{Fanfiction} Hetalia: One with Russia
Title: One with Russia
Author/Artist: iota_espionage
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/America, Hints England/France
Genre: Angst/Drama
Rating/Warnings: T for Death, Gore, and Language.
Summary: When dreams turn to nightmares, when nightmares turn to realities, Russia learns the consequences of forcing his dream on the others.
He often reminded himself not to speak. He spent every morning traversing the corridors, leaning against purposefully closed doors, and holding his breath until he was positive he heard someone on the other side of it exhale. And inhale.
And exhale again.
They were still there.
Breakfast was always silent, but just hearing them breathe… brought such joy to him. When they didn’t breathe, they coughed. They suffered. He suffered but he would smile. Sometimes they would be there for supper. Sometimes chairs turned up empty and Russia would complain about having to make too much food. He always made too much, anyway. No one else ate. They just stared, or in two or three cases, they glared.
At night he would have a candle as his only company. Shadows chased him. Flickering candlelight under the doors told the others that he was coming. They would stop conspiring. They would hide from him. Conspiring was pointless but it gave the others hope.
Almost as if there was any hope left.
His economy prospered while the others’ quaked in his shadow. Every day Russia would get up to find his eyes a different color than the night before. The morning his red-starved eyes turned impossibly blue, America’s bedroom was always checked first. America would glare at him through a smile that made the corners of his lips hurt. Russia would stare into the mirror and realize how much he missed seeing lavender.
France’s bedroom turned up empty that evening. The red roses were wilting under their loss of color. His uniform laid to rest in his bed even after Russia forbade anyone from wearing their former clothes.
It wasn’t unusual for formerly occupied bedrooms to turn up vacant. Russia ran his hand through his ashy hair only to discover that it had become softer.
“This isn’t what you wanted.”
England pressed his back further against the doorframe to distract the tears forming in his eyes with a sharp dose of pain. Russia shut the door behind him with a cant of his hip. He showed England his back but did the very least to humor him.
“Bloody Frenchman… he was always the first to surrender,” England bit out as he ground his wrist against his closed eyes. He was wrong though… North Italy was gone within the first week after his older brother had merged with him. He was coughing up blood when Russia last checked on him; he told Russia to go to Hell and vanished the next morning with Germany clinging to his unfilled clothing. Russia felt only pity for himself for the rest of that day; seeing Germany’s destroyed expression brought a warmth to him. The warmth blossomed into fury when Germany’s bed turned up empty - fury with Germany. He could never be angry with himself because, because… it wasn’t his fault. It was the others’.
America stopped speaking more than five words to him that very same day. Of course it wasn’t surprising to find the weaker nations gone first. Those who he deemed weak were already gone: Latvia soon after Italy and Germany’s surrender, the other Baltics gave in soon after, and his sisters were swallowed up early on by an expanding red empire. Belarus partly got her wish. Ukraine saw her brother again.
And at the end of his musing, Russia discovered that England was halfway down the corridor…
…so it wasn’t at all surprising to Russia when England turned up missing the following morning. (The gramophone sitting on his desk had reached the end of ‘God Save the Queen’ hours beforehand. A bottle of upturned, half-empty scotch continued to drip its remaining contents into the bedspread.)
Neither was the fact that America was standing outside his bedroom with his fingernails tearing at the leather of his bomber jacket around his elbows. When Russia approached him, America’s hands were rolled into fists and his expression hinted at the desire to punch the taller nation’s teeth out.
The words that followed were just another metaphorical substitution for this craving: “You fucking bastard.” No one had the guts to punch him - no one but America. He did in the early days of the affair, but every bruise left both nations unfazed in their permanent state of emotions.
“This isn’t what you wanted, is it?” America snarled as he rocked up onto his toes to try and gain a few inches on Russia’s height with no avail. He resorted to tangling his quivering fingers in the tattered remains of that stupid drapery-like scarf that he watched Russia tear at during his fits of hysteria. At this close proximity, Russia could see the lines and dark circles forming under his eyes. “My boss says that your soldiers are invading Washington as we speak.” America had been expecting the invasion since his brother’s vanishing… when Vancouver was seized only a month prior, it was only a matter of time.
Russia heaved a broken sigh. The other nations kept his internal temperature up with the tropical beaches outweighing vast Siberia, but he still felt cold and trapped in this house. It was a matter of time before Russia’s economy swallowed up the rest of them. He could feel his soldiers dying: the Russians, the Americans, the Chinese, the Finnish, the Japanese - all of them - just for the sake of taking more land or preserving what little acres they had left. Russia planned on getting another home in Naples where it was warmer.
America looped his fingers through the moth-eaten holes in the tails of Russia’s scarf and shucked off his glasses to dry his tears against the dusty cloth. He didn’t need his glasses anymore now that Texas had been seized again by the Mexicans during all the confusion. They just… made him feel better… which was why he replaced them and pushed them back up his nose. He stared into the unfamiliar bluish-green splotches that he assumed to be Russia’s eyes. He, too, missed the recognizable shade of lavender that used to house hospitality and comfort. His irises were nothing more than the event horizon for those pupils that drowned onlookers in an impossible bitter darkness.
“Не жизнь, a мучение! Я не знаю чего сделать. Кaк коровa языком слизaиa.” Russia pleaded as he bowed his head to take shelter in the crown of America’s hair. He didn’t have to speak English around the others anymore because it was required for the other nations to know Russian now.
Still, America felt obliged to respond in English in some form of rebellion. “It’s your own fault,” he protested in contrast to the hand soothing back the other nation’s hair for a halfhearted kiss. Russia winced just a little: America’s lips felt like a searing branding iron against his tender forehead.
Being near him felt more like a punishment than a comfort, mostly because he knew America wanted more than anything to see the skin around Russia’s turquoise eyes turn purple - a perfect substitution for the lack of such a color in his irises. America could pick out the little green flecks of color in his eyes… the same emerald that formerly shone in England’s.
“This is all your fault…” America repeated. “It’s your fault he’s gone. It’s your fault that they’re all gone.”
America was right though. After England and France, all of Europe had gone red. Africa was deemed next. Asia was still holding strong. North America and South America peered over the promised horizon, but the war reached America the moment China demanded reimbursement for the money he lent him. America’s economy suffered in a haunting parallel to the nineteen thirties. The same went for Russia: no economy could touch him.
America couldn’t touch him.
America wanted to touch him.
He threaded his fingers in the fabric behind Russia’s scarf. He could feel his grip weakening against Russia’s button up shirt, and Russia seemed to catch on to this with the way he held America’s hands. America’s hands seemed so small… and more fragile than he remembered. He kept his grip featherlike in fear that one ounce of strength could shatter him. America’s fingers slithered between his buttons, the flats of his fingers glided along the contours of Russia’s ribs. The other nation gave a damaged exhale as if his lungs couldn’t support anything short of breath.
And the moment America’s lips brushed against his, he forgot how to breathe.
His lips tasted of ash, and Russia’s tongue shied across his soft palette to taste copper. America’s breath was wet. His exhales tasted like Ivan’s name. His inhales resided on ruptured vocals. America’s fingers were falling limp, relying on the net that Russia’s buttons made of his fabric to keep his flaccid arms from falling back to his sides. The sensations the Russian left in that slow kiss aided the frailness in his knees. He channeled the last of his strength to hold tightly to Russia’s shirt… to keep him from falling.
To keep his head help high.
To keep from collapsing at Russia’s feet.
He knew the tingling sensation in his feet wasn’t from Russia’s administrations. The other nation’s arms constricted about America’s waist. It was possessive and concrete against something so frail and abstract. America coughed wetly into Russia’s shirt. When he drew back, there was a crimson stain adorning the white cloth. Russia inhaled and quickly retracted his chest to refrain from touching it. The scarlet remains traced lines from America’s lips to converge at his chin. The red made such a beautiful distinction against the intense blue gaze smoldering Russia’s eyes. America watched with suppressed horror as the green flecks in Russia’s eyes drowned in azure.
This would be the first time Russia watched one of them die.
America coughed a few more beads of red onto Russia’s scarf. His pupils swallowed up his irises, but he mustered a crooked grin. “Hey… Russia.”
America’s fingers deteriorated to sheets of monochrome ash. Russia no longer had anything to hold on to. “Yes?”
The golden-haired nation quirked up the left side of his mouth in a smirk just shy of revealing teeth. “Fuck you.”
And somehow Russia managed a laugh. Just for you, America. He was left holding a deserted bomber jacket. A light layer of dust caked the leather like snow over infertile soil. Russia ground the heel of his palm against his eyelids and leaned down to sweep up the neglected spectacles and wiped off the ashy material against his coat. After repressing the urge to wear them, he slipped one of the arms inside his chest pocket and let the article dangle close to his heart.
The next morning Russia decided while looking in that mirror that he loved the color of his eyes.
-:- -:- -:-
Не жизнь, a мучение! - This isn’t life, it is torment.
Я не знаю чего сделать - I don’t know what to do.
Кaк коровa языком слизaиa - Russian idiom for “They’ve vanished into thin air.” It literally means “Like a cow licked them away.”
The fanfiction is based off of the idea that “One” means a merging between the nations. The other nations ultimately “die” as a result.
Author/Artist: iota_espionage
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/America, Hints England/France
Genre: Angst/Drama
Rating/Warnings: T for Death, Gore, and Language.
Summary: When dreams turn to nightmares, when nightmares turn to realities, Russia learns the consequences of forcing his dream on the others.
He often reminded himself not to speak. He spent every morning traversing the corridors, leaning against purposefully closed doors, and holding his breath until he was positive he heard someone on the other side of it exhale. And inhale.
And exhale again.
They were still there.
Breakfast was always silent, but just hearing them breathe… brought such joy to him. When they didn’t breathe, they coughed. They suffered. He suffered but he would smile. Sometimes they would be there for supper. Sometimes chairs turned up empty and Russia would complain about having to make too much food. He always made too much, anyway. No one else ate. They just stared, or in two or three cases, they glared.
At night he would have a candle as his only company. Shadows chased him. Flickering candlelight under the doors told the others that he was coming. They would stop conspiring. They would hide from him. Conspiring was pointless but it gave the others hope.
Almost as if there was any hope left.
His economy prospered while the others’ quaked in his shadow. Every day Russia would get up to find his eyes a different color than the night before. The morning his red-starved eyes turned impossibly blue, America’s bedroom was always checked first. America would glare at him through a smile that made the corners of his lips hurt. Russia would stare into the mirror and realize how much he missed seeing lavender.
France’s bedroom turned up empty that evening. The red roses were wilting under their loss of color. His uniform laid to rest in his bed even after Russia forbade anyone from wearing their former clothes.
It wasn’t unusual for formerly occupied bedrooms to turn up vacant. Russia ran his hand through his ashy hair only to discover that it had become softer.
“This isn’t what you wanted.”
England pressed his back further against the doorframe to distract the tears forming in his eyes with a sharp dose of pain. Russia shut the door behind him with a cant of his hip. He showed England his back but did the very least to humor him.
“Bloody Frenchman… he was always the first to surrender,” England bit out as he ground his wrist against his closed eyes. He was wrong though… North Italy was gone within the first week after his older brother had merged with him. He was coughing up blood when Russia last checked on him; he told Russia to go to Hell and vanished the next morning with Germany clinging to his unfilled clothing. Russia felt only pity for himself for the rest of that day; seeing Germany’s destroyed expression brought a warmth to him. The warmth blossomed into fury when Germany’s bed turned up empty - fury with Germany. He could never be angry with himself because, because… it wasn’t his fault. It was the others’.
America stopped speaking more than five words to him that very same day. Of course it wasn’t surprising to find the weaker nations gone first. Those who he deemed weak were already gone: Latvia soon after Italy and Germany’s surrender, the other Baltics gave in soon after, and his sisters were swallowed up early on by an expanding red empire. Belarus partly got her wish. Ukraine saw her brother again.
And at the end of his musing, Russia discovered that England was halfway down the corridor…
…so it wasn’t at all surprising to Russia when England turned up missing the following morning. (The gramophone sitting on his desk had reached the end of ‘God Save the Queen’ hours beforehand. A bottle of upturned, half-empty scotch continued to drip its remaining contents into the bedspread.)
Neither was the fact that America was standing outside his bedroom with his fingernails tearing at the leather of his bomber jacket around his elbows. When Russia approached him, America’s hands were rolled into fists and his expression hinted at the desire to punch the taller nation’s teeth out.
The words that followed were just another metaphorical substitution for this craving: “You fucking bastard.” No one had the guts to punch him - no one but America. He did in the early days of the affair, but every bruise left both nations unfazed in their permanent state of emotions.
“This isn’t what you wanted, is it?” America snarled as he rocked up onto his toes to try and gain a few inches on Russia’s height with no avail. He resorted to tangling his quivering fingers in the tattered remains of that stupid drapery-like scarf that he watched Russia tear at during his fits of hysteria. At this close proximity, Russia could see the lines and dark circles forming under his eyes. “My boss says that your soldiers are invading Washington as we speak.” America had been expecting the invasion since his brother’s vanishing… when Vancouver was seized only a month prior, it was only a matter of time.
Russia heaved a broken sigh. The other nations kept his internal temperature up with the tropical beaches outweighing vast Siberia, but he still felt cold and trapped in this house. It was a matter of time before Russia’s economy swallowed up the rest of them. He could feel his soldiers dying: the Russians, the Americans, the Chinese, the Finnish, the Japanese - all of them - just for the sake of taking more land or preserving what little acres they had left. Russia planned on getting another home in Naples where it was warmer.
America looped his fingers through the moth-eaten holes in the tails of Russia’s scarf and shucked off his glasses to dry his tears against the dusty cloth. He didn’t need his glasses anymore now that Texas had been seized again by the Mexicans during all the confusion. They just… made him feel better… which was why he replaced them and pushed them back up his nose. He stared into the unfamiliar bluish-green splotches that he assumed to be Russia’s eyes. He, too, missed the recognizable shade of lavender that used to house hospitality and comfort. His irises were nothing more than the event horizon for those pupils that drowned onlookers in an impossible bitter darkness.
“Не жизнь, a мучение! Я не знаю чего сделать. Кaк коровa языком слизaиa.” Russia pleaded as he bowed his head to take shelter in the crown of America’s hair. He didn’t have to speak English around the others anymore because it was required for the other nations to know Russian now.
Still, America felt obliged to respond in English in some form of rebellion. “It’s your own fault,” he protested in contrast to the hand soothing back the other nation’s hair for a halfhearted kiss. Russia winced just a little: America’s lips felt like a searing branding iron against his tender forehead.
Being near him felt more like a punishment than a comfort, mostly because he knew America wanted more than anything to see the skin around Russia’s turquoise eyes turn purple - a perfect substitution for the lack of such a color in his irises. America could pick out the little green flecks of color in his eyes… the same emerald that formerly shone in England’s.
“This is all your fault…” America repeated. “It’s your fault he’s gone. It’s your fault that they’re all gone.”
America was right though. After England and France, all of Europe had gone red. Africa was deemed next. Asia was still holding strong. North America and South America peered over the promised horizon, but the war reached America the moment China demanded reimbursement for the money he lent him. America’s economy suffered in a haunting parallel to the nineteen thirties. The same went for Russia: no economy could touch him.
America couldn’t touch him.
America wanted to touch him.
He threaded his fingers in the fabric behind Russia’s scarf. He could feel his grip weakening against Russia’s button up shirt, and Russia seemed to catch on to this with the way he held America’s hands. America’s hands seemed so small… and more fragile than he remembered. He kept his grip featherlike in fear that one ounce of strength could shatter him. America’s fingers slithered between his buttons, the flats of his fingers glided along the contours of Russia’s ribs. The other nation gave a damaged exhale as if his lungs couldn’t support anything short of breath.
And the moment America’s lips brushed against his, he forgot how to breathe.
His lips tasted of ash, and Russia’s tongue shied across his soft palette to taste copper. America’s breath was wet. His exhales tasted like Ivan’s name. His inhales resided on ruptured vocals. America’s fingers were falling limp, relying on the net that Russia’s buttons made of his fabric to keep his flaccid arms from falling back to his sides. The sensations the Russian left in that slow kiss aided the frailness in his knees. He channeled the last of his strength to hold tightly to Russia’s shirt… to keep him from falling.
To keep his head help high.
To keep from collapsing at Russia’s feet.
He knew the tingling sensation in his feet wasn’t from Russia’s administrations. The other nation’s arms constricted about America’s waist. It was possessive and concrete against something so frail and abstract. America coughed wetly into Russia’s shirt. When he drew back, there was a crimson stain adorning the white cloth. Russia inhaled and quickly retracted his chest to refrain from touching it. The scarlet remains traced lines from America’s lips to converge at his chin. The red made such a beautiful distinction against the intense blue gaze smoldering Russia’s eyes. America watched with suppressed horror as the green flecks in Russia’s eyes drowned in azure.
This would be the first time Russia watched one of them die.
America coughed a few more beads of red onto Russia’s scarf. His pupils swallowed up his irises, but he mustered a crooked grin. “Hey… Russia.”
America’s fingers deteriorated to sheets of monochrome ash. Russia no longer had anything to hold on to. “Yes?”
The golden-haired nation quirked up the left side of his mouth in a smirk just shy of revealing teeth. “Fuck you.”
And somehow Russia managed a laugh. Just for you, America. He was left holding a deserted bomber jacket. A light layer of dust caked the leather like snow over infertile soil. Russia ground the heel of his palm against his eyelids and leaned down to sweep up the neglected spectacles and wiped off the ashy material against his coat. After repressing the urge to wear them, he slipped one of the arms inside his chest pocket and let the article dangle close to his heart.
The next morning Russia decided while looking in that mirror that he loved the color of his eyes.
-:- -:- -:-
Не жизнь, a мучение! - This isn’t life, it is torment.
Я не знаю чего сделать - I don’t know what to do.
Кaк коровa языком слизaиa - Russian idiom for “They’ve vanished into thin air.” It literally means “Like a cow licked them away.”
The fanfiction is based off of the idea that “One” means a merging between the nations. The other nations ultimately “die” as a result.