Post by Lithuania on Aug 29, 2010 19:56:42 GMT -5
Chest heaving, Toris forced one foot in front of the other, as he pushed himself towards the door. He felt as though he could hardly breath, his vision blurred with tears and his throat tight and painful. And his stomach lurched as a part of him desperately ached for Ivan to get up and pull him back and stop him, even as his heart raced with the prospect of his much longed-for freedom.
“Дo свидания.”
Ivan's voice behind him cause him to whirl around sharply, hopefully even. But the blonde remained in his chair, and the only thing he uttered was a half hearted, tired farewell. Sniffling, the Lithuanian winced, pausing in the doorframe to stare at him intently. And although he knew that, simply by the nature of being a nation, this almost certainly wouldn't be the last time he ever saw Ivan...in that moment, it really, truly felt like it.
"Viso gero..." he replied, his voice barely more than a choked whisper.
Oh God. Am I really going to do this?
It took him all the strength he had left then to wrench his gaze away from the ill, pale man in the chair, the man that he had loved for so many years with all of his heart. His movements slow and trace-like, as though in shock, he half walked, half stumbled towards the front door, scarcely able to believe that he was really leaving, that the door would swing shut behind him and then, for the first time in centuries, he would be independent.
One thin, shaking hand was on the doorknob now, and he twisted it with an almost violent determination, blinking as bright sunlight suddenly hit his face, streaming through the thin crack and into the darkened hallway. He hadn't realised how dark Ivan's house was, how much it reeked of sickness, how airless it had become. Staggering slightly, he made his way out into the sunny day outside, feeling the warmth on his pale skin and the feeling of freedom filling his lungs. And he wondered why this didn't feel better, why he couldn't feel anything but sick and anxious and bereft. Wasn't he supposed to be happy? Wasn't this what his people wanted for him?
He kept walking onwards, down the garden path, past the little patch of sunflowers that were wilting from lack of proper care, past the outdoor entrance to the cellar where Ivan had taken him so many times and beat him half to death, past the enormous tree where he'd spent the odd sunny afternoon curled up with his head on the other man's lap, past the now-overgrown grass that he'd painstakingly tended to for centuries, just forcing himself to keep walking and fighting the urge to turn back with every step. And eventually he reached the little wooden gate that deliniated the boundaries of Ivan's home, and solemnly, slowly unlatched it and let the gentle breeze in the air push it open.
And he walked, and walked, as if in a daze, until his legs ached, until Ivan's house was little more than a black speck on the horizon. And it wasn't until that speck was completely obliterated from the landscape that Toris Lorinaitis allowed himself to stop and sink to the ground, curling up underneath a tree and pulling his knees up to his chest.
And then he wept as though his heart would shatter.
“Дo свидания.”
Ivan's voice behind him cause him to whirl around sharply, hopefully even. But the blonde remained in his chair, and the only thing he uttered was a half hearted, tired farewell. Sniffling, the Lithuanian winced, pausing in the doorframe to stare at him intently. And although he knew that, simply by the nature of being a nation, this almost certainly wouldn't be the last time he ever saw Ivan...in that moment, it really, truly felt like it.
"Viso gero..." he replied, his voice barely more than a choked whisper.
Oh God. Am I really going to do this?
It took him all the strength he had left then to wrench his gaze away from the ill, pale man in the chair, the man that he had loved for so many years with all of his heart. His movements slow and trace-like, as though in shock, he half walked, half stumbled towards the front door, scarcely able to believe that he was really leaving, that the door would swing shut behind him and then, for the first time in centuries, he would be independent.
One thin, shaking hand was on the doorknob now, and he twisted it with an almost violent determination, blinking as bright sunlight suddenly hit his face, streaming through the thin crack and into the darkened hallway. He hadn't realised how dark Ivan's house was, how much it reeked of sickness, how airless it had become. Staggering slightly, he made his way out into the sunny day outside, feeling the warmth on his pale skin and the feeling of freedom filling his lungs. And he wondered why this didn't feel better, why he couldn't feel anything but sick and anxious and bereft. Wasn't he supposed to be happy? Wasn't this what his people wanted for him?
He kept walking onwards, down the garden path, past the little patch of sunflowers that were wilting from lack of proper care, past the outdoor entrance to the cellar where Ivan had taken him so many times and beat him half to death, past the enormous tree where he'd spent the odd sunny afternoon curled up with his head on the other man's lap, past the now-overgrown grass that he'd painstakingly tended to for centuries, just forcing himself to keep walking and fighting the urge to turn back with every step. And eventually he reached the little wooden gate that deliniated the boundaries of Ivan's home, and solemnly, slowly unlatched it and let the gentle breeze in the air push it open.
And he walked, and walked, as if in a daze, until his legs ached, until Ivan's house was little more than a black speck on the horizon. And it wasn't until that speck was completely obliterated from the landscape that Toris Lorinaitis allowed himself to stop and sink to the ground, curling up underneath a tree and pulling his knees up to his chest.
And then he wept as though his heart would shatter.