I find the map and draw a straight line
Over rivers, farms, and state lines
The distance from here to where you'd be
It's only finger-lengths that I see

I touch the place
Where I'd find your face
My fingers in creases
Of distant dark places

- Snow patrol - Set Fire to the Third Bar

Felicia clings to her Mama's skirts fingers twisting in the deep blue fabric. She wants goryachiy shokolad(hot chocolate) and Cabbage Pirozhki.

Hands shaking she whispers this to her Mama as she stares at the strange men.

One says he's a part of her.

"I don't want to go with them." she whispers in her native tongue.

Her Mama wraps her arms around her, face cold as it's features work up an ice smooth glare.

"You don't have to, Lubochka."

Felicia is frightened, they're going to take her away. Away from Mother Russia and falling snow. Miles away from her family and home. Away from the little box of sunflowers she watches her Papa tend to even as the cold makes them wither and the closet of furs and hat and scarves made with love.

Blinking she stops shaking and cuddles further towards her Mama.

The one who claims to be apart (ItaliaRomanoItalia) of her approaches her, pale and shaking almost as much as her, blood still seeping out of bandages that match her own. Her little training kicks in and she categorizes his injuries and the way his joints seem to creak in pain. It helps settle her nerves, even as they spark again when he slowly holds out a hand.
It unnerves her more than white on red because she recognizes him. In dreams that were never real, in whispered words slipping in with her Russian and Belarusian, and constant cravings for pasta.

"Felicia." he says, eyes knowing and hurt and open.

She flinches back, her own eyes (just alike, identical) closed and guarded, scared and filled with recognition.

Sighing he moves off the chair given to him and sits, criss cross in front of her.

Her Mama's grip tightens on her arm.

"Ciao, parli italiano?" (Do you speak Italian?)

"Nyet." she says, hardening herself, denying it with all she has.

She was raised filled with the snow and cold of Russia that she saw in her parents eyes. She will carry their burdens and carry on the hold of Russia.

Scowling softly he leans on one arm, head in hand.

"Bugia." (Lie)

She frowns petulantly, looking up at her Mama.

"He called me a liar!" she whines in Russian.

Her Mama places a hand on her head, glare softening.

"Don't whine." Nataliya corrects.

Felicia stares at her mother for a few moments.

"I want to go home." she states sadly.

Bending down Nataliya opens her arms and Felicia falls into them.

Standing with her daughter cradled in her arms Nataliya glares at the non-soviet occupants.

"Are you done terrorizing my child?" she asks sharply, voice edged in accent.

Lovino stands, too fast because he almost stumbled into Nataliya if not for her taking a few graceful steps back.

"What, are you just going to take her home and disappear in snow?" he says angrily.

Nataliya's lip curls as she clutches Felicia closer.

"You have no right!"

"I have every right!"

They glare and Felicia peeks out to look between them.

Lovino calms and digs through his pockets. A charm he's carried around with him is pulled. A daisy that's as white and fresh as it was the day it was picked seven years ago.

Felicia tenses then scrambles out of her mothers hold. A rush of words crowd to her lips as she sees it. She refuses them as her Mama controls her fall letting her drop.

"Eto moye." she whispers softly.

"In italiano." he says sternly.

"T-that's mine." she repeats in the English she practised.

"Italiano!" he demands.

"Romano." Clement says with a hard look, reprimanding him.

Lovino ignores him, sight dead set on Felicia.

"Che è moi, che è moi, cheèmoi -" she gasps, tears welling uncontrollably in her eyes, before continuing, eyes glued to the familiar flower as her lips moved.

Lovino holds it out and Felicia takes it in her fingers, soft petals making her small chest cavity quiver uncontrollably.

"Your middle name was -"

"Daisy." she says plainly, saying the word like it was any other word even as her fingers close reverently shielding the flower.

"It's charmed." Arthur said, tilting his head from his corner.

Lovino whips his head in sync with Nataliya to glare at him.

"What the hell does that mean bastard?" Lovino hisses out.

"How old is that flower?"

Lovino's eyes narrow.

"We found it on her."

Arthur nods and straightens his back, but doesn't dare leave the corner.

"It's a small part of her, like America's glasses." he says pointing to the sleeping nation who decided being unconscious was easier than dealing with anyone.

Lovino nods, accepting the knowledge he already understood on a basic level. Nataliya though stares at the white petals peaking out from between the cage of tiny fingers.

"It's mine." Felicia tells her.

Nataliya is close to biting her lip and her fingers twitch as everything suddenly feels too constricting and painful and heavy.

That was Italian.

"I don't know what you're saying." she responds in Russian.

They stay at a hotel, one all nations use. Felicia is in Nataliya's arms, daisy still cradled in her hands, Ivan follows, towering over anyone who dares to show their face while Katyusha trails behind dejectedly, sobs bubbling up to the surface.

Clement, Marcello, and Lovino watch as they take the elevator to the floor exactly two stories above theirs. Men were being called in to monitor their room, more than usual.

"No one enters or leaves that room without me knowing." Lovino tells the security guards, loyal to their country from birth.

Once they enter the room Nataliya sits in one of the plush chairs, Felicia nestled on her lap. Felicia opens her hands carefully. The daisy seems to glow in her presence, refreshing her, making her skin appear golden near the almost shine.

"I can see him." she whispers bitterly, eyes searching beyond the white petals, looking deeper.

"Who, Lubochka?" Nataliya whispers, running a hand through her daughter's hair.


Nataliya smiles softly at the mention of her daughter's imaginary friend.

"Oh, is he singing a song, or entering a battle majestically? Is he painting or making spaghetti?"

Felicia shakes her head.

"He's dieing."

Nataliya sighs presses a quick kiss to her young child's head.

"I'm sorry Lubochka."

Felicia trembles.

"He is dieing, scarred and battle worn."

A tan finger traces a petal that stretches away from the yellow center.

"Rome falls."

Nataliya's eyes widen slightly and she swallows down the shakes and gasps.

"A legacy and a country is left."

She closes her small hands around the daisy again.

"That country is weak. It's legacy is art and agriculture. It flourishes. It is defeated and broken apart."

Felicia drops the daisy and turns to her Mama, eyes desperate and wanting. Chest trembling.

"I don't want to be weak."

Katyusha and Ivan go to the bedroom with two large beds and they look at each other.

Katyusha falls into her brother, sobs racking her body and tears flooding her eyes.

"What do we do Ivan?" she asks.

Ivan sighs and pats her back, quiet while she cries.

"What do we do?" she repeats.

Ivan feels his heart breaking and falling into itself.

"What do we do?" he repeats.

"Do we do what's best? Do we keep her? Do we send her away?"

Pulling away from her he looks at his sister, one of the two people he trusted.

"What's best?" he whispers softly, brushing a hand through his emotionally worn and hard worked sister.

They had been abandoned in the snow, alone and cold withonly each other. He would never do that to Felicia but he couldn't promise that. Some claimed the soviet siblings had been made out of ice and it almost pains him to not be able to reject the idea.

I wonder if my country was filled with sunflowers if people would like me more?

On the other hand they loved Felicia and Felicia loved them. She was family and for the longest time family was all they had.

The question wasn't even if they could but if they would, tearing people down to nothing was a specialty.

Would family destroy her or save her?

The water is warm,
but it's sending me shivers.
A baby is born,
crying out for attention.
Memories fade,
like looking through a fogged mirror
Decision to decisions are made and not bought
But I thought,
this wouldn't hurt a lot.
I guess not.

- MGMT - Kids

Baichan: Hey lookie lookie a chapter. Sorry for the really long delay