The Russian gave the order in the way one might speak to a dog, grasping the smaller man's shoulders and forcing him down onto the wooden kitchen chair. Toris didn't move, his eyes darting around the room nervously, wondering exactly what trouble he was in this time.
Ivan rummaged around in one of the kitchen cupboards and a moment later slammed two glasses and a bottle of vodka down in front of the timid brunette. He poured one glass and grabbed Toris' wrist, shoving it into his hand.
“What shall we toast to?” he asked with a faint smile on his face. The Lithuanian looked at him in frightened confusion.
“Um...what...” he cleared his throat. “I don't...understand.”
“I'm bored,” Ivan said simply, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Let us pass the time by drinking together.”
“I...I...don't...” Toris glanced from the glass in his hand, to the deceptively benign face of his captor and long-time tormentor and his shoulder slumped. There was no choice in the matter anyway, so what was the point in telling the Russian that he didn't drink, that he hated the smell of vodka, that it made him feel queasy. Ivan already knew these things.
“Drink, Toris.” It might have been phrased as a friendly suggestion but Toris knew better than to argue. In one desperate motion he drained the contents of his glass, swallowing the burning liquid before coughing and spluttering, tears appearing at the corners of his eyes.
Ivan's smile grew wider and he poured a measure for himself, downing it easily before refilling both cups. “Again.”
The Lithuanian grasped the glass and put it to his lips determinedly, flinching a little at the smell. One measure was more than enough, as far as he was concerned. But he knocked it back, feeling the rush of artificial warmth in his stomach. For a moment, he thought he understood why Ivan drank the stuff so much. The fiery sensation it produced in him was a welcome change from the perpetual cold of the Russian's house.
“More.” Ivan refilled his glass. Toris downed it obediently.
It wasn't so bad, he thought to himself. His head was starting to swim a little and the harsh spirit made him feel as though he wanted to choke but he felt warmer than he had in such a long time. Maybe even a little relaxed. They continued in this vein, shot after shot, silence apart from the Russian's continued orders to keep drinking.
He was starting to feel strangely sick now, his cheeks burning and his vision swimming. Gradually, over the course of their silent little drinking session Toris found himself staring more and more intently into the violet eyes of his captor, found himself fixating on that brutally childlike little smile on his lips. The taste of the vodka on his tongue made him think of all the times Ivan had claimed his mouth with his own, how impotently angry that made him, how he hated the Russia and hated himself and hated his own need and...
“You're a bastard,” Toris blurted out, his head lolling a little to one side. He propped his elbows on the desk and rested his face in his hands. “I hate you.”
Re: Liet Gets Drunk: Russia/Lithuania
The Russian gave the order in the way one might speak to a dog, grasping the smaller man's shoulders and forcing him down onto the wooden kitchen chair. Toris didn't move, his eyes darting around the room nervously, wondering exactly what trouble he was in this time.
Ivan rummaged around in one of the kitchen cupboards and a moment later slammed two glasses and a bottle of vodka down in front of the timid brunette. He poured one glass and grabbed Toris' wrist, shoving it into his hand.
“What shall we toast to?” he asked with a faint smile on his face. The Lithuanian looked at him in frightened confusion.
“Um...what...” he cleared his throat. “I don't...understand.”
“I'm bored,” Ivan said simply, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Let us pass the time by drinking together.”
“I...I...don't...” Toris glanced from the glass in his hand, to the deceptively benign face of his captor and long-time tormentor and his shoulder slumped. There was no choice in the matter anyway, so what was the point in telling the Russian that he didn't drink, that he hated the smell of vodka, that it made him feel queasy. Ivan already knew these things.
“Drink, Toris.” It might have been phrased as a friendly suggestion but Toris knew better than to argue. In one desperate motion he drained the contents of his glass, swallowing the burning liquid before coughing and spluttering, tears appearing at the corners of his eyes.
Ivan's smile grew wider and he poured a measure for himself, downing it easily before refilling both cups. “Again.”
The Lithuanian grasped the glass and put it to his lips determinedly, flinching a little at the smell. One measure was more than enough, as far as he was concerned. But he knocked it back, feeling the rush of artificial warmth in his stomach. For a moment, he thought he understood why Ivan drank the stuff so much. The fiery sensation it produced in him was a welcome change from the perpetual cold of the Russian's house.
“More.” Ivan refilled his glass. Toris downed it obediently.
It wasn't so bad, he thought to himself. His head was starting to swim a little and the harsh spirit made him feel as though he wanted to choke but he felt warmer than he had in such a long time. Maybe even a little relaxed. They continued in this vein, shot after shot, silence apart from the Russian's continued orders to keep drinking.
He was starting to feel strangely sick now, his cheeks burning and his vision swimming. Gradually, over the course of their silent little drinking session Toris found himself staring more and more intently into the violet eyes of his captor, found himself fixating on that brutally childlike little smile on his lips. The taste of the vodka on his tongue made him think of all the times Ivan had claimed his mouth with his own, how impotently angry that made him, how he hated the Russia and hated himself and hated his own need and...
“You're a bastard,” Toris blurted out, his head lolling a little to one side. He propped his elbows on the desk and rested his face in his hands. “I hate you.”