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Whisper of Stars	By : tamasama Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 6255 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers or any of the characters. I make no money from the writing or distrobution of this story. This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to the lives of any person, living or dead, is purely conincedental.

Chapter List
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CHAPTER SEVEN
Russia was in a very good mood that day; his steps seemed to be lighter, his demeanor a little less terrifying, and he even just chuckled when Latvia tripped over a stray shoe and dropped his glass of vodka onto the carpeted floor with a muffled thump. Whimpering when the large man stood, Latvia shook uncontrollably as he fumbled to pick up the shards of glass and toss them quickly onto the serving tray. Sweat broke out across his forehead as Russia’s shadow slipped over him, he froze and tried to mentally prepare himself for whatever punishment was going to be dished out. His hand stomped down and ground into the sharp shards? Another whipping? Only if he was lucky, and he did not want to focus on what was going to happen if Russia had free time and sadism to spare.
Jumping with a high-pitched yelp when Russia knelt down before him, he had to blink back shocked tears when he started to gently pick the glass up between gloved fingers and set them onto the tray. Having learned to never question him, Latvia continued to pick up the smallest shards, his mind working frantically to find some logical explanation.
Plopping back onto his butt when the mess was finally cleaned, Russia flashed the little Latvian a disarming smile. “I hope the smell wont set in,” He said, tapping the toes of his large boots on the moist and squishy antique carpet, “You should get it cleaned up soon, okay?”
Nodding vigorously, Latvia jumped up and exited the room in haste, rushing to dispose of the broken glass, pour a fresh one, and come up with the proper cleaning equipment. Hurrying back, he set the cold glass onto the small end table next to the Russian’s favorite reading chair before he got to work mopping up the small puddle. He quickly tossed the soiled cleaning rags onto the serving tray and felt his heart drop when Russia, who was now reclining in his reading chair, beckoned to him. Slowly and timidly approaching him, Latvia gulped loudly.
“Y-yes, sir?”
“Give me your hand, da?” Russia commanded, outstretching his own gloved hand towards the sweating, excited child. Taking the soft fingers, Russia clamped down onto them heavily, ringing a little whine of pain from the boy. “You will be more careful now.” It was not a question.
Giving a robust headshake, Latvia sucked in a pleased hiss of breath when his hand was released, no more worse for ware than it would have been had it been closed into a door fairly softly. Quickly making his escape he thanked the heavens for his good fortune at the shockingly light punishment he had received. Twisting around a couple of corners and down a long hall, Latvia entered the kitchen in a haze of confusion. That had to be the smallest punishment that he had ever received since he had come to live at Russia’s house.
Sitting back in his chair and raising the glass to his lips, Russia smiled gently. He had finally gotten a chance to get his feelings for the younger nation off of his chest yesterday and it felt good. He knew that it was only a matter of time before the foolish man he had locked up in the guest room would come to accept his master’s emotions and willingly give himself over his mighty rule. After a long pull of vodka Russia let out a muffled little giggle into the glass. He had been drinking heavily since morning to commemorate his heightened humor and it was showing. Heavily dropping the glass upright onto the end table, he snickered and stood, deciding that his American needed some exercise.
As he made his tipsy was to the heavy locked door, Russia thought over the power that taking the USA would grant him. The vast resources, financial integrity, inventive prowess. Of course some things would need to be removed, such as that silly idea of “freedom” and, being a bit nostalgic for a time now past within himself, most of the religious practices. The implementation of just a little bit of socialism would also be nice. Flip the flag around a little, add a little more hockey, slap on some more vodka distilleries, and (just for shits and giggles) make driving a dirty car illegal. Pulling the key from his deep pocket, Russia mused over his planned American reformation as he slid the door open and walked inside.
“Good day, Alfred. You are looking well.” He said, flashing a small smile and the groggy man. Receiving nothing but the usual grimace, he shrugged a little as he made his way over to the American. “Today is very special and I want you to be of very happiness for it.”
Lifting an eyebrow, America eyed him warily when Russia outstretched a hand to help and pull him up. Lightly taking the help he climbed to unsteady feet, sniffing at the strong scent of pricy vodka that resonated from his tormentor in waves. “Where are we going?” He asked, his voice cracking in dehydration as Russia lead him from the room.
“We are to be cleaning you, and then I will walk you through my house.”
Skeptical, America kept his mouth shut and just followed along. Regardless of how stupid the large country thought he was, the USA would welcome a chance to map out the layout of the house to store for his impending escape. He had spent quite some time in combat, after all, so remembering directions was something he had come to be good at. As he was pulled down the familiar halls to the lavatory, America made note of Russia’s actions, words, and demeanor. There was definitely something off about him, although he could not tell exactly what that was. He just seemed so strangely… peppy, or carefree.
Once in the bathroom, Russia bade him strip down and take a much-needed shower. Sighing under the strong spray of hot water, America slid his hands over his greasy hair and relaxed under the massaging jet.
“You should be quick, the water becomes cold quickly, da?” Russia’s voice rang out, crushing the younger man’s Zen moment. Grumbling as he quickly went about using the little bottle of shampoo/ conditioner and bar of soap he was allotted, America rushed to scrub himself and rinse off as he felt the water becoming cooler. Finally he suffered the faulty water-heater’s wrath as he struggled to rinse the soap from his hair while keeping the rest of his body out of the chilling spray before he shut it off and poked his hand from behind the curtain.
“Ti shto dalish*?” Russia asked, eyeing the cold and shaking hand.
“Give me a damn towel, christ!” America snapped, shivering and covered in goose bumps. Suddenly Russia’s hand snatched his own and he found himself being yanked harshly by his bad hand from the shower, almost tripping in the process. Hissing in pain as he simultaneously attempted to free his wounded wrist from Russia’s grasp and cover himself with his other hand, America steadied himself on the water puddle he was dripping onto the floor.
“That attitude will be the first to go.” Russia growled, yanking America until their faces were only inches apart. His breath was heavy with the scent of vodka and he was even a little tipsy, but he was still very intimidating. “You’re mine now and you will behave as such, da?”
Glaring into the taller man’s eyes, America bit back a long string of curses that he knew would cause him more harm than good. Forcing a sour smile he nodded his head and mumbled a strained apology. All at once Russia’s mood lifted again and he swooped the shocked man up into his arms and squeezed him in a painful hug. “I am very glad that you understand me Alfred, you will make a perfect addition to the federation!”
Gritting his teeth as he was crushed in the embrace, he swallowed his fear and disgust at the idea of becoming a permanent part of the maniac’s house. When he was finally set down he watched Russia turn and rustle around in one of the cabinets for a moment. He was then given a slightly worn white towel, a comb, toothbrush, and soft pair of sweats. After Russia had locked him in for a little bit of privacy America went about rearranging the wet bandage on his wrist and drying his hair. There was no toothpaste to be found in any of the nearly bare cabinets but the seemingly new toothbrush was better than nothing and did it’s job as he used the cold water to scrub his teeth and tongue. As he gargled water he finished drying his hair and set the towel aside while he spat the water down into the sink. With a quick yank he pulled the pajama pants on as he eyed his reflection in the mirror. His normally shiny blond hair had become dull and frizzy, his eyes had lost almost all of their spark and his previously slightly chubby tummy was now far too thin for his tastes. He looked weak and… defeated. Beaten while Russia was as healthy as ever. Slipping the shirt over his palled skin America could feel the heat of rage growing in his belly, blotting out the ache of weakening hunger and gnawing urge for dope. That fucker had him starved and drugged to sap his super strength away and render him helpless and it really pissed him off.
Yanking the comb through damp hair, America began thinking of ways to escape or call for help, but the more he wracked his brain the more hopeless he began to feel. He was too weak to break through the reinforced door of his room, too weak to win a fight against Russia, to weak to do anything. Of course there was no phone in his room. His window was barred shut and he had found that the glass was the reinforced shatterproof kind the day before while he was stalking circles around his room. This would probably be his only chance to work out a way to escape but although the Russian outside of the bathroom door was clearly inebriated he highly doubted that he was so intoxicated that he would be easy to trick.
He sighed heavily when he set the comb onto the counter, shaking his head. The only chance he had of escape was to wait for a mistake on Russia’s part, which he was sure was not something that happened often. He walked over to the door and called out in a small voice and was answered immediately by the unlocking of the door, letting him step out into the hall.
“Hold out your hands.” Doing as he was told, America watched the man clamp heavy shackles over his wrists and connect them to a long, thick chain. Only slightly taken aback by this the bound man just eyed the Russian, trying to figure if there was anything about his demeanor that could be exploited to further his escape plans. Aside from the high humor and heavier-than-usual drunkenness, there was nothing particularly different, and nothing for him to exploit.
“Where are we going, exactly?” America asked as he was pulled along down the hallway and he tried to alleviate the pressure of the metal on his injured wrist. Receiving no real reply beyond a “be patient” wiggly hand motion, he shrugged and looked around as they walked, trying to memorize the twists and turns.
This was proving to be quite difficult though, as the house was so massive and they went down countless halls and stairwells. All of the hallway floors were decorated by frayed rugs of similar design, and once in a while there would be some painting or bust of someone he did not recognize. He became steadily more disoriented and confused, all the while wondering if the Russian was leading him about in circles on order to perplex him. The consistent wandering and his foggy state of mind were certainly working against him.
“We are here, Alfred. I’ve decided that you should get a walk so I want to show you around my home. This is my time room.” Russia piped up, pulling America from his thoughts. He pushed the heavy door open with his free hand and pulled the bound man inside. The room was fairly large and deafening with the ticking of literally hundreds of clocks and watches. They lined the walls and covered tables and display cases. Russia ran his gloved fingers over the smooth lines of an onyx black mantel clock as he explained.
“A long time ago I was very poor and clocks were something that were hard to come by in my lands. I came across this one in England some time in the nineteenth century. I found it to quite beautiful. This is not the oldest in my collection, of course. I also have many watches.” He dragged the American across the room to a glass display case and pointed at a small pocket watch with three faces. “This is an eighteen seventy Victorian Mairot, one of my favorites.”
Lifting one eyebrow, America watched as Russia wandered about the room and pointed out clock after clock. This was most definitely not a hobby he had expected out of the man. Maybe some ten minutes later Russia began pulling him from the room, talking about the next stop. Soon America found himself being dragged around about the whole house like a pet, tired and hungry. He saw Russia’s opulent indoor garden (the heat and perfume of the flowers made him feel sick), library (three stories tall), massive master bath (it could have easily been public due to the sheer size), war room (run of the mill), standing room (the windows were massive), sitting room (clearly not used often), and foyer before they came to the dining room and he was finally allowed a rest.
After chaining him to one of the thick table legs Russia sat down next to him with a gentle smile and snapped his fingers louder than one would think his gloves would allow. The sound was immediately answered by Latvia and Estonia rushing from the kitchen with three small covered plates. They silently went about setting two plates before their master and one before the American.
Uncovering his first plate, Russia revealed it to be a lunch salad. The second held a chilled glass, a small pitcher of vodka, and a prepared needle for the guest. Motioning for America to stop staring at the drug and uncover his meal, Russia lifted his fork and nibbled at his salad while he eyed the man. “You are hungry, da?”
Nodding as he continued to watch the syringe with growing interest, America uncovered his plate to find his favorite food: A hamburger with everything on it, french fries, and a chocolate milkshake. The sight of his beloved food stuffs actually pulled his attention away from the heroin for a moment and he started shoveling mouthfuls excitedly. The soft sandwich’s flavor was like heaven, easily one of the best he had ever tasted in his life! The salty fries went next, followed shortly by an attempt to suck the thick shake through his straw as quickly as he could.
Pouring himself a glass of vodka as he watched America ravenously devour his lunch to be sure that he would not choke, Russia continued to nurse his own meal. How many days had it been since he had allowed the man more than a meager five-hundred or so calories? It was clearly showing, America was so thin now, which was a shame. Russia liked him better soft and squishy, but there was no other way to make sure that he could not just kick a hole in the wall and walk out otherwise. Russia had business to attend to, so he could not be home all day to keep an eye on the man, and he did not trust the Baltics as far as he could throw them to keep the man confined properly.
He smiled into the glass he had to his lips when the American let out a strangled little yelp at the onset of brain-freeze. He was very… Cute. Having him there made Russia feel very proud of himself since he was actually able to confine the wild country, and it was only a matter of time before he would break him.
America let out a happy sigh as his headache began to fade, returning the straw to his lips and giving it a controlled suck. His hunger had finally abated so he was intent on enjoying this little bit of pleasure before the stomach ache of overeating set in and ruined everything. It was strange how Russia was looking at him, with some weird softness in his gaze. Maybe he was not just fucking around when he was relating his psychotic reasoning the day before? Either way it was beginning to freak America out.
“Can I have my shot, Ivan?” He asked through gritted teeth, still uncomfortable with requesting the brown fluid but willing to try anything to get his captor to stop staring at him. When Russia agreed America stuck out his arm and rolled up his sleeve, reveling the bruised area of tiny holes and winced when the needle slid into his tender flesh.
Russia watched the usually energetic man’s head loll and his eyes flutter as the dope rushed into his system with interest. He himself had never tried it, nor did he want to, but it was clear from his new country’s reactions that it was quite the substance and it seemed clear to him why his people liked it so much. After he set the empty syringe aside he went about finishing his lunch and keeping the buzzing have of drunkenness alive in his system as America finished his shake and stared glassy-eyed at the table.
By the time he had finished his meal and booze, Russia noticed that America had fallen asleep. Jabbing a hard poke with his fork into the man’s scalp confirmed this when it was answered with a muffled groan and soft snore. Giving a little chuckle he unattached the chain from the table and lifted the sleeping man over his shoulder and carried him from the room.
* * * * * * * * * * *
America slowly regained consciousness in a room he realized was not the one in which he had fallen asleep. He was on the floor with his head resting on something firm and cool, gazing at what appeared to be sunflowers. Giving a little yelp when he felt something give his hair a sharp tug, he looked up to see Russia smiling down at him. It all became clear; he was laying on the floor, his head propped up on Russia’s legs. The large man was softly petting him for the most part, with little “playful” tugs in between.
Scrambling away quickly, which was difficult since he still wore the heavy shackles, America looked around frantically.
“It is nice to see you awake, Alfred.” Russia said with a smile, “This is my favorite room of the house, the sunflower room. They do not be growing in my garden no matter how hard I try so I have this.” He motioned about himself to the intricate paintings of sunny fields that covered the walls. Various sunflower-shaped statues and paintings filled the open space. It was warm in this room rather than the constant chill that permeated the rest of the house and the sun shone brightly through the large domed skylight in the middle of the ceiling. The floor was grass, literal grass, that flourished in the sunny room.
“Sunflowers?” Was all America could say as he looked about the strange room. It was the only one he had seen that had not fallen into disrepair.
Russia slid his hand softly over the tender green blades, smiling half-heartedly while a kind of sadness swam behind his bright purple irises. “I have always wanted to live in a warm place filled with sunflowers.” His voice was a soft melancholy as he spoke. At some point he had removed his thick jacket and gloves but continued to wear his scarf loosely; it wound up onto itself as he stretched out his legs and lay back to stare out into the sky.
Of all the things he had thought he knew about the man, America would have never guessed something so soft could come from the large country and all though his hate for him ran deep he could not help but to feel slightly moved by the show of unrequited romanticism. Of all the things he could want he felt his strongest attachment to something that refused to even grow in his impeccable and varied garden. “You don’t like it here?”
“It is home.” Was the only answer.

*What are you doing?

A/N: Goodness, this took forever! I’m just no good at writing nice things these days, I guess. We’re sliding into story mode from this point on, so it’ll probably take longer between chapters now since porn is super-easy to write but everything else actually takes effort, hahaha. I hope you’re all still enjoying this!
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Whisper of Stars