Hey you guys!!! XD

I'm back with yet another Hetalia fanfiction, a little different from my last fic (understatement of the century). This fic was a request I received on livejournal last summer, which asked for "character-centric about Russia pre-Bolshevik Revolution, maybe on the verge of going crazy?"

Warnings: Butchered History, Blood, Self-inflicted Harm, Cutting, Insanity.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

1917, October

If Ivan Braginski was anything, he was drained. His movements were mechanical, going through the daily mundane tasks of life like a robot, remembering nothing of the document he'd just scrawled his name on, of the food he was ingesting.

A year ago, he was laying siege on the battlefield, a powerhouse militant. Now, he could barely hold himself up in his chair. Sometimes his eyes, tired from the never ending piles of paper and ink, would look for reprieve against a window pane, but almost never could he see what was going on out there. Instead he would be met with his own reflection; sagging grayish skin, gaunt cheeks, chapped lips, hollow eyes.

It was not fair, he mused. Not fair in the least; he worked hard like every other nation, if not even harder, so that his people could survive, so that they could be happy. But they were not; they were sick, hungry, poor, and all the power that had been vested in this new Provisional Government was being exercised so… wrongly. It made his weak, empty stomach lurch.

The nation did not want to admit it, but… there were voices. Things that Russia wanted, things that Ivan wanted, and the things that they each protested; he could not point to exactly when these voices had begun to form so distinctly, when ideas became so opposing that his very mind needed to split in order to think them. And now he was caught in a limbo.

Russia was glad to be rid of Nicholas. He was ineffective, he sent men off to war without weapons and allowed them to die, he made promises he did not intend to keep; he was a far cry from the memories of the Czars before him.

The streets were lined with bodies, the smell of iron so heavy in the air that it made it impossible for him to breathe it in, the blood of his people staining pristine snow with crimson. He felt himself become dizzy, wondered why his hands and knees were so cold, when had he fallen to the ground, WHY WAS THERE SO MUCH BLOOD?

Ivan missed having a Czar, missed that sense of family, of having a father. Nations, he knew, were not meant to have families, to have parents, but why could he not be allowed to pretend? A chuckle escaped his lips despite himself, he was just so naïve.

The document in front of him drew his attention once more, but the letters looked like nothing more than blots of ink on the page. What was he signing off on this time; was he taking land away from poor, hungry farmers, giving more money to the aristocrats, or sending more of his men away to fighting a war they were already destined to lose? In a moment of rage, of anger, of hurt, of an emotion that was something akin to all three but more, Russia found himself swatting the papers off his desk violently, watching them fall like snowflakes until they rested on the hardwood floor.

It was not enough. But before he could crush them under his boots, before he could be allowed the satisfaction of hearing them rip and tear by his doings, the voices in his head started to scream.

A revolution. Another revolution.

He remembered being hungry, starving, watching as people whose ribs poked out from their clothes filled his capital, shouting. Yelling. At him.

Why couldn't he feed them?

The floor was cold, hard, unforgiving; exactly what he wanted right then. He felt himself punch it as though he were outside his body; all of the pressure, but none of the pain. He had to hurt more. His people didn't want him anymore, they weren't happy with him anymore.

What kind of a nation was so unloved by his people?

He was only faintly aware of footsteps, of his elder sister's warmth as she whispered nothings that didn't make any sense in his mind, that he couldn't derive any comfort from, not anymore. All he knew was blood, it's stickiness, it's iron scent that overwhelmed him so that he felt he would never be able to be rid of it, the bitter taste it left against his lips, his tongue, the way it clung to his clothing and made him want to cry, to vomit, to beat himself so hard that it wouldn't matter if he was bleeding anymore, he'd already be gone.

It was cold. Freezing cold. Why was his window… oh. Broken. And his palm… those must have been the shards.

The voices were yelling at each other again. He wanted them to shut up. SHUT UP.

They persisted. Never had there been a time when he wanted to die more than he did then.

My people don't love me. My people don't love me, want me, they don't NEED me.

I need them.

One of the pieces of the window found it's way into his hand, gripped tightly in his bare, rough fingers. Only part of him knew what he was attempting, the rest could only keep yelling as he slashed his wrist. Why were the voices still yelling.

Slash.

He couldn't tell what they were saying anymore.

Slash.

Background noise. Were they finally getting quieter?

Slaaaaaaash.

Russia heard nothing. For the first time in months, he wore a smile as the world went black.

Notes: Set specifically during the Bolshevik Revolution in October 1917, with flashback references to "Bloody Sunday" (January 22, 1905), in which the Tzar had the military open fire on protestors, and the February Revolution of 1917, during which people in the capital Petrograd rioted a lack of food. I really suck at historical-based fics, so I tend to focus more on the emotions than the facts. I imagine that Russia, the nation who now wants everyone to become one with him, would want that because he has felt so hated and alone by his own people. That is the idea around which this fic is based. I hope you guys liked this!

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