Let Go

There were days when he thought that living in fear was worse than not living at all. It was always worst in the depths of (Russia's) Winter, when it seemed that the sun himself was too depressed to share any of his warmth. One would have thought that he'd have grown used to it by now, but even Russia struggled against the Winter he'd faced for his whole life, so how could Lithuania be expected to cope at all?

He stepped a little closer to the pot, a little closer to the fire, and wondered what it would be like to burn. Warm. Yes. It would be so warm. And when it was over, he would never have to see Russia ever again. And his people would be dead. Worse: forgotten.

But what did the histories of the future matter compared to what he was facing now? He would be better off dead. No more cold, no more winter, no more worries, no more Russia. No more fear. He was already failing his people, failing his friends.... friend? Did he have any left?

Poland? He cared for Poland, but he also remembered all too well that Poland, beloved Poland, had laughed as he was being dragged off by Russia into this hell. How could he ever have thought that they were ever friends when all Poland wanted was a compliant lackey? Poland wasn't capable of caring, after all.

The other Baltics? Strangers united in fear. He could barely understand Estonia most of the time and Latvia... Latvia could be very much like Russia sometimes. He felt sometimes that they were both laughing at him, because Russia 'loved' him best, and that made him a convenient meat-shield.

And America? God, he was just projecting his fantasies of being rescued on the poor nation, wasn't he? America had given him back to Russia without a fight, but, really, who would want to fight for him? He was worthless.

He was cold.

The water was boiling so invitingly: if only the pot was big enough for him to crawl in and just die.

Instead, he moved methodically to cut up the cabbage that was supposed to go into the soup. The knife went up and down and he watched longingly, though he felt strangely detached from his own actions. As he turned around to put the cabbage into the pot, he knocked it over, spilling the boiling water all over the kitchen floor and on his own legs.

For a moment, he stood stunned, not even feeling the heat of the water now soaked into his pants. The cast-iron pot had cracked on the tiled floor, and cracked the tiles under it. Cabbage was scattered all over the place, a bit here, a pile there, because he'd dropped the chopping board from the shock of the contact. It was just supposed to be a simple soup, and he couldn't even handle this much? How useless was he?

"Lithuania? I heard a..."

Russia. He'd messed up the kitchen, messed up the food, and Russia was going to kill him or worse, because he was that worthless, that useless, that he was nothing, nothing at all and he wanted to be nothing at all, because to die by his own hand was better than dying by anyone elses' and he was so tired of struggling in a world that didn't need him, that didn't want him, so he would just have to...


The knife felt cold against his skin, but he felt even colder. He didn't even notice that Russia had actually listened to him and had frozen at the threshold.

"Lithuania, what are you doing?"

It was the same sing-song voice he always used and it made Lithuania's stomach churn with the confirmation that he was truly and utterly worthless.


"Don't come any closer!" the words exploded out of his mouth in a shriek as he pressed the cold blade against his throat, feeling the sting as it broke skin. Release, release, release, release... he wanted...

The kitchen was silent. All he could hear was his own harsh breathing. The world was blurring and he realised that he was crying.

"You're not going to do it," said Russia matter-of-factly, still using that bloody fucking sing-song tone, moving to take a step.

"TRY ME!" He pressed the knife deeper and felt the blood begin to flow.

Russia had frozen again and Lithuania wished he would take one step, just one more step, so that he could carry out his threat. Then it would all be over. Everything.

"If you die, I'm going to rape your corpse."

Lithunia blinked.

"And then I'm going to invite Poland over and make him do it too."

Lithuania blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision so that he could see Russia, to determine if the psychopath was actually telling the truth.

"And then I'll rape him. Because you won't be around to stop me."

The knife clattered to the floor and his legs finally gave out. There was no way of telling. Lies or truths, it was always the same tone, always the same expression. And he could never be sure that Russia wouldn't follow through.

The pain from his scalded legs hit him and he screamed. Because it hurt. Because he couldn't even end his own pathetic life. Because all he could see in front of him was darkness.

Because Russia was running over to him, looking over his wounds and picking him up tenderly.

And he was warm.


Lithuania has the highest rates of suicide in the world, apparently.

Timeline: When they were still cohabiting.