Details/Notes: First time writing Russia, dreamt up with some apprehension. Please review, and see profile for disclaimer.
It is a sharp contrast from day to night.
He doesn't remember a time when he saw the world without the haze of cold and blood and the false warmth of alcohol lining his stomach.
He doesn't want to remember, because what is Russia without his ideals?
In the pitch sharp darkness of midnight he hears the whispers, the laughter, tastes the silence of fear and desperation, and the smile never leaves him because he is Russia, and everyone will love him in the end, everyone will fall to their knees before him, and he will smile then, and forgive.
He will dig his fingernails into America's perfect face until they are crescents of blood, and he will whisper, sing-song, eyes and teeth glittering, "Do you see?"
He can see him lying there, broken and battered, begging him, begging Russia to show him the way, and Russia will lay it down for him, brick by brick, and America will follow.
His mind deceives him, the labyrinth of his thoughts tricking him into thinking he has won already.
He lets his tongue push against the back of his teeth, warm and heavy, and his hand drifts southwards. Hasn't he won, doesn't he have everything, everyone?
This world is so tiny, he thinks it could fit in the palm of his hand.
He is sure, and his thoughts crack and deviate, latching onto something else. He remembers Lithuania's swollen lips, and how he gazed into Russia's eyes, unseeing, as his body shook.
Russia could swallow him up in his arms, and hide him away from the rest of the world, so that only the clever locks of his hair peaked out from between his fingers. He was always the most pliant of his brothers, and never spoke without cause, without knowing exactly what Russia wanted to hear.
He left though, with the others, drifting away, never daring to look back.
Russia dances his thumb over the head of his cock. He breathes in that fear, necessary to have them fear him, wasn't it? It would help him achieve his goals.
His principles can never be compromised.
In this darkness he cannot see except in his memories, those fragmented and torn things he hides away during the daylight, because the present is where he lives, and the future is where he dreams.
His carefully sculpted break from reality, and his breath now, hot and loud, and the motion of his hips pumping into his hand, has no place there.
He tenses, relaxes, and brings one glistening hand to his lips.
He doesn't have to remember in the morning. His mind doesn't have to play by those capitalist rules.
End Notes: Please review. Hope you enjoyed.