fanfic: In Vodka Veritas, Russia
It was generally a hazard to have Russia as a dinner guest, and most of the world’s nations had accepted this as gospel, along with other such verisimilitudes as “One or other of the Vargas brothers will end up naked before the night is out”, “The Asia family bickers, but by no means are they arguing”, and “Just because there was no ‘no’ doesn’t mean it wasn’t rape.” Generally, he was unrefined compared to other countries; the general use of cutlery was eschewed for the much more practical use of his hands, and have to be persuaded by a satellite nation of his not to eat the fish soup with his fingers (though, with a wide smile, he would ask “Why not”, while fishing with a gloved hand about in the broth for a choice morsel, and upon finding none, would raise the bowl to his mouth and drain its contents, exhaling loudly upon setting the delicate china enthusiastically down), or not to save bits of food in his water pipe (no matter how efficient it might seem- there were take-out bags in the back if he really wanted something).
Aside for this, there was a much more fundamental danger of inviting Russia (though the alternative of not inviting him was out of the question), and that was his general state of mind. Russia came rather simply compared to some of the other, more grey issues, and that was you had Russia under two circumstances; either drunk or sober.
Russia, sober, could be disarming, bordering on charming; he could keep up a lively banter that would more or less involve conversation material that was politically correct at the time, though would occasionally slip in the slightly prosaically horrid. He laughed often, ate well, and left before his presence became unnerving, though there was always, in the room, the oppressive atmosphere, the reminder of something monsterous and cold, reflected mainly in his eyes, and the curve of his lip. Occasionally, he would seduce another nation into sleeping with him in the after-party festivities (mainly his exes, and mainly Lithuania, where the “Just because there was no ‘no’” rule usually came into play).
However, more often than not, given the state Ivan was generally in, he would arrive drunk. Ivan drunk, however, was generally more blessedly languorous; he would not engage in conversation unless someone initiated with him, and would sit alone, supine, in a chair by the fire with a knee-high resting between his thighs, head lolling against his chair, and the sense of a thousand winter nights so thick it was difficult to ingratiate him into the general atmosphere of warmth and good-cheer.
However, with the presence of vodka would also come his slightly strange sense of edibility; it was no occult secret that Russia had a fondness for rare, almost raw, meat. He would eat great quantities of it with such relish that many nations would become either worried for the youth, or ill at the sight of thin rivulets of blood eking from the corners of his mouth. And that particular night came as no exception.
“America always has the best steaks, surely!” He exclaimed as he forked a long piece of carved beef into his mouth and relished the bite as he chewed, eyes closing, heedless of the gazes he attracted. “This is always why I love eating at America’s dinner parties.” He added upon swallowing and sawing enthusiastically with his knife at the bleeding cut.
“This night is surely to go out with a bang.” France had said, smiling slightly and swirling his good glass of wine above his scant, designer meal, looking to his left at America and Ensuch gland as if they were sharing a private joke. America, who had always been a little thick when it came to such things, continued eating his own fillet of tuna as if he hadn’t heard (he probably hadn’t), and only paused to drink deeply of his own beverage. England sneered slightly at France’s good-natured jibing, and took a pull from his beer, but chose not to respond, as the last person to speak was to be generally targeted by Ivan. However, despite England’s generally veracious fears, the youth was now endeavoring in ridding his plate of the garnish, flinging cabbage and parsley onto the next dish seemingly unthinkingly, and popping boiled potatoes into his mouth with the same distance.
That having been accomplished, the rather astounded nations closest to him watched as the youth reached for the vodka he had brought with him to the dinner (clutched in his hand, as religiously as his water pipe had been tucked into a boot) and proceeded to empty a good quantity of the liquid onto the plate, now containing only the raw steak, and, humming absently as he reached into a coat pocket and retrieved a box of ancient friction matches, lit one with a snap of his fingers and immolated his plate.
“Eh?” Several of the nations jumped in their seats as the sudden blaze leapt and consumed the alcohol, but Russia seemed relatively unfazed, and laughed suddenly and merrily.
“It’s like that time in 1812, right, France?” He insisted, looking up at France with wide, cold eyes reached in no way by his smile. “Though, back then, I was the steak.” And proceeded to laugh so uproariously that France abruptly blanched. And then, upon seeing America’s shocked face, “Ah, America, could you not know? Then again, it was in the same year you were burned by England, so you had your hands full as well.” And laughed again, with an edge to it that suggested hysteria or mourning; as he reapplied himself to his newly seared steak, there was a pall to the assembled nations. Their history had come crashing unexpectedly and inexorably down around them, and it was nothing if not words unsaid, regretted a thousand times over.
However, Ivan had become just as suddenly silent as his fit of loquacity had been; he seemed enwrapped in his own private hell, eyes distant and glazed, pupils madly contracting and dialating. It was, however, such a drastic change from the front he had been presenting not a minute ago that many nations were rather stricken by it. That face, they recognized, was, as a rule, the calm before the bloody storm, and the pipe propped by his left leg would become a bludgeoning instrument, and though some hedging and persuading began (“Someone say something.” Arthur had hissed, catching Francis’ eye, who laughed humorlessly, and parroted England’s sentence back in French, while Germany seemed to be counting down the seconds before “the danger zone” for Ivan was reached, and he would take matters into his own hands, while Italy tugged on his sleeve and asked what the matter was), Lithuania was the one who spoke first.
“Russia?” His voice hesitant, hand touching with the gentleness of a mother the swell of the larger youth’s shoulder (and it was such a good thing that he had been so messed up that he was unable to tell, anymore, when something was dangerous, or perhaps he had always been like that, and Germany gritted his teeth while he counted down the seconds before Ivan choked the life from Toris), and it was almost as if Russia was still that shadow that loomed over the youth, because he did not flinch accordingly when Russia jumped at the touch. And the situation suddenly dissolved when Russia put a hand just as suddenly to his mouth, fingers pressing his lips almost girlishly, and choked,
“I’m going to be sick.” And emptied the meat and vodka he had since consumed in that meal (rather considerately) between his feet. And just as suddenly, as the threat passed, normalcy returned to the dinner-room. Alfred sighed, brow furrowing, arms still on the table as if he were still eating (and indeed, he continued to chew whatever he had in his mouth at the moment, rather undisturbed by the awful retching Russia continued to produce), Arthur grimaced and whipped his napkin with the practiced ease that suggested he had done this more times than he would care to count in such a situation, France laughed (rather unkindly, but then, he always had had an odd sense of humor), Germany began staffing someone to clean up the mess, and those closest to Russia (Japan and China in this case) had to rather leap to avoid the spattering vomitus (though Japan was also offering his own napkin to Lithuania, exclaiming his mild surprise, while China chattered on the distastefulness of the situation, and prepared water to cast in Russia’s face).
Lithuania accepted the aid as it arrived, rather undauntedly pressing a napkin to Ivan’s mouth, while looking up at the assembled countries with a naturalness that was vaguely surprising (though, if any cared to hazard a guess, this was an old hat for Lithuania, and cleaning vomit off of Russia was the least of what he done for the older youth).
“I’m terribly sorry about all of this. I think Russia should go to bed now, he’s really not well.” And while Germany multitasked in staffing more help in cleaning the mess and getting Russia’s room ready, Lithuania rose, wrapping his arms about the older youth with the ease of a thousand practiced nights, supporting the bulk of Russia’s weight on his shoulders, and helped Russia from the room.
Dinner continued rather sedately after his passing, however, picking up slowly where it had been left off. It was generally accepted that Ivan added a spice to such dry gatherings that many nations could not add, but the truths that had slipped from his lips as unintendedly as Cassandra, remained collectively long after he had gone, and the ghost of a thousand nights lingered behind.
Notes:
Look up the 1812 burning of Moscow. Wacky shit.
Also, ironically, was the same year the White House was burned by invading British, who were doing this quid-pro-quo thing that got reeeeealy messy.
On Ivan's eating habits; I kind of stole them from reports of how Rasputin ate. And, figuring Ivan is more of a soldier-nation than a prince nation a la Austria, for example, he would have pretty rough manners. Gilbert must be a beast...