Story.

The cold winds of Geneva bit Anastasiya Piletskaya’s coat clad form with the intensity one would
find in the jaws of rabid dogs. Biting back a vocal exclamation. The personification of the Union of
Vostokvakian Republics nevertheless mentally cursed her Helvetic counterpart for having such a
damn annoying wind. It was really damn unbelievable how pigheaded this wind was, like an
incessant whine.

Not that it was hurting her anyway. Living on the taiga back home was something that had
numbed her to the cold, to the point where she could hardly feel cold anymore. She still had tiny
shivers from time to time. She was human after all. Nevertheless, she had to focus. She needed to
talk to him. It had been so long, so damn long. She needed to get this off her chest.

She found him. Sitting on a bench near a fountain, laughing quietly to himself. Despite the fact
that centuries had passed, he still dressed in the same dark colours, black and grey. His black hair
was messier than his usual style. With his turtleneck, and greyish denim pants and coat. He may
as well have been a student at the University of Geneva. She tried not to show it, but she was
feeling strange.

Her heart was hammering and doing somersaults. And she couldn’t stop that traitorous blush
spreading across her face. Calm yourself She chided herself. Stop acting like a starry eyed child.
You are the personification of the biggest country on the planet! Stop acting like a blushing little
schoolgirl!. That pep talk did litte to calm her. It had been so damn long since she’d last met
Ulraznavia. Well that was hyperbole, she met him quite often at Security Council meetings, but the
last time she’d truly been close with him was back in 1913! Before the First Great War in her days
as the Vostokvakian Empire. The revolution in 1917 and her subsequent transformation into a
socialist state and his own into a republic had brought a rift between them, ideologies and all. The
2nd Great War had brought them together only for a bit before the Cold War saw Ulraznavia
become neutral, not joining either West or Eastern blocs.

Sighing in resignation, Anya gathered up her meagre courage and walked up to the bench.
Hesitating a bit, she finally loomed above him and spoke with him finally.

“Hey there. Kostya.”

At the sound of her voice, Konstantin Schlimme, personification of the Republic of Ulraznavia,
stared up at her, head turning up to look at her with those tired grey eyes of his. Tired grey eyes
that also had an unhinged glint in them. He was much more gaunt and pale than usual, he’d lost
weight. She also noted that he was bleeding, and his grin was stretched out to its maximum
extent. To the point his face looked taut, as if it would rip any moment.

“Fuck, God must be in a real pissy mood if he sent the fucking representation of the commies to
see me.” Were the first words that left his mouth.
Anastasiya winced before staring at him in alarm. And concern.

Ever since the late 1980s began, Ulraznavia’s health had been deteriorating quickly. His speech
and mannerisms had become increasingly strained, pessimistic, narcissistic and darkly humorous.
He’d disappear into the bathroom more often now, coughing and hacking up bits of his internal
body. The change had been swift and brutal, confiding with Anastasiya’s own symptoms.

“I wanted to see how you were doing .” She said, carefully making sure that she didn’t let concern
slip into her voice, or he’d make some darkly accurate joke about the state of her own national
decline. Konstantin merely laughed, a painful gasping and hacking sound that seemed to greedily
suck up most of the dark haired man’s strength. While usually most nations looked like they were
in their early 20s (Ulraznavia usually didn’t look a day over 22 on the account of National
personifications having immortality) Ulraznavia looked older, skinnier. But in response to her
question, he grinned again.

“Fuck, I’m alright. Peachy!” Konstantin declared, which medically was utterly untrue.” How’s the
decline of your Union going eh?” He asked in a smug voice.

Anya flinched. Not from Konstantin’s gloating and joke at her expense, but from the callous
casualness he ignored his own pain and injury.

“Shouldn’t you be at a hospital?”

“Nah.” Konstantin drawled. “This isn’t even a flesh wound!”

Anya had to stop herself from stamping her foot like a child. The fact that Konstantin was bragging
about this like it was nothing showed her the sorry state he was in. Though, Masha conceded that
it came with the job. Even at earlier centuries, he wasn’t this stupid. Or in denial. He was one of
the oldest states on the continent of Euronia, forming just after the fall of the Romulan Empire.
That much age didn’t help with mental stability at times.

She sat herself down and cut straight to the point. No use delaying.

“Why the hell haven’t you done something about your injuries? And why didn’t you answer any of
my calls dammit! I’m scared Kostya. I’m scared of what could happen to you.”

She sighed, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, she was horrified to find him laughing
as if she’d told him a particularly amusing joke. And blood was streaming openly from his mouth,
so she was thankful that the square was deserted or else god knew what sort of pandemonium
would break out if others saw.
“Do you hear yourself?” He asked in a dry raspy voice. “The Union of Vostokvakian Republics!
Scared, concerned for another country! I may not be aligned with any goddamn bloc in this
wretched Cold War, but I know that’s bullshit...” He broke into another coughing fit before he could
continue further, causing him to double over for a little bit. Klara leapt in her seat to his aid but he
physically pushed her back, as if he’d been burnt. He looked up and merely grinned, looking like
an extra from a very dark horror film.

He merely took out a pack of wet wipes from his jacket pocket and proceeded to clean every bit of
his jaw thoroughly. He did the same with his clothes and bag where stray drops of blood had fallen
from his mouth. Once done, and grin firm in place he turned to look at his Soviet counterpart, on
hopes to rile her up more only to find himself pushed back forcibly into a lying down position and
Anastasiya Piletskaya’s terrified. Tear stricken face filling his eyes as she straddled him, or at least
it looked like she was straddling him from where he was lying.

“Scheiße. Careful Commie, others’ll get the wrong ideas.” He cheerfully giggled in a sickening
fashion. In response, the ice blonde chick slammed her hand onto his chest, not to hard as to
harm him, but not too delicate either. Before, and too his rapidly growing surprise, she broke down
and burst into tears . And buried her face in his scarf.

“Why?!” She cried, her sobs nullified by his scarf. “Why!” Her voice went an octave higher,
transcending into a muffled scream. To which the other personification tiredly sighed.

“I’ve been so worried about you Kostya! For weeks! Years, decades… ever since we changed
governments and ideologies, mine in 1917 and yours in the winter of 18. I tried to keep our
connection. Sent you thousands of letters. And when technology advanced in 1955, I sent you
messages Kostya! Audio recording, video recordings. Even though you had the World Wide Web, I
still went through my way and illegally sent you those by connecting the Kollektiv system with the
WWW for short periods. And you never replied, not even once.”

Once the rant was over. Ulraznavia merely cocked his head in a way that asked “finished” And
before she continue, he pulled himself up from the rather “intimate “ position they were in.

“You’re living a fucking fantasy.” He croaked, in a strange way that somehow sounded as if he were
hissing and crying at the same way, and laughing too. Klara gasped, before she attempted to
speak but he cut her off.

“You think I’m still the same old guy from 1913.” His grin was now stretched out to the sheer
limits of his mouth’s motor function. A bit more and his face would separate from the muscles.

“I’ve changed Nastya. I am not that imperial iteration of myself. The same way you aren’t your
Czarist self anymore.” He hissed, coming at odds with his supposed cheery grin.

“We’re nations! Literal embodiments of countries Kostya! We remain the same in some capacity
throughout history! I have all the memories of our interactions! Every single thing! I still
remember how we danced in Sankt Petersburg’s gilded halls during the summer of 1819, how we
comforted each other during the Northern War in Narva. How we met in our childhood years during
the Viking age. Why haven’t you put it all together you sick, suicidal bastard! I love you! I always
have, always will! Answer me Schlimme!”

Vostokvakians, were, through experience , not the type of people who did public vocal
proclamations of love. PDA alone was unheard of and was private and intimate. Ulraznavia
personally still didn’t care. After all his body was fucking dying and this had probably made him a
bit crazy.

“What can I say?” He rhetorically said, although now, there was a mournful tone slipping through
his accent. “That I’m cooked? That I might be dead by the dawn of the new millennium? That
nobody’ll mourn me? I’m fucked Nastya. Fucked. I haven’t even told my boss, or even senior
echelons or the other necessary government organs about it!”

Anya’s sobs went higher a bit before they suddenly and abruptly stopped. She looked up at him,
her lilac eyes staring into the deepest part of his soul. Then she gave a grunt or a growl and
planted a kiss on his lips.

Wtf? Ulraznavia thought in panic at first . The panic however soon disappeared, replaced by a
primal instinct to kiss her back. It had been a long time since he’d kissed her like this. He thanked
God and whatever saints were responsible for watching over that there weren’t any bystanders
watching this spicy exchange of PDA, seriously he was certain that Anya was holding back barely
and could very easily chose to rip off his clothes here and now.