Hell, this chapter's fairly long. Teaching and actually being social for once has slowed my writing time a bit, but it's not a problem. Enjoy!

He woke up slowly the next morning, staring at the ceiling; a lingering dream, a little boy crying blood in the snow, left him uneasy. Frowning, trying to remember the rest, he dressed mechanically and then nearly walked into the door when it didn't immediately open. He blinked in confusion and rattled the doorknob twice before his brain kicked in.

Russia had locked his door the other day. Obviously he hadn't unlocked it yet.

Liet sighed. Well, apparently his brothers were going to make breakfast today. At the thought of food his stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since yesterday's lunch. A part of him bet that Russia was doing this on purpose, though Lithuania was loath to give him credit for such irritatingly accurate foresight. Strange; after last night, he felt surprisingly neutral. The benefits of sleep, no matter how restless, he supposed.

He considered the door again. Theoretically, he could break it down. And theoretically Russia would beat him and then make him fix the door. At a loss over what to do with himself, he grabbed a random title off the bookshelf and flipped to somewhere in the middle. The bright pictures with little text threw him; confused, he checked the title. A collection of short stories for children? Russia had honestly stocked his bookshelf with children's books?

Definitely on purpose.

He glanced through The Parade of the Red Army and The First of May, Kol'ka and Lenin, October Songs, and In Former Days and Now—not only were they children's books, they were children's books full of communist propaganda. Great. The blithely smiling faces that stared up at him from the picture books were faintly horrifying, if only because he knew the reality of the situation. He wondered how many of the children reading these books would grow up and be crushed by the truth and how many would believe the stories…

He jumped when the door was unlocked.

"You have five minutes to use the bathroom," Russia stated without any preamble. "Go."

Lithuania practically ran; he could tell when the huge nation was being literal. He dragged a comb through his hair and splashed water on his face, did his business—face scarlet—while Russia waited in the doorway. What did he expect him to do? Try to escape out the window? He didn't have anywhere to go. Not that it would stop Poland. When five minutes was up (and it was five minutes exactly, Liet saw Russia check his wristwatch), he was brought back to his room and given breakfast. Russia locked the door when he left.

Realization struck him. He was in solitary confinement, wasn't he?

At lunch Russia returned, replacing the remains of the previous meal with a new one. And shortly after lunch Liet discovered the biggest drawback to being locked in his room.

"Russia Zimavich," he called, knocking on his door. Silence, no response. Louder: "Russia Zimavich!" God damn it… He pounded a fist into the door. "Russia Zimavich! Please let me out, I— I need to use the bathroom!"

From the hallway, "Lithuania—"

"Estonia? Where's Russia?"

"He's not here."

You've got to be joking… "Do you have a key?"

"No—"

He scowled, impatience getting the better of him. "I swear to god, Estonia, if you have a key—"

"Just Poland's," came the quick reply.

Liet's head thunked into the door and rested there. "How long am I in here?" he asked, deflated.

"He, he didn't say…"

His eyes shut. "How are you and Lativa doing?"

"Fine. Listen, Lithuania, I can't really stay—"

He pulled back, brow knitted. "But I thought you said Russia wasn't here?"

"H- He isn't, but…"

But the house is still bugged. Right. "It's fine, I understand," Liet said, placing a hand on the door. "Look out for Latvia."

"Of course." And then silence.

Lithuania paced around his room, sitting, standing; Russia returned around seven in the evening, giving the Baltic another five minute trip to the bathroom, and this time Liet literally did run. This is ridiculous he thought as he was escorted back to his room. The arctic blond handed him dinner and he knew he shouldn't ask, but…

"R- Russia Zimavich." The nation paused at the threshold, lunch tray in one hand, the other on the doorknob.

Liet swallowed. " How… how long am I in solitary confinement?"

Violet eyes searched his face for something, and Russia left without a word, a now-familiar key sound in the lock.

Lithuania sighed and ate his meal.

A day past in the same manner, then another. Boredom rapidly became his biggest problem. He quickly used all the available paper at his desk sketching: he drew pictures of home, the hills and forests, grazing horses, picturesque villages… A map of his territory, the borders precise, each county labeled by coat of arms alone… He muttered aloud the names of every settlement within his borders, in alphabetical order, and when he had finished with the current ones, he began recalling older towns that no longer existed on any map, homage to the past. On the third day he read through the children's books in spite of the content. Anything to keep himself busy, to keep himself distracted, because with so much time to think, he thought about all the wrong things.

Like how his brothers were doing without him. How Russia was treating them. He worried about Latvia especially; with only two countries on which to focus, Latvia was far more likely to become a target, and his habit of speaking the instant a thought came to mind would get him hurt.

And he thought about Poland. He wondered how much he had healed by now—Liet's own injuries were completely gone—and he hoped that the loud-mouthed blond wasn't making his situation worse with ill-timed comments. Or actions. Or anything, really; they never knew what to expect with Russia. Little things that weren't necessarily a problem in the 'real world'—like accidentally knocking over a glass, or not greeting someone fast enough—could have disastrous consequences when Russia was factored into the mix.

But the thoughts Liet kept coming back to were about himself. How he could never do anything. No, how he could do something, and never did. How he could sneak out the window if he really wanted to—didn't Poland? How he could stand up against Russia and didn't. He wondered what was going to happen in the future—if, when Germany and Russia went to war, what that would mean for him? He and his brothers stood in a nice little line between Germany and Russia; Germany was bound to invade them. But his goal was Russia. He wouldn't try to take them over, right?

And the silence was deafening. When Poland said that he had sung patriotic songs Liet just thought he was being rebellious again. But now he realized that was only a nice side-effect; he probably did it to counter the boredom and quiet. Liet had only himself to talk to; neither Estonia nor Latvia dared risk the consequences, and Russia wasn't saying anything in the brief moments Lithuania saw him for meals. On the fifth day Lithuania actually tried to talk to him beyond the expected 'Hello Russia Zimavich', but when the arctic nation didn't respond, Liet realized that he was succumbing to the stress of isolation, trying to communicate with anyone, including his captor. And Russia's refusal to acknowledge him only served to solidify his solitude further.

Sixth day, the first of June. Seven days in, Russia allow him to stay in the bathroom long enough to wash, still lingering in the doorway. Liet could feel his eyes on him as he bathed and felt sick. Eight days. Nine. He started having nightmares—he screamed until his throat was raw and bleeding, no one answered; Belarus agreed to marry him but turned him over to Russia at the last second; Poland and his brothers were slowly killed in front of him. Sleep ceased to be a refuge on which he could rely, but the ennui of the day was mind-numbing.

And no one said a word to him.

Ten, eleven, on the twelfth day Russia didn't appear at all, not even when Lithuania pounded on the door and shouted himself hoarse. Where were Estonia and Latvia? Couldn't they at least hear him? His stomach complained angrily, but the lack of bathroom access was the bigger challenge. Liet stood at the window and gauged the distance to the ground. There was no real way to climb down—Poland was blessed with a tree not far from his window—and jumping was just not a good plan. Aside from the broken ankle that would be a very likely result, he wouldn't be able to get back into the room, either from the hall or the window.

And Lithuania froze. Get back into his room? He would put himself back into solitary confinement to avoid infuriating Russia? God, what was wrong with him?

He threw the window open and swung his legs over the side to sit on the edge, trying to figure out the best way to get down. And hesitated. Thought of Poland scrambling down from his window, coded letters in hand to send to his exiled government, and scooted a little farther forward, feet dangling in empty space. He bit his lip.

"Damn it," he muttered, climbing back into the room. After a furtive glance at the neighboring houses, he did his business out the window, feeling like a cretin, and then buried himself under his sheets and listened to his stomach grumble.

Past sunset he heard footsteps down the hall; he sat bolt upright, listening, hoping.

Russia went passed his room without so much as a pause.

A disbelieving sound tore its way out of his throat. Lithuania wrenched the blankets off and slid out of bed, storming up to the door and pounding his fist into it.

"Russia Zimavich!" and he knew he sounded angry and that was such a bad idea but he couldn't keep it out of his voice. "Russia Zimavich, please open the door! I need to use the bathroom! Open the door! Russia Zimavich, please, open the door! I know you haven't forgotten about me; you couldn't have! Estonia, Lativa! Please, someone let me out! Let me out!" And by the end the anger had morphed into tears.

And there was no answer.

"Fuck!" He kicked the door hard, which accomplished nothing more than hurting his foot. He sat heavily on the floor, teeth clenched against the sound and his throat ached; he was furious and upset and what the hell?

Pointless.

He forced his breathing to even out, pressing the heel of his palms to his eyes, holding his head. He had to get out of this solitary confinement; he was starting to act stupid. He knew that was the entire point of solitary confinement, it was designed to break people, but knowing that didn't mean necessarily help him. And he knew; the small fit he just had—not a good sign. And he desperately didn't want Russia to win this one. He didn't know what would happen if he lost. The idea terrified him.

Green eyes full of pain and betrayal froze forever locked with his own and Liet wasn't screaming, just a high keening sound that he knew he had heard before, somewhere, and Russia gently closed Estonia's eyes before turning to him, blood-stained hands reaching, grabbing him by the shoulders and he fought, he tried to get away, lashed out in desperation—

And clipped Russia smartly across the mouth. Fury flashed across his face; the huge nation released a shoulder and slapped Lithuania hard enough for the Baltic to realize that he wasn't dreaming, that Russia was in his room and standing over him, holding him to the bed and he panicked, terror still fresh in his mind.

"No, god, please, stop it Russia, stop it, please—" All in his own language, he was crying and Russia wasn't letting go, struggling to keeping the thrashing nation pinned, hands on his wrists, mouth set in a grim line.

"Please, please, stop it, let me go, please let me go, I want to go home. I want to go home…" Sobbing, Liet subsided gradually, the strength to fight deserting him. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and trickled down his temples into his hair.

Russia held his pleading gaze impassively, apparently content to hold him there and wait; Lithuania didn't move, a part of him realizing Russia had him pinned to his bed and the sick feeling that turned his stomach was enough to keep him focused, to let him push away the pure terror of his visions and concentrate on the far more immediate fear of, dear god, he's pinned me to my bed.

But Russia didn't do anything, just waited a few heartbeats more to see if Lithuania was going to start panicking again. When no further response was to be had, he let go and straightened up, going to the door—

Liet bolted upright. "Russia Zimavich!"

—and leaving, the key turning in the lock behind him.

The Baltic stared for a moment, then slumped where he sat. He had done it again, before he even realized, before he could stop himself—tried to communicate with his captor. The silence was deafening, he hadn't known how much he'd miss Poland's chatter until it was gone, until everything was gone, and…

The solitude, the silence; it made him feel like he didn't exist.

Thirteenth day. There was an anxiety slowly growing within him, a steadily increasing pressure that made him want to run and hide. The keen sense of I am not safe that had lurked in the back of his mind since moving back in with Russia was sharp and there, all of a sudden again, as if it hadn't already been nearly a year—a year, the thought was staggering—and he had no idea why.

Fourteenth day—two weeks.

The anxiety was still there, strong and suffocating. Waiting for the door to be unlocked; Russia, emotionless and distant; five minutes in the bathroom; locked back in the room. No contact, no real communication; Russia had long since ceased giving verbal cues, once Liet understood the pattern. Estonia and Latvia were nowhere to be seen; Liet suspected they wouldn't have said anything anyways. He had read everything on the bookshelf thrice, and wondered if the propaganda wouldn't be slowly absorbed through continued exposure.

He had stopped responding properly when Russia came with lunch, saying hello only, barely looking at him. Trying to get Russia to answer was a hopeless endeavor for which he didn't have the energy.

Repeat the morning pattern in the evening. Another week had passed; he was permitted a bath. A week was a disgusting amount of time to go without bathing; he didn't care that Russia waited in the doorway, watching, he scrubbed himself raw and soaked in the hot water as long as he could before the huge nation became bored and demanded that he finish. Later Liet tried desperately to fall asleep, knowing that the dreams would be awful and not caring, just wanting any escape from the monotony of day.

Fifteenth day. Same morning trip, lunch, then dinner. To the bathroom and back, and when he stepped back into his room he heard Russia step in behind him, the click of the door shutting, and he turned quickly, fear flooding through him; the twinge of hope was confusing.

"You will behave, Litva, da?" Russia asked simply, his voice newly familiar after so much time, thunderously loud compared to the earlier quiet.

Lithuania searched his face for a clue and didn't find one. It was a loaded question, and it wasn't rhetorical. And it was the longest sentence he had heard in two weeks.

"D- Da," he said quietly, shoulder hunched, hoping, maybe his confinement would be finished?

"Xorasho."

Liet saw Russia tense but couldn't move fast enough; the huge nation caught him by the shoulders and spun, slamming the Baltic into the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Liet tried to take a breath, but Russia forced his face upwards and kissed him greedily, vodka on his tongue. A hand slid up the back of his shirt, ice across smooth skin and Liet gasped, arching away from the cold touch, into the arctic nation. A low, deep sound escaped Russia and he leaned forward, pressing the smaller nation against the wall. He wedged a knee between Liet's legs and the boy squeaked in surprise, the noise getting lost in Russia's mouth; his hands scrambled for purchase across the man's broad chest and didn't find any. Liet jerked his head away, breaking off the one-sided kiss, and barely had time to gasp, "Russia, stop—" before said nation leaned down further and bit him, hard, on the soft sweep of his shoulder near his neck. A jolt of warmth shot all the way down to Liet's toes as he gasped and the sensation, his reaction, scared him so badly that he managed to throw Russia's balance when he shoved him.

Russia steadied quickly but didn't immediately come back, remaining an easy three feet away. Head cocked slightly to the side, he studied the trembling Baltic curiously, his short too-quick breaths, the bright green eyes widened in terror, a deer-in-the-highlights look, posed ready to run and unable to move. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards.

"You said you would behave, Litva," he remarked, and Lithuania heard something suspiciously like amusement in his voice.

What? "No, I; not for— I thought, I thought you meant—" He stopped, swallowed, and tried again. "I thought you meant, t- to end my solitary confinement…"

Russia held his gaze. "And I am not?" he asked simply.

The hair on the back of his neck rose; Lithuania understood. No. No, that was not the condition for his release! He let out a shaky laugh just this side of hysterical. "R- Russia, I…" The words died, choked by a lump in his throat.

Russia closed the distance again, movements slow as if he could avoid startling a frightened animal; he cupped Liet's face in his hand and ran a thumb across his cheek, over his lower lip. Liet shook visibly, staring resolutely at the embroidery along the collar of Russia's shirt; tears pricked at his eyes, his gaze sliding to the side when Russia tilted his face upwards.

A pause. "You're beautiful, Litva…"

He choked on a sob. If he resisted, what would happen? Would Russia just become violent and he'd wind up losing anyway? Was it even possible for Russia to back down at this point? Was it even possible for Liet to resist?

Commodity erosion, Lithuania thought numbly, the economic phrase drifting into his head as Russia carefully unfastened the buttons of his shirt. When there simply weren't enough resources to go around. People began to use favors as currency—he shuddered as the shirt was slipped off his shoulders; it crumpled to the floor soundlessly—services became the common means of acquiring things, be it food or objects or other favors. That's what was happening here, he decided blankly, as a single fingertip ran down his torso from his sternum to the hem of his pants, and across to settle possessively on the curve of his waist. Russia had all the resources, all the options; Liet and his brothers were forced to bargain with whatever they could, cooking, cleaning, or—

Russia kissed him again; Liet shut his eyes, his fingers curling in the sleeves of Russia's officer's coat, shaking. Commodity erosion. He could endure this. He would endure this. He had to. He needed to. The kiss stopped; Russia shifted his attention to the pale skin of Liet's neck, trailing his lips to the ridge of the collarbone. His arm circled around the boy's waist and held him flush against his chest. A gentle nip and Liet's breathing hitched as his eyes fluttered open, grip twitching tighter, hyper sensitive to the slightest touch: chilled fingers tracing along his lower back; hot breath washing over his neck and hair; soft feather kisses along the edge of his jaw. A whimper twisted up in his throat; he felt Russia smile, face buried in brunette hair.

"Litva," he murmured, lips just brushing his ear.

Liet flinched, ducking slightly; he rested his forehead on Russia's shoulder, eyes unseeing, hating himself. He should fight. He should haul off and deck Russia, send the message that he wasn't just going to roll over and play dead. And yet he didn't, letting Russia run his hands over his body—was this really the only way to buy his freedom?

Abruptly Russia crouched, looping his arms around Liet's upper legs and lifting him easily; the sudden vertigo caught Lithuania off-guard and he threw his arms around Russia's neck to catch himself. Russia stepped forward, pressing Liet against the wall, a leg to either side of the huge nation and Liet squirmed, flushing a deep scarlet.

"Russia—" Palms flat against the man's broad shoulders, trying to push him back in vain. "S- stop it—"

Russia tried to shrug off his hands and decided it didn't matter, leaning forward to flick his tongue against the dip between collarbones; Liet sucked in a sharp breath, held it deep in his lungs. The arctic nation placed a tender kiss just below the first, then above, up his neck, and Lithuania leaned his head back so Russia couldn't get to his lips. But that wasn't his goal; Russia found his pulse, racing wildly, and nudged his nose into it playfully, then bit down, hard. "Ah!" Liet gasped in shock and pain and something else, shoved ineffectually at Russia as the bite morphed into a deep kiss. A slight shift, and a hand crept along the back of Liet's pants and hooked there, tugging—

"No!" Lithuania shouted, panicked, throwing his weight towards the wall, leverage; Russia staggered, taking the Baltic backwards with him. The wall's support dropped away; Liet lurched forward to counterbalance and caught a glimpse of the startled expression on Russia's face before they both smashed into the ground, Liet's full weight slamming into the huge nation at the diaphragm. An odd croaking grunt lurched out of him; Liet rolled off, scrambling to stand, a pleased and spiteful serves you fucking right shooting through the haze of terror. A hand closed around his ankle; Lithuania crashed to the floor, catching himself hard on his wrists and wincing. A sharp yank dragged him backwards; Russia swung a leg over him, his weight settling across Liet's lower back. He caught a wrist and twisted, bending the arm back and up far enough that Lithuania stilled for fear of hurting himself, cheek and chest against the cool wooden floor, heart pounding.

"Litva…" Russia growled, his voice strained, breathing a little sharp. He twitched Liet's arm up a fraction higher. "You said you would behave." Higher yet and Liet grimaced, gritting his teeth. "I am thinking that you lied." A millimeter more—

"Ah, please—" Lithuania shifted, trying to lessen the pressure and failing. "Please, I didn't lie; I'll behave!" Just as the pressure began to lessen, "B- But not, not for that," he managed, cringing at his own words.

Nothing. Then Russia leaned forward, bearing down on the trapped arm. "Conditions? You dare to set conditions?"

"Yes," Liet gasped through the pain. "For this, yes."

Russia jerked his head back roughly by a fist-full of hair, then slammed his face into the floor. Light exploded behind Liet's eyes, white and hot; he moaned, trying to blink away the stars as Russia pulled his head back again.

"Conditions are set by the victors, Litva," he hissed, inches away from Liet's ear. The brunette felt something wet and warm trickle down over his lips. "Between us, there is no contest."

He couldn't see straight. "Ru- Russia…" The name slid out like a tortured plea.

The grip in his hair spasmed tighter. "And you know this, don't you?" his tone lightened at the end, daring him to disagree.

"Da…"

Russia released him and his head knocked back into the floor before he could catch himself; the weight left as Russia stood. Liet groaned as he pushed himself up on his hands and knees, head still spinning, his eyes fixating on a drop of blood that splattered to the floor beneath him. Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth and nose, it came away streaked with red.

A kick caught him clean in the ribs; he crashed to the side with a yelp of pain and before he could curl up protectively the heel of Russia's boot landed hard on his shoulder, forcing him flat on his back. He stared up mutely, the huge nation looming above him expressionlessly—he wasn't going to win this. He just wasn't. Russia had already passed the point of potential reasoning, and well into violence. Lithuania had only two options left, and neither were terribly appealing: stop struggling—and the likely result of that was obvious—or fight, and get the stuffing beaten out of him.

Poland would fight. Hell, Poland would have never let Russia get as far as he did. Poland would also probably have been beaten unconscious five minutes ago and left to bleed.

He flinched when Russia knelt down next to him, the fabric of his coat swishing along Liet's bare chest and making him shiver. He raised a hand—Liet flinched again—and rested it, ever so softly, over the boy's heart. Goose bumps erupted across Liet's pale skin from the cold and his pulse raced, drumming out a rhythm of fear against his ribcage—he knew Russia could feel it.

"Are you certain, Litva?" the arctic nation pressed gently, sounding genuinely concerned. "That there is no contest between us? No doubt? Because if you are uncertain, I am sure I could convince you otherwise."

Liet worked his mouth soundlessly for a moment before he found the words. "D- da, Russia Zimavich," he whispered. Maybe, maybe this situation could be salvaged yet.

"You are certain you are not confused? I did hit you rather hard…" The corner of his lips quirked upwards sheepishly.

You smashed my face into the floor; 'hard' is an understatement. "Da; I- I understand…" And Russia was technically correct this time; in his current state, Lithuania would lose every time.

Russia smiled, soft and sweet. "Xorasho." He leaned over; Liet shut his eyes and felt him leave a kiss on his forehead. He opened them in time for Russia to kiss him properly; when he drew back, he licked blood off his lips. Liet couldn't suppress the shiver.

The huge nation looped an arm under the back of Liet's neck and his knees, picking him off the ground; Liet held on only because he didn't want to fall again, and he half-expected Russia to drop him out of spite.

Russia managed to get the door open one-handed, carrying the Baltic down the blessedly empty hall and Liet's fingers dug into Russia's shoulders as the taller nation brought them into his own bedroom, depositing Lithuania on the soft bed. Liet immediately scooted to the opposite side; Russia didn't seem to notice, saying that he had just a little more work to do for the night, he'd be in his office for a few minutes yet. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

It didn't lock.

Lithuania stared. This was a trap. It had to be. No, not a trap; a tease. Showing him an open door and knowing he wouldn't take it. For a moment he considered locking Russia out, but it was quickly disregarded as suicidal. He pulled a kerchief out of his pocket and pinched his nose to staunch the sluggish flow. The only other time he'd been in Russia's room it had been dark or in the morning when his main concern was getting the hell out, and he glanced around out of curiosity and distraction.

More bookshelves than his office, Liet noted instantly; he couldn't see any of the titles from where he was sitting. There was a small ornate table and plush chair near the window, presumably for taking tea; matching mahogany wardrobe and chest of drawers, on top of which were a handful of objects: a comb, a bottle of cologne that appear to have never been opened, a black-and-white photograph of Ukraine and Belarus that was slowly collecting dust, a model of St. Basil's Cathedral painted in its bright colors, and a small radio that probably cost a fortune. There was a door to the closet (containing, among other things, the riding crop, and Liet shuddered at the memory), a balalaika leaning against the wall, a painting hung by the window of a field in summer. The desk was slightly smaller than the one in the office, and appeared to be a catch-all for whatever Russia had in hand and couldn't be bothered to put away: a sheaf of papers; an open book, resting pages down; officer's cap; an empty shot glass and a few empty bottles; a smattering of pens; a Red Star pin, complete with the yellow sickle-and-hammer in the center. There was the strong temptation to look through the desk drawers or under the bed, but Liet wasn't sure what he would find, or if he wanted to find it…

He inspected the bookshelf and was somewhat surprised to find an even mix of communist treaties and classics. Hesitating, he pulled out a copy of Dostoevsky's Poor Folk and retreated back to the bed, stopped short in horror, and then sat in the desk chair instead, tucking the bloody kerchief back into his pants' pocket. He tried to read and realized rather quickly that he had managed to choose what was possibly the most depressing book in the room before reminding himself that nearly all Russian literature was depressing. But he tried to focus on it anyways, because he didn't want to be caught reading through any of the communist works and he needed something to keep him distracted. He had to have a distraction, not when he was stuck in Russia's room, shirtless.

He was about thirty-odd pages in when the door opened again.

"Finished," Russia announced, nudging the door shut with his foot. He slipped out of his coat and hung it off the back of the door, sliding off his slippers near the entrance. Lithuania remained where he was, posed on the edge of the seat, took in the damp ruffled hair and guessed that Russia had managed a shower as well.

"Ksh ksh," Russia clicked, a cat sound, and shooed him away from the desk. Liet backed up to the bed, cautious. The huge nation began to unwind his scarf and glanced over, giving him a lopsided smile. "Get ready for bed," he said off-handedly, folding the scarf and laying it on the desk.

Liet's eyes widened; he opened his mouth but Russia continued before he could protest. "You'll spend the night here."

No. No, damn it, he was not sleeping in Russia's room! "M- My night clothes are, ah, in my room," he tried feebly, looking away as the arctic country began unfastening the buttons of his shirt.

A knock at the door stopped the forthcoming answer and Liet froze. "Come in," Russia called.

Estonia creaked the door open, saw the taller blond with his shirt half-off and immediately dropped his gaze to the floor. "I, um, brought your tea, Russia Zimav—" Estonia broke off with a startled gasp as he spotted Lithuania standing shirtless by the bed.

Lithuania flushed crimson, knowing what his brother saw—the dried blood over his lips and chin, the bite mark high up on his neck. And he was half-undressed.

"Spasiba, Estonia. Put it over there by the window please," Russia said politely, and despite the completely neutral expression Lithuania could see wicked violet gleam as Estonia shuffled over meekly, coming to all the wrong conclusions. The pained expression in his brother's eyes was enough to make him cringe in shame.

"Oh and Estonia?" Russia stopped him as he returned to the door. "Would you please get Lithuania's night clothes from his room?" Liet's jaw dropped as Estonia's brow shot to his hairline. "They are on his bed probably, da?"

Russia turned to him for confirmation, and Liet closed his mouth, swallowed, and forced out a weak "Da."

A part of him couldn't believe it, but really, why not? Lies and propaganda, twisting a handful of actual facts to paint an entirely different picture—that was Russia's specialty. This was just, just, so classically Russia.

Said nation busied himself with tea, dropping sugar cubes into his cup, his shirt hanging loosely from his shoulders. Only one cup, which meant that he hadn't warned Estonia, going for as much shock as possible.

The Baltic returned a moment later; at Russia's nod, Lithuania went to the door and accepted the bundle of clothes. Estonia wouldn't look him in the eye, just mumbled "good luck" towards his feet and left. With Russia in earshot, Liet didn't dare to contradict the assumptions. Door shut, he pulled on the shirt quickly, rubbing warmth over chilled skin, and then, with a furtive glance at Russia—just in time to see him splash vodka into his tea—changed swiftly into the new pants. Better now without having to be asked, then to have Russia try to do it for him later.

Russia turned back, tea in hand, an approving smile tilting his lips as he noticed the clothing change. "Here."

Lithuania took the cup with a blink of confusion, then worry. "Oh, um, I don't—"

"Unless you'd rather we trade," Russia finished, offering a mostly-full bottle of vodka.

"Tea is good, thank you." He'd rather vodka-laced tea than straight up vodka, especially in this situation.

Russia nodded, gestured for Liet to sit on the bed as he tucked himself into the chair. Liet did so, wondering why Russia was suddenly being careful with personal distances.

They drank in silence for a few minutes. Russia stared at the bottle between his hands contemplatively, as if it held the answers to life's questions, while Liet tried to finish his tea with a straight face, wondering how, if, he'd get through the night in one piece. His options weren't very promising.

Amazingly, Russia capped his bottled when Liet returned his empty cup to the tray, stifling a yawn. "Sleep," he pronounced, leaving his shirt behind on the chair as he stood, fiddled with the belt of his pants and tossed it there as well. Lithuania stared at the clock—nearly midnight—unwilling, not wanting to… but he peeked over at Russia in spite of himself.

And quickly looked away again, eyes widened in surprise. Russia was scarred. He hadn't imagined those pale white lines stretched across his throat the other night; there were tiny nicks and gashes covering his chest and back, a few places over his arms. Some of them, Liet knew, were probably from him, when they were younger…

Reflecting on this somber realization, he didn't notice Russia donning pants and a shirt, nor crossing the room to flick off the lights.

Liet froze, heart racing ahead of his thoughts, eyes scanning the darkness for—

A kiss on his hair and he flinched back, hand flying out to catch himself. A rumble of amusement from a point in front of him and slightly up, then the bed depressed, springs protesting the double weight.

"Lay down, Litva," Russia commanded from somewhere close.

Lithuania's exhale was strained, a heavy knot forcing the air out strangely. "I- Inside, or—?"

"Wherever." He felt Russia shift, arranging blankets over them, never quite touching him.

Trembling, Lithuania laid out on his back near the wall, heart in his throat. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out Russia's form, posture stooped, shoulders drooping, every line in his body screaming an exhaustion that had been invisible a moment before, now revealed in the secret of night. Russia pulled his shoulder blades back, stretching slightly; there was a crack, and a short laugh escaped him like a sigh.

"Ah, I feel old…" he muttered, before lowering himself to the bed, turning on his side. The faint moonlight from the window washed over his face, illuminating the wince that flash across his features, before catching on the glittering amethyst eyes that sought Liet's in the shadows.

He beckoned, "Come." Liet scooted closer an inch; Russia reached out and pulled him close, one arm snaking under the Baltic's neck, the other draping over his side. He bowed his head, looking down at his nation, and petted his hair softly.

Lithuania kept his breathing as even as possible, inhaling the scent of winter as he lay tucked up against the taller nation, tense and wary. But the minutes crawled by and Russia simply continued to pet his hair, nothing else, and slowly lulled Liet into a quiet, sleepy daze, the vodka-tea coaxing out compliance.

"Spokoynya nochi," Russia whispered, a gentle kiss.

"Spuko'n' 'ochi," Lithuania mumbled incoherently, drifting off to sleep.

This is a trap…

Solitary confinement fucks with people, guys. It does awful, awful things to one's head, leading some to believe that it is a horrifyingly effective form of mental torture. Changes in personality and behavior can happen within a day of solitary confinement, and it only gets worse as time goes on. You begin to crave any attention, anything that reinforce the fact that yes, you really do exist. Thus, Liet's reaction. (And there's other shit going on that isn't helping him cope, but more on that in the next chapter.)

Vocab:

Spokoynya nochi- good night

Read and review, comrades!