth, face pressed against the cobblestone.
"Shut it, kid. You're under arrest, did you hear me?"
"Nie mówię po rosyjsku," the blonde repeated, slightly louder.
"What'd he say?" Vasnetsov demanded, looking at Lithuania.
"H- He says he doesn't speak Russian," Liet translated, half worried and half furious. Thanks a lot, Poland.
"Great," the officer sighed, pulling the restrained nation to his feet. Poland tried putting weight on his right leg and winced, blood steadily pouring from the gunshot. "Why'd you shoot him, Vovka?"
"He attacked an officer and ran," Vasnetsov replied stubbornly. "He's lucky I didn't kill him."
That would have been hard to explain when it failed.
"Fuck. I'll call a car then; he won't make the walk back to the station," the second officer said, ducking into the nearest store to borrow their phone.
"Can't believe this stupid shit," Vasnetsov grumbled, shifting. "You! Sit your ass down!" he commanded loudly, nodding to Poland. The blonde gave him a blank look and the lieutenant swore again. "Tell him."
"Feliks, come on," Liet said.
Poland gingerly sat, biting his lip against the pain. "Fucking assholes're lucky I'm not normal; a regular person would be way worse off," he muttered darkly, helpless to staunch the bleeding with his hands cuffed.
The officer returned a moment later with a mess of rags, tying up the gunshot wound. "Car'll be here in five," he remarked, wiping the blood off his hands as he stood.
"He's going to bleed all over the seat," Vasnetsov complained. Liet shut his mouth tightly against the bitterness that threatened to leak out.
A black government car arrived; the two countries were stuck in the back, Poland careful to let the blood-soaked cloth rest on the seat. Lithuania just shook his head, watching the city pass by. They were so screwed. There was no reason for the police to call Russia this time; a brawl in the street had nothing to do with him. They were legitimately going to jail, at least until Russia noticed their absence and managed to find them. He leaned his head against the window. Damn it…
The older officer from last time was still doing paperwork when they walked in. "You again!" he said, surprised. "I thought we went through this already."
"Found this two idiots fighting in the street, Popov," Vasnetsov announced.
Poland blinked in confusion and asked, "What does he mean, again?"
"I got arrested last month, when you were in solitary con—" Whack!
"If you're not going to translate then don't talk," the lieutenant growled, adding for his commander, "And the blonde doesn't speak Russian."
Popov groaned, rubbing tired eyes. "Great. Well, you know the drill," he said to Liet. "Papers."
"Right pocket," the Baltic said quickly as Vasnetsov started patting him down. The booklet was extracted and handed over; next to him, Poland swore and tried to jerk away as his officer tried to find the same.
"Ask him where his documentation is," the senior officer requested, copying down Liet's information.
"Feliks, just let them," Lithuania tried.
Poland went very still, eyes darting around the room, searching for a way out.
"Please, don't make this any worse."
The blonde closed his eyes briefly and took a breath. "Left breast pocket," he muttered.
Lithuania felt his heart stop. Oh god…
"Well, what'd he say?"
"L- Left breast pocket," Liet repeated. Shit, they were so screwed.
The officer holding Poland pulled the booklet out of said pocket, a scrap of paper falling loose and fluttering to the floor. Vasnetsov bent and picked it up, glancing at it; his eyes widen as they flitted across the words. Lithuania stared at the floor.
"The hell is this?"
Oh yeah. If they weren't completely fucked before, they sure as hell were now.
Vasnetsov wordlessly thrust the poem towards his commander, whose expression darkened upon reading it. "Where did you get this?" he demanded quietly.
"Nie mówię po rosyjs—" Poland started to say but the lieutenant grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward.
"Bullshit you don't speak Russian! Why would you be carrying that in Russian!" he snapped. "Who'd you get that from?"
"Fuck you," Poland quipped in their language. Vasnetsov decked him and the blonde crashed to the floor, unable to catch his weight on his injured leg. The officer moved as if to kick him but his superior barked a sharp "Nyet! We have a system for a reason."
Vasnetsov backed down, glaring, as Poland was hauled back to his feet, eyes defiant. "Yes, sir," he saluted, before taking hold of Liet and marching him toward the door to the back.
"Wait!" Liet called over his shoulder to Popov. "Can I use the phone?"
The man gave him an incredulous look. "No," he stated, his tone of voice wondering if the boy was stupid.
"Tovarishch Bragniski needs to know I'm here—"
"He'd have to be crazy to come to your defense this time." Vasnetsov pushed him forward through the door, leading him down the hall.
The Baltic dug in his heels in vain. "He won't—" Russia was going to destroy him for this disaster. "—he just needs to know I'm here!"
"Worry about yourself."
"But my family! He'll hurt them when I don't come back!" And Liet knew it was true, that Russia would turn to Estonia and Latvia, convinced they knew something, interrogate them until he decided that maybe they really didn't know anything after all, smile and shrug, oh well, and in the meantime they'd be bruised and bleeding and—
"Papers say you're not married," his guard replied, leading him down the stairs. Behind them, Liet could hear Poland wince as he struggled to take the steps despite his injury.
"Brothers, I have two brothers; please, just a single call, he needs to know!"
"Kid, you are seriously trying my patience," Vasnetsov growled, wrenching open a cell door and shoving the unfortunate nation inside.
"Wait, where's Feliks?" he asked, the other nation gone. When had they split up?
"We're going to have a little chat with your friend," the lieutenant answered as he locked up the cell. "See if we can't clear up a few things." He smirked, anticipation coloring his features an ugly shade as he walked out.
Lithuania felt anxiety, slick and heavy, slip into his stomach and curled there.
He ignored the questions and jeers from his two other cellmates—"Who are you?" "Ho, your friend there's in for it now! Vovka doesn't play nice…" "What did they snag you for?" "You know how fast they ship you here? Two, three days tops, then whoosh! Off to Siberia with you!"—and concentrated on not panicking. It mostly worked in that he didn't pass out or throw up or hyperventilate, but his lip was practically chewed raw by the time they finally brought Poland back, what felt like hours later.
The rest of the cell stood out of the way, unwilling to get closer to the guards, but Lithuania ran directly to their side as they dragged the barely conscious blonde into the tiny space. The boy's face was trashed, eye swollen shut, lips split, nose probably broken, a mess of blood and snot and tears; before Liet could even reach him to help, do something, one of the guards seized him by the arm and hauled him bodily from the cell.
"Wha- where are we going?"
The police officer gave no response, leading him down the hall and past the stairs, to a bare cement room with no windows, just a table and two chairs, some sort of recording deceive. And Vasnetsov, leaning again the back wall. He smiled upon seeing the pale country, no hint of kindness present.
"So Lorinaitis, let's see if we can't settle a few questions," he remarked casually as the guard forcibly sat Lithuania down, then retreated from the room, closing the door behind them. Liet wetted his lips, hands clenched tightly in his lap as he waited for Vasnetsov to continue. The best thing a police officer could hope for was getting a suspect to talk, even if they weren't answering the question, because they were likely to slip important or incriminating information if they were talking. Still, this could go very badly no matter what he tried; Vasnetsov might be in the public branch of the NKVD, but he probably had contacts among the secret police. Hell, he might have even received similar training. Liet tried not to dwell on what exactly that training could have entailed, push those less than comforting thoughts away to concentrate on what the officer was saying.
"—supposedly work for this Tovarishch Bragniski, yet you parade around Moscow with anti-Soviet trash!"
Was he referring to the poem or Poland?
"You must think you're pretty clever, hiding your conspiracy right under your boss's nose—"
"I'm not a conspirator, sir," Liet interrupted quietly, somewhat surprised at how calm he was. This man was no Russia.
"Nyet? Your friend said you were anti-Soviet." He pushed off from the wall and stood at the table, looming over the brunette. "That given half a chance, you'd gladly lead your people in a revolt—"
Poland wouldn't have said that. Poland could have said that.
"Who are 'your people', hm?"
"I- I don't know." How many of his people had fallen in with the Soviets already?
"So you have people then."
Damn it. "I'm not plotting a revolt, sir."
"I bet your friend is," Vasnetsov said, the statement sounding like a question.
If he disagreed, was it too obvious a lie? But he had to— "He's all talk. Says things and never does," Liet tried, forcing casual into his voice.
A quirked brow. "What sort of things?"
Shit. "Anything. Oh, I'll meet you for dinner; doesn't show. I'll pick up butter from the store; comes home empty-handed." He was trying too hard, he just knew it.
"Where did he get the poem?" the lieutenant demanded abruptly.
He's running out of patience Lithuania thought fearfully. "I don't know."
"I don't believe you. I think you know exactly where he got it from. I bet you could even give me names," Vasnetsov pressed.
"I don't know, sir," the Baltic insisted. Why did he care? One name and he could spare himself so much difficulty—
"Bullshit! Tell me where he got the poem!"
Because Poland would never forgive him. "I don't know!" Because he wanted this small rebellion against Russia. Because he was a good person.
Vasnetsov was around the table in an instant; he grabbed Lithuania by the collar, yanking him to his feet, their faces inches apart. "I know you know," he said, garlic breath threatening to wrinkle Liet's nose. "You better starting remembering."
Lithuania started to repeat himself and a slap reddened his cheek. "You make an awful liar, kid."
"I- I don't know—" Don't stutter! He could do this; Russia was so much worse.
The officer's eyes searched his for a heartbeat before a sliver of a smile twisted his face. "I wonder if your brothers know."
A flash of horror he didn't stop in time; Vasnetsov shoved him back into his seat with a grin. "Yeah, there's an idea. Why don't we ask your brothers?" he said in a sickly pleasant tone. "We have your address right here— I'll just send someone by to pick them up and then I'm sure we can sort this whole mess out."
Lithuania forced his mind to function, driving down the involuntary panic—the NKVD'll get them! We're going to wind up in Siberia!—to think; they were at the house, wait, Russia was home— "No, please!"
"You remembered?" Vasnetsov queried, pausing at the door.
He hesitated, wondering if... "I- I told you, I don't know," he lied, his voice wavering. Send someone to the house; Russia will hear—
Vasnetsov muttered something to the guard and turned back. "We'll ask your brothers then," he said with a nod, as if they had agreed. Thank god. "In the meantime, maybe I can help refresh your memory…"
Lithuania paled.
The guards unceremoniously dumped him on the floor of the cell; his head against the concrete was almost enough to make him blackout, but he had to stay conscious, had to see if Poland was okay. He cracked his eyes open, slowly pushed himself off the ground to a sitting position. Nothing was broken, just bruised, a lot of bruises; he swallowed blood and made a face, the metallic taste turning his stomach. He hoped he didn't throw up.
"Who do you think looks worse?"
Poland was propped against the back wall, a crooked smile distorting his battered features even further.
A giggle escaped Lithuania, then a chuckle; he laughed, tears streaming down his cheeks, and he had no idea why, he couldn't stop. The hysterics quickly morphed into anguished sobs and he cried, curling in on himself, his whole body shaking until there was nothing left, an occasional hiccup.
The cells were silent, Poland watching him with a look of sad understanding.
One of the other men broke the silence. "You're new to this, aren't you?"
"No," Lithuania sniffed miserably, wiping away the tear trails and wincing as he nudged a black eye. "No, I'm not, and that's why it's so fucked up." He fished through his pockets and pulled out a kerchief, dabbing at his mouth and nose, the white clothe rapidly turning red. Scooting over to Poland, grimacing from the pain, he tried to tidy up the other nation but found that the blood was too dried to do anything without water.
"Guess you'll just have to wait, unless you don't mind spit," he muttered.
Poland laughed feebly. "Gross, Toris…"
The door banged open and they jumped; Russia stormed in—Liet didn't think he'd ever been this relieved to see him—silent fury crackling across his rigid posture, and Vasnetsov followed right on his heels, complaining the entire way.
"—cannot waltz in here and remove people suspected of conspiracy! This is completely outside your jurisdiction—"
Russia whirled on the lieutenant, scarf a bright contrast to his black uniform. "I am entirely within my authority to take these two into my custody—"
"With all due respect sir, I must insist that they remain here until—"
"Do not," Russia growled, "force me to phone the Kremlin to prove my legitimacy."
Vasnetsov seemed to collapse into himself for a moment before drawing himself up to his full height, a few centimeters shy of the taller man. "Until I receive orders from one of my direct superiors, I stand by police protocol—"
"Is Tovarishch Stalin enough of a 'direct superior' for you?" the arctic country asked softly.
"O- Of course, but—"
"I'll have you court marshaled," Russia continued quietly. "Unlock this cell before I have you arrested for interfering with top governmental affairs in direct opposition to a superior officer—Siberia will be a god-send to someone in your position."
Vasnetsov mouthed soundlessly at him for a moment, before he swallowed and unlocked the cell.
"Get up," Russia ordered, the tone that of commanding dogs.
Lithuania obediently climbed to his feet and helped Poland to his; Russia gave them a calculating once-over before instructing the lieutenant to call a car for them. His violet eyes locked with Liet's, pinning him there for an instant—his mask was on, all the Batlic could see was carefully controlled fury, disgust, something else, darker, lurking below the surface—then he glanced away, apparently disinterested.
Silence while they waited for the car, silence all the way back to the house, silence as they stripped out of their boots and coats at the door. Then Russia gently took Poland by the arm and led him to the stairs, going slowly to compensate for the limp; the blonde offered no resistance, as if he knew that he couldn't fight in his condition.
Lithuania bit his already abused lip. "R- Russia Zimavich—"
The huge nation froze, everyone did, including Estonia and Latvia, warily out of range down the hall, watching; Russia released Poland and stepped right up to Liet, towering over him, a finger looped under his chin to tilt his face up.
"Litva," Russia said patiently. "If you say another word, I will tie you down—"
Nausea slammed into Liet with all the force of a gunshot.
"—and make you watch as I whip your brothers to Death's door and leave them there."
Lithuania couldn't have said anything if he wanted to.
Russia smiled, a sad, tired look, before bringing Poland upstairs and out of sight.
Liet remained at the door, the blonde's look of resignation lingering in his mind. Move, the Baltic told himself, move. He lurched forward past his brothers, going to the kitchen, out the back door into the yard, past the spot where he and his brothers had been 'executed' only a few months before—had it been so long?—to the chicken coop, where he shut himself in among the feathers and hay. Between the offended squawking and his hands over his ears, Lithuania could hear only his heart as back in the house, Russia calmly explained to Poland exactly why what he did was a very bad idea.
Perhaps an hour later, the door to the coop opened. Lithuania didn't move from his place against the back wall, silent as Russia ducked through the doorway, stooping to fit under the low roof. He paid Liet no attention as he automatically glanced into the nest boxes for eggs; with his uniform gone in exchange for dark pants and a peasant's loose shirt, he looked rustic and unassuming, nothing like the commanding officer that threatened a subordinate only a short time before. Finding no eggs, he surveyed the chickens for a moment, hens clucking amiably at his feet. He lunged abruptly—Liet flinched—and when he straightened there was a chicken in his arms, the lowest of the flock according the bald patch near its tail. Russia tucked the bird against his chest, stroking the glossy feathers as he murmured serenity, scratching the unreachable pin feathers around the neck. The hen cooed peacefully; a ghost of a smile curved Russia's lips, pleased and sad, before he broke its neck cleanly. The other chickens milled about contentedly, unfazed by the sudden loss.
Lithuania closed his eyes briefly. Yes, you've proved your point…
Hay crunched, a hand gripped his arm firmly and pulled him to his feet; Russia led him out of the coop and he went easily, gaze caught on the limp hen swinging loosely from the arctic nation's other hand. It was handed off to Latvia as they stepped into the kitchen—"Dinner," he said simply as the timid nation hugged the bird tightly. Then upstairs and Lithuania set his jaw, knowing what was ahead; but instead Russia pushed him into the bathroom, ordered him to wash up and waited, watching, until Liet had gingerly scrubbed the blood off his face, then walked him to the Baltic's own room. Two steps inside Russia pulled the shorter nation flush against him and forced his face up, kissing him deeply, a strong arm wrapped around his waist to keep him there.
Eyes wide, Liet rode it out unresisting, standing rigidly within the man's embrace, cold sinking in through his shirt from icy fingertips. Russia broke off for a breath; Liet looked away, staring resolutely at anything else but the country before him. The arctic nation held on a moment longer, uncertain, then kissed the top of his hair and left.
A key scrapped in the lock.
There was something heavy weighing him down on the inside, an odd numbness that kept him standing there listlessly for nearly twenty minutes before he managed to drag his leaden body to bed and lie down. He wasn't sure from where the feeling came, whether it leeched into him from Russia like a last frost killing new-born blossoms, or grew up from within like a tumor, stealing precious space better suited to other things. Either way, it forced his thoughts towards a dark detachment; he wanted to curl up under his sheets, go to sleep and wake up when this mess was done with… It was a familiar sensation, something he had known before, but it had never been this bad.
He was just so exhausted.
Vocab: (Heh, now the vocab's all Polish)
Drugi obieg: second circulation. The Russian term is samizdat (self-publication), but both refer to the practice of reproducing censored material and distributing it among readers. A good form of resistance, but like most (if not all) resistance, samizdat is very dangerous in that you could get into a lot of trouble if caught with, or worse, distributing censored materials (you saw what happened to Poland with the American magazine, and now with the poem. He's very lucky Russia is who he is and can get them out of jail.)
Nie mówię po rosyjsku: I don't speak Russian. For me personally, Nie mówię po polsku makes more sense. ^^;
Mikhail Bulgakov, Boris Pilnyak, and Osip Mandelstam are all Russian poets (although Mandelstam is Jewish Russian originally born in Warsaw. I can't decide if Poland would be proud or not.) who were executed during the Purges or otherwise severely messed up up Stalin's government. If you are so inclined, their works are fairly awesome.
The NKVD (Narodnyy Komissariat Vnutrennikh Del, People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs) was the public and secret police force of the time, the direct precursor to the KGB. Yeah, that's what Liet and Poland are dealing with...
You know, a few chapters ago I thought I would have 15 chapters and be done, but I keep realizing new parts that I want to share, so my chapters keep getting longer. I actually have the last chapter/scene already written, I just need to get the rest of the story caught up to it. ^^;
Read and review, comrades!