Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Obviously.

By day, Ivan Braginsky was the epitome of strength. His sinister violet aura, tinted with just the right amount of dominance and insanity, was enough to make those beneath him cower in fear. Of course, this made it almost impossible to make friends, but who needed friends when the world was at your feet?

This was the way Ivan portrayed himself whenever he was around the rest of the Allied Forces. However, those closest to him—he did not have friends, but he did have subordinates—were able to see through his facade as easily as looking through a window. They never let on, of course—it wasn't worth getting beaten up over—but everything was written clearly in the shadows under his eyes, in his plummeting weight, in the slump of his shoulders. His supposedly intimidating act began to crack as soon as he entered his house, and shattered into a million pieces the minute he was alone.

By night, Ivan Braginsky was a shaking, sobbing wreck. At least, he would be as soon as he managed to drag himself from the nightmares that had tormented him since childhood. Every night without fail, his fitful sleep would be plagued with visions of war, terrible battles, vast empty spaces, and blood. So, so much blood. It flowed through his dreams as surely as through his veins, and he hated it.

While he had not told anyone about his nightmares, Ivan had tried everything he could think of in an attempt to salvage at least one night of decent sleep. First, he turned to the obvious—and most favourable—solution. Vodka.

Ivan stood alone in his kitchen. Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania had long since gone to bed, and the house was deathly silent. The large man leaned on the counter and gazed out of the window. As usual, his country was in the icy grip of winter, and thick snow blanketed the Siberian emptiness outside. The Russian shuddered to himself. His house was always quite cold, but it was nothing compared to the sub-zero temperatures outside.

He mentally scolded himself. He had been staring at the wilderness for far too long, and Ivan knew all too well what dwelling on the isolation of the place could do to a man's sanity. It was easy to lose one's mind when there was no one to help you find it.

Thoughts back on task, Ivan opened an impractically high cupboard—tall as he was, he had to stand on a chair to reach it—and grabbed the nearest bottle of vodka. It was one of many; he couldn't allow the Baltics to know how fond—not dependent, definitely not—he was of the stuff, because that would make him look weak. "Weak" was not in Ivan Braginsky's vocabulary.

Armed with the vodka, a shot glass and aspirin (for the inevitable hangover he would have the next morning), Ivan tiptoed up to his room, moving with the stealth of a shadow.

He closed his bedroom door with a soft click, and climbed into bed. Ivan popped the cork on the vodka bottle and wrinkled his nose at its stench. He wasn't sure if he even liked the alcohol, but drinking it had become a part of his routine. He no longer took much notice of the taste. All he knew was that it was there, and if this was what he had to do to get a decent night's sleep, so be it.

Without a second thought, Ivan discarded the shot glass and downed the entire bottle.

In hindsight, that had not been a brilliant idea; he should have at least paced himself. This idea only occurred to Ivan when he woke up in the middle of the night with his brain pounding incessantly on his skull. He briefly opened his eyes, but groaned when dark spots started to dance across his vision. He sighed, and his throat felt like sandpaper.

Granted, he had had no nightmares, and it was a blessing not to have the screams of his people ringing in his ears, but his sleep had been far from peaceful .He'd had the sensation of falling into a neverending black pit, and had almost been relieved when he woke up.

As he thought about this, Ivan's feelings of despair turned into ones of anger. Why did he have to be like this? None of his friends had shitty pasts like him! They didn't feel like their hands were stained red with generations of bloodshed! Why did he have to be born in such a freezing, remote place? Why did he have to be so different?

In a rare fit of rage, Ivan leapt up and hurled the glass bottle at the wall, where it shattered into a thousand tiny fragments. He ran his hand though his fair hair, ears ringing from the noise of the impact. His fury had evaporated in an instant. Now, he just felt exhausted. He sat back down heavily and rested his head in his hands.

A few moments later, there was a soft knock on the door. Ivan looked up. "Yes?" he called, as loudly as he could manage in his half-drunk, half-hungover state.

The door opened a crack and a head poked though. "E-excuse me, Mr. Braginsky?" A voice stammered. "I-I heard something break. Would y-you like me to clean it up, s-sir?" The door opened fully and Toris stepped into the room. It was difficult for Ivan to tell in the semi-darkness, but he appeared to be wearing a long, thin nightshirt and not much else. Ivan suddenly felt sorry for his subordinate, who he now noticed was trembling—either from the cold or fear of his master.

An idea occurred to the Russian. "Come here, Toris," he commanded.

The Lithuanian started to tremble even more. The last thing he wanted was to go any further into his captor's bedroom, but at the same time he was too petrified to run away. Eventually, he took a few hesitant steps forward until he was at Ivan's bedside. "Yes, sir?" he squeaked, not entirely sure he wanted to know why Ivan needed him.

"You will sleep with me tonight, da?" he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Toris took a step back in shock. "You want me to what?"

Ivan frowned. "I did not mean to frighten you. You seemed like you were cold, so I think you will be warmer in bed with me, and having you here might help me sleep better. It works for both of us, da?"

Toris's expression softened slightly when he registered the hurt look on Ivan's face. As cruel as he could be, Ivan appeared to have the mind of a naive child. Sometimes, the Lithuanian wondered if he was even aware of how much pain he caused the Baltic trio. And truthfully, Toris was cold. He would still rather share a bed with anyone but Ivan, but he wasn't exactly in a position to refuse.

"O-OK, then." Toris nervously sat down on the edge of the bed, then Ivan put his arms around him and pulled him down to lie next to him. The younger man stiffened, aware of how completely vulnerable he was.

"You are warmer now?" Ivan questioned, the 'reassuring' smile back on his face.

"Y-yes, thank you," Toris whispered.

"Good," Ivan grinned. "Now you will keep to your part of the deal, da?"

The Lithuanian gulped. He had no idea how his presence could help Ivan sleep, but—Toris blinked. Ivan's eyes were closed and he was snoring softly. Was it even possible to fall asleep that quickly?

He closed his own eyes and tried to calm his constant trembling. Ivan still held him firmly, and he knew it would be foolish to fall asleep at that point. The Russian could have easily been pretending, and Toris could not afford to let his guard down. Instead, he let his mind wander back to the other Baltics, Eduard and Raivis. What on Earth was he going to tell them in the morning when they asked why he had disappeared for the night?

He peered at Ivan's face in the dim light. He did seem to be fast asleep—not that that meant anything. Nevertheless, Toris was tired and his eyes were starting to sting. Surely it wouldn't hurt to just close his eyes for a while, since he was definitely not going to fall asleep.

Ivan opened his eyes slowly. Pale winter sunlight streamed through the curtains, and he watched the motes of dust swirl lazily in the shaft of light. For once in his life, he felt content. For some mysterious reason, sharing his bed with Toris, having a warm body to hold close to his, had banished the nightmares from his mind and he had slept soundly.

He glanced down at the sleeping Lithuanian whom he still held in his arms, and smiled. Toris looked so cute when he wasn't scared witless.

If this is what stops me having nightmares, Ivan thought to himself, perhaps it should become a regular occurrence.

Oh God, that was terrible. I think it started off OK, but at the end... gah. I should probably stick to writing humour. . Anyway, this is my first Hetalia fic, so I hope I've done it right. Flames will be used to toast marshmallows. :)

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