Lithuania- Matryoshka

Lithuania looked up at the tall man who had dropped by, the man he wanted to see less than anyone in the world. His expression was gentle, but Lithuania was no idiot. He knew all too well how he could snap in the blink of an eye, go from sweet smiles and kind words to cruel glares and beatings, all without warning. He had the scars to prove it.

"Russia? What are you doing here?" he blurted, then added (to save his skin, even though he knew he was safe now, an old nervous habit), "I mean... I thought you'd be busy elsewhere."

"I thought I'd come over to give you a gift, da?"

Oh shit, that cannot be good. "What gift, Mr Russia?" Lithuania was trying not to shake. Did Russia want revenge for him leaving?

Russia put out his hands, holding a little wooden doll. Its skin was wooden, polished smooth. Its green painted eyes and brown hair resembled Lithuania's own. The pear-like shape and slit around its midsection told Lithuania that it was a matryoshka. What was the bastard playing at now?

"A reminder that you're welcome to become one again whenever you want. And an apology for all I've done to you and to your friends." His voice was serious and, as a more naive man would say, remorseful.

Lithuania stared at the doll for a few seconds. What are you playing at, Russia? What are you trying to do?

"Thanks," he muttered coldly, then, in a rare moment of anger, slammed the door in his face.

He went back inside and slammed the doll on the table. It met his wary glare with a fixed, calm smile. What was he playing at? Dolls? Could that possibly make up for the way he had treated him and Estonia and Latvia? No. It couldn't. Yes, it was in the past, and perhaps Russia was starting to change for the better, but his back was still ridged with scars, his nightmares still filled with just him and his cruel smile. You're welcome to become one again, he had said to him. Ha. Why would anyone in their right mind want that after having experienced it for decades? Not Lithuania, that's for sure. Stupid Soviet Union. Stupid doll. Stupid, stupid Russia.

He stood up from his seat calmly. He entered the attic opened a toolbox, rooting around for something. His fingers soon closed around what he was looking for- a hammer, blackened a little with age. It felt good in his hands. Heavy, but not too heavy. It just... fit.

He returned to the table, glaring at the doll. Its expression hadn't changed, a gentle smile still simpering emptily at him. Is this how Russia had seen him? Innocent and harmless? And yet he had walked all over him, just like-

SMASH!

The hammer came down on the little doll's face, on its body, all over, all of its own accord, like it had his hands under its control, smash, smash, like thunder, thin, delicate wood, smashing like bones, smash, Lithuania's lifeless, painted eyes staring helplessly, smash, smash, smash, he fell apart, reduced almost to splinters, smash, smash, smash, and the matryoshka no longer resembled anything like a matryoshka, smash, little pieces of wood smaller than his fingernails littered the table.

Lithuania's anger ebbed away, and as he stared at the ruins of the matryoshka, tears ran down his face. Why was he crying? He was free, he was safe, he had Poland, Russia no longer had anything to do with him, and yet he cried, burying his face in his hands, resting his elbows on the table, sobbing and sobbing. He should have been happy but he wasn't, he was anything but. He was kidding himself, wasn't he? He was still his little toy, Russia still owned his mind, even if he couldn't control his body. Lithuania was his own man now, but he was a weak man nonetheless.

He heard a key turn in the door. He didn't care.

A voice, more gentle than it usually was, and he didn't care.

"Liet?"

Pale hands wiped away his tears. A chair slid back and someone sat across the table from him. "Are you okay?"

Not even remotely.

"Come on, Liet, talk to me."

He didn't say a word.

"Let me, like, build a fire and make something for you to eat. Alright?"

He turned his head upwards to see his friend, blond hair hanging over his face, brows furrowed in concern, hands stroking his damp, reddened cheeks in a weak attempt to comfort him. An infinite second passed and he finally spoke, his voice a cracked whisper, "Pol..."

"Yeah? What is it?"

"Thank you."

"It's what I'm here for."

"I hate him, Pol."

"I hate him too. But I promise I won't let him lay a finger on you. Now come on, sit on the sofa. I'll make you a fire and some food."