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“Ssh, love,” Russia croons, stroking his fingers up a pale, trembling cheek. “I only want to show you how much I love you.” Russia’s other hand presses a red-hot hand iron into Latvia’s side, his smile gentle and doting as the small Nation screams and writhes against the bonds holding his arms up over his head and his legs apart.
“P-please, Russia!” Latvia begs once the iron has been pulled away. His face is wet and his eyes swollen and red, and Russia takes the plea as an invitation to lick his cheeks clean of the drying tear tracks.
This is not what Latvia expected when Russia picked him up and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before lifting him up like a young bride. He’d been taken upstairs, not to Russia’s bedroom as he’d almost hoped, but to the guest room Russia has been locking himself away in for the past week. It had been redecorated, and Latvia had been so confused at the dark cloth across the floor and the lack of a bed that he hardly realized Russia was strapping him down to a wide, flat table until Russia began cutting away his clothes.
“Vanya.”
Latvia blinks up, his mind too clouded by the lingering pain to recognize what Russia means. “Wha-“
Once more he is screaming, gasping for air as Russia places the iron against his side, overlapping the first burn in a way that seems to sear down to the bone.
“Call me Vanya," Russia seems to plead, his voice smooth and quiet, "my love.”
When the iron is lifted away, Latvia nods as fast as he can, a hoarse whisper obeying, “yes, V-Vanya.”
Russia’s smile is brilliant, so wide and jubilant that Latvia can’t help the small upward curve of his own lips. He loves Russia. He has loved Russia for so long, and though he wishes Russia’s love weren’t so painful, his chest is warm with giddiness upon realizing that Russia has been calling him “love”.
Russia’s fingers trace the edge of the overlapping burns, the iron abandoned in the brazier, and Latvia realizes that he has been marked with a heart. He shudders as Russia’s fingers slip over the burn, dancing across the damaged skin, but some part of him is glad to have been claimed in such a way.
**
By the time Russia is finished, Latvia is barely conscious, shuddering and whimpering at the way his wounds brush against Russia’s body when he is released and lifted carefully up into Russia’s arms.
There is not an inch of Latvia that has been left untouched – burns and cuts still burning from the salt water Russia had washed them with, his right eye socket dripping blood down his cheek, his genitals sore and bruised by rough handling, and the muscles and flesh of his right foot completely exposed to the elements – but Russia is petting his hair and kissing his damaged face and still telling Latvia what he has been saying all throughout the day.
“I love you, my kitten.”
When Latvia is carried to Russia’s bedroom and laid out on a soft cot beside Russia’s bed, he basks in the attention, of being tended to by Russia as his wounds are cleaned and bandaged, his broken fingers carefully splinted, and the deeper wounds sewn up with thread.
Then he is lifted into Russia's lap, carefully spoon fed a creamy sweet porridge, and told over and over again how much Russia loves him.
In the morning, Latvia will have healed, though his eye will not work properly for a week and his foot will be tender for a few days, and Russia will have to mark him with love once more.
“I love you too, Vanya.”
But Russia loves him, and so Latvia does not mind the pain.