WARNING: Belarus is fucking batshit insane: use of drugs, alcohol, and incest.

This is my first published fic! I feel so happy~ This is a dark story based on the song Cantarella. If you don't know what it is, look it up. Srsly. References to Soviet Russia because everything I know about the world wars is derived from Hetalia so there will be plenty of historic inaccuracies. I used Google translate to get a few Russian words. Also, Belarus and Russia's accents are based on the way my Russian math teacher talks. She says 'Pronounce it to me' instead of 'tell me.' The other day she said 'wessels' instead of 'vessels.' (BLOOD vessels, not nuclear!) So they speak in VERY BROKEN ENGRISH.

Written because there is waaaay too much RusBel and not enough BelaRus. Seriously, WHY do people write RusBel? It makes no sense! But enough rambling, on with the fic.

Russia woke up in a daze in an unfamiliar place. He was sprawled out on his left side facing a cold stone wall. His hands hurt and his head was throbbing. Almost like he had a hangover. The tall male realized he was lying on a comfortable plain bed with bland baby blue blankets, his hands uncomfortably behind him. He sat up and leaned against the headboard.

'How did I get here?' The Russian wondered aloud. He thought long and hard, attempting to rub his temples only to realize something was restricting his hands. Metal chains clinked in a mocking laughter as he struggled to get free. Sighing, he accepted the fact that he would just have to sit and wait around for now. He was the strongest of the countries and could handle being held hostage for a while.

A chill was sent down his spine beginning at his neck. Russia looked down and was immediately distraught. He was still wearing his warm, long, military overcoat but his treasured trademark scarf was missing. Mumbling a chant or curse of some sort that sounded like 'kolkolkol...' under his breath, he resumed his concentration as he continued to remember how he got into this position.

He was at the Allies' meeting with his bottle of vodka. Sitting at the large conference table surrounded by countries he took a long swig of his alcohol, savouring the taste. It was unusually tart but he paid no attention to it.

'I know! We'll- and by that I mean me, since I'm awesome like that- paint Mt. Fuji ORANGE instead of red this time! It'll work for sure!' America continued his speech about why he was the hero but Russia paid no attention to that either. His gaze was focused on the Chinese man across the table. He was simply beautiful with his silky ash brown hair and serious pout that would always melt into a smile at the sight of an adorable animal.

'That's a horrible idea! What the bloody hell makes you think that'll work this time?' As usual, Britain had an objection to America's idiotic plan. Everyone else did as well, but they normally kept their comments to themselves. More work would get done if they held their tongue.

After another gulp of vodka, the image of China wavered and divided into multiple clones of the same gorgeous man. Was he drunk? He was the Soviet Union and could hold his liquor better than anyone else! He never got drunk- It was physically impossible for him. This country had invented vodka after all, no matter what that damned Korea said. Still, he felt unbelievably tired. He had to keep his head held high, no one would fear an unconscious brute...

THUD!

All the other nations turned to the noise source. The communist had slumped over the table, the liquor bottle clutched in his hand not spilling. A petite figure appeared by his side immediately, mischief-laced eyes glued on her brother.

'I take Bratom home now, da?' Belarus said, placing one of Russia's limp arms over her shoulder. Although she was small, she was very strong. Not a single person in her family could be described as weak. Well, at least physically weak. All of the Soviet Union could be used do define the terms 'emotionally unstable' and 'yandere.'

'He drank too much vodka... Silly Bratom.' She completed her sentence by wrapping her arm around his waist, half-hoisting, half-dragging her elder brother out of his chair. Russia's tall figure slumped like a rag doll in Belarus' grasp.

No one had objected to the uninvited female's statement.

Instead they all simply stared in confusion at the twosome as they slipped out of the room.

Not a single one questioned why Russia, of all people, would be drunk.

'Moya Bog... It cannot be her.' Russia mumbled to himself as he finished his flashback.

Tah-tap, tah-tap, tah-tap.

Foot steps approached the room. The sound echoed through the stone corridor. Russia braced himself for anything. It wasn't the first time this country had been held captive and it certainly was not going to be the last. He had a good guess at who was behind his abduction.

A beautiful woman had appeared with an innocent smile.

'It is so good to see you, bratom.' She said calmly. Her head was cocked slightly to her right, eyes closed peacefully. She HAD been the one who brought him here as captive.

'Sestra, did you do to me zis?' The communist replied carefully, not wanting to anger her. He was trying his best not to show external signs of fear, but his hands still tensed up no matter how hard he tried to control it. Good thing they were shielded from Belarus' sight by his back.

'Da, Bratom. Do you vant to not become von?' The crazed female replied with a twisted intent in her head. Russia was used to her schemes by now and they had all failed. Ukraine, the Baltics, or the Allies always interrupted, foiling Belarus' plans. Her hands shifted behind her back drawing attention to her. She seemed to be holding something, but that wasn't important at the moment. A glint of sharp steel shined into his eyes. Russia's eyes trailed to the source of distraction when he finally noticed what she was wearing.

Her outfit was quite elegant. She donned an iridescent pearl dress layered with lovely lace. The main part of the gown covered her torso leaving a V-style cut at her neck. Her arms were bare except for the intricate lacework done to the sleeves. The garment continued on in slight ruffles from her waist to the floor, covering her feet. Her platinum locks and indigo eyes were sheathed in a fragile veil of white silk.

It was a wedding dress.

And she was going to marry him if he wanted to or not.

PLEASE R&R! Leave suggestions, questions, tips, comments, anything! Do you guys want Russia to freak out and scream, or be a good little captive? Or maybe STOCKHOLM SYNDROME? Just R&R, PLEASE. If enough people do so I just might upload a second chapter! But for now, it's a one-shot with an annoying-ass end.