#mentions of hws russia

[mxromanoitaly]

✰ "in space, no one can hear you scream" ✰

hetaween—day one

"Space is a sheer and horrifying blackhole—gloomy, terrifying, finality. The deeper away from Earth’s gravitational influence, the darker and yet darker it grows."

CW: Death, Character Death, Mentions of Death, Murder, Mentions of Murder, Blood, Descriptions of Blood, Vomit, Descriptions of Vomit, Angst, No Romance, No Relationship, Use of Human Names, Reader-Insert, Gender-Neutral Reader.

Word Count: 3k

Rating: Explicit for Blood and Death

Event: @hetaween-event-2022

There’s absolutely nothing around for miles except for the desolate and deserted blackness that stares back with a wide gape through the long, horizontal front window of the ship. There are stars that glitter like spilled sparklers far off in the distance, but they offer no solace to the dawning terror of the emptiness. There are no suns, no moons, no planets in sight. There are maybe some stray rocks scattered haphazardly through the blankness, but they are nothing but hidden debris lost to the ages of time. The blackness swallows all.  

Space is a sheer and horrifying blackhole—gloomy, terrifying, finality. The deeper away from Earth’s gravitational influence, the darker and yet darker it grows. Nothing could survive out here, realistically, it was just too cold and spacey. The ship moans quietly. 

You try not to think about it too hard whenever you cast your eyes downward towards the heavy clipboard in your grasp. 

There are lots of papers present, all written in multiple different languages. It is your duty—and your sole one—after all, to translate these pages for the other crew members of the ship so that any possible mishaps and misconceptions don’t accidentally get misconstrued. You keep things running smoothly. Any possible examinations, interpretations, and opinions are kept word for word, and the other crew members stay happy little campers. 

That’s why you’re currently on the other side of hyperspace’s boundaries, surrounded by nothing but cold aerospace-grade aluminum metal and the humming electricity from the ship’s engines and transmissions. 

This mission is meant to test the atmosphere and the theoretical liveability of other organisms, to run a physical experiment about the bodily and mental effects of living in such a sunless place for a prolonged amount of time. That’s also why there’s so many different people from so many different countries currently tucked aboard. America, Canada, China, England, France, and Russia—all smart people who are too smart to be on planet Earth for a second longer and your only talent is that you happen to speak all of the differing languages. Anyone would be elated to be a part of such an important mission to their fellow man, but it’s not all sunshine and rainbows whenever you see the other crew members skirt around in the docking range or whenever they go into the main awning to handle exploding stray asteroids orbiting in close contact. It feels sobering, remorseful somehow. 

You sometimes feel like you just aren’t clever enough to really fit in, but the crew seems to accept you into their little clique anyway. You’re thankful for it, lest you accidentally lose yourself to the forlorn openness of this austere ship. 

Really, it just feels so unreal. 

You glance up at the front window and lose yourself to deep space once again. 

A tap on your shoulders jolts you from your senses and you gasp. 

“Woah! Woah, sorry, dude, I didn’t mean to startle you. Sometimes my presence can be a little intimidating, so… I’ll just take a step back.” 

Alfred F. Jones, the American on board that should currently be buried by wires and motors as he performs a daily checkup, is currently lamely grinning at you whenever you pivot around. Your heartbeat is a mile a minute in your ears and you swear your blood is rushing all the way to your skull whenever you look at him and his pretty sky blue eyes. 

“It’s fine,” it’s not really, but you don’t say that because it sounds rude. “I’ll be okay. Did you need something?” 

Alfred laughs one of his boisterous and cheerful laughs. One that, if you weren’t forced to be in his sometimes overbearing presence, would make you feel all warm in the face and you wouldn’t be able to help yourself if you happened to giggle along. He then rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. 

“Aw, c’mon, can’t a guy just come chat up our very cool—but not as cool as me—person that keeps the others from imploding whenever they talk?” Alfred rocks on the balls of his feet and you realize that his uniform looks darker than usual. 

The jumper suits are meant to be black, with patches that signify rank, field of work, and country of origin. The patches rest on the left breast area, just a little underneath the collarbone. You know Alfred. He’s one of the mechanics that constantly runs diagnositic tests on the ship, while also being a part-time pilot. If it weren’t for him, your crew would go shucking off into oblivion. But… but there’s something wrong with one of Alfred’s work patches: 

a speck of deep maroon. 

Your brows furrow as you regard such an odd thing, but you don’t comment on it just in case it stems from a place of contempt. One of the others could be behind it, or maybe Alfred accidentally stained his uniform. There wasn’t really any bleach in space now, was there? Might as well not bring it to light if it’s not necessary for the mission. His suit is wet, though. Why is his suit wet? 

“You know very well that you need something, Mr. Jones.” your voice is barely above a deadpan. Alfred notices your tone and winces away with a goofy smile and another laugh that seems to really splinter in your ears. His upper body tilts away from you as he shrugs. 

“You’ve got me there, bro.” another bout of laughter that feels just a little too strained now that you really think about it for a second too long, “I really just wanted to come talk to you.” 

You sigh, but it’s not like you’re in that big of a pinch. The only thing you had planned for the next hour was to organize these papers full of reports, essays about stars, and mathematics and science that give you calculations and hypotheses that completely go over your head. You’re supposed to put them in folders that belong to their respective owner, then hand the folder back to them. You’ve finished with the British man, Arthur Kirkland, but you still have about five more folders left to do. If all Alfred wants to do is chat awkwardly, you might have to pass. Something doesn’t feel natural about this, either. 

A shake of your head causes Alfred’s whole body to fall. 

you don’t like that twinkle in his eyes. 

“Sorry, Mr. Jones, but I’m a little busy.” You wave the clipboard around a few times. “See this? I’ve still got to do Francis’ latest controversial opinion about ‘the temperature of two contrasting stars’, since his papers seem the easiest to translate right now. Don’t even get me started on Matthew’s maths! You know, you guys could speak in simpler terms whenever you write these essays. It would make my job a whole lot easier.” 

You halfheartedly chastise the empty expression leering down at you, but it’s all meant to be good fun to lighten the weird mood settled in the atmosphere between the both of you. Alfred apparently finds the humor in it and that grin on his face seems to curl just a little more to the left. He gestures with a wide sweep of his arms as he speaks. There’s something about his face. 

“If we wrote like that, then just about anybody could do our jobs! But we’re way too good to do that. We need our big vocabulary.” 

Annnnd just like that, you can’t help but finally crack a genuine smile. But it feels off. It feels so forced that you feel saliva collect atop your tongue in a dull weight. 

“Sure, sure, I get it.” You shake your head softly, a nervous feeling tickling right about your stomach that feels like a flock of birds flying in a dispersed vee. “Normal people don’t need to understand.” 

Alfred nods once boldly, still emotionless, then gives you a thumbs-up, “Right-o, broski!”

Another chuckle slips past your lips as you glance down at your feet before you shuffle the toes of your pointed shoes around a little bit to let some of the tension clear up. It feels tense. Like something’s not right. Laughing with him like this, it feels like Alfred’s being purposefully too upbeat and you can tell. You’re not usually with the group of men often, but you’ve been around them quite a few times to know that Alfred’s usually full of more snark and sarcasm than this. If you had to guess, you’d say Alfred was being purposefully agreeable with you—almost like he was trying to lull you into submission, to draw you in with a gentle lullaby. It’s so uncomfortable that your shoulders shrink inwards a little and you play with your feet again. 

“Right, well, then I should go ahead and start doing these now. Once I send these back digitally to base, I’ll need to give out translated copies—you know the shtick by now.” You say as a hint for him to depart before your hand stretches forward and starts leafing through the sheets stacked up, but you stop dead in your tracks whenever Alfred says one last thing. 

“Nah, there’s not really a point for that anymore.”

He said that as if he didn’t want you to leave. 

Your brows furrowed hard and you cock your head to level Alfred up. His uniform still hasn’t dried. Is it water? What is that droplet on his patch? What did he do to even get himself in such a mess? 

“Unlike you,” there’s an air of buoyancy in your voice as you speak, light and carefree, “I work seventeen hours out of the day. It must be nice to put the ship on auto-pilot and just occasionally check the motherboard.” 

Alfred stares at you for a long time, a really long time. It almost feels like he’s sizing you up, like he was staring down at his momma’s pie and figuring out how he was gonna cut the pie to get the biggest serving of that gooey goodness. You shudder, but you cover it up by readjusting your lab coat and tightening your grasp on the clipboard. 

Then, 

“Haha, yeah, you’re right. Sorry about that, dude.” 

And then Alfred steps out of your way to let you through. You thank him by curtly nodding your head and mouthing the words as you walk on by, head focused on the ground and eyes wide as saucers as you go past. Once you’re halfway there, you mindlessly lift up one hand to pat his chest in a friendly gesture. Raise, move, pat pat—-stop. 

His uniform is still wet. You forgot about that. What you just touched was whatever was on his jumpers. That’s all that was. But whenever you withdraw your hand, the vitriol scent of iron fills your nostrils and you distinctly taste copper in the back of your mouth. You gape a little, floundering like a fish out of water, and you stumble away in confusion. The scents die away by a fraction, but the memory lingers and you just have to look at Alfred again. 

He’s still watching you with that regarding smile. 

You clamber a few more steps back and your hand slips off of Alfred’s chest. Whenever your arm falls limp to your side, you splutter for another fleeting second as you hastily bring your hand to your face to examine it. There! There there there! On your hand, right there! 

Blood

It’s everywhere! It’s all over you. It’s dripping down and it stains your palm and it smells so bad, you can’t help but gag as the world goes a little loopy around you and you feel so dizzy like you can’t quite comprehend why the fuck there was blood on Alfred’s uniform. Spin and spin. You try to find your balance as you look up at Alfred with shaky limbs and fuzzy eyes. There’s tears in your eyes. You’re crying! 

Alfred just smiles vigorously. 

“I should have probably warned you about that, too, sorry. At least the cat’s out of the bag now, huh?” Alfred has this shit-eating grin plastered across his face and you don’t fucking understand why the hell he’s looking at you like that. What’s so funny? What did Alfred do? 

“What cat? Alfred, don’t you speak in idioms whenever there’s fucking blood on my hand from your jumper. Be serious! What in the hell is this?” 

Alfred puts both of his hands in his pockets slowly and cat-like, almost as if he were teasing you about how erratic and blown-out you sound. There’s a hint of delirium to your voice, but you can’t really help it whenever you flex your hand and then the blood there glimmers beneath the glossy light of the ship. You gag again and throw your hand away from your face so that you don’t have to look it in the eye anymore. The world feels like it’s rocking side to side, and then you realize that that’s your body that’s swaying in the breeze of the ship’s coolant. 

“It’s simple,” Alfred nods. “That’s the blood from Ivan. You know, that one Russian guy? Yeah. He’s dead now.” 

It feels like the floor gives out beneath you whenever you hear that. The image of Ivan flashes in your mind, tall and hunking and bulky and how the hell did you manage to kill someone so sweet? Your body feels lighter than a feather. It feels like you’re walking on tons of clouds, but those clouds are sinking beneath you and your feet are dipping into quicksand that seems to want you, need you. It seems so surreal and you feel bile in your throat as you pinch in the middle before barreling forward to vomit. Hot steam and fluid spat from your mouth makes a nice squelch on the ground as you empty the contents of your anxious stomach. You gag and gurgle and you feel so terribly small compared to Alfred now. The same Alfred that lets you get sick against his work boots. 

Then, whenever your chest heaves a few more times and you’ve managed to catch your breath again, you’re able to say through the smoke and the flames and the unrelenting ignorance that seems to billow around the pins and needles of your limbs, 

“Why?” 

Alfred leans forward as he hums and lets his head go a little askew. 

“I thought this mission was dumb from the get-go. Like, totally ridiculous. I didn’t even want to do it, but my boss said something about firing me if I didn’t go, so here I am. Those other guys didn’t help. They were… kind of, in nice words, annoying, but like not you. You were fine, I guess. I liked chatting with you because you didn’t want to do anything except for your job, too. The others wanted to constantly talk and talk about this mission, and well, whenever you don’t even really want to be here—you see where my frustration comes from?” 

You swallow with chapped lips and let your eyebrows wrinkle upward in disbelief. 

Alfred’s body seems to droop as he straightens his posture and looks down at you over the bridge of his glasses. 

“‘Course you don’t. You don’t even fully understand the mission.” 

Alfred flippantly waves a hand around before he gestures to the spacious window at the front of the ship. His eyebrows are arched as he talks and his jaw looks taut. He doesn’t look at you now. You stare deeply at him. 

“I only agreed to this mission so that I could watch it crash and burn and go to hell and back.” 

You blanched. Your fingertips flex and then unfurl, they shimmer by a fraction and it feels like your tendons are splitting in two as you weakly attempt to ground yourself. There’s this horrible and suffocating dread that runs through your veins like pure quicksilver, like liquid nitrogen and you feel yourself ignite whenever you mull over Alfred’s statement for even just a brief moment. He inhales to say more, and then that’s whenever you raise your bloody palm print to interrupt Alfred. He pauses, then he glances at you from the corners of his eyes. He seems intrigued. 

The words linger at the pad of your tongue, but your palette is dry and parched as you smack your lips a few times and scrounge up the words you want to say. The visages of the other members flash before your mind, and then again, you feel absolutely wretched and sick once more. You have a fit where all of their memories come to the forefront of your mind and you have to close your mouth to avoid vomiting like a sick puppy again. The man in front of you feels so foreign. A ghost of a man, the reflection of someone long gone. How long has Alfred been like this? Was every moment with him nothing but a lie? Had he wanted to kill everyone this whole time? Was he going to kill you next? You retch. 

“Wh-Why did you… did you kill them for it? What was the point? What did they do to deserve that? Why did you…” 

You can’t even finish—the pain is just too much, insurmountable. Tears stream down the apples of your face in torrential tracks and you can’t even clearly see Alfred anymore. He looks blurry. But he’s solid enough that you can see a wicked smirk cross his face and he belts out one final laugh that tells you everything you need to know as he throws his head back and then yells to the Heavens with a hint of insanity tinging his voice that leaves a hollow feeling in the cavity of your chest. And all you can do is let Alfred level you with swirling eyes down the ridge of his nose, as he exclaims 

“Because! My good friend, in Space, no one can hear you scream!” 

[rifleman787742]

meet the scout (hetalia edition)

[ask2pame]

Could we see Viktor and Lady?

she is a small thing

[ask2ps]

Some meme expression requests. There's quite a few more I should do eventually.

[bone-evidence]

Tolys steals a quiet moment for himself under the snowy nighttime sky. He is joined in that quiet by Gilbert, who is willing to give him a few cigarettes and sit with him as the walls start to crumble in his heart. Misery loves company, as they say.

[aster-riskite]

as an april fools prank i have elected to update a fic again (as if my updates are ever reliable) so anyways here it is again in case u like SCP stuff and hetalia and whatnot

[bitchapalooza]

Canada: So how was your first experience with weed, boys?

Russia: I saw god. We had sex. It was amazing.

Denmark: Lucky! I just saw an eldritch horror beyond our human comprehension. I wanna have sex with god…

[goldenstarprincesses]

Henlo! You rebloged my post about France in fanfiction and I wanted to reply to it because I found what you said interesting, but because you used just tags would be goofy to reblog it again so I am sending an ask!

I agree about the cannon not helping, the thing is France got better in the cannon, he is more interesting now. I am not very into Prussia so I don't remember if he got better in later parts. But this thing about him being the worst in PruCan fanfic isn't something I noticed in Brazilian Fanfics or maybe I just don't remember lol

I wrote my post at 1 AM and now I stopped to think about what annoys me about how simple and awful Francis' characterization is and I noticed that it simply doesn't have a reason. When I was writing my fic, I wanted to make him bad in a European kind of way, he is France, France really did a lot of shit, he is kind of goofy and useless now? Yes, but that wasn't the case in the Early Modern era.

I also never saw no one exploring his sexuality. Why is Francis overly sexual? Why is he so dramatic? Why is he always trying to get in someone's pants? Real people have reasons to act overly sexual, they aren't just born this way, but WHY I NEVER SEE NO ONE ASKING THOSE QUESTIONS??

Thank you for rebloguing my post and confirming I wasn't just seeing things lol

Hiii! First, I adore your blog. Thank you for introducing me to the world of TurkFra. My eyes have been opened and my mind widened.

I almost think the fandom needed to go through the "dark times" or "dark age" of character interpretation to get where we are now. I know there was for sure a shift happing when I dipped out of the fandom in 2016ish. And when I started occasionally reading fanfics again during lockdown I was blown away with the shifts regarding the characterization of nearly all the characters.

Totally agree with you 100% about interpreting a character like France in a way where he is bad shit person, because of the actual actions of France. Imo its really important to include things like that into every nations characterizing when engaging in more "real life inspired" characterization. Almost have to wonder if the rise in popularity of historical hetalia has had anything to do with this change. While it was sorta a thing in the early years of the fandom, it didn't really seem to have much of a collective following and community. And now it seems that characters of empires/colonists like France/England/America/Russia etc. have shifted away from being written to have very goofy and comically negative traits more in-line with the 2008-2012ish canon to having their negative traits rooted more in the real-life negative habits or traits of the real world nations. I'd also wonder if the average age in the fandom has gone up which has helped characters simply be better developed.

The "bad touch trio" was super common back in the day. It was France/Prussia/Spain. Pretty much the entire characterization for them all ended up being sex addicts who went around well, SA or SH other nations. That mixed with the very silly "everything is based on basic national stereotypes" vibe of early canon I think just made i so a character like France ("nation of love"/the idea that the French are much more sexually liberated then the English or Americans) was very one-sided even when other charters were getting a little bit better of treatment. I also always felt like France was never as popular in the American/English fandom as American and England. So he (and often Canada) would sorta just thrown into things without much development character-wise.

You bring up so many good points!!! legit I have always thought about things like this.

[samrut]

Some old art from the Ivan ask blog I used to have.

[the-heaminator]

“Dammit please don’t start crying” for the na bros 🙏🏽

I dont write enough of these two, let's change that, context of au in the tags

Nothing was going to plan right now, absolutely nothing, they had burned the cake to smithereens, it tasted fine, at least that's what Arthur said, but his taste buds were not to be taken seriously, and besides it looked quite like a cowpat.

He had gone off to stall Ivan somewhere, he was a good liar so they believed that he would be able to, Jack and Eleanor had been taken care of via an afterschool club that ran till 6, most ran till 4:30, but the science club was having its awards ceremony today so they were dealt with through an almost uncanny twist of fate.

Now it was up to those two to keep everything together, and both were failing miserably, Arthur had told them just to, in his words "Don't set the house on fire, flood it or find another way to destroy it." Those were his exact words, at least he wasn't expecting very much, though for Matthew at least that made it worse, not entirely sure why himself, but it made it worse.

Alfred knew Matthew tended to get volatile when under this kind of pressure, easily the most rational of all 6 of them, but even he had his moments, and by how anxious and fidgety he was now, this seemed like it was getting to be one of those moments, it was best to avoid him in such situations, Alfred knew this, off by heart nearly, it had happened enough times before that he knew what he was doing.

Matt was rushing about at almost a dizzying speed, pacing in the way Alfred usually did when excited, though more fevered, and of course, far less joyous, even sitting his leg was bouncing up and down irritatingly fast, Father had always been harder on Matthew than he had been on him, Alfred may have been the oldest, but he needed the spare to be even better, that was years ago, Father was dead now, but the remnants of that were still present, Arthur and Ivan's standards were odd, likely because they hadn't interacted with children for decades before them, their whole thing was that they could be really good at what they liked to do and be good enough to get decent grades at.

Matt had loosened up a lot under this system, because even under the agency, the teachers there were teachers of adults, they expected more of him than he was comfortable to provide, Alfred could usually keep up, and Jack wasn't expected to just yet, and he was stuck in the middle.

Matthew had gone pale.

This was not good, he stilled too, deep breath, that failed, he started to pace again, went up to his room, and closed the door behind him. Fuck.

Alfred rushed upstairs, Matthew had barricaded the door, he spoke through it, he was loud enough "Dammit, Mattie please don't start crying, let me in?"

Matthew didn't want to, he was being foolish, stupid, a fucking idiot, but he did anyways, Alfred immediately grabbed him and didn't let him go for a while, he may have not had the most tact when it came to...just about everything, but sure as hell could he try, Matthew was taller than him already, lanky bastard he was, Matthew stilled, either to do with comfort or because Alfred was stronger than he looked and his ribs were being abused.

A wet cough "Alfred...!"

He let go, "Are you good bro?"

"Yes, yes, I'll be fine."

He could hear Jack coming into the driveway, this was not good "Mattie, calm down dude."

"I am calm now, you are the one panicking Alfred?"

"Right, right." The door opened, Alfred and Matthew snuck down, Matthew's eyes were still a little red, Arthur caught the slightly wet look Matt had going on, but had absolutely no idea why that was the case, had he hurt himself?

The house was still in one piece and a twice over showed nothing, Ivan was occupied by Jack and Eleanor excitedly telling him something about snakes, Arthur caught their eyes and tried to question, Matthew shook his head and looked up the stairs, this was to be discussed later, but for now, the planning had to commence.

[thenightlymartini]

Any headcanons on how the couples are on family gatherings?

Doing a content warning here and at the start for sake of convenience:

CW: mentions of the Korean War, very vague mention of Russia's invasion of Ukraine, censored cuss words, mention of England and France's imperialistic and colonialism pasts, vague mention/insinuation of 20th century tragedies in East Asia and other historical events of East Asia

So, this will heavily depend on if it is in universe or in an AU where one can fiddle with family dynamics a bit. For those who just want the actual content, skip to the dotted line and read after it (content warning will be just above the dotted line), for I'm going to be discussing a little.

Personally, back when I first watched Hetalia (I think back in 2010 or 2011) I mostly based my experiences of what was popular in the fandom on Youtube videos, since I didn't go to Deviantart nor knew about Tumblr by that point. So, I did adopt, very early on, what I thought was popular for family groups, but I've since matured enough to be more nuanced about them. Ones like FACE I still subscribe to in a sense because of the historical content, but East Asia I no longer think of it in terms of early Hetalia fandom due to the intricacies and complexity that are the interpersonal relations throughout history. I view it more like, from an outsider's perspective, it looks like a big brother taking care of multiple siblings, but inside there are a lot of power dynamics and is like multiple games of chess in the form of politics and military flexing up until the 20th century, with lots of double meanings and this particular dynamic shines brighter when China is teaching.

Some of the East Asians may have viewed the dynamic closer to a kinship than others, but they all eventually became aware of the politics and what it meant to be a nation and their views on family is more complicated. For brevity sake I'm focusing on just the Koreas and will give some detail on the others when they are talked about. South Korea (keep in mind this is very early in both the Koreas' history when they were the chibi-equivalents), I think, was a little more naïve in the beginning simply because it was a dynamic he never experienced before and was more prone to taking things at face value prior to fully understanding what it means to be a nation and the politics of immortal relations, such as being taken in by China and living with him for a time was more than just out of the kindness of the Chinese man's heart. North Korea was a little more aware of the power dynamics and politics than his twin, but he lacked the experience and knowledge on how to deal with it at the time and was generally just more self-aware knowing there wasn't much he himself could do. NK did get closer to China on a more mentor level and calls him "brother" more out of respect than actually thinking of him as family. Basically anything dealings with Japan, with East Asia on a whole, barring one or two countries, is heavily politicized and less family gathering after the 20th century, while dealings with China can sometimes get politicized if the wrong topic comes up.

With that cleared up, it's time to delve into question at hand. And this going to be a long one. Also I finally figured out how to change font styles on here so I might have gone overboard with it with experimentation.

CW: mentions of the Korean War, very vague mention of Russia's invasion of Ukraine, censored cuss words, mention of England and France's imperialistic and colonialism pasts, vague mention/insinuation of 20th century tragedies in East Asia and other historical events of East Asia

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Kimchiburger:

SK meeting FACE and subsequent family gatherings:

SK tends to be very quiet and shy if it is with people he has not been around a lot or knows well, especially early after his war with NK where he no longer has his twin to be there as emotional support. He vaguely knew England and France due to the UN and them sending troops as well to his country, as well as knowing what they did to most of Asia thanks to imperialism and colonialism, so he was very hesitant around them. He knows they are what America considers family, but that doesn't stop him from being very cautious regardless early on. Canada, on the other hand, he was pretty excited to see again, since he knew the quieter nation before even meeting America and hadn't seen him in a while.

France he got along with fairly well after the first initial awkwardness that was the context of he is now America's boyfriend with the American's family. France was a bit too touchy for his liking and made some rude comments from his cultural perspective, but the Frenchman never went too far and was pretty quick to correct mistakes if the other was offended, though was prone to unsolicited advice that embarrassed both himself and America. Canada hadn't changed much and was able to get SK out of his shell faster than the other two, as well as just provided general tips on how to handle America when he gets to be too much.

England was the rough one in the beginning, both personality wise and just because England kept giving him this "stink-eye" or highly judgmental look over every little thing he did or say. He later learned from France that England was just extremely protective over America, even after independence, and was just making sure that SK wasn't going to end up breaking the American's heart and was a good fit. He still didn't care for England's poor attitude most of the time along with his tsundere tendencies (he hated using Japan's word for it, but it was a pretty apt description and he lacked a better word for it). They did bond a bit more when he introduced his cooking to England, who was actually pretty receptive to it to America's shock. England had been used to India's cuisine so he wasn't too fazed by the spice, and both were shocked that they had some similar foods, such as Korean sundae and English black pudding. Although this was also the time when SK figured out England was not the greatest cook (but baking he was generally okay at, if a little rusty or needed some work considering not all of his scones would come out like hockey pucks).

Once SK got comfortable, these family gatherings became quite entertaining and SK often felt included or was part of the family at that point. France and him were prone to baking and sharing recipes a lot (I was inspired by those videos on Youtube of Korean street food and baking), England and him were more prone to quiet talks and tea (which was a welcome reprieve from some of the more neurotic family tendencies) unless England got into a rant over something, and Canada and him often were more boisterous than anyone thought they would be. Add America to that mix and it was always chaotic between the three of them. France figured out that letting the three of them compete in video games was the best way to make sure the North American nations and the Korean wouldn't end up destroying something or end up with the police knocking at their door. Though England got more and more flabbergasted once he realized just how similar both SK and America were, meaning double the headaches were going to happen.

I'm saving America's interactions with East Asia for after getting through RusNK, because they share the same event.

RusNK:

North Korea and the Kievan Rus Trio:

North Korea knew from Russia that he had two sisters and that Russia was the middle of the three. He vaguely got to know them through political meetings, but outside of politics he didn't know much considering he spent most of his time either at home, with China, or with Russia. So when Russia proposes that he gets to know his sisters personally one day, he just kind of rolled with it figuring that it couldn't hurt and might benefit political relations more if he did. He did not count on how... "interesting" the family gathering would be, for lack of a better word.

He thought Ukraine was quite a strong and dependable young woman, though a little too emotional at times. He could tell she became the substitute mother of the trio with how doting she was. A lot of the cooking for the family was actually done with everyone there and was a family tradition, so he learned quite a bit from her about the family traditions and that she was definitely the better cook out of them, though he wouldn't admit that to Russia. She was generally more welcoming and warm towards him, but he could tell she got nervous at times because she didn't want to end up offending him or Russia on accident, whether through fear of politics or simply because Russia can be quite intimidating when mad. NK learned some of the more embarrassing parts of her, such as when the story came up, from Ukraine herself, about how she tried to advise Russia on how to make friends ("show them your boobs" episode for anyone confused), and thus became slightly weirded out.

That weirded out feeling intensified when he finally got to know Belarus, especially with how attached she was to Russia. NK thinks Belarus didn't quite understand the meaning behind the "marrying" Russia, since he was told she had been doing that since she was fairly little, but he absolutely hated how Belarus would but in when he and Russia would get too close or cuddly. He had half a mind to tell her off about how he is Russia's boyfriend and he can do what he damn well pleases, but he knew better than to say stuff like that for it would more than likely come back around through politics and his boss would get mad at him for angering an ally. It seemed at some point Russia pulled Belarus aside and must have gave her a stern talking to, because part way through the first meeting she eventually let up on her antics. He was much more aware of the atmosphere around the trio, and came to the conclusion that, though this family is weird, they do care about each other and they are definitely not ones he should ever anger.

Future meetings are much more scarce, especially after the fall of the Soviet Union and tightening up of NK's own nation. Currently, though he only admits to himself and not aloud due to politics and current events, but he very much admires how strong, tenacious, and smart Ukraine is, and that is when he learns that she is probably the scariest of the trio when provoked. He somewhat wishes she wasn't so cold to him now, but that is thanks to politics and himself basically becoming the world's pariah and knows it is outside of his control. He finds he misses those winter nights when the trio and him would laugh and have dinner together or celebrate the trio's shared holidays, mostly because he himself would even forget the greater politics that dominate their lives and simply live as themselves and cherish the fond memories.

Kimchiubrger and RusNK:

America, Russia, and East Asia "family" gatherings:

SK had to explain a lot of the "family" dynamics to America because he was really hesitant at bringing America around them. Considering America has had numerous dealings with his neighbors, both good and bad, it wasn't like he was meeting them for the first time, but that meant there was so much more baggage to go through and this was in a context of introducing the boyfriend to the family. America semi-understood SK's explanations, considering how complex and intricate East Asia's relations with each other are and how much history played a part, but he at least knew how nervous SK was with this gathering more out of the political games that were bound to happen. Also, SK was not 100% sure if North Korea would be there, which would throw so many wrenches into the issue that he might as well have been in a hardware store.

Likewise, Russia was taught about the dynamics, and he himself was more understanding at the chess game that was East Asian relations. NK was fine bringing Russia around the other East Asians, especially China, but was very wary of if SK was going to show, since it was common for only one of them to be at these gatherings because they despised each other that much and it never ended well if both of them so happened to be there. Since he and SK never communicated about these meetings, it tended to fall to China to make sure neither were there at the same time, meaning he would invite each Korea every other gathering.

Well, both Koreas didn't expect the absolute worse case scenario: both show up with America and Russia to a gathering (with China's permission), AND China's boss got whiff of the gathering and told China he had to invite Japan as well for "political relations". So Japan being there was the badly made icing on this already disastrous cake from both Koreas' perspectives. They just hoped their respective boyfriend's understood to not embarrass them or cause a fight.

Thankfully, China was in a more "f!ck politics, get along of I'll make you" kind of mood and laid down the law very clearly and quickly. Hong Kong and, surprisingly, Taiwan were there, as well as Macau, so Russia and America got treated to the full extent of the chaos that can be when all of East Asia is in one room. Apparently the favorite pass time was ragging on China, much to China's chagrin. Particular favorite subjects to rile China up and poke fun of were his age and old man tendencies. Russia and America couldn't help but stay silent and look on in shock, wonder, and trepidation at how much sass and shade was being thrown around in teasing manners. They also were eyeing the wok and bamboo stick in the corner knowing just how dangerous China could be with them if he got out of hand.

Eventually, Japan got sassy and told China he was more than happy to take him to a nursing home after China made a comment about his age and forgot where he put a few of the drinks he bought for the occasion. This lead to America, before SK could stop him, saying how Japan shouldn't throw stones when he himself has a glass house since he's heard Japan complain multiple times about how he had a bad back and was getting to old for some of the antics he got wrapped up in. This gained him points with most of East Asia as many laughed at how true it was (even SK and NK had to try and stifle their laughs) while Japan was too shocked to speak until he made a vague threat towards America that he would get his revenge later without exactly divulging how he would do so. This lead to Russia making a comment about what might happen if both China and Japan were put into the same nursing home, which quickly spiraled into hypothetical discussions with lots of teasing. Both Koreas were really silent during most of the exchange, often either too occupied keeping an eye on their respective boyfriends or were too dumbfounded at how well America and Russia easily fitted themselves in.

At some point the topic of Mahjong comes up and America gets really interested in it. A snide comment from Russia about how real Mahjong is different from the one played on Microsoft computers sent both Koreas on edge, especially when America fires back that he knows they are different. Thankfully, America continued with asking to be taught how to actually play it and learn, to which the previous hostility evaporated when China had both he and Russia (since he knows Russia doesn't know sh!t about Mahjong himself) learn with him and Japan, with Macau serving as a guide for America and Russia for the first few games. China waved the Koreas away and told them to go help Taiwan and Hong Kong get the food ready in the other room, much to the hesitance of both Koreas. China definitely took the opportunity to not so subtly tell both America and Russia that he still cares for the twins, despite politics and history, and that if they themselves hurt the two in anyway shape or form he would be more than happy to murder them in their homes, politics and international relations be d!mned. First few seconds Russia and America didn't take the threat too seriously until they see that Japan didn't even bat an eye at the threat and remarked how much more tame China was being about it, then they realized he was serious and they were definitely more scared.

NK and SK were constantly peeking around the corner from the kitchen to check in on their boyfriends, often accidentally silently communicating with each other when one of them went to check. Taiwan found it absolutely adorable that they were that concerned, while Hong Kong rolled his eyes at how love clearly changed the twins far too much, even making a comment about how those two aren't themselves if they aren't actively adding to the chaos. NK, being more resistant to the teasing, usually made off-handed comments on how he was just making sure blood wasn't being spilt rather than out of actual concern, but everyone could see right through it.

It gave a moment for both Koreas to reflect on their respective twin's relationship with their boyfriends. SK noticed how, though not being the most PDA couple, NK and Russia had much more subtler ways of checking in on the other and showing affection, such as Russia occasionally holding NK's hand and rubbing small circles over the knuckles or NK leaning into the other and providing much more eye contact than he's seen the other do in a lifetime. Even the small smiles and stilted laughs coming from them during the night made SK start to soften on them. He may not approve of his brother's choice in partner (as he knows NK doesn't approve of America), but he could tell they truly cared about the other and was a little happy that Russia could get NK to smile and laugh more, since he can't be there to do it now. Likewise, NK, though absolutely despising America, slowly started accepting that he could tell SK was happy with him, from the way they easily shared laughs and smiles to how he could easily see the adoration in their eyes when they looked at each other. As much as he doubted and refused to trust America, he knew from their interactions that America was very much wearing his heart on his sleeve for his brother and was borderline willing to be the other's servant with constantly getting him anything he need during the night. He started accepting, despite his personal issues with America, that the American was kind of what he knew SK needed now that he himself couldn't be there to support the younger twin. If he were to ever make serious progress in mending his and SK's relationship on a personal level, he knew he had to start with easing up on the two of them, so he became less snippy and sarcastic with them later. It's a start, at least.

Commieburger:

This headcannon has to have the major asterisk of this is a "what if" scenario in normal universe since they are having to be super secretive about their relationship and may not reveal they are in one outside of the ones who need to know (SK and Canada) until super later in the relationship or when political improvements occur. With that said, this is a "what if" scenario of when East Asia and the rest of FACE learn of their relationship on the grounds that they are slowly letting it be known they are together:

East Asia Gathering:

The whole idea was partially pushed by South Korea, who by that point already knew of their relationship for a while now, with the excuse that it was only going to be a matter of time before they found out and it would probably be better if they were told rather than found out through something more scandalous. North and America were quite hesitant, especially with telling China and Japan considering their power and involvement in East Asia, but decided that they should know at some point so long as they are sworn to secrecy and partially agreed with SK's logic. Ideally, they would have liked to only tell China, and maybe Japan for security purposes, but it was not going to be easy for Hong Kong and Taiwan to not know since they all were in the same circles. SK was even willing to share black mail material in order to make sure the others wouldn't tell a soul about their relationship.

South Korea pushed China to have a family gathering and only having Japan, Taiwan, and Hong Kong join them, not really telling him about the fact that America and North Korea would be joining them. He had to make a deal with China that as long as he got them to go then he himself would take care of hosting and cooking, which was definitely going to be a chore and a half but knew China wouldn't turn that down.

When the day came, North and America purposefully came later once all the others had gathered. When South welcomed them in, China immediately tried reprimanding the two for trying to involve SK in whatever shenanigans or arguments they started this time while he was trying to host family and clearly had a lot to do right now, assuming that was why those two were there at the same time. NK basically very briskly told him they were here to tell them all something and to gather everyone to make it easier, clearly wanting to just get this over with, while America was uncharacteristically quiet and clearly felt and looked awkward.

When they told them (mostly NK just spat it out in the bluntest way possible), Hong Kong and Taiwan seriously thought it was a joke SK, NK, and America were in on. Japan initially thought so too, but knowing America's cues, ticks, and seeing how generally awkward the bigger nation was, he quickly realized it wasn't one and was silent in surprise. China seemed puzzled slightly until he admitted that it actually made sense considering he noticed their usual arguments lacked the normal amount of bite in them this past year (which shocked NK and America that China actually noticed somewhat, though clearly didn't realize how long this had been going on). Hong Kong and Taiwan didn't start believing it until they saw SK didn't react at all to the announcement, not even a hint of a smile that would normally give away that it was a prank. That's when Taiwan asks SK directly if he had already known, which SK admitted to knowing for several years now.

That's when everyone is just dumbfounded that NK and America had been going out for so long without anyone knowing. China made a comment about how the two were clever, but not clever enough to pull a fast one on himself since he has seen so much in his 4000 years, which led to America saying "technically, you thought we had something going on for only the past year, so we actually did pull one over your eyes". NK promptly elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up.

Cue essentially a game of 20 questions because NK and America are just bombarded for the next half hour trying to explain things. SK quietly handed his twin a bottle of soju, knowing this was going to be a long night. Eventually America pipes up after a subtle comment from Japan about them both playing with fire keeping this under wraps, saying how they both have known that for a while and the one thing they ask of them all is to just stay quiet about it since the main reason they told them was that it would be better to hear from them rather than through someone else.

Rest of the night was semi-awkward and NK hated having the spotlight like that for that long, so America and him took their leave. They didn't leave before China pulled them aside to let them know America is welcome at the next family gathering.

Future gatherings were much more tolerable. During the times when America could sneak by and join them, the couple were much more relaxed once they were used to now being in a situation where they didn't need to hide their relationship. America was much more prone to holding the other by the waist or just having an arm over NK's shoulders, along with being his boisterous self. It still baffled East Asia to see these two as a pair considering how opposite they acted, but it was more interesting to see NK soften up in ways they didn't think the nation could. Though Taiwan was privy to some of the cuter moments between the couple since she and NK used to have a fairly solid friendship a while back and honestly was the most relaxed person out of the family that wouldn't make a big scene when they did anything remotely couple-y.

FACE:

After letting North's side know about their relationship, America had to do some convincing to get NK to agree to let England and France know, using the same excuse that it would probably be better they know from them rather than through a scandal or rumors. Canada already knew, but America wanted Canada over anyways because he was going to need as much back up as possible, for he feared England's reaction the most.

Canada had very little interaction with North Korea, outside of politics and war, and really only knew that his brother was dating him, so he was suspicious of the other in general. Since it had been several years, and these two were still together, he softened a little, but not by much. He definitely knew England was not going to take it well and knew he needed to be there to act as peacekeeper and to restrain the Englishman if need be. As much as he figured the reaction would be justified, he didn't want America to take the brunt of it alone and NK was too unpredictable for his taste to trust he would be fine or to not escalate arguments.

While they were waiting for England and France to arrive, Canada started learning a lot more about how America and NK acted together. America was not shy about PDA, at least in front of Canada, and it was kind of intriguing to see the difference in how NK reacted. He noticed the tone and general vibe NK gave off was completely different around America, like it was softer or more affectionate rather than being defensive and having a generally dangerous aura. Sure, NK elbowed him in the ribs when America got too excited with his hugs, but it was far better than Canada thought would happen. He got an idea of the softer side of NK when America's anxiety finally caught up with him and the Korean was almost like a mother hen with how much care he was showing. It made Canada accept that these two definitely had a mutual love towards each other, and his suspicions died down.

Now, when America and Canada sat England and France down for the talk, NK was a lot more hesitant but wasn't going to leave America on his own (especially since America stuck right by him when they told his side of the family), so he was semi-hiding around the corner so that he was close enough to at least listen in and be right there if needed. Canada agreed that NK's immediate presence would have set alarm bells off for England and France, and it would be best to break it to them when they were calm and not already on edge.

When America told England and France, they both seriously thought it was joke, even laughing (England laughing the hardest) and saying how he really needed to come up with something more believable than that. When NK spoke about it being true and stepped out (America not so subtly shifted to the side so that he was partially in front of NK cause he felt an immediate need to protect), France was more dumbfounded but more accepting if a bit skeptical (love is love, c'est la vie) while England went from confusion, to shock, to rage. If it weren't for Canada holding England down, he probably would have lunged at NK and America.

England went OFF on them, with his main focus being directed towards NK and how this was clearly just a plot involving his government and that America is an absolute idiot for believing otherwise. It was at this point that NK, in the calmest and level-headed tone despite being on the very edge of losing his temper that sent shivers down all the nations' spines, told England right off that not only is the idea of a plot so ludicrous that even his own leader would laugh at it, but that it was entirely wrong. He goes right on to say that he is risking his own well-being and safety and is completely willing to toe that line because his love for Alfred is stronger than his own suspicions and fear of his own government. NK tells England, with maybe a foot distance between them and America holding NK back from going any closer, that he can hate him as much as he wants, he can even still choose to not accept that they are in a relationship, but he will make sure England walks away knowing two things: this relationship has nothing to do with politics and that his attitude and throwing a fit because of his hatred will not change the fact that they are dating and will continue to date. This was a curtesy so that they knew from the horse's mouth rather than from someone else; acceptance was never expected. Continuing on, NK states how he can even hate England himself as much as he wants, but that he will be tolerant of him regardless since he will not force America to cut him out of his life, and that all that he expects from England is to be treated the same. As if that wasn't enough, NK had to add that, yeah, America can be an idiot, but he's his idiot, so don't call him that or he will be more than happy to punch England in the face.

So, the first meeting with FACE did not go well, especially with England. In private, that confrontation took so much out of NK that he was visibly shaking from nerves and emotionally drained afterwards. Canada and France absolutely had more respect for NK himself after that (France couldn't help but gush at how romantic it was and how it was like a classic scene out of a romance movie/drama). After some time to stew, England grew a grudging respect as well, though it never stopped future interactions between NK and himself at later gatherings from being super tense.

Though there was one time when NK and England had a temporary truce at a gathering where America was being excessively idiotic. It went like this:

America does/says something that makes the 5th or so stupidest thing he has done or said today.

NK, about to lose it: I'm about ready to chuck this encyclopedia at your head if you don't smarten up!

England, whose also had enough: Don't aim for his head, you'll only make him worse by losing what little brain cells he has left. Aim for the shins, he'll learn quicker that way.

France: You two are absolutely terrifying when you're both on the same page.

[savebatsfromscratch]

No.19 I Try Not To.

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50962858

Words: 2,056

Cws: Stalking, psychological horror, mentions of murder and guns

Notes: This is a DIRECT continuation of this fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38582931 It will NOT make sense if you haven't read it.   You don’t have to read it as a “cannon” continuation of that fic, but oh well.

Also, not to ruin the mood of anything, but I listened to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZW5W-MEvr5w the whole time writing this. xP

Prompt: No. 19: “I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.” Floral Bouquet | Psychological | “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”

Alfred stammered out a gasp, ducking under Russia’s arm and stumbling a bit away from the desk. In his shock, he had managed to get away from him, but it was only when he felt that gloved hand on his wrist did he choke a response out of himself.

“I try not to,” he whispered, staring down at the office floor as if it was the creature that was holding him in place. He heard Russia begin to chuckle, and America whipped his head up to look at him, his throat suddenly hot with anger. He yanked his hand away. Fuck the thirty minute rule, his employer wasn’t getting him back at the office until next workday at the earliest. He was going home.

“You don’t scare me,” America sneered, sticking his tongue out at Russia, who at least had the decently to look mildly taken aback by his defiance, “And don’t bother checking up on me later, I’ve done quite enough work for the day,”

He marched over to the door, doing his best not to sprint the short distance it took to get there as lingering terror crawled down his back. Thankfully, Russia, still clearly shocked, did not chase him, instead choosing to stand rooted in place as the gentle light of the sunset and the harsh glow of the false stars shone down on him.

…

Days had passed since that interaction, and life had gone on as normal for America. Drove to work in his good ‘ol chevy, had a nice lunch at the town diner (he was really getting into their cheeseburgers recently, believe it or not), and slaved over pages and pages of useless paperwork. Yes, he was living the life. Fake stars on the ceiling, window curtains open, feet kicked up on the desk. It was everything he could have asked for.

His life was so normal, in fact, that he almost forgot about that meeting with Russia.

…Almost.

No matter how much America tried to act like things were fine and normal and that he was okay, things just kept proving him wrong. When his first client had knocked on his office door the next day after, he had jumped a little in his seat, half expecting Russia to be back to finish whatever job he had started. Of course, it wasn't Russia, just another super boring client meeting, and he kicked himself for his caution. If Russia wanted to get him, he would have done it already, wouldn't he?

Still, America found himself looking behind his shoulder more often than normal, half expecting a gun pointed at his head the moment he turned. He still found himself packing a weapon of his own in his bag, you know, just in case. He still found himself jumping at small sounds and locking the door during his last thirty minutes at work. He didn't even care if it wasn't allowed, there was no way he was going to be following something that might get him killed.

His coworkers were beginning to notice, raising eyebrows when he shivered at their hands on his wrists, or whispering behind his back when he looked up at the sound of his human name. (He didn't use it so much these days, even compared to his extremely sparing use of it before Russia had met up with him.) It wasn't even just a lie anymore, it was an invitation to that which he did not want.

That which he would not come away from in one piece.

America kept busy with paperwork, trying to keep his mind off the terror that he knew was swirling just under the surface of that focus. He kept busy with his life, cleaning his house, painting is white picket fence a new, brighter shade, shining the metal of his car until the red was almost as reflective as the newly cleaned radio disk on his roof. He kept busy with his food, grilling burgers for all the little kids in his neighborhood in his freetime. (Though hosting parties wasn't usually his thing.)

Maybe he was trying to act perfect. Maybe he was just trying to keep a sense of normalcy in his life.

But mostly he was trying to act like he was safe.

Even though he hadn't seen Russia in days, he wasn't naive enough to think that he was safe from whatever awful plan the man had had in mind for him. He'd had a long enough history as an immortal to know that they weren't the kind of monster to lose focus on a target. Hell, he'd been exactly in Russia's position a few times in the past, and he knew that, if he were in that place now, he would only be biding his time for the next best time to strike.

Missing the first strike wasn't that big of a deal, America knew that nations found just as much fun in the chase as they did in the payoff. Of course he knew! There was a reason he liked the energetic drag of a close game of baseball. That slow, almost painful wait for what you wanted was half of the pleasure of seeing it done.

He was no better than a cat playing with a mouse, and America knew that Russia was much the same.

He shivered as he sat in his armchair, trying to relax after a long day of work, but ultimately failing. He was technically still on call for the company, so he couldn't focus on much more than sitting there, waiting for his phone to ring or his doorbell to ding. 

It was torture, but not the fun kind that came with the chase of a kill.

He turned his face to the clock on the wall, watching as its fancy hands slowly ticked around the glowing surface of its face. In the moment, the normally trivial metronome sound of the thing seemed much more important, almost like it was his lifeline, in some weird way.

In the fireplace, a fire roared, but America couldn't help but tune out the sound of the flames as he stared at the smiling face of the clock. Just a few more minutes and he would declare his job done. Just a few more minutes and he could go to bed. And just a few hours from then, he could be back to work, distracted again from the worries that bound him in place.

Tick, tock, tick, tock...

He adjusted his glasses, taking a shaky breath as the world blurred and unblurred in the corners of his vision.

Not too much time now.

Unfortunately, it was right then that the phone rang.

It was a controlled, expected sort of sound, but that didn't mean it didn't send dred scuttering down his spine. If this were a regular sort of week, America probably would have laughed, cursed his bad luck with his clients, and picked up the phone, but something deep inside him seemed to be screaming a warning that that was not what he was dealing with here. 

He continued to listen to the phone, watching it jolt around in its holder as it fought for his attention.

He counted, one, two, three... somehow hoping that the phone would calm down and leave him alone, but knowing that it wasn't going to happen. He knew he had to answer this. Getting fired wasn't anything like what he wanted to do at the moment. No, he had far too much to worry about without adding money to the list.

America picked up the phone.

“Hello?” he asked, “A. Jones here, what's your issue?”

The line was silent.

”Hello?“ he asked again, fighting the sting of panic as he spoke into the phone. It was pretty common for people to miss the first part of what he said to them over the phone, he had no reason to be scared, right? ”Can you hear me?”

He heard a click, and the phone went to static in his hand.

America stood up sharply, dropping the phone as if it was the fire warming his face, instead of that in the fireplace.

“Okay,” he told himself, feeling his heart jumping around in his throat as he gave the room a quick sweep with his eyes, “Okay, time's up,”

He stepped forward awkwardly, almost disjointedly, but stopped abruptly. Where could he go? He was safest at home, wasn't he? Russia knew his workplace, but he hadn't shown up at his home yet, right? This was as good a place as any, right?

He headed back to his chair, sitting slowly and purposefully. He tried to reason with himself. Someone could have called the wrong number and not wanted to cause a fuss. His phone could be broken and not have transferred his speech to the caller (it had happened before, after all). Maybe he hadn't been professional enough and the caller had thought they were mistaken with their choice in number.

He tried to be calm, tried to act normal, tried to forget. It was fine. He was fine. It was a coincidence, that was all.

America picked up a newspaper, trying to focus on those swimming words on the page rather than his rushing heart. He didn't need to be this panicked. He was okay. He was safe. (But deep down, America knew that was not true.)

Still, he kept reading, gradually feeling his heart slow and his fear fade as he got more and more into what he was reading. The stocks, the newest sports, the ups and downs in local law. He knew it was important, it was the little bits and pieces that made him,  /him/, after all, how could it not be?

The doorbell rang.

Clear and sharp through his home, cutting through the calm that he had forced into himself as if it was some easily discontinued brand of paper. (And then laughing as it disintegrated around his newly shaking hands.)

Should he answer it?

The doorbell rang again.

It couldn't be a good idea to answer it, right?

A hand rapped on his door.

If that was his boss, America would definitely be in trouble for not answering.

The knocking increased in intensity.

America stood up and began to walk towards the door. He was probably just being paranoid. What would make him any more of a target than one of his leaders anyway? Why the Hell would Russia choose this time of night to knock, after all of those days of complete nothing from his end?

The knocking ended, and muffled footsteps could be heard as the person who had been knocking walked away and down the driveway.

America tried to reason with himself. If that was his boss, he only had a little time to open the door before he had lost his chance to talk. (And Lord knew his bosses always wanted to talk.) His hand floated right above the doorknob as his mind rushed and raced.

What was the likelihood that that was what he thought it was? In a safe neighborhood like this?

The lock clicked, and America peaked outside.

At first he didn't see anything strange. (Though the lack of a car in the driveway probably should have immediately alerted him to the fact that it hadn't been his boss out there.) Just his quiet road, a few kids playing in the yard across the street, a nice man from the book club walking his dog down the road, and a truly gorgeous sunset glow still hanging in the cloudless sky above.

America moved to open the door a little further, but it caught on something on his doorstep. He took a step back, wondering what the blockage had been. Had that been the postman with a really late package delivery? Maybe someone had remembered to return something to him?

He looked down, and his heart jumped into his stomach.

There, smudged on his doorstep, was the telltale yellow of the petals of a sunflower. And, among them, a small note, with familiar cursive writing scrawled on the white paper. America dropped to his knees, his hands shaking as he reached for the note.

His breath came fast.

On the paper was a simple question. “How about now?” It asked, “Do you still try?”

[lopsidedtreetrunks]

While researching some stuff for my Ghostalia au (that's what I'm calling it now bdjjs) I found out about the Grand Embassy and saw this text in the Wikipedia article:

I like to think they're still drinking buddies 🥲

[atomic-insomnia]

last line...snippet

seeing @dustylovelyrun post inspired me to put this up, plus I’ve gone so long without any progress on my WIPs this might kickstart me back into working:

“God, the stars are something else when it’s cold out,” Alfred said, folding his arms behind his head.  A lazy, detuned sort of smile stretched across his face as he stared into the dark sky.  “It’s like it clears everything else away.”

The cold and dark made Ivan think along different lines.  “…Alfred,” he said quietly, not even sure he wanted to ask but hit with curiosity, “When was the first time you died?”

Beside him Alfred shifted, wrapping his arms around himself instead.  “…I don’t remember.”

“Oh, no?”  Ivan kept his voice light.

“I really don’t,” Alfred said.  “I was…I was brand-new.  I think it was touch-and-go for a while with me.”

“What does that mean?”

“That, uh, that it could’ve gone either way.”  Alfred sighed slowly, sending up a cloud of breath.  “I could’ve failed to ever take hold.”

“Oh.  What a shame that would be.”  Cupping his hand to block the light, Ivan lit two cigarettes.  A sudden bright flash would’ve ruined the ability to see those stars for a few minutes.  The sharpness of tobacco smoke cut through the cold night air, not quite warm, but a little closer to it.  “Then you would never be here with me.”

“Aw, shut up,” said Alfred with a sharp smirk, “and I’d never have kicked Germany’s ass, or–or–”

“Or bankrupted the West.”

“I–well…”  Tucking his arms in tighter, Alfred sat up, his back against the building.  He didn’t look at Ivan.

Not until Ivan waved one of the cigarettes close enough to get his attention.  He double-took, glancing at Ivan’s face.

“…Spasibo.”

“Your accent is still terrible,” Ivan said.

“Back at’cha.”

“This is my country, I can speak however I like.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

Ivan hissed a smoke cloud through his teeth.  “That is because you keep attempting to subvert and overthrow our socialist way of life.  You capitalist dog.”

Rather than answer him, Alfred took a long drag.  When he came up for air, he tilted his head back.

Watching from the corner of his eye, Ivan said, “…What are you doing?”

The first smoke ring he blew was only a ring because there was no other name for it.  The next two got steadily better.

Ivan knew exactly what the rude capitalist wanted him to say, and he clamped his jaw to stop himself.

The words broke out anyway.  “…Show me how to do that.”

Sure enough, Alfred grinned, all teeth.  Instead, after a slow and contemplative moment, he said, “I know it was in the winter.”

“What was?”

“The first time I died.”  Another drag, another infuriatingly slow smoke ring.  “I don’t actually know where I came from.  England claims he found me in the woods in Virginia, but Tsenacommacah–the Nation-spirit that lived there first–she always claimed the Europeans brought me.  I don’t know, I can’t remember more than little bits and pieces that far back.  I don’t remember Europe, if that’s true.  England tried to set up a colony, and…”

He paused again, but merely rolled the cigarette between his fingers.  “…And winters in Virginia are a lot colder than he was expecting.  I mean–”  And with a sheepish sort of grin he turned to Ivan, tipped his hat.  “Not like yours.”

“It is no insult to me.”  Remembering his own cigarette, Ivan feigned disinterest.  He’d never heard any of Alfred’s childhood; if anything, he’d only noticed the other when America threw off British rule.

“But still, more than he was expecting.  I remember…I remember frostbite, and…”  Alfred frowned down, drew his knees in.  “When I got here, not long after, you asked me if I ever starved to death.”

“…Ah.”

“It…it wasn’t quick.”

“It never is.”

Alfred gave a little laugh, bright and brittle.  “It happened a couple of times in the early years.  Maybe for a hundred years or so.”

“Touch-and-gone?”

“Touch-and-go.  On-and-off.  Yeah.”  He took another drag, although this one didn’t turn into a party trick.  “…I’ve starved more than just then–I guess that’s why I’m always hungry, haha.  A lot of times it happens as immigrants start getting close to shore; I’ll get dizzy, sometimes pass out.  Usually don’t actually die, anymore.  I guess I just pick up on their hunger, you know?”

Frowning, Ivan smoked in silence.  With how many immigrants he had, he’d never noticed–his hunger came about when the people already part of him fell to famine.  He’d certainly known his share of rough winters and failed crops, but…

“You sort of roll your tongue.”

<<What?>>

Hat tipped back, Alfred puffed on the cigarette and blew another smoke ring.  Best yet.  “You sort of keep the smoke in your throat, and tsk your tongue, but like, on the bottom of your mouth.”  He did it again.  A perfect circle.

Instead of trying the way he knew America wanted him to, Ivan slashed his hand through the ring.

Alfred only laughed.

An older scene from Brother, Can You Spare a Dime.  (For reference, this is the 1930′s Great Depression/American Immigrant/Early Soviet Union RusAme slow burn fic I talk about on a regular basis--historical AU but exploring the nations’ nation-weirdness enough that it technically counts as fantasy or magical realism) I’m serious when I say I can’t write attempted flirting without it turning to discussions of mortality.  I like this scene but most likely it’ll be cut or changed heavily to, you know, make something actually happen.  But still, call this proof I am still writing it.

if anyone wants to take this as a sign to post something from their WIP, consider this an open tag!

[glittery-ishfish]

Fanmade "Having Friends Is Nice...♫" translation

(Feel free to use as long as credit is given)

日本語

「本当に気の許せる友達　かぁ～

いいなぁ僕あこがれるなぁ♪」

ほしいな　ほしいな　本当のお友達ほしいなぁ

友達が出来たなら暖かい草原で寝転んで

ゴロンゴロンゴロンゴロンってして遊ぶんだ☆

「うふふ♪」

どうしたら　どうしたら友達って出来るのかな

[♪♪♪]

ほしいな　ほしいな　本当のお友達ほしいなぁ

友達と一緒ならコサックダンスも楽しいよ

ポコッポコッポコポコリンってしちゃうんだ☆

「わざとじゃないよぉ？」

どうしたら　どうしたら友達って出来るのかな

「皆が笑いあって、皆が、許しあって。

ホカホカのボルシチを熱いねぇ〜って食べたら

圧力とか、プチッ!とかしなくても

ずっとずっと手を繋いでいられるかなぁ〜？」

友達が出来たんだ

こんなにたくさん出来たんだ

リトアニア　エストニア　ラトビア　仲良しだよ

（リトアニア　エストニア　ラトビアー♪）

ほしいな　ほしいな　もっともっとお友達

ん～

ほしいな　ほしいな　本当のお友達♪

うふっ♪

Romaji

“Hontōni ki no yuruseru tomodachi, kā~ 

ī nā boku akogareru nā♪”

Hoshī na hoshī na

Hontō no o tomodachi hoshī na

Tomodachi ga dekita nara 

Attakai sō gen de nekoron de-

Goron goron goron goron tte shite 

Asobu nda~a ☆ 

Ufufu~

Dōshitara, dōshitara

Tomodachi tte dekiru no ka na? 

[♪♪♪]

Hoshī na hoshī na 

Hontō no o tomodachi hoshii na

Tomodachi to issho nara 

KOSAKKU DANSU mo tanoshī yo 

Poko poko, poko pokorin tte 

Shichau nda~a ☆

“Wazato janai yo~?”

Dōshitara dōshitara 

Tomodachi tte dekiru no ka na? 

“Min'na ga warai atte, min'na ga yurushi atte

Hokahoka no BORUSHICHI o atsui nē tte tabetara

Atsuryoku toka puchi toka shinakute mo,

Zutto zutto te wo tsunaide irareru ka nā…?”

Tomodachi de kita nda

Kon'na ni takusan de kita nda

RITOANIA ESUTONIA RATOBIA

Nakayoshi da yo ☆ 

(RITOANIA ESUTONIA RATOBIA~♪)

Hoshī na hoshī na 

Motto motto o tomodachi 

Mm~♪

Hoshī na hoshī na 

Hontō no o tomodachi♪

Ufu♪

English

"A true friend I can trust? Ka~ 

That sounds nice, I'd love to have [someone like] that~!"

I really want, I really want

More than anything else in the world, I want a real friend

If I made friends, 

we'd lie down in a warm meadow.

Falling back, with a flop, we’d lie back

and hang out all day☆

Ufufu~♪

I wonder how, I wonder how

How can I find myself some friends?

[♪♪♪]

I really want, I really want

More than anything else in the world, I want a real friend

If I had some friends

Cossack dancing would be more fun

Here, and there, and here, and there

And around again☆

“I didn’t do that on purpose, okay~?”

I wonder how, I wonder how

How can I find myself some friends?

"If everyone laughed together, if everyone forgave each other

Then we could all eat hot borscht together.

I wonder if then, without any pressure or breaking, 

could we hold hands forever and ever…?”

(T/N: 'pressure' as in his (terrible) methods of getting others to spend time with him and 'breaking' as in breaking someone's hand, or could imply hurting someone on accident)

I finally found some new friends

I have found so many wonderful friends!

Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia

Are my close good friends☆

(Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia~)

I really want, I really want

I want to find more and more friends

Hmm~♪

I really want, I really want

All I really want is a true friend♪

Ufu♪

[queenofdenest]

Title: in the mouth of trauma (is silence not an act of violence too?) Fandom: Hetalia Warnings: creator chooses not to use archive warnings Relationships: Est & Liet & Lat Characters: HWS Est, HWS Liet, HWS Lat, HWS Rus, others mentioned Tags: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Non-Consensual Drug Use, Aftermath of Torture, Psychological Torture, Psychiatric Torture Aftermath, Victim Blaming, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Dissociation, Disordered thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, Mental Instability, Historical Hetalia, Soviet Union Era, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Mentioned Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied Past Attempted Suicide

Summary: it's time to leave behind everything they have done to him, but how does one begin to heal when the wounds no longer cover his body, just his mind?

AO3: the link to read it on ao3

A/N: So I'm going to be honest, I never thought that the first fic (Isolation) would have a sequel but when I sat down, my brain really said that that story was not done yet. I don't know yet how far I'm going with this, so far there are two more fics set during this time period that are much less *gestures at everything involved in this fic* then this, but those will definitely not be done this month, maybe next month. Though I'm actually hoping to have some happier things to share soon.

I do warn to please look back at the tags as every single one of those are mentioned throughout the fic - unlike with Isolation, I can't give paragraph specific warnings as basically every paragraph has a triggering content in it. Like this fic is more than a tad bit darker than the previous fic, sorry. That being said, I have listed every single tag I believe needs to be there, if there is one missing please nicely let me know. If you need to take a break while reading this, may I lead you to video of mine.craft yt Go.odTimes.WithSc.ar being hilarious?

All mistakes are my own, my beta is asleep so they haven't read this over for me. Information is at the bottom as it always is for my historical works.

Lastly, title is from Blythe Baird – “Pocket-Sized Feminism”, no real reason besides I really like it. Prompt is from Fict.ober 2021, "You have no proof". dedicated to my beta, who's asleep right now, who talked with me about this fic, and to my mother who read the ending to tell me it didn't suck.

Last warning, this fic is dark and to please read the tags.

____

The sun is setting when he’s dragged out of the room – fear in his stomach as they grip his arms roughly, leading him down the hall to the shower rooms.

He hates the shower rooms.

He never used to mind the shower rooms or what they represented – group showers – but ever since he was dragged to one after that tortuously long car ride, thrown to the grimy floor in a building he assumed was abandoned, and all but tortured by the soldiers who seemingly took great pleasure in what they were doing, he has had trouble with them. It’s like they no longer represent the idea of being equal with the other people in there*, instead they are the place where bad things happen.

He hopes that’s not what’s going to happen now.

Not again.

He knows he wouldn’t survive it; his body is weak and tired. The doctors have been raising the dosage of the medication* they were giving him; they wanted him far too docile. And while his nation physiology did wonders to get rid of most medications quickly, even at doses that would incapacitate or kill a human, he was being given doses every few hours. He knows it’s been absolutely annoying the head doctor – the man had threatened to force a bottle of poison down his throat, as if somehow he controlled how his body worked.

Higher and higher dosages and more pills forced down his throat by a maniac and those who appeased him.

He forces himself back to the present, to the soldiers, and tries to even his breath out as rough words are tossed from one and another, their meaning lost on him in his terror. They must be chatting about what they plan to do to him, of what is going on – and if he focuses, he knows that he could understand the words, but there’s a part of him doesn’t want to.

It’s sometimes easier to live in the world where he can feign ignorance; any question they might ask him is in vain if he lets his mind wander away from him to times where things were much easier. To times where the terror is no longer lurking.

He takes a deep breath as the door swings open, the sound of another patient – victim – screams from somewhere in the building as he is thrown into the room, the memory from the first time this happened echoing in his movements.

Get in there!

He is, for once, thankful that they had taken his glasses when he was moved into this particular place; they had made a horrible sound as they had hit the grimy floor once before and he has no desire to hear that same clink, especially since he can hear in his head the sound of throaty laughter and footsteps moving closer to him -

Didn’t hear me, did you traitor? I said get up!

Rough hands grab him once more, “Up, up,” they say, the Russian words falling quicker, “We have no time for this, get up.”

They aren’t shouting. Their words are harsh and demanding, but they’re not shouting and so he manages to bring himself back to the present, to help himself to his feet. More hands touch him and he lets himself be directed to the first open shower, staring at it in fear. He knows how this goes.

“We are right out the door – don’t try anything, we will know,” one of the men says, dark eyes piercing as he points to the entrance. “Shower quickly, shower thoroughly.”

Let’s get this evidence off you, not that anyone would believe a fucking traitorous bastard such as yourself.

(he didn’t believe himself either)

He feels himself nod and watch as they leave the room, doors swinging behind them. Part of it feels that his mind goes with them, sliding out the flesh he’s been placed in and following them across gleaning white tiles, past a set of weak doors, to stand and wait until he’s done with the directive given to him.

It still leaves the body behind though, and he knows that if he doesn’t do as he’s told, he’ll be forced to by one of them: the last thing he wants is more hands touching him.

Even if the hands that hurt the most has long since been gone, he can still feel haunted by them; still feel the burn of bruises forming against skin that has grown weak since his first capture – the time when he was young, not the one done by the brutes manning the Soviet army.

His shaking hands drop to his clothing, sea green eyes darting towards the door for a brief second before he starts with the buttons on the shirt. He doesn’t look at his body after the shirt is gone, instead his eyes go distant as he stares at the tiled walls, hands dropping to his pants.

He had been a fighter once*, he thinks as fearful hands shed the last protection he has on him.

Most saw him as a homebody and he is – he’d never argue that he was most at home among his people; farming, learning, living, breathing in the fresh air, but when war had brought itself to his doorstep, he never backed down. He met challenges with a straight back and a fierce strength that had won him many battles and many scars. He had been set against bigger nations, more powerful then he’d been and been told to give up, submit, things would be easier if he did, and he had told them that he was never going to bend, never going to break, and he had never done so.

And yet – right as the water turns on, the sound of the pipes creaking from all around him; the water, lukewarm at best, spraying against his bruised flesh, he feels like breaking now.

He knows he can’t, whatever is going on will need him to carry that same strength that he had carried as a child, but the fragility of his mind after these long months – years, possibly – keeps him flitting between the nation he once was and the man who learned to keep his head down to avoid anymore trouble than his existence already brought him.

He grabs for the soap in front of him, the filthy looking bar slimy between his fingers, slimy against his bare skin. Not that he needs it to feel slimy, but it does it’s job as best as it could. Dirty water sits for a second at the drain before being sucked away, disappearing forever.

Come here, I swear it’s like you live to disappoint – get in the bath already, can’t have the doctors asking questions if you show up looking like a cheap whore.

(the doctors don’t care, don’t care, don’t care, don’t care)

His nails bite into the soap as he grips it hard, two deep breaths in, two deep breaths out.

I don’t want to share my traitorous bitch.

(lieslieslieslieslieslieslieslieslies)

The shower shuts off, there’s a towel sitting on the broken sink and he reaches for it, forcing himself to focus on the story of the broken sink and not that monster’s words. He doesn’t remember who told it – either Dmitri, who was there for expressing disappointment in the current regime, or Linas, who was there because his father had spoken out against the Soviets but who lied to protect the old man – but it was one of them who told him in whispers late at night through the gaps in the solitary wing’s broken walls the story of the broken sink.

It wasn’t particularly interesting, he thinks as he swipes away the moisture on his skin. Mostly he had listened because he had been down there for over two weeks and his voice had all but disappeared from singing and screaming for far too long. It was, though, a sign of what kind of behavior was tolerated there.

A nurse enters a clandestine relationship with a patient. She uses the shower room as it’s the easiest place to clean up and she knows the schedule of her fellow nurses so can tell when will be safe to take her patient lover there to interact. A doctor, one who had been trying to court her, found out one day and decides to do something about it. He decides he will kill the patient and to do so, lures the poor addled man to the space on a night she’s not supposed to be working. While waiting for the other, he rips the pipe from the sink and hides near the door, ready to kill the other when he walks in.

And walks in the other man does but with the nurse. The doctor was shocked and drops the pipe, but in his rage at seeing them together, he kills the patient anyway, bashing his head against the sink, over and over and over again, until the porcelain breaks and bleeds.

While this is happening, the nurse has run off to get help, fear overriding all sense she has as she worries for the man she loves. She returns with help but it’s too late for the patient and the doctor, who is covered in blood, coldly turns to the guard she had brought and tells the man, “The nurse here has been colluding with this patient to kill me – I overheard their plan and decided to act before either could get me.”

He is believed. The nurse is sent away, left to die in whatever painful way they want her to in a gulag somewhere. The doctor continues to work there. No one cares; not about the nurse wrongfully convicted, not about a patient sent there for mental problems being murdered by a man meant to help him, and definitely not for a doctor with blood on his hands and not a shred of guilt in his soul.

He has internalized that lesson here – no one cares about any of them – and it’s been proven far too often as every day passes.

A soldier walks in right as he’s putting his underwear back on and it takes all he has to hold back the urge to cover his body with the towel, to shy away from this man who looks more a child than an adult. But hold it back he does, instead staring at the man as fabric is thrust towards him. Russian is spoken, his brain still far away in another world.

The soldier looks back towards the door before licking his lips and saying, “Clothing, for you,” in a language* he’s not heard from anyone not him in far too long.

Estonian.

His language.

He reaches for them, the sight of his glasses calling to him and the fabric familiar as his hands clenches around them. “Thank you,” he says carefully in that same language.

He’s not scared of what will happen if a nurse or doctor hears him. He’s spoken it far too often for someone who’s been punished for doing so. It – along with the dozen or so other languages he knows – have been the one thing that has comforted him through everything, and while he’s not thankful for having to learn them how he did, he is thankful he did learn them.

The solider – a boy no older than 20 – gives him a smile, as if he’s done something good, and nods again, motioning to his hands. “Please, hurry,” he says, in Russian this time, before turning and leaving.

Despite the thankfulness that comes from hearing his own language from another's mouth after being removed from the two other nations who spoke enough of it to keep him from going crazy, he’s still uneasy; he’d be stupid not to be. He still has no idea what is going on. This was nothing like how they moved him from the first facility to this one – that had been done through drugging him and him waking up in a moving vehicle, his eyes blinded and his hands tied again.

The soldiers, the same from when he was first taken from Mister Russia’s manor, had laughed at his panic.

“Look at the traitor – scared of what might happen.”

Still, he does what he’s told, dressing in the clothing given to him, his glasses first. They look familiar, like something he owns back at Mister Russia’s home, but he can’t see how they could’ve gotten them. To go there and ask for some, or even to go there and grab any clothing, would be tantamount to admitting that he was taken somewhere where his other clothing was either damaged or gone – it’d be admitting something.

Which, he knows for certain, they did not – would not – want to do.

He had yelled it over and over again at the first facility. They had no right to do what they were doing – there were laws* that they had to listen to when it came to people like him, they would be in trouble. Of course, as time puttered by, he had come to the realization that no, they wouldn’t. For that to happen, he’d have to be willing to bring everything to the other nations.

Something that he did not – would not – want to do.

Looking at himself in the cracked dirty mirror, he presses his hand against the starchy feel of the button up shirt sleeves; to the softness of the sweater vest, the stiffness of the pants. He’s even got a belt – for a flash of a second he wants to wrap it around his throat and one of the pipes that line the ceiling – and it’s surprisingly easy how he falls right back into comfort as he coils it around his waist and buckles it.

He looks normal.

It feels weird.

The boy soldier comes back, smiling as he does so. “Ah, Mister Russia said you would like those – your brown haired brother wanted to give you a different outfit but what Mister Russia wants, Mister Russia gets.” His Russian is not as rough as the others are. In fact, he can, for the briefest moment in all of history, pretend not to hate the language, but for him to pretend that it still doesn’t grate at his skin like a serrated blade being drawn down his skin on it’s side, would be a lie that even he can’t speak.

“Mister Russia?” His – Eduard’s – Russian is perfect as always: he’s always been gifted orally.

You’ve got such a talented mouth – makes sense for a traitorous little bitch.

Linguistically talented.

For the most part, it’s been a blessing as no matter how much he argues that he will refuse to learn a new language, the nations who have held his land have followed the same script when it comes to forcing him: refusing to speak to him in any language not their own, refusing him books that aren’t in their language, refusing him time spent on his own land or among his own people, ignoring him should he speak any language that is not the one they were trying to force upon him. He knows that, for most of them, it was never done maliciously, but he still resents them for it*.

He’s always hated that his language was considered lesser by some; hated that he was expected to learn while they were not.

But that’s bygones – thoughts he uses to distract himself from the terror that he’s been living in. Sometimes late at night he would pretend to argue with nations from his past about it, going over words out loud in the slurred state that he was often left in until he felt like he had properly argued his point.

“Yes, Mister Russia is demanding you home,” the boy solider says, who motions to the door behind him, “We have been sent to do so.”

It takes the air out of his lungs for a moment to hear that. He knows that going home does not mean going back to his country but instead back to Russia’s manor home, and yet he feels the slightest bit of happiness. He hates the idea of going back there – the representation of Russia was not a sane man; history had taken it’s toll on him and he took it out on others* – but it was better than waiting every night to see what torture befell him.

Tell me, are all nations weak like you?

“Why?” It falls out of his mouth before he has the ability to tamp down on it; kill it before it kills him. Especially when he knows the answer – what Mister Russia wants, Mister Russia gets – that will come.

There’s a shrug before, “I don’t know. We were told to get you, bring you to Moscow where you will wait for Mister Russia to pick you up. That’s it,” is said. And like good soldiers who do not question what their orders are, here they are.

“I’m ready then.”

____

If he expects that they’re going to walk him out like he was brought it – dragged by his underarms, blindfolded, clothes a mess, thrown to the ground like a piece of trash they wanted nothing more than to get rid of – then he’s mistaken. Instead, the boy soldier calls for his fellow soldiers, men who look older and as if this job is beneath them. One stands in front of him, one stands in back, and then one on each side.

It’s like he’s being protected but he knows the truth: it’s so that he has no thought of running, no way to try if he even wanted to.

Eduard flinches as the doors to the building swing open, the bright light of the sky burning his eyes a bit. There are two small cars sitting in front of the stairs, the head doctor whispering to another soldier near the passengers’ side of one of them.

He wants nothing to do with whatever conversation is happening, the head doctor is as cruel as the soldiers from before, but as a thick manila folder is passed between the two men, he wishes he could hear what is being said – perhaps it is about him and his mental state.

Perhaps it’s about the drugs given to him that have started to wear off and what they did.

Perhaps it is about the harm that has befallen him while in their care – a soldier who took too much liberties whenever he had the chance, the male nurses who slammed him up against walls and forced his mouth open to push pills past his lips, a female nurse who pinched him whenever he would doze off during the day as she didn’t want him to ruin his sleeping pattern.

Perhaps it is about the other things that even in his thoughts Eduard will not mention.

Whatever it is, the soldier has it packed away in a locked briefcase before Eduard has even approached them, the quartet of solemn faced men marching him slowly.

“Ready?” The man asks and, by the way the others nod their head, it’s obvious that he is the one in charge of it all. “Good, get in the car.”

The door is opened for him, the boy soldier slides in first and Eduard takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he follows. His body wants to shake, the last time he was in a car like this was -

I bet you like being surrounded like this – all helpless and needy.

“Are you okay?”

He wants to scream – wants to laugh – wants to take the knife from the belt nearby and stab until he feels better – but instead he nods and lies like he’s been taught to do since his country was taken from him and his people, “Yes, thank you.”

He’s polite even when he doesn’t want to be.

“Good, soon you will be home.”

It’s not his home, sits snugly on his lips. He had said that once to the Russian nation and received a backhanded slap for it, along with a long, long lecture about not being respectful enough. Eduard had felt he was being respectful, especially given that that time around, he hadn’t added any poison to the taller nation’s drinks.

Instead he says nothing, holding back the flinch that threatens his body once one of the other soldiers slides in to sit next to him. He can’t reach any of the doors, he can’t escape, he can just stare off in the distance and disappear from this world as he learned to do while locked up in solitary.

The driver in front – the soldier that was talking to the doctor – starts the car in silence, a quick bark of orders done too quick for Eduard to focus on translating to the other soldiers, before they’re off; the psychiatric facility nothing more then a minor stage piece in his personal history.

He should feel something, he thinks as they leave what had housed him behind and he’s able to see where he was being held. He should feel anything but all he can think is about how nice the little wooded areas look as they bypass them; how even if he hadn’t been blindfolded on the drive up, he still wouldn’t have been able to see anything with how late he had arrived.

So, in that case, for what other reason then but to make him feel helpless, did the original soldiers have him blindfolded and tied up, knelt on the floor between their clothed legs like a common whore?

But even with that thought, he can’t force himself to feel anything else but a solemn ache in his bones.

He’s just tired.

He wants home – his real home – and to hear his language as he goes about his everyday. He wants to hide away somewhere no one would ever look and pretend he doesn’t exist anymore. He wants to set himself upon the international stage and scream about what they have just let happen, and at the same time, he wants nothing more than to sew his mouth shut and never speak a word to anyone about the crimes committed against his person; against the other patients in the places he was sent to, against his fellow nations left behind in that manor.

He can’t do that though. To sew his mouth shut would be to prove to the psychiatrist who said he had gone crazy right, and they weren’t correct. He was fine – he would be fine, he would be fine and he was going to be fine. He had to be fine.

The definition of fine is different for them all though and Eduard – Estonia – is unsure what it means for him.

He knows how he’s been expected to act by those who’s owned his land, as every single other nation had different expectations of him, and he’s knew what it meant when he had his own bosses recently, and he just barely remembers what it meant the years before his country got taken, but none of those times has moments that come even close to now.

To the fear and loathing he feels.

To the memories that come and go as they please, as if they had etched themselves sharply against his skin and nary a touch would inflame them, jolting him back to the when.

To the sickness that settles in his gut at the idea of not rebelling while at the same time screaming at the idea of rebelling.

He feels hands on him at all times, hears the senseless roar of static in his ears when he loses focus. If he stops to listen for a second, he can hear the footsteps that echo as they walk down hallways, back and forth, back and forth. He feels desperate for something to distract him while at the same time fearful of being distracted by what may come.

If what they had wanted had been to permanently unsettle him, then they have succeeded, because for the life of him – and what a long life that is – he cannot seem to believe that there will come a day when he is not haunted by this; not hopelessly followed from home to home, room to room, city to city, space to space, by the violence that has damaged him so completely.

Damage that, for many reasons, he will have to carry by himself, because who could he even tell?

(He’s not telling, he promises, he would never!)

Who would even believe him?

(No one, he’s heard it all throughout this ordeal. No one would believe him – no one would listen to him – no one would care.)

The thought of telling Mister Russia barely flits in his brain before he’s batting it away. The other nation would not care, in fact, Eduard – Estonia – is sure he can actually hear what the other nation would say if he spoke of the abuse he has suffered at the hands of the other’s men. “You deserved it. You should not have been trying to betray the family. Now you have learned your lesson, are you going to be good now?”

You’ve brought this on yourself.

(pleasestoppleasestoppleasestop)

He internally shudders at that thought.

No.

Out of the question.

(Not that there even was a question – because he’s not going to tell, he swears, he would never.)

Eduard – Estonia – would never tell Latvia, it would traumatize the younger-looking nation and after spending most of his whole (imprisoned, captured) life with the other, the last thing he wants to do is put more of a heavy burden on the poor boy. Latvia has enough trouble, Eduard cannot add more.

No one cares where you are.

No one cares that you aren’t at Mister Russia’s house – it’s like nothing has even changed. It’s because you are not important. You are nothing but a traitor – no one misses a traitor.

And that goes for Lithuania too.

His relationship with the other is still slightly rocky after their fight from a few years ago, when Lithuania had first found out that Eduard – Estonia – was hoarding illegal books and pamphlets. He had been worried about what might happen to him should he be found out; what Mister Russia would do, what the Soviet government might do. Eduard had just told the other that he’d be fine, the worse that could happen was he got on Mister Russia’s bad side for a bit and had to spend time apologizing a lot; things that he basically did whenever he was caught speaking his own language.

“The government can’t touch us and it’s not like they’re going to be nicer to our people if we don’t join in on these protests,” Eduard had said while Lithuania had shaken his head, worried nonetheless.

He has no doubt that the Lithuanian would be horrified by what has happened to him, if he were to speak about it, but he also knows that Lithuania has his own troubles in the form of his abhorrent admirer that is their captor.

(And in that same vein, perhaps the other would, silently, blame Estonia for what befell him. The other had warned him, had expressed worry after worry after worry, and in his utter arrogance, Eduard – Estonia – had just waved him off. Perhaps if the other learned, he’d say You deserved it, I told you so, it’s your own fault, what did you expect them to do? And Eduard would have to live with those words coming from the mouth of his own friend (brother) for the rest of time.)

Even if he didn’t, what kind of person would he be if he forced his own problems onto someone already so troubled?

Not a good person, he hears in his head, the voice of his main tormentor echoing words he had spoken during late night torture sessions and early morning sessions. You’re not a good person at all. A weak nation, a bad friend, a terrible person. You get what you deserved.

Bile rises. His stomach clenches.

Deep breath in.

One.

Two.

Three.

Shaky breath out.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Out.

The soldiers in the car don’t notice – or don’t care – which is nice after the incessant watch he had been placed on while in the facilities. He supposes it makes sense to watch him so severely. They had him marked upon arrival, as someone who could, without a moment’s notice, seek to harm himself, even when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Before they had placed him in the protective care of the doctors and nurses of the Soviet Psychiatric field, he had never once thought about harming himself.

Now it’s a fight to ignore those thoughts.

There was no one, he returns to his previous thoughts, no one in that house he feels comfortable telling. Whatever lie that has been used to excuse away his absence is the lie he will give when asked, as soon as he finds out what it is.

“Look.” The boy solider grabs his arm to get his attention, one gloved hands pointing out the window.

Estonia-

–Eduard, a name passed to him by a brother that betrayed him and held onto after said brother had disappeared out of sentimentality; a name that had been spoken by destruction in the forms of humans trying to get him to break, hoping that he would crack as their own nation had done; a name that he doesn’t really connect to but refuses to leave behind because has he not left behind enough nations to the tide of time—he mourns for the representations of nations that had once existed but who’s existence was not long enough for them to be properly recorded in time—that he wishes to hold onto something from a nation that had once been kind to him?*-

–looks up briefly and sees a city rising from the dusty horizon.

How long has he been in his own thoughts?

Long enough that the drive has passed him by and the city of Moscow looms into view. Long enough that the fear that had been abated by his senseless thoughts comes back in it’s fullest to sit like lead in his stomach, bile displaced and rising to his throat.

He forces a smile. “Moscow?” He asks even though he knows the answer.

“Yes, we are almost there,” says the driver, his accent rougher then the boy soldier – and how long will he stay a boy soldier, he wonders. Maybe he becomes a soldier, no longer a boy, after he has used force to detain a person, following the lies gifted to him by whoever is in charge. The first time he drags a person through the streets, leaving them bloodied? Will he stop being one after his first, but not last, murder? Perhaps he will commit a rape beforehand, signaling to his fellow soldiers that he is a man who can force himself onto anyone he wishes as long as he wears the colors of his army.

Estonia doesn’t have any fairy tale ideas of what war looks like; he sat in the woods with his men trying to fight off an army of stronger opponents, watching them die and suffer, trying his hardest to help where he could, but that doesn’t mean he condones the acts that he knows are committed. Once, war had been ugly, nasty, dirty and drawn out but eventually over – now it’s the aftermaths that people struggle to move on from.

Still, he banishes the thought and instead decides to focus on getting his thoughts together. He can’t keep disappearing into his own thoughts – if he is going back to Russia’s house then he’ll not have the same amount of time to do so anymore, and if he wasn’t truly going back there, then it would probably look better if he was able to pretend he’s still at his best.

He closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath in, and like all his people had said back when he was a child nation and the looming threat of the crusades sat like an ugly shadow on his doorstep, locked everything that was not helpful away until he could unpack it at a later day.

____

When they arrive at a building, they speak quickly and roughly to each other, their words sliding from their lips faster than his slightly addled brain can keep up.

When they arrive at the building, the driver – commander? - says that they will be waiting in front of Mister Russia’s office there. He says that he expects Estonia to be on his best behavior because they have no clue how long it will take for the other nation to show up.

When they arrive at the building that decides his fate, Estonia is done packing away all the mental anguish, the trauma, the horror, the terror, and he notices that they are treating him as if he is a child who might wander off if not properly retained.

It’s demeaning.

“I’ve sat through more boring things than you can think of, I’ll be fine,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage, as they exit the vehicle. The words are much nicer than any of the biting (tearing, searing) words he wants to say. “If I do get too bored, I’m sure I’ll be able to find some way to entertain myself.”

The commander does not find him charming.

They make sure to walk in the same group formation as before; only this time, they follow like little rats the driver with his slow gait and commanding eyes. The walk to the building is slow, tension in his body rising sightly as he waits for something to change – for them to grow angry like the first set of soldiers that brought him somewhere or for them to rush him into a room and begin beating him – but nothing does and they enter the building.

There’s barely anybody, he notices as they walk through corridors and up a flight of stairs, nobody but them. It’s unnerving to think of being in a building with just these men, but it gets more unnerving as they come to a stop in the middle of a corridor two flights up, where a small retinue of others are standing in the way. It’s a small group, four men versus their six, but the way those men stand is just wrong. It’s as if there is nothing weighing down their shoulders: they stand proud and smug.

The head soldier – the driver, the commander, the rough and angry and too tired to still be here man – sighs to himself, mutters “What the fuck are they doing here,” under his breath, and squares his shoulders as one of the men in the other group comes to stand in front of them.

“We are here to take the representative of the Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic* to speak with our boss,” This man says, as he approaches. His voice is honeyed, hoarse, and full of warning as he comes to a stop in front of the commander, his arms held behind him. He gives a little nod to the other soldiers before his gray eyes zero in on Estonia. “We will be holding onto him until he is picked up by the USSR.”

His hands form fist, the threat under those words are there, he knows it, and he can see the commander frown. Hopefully the commander won’t let him be taken by these people, but Eduard doubts there is much he could do if they do decide to leave him with them. Logically, a dark part of his brain goes, it’d be easier for them – not having to deal with two nutcase nations.

“No.”

Estonia blinks. His brain is quiet for once as he takes in the sight of the soldiers steeling themselves for a fight while the other group looks at each other in confusion. He understands their thoughts, they are the type of men that one does not say no to, no matter who you are, but the commander does not seem to care about their place in the pecking order and stands plainly in place. But it cannot be that simple, Eduard thinks as the room falls into silence. You can’t just say no.

“What?” The man asks, frowning himself. “We have orders -”

The commander gives a bark of laughter, harsh like the wind against the skin in the middle of winter in poorly dressed clothing and all of the thoughts of how this man seemed weary fades as his true form comes out. His shoulders shrug as he grins slightly, “We were given orders by Mister Russia himself, to keep our eyes on this representation until he, himself, arrived to pick up the ESSR.”

He wishes they would stop referring to him as ESSR - it’s not his name, it’ll never be his name, he wants nothing to do with the farce of a name – but still, he holds himself stationary as those around him decide his fate, as he has been taught to do.

“Our boss-”

“I do not care about your boss,” the commander says, eliciting murmurs from the other men. Their boss must be very important that the words the commander says are met with such disbelief “I only care what my nation has asked of me – he has asked me to stay nearby the ESSR, to deliver the ESSR directly to him upon his arrival, and to then accompany them both back to the manor in which they reside.”

The other man frowns. It feels antagonistic, the way he does so – as if he’s weighing his options on just shooting the commander in order to get rid of him.

Estonia, for a second, feels his heart stop. He doesn’t care for anybody in the hallway, but the idea that he might become at mercy to these sharp angry men, with no one to stop them from whatever they want with him: he feels sick.

Again.

A door opens, bringing the rising tension to a standstill as a secretary exits the room right behind the men, her shoes clacking on the tiled floor. She takes one look at the soldiers and the unnamed men and frowns. Blue-gray eyes narrow as they meet his own, either she’s surprised that there are more people than she expected or she thinks he looks bad. Nevertheless, she shakes her head before she speaks, “He’s ready to see you,” right to him, ignoring the others around.

He’s been spoken at for the past however long he’s been held, but barely spoken to – a few times he’d have a human prisoner to interact with, but those times, were far and few in-between – so for a moment, he can just stare at her before the boy soldier pushes on his shoulder, alerting him back. He gives a nod to her and looks to the commander. “Hopefully I’ll only be a few minutes so you don’t get in trouble with Mister Russia,” he says with a slight smile he doesn’t feel.

The commander gives a short nod before directing his men to stand with their backs against the opposite wall, and Estonia follows the secretary into the room.

His stomach drops upon entry. He’s been here before and he knows it – the memories from that first night echoes in his brain as his feet force him to continue forwards, to the chair sat right in front of him. Estonia doesn’t know the name of the human in front of him, doesn’t know what position in Russia’s government he holds, but he knows that this is the man from that night all that time ago. This is the man that condemned him to two different mental facilities and a long period of torture*.

He lowers himself into the chair, eyes immediately drifting to the ground as he remembered the last time – how he had looked this man straight in the face and been violently assaulted for it. He wants to look up, to let him know that the nation of Estonia has not broken, but even the thought of it brings a shiver to his spine. Still, he takes several steadying breathes before he does let his eyes drift upwards, hiding his fear the best he can as he waits for anything.

“It has been a year and six months since you darkened my office door, do you understand what that means?” He asks, his nasally voice echoing through the room. Estonia doesn’t even get a chance to answer before the man continues, “It means that there will be questions about where you’ve been – do you know what you say?”

Of course he doesn’t, but he knows that whatever the answer is will be the furthest from the truth that they can get.

“You have been helping us with secretarial work; updating paperwork, helping with computers, things of that nature,” The man continues on, hands clasped on his desk, smarmy smile planted on his face. For a second, the man pauses before leaning close and speaking, “We have been very good to you while you’ve been with us; no harm has come to you.”

His breath leaves his body as his eyes widen slightly, staring at this man in disbelief. That lie would work if everyone he interacts with for the next hundred years are idiots, of which his neighbors are not. Some of them are self-centered, but none of them are so self-centered as to be able to believe no harm has come to him when he looks as he does. “No one will believe that.” It comes out without meaning to, just as his slip up did (kill it before it kills you) and the official’s face falls, ever so slightly.

“You have no proof,” He snarls, slamming his hands on the desk and standing, his chair hitting something hard behind him. Estonia flinches as he reels back, eyes closing as he waits for a physical attack. It takes the official a second to calm down before he’s forcing his fake smile back on his face and sitting back down. He clears his throat before he continues, “You must realize that you do not have any proof whatsoever of where you have been, whereas we, if questioned, can produce much evidence of you being in the locations we have given.”

Falsified evidence is not evidence.

“Of course, I worry for your mental state if you truly believe whatever it is you are imagining you have been through. Surely you do not need a stay in a psychiatric facility to help you remember the past year?” Eduard’s heart constricts in it’s cage made of his ribs. It’s not even a hidden threat. The man leans in conspiratorially, his smile dropping. “Because, between just us, I have not heard the best things about those facilities. My colleagues have spoken how they are trying to fix the rampant abuse that seems to breed in those locations but I am sure we can find you somewhere safe if you were to stay in one, yes?”

It’s a verbal slap in the face; an openly cruel one.

It takes him a second to gather his thoughts. Or well, the one thought that he keeps repeating in his head. “I won’t say anything,” he says after a moment. The man seems to wait for a second and Estonia knows what he wants, but all he can manage to say is, “Not that there is anything to say.”

This seems to ease the room a bit but still the official sits still.

“Because, I’ve been-” He can’t lie like this. He can’t say the lie given to him. It sits on his tongue, heavy as the feel of sopping wet clothes, weighing you down in the water. “I’ve been well.” He manages after a second.

The man smiles, nodding slightly as he grabs some papers off his desk. “Good, remember that if someone asks.” The pages are shuffled in his hands before one makes it way to the empty desk space in front of Estonia. “Now, can you tell me about this?”

Estonia stares at it for a second, his emotions haywire. It’s nothing more than a typed page of words, but it’s the words – inflammatory, anti-soviet words – that scream at him. They’re the reason he was sent away, they’re the reason he suffered.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t.” It’s his voice, he knows it is, but it doesn’t feel like it. “I’m sorry.”

This is a lie, much bigger than the one this man wants him to tell to others, but it’s a lie he’ll die with. The man who wrote that has two kids and a wife and takes care of his mother as his father was killed during the war and Estonia will never speak his name.

The man hums and places down another page of words – this time written by a man who left his teaching position in a university when the communists came to power and who survives life on bad humor and copious amounts of liquors – and asks, “How about this one?”

“No.”

The man’s face sours as he nods his head, placing down another one, and another one, and another one. “And these?”

“I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Is his palms sweating and his heart rapidly beating in his chest? Yes. But that doesn’t change that fact that he will not sell out his fellow dissidents.

Narrowed eyes meet his and for a second, he wants to speak out of fear, but instead, Estonia pulls in on himself, allowing a moment of weakness in hopes of that being the thing that forces this man away from him. It doesn’t though and he slams his hands on the desk again, moving to stand.

The door opens.

“Now what do we have here?”

Once upon a time, Ivan’s voice was the one that haunted his nightmares – the abuses that he suffered at the Russian nation’s hands plagued him still – but now other voices take that place and all he feels is a sense of bitter relief at the sight of the other nation. Better the devil you know, his brain supplies for him as he watches the government official straighten up and force a smile onto his face.

“Ivan!” The man greets, walking around his desk to stand right next to Estonia’s shoulder. A hand finds its way to rest on him, squeezing lightly. “You were supposed to check in with my secretary.”

Russia’s smile grows, eyes narrowing as he moves one step forward into the room. The man moves back a step, his hand falling from Estonia’s shoulder before Russia moves forwards again. “I didn’t want to,” he replies, head tilting and shoulders shrugging, “I will be taking this one now.”

The man stops smiling, swallowing a gulp of air before he says, “I’m afraid, sir, that we still have a bit more to discuss.”

“I don’t care.” Russia lays a hand on his shoulder and Estonia takes a moment to deep breath instead of flinching. Reactions make the other nation interested and Estonia has not survived his house with the least amount of trauma – which is not saying much – by showing his interesting reactions the other. “Stand up.”

Stand up or I’ll break your legs!

A hand yanking on his hair. Curses are shouted. Get on your knees bitch.

“Up, up, Estonia, we have places to go.” Russia’s childish voice cuts through the thoughts in his head, the ones trying to slink their way out of the box.

He pushes down on them, closing his eyes before he moves to stand up. Once standing, he straightens his shoulders ever so slightly and tries to force himself back into his normal around Russia. “Yes, Mister Russia, sir,” he says after a second.

There’s a dangerous look upon the other nation’s face and even though it is not directed towards him, Estonia can recognize this for what it is: a power play. It’s not the first time the Russian has fought with his government in this passive aggressive way, but it is the first time that another nation has fallen into harm because of it. Well, that and his own arrogant stupidity.

“We are leaving now,” Russia is saying, his voice sickly sweet. “I’m sure I will see you in a few weeks, Yuri.”

The man – Yuri, a name that rings some kind of bell in Estonia’s head – nods and moves to sit right back down. “Of course,” is said in fake cheer, “I look forward to our conversations.”

Russia turns without saying anything else, Estonia takes one last look at the man – he has a name now, his brain tries, but forever he will only remember him as ‘the man’ – and the stern look that has fallen across his face speaks more words than their previous conversations did.

He will be watching, waiting for Estonia to take one step out of line to drag him back here. Estonia didn’t break how he wanted him to and this man will try for a second time at some point in the future.

It chills him to the bones.

____

The drive back to the manor is shorter than he remembers. It seems that as soon as they get in the car, they are halfway there.

Logically, Estonia knows that’s not true, but he barely remembers any of the drive until Russia is telling him how much Lithuania and Latvia has missed him. A warmth blooms in his chest as Russia says, “Poor little Latvia has worried nonstop even after I told him of your employment as a secretary – you left so suddenly,” that he can even ignore the dig at the lie he’s replied with multiple times already.

It seems the Russian knows that he’s lying but is waiting for him to say it instead of confronting him on it.

Estonia is thankful for that. He knows that eventually it will come to a head, but he has much more practice at hiding his troubles than Russia has with patience, and so he believes that he will be safe for a while longer. Which is good, because with the fear he holds tight in his body, being confronted about everything is not a thing that he really wants to deal with at the moment.

“You will have the rest of today to settle yourself,” Russia was saying, his voice far more relax than Estonia figured he’d be knowing he was being lied to. “I expect you to help around the house though tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He’d need something to keep his mind off his thoughts. “Thank you, Mister Russia.”

A hum, but otherwise, the conversation is dead.

Which is fine for the Estonian. There are no more words that need to be said between them – theirs is not a relationships marked by the tentativeness of scraping past injuries yet a willing eye towards their future, instead it is a sinking ship upon which the captain has chained his men to the mast to await their watery grave. There is no comforting words to be given between the two of them; no apologies for governments overstepping, or trying to incite mass protests, or the past deeds they have done against each other. No sense in looking for forgiveness or anything more than surface level interactions.

The car pulls into the driveway by time Estonia thinks to open his mouth to ask about the others – is Miss Ukraine doing well? What about Miss Belarus? Has Prussia driven Lithuania to murder yet? - and all his questions disappear as he spots Lithuania and Latvia standing next to the open door.

There are bags beneath their eyes but the relief in them outshine anything else.

Estonia waits until Russia opens the door for him, letting the other nation walk ahead like he knows to do. It takes everything he has – and the slimy feeling in his gut – to resist the urge to wrap his arms around both of them and never let go. He’s not one for hugging usually, but he wants the comfort that comes from such a hug.

“Welcome back, Mister Russia,” they greet, a smile on their faces. For once they don’t look as forced. “Welcome back, Estonia.”

“Lithuania, Latvia.” He nods his head in greeting. His eyes meet Lithuania, the all knowing older brother figure, and he knows that Lithuania knows that he is not alright and if Lithuania knows than it’s only a matter of time before Latvia knows.

Russia is speaking though, giving them directions, and Estonia barely listens to a single word he’s saying. Instead he’s cataloging the other two in his mind. It’s been so long and the only mention of the two while he was gone was vague threats towards them and his tormentors telling him how little they missed him.

Lithuania looks as if death has visited him every night; the fatigue in his body is so noticeable that Estonia is worried immediately. The other never lets anyone see him this tired – not unless he can’t help it. The way his body seems to sag even as it’s standing straight makes him wonder what sort of harm has befallen Lithuania while he was gone.

Latvia is, at least, only trembling, but there is something beneath the surface of his eyes that that worries the Estonian. It’s anger, directed straight at Russia. Whatever has gone on while he was gone has brought an emotion to the Latvian that Estonia did not know the other could feel. Of course, he knew that Latvia could feel anger – everyone could, but he truly believed that Latvia’s other emotions were too weigh over by fear and trauma.

“Anyway, go, go,” Russia says, cutting into his thoughts as he pushes on Estonia’s back. The Estonian holds back a hiss as the other nation continues, “Remember, I expect you all to be ready to do your duties early in the morning.”

“Of course,” they all manage to say at the same time as the Russian leaves to go elsewhere in the manor.

The first words out of Lithuania’s mouth as soon as they are alone, Latvia attaching himself to Estonia’s midsection, are, “What did they do to you?” and for a second, Estonia pauses in his movement to welcome the hug, unsure of what to say.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something, either the truth (he promises he won’t tell, he’ll never tell) or the lie, when Lithuania shakes his head, “No, it’s okay, we’ll deal with that later, let’s just get you safe.”

Not comfortable, safe.

Estonia nods. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel that again, but he knows that as long as they are living in Russia’s home, he definitely won’t. There is no safety in a place you cannot speak about – no safety in a place you were forced to come to. There is no safety in a place where you will be watched until you mess up – and Estonia knows himself, he will mess up at some point. He will begin piecing himself back together tomorrow and sometime in the future he will misstep and he will be dragged right back in front of that man to answer for it.

The only way to not be is to let this silence him; let this be the only warning he needs to keep himself in line.

But he can’t, he thinks as he’s lead through the house and towards their shared bedroom. In silence, there is some quiet acceptance that this is what it is now and Estonia, bruises fading, body aching, soul shattered, cannot accept this.

He refuses.

____

Additional Notes: Anyway, sorry for the dark fic yet again, seriously hoping the next thing I have for you guys is a lot more happy. I've got like 80% of a happy fic finished but like the last bit is kicking my ass.

Historical notes && information:

*Takes place literally right after Isolation *Being naked in literally so many other places are not as sexualized as it is in America, and like group showers/saunas/nude beaches are all fine because it's like the great equalizers - which like I get but at the same time I don't really want to see anyone nude ever so *shrug* *There's far too many medications for me to list but like just pick a benzo that was in production during that time and you'll have what I was thinking of. *Ten thousand percent little baby Estonia fought against the Nordics during their viking era (bby!Est as a little sea faring child who just wants the vikings to piss off is a thing thank you for coming to my ted talk) and everything and one day I'll write a fic for that, but like look through their history, Estonians really fought a lot - their resilience in the face of occupation is truly admirable. *This kid's the product of an Estonian mother and a Ukrainian father and honestly only exists for this one series fic. *I have talked about this before and I'll talk about it again, there's got to be some kind of agreement between governments, otherwise any goodwill is immediately shattered. I mean, I'm not politician (I have morals) but I am a person and if I found out that the gov of another nation tortured my nation, I'd have no desire to see any sort of friendship grow. *What is is with occupying governments deciding the native languages are icky and like banning their usage?? Especially since the Estonian language is so pretty??? It's literally like lilting and pretty and !!!! But anyway, historically, Estonian was not considered pretty by all those occupying nations and was either outright banned or just not considered important over said occupying nation's own language. As stated, I don't think the nations who owned Est was doing it maliciously - unlike their govs - but more so in a practical, lets not rock the boat, sorta thing. *There is enough evidence in the manga/webcomics, anime, and other supplemental material that states that Russia was volatile towards the Baltics while they lived with him, ergo Trauma. *This entire paragraph is a headcanon. First bit, 'a brother that betrayed him,' according to an Estonian history book I have, prior to Livonia joining the whole religious thing, ancient Estonians saw them as a (kinda) brother nation, afterwards not so much. (Really sold out a family relationship for a place to live (for legal purposes, this is a joke)). Secondly, "left behind enough nations to the tide of time", there were quite a bit of nations in that area that have come and go: Courland, Semgallia, Ingeria, etc, and I know they most likely don't show up because Hima-papa hasn't done research on them/gone that deep, but I like to think that they probably just faded after a while. Lastly, I don't think some nations got to choose their own name. Like I'm not going to get into it here, but the name Alfred was only really popular in America from the late 19th century to the 1930s, so why would America have that name if it wasn't given to him by the reigning country - Britain? Anyway, I, especially, believe in the way of Est & Lat that they were named by Prussia & Livonia and since human names aren't that important, they just went a long with it. I got more thoughts, but this is already long enough. *Name given to Estonia during the Soviet period. We don't like -∞/100. *This man is/based after Yuri Andropov, the real life chairman of the KGB during the time this fic is taking place. He was really really a bitch who "sought the destruction of dissent" and was lead the way in committing people to psychiatric hospitals for dissidence. I don't know if I have to put allegedly here to avoid any troubles but like it was written about and everyone knows so fuck this guy.