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There is a boy glued to the side of the duke’s side and his eyes are big and wide and tracking Ivan’s every move. He clutches his mother’s hand tighter, biting the insides of his cheeks and burying his face deeper into his scarf.
The boy is older than Ivan by a few years at least, in human terms. Possibly even older than Katya, he thinks. Maybe six to his own three and Katya’s five?
Speaking of her, she's standing on their mother’s other side, between her and princess Maria, and Ivan wishes she was closer because the boy’s eyes are not. Leaving. Him.
His cheeks heat up and there are bugs crawling under his skin.
The duke crouches down, earning a small squeak from the boy as he readjusts to cling onto his sleeve rather than the lower half of his tunic. The duke rests a hand on the boy’s head and ruffles his golden hair, which is received with a pout. He gives Ivan and Katya a small smile, dipping his head in greeting. Ivan offers a barely-there wave.
“Kazimierz,” he says, voice low, raising his other hand to his chest. Ivan blinks and startles when his mother nudges him gently with her foot, casting him an authoritative look. He stares at her.
“Ah- I'm Katya!” He hears his sister call, and- oh. His mother wants him to introduce himself, he realizes as duke Kazimierz’s eyes focus on him — the boy is staring as well, now squinting with furrowed brows. He pulls down his scarf, just a bit, just enough to unveil his mouth.
“Ivan,” he says, and it’s small and weak and he wants to dive behind his mother’s skirts and his skin itches at the way the boy is staring at him.
“Maria.” He turns his head to see his mother’s princess in a similar position to the duke, smiling warmly at the boy. The boy wrenches his hands in the duke's tunic but is kept from hiding behind him by the man's hand on his back. Duke Kazimierz says something familiar-but-not ( the sounds are there but they're not right , somehow, there's something off) and the boy trembles but opens his mouth.
"Feliks. Polska." Oh.
He had been wondering where Poland was, why he hadn't greeted them when they arrived. He wasn't expecting the Nation to be almost his age. His mother's country isn't that much older, yet she's already in her teens with three kids, one of them nearly as physically old as Poland.
Then he thinks about the fact that neither he nor his sisters even have a country to represent yet and sniffs, wringing a hand in his coat. Nation aging is weird .
Ivan muffles a squeak when Poland is pushed towards them despite the boy’s protests. Duke Kazimierz only shakes his head with a half-smile before pointing his chin at Ivan’s family. Poland huffs, flushed a bright red, before taking a few hesitant steps forward. Ivan grips his mother’s hand tighter. Then, the blond throws his hands forward and–
He’s holding out a small bouquet of red flowers with black centres. Ivan blinks and looks up at his mother, who’s holding a hand up to her mouth and cooing softly. He turns back to Poland.
Violet eyes lock with green and it feels almost like a death sentence.
He cards his fingers through golden hair, red flowers ( corn poppies, he remembers from Feliks's gushing ) laid out neatly next to him, waiting to be weaved into the strands. It's his third attempt and the petals have small tears and wrinkles in them but Feliks likes them all the same and Ivan agrees — they're not his favourite chamomile or even Katya's sunflowers but they're pretty nonetheless.
His fingers are thick and clumsy as he braids wheat-coloured strands but he sticks out the tip of his tongue and gentles his hold.
"Keep still!" he whines as a strand is once again almost pulled from his grasp when Feliks tilts his head. Feliks makes an apologetic noise and straightens up, keeping his head as still as possible — Ivan hopes it'll last for longer than last time.
He pouts at Katya's giggle. She's sitting next to them, gently petting and admiring her thick braid of platinum hair littered with pale blue flax blooms. Feliks is much better at working with flowers than Ivan. The short-cut stems can’t be easy to force into staying in place.
"Kasia, can you get me more dandelions?" Feliks asks after a few minutes of silence only broken by the buzz of bees and the singing of birds, and Ivan– twitches. The sentence sounds almost right but the accents are wrong and the forms are off and dandelion is completely different – Feliks says mlecz , not oduvanchik and everything's even more off than when Katya speaks her own version of their mother's language.
Katya hums and gets up, brushing off her dress and skipping away in search of the requested flowers. Ivan manages to weave a poppy into the back of the sloppily braided crown, tying it all together with a white ribbon — he pouts at the uneven bow he created before trying to push another flower’s stem into a part of a braid on Feliks’s right side. Feliks giggles and picks up one of the poppies from their pile, bringing it out of Ivan’s view.
"How are you so good with flowers?" Ivan asks, leaning his cheek on Feliks's back, twirling a poppy in his hands. Feliks lets out a questioning noise, turning his head slightly to look at him.
"What?" he asks, in that strange way of his, and Ivan repeats the question, slower. It works sometimes, when they say words clearer, to catch what's similar and what's not. This time, though, Feliks shakes his head and Ivan frowns, pushing away again. He lifts up his flower and shakes it around, pointing at Feliks's hair.
"You're good?" he tries, uncertain. Feliks scrunches up his face — he still doesn't understand. Ivan shakes his hands harder in frustration. "Skilled? Gifted? Talented?"
Feliks's eyes light up at the last one and he grins, displaying the gap in place of one of his teeth.
" Dziękuję !" he calls, one of the words Ivan's learned in his language — thank you . It's far from his own version of the word. He needs a few seconds to process what he says next: "It took me years of practice. Practice and you'll learn, too!"
That’s when Katya returns, dumping a bundle of yellow flowers in Feliks’s lap, earning a yelp and another thank you. She giggles and sits back down next to them, eyes locking on Ivan’s work with a coo. Ivan flushes at her praise, ducking his head and wishing he hadn’t left his scarf in his room. He could really use a way to hide his face right about now — it’s the middle of summer, though, far too warm for even him to insist on keeping on his boots and coat and hat and scarf.
Feliks is humming a song now as he works on whatever he's working on, and it's nice. The sun is shining, warm rays caressing their faces, and they are far from castles and courts and responsibilities. Ivan shuffles closer to Katya and lays his head down on her lap, closing his eyes and sighing softly. His sister's fingers thread through his hair with a small laugh and Ivan's content to never get up again.
Of course, that's not granted to him, as just when he's slipping away, Feliks is shaking him by the shoulder. He grumbles, opens an eye to glare at him, and is only slightly startled by the other's grinning face right in his.
“Get up, get up!” the blond calls, pulling him up by the shoulder, aided by a laughing Katya pushing Ivan up at the same time. Ivan whines and gripes, but finally sits up after an adequate amount of complaining. He rubs his eyes with his fists with a sniff — and freezes when a weight is dropped on his head. Feliks is smiling wide, bringing back his hands from above Ivan's head. He says something in Polish again, voice filled with pride. Ivan blinks and raises his hands, taking off whatever he was given to look at it.
It's a flower crown, out of bright yellow dandelions with a poppy woven in where he presumes the front's centre is supposed to be. He looks back up at Feliks, wide-eyed.
"For you!" And the sounds are off and strange, but he puts the flower crown back on and throws himself into Feliks's arms, nuzzling a cheek into his chest, ignoring the others' laughter.
Grand Duchy of Moscow.
He’s a proper Nation now, with his own language and rulers and people. He’s… not entirely sure how to feel about that, as he scratches at his forearms, itching with death. His skin feels wrong, like it’s too-big-too-small, too loose in some places and too tight in others. Everything seems so little all of a sudden, too, since he’s had this first growth spurt– ever . He’s four now, and Katyusha’s six, and Natalya’s two.
Right. Natalya. Ripped from their mother’s grasp by that brute, Lithuania. He scowls, curling his hands into fists. His little sister might be annoying at times, loud and always seeking attention, but she is his and he loves her all the same, and he swears he’ll get her back.
Meanwhile, Katyusha has had her own country for only a few years longer than Ivan — she’s the Kingdom of Galicia-Volhynia — and she’s not much better at dealing with the symptoms of being a Nation than he is. She has a few tips (“ Rub this salve into anything that hurts, chew on this root, soak in warm water, it’ll help with the pain ”) but it’s all only temporary reliefs. He wonders how his mother did it, how Feliks does it. How do you get used to the constant prickling of your people’s pain?
"Hey Muscovy!" a voice sounds behind him and he startles, whipping a dagger out and slashing. Feliks laughs, ducking away before coming up again to boop Ivan's nose with a coo. Ivan blinks, frozen, staring up at the other. "Good reflexes, kid. Be careful, though."
"Why are you here?" Ivan blurts out, clutching his dagger to his chest. It’s always been him and Katyusha visiting Feliks, not the other way around.
Feliks scrunches up his nose — something sounds wrong to him. Still, he answers:
"Can't I visit my brother?" And Ivan’s heart– stutters, flutters, and then soars , because the sentiment has always been there, in nooks and crannies, in shared meals and little gifts, but no one’s ever said it , never admitted it aloud, except–
Feliks just did, with a bright grin and sparkling eyes, the words falling from his tongue like they’re second nature.
Ivan smiles, soft, so soft, and it’s like he’s melting into the ground, warmth pooling in his chest, spilling throughout his body, soothing the death and the pain and the hurt for at least a little while. He ducks his face into his scarf, a red flush high on his cheeks, and Feliks giggles, a high, confused lilt colouring it.
“You can,” Ivan says, voice slightly muffled by the fabric. Feliks perks up, hand landing on Ivan’s head and heavily ruffling his hair, his protests and squirming going ignored.
After a few moments, he stops, letting his arm fall back to his side and face soften, drooping into something more forlorn as he looks around. Ivan blinks, trying to follow his gaze, but all he sees are his buildings, his heart , and there’s nothing particularly special anywhere. He turns back to Feliks and their eyes meet. Feliks crouches down so Ivan doesn’t have to crane his neck up to see his face and takes a hold of Ivan’s hands with his own, squeezing them gently.
“You’re going to do amazing, Ivan. You and Kasia and Natalka, once she grows into herself. You’re going to be incredible Nations with incredible countries, I just know it.” His voice is low, confident, and–
Ivan gapes, mouth open and eyes wide, because the sounds are skewed some, said with habits that haven’t been unlearned — but it’s his language, not Polish, and it’s sentences , not short phrases or a handful of common words. It’s his language .
Something pricks at his eyes and something settles heavily in his throat and Feliks smiles wider, lets go of his hands, and pulls out a poppy to stick in Ivan’s hair.
Ivan is–
He’s furious, ice burning his veins and covering every inch of his skin, almost choking on the glacier in his throat as he storms through the castle halls, disregarding any attempts to stop him — the first few guards had tried but quickly stopped at his glare and he knows they realized there’s something off about him.
Let them know. He just needs to get to Feliks’s bedroom as quickly as possible.
The corridors are long and winding and terribly similar to each other and it feels a bit like sand slipping through his fingers as he tries to remember the way — he hasn't been here in a while, too busy with his own duchy. He hadn't realized before how much work Nations have, even ones as young as him — or perhaps especially those his age. He understands now why Feliks would sometimes need to leave him and Katyusha alone in the middle of picnics or games or whatnot, called away by duties or training or studies. Today's visit required days of begging and bargaining to get permission from his Grand Duke, and even so, he is only permitted to stay no longer than one night which, however anyone, is understandable considering the distance.
It should still be enough time to deal with everything.
There. The door with a crowned eagle carved into the knob. Feliks always does love showing it off.
He doesn't bother knocking, instead throwing the door open without warning, and freezes at the scene inside.
Feliks is older than when Ivan had last seen him — maybe eleven or twelve years old now. His hair's longer, too, spilling over his shoulders like solid sun rays, a thin braid framing the left side of his face, and there's a new scar over his cheekbone, a slash of puckered white among smooth, pale skin. He's dressed in simple things, just a loose white shirt with black pants — it's a leisure day, Ivan guesses, with little to no expected responsibilities.
The thing that plunges a dagger into his chest, though, is who Feliks is with .
He's sitting on his bed with Lithuania , the brunet Nation looking over Feliks's shoulder at the book laid out in his lap, the blond pointing things out on the pages and clearly explaining them in a low but happy voice. Lithuania's hair is tied at his nape with a green ribbon and he's dressed in much the same things as Feliks.
Just that is enough to turn Ivan's blood into ice, but that's not all, because Natalya is laying in Lithuania's lap . She's laying in his lap, eyes closed and breath even, chubby cheek smooshed into his thigh and a trickle of saliva running down it from the corner of her mouth, and he's petting her head rhythmically, running his fingers through her hair and gently untangling any knots he encounters.
Just as quickly as Ivan sees this, it's gone, Feliks and Lithuania's heads snapping up towards him and Natalya shifting and curling into a ball with a sleepy whine. Feliks blinks and stares, wide-eyed, while Lithuania scowls, gently but decisively pulling Natalya up and closer to himself in spite of her drowsy protests.
"Ivan?" Feliks breaks the silence, furrowing his brows. Lithuania tenses, back straightening up as he glances between them. He continues in Latin: "What are you doing here? I don't recall any meeting being scheduled."
"Because there wasn't," Ivan grinds out, words foreign on his tongue but useful all the same, focusing on Feliks and trying to ignore Lithuania's piercing gaze for the moment. "I came without telling you. Can't I visit my brother whenever I want?"
He hears a small breath of air being sucked in and graces Lithuania with a split-second glance — his eyes widened by a fraction, but otherwise, nothing changed. He's good at keeping a straight face, Ivan knows.
"Well, of course," Feliks says and frowns further. "But this isn't any friendly visit, is it? You come with business, don't you, Muscovy?"
And there's that little shift in his tone, a little sharper and deeper, an edge of a blade, and there's that little shift in his gaze, a little harder and darker, a promise of dried blood, that tells Ivan, this is the Kingdom of Poland . It's not quite Feliks, now, and Ivan is startled some, forced back half a step, because he rarely sees Poland come out like this, let alone against him . Still, he curls his fists and steels his resolve — he can do that too, can be the Grand Duchy of Moscow rather than Ivan.
"I do," he says, pursing his lips. Poland tilts his head in a silent question and Ivan throws his arm out in Lithuania's direction, spitting venom: "What is this?"
"It's Tolys and Natalka." It's a little like a punch in the gut, to hear a human name in place of a Nation name when Feliks refers to Lithuania, face and eyes softening with the words. "I don't understand why you're asking. You know both. Or did you forget our little sister?"
There's a high, teasing note in his voice, Feliks taking Poland’s place once again, a curled grin on his mouth as he leans forward, and this is a scene Ivan has seen many times over the course of his friendship with Feliks, but today, it makes ice form in his stomach, sharp spikes stabbing his insides as he grits his teeth.
"Of course I haven't forgotten!" he yells and there's a brief prickling of guilt in the back of his head as he sees Natalya stir and wring her hand into Lithuania's shirt but he pushes it down — he can't just stop now. He'll make it up to her later. "That's why I don't understand–! I mean–! Him ?! He's the one who took her from us in the first place but now you've signed some– some alliance with him?! What are you thinking ?!"
Natalya's awake now, clinging onto Lithuania and staring at Ivan with large, watery eyes, lip wobbling with barely suppressed sobs and it's a thousand daggers slashing at his heart to see it so he pulls his gaze away to focus solely on Feliks.
The blond's face hardens into a stone mask and he supposes it's a bit unnerving to see a boy in such a state, but Ivan himself looks only about seven years old so he squashes down the uneasiness pooling in his stomach. He's a Nation now, he can handle a mean look.
"Tolys, take Natalia outside," Poland says, not taking his eyes off Ivan. Lithuania frowns and opens his mouth to say something but Poland tilts his head towards the door with a sharp: "I'll find you later."
Lithuania looks between Ivan and Feliks, a cold gaze digging into Ivan, but slips off the bed, settling Natalya on his hip, face hidden in his shoulder as she clutches tightly at his shirt. He casts each of them one last look before striding out, loudly shutting the door behind him.
And suddenly, Ivan is alone with Poland, and doubt simmers in the pit of his gut as he locks eyes with him, a deadly promise swimming in pools of vibrant green.
"What is this about, Ivan?" Poland asks in an even tone Ivan didn't even know the other was capable of — he was always so loud and expressive he thought him incapable of reigning in any emotion. It appears he was wrong.
"What do you mean? You know exactly what this is about," Ivan snaps, and oh, he isn't as good at this as Poland is. Still, he continues, taking a step forward with every other word: "That barbarian took Natalya from us and he's surely making plans to attack me right now! How could you even consider signing an alliance with him, let alone let him into your room?!"
He stops at the foot of the bed, resting his hands on the footboard and curling his fingers around the rim. Poland stares at him with half-lidded eyes for a few moments in silence only broken by Ivan's too-heavy breathing.
"An alliance with him is beneficial to me," he finally says, voice so prim and proper it makes Ivan want to scream. Where is the stuttering? The flustered giggling and hand waving as he explains a story? "Besides, he is a good friend. Stiff at times, but good. He takes care of Natalia well."
A brittle piece of ice in Ivan's chest snaps.
"That doesn't matter!" There's colour to him, for once, bright red flooding his face as he grips the edge of the footboard tighter, tighter, until his hands hurt, knuckles white, and a resounding crack permeates the air around them. Poland looks only mildly annoyed, eyes a bit wider and an eyebrow raised, but there is not much to be discerned from him and it makes a low growl grow in the back of Ivan's throat. " He's the enemy! You should side with me , not him! I'm your brother !"
“Where was this attitude when I took Kasia?” All the blood that had gathered at his face drains away in a second, and Ivan gapes for a few moments before finally answering:
“That’s different ! You’re family , it’s– it’s different, alright?!” Felik’s smile is small and crooked, twisted almost beyond recognition, and he looks away, smoothing out a wrinkle in his sheets. Ivan slowly lets go of the bed, grimacing at the splinters in his palms and the pain in his fingers, but he doesn’t drop his gaze. “It’s different.”
“Ivan,” Feliks breathes, turning towards him again, and Ivan hates the way he looks — so much like how he did when he first told Ivan and Katyusha about the wounds and the pain and the scars Nations are subjected to, only a few years before Katyusha got her own country to represent. Except it’s harsher now, the lines of his body tauter than back then, the glint in his eyes less mournful and more irritated. “It’s not. I still forced her to live with me. The only difference is that Natalka was never independent. But that’s not– that’s not even the point here. The point is that family doesn’t matter , Ivan.”
Ivan just stares, wide-eyed, wringing his fingers and rubbing his hands to try and shake away the aches in them. That’s not right. Of course family matters. It means they care. Otherwise, why would Feliks spend months teaching Ivan and Katyusha how to weave various flowers? Or why would he always fuss over them to make sure they hadn’t gotten hurt whenever they fell? Why would he pin poppies into their hair and onto their clothes whenever he could? Certainly not because he hates them. And if family doesn’t matter, then why would his mother take care of him? Why would his sister make him a scarf and repair any tiny tear he made in his clothing?
“What do you mean?” He doesn’t even realize he’s speaking until he’s done, licking his dry lips ( when had they gotten so dry? ). Feliks huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning towards Ivan a bit.
“You’re a Nation now, Muscovy. You don’t get the luxury of stable relationships. The thing between us, the brotherhood? That only worked because you weren’t a Nation yet . You weren’t a Grand Duchy yet, you were just Ivan . We didn’t have to worry about wars or politics or anything like that because you were basically just a human that didn’t age. Now, though?” Feliks shakes his head and Ivan’s heart shudders in his chest as he holds his breath, praying, begging for Feliks to stop because he doesn’t want to hear it . “Now, if we’re lucky, we can continue having a good relationship, our people. If not, though… we can’t base our decisions on something as flimsy as personal bonds , Ivan, we have countries to take care of. You must learn quick, if you wish to survive — you can’t look at friends and family when proposing alliances meant to keep your people prosperous. Kill or be killed, Ivan. You must choose.”
It feels like his heart is being torn into pieces.
He supposes it is, in a way.
He’s curled up in a bed, sweat beading on his skin, hugging a rapidly-melting chunk of ice to his chest in a feeble attempt to soothe the pain of his capital being taken over. He has no idea how long it’s been, constantly drifting in and out of consciousness. He didn’t realize this type of pain was even possible . He wishes he still didn’t know, whimpering at a particularly sharp stab in his heart.
The war has been on for a few years now — his first with Poland. Even after… that , he didn’t think it would ever happen. Did Poland forget all the time they’ve spent together? Did he forget teaching him how to hold a sword, or how to steal treats from the kitchens in a way that avoided getting chased through the halls by angry cooks?
He thinks his teeth might’ve just cracked from how hard he’s clenching them. It’s difficult to tell among everything else.
How could he? They were supposed to be family . What was the point of becoming so close if Poland was just going to cast it away for a stupid alliance? For a marriage ? How good could Lithuania be, how “ beneficial ”, to convince Poland to take his hand?
His vision is blurry when he manages to force his eyes open, just a tiny slit between his eyelids, to glare at the crushed, wilted poppy thrown to the floor on the opposite side of the room.
“It is nice without Lithuania here, no?” Ivan nudges Poland’s side with the tip of his boot, watching him twist on the ground to cover his ribs. His clothes are completely soaked with blood, and Ivan isn’t even entirely sure where all of it is coming from. The skin and muscle on his neck are torn as though he was just mauled by Lithuania’s oh-so-beloved wolf, but there must be wounds all over him for him to be dyed red so completely and still have blood left to pool around him, staining the snow.
“He won’t answer you, kid.” Ivan turns towards Prussia, sitting on a rock and polishing his sword. There’s a bored tone to his voice and little emotion on his face, but the barely-noticeable glances he casts Poland’s twitching body every few moments are more than telling. Ivan huffs.
“I know that. I’m not expecting an answer.” Prussia snorts, but it’s dry and weak, and Ivan has heard his actual laughter so he knows his heart is far from in it. He supposes watching your former caretaker slowly die from wounds you yourself inflicted can do that to a person. Ivan himself has to stop himself from crouching by Poland’s side, hands itching to stem the bleeding with anything he has.
“Must we wait here so long?” Austria sighs, tugging his coat tighter around himself. “I have better things to do than watch… this .”
“Gotta make sure he’s dead, maybe take a trophy home,” Prussia replies with a half-hearted shrug. Ivan raises a brow.
“Trophy?” Prussia grins with too many teeth, a wild look flashing in his eyes, and for a split second, he truly does look like the demon humans take him for.
“Like a deer’s head. Who says we can’t do that with him? It doesn’t seem like his body’s disappearing anytime soon.” Ivan suppresses a shudder and spares a second to look at Poland and imagine his head mounted on a wall before he needs to look away, bile rising in his throat. Why would Prussia say something like that? He hates the blond as much as the next person, but that feels too far.
“Erzsébet would have my head as a trophy if I did that,” Austria scoffs, and Ivan’s body fills with swirling ice, a snowstorm as furious and wild as he’s ever seen them. Erzsébet. Hungary . Poland’s best friend. How come she got to have Poland’s affection despite politics that Ivan was deprived of?
No matter. She won’t be seeing Poland anytime soon. No one will. Because they’re killing him.
They’re killing him .
He forces down whatever’s trying to climb up his throat. He shouldn’t have eaten anything today ( why does he still care ? ).
Poland’s body trembles with coughs he doesn’t have the energy for. His skin has taken a bluish tint, his lips a bruised purple. There’s even more blood spilling from his mouth and neck, coming faster with the failed attempts at hacking his lungs out. It’s truly a mystery how he isn’t dead already.
Ivan leans over him, and clearly, the other registers it as he shifts his head, just the slightest bit, to try and look at him.
Cold violet locks with glazed green and it truly is a death sentence.
“Learn quick if you wish to survive,” Ivan says lowly and he doesn’t know if Poland can even hear him but he continues anyways: “You told me that. Kill or be killed, for the good of my people. I made my choice. I suppose you have as well.”
He straightens back up, ignoring Poland’s strangled gasps for air, and looks at Prussia and Austria, both watching him closely. He holds their gazes.
“My apologies, I believe I must take care of the other problem ,” he says, mind flashing with images of blood-soaked brown hair. “You don’t mind, no?”
Prussia shrugged, finally sheathing his sword, while Austria pushes his glasses up his nose and shakes his head despite the annoyed twitch to the corner of his mouth. Ivan smiles brightly ( oh so very fakely ) and begins his way toward his nearby camp where he left Lithuania while dealing with Poland. He shouldn’t be much trouble but he doesn’t trust humans with a Nation, even if those humans are his own most trusted.
Something drips from his glove and he stops, eyes drawn toward the ground.
Blood blooms against the snow and Ivan thinks — poppy .
A heavy boot lands on it and he grinds it into the ground before lifting it back up and continuing to walk without looking back.