Hey, I actually updated this in less than a month! Miracles do occur!

Well, this is the promised Russia chapter. I'm actually writing in a slightly different style this time-there are some run-on sentences, and that was intentional. Also, most everything that is italicized is Russia's thoughts. I didn't put quotes around his thoughts in this fic, as it's centering almost completely around him, and I wanted it to feel a bit more...unstable. Hence the lack of quotes around his thoughts, and the run-on sentences. (They're not that bad. They're what happens a lot in my more tense scenes. xD)

That being said, I honestly don't think there are many triggers in this one. Other than the usual Baltics abuse issues. So yeah. Enjoy!

It hurt. Deep in his chest, in his heart, the knowledge of what he had done. He could not contain it, nor could he deny it. He could not deny what he had done.

He had murdered people. It was not in war, nor was there any excuse for the things he did. These were supposed to be his allies, his friends.

And he killed them. He locked them up and abused them and he killed them.

And now he was sorry. He was sorry and he saw them in his hallucinations, the boys whom he had abused. He saw them and he came back to the real world screaming that he was sorry, only to see in front of him the bloodstains on the floor from all the times he hurt them. He wondered if any of the blood was his, remembered that Estonia had shot him in the shoulder, and he cursed himself for ever allowing things to get that far, for allowing Estonia to go insane.

He realized that he had not just allowed Estonia to go insane. He had caused it, as his own insanity had been caused long ago. He had driven a seventeen year old boy mad, and he had done it by using his own worst fear as a weapon against Estonia.

"I t-told him that no one would ever…ever be loving him," he murmured, standing at his window, looking out into the cold, cruel twilight that came just before dawn. "I told him something that was cruel and he believed me. So he was insane because of me… Da?"

He had formed a habit of talking to himself aloud, now that his family was gone.

"They were not my family. I m-made them stay. They did not want to be staying. I made them. I forced them to stay and I hurt them for trying to leave. It was a very bad thing."

He told himself that so that he could not forget. He wanted to forget, he wanted to stop waking in the night screaming for Lithuania. Sometimes he wanted Lithuania to help him. Other times he wanted to tell the brunet boy that he had not meant it, he honestly had not meant it, he had not realized…

He should have known that the abuse would drive the Baltics insane. He should have known, but he had been like a child then, and he had not understood…

"It is not my childishness that it to be blamed," he said. "Nor can I be blaming anyone other than myself."

A tear slid down his cheek, and he stared out at the breaking dawn, wondering if he had imagined that tear. He was Russia, great and powerful. He did not cry.

But he was not so powerful, not now. He was still a large nation, of course; he always would be, unless something truly terrible befell him.

But his family was gone. They had never been a real family, but now they were gone, and he hated being alone, hated it so much that he cried for them to come back and then cursed himself for the selfishness that had led to all of this pain.

"It is I who am to be blamed," he said to the rising sun. "I am the one who has driven them all to this. Who drove me to this? It does not matter at this time. Perhaps I was driving myself to it. But I cannot forget that I did such things as I did. If I forget, then the time will be coming when I will go to them and drag them back, and they will once again hate me."

He must never forget. But he must find a way to make it so that he did not wake up, see the bloodstained floor, and think immediately of the children he had tormented in this mansion.

He had neglected the mansion since his family had left him, and now he wandered the house, trying to find a single room where he would not see a terrible memory.

The dining room. A memory of Estonia was there, dropping a tray of dishes and shouting at him, and then screaming-he was screaming, a seventeen year old boy who should not have known pain-as Russia beat him. Estonia's insanity had started that day, Russia thought. It had been sealed on a dark night when Russia had told the blond boy that no one would ever love him.

The kitchen. He had come there cheerfully, and they had been angry with him for imprisoning Lithuania, for denying his sunshine-eyed friend the freedom he so deserved.

Out into the hallway. Estonia had followed him, begged to exchange places with Lithuania, and Russia had beaten the boy again. How many times he had beaten Estonia? How many times the boy had screamed for help that would not come? How many times had Estonia begged for the mercy that Russia would not give?

He still carried his faucet pipe in his coat-an old habit that he could not shake. But he took out the weapon with which he had destroyed a seventeen year old boy and he hated himself for what he had done. He hated himself and looked for someone else to blame, but he remembered that he must only blame himself, and he also must never forget what he had done to the three young boys known as the Baltic States.

He threw the faucet pipe on the floor, hating himself and his weapon, and he saw a bloody haze envelop the hallway. He should not have taken out the pipe. It was happening, and he could see Estonia. He had never realized how loud the boy screamed, how agonized the screams sounded, how much he had tortured those children…

He ran from the memory, the hallucination, whatever it might be, and he did not stop running until he was in his own room. He did not realize that he should not have come there until he had locked the door behind him. Then he realized that the house was still covered in blood, his hands were still covered in blood, and Lithuania-Toris, Toris with the sunshine eyes and the ever-present smile-Lithuania was on the floor screaming and crying and laughing…

He had driven his only friend insane. He had turned his friend into his plaything, and he knew now just how cruel he had been to the only person he had really loved.

The hallucination of Lithuania fell to the floor with a bullet in his head. Russia whimpered. He wanted the blood to go away, he wanted to stop seeing these phantoms of the people whom he had imprisoned and hurt. He wanted to believe that none of it had ever happened.

He had to forget it, and yet he must not forget. If he were to forget, he would hurt them all again. And they were all so fragile now, so broken, even poor Lithuania.

Especially Lithuania, and he must blame himself for that, for he had tormented the sunshine-eyed Baltic most of all. He had not really meant to, had thought that he was helping them in his insanity.

He had been so cruel, and how could I have done that to my Toris?

He was a monster, a monster who had murdered his only friend, and he deserved to live all alone in his mansion for the rest of his life, deserved to suffer for all eternity.

That would still not be a deep enough punishment for what he had done to the Baltics, to his sisters, to the whole Soviet Union. It would not erase the torment they had felt, the terror in their hearts. He could not take it back.

But he could stay in his mansion, where he could never hurt any of them again.

Eventually, they came and they made him leave. He never knew who they were. By the time they came, he was half-dead. He had thought, when the food ran out, that this was the end. He would be allowed to die here, all alone, and he would stay dead until such a time as he was sane again, until such a time as he could apologize and promise to never hurt the others again.

But then those people came and made him leave his mansion. They said that they would tear it down, said that he did not need it anymore, now that his family was gone.

He knew they were right, but he wanted to stay there, in that broken mansion with all its memories. He was not ready to let go of the blood-red phantoms lurking around every corner, although they hurt him

He was not ready to let go of his family.

But they made him leave, took him to a new house, which was small and quiet. There were no bloodstains. There were no phantoms. And he was desperate for company, so desperate that when America called him, grumbling about the world meeting, he decided to go.

America did not like him. He did not like America. Perhaps shouting at America would make him feel better.

But then, he knew, he was not supposed to shout at anyone. He had had shouting matches with Lithuania, and they had always ended with the boy on the floor with whip marks on his back and I was so cruel to him. How could I do that to him? How could I?

But he would go to the world meeting. It would be a good excuse to check on the others, on his…

They are not my family. I lost that right when I drove them all insane.

He woke late on the morning of the world meeting, and he only woke at all because of a nightmare.

The hallucinations had left him when he left the Soviet house behind. But the nightmares had come in earnest then, and he hated those nightmares, for they were more vivid than the hallucinations, more real, somehow.

He dreamed of Lithuania. He woke with tears in his eyes, hating himself for what he had done.

All in all, once he had recovered from the dream, he was three hours late to the meeting. He stood alone outside the closed doors of the conference room, not wanting to enter, but also knowing that he had no choice.

He pushed open the door, and he found himself staring into the eyes of America, who stood onstage. Those eyes, electric blue and full of youthful innocence, narrowed as he entered. Russia stood frozen by that gaze, surprised by the hate he saw in America's eyes. He did not understand where such a personal hatred could have come from. What had he ever done to America?

Then Belarus came hurtling across the room in a whirl of blue and white fabric.

"Brother! You came!"

She was the only one who greeted him. A few of the nations-unconnected European nations who had not been a part of the Soviet Union-waved to him, but they were half-hearted, uncertain waves.

Most of the former Soviets would not even look at him, and as he noticed this, he realized that he had not shoved Belarus away, that she was still clinging to him, staring up at him adoringly.

Why…?

He realized with a jolt how wrong this was, that Belarus was clinging to him even now.

She loves Toris. She is supposed to be with Toris. What happened? Where is he?!

He scanned the room desperately, searching for the Lithuanian, and he cannot find him.

Then he saw the boy, the sunshine-eyed boy whom he had destroyed, and he saw how it was that he had missed his Lithuania before, sitting in a sea of other nations. And he saw why it was that there had been hate in America's eyes.

This was not the Lithuania he had known. The Baltic boy was hunched over, his head bowed, staring numbly down at the table. He was so pale, so still…

There is no sunlight in Toris's eyes. What…have I done?

Latvia was sitting next to him, and Estonia was on Latvia's other side. Russia saw that it was Estonia who shook, Estonia who cowered away and looked as if he might faint from terror. Latvia merely stared at him, and in the tiny Baltic's large, purple eyes, Russia saw a sad, mature resignation which he had never seen before in Latvia.

Little Latvia had grown up. Estonia had broken. All of this was his fault.

He looked back at Lithuania, and he saw that the boy had lifted his head, that Lithuania's dull green eyes were fixed on him and Belarus. He saw utter anguish in those eyes, he saw confusion, and he knew then that Belarus had rejected Lithuania in favor of him, perhaps even to protect Lithuania from me?

He had never hated himself more than he did at that moment. Lithuania's dull eyes met his, and the Baltic boy smiled a broken smile, before lowering his head again.

Lithuania looked so broken. It was horrible.

Russia clung to Belarus, and, looking down at her, he saw disgust behind the admiration in her eyes. His sister was pretending. She loathed him too, and yet for some reason, she had chosen him over Lithuania, who was broken and desperately needed her.

They all hated him. He deserved to be hated. And yet Lithuania, the nation who most deserved to be happy, had been rejected by the girl he loved. That girl was clinging to Russia now, and he could not let go of her.

Belarus might not be 'family' anymore. But she had come back to him. He could not let go.

He clung to his little sister, conscious of the fact that all of the other nations were watching him. He tried not to cry.

He failed.

Russia hated lunch breaks. They made it painfully obvious how alone he was now, without his Soviet Union. They were not 'his'; he had been wrong to think of them that way.

But now they were gone, and he was alone.

He did not intend to eat, for eating was not necessary to the survival of a nation. He would exist no matter what, the personification of a painful memory. He hated his own childish features, a reminder of the childish cruelty that had broken the Baltics.

He rounded a corner and ran straight into a small nation. Russia closed his eyes, praying that whoever he had run into was not one of the former Soviets.

Praying did not help him. He opened his eyes and found Lithuania standing there. For a moment, they said nothing, and Russia watched the boy, noticing how pitifully thin Lithuania was, how his hands shook.

There are bandages on my Toris's wrists. I… No. Please, no.

"Toris…" he breathed, staring at the bandages, and the Lithuanian's sad green eyes followed his own gaze.

"Don't worry, Ivan."

The same kind smile, except that smile was so dull and empty now, so broken and hurt.

"It will heal."

Russia wanted to take Lithuania in his arms, wanted to hold the boy and apologize for everything he had done. But he could not. He had lost that right. And if he were to touch Lithuania, surely the boy would recoil from him.

He would not be able to stand that. And Lithuania-kind, beautiful Toris with the sunshine eyes-Lithuania did not have strength or courage enough to comfort him, to fix him. Not anymore.

And so he stood silent, feeling tears come to his eyes at the sight of Lithuania's bandaged wrists, at the knowledge that, beneath the boy's uniform, there were deep scars, which he himself had cut into the Baltic boy's body.

He had done all of this to Lithuania. And he could not even find the words to apologize.

"Ivan."

Lithuania's voice was soft, wary, and yet, there was still a bit of warmth there, behind the heavy sadness.

"Yes, Litva?"

"I am just Lithuania now," the boy corrected, his voice gentle. "And I forgive you."

So, that was...fun. Russia is fun to write, sane or insane or just plain angsty.

Umm... There may be a sequel. I do not know. I am debating writing a sequel, because I feel that while this shows his current mentality well, it doesn't necessarily show how he managed to get better from his insanity. I'm sure I'll write about Ivan again at some point-he's way too fun to write for me to ignore him for the remainder of this fic.

I'm not completely sure what next time will be, but it will either be more Russia or...something that is difficult to explain. You'll see in time. :)

Until next time! :)