Ritm

{King of Anything}

The first time Ivan kissed him, Ravis's hands were slippery with blood and the world had been tainted with the haze of fear. Wind whipped snow up into a curtain around them, and everything was dull, gray, utterly hopeless. The ground was painted crimson; too many people had been sacrificed to provide some color to the winter's day. Empty eyes stared accusingly at him, so his eyes were clenched shut so he couldn't see their disgust, their hatred.

He clung to Ivan's coat, too cold for his body to obey his orders to push the larger man away, too shocked to do much else but kiss.

Ivan pulled away, and the frigid snow and air stung their wet lips. "I claim Riga," Ivan whispered to him, vodka-scented breath flooding Ravis's senses. "I claim you."

Ravis couldn't do much more than shake and try to avoid the empty eyes staring at him with such loathing. His capital had fallen, his people were dying. There was no way to express what he felt; Ravis wasn't even sure what he was feeling beyond numbness, beyond adrenaline and fear.

The second time Ivan kissed him, Ravis's people were beginning to revolt, and Ravis was struck by the insane, ridiculous notion of defeating Ivan and winning his independence. The giddy feelings the New Year brought must have driven that desire along, and he foolishly wrote in his journal that 1905 would be the year he would finally become his own country, free of rule by anyone other than him.

Ivan kissed him on a balcony of Riga's courthouse as the Russian army fired into the crowd of protesters screaming below them. Ravis counted the pinpricks stinging his skin as his people fell. Seventy three people died in the streets as Ivan bit Ravis's lip hard enough to draw out the iron-sharp taste of blood. Two hundred people were injured as Ivan hissed into Ravis's ears promises of forever, of possession, of control. "You are mine," he said harshly, pulling on Ravis's short, stiff blonde hair so their eyes met, fire meeting hopelessness. "And I will never, ever let you go."

The third and final time Ivan kissed him, Ravis had been yanked out of a chain of proud Baltic people linking hands from stretched from Estonia's capital, to Lithuania's, to Latvia's. The sun was beating down on them, and Ravis's collar of his starchy white shirt was starting to itch from the sweat building up underneath it. He was standing on the steps of a shop in Riga, hands linked with a Latvian shopkeeper and an accountant, across the street from the courthouse where Ivan had kissed him as the streets were repainted with the blood of people only wanting freedom.

Ivan strode up to him, grabbed him by his collar, and smashed their mouths together so hard Ravis's tooth chipped. It was desperate, it was afraid. The kiss tasted of fear, of loneliness, of years of nothing but violence and bloodshed.

"Stay with me," Ivan whimpered into his mouth, and his desperation was tangible.

This time, Ravis had the presence of mind to shove him away. He stumbled back, footing unsteady as Ivan dropped to his knees, face a mask of hopelessness. The shopkeeper grabbed Ravis's right hand, the accountant his left, and Ravis steadied himself, stood tall.

"You are not king of me," he said loudly, drawing strength from his people besides him and around him. "You are no longer king of anything."

{Monster}

He's the rat in the maze, the tiger in the cage, the bird with clipped wings – every cliché he can think of. He can't run, can't hide; he's stuck facing the things he wants to avoid forever. Ravis feels trapped, confined, tied down, even as he leans forward to nab another slice of warm chocolate cake from the tray on the coffee table in front of him.

The ivory curtains hang loosely over the huge French windows, hiding the winter's day and fresh white snowfall. The walls glow cheery yellow under the golden light, the couches are a warm autumn red with plump orange pillows piled up at both ends. The room smells of fresh bread and cleaning products – it's all so amazingly domestic, so humble and normal.

Ivan lounges on the coach opposite him, coat unbuttoned, scarf draped around his neck in comforting folds. One hand loosely grips a brown tinted bottle; the reason for Ivan's flush and too-bright amaranthine eyes. Ivan is watching him, contemplating, as Ravis tries to nibble normally on his food. He wishes that the silence wasn't so awkward, so stiff.

"You never come around anymore, Ravis," Ivan says suddenly, taking another swig from his bottle. He peers through thick silver lashes at the smaller Nation, and Ravis feels like a spotlight's been turned on him, like the whole world is focusing on him. His stomach rolls, heaves. He sets the remainder of his cake back on the tray.

"I'm sorry," he says, although he isn't really. He's only here because he must maintain good ties with all of his neighbors, and visiting is a good way to demonstrate a desire to keep relations friendly. "I've been busy with negotiating business with Yao." It's true; he isn't lying, but his stomach still clenches when Ivan's omniscient eyes turn to meet his.

"Really?" Ivan's bottle clinks as he sets it down on the coffee table. "You're trading with Yao? Ah, I suppose I can forgive you for your lack of time, then. Yao has always been hard to deal with." His eyes gleam like poison. Ravis wonders what kind of dealing Ivan had done with Yao, what could make this child-like cruel Nation show such life, such excitement.

"But you know," Ivan continues, reaching across the table to snag a warm apple pastry, "It's very upsetting to me that you leave me alone all the time. Once you are done making business deals with Yao, I expect you to come back to me. Do you understand? I don't like the thought of you leaving me."

Ravis knows he shouldn't have to put up with this. Ravis knows Ivan has no real power over him. Ravis knows this, yet he also sees the bars of the invisible cage surrounding him closing in, pinning him. So all he can do is bow his head and bite his cake, and whisper, "Yes sir," praying Ivan won't see just how much Ravis hates the games they play.

Ivan beams, flopping silver hair falling in front of his too bright eyes. He takes another swig of the tinted bottle. The homey scent of fresh bread is becoming overpowered by the stench of vodka, so strong that it makes Ravis's head reel just from smelling it. "I'm so glad you understand," Ivan sings, and he jumps to his feet, snatching the tray off the table and skipping off to the kitchen to dispose of the remains of their snacks.

Ravis's hands are shaking. He balls them into fists, shoves them in his pockets. Ivan has the power here. All Ravis can do is hide just how much control the other has.

{Apologize}

Ivan does feel sorry, sometimes. Sorry for the pain he's inflicted on others, sorry for the blood he's shed, sorry for the misery he has caused. His past is painted with crimson, stained with scarlet, retouched with vermilion; his hands are not only wet, they are soaking to the point where they will never be dry.

He is sorry for acting the way he did, sorry that the actions he took now make people stare at him with hesitation, with disgust. He is sorry every time Toris flinches away from him, every time Eduard gives him that silent, reproachful glare, every time Ravis seems to chew his words over before he speaks, like he is afraid how Ivan will react to what he has to say.

Ivan is frightened by the prospect of being alone, of having terrified enough people that everyone will go away and leave him by himself, leave him to icy winters and depressed people, hopelessness and loneliness. So although he hates it, he reaches out and grabs, takes what he can, intimidates people into standing by him so he doesn't have to face the silence unaided, unheard.

He is drawn out of his reverie by the clink of a delicate porcelain cup against the smooth oak of his coffee table. Ravis is getting to his feet, brushing his black pants free of pastry crumbs. He looks drab and cheerless in his dark clothing; the only splash of color comes from the light green scarf wrapped around his neck. Ivan recognizes it as one of Toris's. He wonders what it is like to have siblings that force warm garments onto you as you leave your house, who care enough to make sure you are prepared to deal with the difficulties of the day, whatever they might be.

"Are you leaving already?" His voice is steady, strong as the vodka he clutches in his hand like a lifeline. Ravis nods curtly. His movements are brisk, efficient, tense. His fear is tangible, although he is doing a remarkably good job of trying to hide it.

"Toris and I are heading to Eduard's home for dinner," Ravis explains, folding up his napkin and tucking it into his empty tea cup. "We have to be punctual, because Eduard gets annoyed when we get there late and the food's gone cold and then he lectures us about wastefulness."

"You will come back, da?" He can't hide the hope in his voice, and he knows it's pathetic how childish he sounds, like he is making sure his mommy will return from going to the supermarket.

Ravis's violet eyes flash with something unreadable before his expression settles back into it's customary mask of apprehension, of fear. "Maybe," he says, picking up the tray and heading towards the kitchen. Ivan listens to the rattle of plates being placed in the sink, the clunk of the cake tray being set down gracelessly on the counter.

Ravis returns in a moment, and he crosses the room to open the closet door, taking out his brick red wool coat. He hesitates as he wraps it around his shoulders, and glances over at Ivan. Ivan's cuckoo clock hanging on the wall ticks loudly. Ravis's mouth tightens for a second, and then he mutters, "Thank you for the wonderful food," before he is gone and the door is slamming shut behind him.

Ivan watches the navy blue tapestry hanging on his door swing from the force of the blow. He takes another sip of vodka. It's bitter, and burns in his mouth.

"Is it too late to apologize?" Ivan murmurs.

The clock ticks. The cuckoo comes out and chimes the hour.

Ivan finishes his vodka.