Disclaimer: All and any Hetalia series character names belong to Hidekaz Himaruya, Bob Shirohata (and so on). No OC's are included within this work, indicating that nothing is claimed or owned by the author, Quarter 'till Class. No copyright infringement is intended. Plagiarism is theft so is prohibited. Do not copy or create a reproduction of this work in any language without express written authorization of the author, Quarter 'till Class. Thank you...Please enjoy.

Lithuania/Toris x Russia/Ivan

Warnings: Angst, sexual implications, human names are used but not dominant.

Chapter One: Damned.

They were life. The very small terracotta pot of moist dirt and shriveled flowers, once strong in full bloom, were a representation of life itself. The tiny rounded buds had dried before given the chance to grow, like defenseless children starved to death before their chance to mature. The leaves had browned at the edges, curling into themselves as their souls were slowly dissolved from their stems...spreading through the entire plant much like a disease. The flora themselves, once a precious color of sunshine, were now wilted and decaying petals that hung limp from their callous centers. The sunflowers hadn't even gotten that tall, maybe ten inches.

Lithuania stood in the kitchen, the ticking of a distant grandfather clock nearly infinite...the chime a familiar noise as it rang and echoed through the household. It was overcast, a blue hue of clouded light barely illuminating the room from outside. He stared, watching the dead bundle of three innocent flowers as they sat on the sill of the window. They wilted into each other, the roots probably a mess of decomposed soil and water beneath the surface.

As hard as Russia tried they wilted, they froze over and slowly, painfully, they were killed by the simple notion that they just could not exist. The nation would water them properly, provide them nutrients, place them in the small trickles of sun their weather allowed...and every time, despite his efforts, he would fail.

The Baltic frowns, because even in the summer they are decrepit and dying...even in the luscious warmth of spring that caresses their petals with light and love they will crumble into themselves and slowly languish. With time he'd found that it was not the weather, nor their condition, nor their home...it was Russia. It was the cold that emanated from his skin, the bitterness that made itself known only in his annoyance and withheld anger. It was the feeling of indifference and the scorn he held from being so, all infecting the roots and the soil with a single touch, vitiating the leaves with frost and despair. All bottled up from his isolated childhood, resurfacing in the form of death as it consumed all he adored or cared for.

It seemed that maintaining life was the only thing Russia could truly not do.

"Toris..." His thick accent disrupts the quiet of the room as he enters, purple irises seeming dulled towards everything. But Lithuania does not move, his gaze fixated on the hypothetically painful sight of pitifully dead hope. And Ivan follows the Baltic's worried expression until he sets his eyes upon his decayed flora as well; the same flora he'd mourned over for nearly a week. "They were not strong enough."

He says it with bitterness, an indescribable tone of pity and leisure that sounds harsh against the ears. And somehow he'd known that Ivan spoke of himself through the failure of their growth, the implications of self-hatred not so unnoticed.

"I know." Toris inaudibly murmurs it, the tone unintentionally gentle and soaked in a sympathy that he could not withhold. Exposing emotions he wish he did not contain; telling the older that he did indeed care, that he had developed something further than simply being property under ascendency and sovereignty. He wishes he could take back that seemingly trivial confession of understanding, that concerned voice of empathy. Because it had caught Ivan's attention, he knew, even if the nation had yet to respond.

His footsteps fell heavily, the marble floor seeming to amplify the sound of his boots hitting ground. There were only a few, enough to close the once comforting distance that Lithuania had earlier appreciated with all of his being. The distance that Lithuania had prayed whatever god was watching would maintain.

Russia was close now, scarf concealing his chin and gloved hands stuffed flaccidly into the pockets of his coat. Ivan's smile does not diminish despite his obvious air of grievance and vexation, and he stands firm beside him with an undisturbed demeanor. As though the decrepit state of what he'd coddled like children did not beckon the smallest morsel of grief or sorrow. Like those sunflowers, once barely bloomed with thick stumps as their stems, had maintained no importance despite what they represented.

"It is unfortunate, da?" Accent still deep, still eerie with its self-loathing yet made to sound plainly content with the overall tone. He played the part of a complacent innocent well.

Toris only nods in agreement, because speaking is so risky at this point.

"But you are strong enough, right Toris?" He asks him something so impossibly complicated, so terribly soft and hopeful and worried. Yet, he doesn't make it sound terribly soft, hopeful or worried; it is plain, casual and more of a somehow threatening statement with a hinted tone of flattery rather than an inquiry of desperation. But Lithuania knows better...staring at the shriveled bodies of the flowers, hunched over in their dulled terracotta pot...he knows better than anyone else could.

Lips purse, an answer had formed but lingered peskily on the tip of his tongue...unwilling to be spoken.

'Of course'. He wanted to say. To reassure that hidden side of Ivan that was but a cold, isolated representation of those wilted flora on the sill of the window. They were, in many ways, Ivan, as well as what he could do. A simple reflection placed into the form of death and atrophy upon something that'd once lived and breathed. He had killed them unintentionally, and even more guilt and certainty of failure plagued his mind after. Lithuania could tell, even as the older formed an immobile smile he could see it within the smallest muscles of his face, within the points of his falsified, gleeful expression. It was all some horrid front.

"Toris..." He still could not answer, hazel gaze formed by pure hesitation that'd barely acknowledged the purple eyes searching his face for conviction. Lithuania's mouth went dry, almost like cotton, making him swallow before looking back to the window and its display of rounded terracotta filled with dirt, rot and putridity. A better sight than the look in Ivan's eyes, a painful expression of threat...a look of contrivance and mock kindness.

"Toris..." He doesn't realize the hand that'd placed itself on his shoulder, turning him in a swift and demanding way.

Damned. That's the word he wanted to say. 'Ivan, you're damned.'

But it was one mistake after another, like always. Some intentional, some not so much. The lack of an answer, the unspoken judgement, the freely expressed trepidation...all mistakes. He winces, shaken with trembling hands despite the painfully firm hold on his wrists. And there's a dwindling silence, the tension's thick, the air was cool with the overcast weather, accompanied by the heat emanating from the Russian that was an unwanted and deplorable comfort. Ivan releases his hold and leans heavily forward, his sleeves bunching slightly as he wraps his arms around the brunette. An embrace; lonely, harsh, pitiful in every sense. Requesting comfort as he silently drowns in his sorrows at the sight of what he has done.

And in turn Lithuania does nothing to fight back. Because Russia needs this, and he loves him, and he fears what they share in the most despicable way possible. With intention of rejection, only to succumb to the look of hidden anguish that holds him so close. The breath on his cheek is cold, like Russia, the hand sliding up his back is firm, like Russia, and the whispers of apology in his ear are inane and horrifying...like Russia.

"I love you." Toris says it regrettably and sincerely, yet still does not admit or deny his strength. Because in all truth he is not strong enough, he is not powerful or large...he is defeated, lost, weak. Shaken by his adoration of a man so demolished and eager to punish those who may or may not deserve it. Baffled by his infatuation and care for Russia, his abuser, his captor.

Lithuania's chin is lifted lightly by an increasingly steady finger, the distant smell of vodka intoxicating as it tells exactly what the Russian had been doing the night before. His eyes close, and a leathered thumb runs over his cheek, admiring everything about the younger's petrified expression, watching it closely as he calmed.

Ivan lowers closer to his face, a pressure of gentle ecstasy making his cheeks flush uncontrollably. The kiss is demure, faint and easily regrettable. It is brief and soft and careful...as well as intimidating and fearful and unnecessary. Russia claims what is his own, what a paper-thin deed hypothetically states belongs to him in the most political as well as intimate of ways. Lithuania belonged to him, and it'd be wrong of him to allow the smaller nation to momentarily think otherwise. Russia was providing him mercy, always attempting to avoid excessive hope that would only distract and pain him further. He was being considerate.

The soviet was quiet, the small smile a curve of unknown emotions that Toris could feel against his mouth. His eyes, so often soft and unnerving, were hidden behind the pale complexion of his lashes. Lithuania parted his lips, the gentle caress of the older's tongue making him shudder unexpectedly. And he kissed back, with unspoken apology followed by moaned ferocity.

His coat is gone within seconds, body suddenly bare as he's slowly inched onto the granite table, an infectious cold chilling his spine in the process of being stripped. Hair is brushed considerately out of his face, mouth being distracted once again before he had the chance to stifle a gasp. His gaze shifts once more to the window as he is being heatedly taken, Toris' hand curling delicately into choppy blond hair as his hazed sight looks over the dead sunflowers. Sunflowers which had been treated well, taken care of, pampered...adored.

He fears again, as always, that Ivan's coldness, his hatred, and his love will kill everything around him. That what is here, the home, the people, the passion, even the table beneath him, will all vanish, and what shall rise would be nothing capable of life.

And as a sensual moan is pulled from his lungs with a trailed tongue, he wonders if, in the end, it will kill him as well.

Just like the sunflowers.

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