Bonus Content (Chapter 40)
Title: Solace
Characters: Russia, Ukraine
Summary: 1953 - Ukraine comforts her brother in the aftermath of Stalin's death.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
We'll be honest about this, guys. This was just to make us feel better.
---
Russia's house. March 3, 1953.
“Russia?” Ukraine rested her palm against the door, didn’t knock.
Silence.
She shifted the hot tray in her hands; the bottom of the soup bowl scalded an ache into her skin. “I brought you something to eat.”
The huge old house creaked and settled around her. Wind whistled around the windowpanes, moaned through chinks in the attic. Bu there was no response from behind the door.
Ukraine waited a moment longer, concern flipping in her chest, then propped the tray carefully against her hip and cracked open the door. “Russia?” She called softly.
It was too dark to see much of anything, but the room reeked of smoke and spilled alcohol, sour and heavy. Ukraine’s eyes watered. She stepped carefully over a scattered sheaf of papers, blinked in the weak moonlight that shivered though half-parted curtains. Russia’s shape was just visible under a mass of blankets in the center of the huge bed; Ukraine could see the top of his head peeping out from under a quilt, just a rucked-up fluff of ashy hair.
Her breath sighed out of her.
She set the tray on the nightstand and eased down on the edge of the bed. The mattress was too soft, more like a nest than anything else. She didn’t touch him.
When Russia’s voice finally came, it was rough, a little slurred. “Go ‘way.”
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten anything?”
Those wide shoulders shrugged under the blankets.
Ukraine let a small silence yawn between them. She wouldn’t say anything about the empty bottles gleaming at her feet, half-shoved under the bed. Her brother had obviously been drinking for hours. The realization gave her the courage to ghost her fingertips into the small of his back. Had he been sober, she never would have dared. “Let me look at you,” she whispered.
“No.”
“Please?”
Russia curled tighter in to himself, pulsed, then came unknotted all at once. He half-turned, and permitted Ukraine to draw the covers down.
“Oh, Vanya...” The name was an accident, something she hadn’t used in decades, but... Russia stared up at her with dull, bloodshot eyes, lips chewed raw and chapped, grey as death. His left arm was stained all over with mottled bruises. Ukraine shifted up onto the bed without a thought, tucked her legs under her skirt, and nudged a damp fringe of hair back off her brother’s forehead.
He flinched away, and Ukraine’s heart broke.
A seeping moan. “Don’t you--Don’t you have anything to...say to me, syestra?”
Ukraine shook her head.
“W-Why not?”
“Because there is nothing to say.” Ukraine stroked Russia’s--freezing--cheek, and worked her arms slowly under his shoulders. Both nations trembled. “It’s...It’s all right,” she murmured. Then, because she knew it mattered to him: “I won’t tell anyone.”
Her brother wavered, and then, inch by painful inch, gentled in her embrace. He was half in her lap by the end of it, face buried in her shoulder. His fingers knotted in the back of her blouse.
Ukraine had to stretch to fit her arms around him. It made her eyes sting.
She rubbed his back, murmured to him, sang a little. He was heavy, and every now and then he would hitch on weak, miserable sounds; they came out muffled against Ukraine’s neck.
“Shh, Vanya...” It was all...all so familiar. She knew she shouldn’t take comfort in that. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up...”
Russia mumbled something that might have been: Promise?
Ukraine feathered a kiss against the top of his head, tried to ignore how much that little voice hurt. “I promise.”
+++
Characters: Russia, Ukraine
Summary: 1953 - Ukraine comforts her brother in the aftermath of Stalin's death.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
We'll be honest about this, guys. This was just to make us feel better.
---
Russia's house. March 3, 1953.
“Russia?” Ukraine rested her palm against the door, didn’t knock.
Silence.
She shifted the hot tray in her hands; the bottom of the soup bowl scalded an ache into her skin. “I brought you something to eat.”
The huge old house creaked and settled around her. Wind whistled around the windowpanes, moaned through chinks in the attic. Bu there was no response from behind the door.
Ukraine waited a moment longer, concern flipping in her chest, then propped the tray carefully against her hip and cracked open the door. “Russia?” She called softly.
It was too dark to see much of anything, but the room reeked of smoke and spilled alcohol, sour and heavy. Ukraine’s eyes watered. She stepped carefully over a scattered sheaf of papers, blinked in the weak moonlight that shivered though half-parted curtains. Russia’s shape was just visible under a mass of blankets in the center of the huge bed; Ukraine could see the top of his head peeping out from under a quilt, just a rucked-up fluff of ashy hair.
Her breath sighed out of her.
She set the tray on the nightstand and eased down on the edge of the bed. The mattress was too soft, more like a nest than anything else. She didn’t touch him.
When Russia’s voice finally came, it was rough, a little slurred. “Go ‘way.”
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten anything?”
Those wide shoulders shrugged under the blankets.
Ukraine let a small silence yawn between them. She wouldn’t say anything about the empty bottles gleaming at her feet, half-shoved under the bed. Her brother had obviously been drinking for hours. The realization gave her the courage to ghost her fingertips into the small of his back. Had he been sober, she never would have dared. “Let me look at you,” she whispered.
“No.”
“Please?”
Russia curled tighter in to himself, pulsed, then came unknotted all at once. He half-turned, and permitted Ukraine to draw the covers down.
“Oh, Vanya...” The name was an accident, something she hadn’t used in decades, but... Russia stared up at her with dull, bloodshot eyes, lips chewed raw and chapped, grey as death. His left arm was stained all over with mottled bruises. Ukraine shifted up onto the bed without a thought, tucked her legs under her skirt, and nudged a damp fringe of hair back off her brother’s forehead.
He flinched away, and Ukraine’s heart broke.
A seeping moan. “Don’t you--Don’t you have anything to...say to me, syestra?”
Ukraine shook her head.
“W-Why not?”
“Because there is nothing to say.” Ukraine stroked Russia’s--freezing--cheek, and worked her arms slowly under his shoulders. Both nations trembled. “It’s...It’s all right,” she murmured. Then, because she knew it mattered to him: “I won’t tell anyone.”
Her brother wavered, and then, inch by painful inch, gentled in her embrace. He was half in her lap by the end of it, face buried in her shoulder. His fingers knotted in the back of her blouse.
Ukraine had to stretch to fit her arms around him. It made her eyes sting.
She rubbed his back, murmured to him, sang a little. He was heavy, and every now and then he would hitch on weak, miserable sounds; they came out muffled against Ukraine’s neck.
“Shh, Vanya...” It was all...all so familiar. She knew she shouldn’t take comfort in that. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up...”
Russia mumbled something that might have been: Promise?
Ukraine feathered a kiss against the top of his head, tried to ignore how much that little voice hurt. “I promise.”
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