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It was a gray, overcast day when they took their walk on the beach. Neither of them had the skin type to handle the sun very well even though Russia loved it.
She held his hand, and he let her, but his mind was elsewhere.
Svetlogorsk. This town was a nice resort town for vacationing. Forgotten during the times of the USSR, it was remembered and invested in heavily after the “birth” of the Russian Federation.
But in many other towns like Sovetsk, Bagrationovsk, Pravdinsk, and Baltiysk, formerly Tilsit, Eylau, Friedland, and Pillau, all the old German houses were still there, forgotten and rotting apart. Just like him. The air in those towns reeked of hopelessness and being stuck in the past, and the overgrown shrubbery and statues of Lenin didn’t help things.
“I’m so happy.” She threw her arms around his neck in an embrace, pressing herself and her breasts against him. “Don’t I make you happy? Why don’t you hold me?”
It wasn’t the first time she’d asked the question. Her ability to absorb pain was bottomless; she did not seem to understand that this ability did not extend to everyone around her. How could Russia make anyone happy? Her own people weren’t exactly known for smiling, and yet she never lost hers.
A russian proverb said that smiling for no reason was a sign of idiocy, but Anya was no idiot, so her smile was an enigma. Sometimes it utterly confounded him, sometimes it gave the impression she knew something everyone else didn’t, but most of the time it just annoyed him. He often resisted the urge to ask her why the hell she was smiling, what did she have to smile about?
“Yeah, yeah, I’m doing awesome.” He gave her a sneer in response. She giggled.
“You are funny.” Anya stopped hugging him but kept her hands on his shoulders. He expected one of her signature squeezes, but none came. Instead, her face got closer to his as she initiated the kiss, like she always did. Her lips were warm. She was always intensely warm like an oven no matter the surrounding temperature. He wondered if it was an evolved feature.
Russia let go of his shoulders and pulled away, taking his hand again to continue their walk. “We are very similar.”
Was that supposed to be an insult?! Somehow, he felt offended.
“Noone’s similar to me, I’m one of a kind, baby.” The baby was more for himself, but she seemed pleased.
“Ah, your brother certainly did not turn out like you.” Anya hummed. Her voice was always gentle, no matter the actual gentleness of its owner. At times like this, with the ocean breeze, it was pleasant. “You are very special.”
He wanted to tell her she wasn’t funny. The funniest thing she ever said was probably when she claimed her little brother had the cutest smile, when he nor any other nation he knew of for that matter had ever seen Belarus smile.
Maybe if he told her she wasn’t funny, then she’d drop the smile. Unlikely. He kept quiet, and thought about how he got into this position. He thought of what it’d take to make her cry again.
"Kalinin-"
"Don't call me that."
"But that's what you are." She squeezed his hand harder. "Would you rather be dead?"
He didn't answer. The sea breeze ruffled his hair and left the taste of salt on his lips.