Sorry this chapter took so long to get out. It's double my standard chapter length though, so perhaps the lateness is excusable?
WARNING: This was the painful chapter to write. Nothing graphic, but this is your warning. And yeah, the rating went up again. Violence, language, and compromising sexual situations.
Russia was above him, straddling his hips with just enough weight to keep him there but not enough to hurt. Liet tried to throw himself to the side, wrenching his shoulders painfully as his hands caught above his head, secured to the headboard with rope—where had his shirt gone? Terror cascaded over him, nausea twisting his stomach, freezing his thoughts and no! God damn it, no! and the crooked little smile floating above him coupled horribly with hungry violet eyes, a wolf. Russia trailed icy fingers across bare skin, sent shivers and a thrill of something all the way to Liet's toes, obliterating higher cognitive function down to the basic: this is not safe, I am so screwed.
"Oh god, Russia, please…" he whispered, his voice the faintest breath in the dark.
Russia ignored him, exploring the contours of Liet's chest, the smooth curve of bone beneath, the drum-taut skin of his stomach, taking in everything with a smoldering appreciation that burned darker with every hitch of Liet's breath. Soft light filtered down through the window, spilling across white sheets and pale skin, threw into glowing relief every mark on their bodies. Russia drew a circle around a smudge of a scar just below the Baltic's left ribs, then tapped it lightly.
"Do you remember, Litva?" he asked softly, resting his finger there.
"Da…" The Third Partition in 1795 that had destroyed the Commonwealth, when Russia had carried him off to live together. He had tried to run; Russia had shot him at close range after catching him, to prove some unknown point. He had been in agony for days…
The huge nation left a kiss over the blemish, then glanced up, catching and holding Lithuania's frightened gaze. Watching him for a reaction, he stroked up Liet's side, paused, then raked his nails down to his waist.
Lithuania gasped, back arching, a flash of warmth searing through him. His heart beat thundered in his ears.
Russia swallowed thickly, grip curling in the hem of his pants. He brushed the back of his knuckles across Liet's cheek, swept a thumb over his lips before he shifted forward to kiss him. Liet turned away but Russia caught his chin and forced him to look back.
No, no no no! Vodka and fall's first frost; Russia bit his lower lip and Lithuania whimpered, the sound urging Russia to kiss him deeper, harder, and Liet dug in his heels, tried to push himself up out of the way and couldn't, Russia had him trapped. The hand came up from his pants and tangled in his hair, holding his head still so Russia could run chilled caresses over his torso, accidentally brushing against the newly formed scratches. Liet winced and it didn't go unnoticed; Russia pulled back from the kiss and gently traced the raw lines, teasing out a grimace of pain when he pressed in.
"Russia…" Amethyst eyes found his emerald green; the dark look, old and wanting, scared the hell out of him. "P- Please, Russia, don't—"
"Stop?" he queried, head tilted; he dug his fingers into the soft space above Liet's hip.
Lithuania dragged in a sharp hissing breath through clenched teeth. "Yes, please—" He saw triumph light up Russia's face and he realized what the arctic nation did, finished his sentence; horror flooded him, "No! No, please stop, don't do this, I—!"
But Russia had caught his face again, kissed him aggressively, and Liet jerked away, begging, "No, Russia, stop! Please—!" And he could hear himself, how pathetic, but he was pinned to the bed, wrists tied, there wasn't anything he could do, and he was, he was— Russia drew him into another kiss, warm and urgent, and Liet could practically feel the need behind it, flooding his senses, suffocating him. Some detached part of his mind tried to rationalize that this was probably the only time Russia ever felt warm, sharing his frozen with someone, stealing their heat. It was absurd, but every point of contact left a fragment of cold behind.
Russia pulled back, took a breath. Liet sniffed, tears running into his hair. "Please, Russia…"
The arctic nation shifted to the side, pulled Liet's pants down to his ankles, then off.
"Please, Russia, stop!" Lithuania sobbed, beyond caring what he sounded like; he couldn't remember ever being more terrified. The cool night air pricked over his skin. "God, Russia, please, I'll do anything, please!" He yanked at his bound wrists hopelessly, a cry of frustration and fear tearing out of his throat.
But he didn't listen. Russia never listened. He swung a leg back over, came forward with his hands flat on either side of the Baltic's head; he dropped onto his left elbow, their faces close, lips just brushing together.
"No you would not," he muttered the words into Liet's mouth, warm vodka-scented breath slipping down his throat. Lithuania almost gagged. "Not 'anything'." He saw the protest in Liet's emerald eyes and repeated his statement before elaborating, "You would not hurt for me." He placed the softest of kisses on Liet's cheek. "You would not lie for me. To me, da… But not for." A kiss on the forehead, which lingered as Russia contemplated his next words. "You would not choose someone to take your place."
"Wha—"
"You see? Did not even occur to you. You carry your pain alone. I have seen you, Litva." He moved, their gaze was level again. "So sweet. You would not let others hurt, if you could help it. So what would you do, saying 'anything', if I asked for Latvia in your stead?" He moved, too close; Liet shut his eyes and felt Russia leave a kiss on closed eyelids. "Estonia?" On the left. A pause; Liet looked, unwilling to be caught off-guard. Russia's face hovered just above his and he waited until he had Liet's undivided attention.
"Polshka?" he queried, and there was something in his voice, a challenge, a threat, and god damn it, Russia was right, Liet would never sacrifice one of them, even if that meant—
Mouth dry, Liet licked his lips nervously, the movement flicking his tongue against Russia's lips for the briefest of instants. His heart skipped a beat.
"Heh…" A chuckle, husky and low, before Russia kissed him again, hungrily searching, nudging each knee in turn between Liet's legs. The muffled sound of fear morphed into a quiet squeak when Russia laid icy fingertips on bare skin of Liet's inner thigh, mid-way up, and when the second the kiss stopped Lithuania was begging again, the volume of his voice steadily rising as the touch trailed farther up, closer, poised on the edge—
Russia paused, a long terrible second; Liet stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, chest heaving with short shallow gasps, unable to think, unable to move for fear of—
The slightest shift, angled.
"Russia…" Lithuania breathed, quivering, his entire body coiled tight.
The corners of Russia's mouth quirked upwards, a wolfish smile, and he pushed—
Lithuania shrieked, lurching forward and the strong arms wrapped around him barely stopped him from toppling off the bed onto the floor. He lunged, straining, eyes wild, hands clawing at the hold, but his captor didn't loosen his grip, soothing, imploring, "Shh, Litva, hush. I have you, don't worry, you're safe." But it was such a lie and Liet couldn't get away, thrashing uselessly in the other man's grasp, pinned to his body.
"No! No! Stop it, please, I'm begging you, I'm sorry, I'll be good, I swear, please don't- please don't-" Tears streamed down his face as he babbled in Lithuanian, begging, pleading, forcing everything into the background, he didn't hear anything else, just the pounding of his heart and his own voice, drowning out everything else.
Slowly the panic bled away, leaving Liet trembling and muttering denial in Russia's arms, slick with sweat and the scent of unholy terror with images vivid and sharp and that awful gut-wrenching sick—
"Shh, shh, Litva, you're okay. You're safe here, don't worry." Russia was murmuring into his ear, stroking his hair gently, and it was just so fucked up that he was trying to comfort him, not when he dreamt that, that—
He cried and Russia held him, and against all logic Liet was comforted. And when Russia said he was safe, a quiet, battered part of him believed it. As exhaustion dragged him back to sleep, lying within Russia's oddly protective embrace, his thoughts couldn't seem to settle, because this wasn't safe and felt safe and was bad and seemed okay and cruel Russia had wiped away his tears and meant it...
An even, steady beat. Low. Familiar. A smooth, breathy rush. Repeat. And again.
Bird song too. Liet frowned faintly in confusion, blinking his eyes open.
He was cuddled up next to Russia, head resting on the hollow of his neck and shoulder, fingers twisted lightly in the collar of the man's loose shirt, one leg hiked partially across Russia's hips. The Baltic froze in fear, and embarrassment.
Cautiously, he brought his leg back, off Russia, grip uncurling as he tucked his arm tightly to his chest. Then he paused, uncertain; Russia's right arm was draped across his stomach, but his left hand rested on Liet's side, under the shirt, creating a small pool of cold there. The likelihood that Liet could untangle himself further without waking him up wasn't very high. And given the situation, he preferred the huge nation asleep for as long as possible.
Stifling a sigh, Lithuania dropped his head again, listened to Russia's heartbeat. This was… weird. He shouldn't be any level of comfortable, nestled together with Russia, and yet... There was something almost… nice, about it. If it were just- just this, then maybe he could deal with it.
But it would never be just this. He knew better. Russia had shown him that much. (The dream, oh god—Liet snapped his thoughts away before they could pursue that line, gut already curdling.) And the fact that he had even entertained the idea told him just how far he had fallen. God, no wonder Russia fucked with his head so easily. He did half the work for him.
But whether he choose to willingly suffer Russia's attentions or have them force on him, the outcome would still be the same. One simply had less bruises. But, could he stomach that choice? Ignoring what it would look like to other nations, what would that do to him? It was one thing to fight, another to roll over, but to willingly go with it…?
He wasn't sure he could live with himself.
A knock at the door; Liet jumped, eyes swiveling up to look at Russia, saw a light frown crease his face. "Chto eto?" he grumbled, eyes still shut.
"R- Russia Zimavich?" Estonia's timid voice called. Glad to know they knew better than to send Latvia.
Violet eyes cracked open in the bright morning light, glaring at the door. "Chto?" the huge nation demanded, a hint of annoyance coloring the question. Lithuania heard the word reverberate in his ribs.
"Ah, um, br- breakfast will be ready shortly—"
"Start without me," Russia ordered, rolling on to his side towards Lithuania, caging the smaller nation in his arms. Liet's body went rigid.
"Should I set some aside for y—"
"Go away, Estonia," he growled, head raised to see over Liet's shoulder. Footsteps retreated hastily; Russia dropped back onto the pillow and sighed, the tension evaporating and he nuzzled his face into brunette hair.
"Dobrye utra, Litva," he greeted quietly.
"D- Dobrye utra, Russia Zimavich," Lithuania replied obediently, staring out across the room, hyper aware of the man behind him. "Did you sleep well?" he asked, polite.
"Da, save for when a country woke me up with their screaming," he remarked lightly.
Liet swallowed. "I- I'm sorry, I didn't-"
Russia snorted; Liet could feel his lips curve in a smile. "I am teasing."
A few moments of silence. The Baltic bit his lip, toyed with a risk; it was worth a shot. He cautiously tried, "I should, um, pr- probably go help them with breakfa—"
"Nyet." It sounded like a whine. "You will stay here." His hold inched tighter.
"O- Of course." Couldn't blame him for trying. Except Russia could and he was lucky he hadn't. Quiet again, the birds chirping outside. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table and blinked. Was it really almost nine thirty?
"What do you have for work today, Russia Zimavich?" he asked, hoping that the prompt would get Russia up and free him.
"Nyecho, 's Sunday," Russia murmured sleepily.
Was it really? Damn it. He had totally lost track of time, locked in his room. "What day is it?"
"Sunday, June 8th," came the mumbled reply. A soft sound, then, "We'll go to the dacha soon. End of next week. Not this one, the next. Two Sundays from now…" He tugged Liet a little closer. "I would have liked to go at the end of April, but that wasn't… possible."
Lithuania blinked, shifted a little in his arms. Was that… "Russia?"
"Just thinking," he answered softly, and Liet hadn't imagined it, the trace of sadness and longing in his voice. "I will like to get out to the country. So late though; not much gardening this year. But there's still the orchard… What do you think, Litva?"
"Um, th- that sounds fine."
The arctic nation hummed; Liet felt it buzz through them. Then Russia pulled back a little, propped himself up on an elbow and used his free hand to gently roll the Baltic onto his back. Liet stared up at him, his heart quickening, as Russia brushed dark strands away from his face.
"Da, will be good," he repeated, half to himself. "A time to relax. Bicycle rides, fishing; we can go to the forest to pick berries and mushrooms. I think everyone will enjoy it…"
Lithuania had the sudden image of Latvia managing to pick the only poisonous mushrooms in a five kilometer radius. He focused on what Russia said. "Everyone's going?"
"Da, everyone." Russia saw the look on his face and added, "Polshka as well. The four of you will have to share a room though; should not be a problem."
Yeah, until Estonia and Latvia got fed up with Poland and there was a fight.
"My sisters will probably join us at some point too," Russia added.
"Really?" he failed to keep the happy surprise entirely out of his voice.
Russia gave him an unreadable look. "Da. I am not sure where everyone will sleep…"
Lithuania suddenly pictured Belarus in Russia's place and fought down a blush. A lopsided smile tilted Russia's mouth and Lithuania wondered how badly the huge nation misread his reaction. Russia arched his shoulder back; something popped and he winced forwards.
"Ah, well; I think it's time to get out of bed," he said, nudging Liet towards the edge. The Baltic hastily threw off the covers and got to his feet; Russia followed at a more leisurely pace. In a minute he was dressed, donning an embroidered shirt and slack pants while Lithuania dutifully studied the floorboards.
"Run to your room and get dressed," Russia instructed, opening the door and stepping out into the hall, Lithuania right behind him. He turned and left a kiss on Liet's forehead before the shorter nation could react. "See you downstairs," he smiled and walked away, and Liet's heart stuttered to a stop in his chest as Russia passed Poland in the hall.
Poland, who was staring at Lithuania open-mouthed, torn between horror and disgust. Lithuania couldn't think of anything he could say to make the picture better and a hundred things that could make it worse, and wound up blurting out, "Poland, this honestly isn't what it looks like." Thank god Russia was out of earshot.
The blonde just shook his head sadly, dazed, dropping his gaze to the floor as he trudged downstairs to breakfast.
Over the next few days, Russia made it very hard for Lithuania to prove otherwise. The arctic nation had apparently decided that Liet was his new favorite, more so than usual. The Baltic's personal space frequently vanished as Russia casually looped an arm around his waist while Liet washed dishes, ruffled his hair when he passed, left faint kisses in his hair, on his neck. And he demanded Liet's company constantly. Lithuania found himself playing secretary while the other nation worked, quietly filing papers and addressing envelopes, or accompanying Russia when he attended meetings. This did nothing for Lithuania's anxiety, which slowly increased like a heavy mantle draped about his shoulders.
Poland responded to Russia's increased attentions to his friend by monopolizing the rest of Liet's free time. Whenever he wasn't with Russia, Poland was right there, clinging to his arm while he tried to clean and generally making a nuisance of himself. Lithuania realized that this was merely Poland expressing worry and jealousy, but honestly, it rapidly became irritating. Liet spent more energy not snapping at Poland than he'd cared to admit, which placed Poland close to the same level as Russia as far as wasted energy went.
But Russia remained the real problem.
On Thursday when Liet needed to go grocery shopping, Russia went with him, 'to keep you out of trouble' he joked, but Liet saw the look in his eyes and knew he was only half-joking. He suspected that Russia wanted to go in order to keep tabs on him, but counted his small blessing—Russia didn't do public displays of affection. He'd be free of the unsolicited attention for at least a little while.
They walked back in the pleasant June weather, light breeze tugging at the long white scarf as Lithuania trailed a few steps behind Russia out of habit. Wispy white clouds that would in the winter herald a blizzard instead promised clear skies, and were it not for the location and company, Liet thought that maybe he could have actually relaxed and enjoyed himself.
In the distance a puff of smoke marred the horizon; within a few minutes Liet could see a train approaching on the tracks that ran alongside the road, lumbering slowly towards them. As it drew level with them Russia stopped and watched; recognition sparked in his expression.
"Wave, Litva," he commanded, doing so himself as the engine and coal bed clanked past.
Lithuania obeyed automatically, freeing a hand from the bag he carried, wondering why they were waving. Russia was in the habit of stopping to salute trains full of his soldiers, knowing that to be a soldier in his army was to greatly increase one's chance of death; he was fully aware of war's cost, of how many soldiers he was likely to lose, and they knew it, and were willing to fight for him. And Russia loved them for it, loved them and was gratefully, and everything he could not say to them in words was expressed in that single action, a textbook perfect salute, heart bursting with pride.
(The other day they had run into a group of children, ten years old at best, playing ball; one boy, upon seeing Russia's uniform, boastfully explained that his older brother was in the army, and that when he grew up he was going to be a soldier too. Russia had laughed happily—there was a note of sadness in it—and ruffled his hair; 'you make your country very proud' he said, and the boy beamed, and when they walked away Russia looked oddly empty.)
When Russia saluted, Lithuania would salute as well because Russia expected him to, but Liet was familiar with the pride-gratitude-grief cocktail that hit him hard every time he saw his own soldiers, so the salute didn't hurt as much as it should have.
But as Lithuania watched the train cars roll past, he saw that they were not soldiers at all, even though it was a military engine; they were civilians, men, women, even children, all tired and exhausted and inexplicably sad. The anxiety in his chest flinched a little tighter and his mouth formed the question before he could stop himself.
"Why are we waving?"
Russia made a sound caught between amused and patient. "It would be rude not to wave to your people."
Lithuania froze, wrist locking. "What?" he managed faintly, stomach twisting. "My…"
"Da, yours," Russia repeated pleasantly, still waving.
Liet struggled to swallow, to think, slowly lowering his arm. "Wh- Where are they going?"
"To Siberia."
"To Siberia?" It came out a shriek.
"Da. Just the men though; the women and children go to Kiev, I think…"
The grocery bag slipped from his grip and hit the ground; he heard glass break, and a few apples rolled away toward Russia's feet. "God…" That sick feeling, the anxiety; it had been-
"Tsk, tsk, Litva; look what you—"
"Why?" he forced out.
"Chto—"
"Why?" he demanded, voice desperate.
Russia blinked at him. "Conspiracy, probably; anti-Soviet sentiment, also… inciting public insurrection, if I had to venture a guess," he shrugged.
His jaw worked soundlessly as the train continued to crawl by. "Th- the women and children too?" he spat, an edge to his words.
Russia sighed, turned to fully face him. "What would you have me do, Litva? Separate families? Mothers from their children? Brothers from—"
"I'd have you leave them alone!" Lithuania shouted, tears brimming.
"Litva…" Russia growled, eyes darkening.
From over the huge nation's shoulder, Liet saw the last car pass; a boy at the window was staring at them, and when their eyes met the child flashed him a rude sign before hands shot forward and dragged him out of sight.
Something painful shot through him then, wrenched the breath from his lungs and it hurt, more than anything he had felt in a long time. A tiny part of his brain rationalized that the gesture probably wasn't aimed at him—he wasn't the one wearing the Red Army uniform, but he was wearing the Special Military District uniform and oh god, his people—it felt like the gesture was aimed at him, for giving in so easily to the ultimatum, for letting Russia walk in and do whatever the hell he wanted, for not even putting up a fight, and now this—
The agony flashed over to anger in a heartbeat. "Murderer."
The expected backhand snapped his head to the side; Lithuania took a shuddering breath, trying to blink back the red haze clouding his vision, listening to the train clank away to deliver his people to a slow and exhausting death.
"Pick up the groceries," Russia ordered curtly.
Lithuania didn't move.
"Now."
He crouched and collected the escaped apples, Russia towering over him as he tucked them back into the bag—a jar of jam had broken in the fall, he ignored it. He stood, groceries in hand, staring mutely through Russia, feigned detachment.
"Attention!"
He reacted before he could stop himself, heels snapping together, chin jerking up; he gritted his teeth against the harsh reply that threatened to spill out. That was the game Russia wanted to play? Fine.
"About face."
He did so.
"Forward, march."
And Russia marched him home.
The huge nation left him standing at attention just inside the door after relieving him of the groceries. Lithuania stood stiffly, eyes and throat burning from unshed tears. He wasn't going to lose this. He fucking refused.
But as time passed and Russia did not return, he realized that the huge nation wanted him to break rank; Liet suspected that this was Russia looking for a reason to punish him beyond the 'murderer' comment. So he stood there, neck and shoulders slowly stiffening, legs trying to fall asleep, and waited. He could hear his brothers moving around in the kitchen, probably preparing dinner—his stomach reminded him of how long ago his last meal had been. Poland walked out of the living room, grumbling, and stopped when he spotted the Baltic.
His brows furrowed. "Liet? Like, what are you doing? Why are you just stan—"
"Polshka! Leave Litva be," Russia called from the kitchen. His poor brothers, Liet reflected sadly. "You know a soldier cannot talk when he's at attention."
The blond made a face. "Are you serious?" he said to Liet under his breath. "Why are you listening to him? He's like, totally not even near you right now."
'I won't lose this,' he silently mouthed to his friend. Poland frowned, unsure, but seemed to come to a decision in his head, nodding with determination.
"Good luck then—"
"Polshka!"
Said country flinched, muttering, "It's Polska, Polska, no 'sh'," as he slunk up the stairs.
No one dared bother him after that. Once night fell—ugh, he ached—his brothers barely glanced at him when they went upstairs to bed. Liet was beginning to fear that Russia was going to leave him there all night, in which case he'd definitely lose because he'd eventually fall asleep. But after what felt like maybe an hour after his brothers had passed by (he had no sense of time, especially after the sun set), Russia returned, standing silently in front of Liet, studying him. Lithuania stared through him blankly in the way only a soldier could, expression one of carefully schooled neutrality.
In his periphery, he saw Russia smirk, lightly taking his chin and tilting his face upwards. Liet didn't focus on the man's face, but shut his eyes briefly when Russia kissed him softly.
"Permission to speak, sir," Lithuania ground out when the contact ended.
Russia moved behind him, twining his arms around Liet's waist as he stepped up close. "Permission denied," he answered casually.
Lithuania bit his tongue so hard he tasted copper. If he stood even half a chance of taking Russia in a fight, even half—but he didn't and knew it and hated himself for it.
"You listen so well, Litva," Russia purred near his ear. His hands drifted lower, settling on the waistband of Liet's pants, fingers trailing lower. Lithuania was shaking, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn't from fear.
"Your people could learn from your example—"
Liet threw his elbow back and caught Russia in the chin, and his stumbling surprise granted Lithuania just enough time to land a solid punch to his cheek before the man recovered, catching the third blow at the wrist and twisting. Liet twisted with it, sinking another fist into Russia's stomach and he grunted, grip loosening enough for Liet to wrench his hand free. He sprang backwards, putting a little distance between them to breathe before lunging back in and some part of him knew it was pointless but he just couldn't bring himself to care. Russia saw the incoming kick and neatly side-stepped with a grace that belied his size, swinging his fist at Liet's head. The Baltic ducked away, right into Russia's rising knee.
The air rushed out of his lungs in a pained sound; he crumpled, catching himself on his knees and a hand, but before he could take a breath Russia kicked him squarely in the ribs. Liet felt something crack, agony flaring along his side as he toppled to the ground completely. Groaning, he pushed himself up, right hand straying to his ribs, but a heavy boot landed between his shoulders and forced him to the wooden floor.
"I am surprised, Litva," Russia commented pleasantly from above him. "I did not think you were capable of fighting back."
Liet tried to squirm out from under Russia's foot but the huge nation pressed down harder; he gritted his teeth against the sharp pain.
"You were doing so well; I wonder what has happened to you. Perhaps Polshka is a bad influence, da?"
There was a threat in those words. "He's not," Liet managed, gasping as the weight shifted.
"Nyet? This is your own doing?" A disapproving cluck. "I expected better of you. Such an abrupt loss of temper—"
"There's nothing abrupt about it! You shipped my people to Siberia, they didn't do anyth—ah!" Lithuania broke off as Russia ground his heel into Liet's spine.
"If I say your people are conspiring against me, Litva, then they are conspiring against me," he snarled.
Liet blinked back the red and the tears. "Liar," he whispered through the pain.
A shriek tore its way out of him as Russia stomped down hard, the damaged rib spreading fire through his chest like a spider web as white light obliterated his sight. A hand grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him up, half dragging him as he struggled to get his feet under him. He was wrenched up higher—he blinked the white away, saw the living room—and shoved forward; he stumbled into the couch and collapsed there. He straightened to kneeling, wincing as he did, but before he could stand Russia had reached around, grabbing hold of his jacket and yanking; buttons flew, Russia tore the thing backwards off Liet's arms and panic slammed into the boy with enough force to wind him again, but a hand on his shoulder spun him partially around, shoved him down onto the sofa and pinned him there.
"Russia—!" The arctic nation ignored him, snatching Liet's belt and fumbling with the buckle; Lithuania tried to stop him, frantically pushing his hands away, and Russia tolerated the interference for about ten seconds before he drew back and decked him—Liet blinked, reeling, the protesting dying momentarily as he tried to stop the ringing between his ears.
"No, Russia…" And the belt was undone, Liet forced himself to focus, "Get off me!"
Russia kissed him, biting down on his lip and Liet tasted blood; he slapped Russia across the face, hard enough that the kiss ended. Icy fingers curled around his throat, pressing down to crush his windpipe; he choked, gagging, hands clawing at Russia's grip. The huge nation grinned crookedly, kneeling on the narrow sofa, looming over him, and the look in his violet eyes was so glazed, so dark and pleased and sad and good god, I can't breathe! I can't—
"Get off of him you fucking jerk!" A pink slipper collided with the side of Russia's head, the distraction lessening the pressure a fraction—Lithuania knocked the hand aside, breathed, coughing, and Poland was there, latched onto Russia's arm, trying to haul him off. Russia swung; Poland tried to duck and caught the blow to the head instead of his face. Liet saw the blonde's eyes unfocus; he threw his hips into to the side and the arctic nation toppled off him, off the sofa to the floor, dragging Poland down with him.
Lithuania scrambled off the couch, his first instinct to run, fast and far, but— "Poland!" Russia had the struggling country pinned to the floor, the light in his face bright and wild as he pulled back a fist, "Poor little Polshka, you keep getting in the way—"
"Stop it!" Liet grabbed desperately, hands closing on the soft white scarf and he pulled. Russia's hand flew up to his neck even as he swung an elbow back, clipping Liet's knee; compared to everything else the blow barely registered, rage and fear and adrenaline kept his grip knotted up in the make-shift noose. Russia tried to stand, but a sharp tug on the scarf lost him his balance; there was a sharp crack as he landed heavily on Poland's ankle and the blonde howled.
"OW, my ankle, Christ! Get off, get off, son of a fucking bitch, get your fat ass off of me—"
Lithuania hauled backwards with all his weight, scarf threatening to tear, and it was barely enough to get the huge country off. Russia twisted as he moved, lunging for Lithuania and—"Shit!"—pulling his feet out. His head cracked into the coffee table and the world winked out in a crimson flash.
...
His head throbbed, a deep painful pulse that made him want to take a swill of laudanum for the numbness and sleep it would grant him. But he could hear Russia, cooing low sickly-sweet false words—
"Litva is mine—"
—and Poland, weakened voice spitting back denials—
"Liet's never been 'yours' and he totally never will be—"
—and the sound of Russia telling Poland how very wrong he was.
The shriek wrenched his eyes open, the light blinding; he blinked the tears away and sat up, wincing, saw Russia standing ominously over Poland, the blonde on his knees facing the wall, sobbing in pain as the arctic nation methodically twisted the already dislocated shoulder further back.
"Stop it," Lithuania breathed, head spinning as he tried climb to his feet. The floor slanted and he staggered into the couch, caught himself.
Russia didn't respond, eyes fixed on the ragged nation under his hand. "Say it, Polshka. Litva is mine. Say it."
"Fuck you, fuck you," Poland muttered in his own tongue. "You're a tyrannical psychopath, totally fucked in the head, ah…" He grimaced as Russia slowly increased pressure. "Insane, fucking commie bastard—"
"Insulting me does not help you, doragoi moi," Russia said plainly, loosening his hold a fraction; Poland moaned in relief.
Even through the pounding in his skull Liet frowned at the statement. But… Russia didn't know Polish. Right?
"Say it, Polshka."
"No."
Russia twisted, the boy gasped. "Say it."
"Russia, stop it," Liet tried feebly, stumbling a few steps closer. Was he concussed?
"Go fuck yourself," Poland spat.
"Say it," Russia growled, patience thinning.
"Fuck you, I said—" Russia jerked Poland upwards by his arm, partially lifting him off the floor, and the blonde screamed. "He's yours! Fuck you, he's yours, ah, god, it hurts!" The huge nation released him and he collapsed to the ground, cradling his arm against his body as he cowered, shaking and crying.
Triumph tilted the corner of Russia's lips. "Not so difficult, da? Moi xorashinki malchik."
Lithuania punched him.
Russia stepped back laughing, a short hollow sound—Liet could see a fading slap across his face, like a fake blush coloring his pale cheeks, and a dark purple ring beginning to curve around one eye. Good, Liet wanted to leave a mark, he would have been furious if nothing had shown.
"Leave Poland alone," he demanded, but the strength the words had in his head didn't quite make it out clearly.
The huge nation giggled, entertained, blood trickling down from his now split lip. "Lithuania to the rescue? You must have spent far too much time with America during the twenties."
His hands tightened into fists. "America's a hundred times better than you."
Something flickered across Russia's face but it was gone before Liet had the time to decipher it. "He is no hero. Neither are you. Lithuania to the rescue? Da, because you did such a good job helping Polshka the last time he needed it." Russia saw Liet flush and grinned, wolf-like. "Very good job, standing idly by while Germany and I had our way with him." Liet's stomach lurched; from the vicinity of Russia's feet, Poland swore, but Liet couldn't drag his eyes away from the iced violet gaze. "Really, you say you are friends, but he stole your capital, and you ignored his cries for help. Petty reason to allow a nation to be erased off the map, Litva—"
"That's not why I didn't help—!"
"You're right; it's not." Russia stepped forward suddenly, closed the distance between them. "You didn't help because you knew you'd lose." The fabric of his coat lingered against Lithuania's bare chest when the taller man took a breath, and Liet had almost forgotten how, air tangled up in his throat as he fought the overwhelming urge to step back.
Russia leaned forward. "What changed, Litva?" he whispered, lips just barely brushing against the Baltic's. Vodka, vodka and a blizzard's fury- "Do you think you can win now?"
It wasn't rhetorical. Lithuania tried to swallow and couldn't, his mouth was too dry. "N- no…"
"Then don't fight me," Russia warned, the words warm in his mouth, and the huge nation wrapped his arms around the trembling boy, pulled him against his chest. Liet stiffened, tried to pull back, but a sharp flare in his ribs told him that they weren't completely healed yet. Strong fingers gripped his chin and tilted his face upwards; the kiss was surprisingly tender, but the lingering taste of blood ruined any soothing effect it might have had. When Russia pulled back he wouldn't allow Liet to look away, searching his eyes for something.
"You know how this night is going to end," he said softly. Liet's breath hitched, rib aching. "But the… details, are up to you."
Lithuania glanced away as much as Russia would let him, heart stuttering fear in his chest. This was… this was it then. Somehow he had pictured it differently.
"D- Don't do it, Liet," Poland wheezed. Lithuania shut his eyes. Somehow, hearing the desperation and warning in his friend's voice made the whole ordeal worse. Even Poland thought that he'd...
Russia released his chin, waiting expectantly. Lithuania looked down at the lack of space between them and counted to ten, ten long seconds as he worked up the courage to speak. He didn't want to do this. He didn't. But, what choice did he have? Two choices, same outcome. He already hurt so much...
Lithuania raised his emerald eyes to Russia's amethyst, and quietly answered, "Fuck you, Russia."
The hope and fragile kindness that lit his face was snuffed out in an instant.
"So you choose," he murmured, and any lingering sadness had bled out of his voice, replaced by a frigid detachment.
Lithuania fought. How could he not, even knowing the outcome? But the damage he had already accrued worked against him and Russia was not above using that to his advantage. Resisting was as futile as Liet suspected it would be, and eventually he gave in, the pain too much to bear, but not after hopefully giving Russia something to think about. Poland had tried to stop him, in the beginning, despite his dislocated shoulder and broken ankle, and Russia used Liet's belt to tie him to the arm chair by the window. At least he was out of the way and safer for it, Liet didn't want him any more damaged than he already was. But he wished that they hadn't been in the same room. He wished Poland hadn't heard him cry out, hadn't heard him gasp Russia's name when he asked, anything to get him to stop, and of course nothing got him to stop. Because it was Russia, and that's just how Russia was.
Moonlight cut slices of night out of the floor as Lithuania lay tucked up next to him, the huge nation slumbering peacefully, face angelic and cold and fierce in the blue-silver glow, his hair shining white. The long army coat draped over them was just barely warm enough, but Russia surprisingly made up for the rest. Except for his hands, a cold puddle over Liet's bruised ribcage, the angry red scratch marks that trailed down his back, competing with the scars for prominence. He could only hear Russia's soft breath, the sound of his heart, the quiet ticking of the mantle clock.
Poland broke the stillness. "Liet?" When the Baltic didn't answer, he tried again, slightly louder.
"What?" his voice sounded flat and empty even to his own ears.
"Are… are you okay?"
It was a stupid question, but Liet knew there weren't many other things to say. "I don't think so."
"Russia's an asshole—"
"Poland. I really don't want to talk right now," Liet said quietly.
And the relative silence descended again. He figured he ought to free Poland from the chair so that maybe one of them could sleep in their bed tonight, but he knew he didn't have the strength or the will power to get up. So Lithuania stayed where he was, wrapped in Russia's arms, wishing he could drop off the face of the earth.
And he meant it.
Like I said, this was the painful chapter to write.
A dacha is a summer house, a Russian tradition. Honestly, more Russians have a dacha than a car. And a (traditional) dacha isn't like an American summer house, it's not some fancy resort-type place. It's more rustic, possibly lacking in plumbing and electricity. Yes, the Russian idea of a summer vacation is to go out to their dacha on the weekends, or longer if they can, and garden and such. Basically, get back to nature, to the soul of Russia, to the land that makes you who you are. Eh, I don't know if I'm describing this well...
June 14th, 1941 was the start of the June deportations, where thousands of 'Soviet hostiles' and other 'anti-Soviet elements' (read as: Lithuanian, Estonian, and Latvian intelligentsia, along with some Belorussians and Ukrainians of the same vein) were shipped off to Siberia and the like on trumped up or made up charges of anti-Soviet activities, following the Soviet policy of 'decapitation'. By removing the political and social elite, the Soviet Union made it much harder for the Baltics (and every other nation the Soviets took over) to organize a resistance or even protest. The men were sent to the gulags in Siberia, where many of them died from horrendous living conditions, while the women and children were resettled in Kiev and other places where the government could keep a better eye on them. The deportations fanned massive anti-Soviet sentiments across the Baltics, particularly in Lithuania.
Russian vocab:
nyecho- nothing
Moi xorashinki malchik- my good little boy. The word 'xorashinki' is the diminutive of 'xorasho' meaning good; the diminutive form carries the connotations of being small and cute, which is why nicknames and pet names are often in the diminutive form. However, in the wrong context is can be really insulting and mocking, as you can see.
The next chapter is likely the last.
Read and review, comrades!