Okay. So here's the deal with these rather spooky piece: my friend RamblingRose17 challenged me to write her a FANTASTICALLY DISTURBING RUSSIAISLOSINGHISMIND FIC. And, my pride being so insufferable as it is, I consented.
I have to admit, it came out a little...weirder than I initially expected. I just kinda wrote what popped into my head...read at your own risk. side effects may include: spontaneous 'kolkolkol'ing, vodka fixation, and/or becoming one with mother russia unexpectedly.
Hetalia belongs to HIDEKAZ HIMARUYA!!!------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------paaaaaaastaaaaaa!
The cold will not leave him.
Ivan opened his eyes. Gray sunlight filtered through the frosted window opposite his bed, a giant four poster hung with dusty rags that once were velvet curtains and spider webs.
The velvet had long ago been hacked off to be used as clothing. Everything that could be used as anything was used as anything. Fancy trifles like velvet curtains were unneeded and unnecessary.
The cold will always be there.
He sat up, and brushed away a few grey-blonde locks of hair that had fallen into his icy eyes.
Smile. Smile. I don't like it when you're gloomy; SMILE!
He slid out of his bed, twitching slightly as his bare feet hit the icy stone floor. He wore a pair of loose fitting brown pants and no shirt. He went over to where a white collared shirt and a pale tan overcoat hung from a rusty metal hook embedded in the wall. The whitewash was chipping and cracking around the hook, stained red from the rust, but he took no notice. He hardly noticed any of the house; it was cold, dark, and falling apart. He rarely looked at it.
He never went up in the attic.
Ivan put on the shirt and carefully buttoned it, smoothing out wrinkles. It was cold; ice cold; but he was used to it. He straightened the collar.
He lifted the overcoat from the hook and pulled it on, effectively rumpling the collar of his shirt again, but he ignored it. A long, pale blue scarf had been hanging on the hook under the coat. He gently wrapped it around his neck, and burrowed his chin into it.
Too cold to keep it away.
There was a huge fireplace in the room, but no fire. There hadn't been any firewood for the longest time.
He barely glanced around the room as he left it. It had been splendid once, but then the revolution had taught him that what good was riches and luxury? He didn't need it.
That was what they had said.
Icy lace patterns clung to the windows, like fantastic sugar candy swirls. He walked purposefully down the hall, scarf trailing wispily behind him.
A door opened off of the hall, and a short boy with messy brown hair stepped out, hugging himself to keep warm in his red uniform. He caught sight of Ivan, jumped, squeaked, and quickly ducked back into the room. Ivan swept by without taking notice. It was not unusual for Raivis to keep out of his way.
The tall Russian felt a breaking inside him, like a tree limb that is so weighed down by snow and ice that it is slowly cracking, soon to fall.
Race. Race ahead; don't let anyone get to the finish line before you; kill them if necessary, go go GO!
He walked on, down the corridor, not really knowing where he was going but feeling determined to get there.
Ivan stopped, suddenly, closing his eyes in rage. He had seen it; the mirror there. The mirror was cracked. He hated that mirror, hanging there, in the hallway. It was gilt and ornate and everything he despised. But it would never came away from the wall, no matter how hard he pulled on it and hit it with his pipe, it stayed there, a constant reminder of who had lived here, of what had happened, and of how things used to be. Ivan gritted his teeth. "Kolkolkolkolkolkol," he hissed, furiously at the mirror. He whirled around and struck it, hard with his fist. The cracked widened; it was grinning at him! Laughing at him! It hated him, and he hated it.
But it was there. A permanent reminder of how he had lived; the way he had feasted off of the pain and sweat and blood and lives of others, how they had worked and died working for him, and he had not noticed until…until now.
His last boss, who had shown him, kindly but firmly, how things ought to be done. The man who had guided his hand and helped make things better, if only a little bit.
Ivan beamed at the thought of him.
But his smile fell.
His old boss was dead, and now Stalin was in charge. Ivan clutched at himself instinctively. His new boss, who yelled and raged and always demanded more, more, more.
More production, more work, more land.
True, his family had grown, but Ivan was afraid of his new boss. Afraid of how he kept pushing the nation, pushing and pushing him to the war and letting him gobble up countries and lands and resources.
The mirror laughed at him. Ivan saw his own reflection in the mirror. He smiled at himself, but his expression suddenly changed to one of horror.
His reflection in the glass…covered in blood and oil and iron and blood and fire…a burning image. A devil image!
Ivan screamed in rage and angst. He tore at the glass, trying to stop the vision of death and destruction and himself; in the centre of it all, smiling. Smiling as the blood dripped from his hands and stained his soul. Smiling as he tore lives apart and laughing as America- Alfred- howled and burned.
He fled. He couldn't take it anymore. He ran and ran, to the door, banging his fist against the walls and searching, all the while searching…
Running, laughing. Scarf.
Why aren't you laughing, Toris? Aren't you having fun? Don't you like to play?
There! In the window! The black smiling face surrounded by yellow petals. So pretty…Ivan leaped at the flower. Toris; why are you crying? Ah, no matter. I'm going. Going to find my pretty sunflower.
Out the door; there, that's where it was! Where is it?
Ivan pressed his hands to his eyes. He was not, NOT crying. But the sunflower is gone. I saw it. In the window.
I know I did.
The wind whipped around him, blowing snow everywhere.
Oh, how he hated it!
Blood. Toris's blood?
No; my blood. Ivan scratched his pale skin experimentally. A white raised line on his flesh.
A knife; that's it. A knife.
"Toris…" he peered in the window. Toris is gone. How sad.
Glass…his reflection! Staring back at him. Ivan screeched again and drove a fist through the window. A splinter of glass stuck in his knuckles, a tiny blossom of red around it.
Like a red flower.
Not as pretty as a sunflower, but pretty all the same. He pulled the shard out of his knuckle and dragged it across his forearm. A trail of red beads followed.
Beads. A necklace.
Ivan beamed. A pretty necklace.
He dragged a finger along the cut, staining it with blood, and then, carefully, daubed a large image of a sunflower across the chest of his jacket. He dug deeper into his skin with the glass.
He had painted, once. He had painted windows black. He had locked himself in and painted over his windows…black.
Red is prettier than black.
Poppies are red.
Poppies and sunflowers.
Poppies and sunflowers on the walls. On the broken windows.
Red Red Red.
Sunflowers are yellow. Ivan knew there were no yellow sunflowers here.
The mirror! It had tricked him again! Reflected a sunflower from somewhere else to the window, to lure him out and get him away from his beloved Toris!
Toris and Raivis and Eduard.
Ivan growled. He climbed through the broken window, arm still dripping blood. He stalked along to the mirror hall.
He glared at himself in the mirror. His reflection smiled back. It laughed; giggled. It was covered in blood. Painted in blood.
That's not me!
Ivan looked down at himself. Like he had thought; there was no blood! He wouldn't ever make Toris bleed, or himself bleed. He loved Toris.
He strolled back down the hall, this time turning in at the living room. There, a terrible sight greeted him.
Toris was crouching, shivering on the floor, while Eduard wrapped bandages around his torso. His pale white chest and back were covered with raw, angry claw marks; dripping…bleeding…
Ivan gasped. "Toris!" he cried, in alarm, rushing forward. The skinny brunette shrunk back, away from the tall Russian. "Blood…R-Russia…"
Ivan frowned down at himself. "I'm not covered in blood at all; you are! What happened to you? Toris!" Ivan waved his arms agitatedly. Toris stared at him blankly for a second, then said, quietly, "I fell on some glass in the other room."
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Ivan kissed the shivering boy lightly on the forehead. "What's the glass from?"
"…the broken window," Toris said, confused.
Ivan frowned. "A window broke? How?"
Another silence. Eduard looked at the Lithuanian intently.
"…..the wind. It blew too hard, I suppose." Toris said, very, very quietly.
"I'll get it fixed. And better glass put in. Don't worry." Ivan turned to Eduard. "Thank you for helping our little Toris…it's so nice to see our family helping each other."
He began to leave, but spun suddenly, struck by a thought. "Toris…when you were by the window, did you see any sunflowers?"
Toris looked up, blankly. "No. I didn't see any sunflowers."
"Oh. Alright." Ivan's face fell. He smiled a little. "They keep dancing away. I'll catch one someday…" and so murmuring these little things to himself, he left.
"I'll catch a sunflower someday…"
The cold will not leave him.
So...yeah...*scratches head in confusion* Not sure where that came from, but...hope I got Russia's cracked POV down right. If you're wondering, the mirror doesn't really have to do with anything, just an artifact I imagine from the Tsars. I needed something to showcase Vanya's crazyness, and him seeing things in the mirror was a good bit. you better be thankful, rosie. i worked damn hard on this. *.* And yeah, I couldn't resist a little Stalin smashing in there. Sorry if you like the guy, but I REALLY DO NOT. LENIN FOEVARRRRRRRRR
Ahem. Commie moment over. ARM DE MASSES!
Tips, critique, even somewhat helpful bashing...I love to hear from you guys!