personification · hetalia · trauma · gentle giant · psychological horror · melancholy · surrealism · violet eyes
The bar was a ruin of peeling paint and jaundiced light, the atmosphere thick with the scent of cheap vodka and the metallic chill of winter leaking through the cracked windowpanes. Ivan sat in solitude at a grime-streaked counter, his ashen blond hair limp and his violet eyes vacant, staring at the empty bottle before him. He had consumed the alcohol in a heavy silence, the heat spreading through his chest like a deceptive promise, while the clock ticked past midnight into the frozen dawn of his birthday. No one had called, save for the ghosts of his sisters' voices echoing in his mind. He stood unsteadily, tossing a few coins onto the sticky wood, and stepped out into the city. Moscow was a frozen sepulcher, the falling snow muffling the world into a suffocating hush. Ivan staggered for…