Падение СССР.
It seemed like no matter where Russia turned, the same headline always seemed to jump out at him. Падение СССР. Every newspaper in the country was reporting the same thing. Падение СССР...
It was only the day before when he stood outside the Kremlin, watching them lower his crimson flag down its pole, when his boss finally revealed to him that the Soviet Union was collapsing. His heart had throbbed in pain when his boss told him the news. Gorbachev was slumped forward in his chair, his head held in his hands; his face was lined with age and stress, voice barely above a whisper when he uttered the words: "Мне очень жаль, Иван..."
So there he sat days later, alone in his large, empty, silent house. His clothes and hair were dishevelled and out of place, his skin was paler than usual and he sported large, dark bags under his eyes. Not that anyone would care now that he was alone.
He no longer bothered to care for himself. It had been days since he had last washed his body, since he last fed himself, since he last slept. The only thing keeping him going was the vodka. He was drinking more than he ever had in life, so much that if he were human, he would've choked on his own sick or died of alcohol poisoning. He drank to forget, to forget his pain, to forget what the West must've thought of his failure- but he always remembered.
He would find himself sitting in the dining room often. He had so many memories of the others sitting around that table, enjoying whatever it was that Lithuania had cooked that evening. He had many fond moments of the others during the time they lived with him.
Lithuania would always be either cooking in the kitchen or cleaning; Estonia would usually be either helping Lithuania or sat near the fireplace with a book; Latvia would smile at everyone, encouraging the others to finish their work; Ukraine would be happily talking about her day with Russia, little Moldova on her hip as he slept; Belarus would always be more than happy to hug Russia and to help out around the house; Georgia was almost always in the library if she wasn't cleaning, books piled high around her as she read; Armenia usually kept to himself, nodding along politely to whoever it was talking to him; Azerbaijan would always flirt with Ukraine, much to Russia's distaste; Kazakhstan, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan were always talking amongst themselves in an isolated room, laughing and joking around with each other; Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan always braided each other's hair, sitting in a content silence.
His heart ached at the memories. He realised now that every smile was fake, none of them actually wanted to be around him. He could only guess what they were saying behind his back- even his own sisters couldn't wait to leave him when they did.
Perhaps I'm forever doomed to be alone, he thought to himself as he gulped down some more vodka, stumbling out of the liquor cupboard and into the dining room. He sat down heavily in his place at the head of the table, draining the rest of the bottle. He used too much force when he placed it down onto the dark wood of the table, however, and the glass bottle smashed in his hands. He grumbled and got up again, ignoring the stinging from his now bleeding hands.
He dragged his feet along the floor and sat down heavily in an armchair in his living room. Russia rested his head against the windowpane and looked outside. General Winter was especially angry today; overcast clouds hung over the land as the blizzard raged on. For once, Russia was glad of the cold, for it soothed his throbbing forehead.
He stared outside at a tree, barely visible through the storm. Memories of turning Azerbaijan into a snowman under that same tree for flirting with his sister flooded his mind, emotion rising up into his chest. He was sure his heart was going to fall right out of his chest.
He glanced at the calendar on a nearby table: Monday 30th December. Russia laughed, the forced sound tearing through his throat, croaky from disuse. My birthday, he thought. Alone on my birthday.
Before he could stop himself, the emotions he's been hiding for years suddenly overwhelmed him. Tears burned his eyes and streaked down his cheeks, the burning heat from them contrasting with the iciness of the room.
He hit his head against the wall as the tears kept falling, not really feeling the dull ache the collision caused, nor the stinging from his hands, as he continued harshly headbutting the wall. a loud crack resonated throughout the room and Russia felt something warm begin to form on his scalp, but that didn't stop him.
He continued. Once. "Жир."
Twice. "Коммунист."
Again. "Ублюдок."
Again. "Пидорас."
He imagined how America would react if he were to see him now, hair soaked with his own blood as he continued slamming his against the hard wall. He would probably laugh at him, insult him. Perhaps he would encourage him to keep hurting himself, egg him on.
He heard his phone ringing nearby, but he ignored it. It was probably just his boss; he kept trying multiple times a day to contact Russia, but he never answered, never even listen to the worried voicemail that Gorbachev left for him. They were always from his boss- not one country had bothered to check in on him, not one country seemed to care. Russia found himself used to this particular scenario.
He would be alone, then a glimmer of hope when someone appears before him, offering friendship or support, only to turn around one day and leave without another word. And it doesn't matter how used to it Russia gets, he would always feel his chest tightening, his heart thumping against his ribs, the tears spilling down his cheeks. Sometimes that person would laugh, other times they would act as if he never existed and continue walking away from him.
The New Year rolled about, Russia still didn't bother making an appearance. He didn't show up for the world meeting in January, and not very many people noticed; many did not care.
Belarus had tried to see if he was home but Russia never answered the door. She would bring Ukraine with her, to no avail. Sometimes they would catch glimpses of Russia through the windows. Sometimes he would be seen sitting near the window in the living room, other times he could be seen making trips back and forth between the liquor cabinet and the dining room, laden with an armful of bottles varying in size.
Russia ignored them, thinking they're just figments of his imagination, thinking it's his brain trying to trick him into believing that people actually cared about him.
No one cares about Russia. No one would care if Russia were to disappear one day. No one would be upset by that...
Short but... sweet? Not really sweet, but oh well~
Падение СССР, Padeniye SSSR, Fall of the USSR
Мне очень жаль, Иван, Mne ochen' zhal', Ivan, I'm so sorry, Ivan
Жир, Zhir, Fat
Коммунист, Kommunist, Commie/Communist
Ублюдок, Ublyudok, Bastard
Пидорас, Pidoras, Derogatory term for homosexuals
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The Awesome Book of Hetalia Oneshots
FanfictionThe Awesome List of Hetalia Oneshots is, obviously, an awesome list of oneshots from the anime Hetalia: Axis Powers. Requests are open, although it may take me a while to get to each person's ships request. I will also do specific uke/seme requests:...
