A/N: One-shots are so nice because there's no pressure to update them~! Also... yeah I was listening to Lady Gaga's "Paparazzi" the whole time I was writing this. It was kinda the inspiration, in fact. I swear it is Belarus' theme song... well, it, and every other stalker song ever. Yes.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, nor am I making any profit from this fanfiction other than my own amusement.

Absolution

How many different ways are there to tell a woman "No!"? Russia isn't sure, he lost track some time ago, but he does know that he's tried just about all of them. He loves his sister, he really does, but... not like that. And she's just so terrifying. Her persistence, her blank expression and monotone voice, her chilling aura that he swears is as freezing as General Winter could ever hope to be... and the way she seems to be able to find him anywhere anytime no matter what.

How is he ever supposed to feel safe? Any second he could feel her arms wrap around his waist and squeeze like a vice while she murmured her desires of matrimony in his ear. At any moment the icy blade of a knife could brush against his cheek, or a sharp point press against his side.

She won't actually cut him, of course. Maybe. She hasn't before anyway... at least, never on purpose. Probably. It's just meant to get his attention. Hopefully.

Natalia is the only one who makes Ivan cry. He thought he'd shaken the habit long ago- big strong Nations don't cry. He'd cried when he was young, cried so often that his eyes were almost perpetually blurry, and it had gotten him absolutely nowhere. The invading Mongols didn't care about his tears, they just laughed and used him anyway and left him lying in the snow until his tears dried up and Ukraine came to carry him home.

Crying got him nowhere with Belarus, either. She didn't even see his tears, didn't give any sign of hearing his pleads for her to stop, no, nyet, go home!

No breeze of winter air could make Russia shiver quite as much as the sound of rustling petticoats did. The sound of a low, inquiring "Brother?" outside his door caused shaking to rival Latvia's in the giant Nation.

But when Ivan walked into his office to see it papered in photographs... photographs of himself, covering every inch of space on the walls and his desk, obscuring even the little charcoal scribble he'd carefully preserved, the one signed 'Анастасия' in a child's crooked, hesitant scrawl...

Something in Russia snapped, and he turned to see Belarus standing in the doorway, staring at him expectantly, her unblinking glacier eyes boring holes through his head. He started trembling instinctively, but his voice was low and steady as he spoke, a dangerous growl that almost could have been an earthquake.

"Get out." He said simply, watching Natalia stare uncomprehendingly. He watched her face change from blank, to confused, and eventually to stricken. He watched the slow process of rejection register, finally, at last, for the first time it really hit home.

"Brother-"

"Go home, Belarus." He ordered, turning to begin ripping the photos off the walls, tearing them systematically into pieces as he went before depositing them in the trash can next to his desk. There was the sound of nails digging into wood, and a quick glance revealed the origin to be Belarus clutching the doorframe as if for support.

"But we need to be-" She began, slightly breathless but still determined. Ivan felt cruel, seeing her like this, so ungrounded... but this might be his only chance to get through to her.

"No, sister. I do not want you." He said coldly. And just like that, his doorway was empty again. Russia stared at the space for a moment, then collapsed into his chair, leaving the rest of the pictures for now. His shaking had worsened, but now it was out of relief, and he felt low, slightly disbelieving giggles in his throat. She was gone. She had gone home!

He had never felt so free.

His breath was a light mist in the air as his fingers, numb in spite of the thick gloves, fumbled in his pocket for his keys. A smile of quiet contentment lit up his face, cheeks and nose rosy from the cold. Ivan hummed a little as he listened to the click! from the lock that indicated the key had done it's job. Natalia hadn't appeared for weeks, and he felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The door swung open, and he made sure to shut it behind him carefully. An open door in Russia could easily mean death.

Death... the stench of it was suddenly filling Russia's nostrils. It permeated the room, a reek he was all too familiar with, and he whirled-

Belarus sat facing, staring flatly, the back of her chair pressed against the wall. Her dress was different, this time it was pale blue with a dark red bodice, and Ivan wondered briefly about the change before he felt despair crashing down on him. She had come back, of course she had, he would never be rid of her...

"Sister..." He began shakily, eyes flicking around the room for the likeliest escape route. No answer. He looked at her again, at her glassy glare... no...

He took slow, dazed steps across the foyer, his boots clicking softly on the marble floor. "Natalia...?" She didn't move, her familiar, crystal stare unblinking. He didn't see the slash until he was close enough to touch her, close enough to realize that her bodice was only red in the front, and only because it was saturated with blood from where she'd slit her own throat. The knife was still in her hands, resting in the congealed pool that had formed in the lap of her skirts. "Oh sister... oh sister..." Ivan whispered, choking on agony as his fingers gently brushed her eyelids closed.

He turned and walked out of the room, slipping his cell phone out of his pocket, hitting the speed dial for his other sibling, the normal one. Ukraine would know what to do, Ukraine always knew how to handle Belarus. She could help...

Russia thought it was finished, he was sure it was. That had been a message, but a final one. Nations didn't die as easily as humans did, and with time and Ukraine's help, Belarus would be on her feet again, ready to terrorize someone else. Russia still felt miserable, the fresh new guilt nesting in his gut, dominating his usual collection of dull aching regret and eating away at his insides.

He kept about his business as usual, he presented the same face at meetings, didn't allow his behavior in public to differ in the slightest. Years of practice at keeping up a wall proved invaluable. Belarus had won in some sense, at least... she was never far from his thoughts anymore. That image of her still, silent... dead... It haunted his nights as she'd once haunted his days, her pale, vacant face and slashed throat drifting through his usual line-up of nightmares like a ghost.

Still, it was over now, he thought. He would adapt, get used to it, as he always did with the things that disturbed him, and Belarus would move on.

He heard the creaking before he'd even gotten all the way through the door.

Cold wind gushed in from behind him, scattering snowflakes on the floor and swinging her slowly back and forth, the rope twisting and untwisting, petticoats making soft sounds as they swirled around her legs. He stared up at her face, her eyes slightly bulging but her skin still perfect pale porcelain. Her head was tilted at an odd angle, meaning her neck had likely snapped before she'd had time to suffocate, which was doubtless why her face wasn't blue or purple from oxygen deprivation. The tip of a pink tongue lolled out of her mouth on one side, and Russia would have sworn that her sightless eyes somehow remained, impossibly, fixed on him, as if she'd kept her gaze there on purpose as she jumped from the banister. As if she'd know exactly where he'd stop to look up.

He stared for a few more seconds, and then he walked back outside, shutting the door, already reaching for his phone again with shaking hands.

Ukraine explained that she'd tried her best, but there was no way she could keep as tight a rein on Belarus as was necessary. She had her own country to look after... and their little sister was notoriously resourceful. They couldn't lock her up, it would cause too much of a scandal, and there was work for herself that Belarus needed to do. All Ukraine could do was nurse her back to health and offer a friendly ear. She did call in a psychiatrist, who ended up with a knife in his gut during the very first session.

Belarus was uncontainable, and uncontrollable.

Still, Russia felt hope for the first time in a long time when he walked into his foyer and it was exactly as he'd left it that morning.

The hope died when he opened his office door to the smell of gun powder and the sight of his sister's brains splattered across the back of his chair. Her head had fallen forward onto his desk, so at least he didn't have to face her glassy stare this time. But the stain distracted him for weeks, until at last he hurled the desk and chair both out the window and ordered new ones.

She never called, or wrote, or stopped by to talk... and he never did so either. He didn't see the point. Neither did Ukraine, or he assumed she didn't, as she'd never suggested he do anything. The only communication between them was the symbolism. The only connection, her suicides.

Sprawled on the staircase, her stare distorted by the plastic wrapped around her face, like a doll that had been dropped on the way up to bed. That was how she felt, wasn't it? Dropped, forgotten, abandoned.

But he sure as hell hadn't forgotten her. How could he? Her body in all its new, grotesque forms weighed constantly on his mind, interrupted his thoughts at all times, kept him curled on his side, staring wide awake into the darkness at hours when he should have been sleeping. It was pain that he hadn't felt in decades. As frightening as she was, as disconcerting, as much as she'd hurt him unintentionally and otherwise over the centuries... she was his sister, and he loved her, even though it wasn't in the way she had wanted. Even though he would much rather never see her again, he still cared for her.

Knowing it was his fault made it just that much more agonizing to walk in on her facedown in his bath, her hair floating about her like a halo, her thick skirts heavy with water making it necessary for him to help Ukraine with lifting her out.

When he walked back in from the car, damp clothes stiff from the cold, he sat on the floor and shivered and thought about death in a way he hadn't since before he wanted to remember.

It took him a few minutes to figure out it must have been poison. There wasn't a mark on her, she was just laying there on the floor, skirts arranged neatly and every hair in place, gaze fixed on the ceiling this time, and he wondered if that was her version of giving up hope... but didn't the fact that she was in this position mean she had long ago? No, Belarus simply had a strange way of persisting her pursuit. She was still chasing him. But now she was doing it by being still, silent, and unthreatening in the most threatening of ways.

Ukraine brought back the empty pill bottle later.

The prescription was for Ivan Braginski. Sleeping pills.

"It was in her hands." She said softly, looking at the ground, and Russia knew it was because she didn't want him to see the accusation in her eyes. Ukraine was understanding, but Belarus was her sister too, and this was hurting her as well.

"I know." He whispered back.

His day has been so peaceful, but he hasn't been able to enjoy it. The anxiety of knowing what may await him at home is enough to ruin any chance at a good mood, enough to destroy any ability to enjoy a nice day.

Russia isn't taken in when he arrives to an empty foyer, the scent of bleach still hovering in the air from the cleanup of Belarus' last known attempt, a simple jump from the top of the stairs last week. Her recovery time has gotten quicker as well, so there's no guarantee that today will be clear, and Russia has given up on hoping.

He walks through the ground floor, and finds nothing out of place. He ascends the stairs, goes to his office first. It is clear, and something in his chest unclenches. Maybe... maybe not today...

He sits, goes through his papers, makes a few calls. The sun has long set by the time he is satisfied that his work is finished, and he rises from his desk, allowing a sense of security to set in. She must not have come today. Maybe she's still in a coma from cracking her skull like an egg on his marble floor. He feels sick at the memory, and Russia's stomach isn't easily unsettled.

An icy wind assaults him as he opens the door to his bedroom, and his heart sinks, then arrests in his chest. His bedroom is a wonderland of white, but one that holds no magic for Russia. His big bay windows have been thrown open, and must have been so for hours if the layer of snow that has been blown in to cover everything within a certain radius is any indication. It crunches under his boots as he steps in, but the numbness that takes hold of his very bones is not from the cold.

She's on his bed, propped up against the pillows, glazed blue eyes staring out the open window. Her white skin is tinged blue and covered with frost, and every inch of it is exposed. She's naked on his comforter, not an attempt at seduction, she's not that type, but rather her bareness was meant to help expediate the process of freezing to death. Her hair falls over her shoulders and curls around her breasts, her arms are limp at her sides, hands resting palms-up, legs straight, except for a slight bend at the knee, and locked together neatly.

He moves forward, leaving a trail of footprints in the inch-thick snow. He closes her eyelids, as is his habit by now, and lets the pads of his fingers brush over her blue lips. He imagines her sitting here stoicly, feeling the cold seep in through her skin until she can't feel anything at all, and then it would start to burn... it would feel as though her skin were being seared from her flesh as the ice consumed her. Her eyes would freeze in their sockets, her blood flow would drag along slowly as her heart hammered to keep it churning before giving up at last.

And through all of it, she'd sat there, she'd endured, she'd chosen it. Natalia had deemed this pain more desirable than the pain of his refusal.

"Alright, sister." He murmured, defeated. He sighed deeply, sitting on the bed beside her unmoving form. "Alright." He cupped her chin and pressed a kiss against her warmthless cheek.

Ivan didn't call Ukraine this time. He just shut the window and turned the heater back on. Natalia would awaken in a day or two. He had to begin the wedding preparations.

End.