Day in and day out. One foot in front of the other. Take the ration. Use the ration. Where had the joyfulness gone?

“Just deal with it.” Third had said.

“It's your life now.” USSR had told them.

But the monotony needed a break. Something new. Something that people would reminisce about.

Warsaw

Poland had saved his flour, eggs, sugar, apples, and butter rations to make Szarlotka for himself and his dying sister, Danzig. Baking powder couldn't be found through trade or ration cards, but they could do without it. It wouldn't be the same, but it was enough.

“Hey, I made a Szarlotka,” Poland said softly, setting the pie on the bedside table. “It took a while to save up but we got it.”

Danzig sat on the bed, her gray sweater and normally vibrant stroje hanging off her skeletal frame, as she coughed into her elbow. With each lung-tearing cough, Poland felt his heart shatter like a mirror being dropped from a great height.

Why did she have to be so deathly ill? “Bracie, you made it,” Danzig rasped in between two or three coughs. “You actually made it…”

Poland nodded, not trusting himself to speak with the emotions roiling within. Danzig's eye had that glimmer in it again, her gold-colored iris shining like the fool’s gold they searched for as children, thinking it to be the real thing.

“I-I…” Danzig trailed off, her features relaxing and the candle-flame glimmer being blown out. Poland lunged forward as his sister fell, only now noticing how pale she actually was. The pallor of her skin resembled cold, pink candle wax. Poland’s heart jumped into his stomach when he felt her cold, clammy skin.

“Danzig!” Poland jolted up in a cold sweat, his chest heaving up and down, up and down. He looked towards the bookshelf by his bed, cobwebs and dust caking the shelves and books. Except for the flowered urn. He had that nightmare again. And his shattered heart could take no more of this suffocatingly cold torture of war.

Moscow

Russia’s feet skidded and slipped as she turned the sharp corner, her breath billowing in clouds around her. I have to get home I have to get home I-

“Rossiya, where are you going?”

“Home, Babushka Maria!” Russia called behind her, managing to catch her balance and keep running.

“Don’t slip!” Babushka Maria called back, her warm grandmotherly voice following Russia.

I won’t. Russia didn’t say anything in response. She didn’t have to. Babushka Maria, as the kids in her section of Moscow called the old Russian woman, already knew what Russia would say.

As Russia ran home, she passed people, mostly old women and young children, in the icy streets. The young children playing in the slushy snow or with sticks and stones. The old women were simply watching the young children or doing household chores outside. Those that weren’t old women or young children were wounded soldiers, both men and women. They were either sitting outside and talking or just watching, with the destruction replaying over and over in their empty, haunted gazes.

“Mama! What’s going on?” Russia called as soon as she got home, shutting the door behind her. She could smell the soup that USSR had been making when Russia had left to run errands not too long ago, though another smell was mixed in. Something sweet and baked.

USSR walked into the short vestibule, with a smile on her face. A small one, but a smile nonetheless. East had seemed panicked when she had gone to tell Russia, but USSR's face was lined with smile lines, and her lips formed a subtly small curve that went down, and then up.

Russia felt the confusion hammering at her jaw and voicebox, causing her to open her mouth and ask again: “What's going on?”

“Did East tell you to come home quickly?” USSR asked, her voice warm and mirthful.

“Y-yeah…” Russia said, her voice cracking slightly. Oh how stupid she felt now, her cheeks heating up in embarrassment as she realized just how stupid it was to ignore the amused gleam in East's amber eyes when she told her about USSR needing Russia immediately.

“Well, I do have some oladi I managed to save up…” USSR said, exiting the vestibule and walking back towards the kitchen.

Russia followed quickly, after untying her boots and kicking them off. Oladi was her favorite type of pancakes, especially when home-made.

“Eeasaassstttt, why did you lie to me?” Russia asked her minutes-younger sister while ruffling her shoulder-length black hair.

East let out a soft squeak, fluffing up her already fluffy black wings. “Heyyyy-!”

“Now, now you two, one of you go get West. He also needs to have some oladi as well.”

“Yes Mama!” East said, parking up before running out of the kitchen to wherever their brother would be.

Russia took the opportunity to sneak an oladi, which earned her a quiet chuckle from USSR. I love my family.

Translations (DeepL was used for Polish and Russian I did not know, apologies for any inaccuracies):

Bracie = Brother (Polish. DeepL was used for this)
Rossiya (transliterated) = Russia (Russian)

Note: THIS IS IN FACT CANONICAL IN MY AU (CHHSA)

Ilovereadingwriting9 here ya go!