Chapter Text
The vodka burned going down, but at least it burned.
The bar around him was a haze of dim light and too-loud chatter, diplomats and aides pretending they weren’t all representatives of nations who could destroy one another with a phone call. Ivan Braginsky- Russia- sat alone in his booth, shoulders hunched inward despite his stature. An empty bottle- no, two- glinted near his elbow.
He’d pushed it tonight. He knew he had. Each swallow had dissolved something in him: first the tension, then the careful smile, then the disinterest. Now… now his thoughts were sprawling, messy things that slipped through his fingers like snowmelt.
Someone laughed too loudly at the bar. Ivan winced.
He was too visible here. Too large. Too watched.
People always watched him.
They joked that vodka was part of his identity - but tonight, it didn’t feel funny. Tonight, every swallow just reminded him how close he always stood to the line between too awake and too aware.
Warmth pooled behind his eyes. His throat tightened. Emotion pressed upward, unreasonable and unruly.
Not here.
Not where anyone could see the cracks.
Ivan forced his heavy body from the booth, coat slung carelessly over his arms rather than properly on. His balance wobbled - just once - and even that humiliation felt like too much scrutiny. He tossed money on the table, far more than needed, and didn’t wait for change.
Outside, the cold hit like a fist.
Air sharp enough to cut skin, wind slicing through fabric and bone. It sobered the edges of his drunkenness but blurred everything else - his mind retreating inward, slipping toward that place where the world felt too loud and too harsh and too old.
Snow crunched under boots that suddenly felt too big.
He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, coat falling half-open as his fingers failed to grip the fabric. He knew the path home well, but the streets wavered slightly before him, lampposts glowing like faraway beacons.
There was no stumbling - even drunk, Russia moved like a soldier. But his thoughts… they stumbled plenty.
Alone, alone, alone.
He scolded himself - ridiculous thought. He ruled a sixth of the world’s landmass. Entire nations feared his displeasure. His power was unmatched, his heritage legendary.
So why did his chest ache in this way that had nothing to do with cold?
A gust of wind shoved snow across his boots. He didn’t blink fast enough to stop the wetness from reaching his lashes. Tears. Ridiculous. Only the weather.
He walked faster.
The streets were empty at this hour - only snowplows and distant headlights, the world folded into deep silence. Something inside him shrank beneath that silence, curling small and shaking, dignity forgotten in the face of something much older than pride.
Fear. Or its cousin, loneliness.
His front steps loomed up from the drifted white. He climbed them slower than he’d like to admit. His key scraped the lock once, twice - fingers too thick and uncooperative. He cursed softly in Russian, jaw clenching as frustration pricked under his skin.
The world wasn’t made for hands that suddenly felt clumsy.
Finally, with a sharp jolt, the lock turned. He pushed inside, warmth blasting him too suddenly - dizzying in its contrast.
Boots dragged grooves into the hall rug. He leaned against the wall to tug them off. They didn’t budge.
Damned laces.
He pawed uselessly at the knotted mess, breath catching with a gurgle of helpless laughter. Too drunk. Too cold. Too… something. The knot blurred under his eyes. He gave up and kicked both boots off in graceless jerks, stumbling forward when they finally came free.
“Russia?” A small voice from the hallway. Latvia. Always nervous, always watching with that prey-instinct that never fully left him.
Ivan didn’t look up. “Go to sleep,” he muttered, the words slurred around exhaustion.
“You… you seem off,” Latvia said timidly.
Ivan’s shoulders went rigid. The humiliation of being perceived scraped raw across his nerves.
Was it so obvious?
Without answering, he trudged further inside. The coat remained half-on, half-off - one sleeve dangling uselessly while the other held tight, buttons misaligned. He clawed at them once before giving up entirely.
Let it stay. Who cared.
His room was dark. He didn’t bother with the lights. He knew the space well enough not to trip- though he nearly did anyway when his sock caught on the rug. He made it to the bed by sheer instinct and collapsed face-down onto the mattress with a muffled groan.
The house settled into silence behind him. For a moment, Ivan just breathed, chest rising and falling unevenly. The vodka finally stopped warming and started chilling - leaving his body too heavy, his mind too soft, his heart too exposed.
He curled inward slowly, unconsciously. Knees to chest. Arms tucked close. A small position for a large man.
His breath shook.
He hated this. The way vulnerability found him when he was weakest. The way loneliness curled its cold fingers around his throat when defenses dropped.
Images flickered in the dark - harsh winters, cities built on hardship, laughter that always sounded like mockery behind him. Allies who used him. Enemies who feared him.
No one… no one just wanted him.
His vision burned again. He pressed his face into the mattress, hoping that would trap everything inside, but a soft sound escaped anyway - a sniff that felt like surrender.
He squeezed his eyes tighter.
Never show weakness.
The rule was older than the Union. Older than the Tsars. Older than him.
He sucked in a breath that hitched halfway. Another. And then the tears came - quietly at first, then shuddering, soaking into the blankets.
Snowstorms howled outside the walls, wind rattling windowpanes. His motherland never slept. But tonight she felt impossibly large - too large for one lonely spirit to carry.
He whispered into the dark, childish in his simplicity: “I don’t want to be alone.”
His voice cracked in the middle. Pathetic. He clutched at the blanket, fingers trembling as fine motor control slipped further.
No one heard him.
No one would ever hear him.
Except…
There was a memory, muddled by alcohol and humiliation. A laugh - bright, annoyingly earnest. A warmth that didn’t belong to icebound nations. A presence that stood too close in crowded rooms, as if daring to believe they could be on equal ground.
Freedom. Light. A stubborn ideal that refused to bow to history’s weight.
Not a name. Not a face. Just the feeling of someone who would not be pushed away.
Ivan blinked against the dimness. The warmth of the thought pulsed in his chest, a fragile thing.
He curled tighter around himself.
The world knew Russia as vast and terrifying.
But here, alone, in the dark - shoulders shaking and cheeks wet - he was simply cold.
He tasted salt. He hated that. He hated this.
But the tears kept coming, exhaustion wearing down even his pride.
“Я… устал…” I’m tired…
He swallowed. Words mumbled into the covers. Childish. Regretful. True.
He fell asleep mid-sob.
Dreams devoured him.
Snow fell endlessly. The sky glowed white. His breath puffed clouds into the air, the cold biting straight through bone. Alone on a frozen plain, he saw only his own shadow stretching behind him - long, distorted, and impossibly solitary.
But in the far, far distance - a glimmer.
Not fire. Not sun.
Something like a star refusing to die out.
He reached for it. His hand looked small. He couldn’t get closer. The glimmer remained far beyond his grasp…
Yet it stayed.
That mattered.
Morning didn’t feel like morning. It felt like an aftermath.
His head pounded. His mouth tasted like metal and regret. When he shifted, his coat was still tangled around him, one button digging into his ribs. He blinked groggily into the pillow.
He had cried. He knew it. His throat was raw, his eyes swollen.
He sat slowly, bracing his elbows on his knees. The room was still dark - curtains blocking out the pale winter sun.
Vodka never cured loneliness. It only numbed it until the ache came back worse.
Ivan dragged in a slow breath, fingers pressing into his temples.
There would be meetings today. People would see him again. They would look at him the same way they always did - evaluating, wary, transactional.
He was used to it.
He was built for it.
But a single thought - quiet, unwelcome - flickered through his headache:
It would be easier… if someone saw me as something other than a threat.
His chest clenched around the thought. He shoved it away ruthlessly.
He rose to his feet. His balance swayed, but he caught himself. A long, weary sigh escaped.
He fixed his coat first - jerky fingers working stubborn buttons into place. He smoothed his hair in the dark. Straightened his shirt. Composed himself piece by piece.
No more smallness. No more softness.
Mask on. Walls up.
Russia again.
But outside the window, the faintest beam of winter light forced its way through the heavy curtains - a strip of brightness cutting across the floorboards.
He stared at it longer than he meant to.
It reminded him of something. Someone.
Something warm.
Someone unafraid.
He didn’t name it.
Not yet.
But he didn’t look away either.