Jacob I Have Loved (1D)
anonymous
June 19 2010, 05:35:16 UTC
"Hello, Russia," Kaliningrad said in a low voice.
Russia put one heavy boot in front of the other, and instinctively Kaliningrad stepped back, until his back was against the wall and there was nowhere to go. Russia loomed over him and said through clenched teeth, "There is nothing here for you. There never was." His breath smelled strongly of vodka.
Kaliningrad cleared his throat softly, and held up the envelope with 'Nana' written across it. Russia stared at it, uncomprehending. "She asked me to give this to you," Kaliningrad told him. "It was her last request."
Russia snatched it from Kaliningrad's hands, but he did not tear into it, not then. He clutched the envelope to his chest, his paws crumping the paper. Over Russia's shoulder, Kaliningrad could see Prussia's tattered portrait staring at him, as though beseeching him to be careful.
"We buried her in Berlin, under the name Anya Beilschmidt," Kaliningrad whispered. Russia looked up at him with wild eyes, his pupils shrunk to little pinpricks. "If you wish to come visit her, I will tell you how. She would've wanted you to come."
Russia snarled at him, and Kaliningrad braced himself for a blow that did not come. He hated himself a little for flinching before Russia; he did not want to look weak to his father. But Russia's snarl turned into a rasping, mocking laugh. "Such a good brother, faithful like a dog," he said. "There is nothing of Prussia in you. Did you know he died cursing you? Did Lithuania tell you that?" His taunts were childishly cruel, his drunkenness making him wild. "He died cursing you for killing him."
Kaliningrad looked into Russia's face and saw the brittleness in him, the endless cold and the desperation slowly soured into sadism. He wondered if Russia had perhaps in his own way loved Prussia, wondered if he mourned him still. Do you blame me for killing him? Kaliningrad wanted to ask him. Or do you blame yourself? And then there was Lithuania, who could love a little boy with Russia's eyes but not Russia himself.
Kaliningrad laid his hands over his heart, closed his eyes and said, "I have been loved from the moment of my birth."
After a moment he opened his eyes to see Russia shatter. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, holding GDR's letter like a shield. Russia crumpled in on himself, shaking with barely silenced sobs, like a man who's life work was a house of cards that toppled over in moments.
Kaliningrad stepped around him and left the room. He did not feel he was wanted there. Instead, he went down the corridor to his old room, the room he had shared with Lithuania since he was minutes old. Unlike the rest of the house, it was untouched by Russia's rampage. Lithuania had left the bed neatly made, and the dresser held nothing but the work clothing Russia had made him wear. Even Kaliningrad's few toys from his childhood were gone, carefully packed in a suitcase and taken far, far away. Kaliningrad took one last lingering look at the little room with its four walls, before shutting the door and locking it behind him as he left.
Russia blocked the hallway. Kaliningrad watched him as he approached, slowly, almost hesitantly, as though afraid Kaliningrad would flinch away from him. When they were an arm's length apart, Russia reached into his coat and produced a small book. "Take it," he said gruffly. His skin was deathly pale and his eyes were red-rimmed and bleak. "She wanted you to have this."
Kaliningrad took the book from him. Turning it over, he found the cover to be the familiar "Treasure Island" book GDR had given him all these years before, carefully preserved and treasured. He traced the embossed letters on the cover with his fingertips as he said, "Thank you."
Jacob I Have Loved (2D) (finale)
anonymous
June 19 2010, 05:46:51 UTC
"How did she die?" Russia asked in a hush. He would not meet Kaliningrad's eyes.
"With her eyes open," Kaliningrad told him. "Unafraid. Facing death like a soldier."
Russia went downstairs first, followed by Kaliningrad. He watched as Russia sat at the kitchen table, laid a crumpled letter beside him, and laid his head in his arms. Kaliningrad walked past him, GDR's book in hand, and peered at the letter, wanting to see his sister's final words to their father.
In the shaky, giant lettering of a dying girl was written one sentence, DO IT FOR ME.
Kaliningrad sobbed aloud, balling a fist into his mouth to muffle the sound. The thought that -- GDR in her last days had -- begged their father to -- come to some reconciliation with him -- hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he ran from the house, ran out the still open front door, ran and ran and left Russia behind, ran until his lungs burned and he could scream out his pain to the night's sky.
There could be centuries, millenia left for Kaliningrad. His sister had had a few scant months.
He trudged the rest of the way to Lithuania's house. He was on it almost without noticing, and when he knocked on the door it was wrenched open instantly. "Oh, God," Lithuania moaned when he saw Kaliningrad. "Oh, Fricu."
Kaliningrad collapsed into his arms, even as Poland shouted behind them, "Omigod!"
His fate would be forever tied to the two fathers he had never known -- one taken by death, one by madness. But, perhaps, there could be dignity in this life, and healing, and even joy. His sister would've wanted it.
Russia put one heavy boot in front of the other, and instinctively Kaliningrad stepped back, until his back was against the wall and there was nowhere to go. Russia loomed over him and said through clenched teeth, "There is nothing here for you. There never was." His breath smelled strongly of vodka.
Kaliningrad cleared his throat softly, and held up the envelope with 'Nana' written across it. Russia stared at it, uncomprehending. "She asked me to give this to you," Kaliningrad told him. "It was her last request."
Russia snatched it from Kaliningrad's hands, but he did not tear into it, not then. He clutched the envelope to his chest, his paws crumping the paper. Over Russia's shoulder, Kaliningrad could see Prussia's tattered portrait staring at him, as though beseeching him to be careful.
"We buried her in Berlin, under the name Anya Beilschmidt," Kaliningrad whispered. Russia looked up at him with wild eyes, his pupils shrunk to little pinpricks. "If you wish to come visit her, I will tell you how. She would've wanted you to come."
Russia snarled at him, and Kaliningrad braced himself for a blow that did not come. He hated himself a little for flinching before Russia; he did not want to look weak to his father. But Russia's snarl turned into a rasping, mocking laugh. "Such a good brother, faithful like a dog," he said. "There is nothing of Prussia in you. Did you know he died cursing you? Did Lithuania tell you that?" His taunts were childishly cruel, his drunkenness making him wild. "He died cursing you for killing him."
Kaliningrad looked into Russia's face and saw the brittleness in him, the endless cold and the desperation slowly soured into sadism. He wondered if Russia had perhaps in his own way loved Prussia, wondered if he mourned him still. Do you blame me for killing him? Kaliningrad wanted to ask him. Or do you blame yourself? And then there was Lithuania, who could love a little boy with Russia's eyes but not Russia himself.
Kaliningrad laid his hands over his heart, closed his eyes and said, "I have been loved from the moment of my birth."
After a moment he opened his eyes to see Russia shatter. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, holding GDR's letter like a shield. Russia crumpled in on himself, shaking with barely silenced sobs, like a man who's life work was a house of cards that toppled over in moments.
Kaliningrad stepped around him and left the room. He did not feel he was wanted there. Instead, he went down the corridor to his old room, the room he had shared with Lithuania since he was minutes old. Unlike the rest of the house, it was untouched by Russia's rampage. Lithuania had left the bed neatly made, and the dresser held nothing but the work clothing Russia had made him wear. Even Kaliningrad's few toys from his childhood were gone, carefully packed in a suitcase and taken far, far away. Kaliningrad took one last lingering look at the little room with its four walls, before shutting the door and locking it behind him as he left.
Russia blocked the hallway. Kaliningrad watched him as he approached, slowly, almost hesitantly, as though afraid Kaliningrad would flinch away from him. When they were an arm's length apart, Russia reached into his coat and produced a small book. "Take it," he said gruffly. His skin was deathly pale and his eyes were red-rimmed and bleak. "She wanted you to have this."
Kaliningrad took the book from him. Turning it over, he found the cover to be the familiar "Treasure Island" book GDR had given him all these years before, carefully preserved and treasured. He traced the embossed letters on the cover with his fingertips as he said, "Thank you."
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"With her eyes open," Kaliningrad told him. "Unafraid. Facing death like a soldier."
Russia went downstairs first, followed by Kaliningrad. He watched as Russia sat at the kitchen table, laid a crumpled letter beside him, and laid his head in his arms. Kaliningrad walked past him, GDR's book in hand, and peered at the letter, wanting to see his sister's final words to their father.
In the shaky, giant lettering of a dying girl was written one sentence, DO IT FOR ME.
Kaliningrad sobbed aloud, balling a fist into his mouth to muffle the sound. The thought that -- GDR in her last days had -- begged their father to -- come to some reconciliation with him -- hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he ran from the house, ran out the still open front door, ran and ran and left Russia behind, ran until his lungs burned and he could scream out his pain to the night's sky.
There could be centuries, millenia left for Kaliningrad. His sister had had a few scant months.
He trudged the rest of the way to Lithuania's house. He was on it almost without noticing, and when he knocked on the door it was wrenched open instantly. "Oh, God," Lithuania moaned when he saw Kaliningrad. "Oh, Fricu."
Kaliningrad collapsed into his arms, even as Poland shouted behind them, "Omigod!"
His fate would be forever tied to the two fathers he had never known -- one taken by death, one by madness. But, perhaps, there could be dignity in this life, and healing, and even joy. His sister would've wanted it.
They all deserved it.
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Poor Kaliningrad…poor GDR
thank anon, this was beautiful
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*Sniff, sniff...*
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