•L'AMOUR• (countryhumans)

L'amour est enfant de bohème

Welcome! We're so happy to have you here!

The fake greeting's of his father echoed through Russia's mind, causing him to cringe every time each iteration of the greeting played through his mind. He clenched his fists at his sides, digging his fingernails into the skin of his palm. His father decided to throw a party, and Russia felt dumbfounded as to why. Sure, they had a large house and a lot of party supplies (aka an abundance of alcohol). They now only needed a reason, and there didn't seem to be any left. Russia was the bane of his family's existence, him being the most antisocial of them all. Being one of the older of the Russian family, the Russian Empire was quite the introvert as well. He only got left off the hook because he was older and had more respect than Russia. Though he was still bribed with promises of freedom from the basement to attend parties. Despite him technically having more of the family's respect, they treated him like shit. He was punished severely if he left the basement without permission, and he had been reduced to nothing but a sex toy for those willing to pay the price. It always amazed Russia by the sheer amount of people who would show up each night to have sex with the empire. He saw the money they paid too, and he wondered what about Russian Empire made them give up that much money to rape him. Maybe it was because they were related, but nothing about the living skeleton that was the empire appealed to Russia. Did people really like fucking a man who was closer to a decayed corpse than a living man? Russia looked over at the empire, frowning at the pathetic state he was in. The empire stared longingly at the tons of food tossed hastily onto a table, while the Union gave him a glare that said more than enough to keep the empire still. Russia could see Russian Empire's ribs despite the large, baggy clothing he was wearing. He couldn't physically see them, but the image flashed through his mind of the pathetic man he really was. At one point the empire fit into those clothes perfectly; they were tailored specifically for him after all. Though, not so much anymore. He looked like a child trying on their father's clothes. 

Russia blinked then turned his head to his father, the RSFSR. The man was walking around, slipping between people to reach the ones he actually liked. He was a superficial man, which is the reason Russia isn't suffering the same as the Russian Empire was. Russia had a talent, and RSFSR was exploiting it. Russia had been born with the god-given gift of ballet. Quite easily, he became known as one of the best despite his young age and lack of years doing the art. The first thing his father did was force him to dance for money. Whenever he would start to fuss, all his father had to do was start dragging him to the basement to remind him who was in charge. Russia sighed and closed his eyes, trying to escape into the false reality he created in his head. A reality that was much happier than his own, much more fulfilling. He breathed in a shaky breath then opened up his eyes, immediately making his way to the bowl of fruit punch his father laid out for the guests. It had alcohol in it, which Russia wasn't allowed to drink yet, him being only 16. He did feel he had an addiction to alcohol, though. Being able to drown his feelings so easily, paired with the silky feeling of liquid going down his dry throat entangled him into the mess that was alcoholism. He knew his father wouldn't care; he never did and had no ability to. Russia could drop dead at that moment, and his father would only care because it disrupted the flow of the party... and also because he would have just lost one of his many revenue streams. 

"What do you think you're wearing, young man?" A voice asked, putting extra emphasis on the "man" to tease. Russia already knew who it was, so he rolled his eyes quickly before turning around to face them. It was the USSR, better known as Soviet because it's easier to say. Soviet was RSFSR's brother, which made him Russia's uncle. "Makeup? Seriously? You're a man, Russia! Men don't wear makeup. If you keep this up we'll have to start treating you like a lady." He sneered, glaring at Russia. 

"Just leave me alone," Russia mumbled as he turned away. He normally didn't wear makeup, but someone recently punched him in the face and gave him a black eye. The extravagant makeup looks he put on were to hide the bruise from ever showing, which someone didn't seem to understand. "It's your fault anyway. You shouldn't be so rough." He heard Soviet walk closer and cringed when his arm was tightly grabbed.