Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/479829.
  Rating:
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  Archive Warning:
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  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      France_(Hetalia)/Russia_(Hetalia), Russia_(Hetalia)/Anastasia, Lithuania_
      (Hetalia)/Russia_(Hetalia), China_(Hetalia)/Russia_(Hetalia)
  Character:
      France_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Russia_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Catherine
      The_Great, Napoleon_Bonaparte, Nicholas_II_Romanov, Anastasia_Nikolaevna
      Romanova, Grigori_Yefimovich_Rasputin, Lithuania_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers),
      Estonia_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Latvia_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Belarus_
      (Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Ukraine_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), China_(Hetalia:
      Axis_Powers), America_(Hetalia:_Axis_Powers), Vladimir_Lenin, Joseph
      Stalin
  Additional Tags:
      Historical, Psychological_Trauma, Triggers, Insanity, Death, PTSD,
      Hallucinations, Rape/Non-con_Elements, Gore, Snapped, Bipolar_Disorder,
      Schizophrenia, Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-07 Chapters: 5/? Words: 15089
****** The Constant ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     "Ivan," Francis breathed gently, reaching a hand out to the grown
     nation. His heart sank when he saw the sadness and the distance in
     the cold violet eyes that, at one point, used to be so warm. He
     flinched when those eyes hardened into a glare, and he distressed
     knowing that the other nations saw Russia as nothing more than a
     monster. Did they not know how he was before, or had they forgotten?
     His mind had cracked, and it was beyond repair, but Francis still
     cared for him, just as he had centuries ago. "Ivan, I love you."
     "I love no one. Never again."
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The Constant
con·stant
 adjective 1. Occurring continuously over a period of time
===============================================================================
A small crowd was gathered inside the Dormition Cathedral of Moscow. Bodies
huddled closely together in an attempt to keep warm, as their luxurious fur
coats had been taken upon entering the building, and while the clothing of each
man and woman there was gorgeous and exquisite in their design, they did
nothing to stave off the chilly air that crept into the building on that cold,
January day. It was the 16th, the year 1547. There seemed to be only three
people who genuinely weren't shivering (because those in the crowd who weren't
actually were, but they did their best to control it). Those three people were
the priest, who was holding a golden skullcap in his pale hands, ornamented
with sable trimming and shining gemstones of emerald, ruby, sapphire, amethyst,
and golden topaz; the man kneeling in front of the priest who, on all accounts,
looked absolutely stern and terrifying and strict and mighty; and the small boy
toward the very back of the room, who watched the coronation with curiosity.
No one paid the boy any mind, regardless of how out of place he seemed. Why was
a child here? He doesn't look like royalty or like anyone of importance. That
was the extent of their thoughts upon first seeing the pale-haired child. They
couldn't spare him any more attention than that anyhow, not when they needed to
focus on the Grand Prince of Moscow, soon to be crowned as the first Tsar of
Russia. The young boy blinked once when the priest lowered Monomakh's Cap to
the Prince's dark head, barely listening as he gave Ivan IV Vasilyevich his
blessing. The newly crowned Tsar of all Russia rose to his feet and turned to
face the small crowd, all of whom applauded quietly, bowing and curtseying to
the Terrible figure.
Eventually, after hours of celebrating and eating and praising and kissing
Ivan's jewel encrusted hands, the last guest left, a drunken "Do Svidanya"
being uttered as he stepped out into the night to an awaiting carriage. That
was when the Tsar turned to the boy, still standing at the back of the room,
motioning him closer. The pale boy obeyed, kneeling in front of the powerful
human. The Tsar extended a hand, placing it on the feathery, saturated locks of
the child.
"Russia, from now on, until my successor, I am your boss. Do you understand?"
"Da, your majesty, I do."
"Do you have a human name, Russia?"
"…Nyet, your majesty, I do not."
The Tsar scoffed lightly. "That will not do. Is there a name you like, Russia?"
"…Ivan." This caused a curious quirk of the Tsar's eyebrow. The small boy
blushed, looking down at his feet. "But if you would prefer me to not have the
same name as you, your majesty, I could think of a different name."
"Nyet, I would enjoy for this magnificent country to share my name." The Tsar
nodded, giving his approval. "…It is a great name, Ivan."
===============================================================================
"Master Romanov (1), please…Settle down," came the very weary sigh of a
stressed-out handmaiden. "The French ambassador will be here soon; we must make
a good impression for Tsarina Yekaterina (2)." Unfortunately, the girl's words
proved to do nothing but excite the young boy even more. Ivan bounced on the
balls of his white-stockinged feet, hands gripping the window as lavender eyes
stared out, as if the very motion would cause the carriage to pull up to the
Winter Palace that very instant.
"Not just the French ambassador, Tati!" The boy, who looked to be about 12
years old, whipped his head around to look at the handmaiden as if she was an
anomaly. "Fra—" Ivan coughed, almost forgetting to not mention that there were
nations represented by people in this world. Thankfully, the man's human name
was close to his country's name, and he could brush it off as merely forgetting
formalities. "Monsieur Francis Bonnefoy is coming along as well!"
"And you have met him before?" Tatiana came forward with a snow-colored
waistcoat in her dainty hands, happy for Ivan's distraction.
"Ah…nyet, I have not. But we have written letters to each other! He was helping
me with my French!" the young boy looked proud of himself, pride overwhelming
his senses at the ability to learn the tongue of another nation.
"Oh, so that is how you learned French so quickly," the dark-haired girl mused,
slipping the boy's arms into the waistcoat before kneeling down and quickly
fastening the gold buttons. "I take it he was fixing your mistakes?"
"Uh-huh!" Ivan nodded quickly. "He also sent me tips on the grammar structure!"
"That is very kind of Gospodin Bonnefoy," Tatiana smoothed out the wrinkles in
the tight garment to the best of her abilities, and then rose to her feet again
to grab the navy blue brocade frock.
"Da, it is! It will be so nice to finally meet him!" Ivan suddenly looked out
the window again, and Tatiana thought that even a blind man could see his
anxiety.
"Da, well, you will not see him if you are not dressed properly, so come here
so I can finish dressing you!"
Ivan, for once, obeyed the female, deciding she was correct and that it would
be silly to introduce himself to fashionable people when he was not fully
dressed. Yekaterina would not be pleased. So he let his handmaiden slip the
gold-trimmed coat on his arms, and lifted his legs when she pulled his feet
into black riding boots, tucking the pure white breeches into the leather
footwear. Ivan had then started to head back to the window to check on whether
or not the carriage was there yet, but when he heard Tatiana clear her throat
he immediately spun on his heel and sat down in front of the vanity, where the
former was waiting with a puff in her hand. In routine, Ivan pulled his hair
back so that Tatiana could lightly powder his already pale face. When she
nodded, his hands fell to his lap again as she fixed his hair, then tilted his
head up so that she could have a better angle to tint his lips and cheeks a
light pink color. As soon as he was finished being made up, he hopped of the
stood and dashed to the window, despite Tatiana's protests.
"They are here!" Ivan nearly squealed, his eyes going wide when he saw a black
carriage park itself in front of the entrance. There was a knock at the door,
and Ivan spun around as it opened.
"Master Romanov, your presence is now requi—" the escort paused, startled as he
saw the young blond he was addressing come running toward him. "…required.
Please come with me…without running. Tatiana worked so hard in making you look
presentable. It would be a disgrace if you ruined it by running."
Ivan composed himself.
"Let us go. Tsarina Yekaterina is waiting for us."
"Da. Please show me the way."
The escort then led Ivan off down the hall after a brief farewell was shared
with the handmaiden. Tatiana collapsed on the stool, breathing a sigh of relief
when the door closed behind the duo.
The walk to the main hall was silent, except for the rhythmic click-clack of
two pairs of heels on the marble floors, and the escort wondered how it was
that the boy trailing by his side could appear so calm when he knew that the
boy was capable of becoming sick with excitement. Court training, he thought.
Ivan knew what was proper and what was not. When they finally reached the Great
Hall, Ivan bowed politely to the escort and sent him off. Yekaterina was
waiting in the middle of the room, wearing a gorgeous, full gown that was the
colors of the winter sky, decorated with gold accents, lace, furs, and many
pearls and diamonds. The Tsarina extended her hand toward Ivan, and he took it,
placing a kiss to her knuckles.
"Kak pozhivayete?"
"I am well, Vanya (3), but a little nervous," the woman laughed, and Ivan
smiled at her, releasing her hand. "Of course, I am not nervous because of you,
moi dorogoi. Your French is near perfect! I am scared that I may mess up!" This
caused the boy to grin.
"I am sure even if you mess up, they will not mind! You are beautiful!"
Yekaterina smiled at Ivan, his simple words still managing to affectionately
pull at the ruler's heart. "Let us hope you are right, Vanya." And so they
waited for several minutes, though Yekaterina had to constantly remind Russia
to stop fidgeting and stay still. Eventually, the waiting paid off, and Ivan
stood to rapt attention when the doors to the Great Hall were opened, and an
escort stepped through, followed by two men. Before the escort could even take
another step toward them, Ivan's eyes went to the taller of the two. Needless
to say, he was transfixed.
The man was tall and lean; not even the rich clothes could mask the man's
slender frame. His gait was lazy, yet graceful at the same time, and his pale
eyelashes seemed to leave fluttering kisses upon his cheek every time he
blinked those vivid blue eyes. Before Ivan even realized it, the two men were a
mere meter away from Yekaterina and himself, the escort standing to the side.
"Introducing Ambassador Louis Auguste Le Tonnelier de Breteuil (4), and the
Gospodin Francis Bonnefoy to Her Highness, Tsarina Yekaterina II Velikaya,
Empress and Autocrat of All the Russians, and the Master Ivan Romanov."
Yekaterina extended a hand again, and Breteuil took it, bowing low and placing
a kiss to it. "Your Highness, you do look very lovely. And your palace! Why,
from what I have seen of it, it is truly—"
Ivan continued to stare at the gorgeous blond in front of him, even when the
Parisian noticed the lavender eyes on him, and looked away only when their eyes
met. Ivan flushed, and Francis smirked, tucking a stray strand of golden hair
behind his ear.
"Ah, it is about time we met, mon ami~" the man spoke, words spilling from his
mouth fluidly, like water. "You are cuter in person, non? Your letters just
seem so much more cute now that I can put a face to those words~"
"S-Si. Il est agréable de vous rencontrer, M-Monsieur Bonnefoy," Ivan curtsied,
his natural flush peeking through the pink powder already on his cheeks.
"Ohonhon~, there is no need for that, mon ami," Francis held one arm behind his
back, bending at the waist and taking Ivan's hand into his free hand. "I am
flattered, oui, but I am the one in your country. I will speak your language
during my stay; that is, until we start your lessons, of course!" Francis
winked here, and then placed a kiss to the back of Ivan's hand, never breaking
eye contact. When he pulled back, Ivan brought his hand to his chest, looking
almost as if he'd been burnt, and it wasn't until the Frenchman straightened
himself and gave his attention to Yekaterina that Ivan released the breath he
hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"—would not mind if we went over these come tomorrow? Monsieur Bonnefoy and I
are very weary from travel."
"Not at all, Ambassador. We are in no rush. I will have an escort show you to
your suite. You will be joining us for dinner, I presume?"
"Of course we will, Your Majesty," came Breteuil's reply, Francis nodding in
confirmation. "We could get to know each other better!" Breteuil let out a
short, obnoxious laugh.
Yekaterina's lips were pursed thin, but she managed to give the round man a
convincing smile. "Oui, of course."
Before the ambassador could get another word in, Francis took a step forward,
bowing his head politely. "Excusez-moi, Votre Majesté, mais…if Master Romanov
does not have any prior engagements, I should like to have him escort me, and
perhaps spend the evening with me. I would love to talk to him and get to know
him better, now that we have finally met face-to-face," Francis' eyes flickered
to Ivan before returning to the Tsarina. "That is, of course, if Master Romanov
is agreeable to this."
Yekaterina smiled. "Nyet, he does not have any engagements. If he would like
to, he very well may escort you to your suite, Monsieur Bonnefoy."
"I-I have no objections, Monsieur Bonnefoy. I would be more than happy to show
you to your suite."
"Ah! This is wonderful, non~? Thank you for your kindness, mon ami," the French
man bowed in thanks, to which Ivan replied with a nod of his head.
"May we be dismissed, Your Majesty?" the pale-haired boy inquired.
The Tsarina nodded. "You may, Vanya, Monsieur Bonnefoy."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Ivan replied, then turned to face Francis. "Shall we
go now?"
"Oui, of course."
"Oh, Vanya," Yekaterina started. "Please send in one of the escorts for the
Ambassador. They should be right outside the door."
"Da, I will." And with that, Francis and Ivan exited the Great Hall. Sure
enough, waiting just out the mahogany doors, were several escorts, some holding
the bags of the Palace's guests. Francis immediately walked up to the one
holding his bags, so Ivan turned to one of the remaining five, relaying the
information Yekaterina had given him. The escort nodded, then disappeared
through the doors. When the boy turned back to the Parisian, he saw that he was
holding out a slender hand. Ivan took it, his cheeks heating up when the other
man's fingers wiggled their way between his.
"Shall we start your lessons right when we get to the room, mon ami?"
"D-Da, if it is of no bother to you~!"
Francis cooed. "Ah~, you are so cute Master Romanov!"
A small smile sneaked on to Ivan's lips. "P-Please, Monsieur Bonnefoy. You can
call me Ivan, or Vanya, if you wish. If we are friends, there is no need for
formalities, right?"
The other thought this over, humming in contemplation. "Si, there is no need
for formalities. Mais…I will only call you by your name if you return the
favor. You will call me Francis."
"Da, Mons- ah, Francis…"
They squeezed hands, and walked through the second set of doors to the Palace
courtyard.
"Oh, I just remembered…" Francis blinked. "I brought along some presents for
you~"
"S-Shto? You did not have to do that!"
"Oui, you are right. I did not have to. I wanted to, though."
The Russian wouldn't be surprised if his cheeks would always be heated up while
he was around the Frenchman. "S-Spasiba, Francis…"
"Non, do not thank me. The gifts are my thanks to you."
Ivan blinked, tilting his head. "What for?"
"Ohonhon, that is simple, you see? I am thanking you for keeping my company and
for letting me see this cute face of yours." Ivan yanked his hand away, opting
instead to cover his face in hopes that it would hide his now obvious blush.
Francis laughed. "Non, mon ami! Non, do not do that! Let me see you~!" A few
seconds went by before Ivan peeked through his fingers. A wide grin was on the
others face. "All the way, mon ami~" Ivan hesitantly pulled his hands away from
his face, and Francis took one again, content.
"W-Well, Monsieur Bonnefoy—" Francis cleared his throat. "Ah, Francis…if you
are going to use that logic, then I need to get you a present too!"
"Oh?"
"So I can thank you for keeping my company, and for letting me see how handsome
you are…"
"Ah, I see~" the blond nodded, that strand of hair coming untucked from behind
his ear. "That makes sense. Hmm…" he tapped his chin with his free hand. "I
suppose the best present you could give me is your complete attention during
our lessons."
"But that's not anything you can keep!"
"Ah, you are wrong there, Ivan. I can keep the memories, non?"
"Y-You are weird, Francis…"
The pair (plus the escort carrying the suitcases) finally arrived at the other
end of the courtyard, and after opening the door, they entered the Drawing Room
before taking a right out the doors. They fell into a comfortable silence as
they walked through the principal guest suite and into the next hall; turn
toward their top right; they were now entering the guest apartments (which
happened to be where Ivan stayed most of the time anyway). The first room they
were in was large and luxurious, and Ivan told Francis this was the room the
Ambassador would be staying in. Francis hid the small frown the crossed his
features…of course he wanted that room. But he just nodded.
"Ah, oui. That makes sense," he brushed his bangs aside as they fell in his
face. "Mais, I am more interested in where my room is, and where your room is."
Ivan blinked. "We are getting there, Francis. Do not worry!"
"I am not worrying, Ivan. I am just…impatient."
"Oh! Well, that is another thing we have in common, then! I could not wait to
meet you! You can ask Tati if you do not believe me!"
"…Tati?"
"Tatiana. She is my handmaid."
"Oh, I see~ I will be seeing her around?"
"Da!" Ivan paused after entering the next apartment room. "Well, this is your
room."
The room was tiny compared to the last one; not even a fourth the size of the
other. It was still lavish, though, and all the furniture was glossy and
reflecting the light of the setting sun gorgeously. The room was illuminated
and bright because of it, and after taking in the surroundings for a longer
while, Francis determined that he actually did like this room better than
Breteuil's.
"It is nice, of course! Mais, it would be perfect if your room was right next
to it."
"Then this room is perfect! See that door right there?" Ivan pointed. "On the
other side of it is my room."
"This is wonderful, Ivan~! I am very happy with this~"
Ivan smiled sheepishly.
Francis turned to the escort, telling him to just place his suitcases down on
the bed, that he would take care of them and he need not worry, and you are
dismissed, thank you. The escort nodded and after following instruction, left
the room. When he faced the small Russian again, he clapped his hands together,
telling him to sit and close his eyes.
"What for?" he asked, sitting himself in one of the two plush chairs shoved in
a corner of the room.
"I want your present to be a surprise as long as possible! Now, close your eyes
so I can give them to you, and no peeking~!" Ivan closed his eyes, then for
good measure covered them with his hands. His ears perked up when he heard the
other opening his suitcases with a click, listening to the other rustle around
for a little bit. A few second of silence passed by when Ivan suddenly felt a
hard, flat item being pressed into his lap. "You may open~"
Ivan did as he told again, pulling his hands away from his face and looking
down at the package in his lap, tied together with a black satin ribbon. He
beamed, lifting the stack off his lap to get a closer look. "You brought me
books?"
"You like them, non?"
"I love books! Thank you, Francis!" He set the books to the side, then hurtled
out of his chair and wrapped his arms around the Frenchman's waist, hugging him
tightly. Francis just laughed.
"Oh, but mon ami, do not get so excited! They are all in French; they are to
help you in your studies."
"That is okay!"
"Only one of the books is a pleasure read—Voltaire's La Henriade~ The other two
are grammar books~"
"That is okay!" Ivan then pulled away, turning back toward the books and
tugging the silky ribbon, freeing the leather bound volumes from their
bindings. He picked up one of the grammar books, thumbing through the pages
until he got to the first page. His eyes zeroed in on the page, focusing, and
mouthed the words silently as he read along. He paused, a small frown forming
on his lips, then read the line again. A few moments passed where he just
stared at the page before he looked up at Francis, smiling sheepishly. "Ah,
this must be advanced grammar, da? I cannot understand it…"
"Oui, that is correct. That is why I am going to help you~!" Francis sat down
in the chair opposite the one Ivan took earlier, motioning for the Russian to
sit as well. Ivan sat down, book open in his lap. "Non, you can put the book
away for now. Let us play a game to help you review your French~"
"What kind of game?" he closed the book, setting it aside.
"I will ask you a question in French, which you have to repeat," Ivan nodded,
"and then I will answer it. You then have to guess what you asked—what I told
you to ask—based on my answer."
"Ah, that sounds fun! I love guessing games~" Ivan kicked his legs back and
forth, then folded his hands in his lap, waiting patiently. "I am ready!"
Francis smiled. "Then, your first question is…Quel est votre plat préféré?"
"Quel est vo-votre…shto?"
"Quel est votre plat préféré, Ivan. You almost had it~"
"Q-Quel est votre plat préféré?"
"Ah, I do not know how to choose when I love so many kinds of food~ I guess…my
favorite is filet mignon with oven roasted potatoes in a red wine sauce…"
Ivan grinned, kicking his feet again. "Francis, that is too easy! I asked 'What
is your favorite food,' da?"
"Oui! You are so smart, mon ami! Try this one! Avez-vous des animaux?"
"Avez-vous des animaux?"
"Oui, I have a Bichon Frise," There was a blank expression on Ivan's face, so
Francis quickly added, "It is a breed of dog."
"O-Oh!" the boy blushed, rubbing the back of his head. "Do you have a pet?"
"Again, you are correct!" Francis clapped his hands together. "Shall we try
something harder? Hmm…try this; Voulez-vous m'embrasser?"
"S-Shto? That one sounds hard!"
"Just try it, mon ami~"
Ivan bit his lip in concentration, eyebrows knitting together. "V-Voulez-vous
m—shto?"
"M'embrasser."
He tried once more. "Voulez-vous m'embrasser?"
Francis smiled softly, and then sighed dramatically, standing up and crossing
the few paces between them. "But of course~ mais, only because you asked so
nicely, and because I have been wanting to since I first saw your cute face."
Ivan tilted his head in confusion. "I am not sure what I—" The Russian boy was
suddenly cut off when the older nation grabbed his chin, tilting his head up
and placing a firm kiss to his lips. Ivan jumped; his eyes went wide and tried
pulling away, but Francis would not sway and refused to budge. Eventually, he
closed his eyes and timidly kissed back, which he decided must've been the
right move, because France made a satisfied noise and pulled back after that.
Ivan's face was flushed and he sputtered a few times before finally getting a
hold of himself. "S-Shto? W-Why did you kiss me? I—did I ask you to?"
"Oui, you did," Francis smirked, almost as if he had this planned the very
moment he suggested they play this game. "Ah, but mon ami…why are you blushing
so much? I do not believe I have seen your face so red~"
"I-It is nothing! I am just not used to kisses…"
"Non? Tell me then—was this your first kiss?"
"N-Nyet! I have kissed many people before!"
Francis rolled his eyes. "Oui, mais…was this the first kiss you shared with
someone you like?" The Frenchman leaned in close once again, brushing his nose
against the Russian's larger one, his words ghosting over the younger boy's
soft lips. He didn't fail to notice the shiver this action brought on.
"W-Who said that I like you, Francis?"
France let out an airy laugh, relishing in the way the other trembled and
released an almost silent mewl as his hot breath hit the others face. "Russia~
did you forget that I am the country of love? I know more about this topic than
anyone else—you definitely have an adorable little crush on me."
"Z-Zatknis'."
"That is not very nice, Ivan. You will hurt my feelings," teased the Frenchman,
whose feelings actually weren't hurt at all. Ivan pouted, averting his amethyst
eyes from France's sparkling blue ones. He mumbled under his breath. "Hm? What
was that, Ivan? I could not understand you…" Ivan was sure all the blood rushed
to his face when he glanced at Francis again, staring at the man's smirk.
France definitely knew what he had asked; he was just being an ass and making
Ivan speak louder.
"V-Voulez-vous m-m'embrasser?"
"Hm… maybe~ That depends; do you like me, mon ami?"
"D-Da…"
"Good. Because I like you too, Ivan~"
Their lips met again, and this time Russia was not surprised. He was still shy
though, and let the other do most of the work, barely responding to the slow
movements of the other man's lips. With a little more urging from Francis, Ivan
finally let his eyes close and wrapped his arms around the others neck,
pressing into the kiss almost as firmly as the hands pressing into his
back. When did his hands move there? Russia thought, but he shook it off when
he suddenly squeaked at the feeling of the France's wet tongue brushing against
his bottom lip. He tried pulling away, but the older man had sensed this
reaction and held firm to the boy in his arms, remaining persistent in trying
to invade Ivan's mouth. So Ivan tried a different tactic, and smothered
Francis' face with his small hand, shoving it away.
"W-What was that, F-Francis?" gasped the Russian boy.
France pouted, not liking the rejection. "It was a kiss."
"N-Nyet—why were you using your tongue?"
"…It is a French kiss?"
"T-That is the way French people kiss?"
Francis shrugged.
"It is weird!"
"I think it is actually quite…stimulating."
"I think it is gross!" Ivan pulled a face, and Francis gave off a kicked puppy
look.
"In time, mon ami, you will find it to be pleasurable."
"Nuh-uh! No way! You are not going to kiss me the French way anymore! You are
going to kiss me the Russian way from now on!"
"…Mais, I do not know how to kiss the Russian way."
Ivan huffed, wiggling his way out of the others arms and out of the chair.
"Nice try, Monsieur Bonnefoy, but you cannot get me to show you."
"Ouch, demoted to Monsieur Bonnefoy? Whatever happened to just calling me
Francis, Ivan?"
"That is Master Romanov to you, Monsieur."
"You wound me." Francis pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, dabbing at his
eyes in an overly theatric display. "How long will you stay mad at me, Master
Romanov?"
"…Until dinner," decided Ivan, after thoroughly thinking it through. "Then
maybe you can call me Ivan again, if I think you deserve it."
"You are most kind, mais…" Francis watched as Ivan gathered up his presents,
eyes lingering to his round rump. "…before you leave, I have one more thing for
you."
"Shto?" Ivan turned around and Francis' eyes shot back up expertly, his secret
perving going unnoticed by the younger nation.
"A Russian kiss~" Francis placed his hands on the other's shoulders, leaning
down and pressing a quick, sweet kiss to Ivan's lips. Ivan smiled, but pulled
away.
"…I am still mad at you, so I am going to my room until dinner."
"Oui, that is fair. I will see you at dinner then." Ivan nodded in response,
then walked over to the door connecting their rooms and exited. Francis sighed,
flopping gracefully back into his chair and rubbing his forehead. "…Mais, I was
hoping to kiss for several hours," he mumbled as soon as the door to the
Russian's room closed. He pouted again, crossing off the first item in his
mental list of "How to Woo Russia Into Bed," seeing as his plan of making out
with him didn't seem to work. Or maybe it had. Either way, Francis wasn't
opposed to trying the next item on his list; lewd comments.
Chapter End Notes
     1. I know Ivan's last name is not Romanov. But trust me, this will
     make sense later. ;3;
     2. Yekaterina is the Russian name for Catherine II (Catherine the
     Great).
     3. Vanya is a diminutive form for Ivan. A nickname, if you will.
     4. Louis Auguste Le Tonnelier de Breteuil WAS in fact, the French
     ambassador to Russia during this time. *research!*
     Translation of Russian
     Context should give it away, but in case you still don't know what
     some words/phrases mean, I will translate them here.
     Do Svidanya: Goodbye (frml.)
     Da: Yes
     Nyet: No
     Kak pozhivayete: How are you? (frml.)
     Moi dorogoi: My dear
     Gospodin: Mister/Monsieur
     Velikaya: the Great
     Shto: What
     Spasiba: Thank you
     Zatknis': Shut up.
     Translation of French
     Mon ami: My friend
     Non: No
     Oui/Si: Yes
     Il est agréable de vous rencontrer: It is nice to meet you
     Excusez-moi, Votre Majesté: Excuse me, Your Majesty
     Mais: but
     Quel est votre plat préféré?: What is your favorite food?
     Avez-vous des animaux?: Do you have any pets?
     Voulez-vous m'embrasser?: Will you kiss me?
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"Russia~! Russia, mon ami…you should open up and let me in, oui?" the Frenchman
knocked lightly on the door conjoining his room to the younger nation's. He
received no reply. Francis sighed. It had been two hours since his small friend
rejected his (perhaps too-soon) sexual advances, and there was still an hour to
go until the handmaidens even came by to prep them for their meal. Needless to
say, he was bored, but didn't feel like wandering around the large palace.
Especially when there was a cute Russian right in the next room. "…Russia, if
you don't open up, I will come in…"
No reply.
The Parisian sighed. "Alright, I gave you a fair warning…" he tested the door
handle again and yes, it was still locked. So, he crouched down, pulling a hair
pin from its position next to his ribbon. He frowned, not really liking the
fact that he would be destroying a fine piece of jewelry. But the goal in mind
was worth it, he thought. So, with that reassuring him, he started tugging and
twisting at the thin piece of wire. He smiled when the make-shift key almost
went completely in the keyhole. He pulled it back out, adjusting the wire
slightly before sliding it back into the keyhole. It fit this time, so he
wiggled the lock pick until it turned completely and he heard a satisfying
click.
Francis tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear, standing up and opening the
door. He peered into the room, eyes quickly scanning for Ivan. His crystalline
eyes landed on the bed across the room and smiled, because there, breathing
gently and evenly, was Russia, snuggled into his pillows and fast asleep.
Stepping into the room, Francis cooed, thinking the boy was just so adorable.
He walked up to the side of the bed, kneeling down next to it.
Ivan had discarded most of his clothes before laying down for his nap, but
remained dressed in his blouse and breeches. Francis, of course, frowned at
this. If you are going to sleep, you either wore nothing, or you wore a
nightgown.
Francis decided to fix that.
He gently grabbed the younger boy's shoulder, shaking him slightly. Ivan merely
muttered an inane word in Russian, so Francis smiled and sat on the bed at
Russia's hip, watching the other dip lower into the bed at the added weight.
The Parisian then leaned forward, his thin fingers expertly undoing the buttons
of Ivan's trousers. He quickly glanced up to ensure the boy was still in
dreamland before sliding a hand behind the others back, using his free hand to
wiggle the tight-fitting bottoms off the boy's pale, slender legs. He was
disappointed to find that Russia was wearing cotton knickers. Ivan shivered,
the chilled air immediately attacking his exposed skin, but Francis was already
working on the dainty buttons of the other's shirt. Once the bottom button was
undone, France started pushing the fabric away. France couldn't help himself.
Once he saw the soft skin of the others torso, he ran his hands over it.
However, he didn't get past Russia's slightly chubby belly before he heard a
very quiet utter.
"…Monsieur Bonnefoy?"
…Shit.
Francis glanced up again and sure enough, there were a pair of sleepy, violet
eyes on him. Ivan blinked once, then twice—a blush stared to spread across his
cheeks. "W-What—"
"Shh…go back to sleep, Master Romanov~! I am simply changing you into your
nightclothes…"
"How did you get into my room?" Ivan sat up, doing the exact opposite of going
back to sleep, his fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons.
"Well, I—"
"Bozhe! Did you break in?"
"Not exactly, because I did not break anything. I picked the lo—"
"Y-You totally broke in! B-Bozhe, you— are you—? What are you trying to—"
Francis clamped a hand over Ivan's mouth, muffling the boys words. He looked
irritated as Ivan continued to struggle. "Master Romanov, please, quiet down
and let me explain." Ivan then gave up on trying to squirm away and decided to
cease trying to button up his shirt as it proved futile; his fingers were
trembling too much. Francis cautiously pulled his hand away.
"How did you get into my room?"
"I picked the lock."
"Why?"
"I was bored and I wanted to talk to you."
Ivan flushed. "W-Why?"
"Because I like you~"
"W-Well…why did you not wake me up, then?"
Because you are so defenseless and vulnerable when you are asleep and I wanted
to ravish your body all nigh— "You looked so peaceful. I did not want to
disturb that."
"Then why were you s-stripping me?" His blush deepened.
I wanted to see you nake— "Master Romanov, I already told you—I was changing
you into your nightgown."
"W-Well…you did not have to go do that!"
"Oui, I apologize. I am very sorry for being rude."
"D-Da, well…you really were not rude…" Francis raised an eyebrow at that. "You
were trying to be helpful. You just went about it the wrong way…"
"So you are not mad?"
"…Nyet," Ivan decided, his blush never going away completely.
Francis sighed in relief. "I am glad, then."
A silence settled over the two. It was not awkward, however, it was not
pleasant either. No, the silence that befell them would be best described as
unsettling. Neither person knew what the other was thinking. Perhaps that was
the reason why they misread each other's intentions, but ended up enjoying the
mistake regardless. France thought Ivan wanted him to finish the job of
changing him into his nightgown, so he put his hands on the boy's shoulders,
starting to push the garment down. Ivan, on the other hand, thought Francis
wanted him to approve of his feelings of happiness and relief, so he slid into
the older man's lap to better reach his face so he could press a kiss to his
cheek. Francis was startled and turned his head, which, in fact, prevented the
kiss from reaching its destination; it instead landed on his lips. Ivan pulled
back, face pinkening at the mistake. Francis took the other's expression to be
one of shy reluctance, so he decided to take the initiative and leaned forward,
kissing the boy's upper lip. He could feel the heat radiating off Ivan's face,
and he could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat as their chests pressed
together, and the way his small muscles contracted beneath his fingers with
every slight movement Ivan made as he shifted, wrapping his legs around the
Parisian's middle and squeezing lightly. Francis made a strangled sound, his
lips parting and pulling Ivan's upper lip into his hot mouth. But of course,
like the last time when the kiss turned from innocent to wet, Ivan pulled back,
bright red.
"I'm sorry, mon ami. I could not help myself…"
"N-Nyet, it is okay…" Ivan stared down in a daze at the Frenchman's tummy, his
gaze unfocused. His legs loosened their grip on the older man's waist, and his
hands slowly slackened, no longer fisting Francis' shirt. Instead, his hands
trailed down the other's chest, smoothing out the wrinkles he had caused.
Francis closed his eyes, a small smile on his face. "You really are kind,
Master Roma—"
"You can call me Ivan now."
"…Alright, Ivan." Francis opened his eyes again, rubbing the boy's back. "But
as I was saying, you are very kind."
Ivan looked up, peeking into bright blue eyes, and returned the smile. He
wiggled his toes. "You are kind, too!"
"How so, mon ami?" Francis started pulling the other's shirt back up his
shoulders; his fingers licking the boy's collarbone as he started to button the
shirt back up.
"Well…you brought me books…" Ivan motioned to his writing desk, "and you like
to spend time with me."
"Of course I like to spend time with you! You are so cute and smart~"
Ivan was politely modest at this comment. "I am not as cute and smart as you
say I am…"
"Oh, just shut up and accept the fact that you are."
Ivan blinked, a little shocked at the outright demand from the normally
eloquent nation. "Y-Yes , sir…"
Francis pulled him closer once he finished buttoning up the white shirt, the
smallest smirk ever present on his face. "Then say it~"
"S-Shto?"
"Say you are cute and smart."
Russia blushed, looking down at his lap. "I-I am cute and smart…"
"Say it to my face, mon ami. Do not look away~"
Ivan's lavender eyes flickered up to Francis' clear blue ones. "I…I am cute and
smart…"
"Oui, Ivan. Oui, you are," Francis relaxed his hold on the younger boy, placing
a chaste kiss to his forehead. "And there is nothing wrong with acknowledging
that. It does not make you conceited to know that you are attractive."
"Well…I think you are very handsome…"
"Oui, I know I am gorgeous~"
Francis just laughed when the younger nation smacked his chest.
===============================================================================
This was definitely unexpected. Ivan hadn't been expecting this, and normally,
he'd be ecstatic for this surprise visit. But not now. No, definitely not. He
gripped the knife in his hand with such force, that his knuckles turned white.
Not that anyone noticed, he noted bitterly. Of course not. They were all paying
attention to everyone but him. He hated it. He hated how Francis' attention
wasn't on him, and he felt jealousy bubble up in his stomach toward the two
people he loved the most.
"Braht, are you not hungry?"
Ivan forced a smile to his face, then stabbed a potato with his fork, cutting
it up into smaller pieces. "Nyet, Katyusha, I am. I was just… thinking."
Ukraine hummed, her delicate eyebrows still furrowed together. "If you are
sure…"
"Now, now, mon cher. Do not worry yourself. You have enough troubles right now,
oui?"
"Tak, but…" She glanced at her little brother, knowing that underneath that
smile, negative emotions were running rampant. She just didn't understand why…
"Vanya, are you sure you are okay?"
"Da, sestra. I am fine."
"Ukraine, stop being such a jerk to big brother! You should leave him alone."
Nearly everyone in the room deadpanned at the youngest person in the room, her
statement rendered invalid in their minds. When Breteuil coughed, Ivan tried
shaking his left arm free of his little sister, Natalia.
"Da, everyone should just leave me alone…"
Yekaterina frowned, "Ivan… mind your manners. You should never be rude to
others, even if their manners are not the best."
Natalia caught the fact that the last sentence was directed at her, and she
glared at the Tsarina, though she did remove herself from Russia. Ivan rolled
his shoulder, happy that blood flow was returning to the now-cold limb.
"Pardonnez-moi, mai… you may have to blame Master Romanov's slip ups on me. I
did, after all, interrupt the little nap he was taking earlier…"
Yekaterina smiled softly. "That is kind of you, Monsieur Bonnefoy, but you need
not take any blame."
"Yes," Breteuil snorted, swirling the wine in his glass flute before bringing
it to his nose and sniffing. "It is not your fault if the young Master does not
know how to act civilized." If anyone caught the brief second where
Yekaterina's gaze on the ambassador turned steely and deadly, no one said
anything. The corner of her mouth twitched, but her smile went right back in
place.
"I can assure you, my country is civilized, Monsieur. I made sure of that when
Russia came under my rule."
"Yes, well," the round Frenchman sniffed indignantly, then brought the flute to
his lips before taking a sip of the spiced red wine. "even if he is civilized,
Your Majesty, he is doing a fairly poor job of showing it."
"Breteuil," interjected Francis. "it is not your place to comment on Master
Romanov's behaviors. Please, the Tsarina is kind enough to let us stay in her
marvelous country; the least you could do is hold your tongue and keep your
thoughts to yourself."
Breteuil just gaped, staring incredulously at the personification of his
nation. His face started to turn into an unsightly shade of red-violet, and
Ivan idly noted that should he ever need someone to impersonate the red beets
he was currently eating, he knew whom to pull aside. The ambassador, however,
swallowed whatever outburst that threatened to make itself known, and he sat
back with the air of man who wouldn't think to waste his words on someone he
viewed as shit beneath his boot.
And so the air was strained, the only noises heard being the clinking of
cutlery on china. When the silence became suffocating, Francis cleared his
throat, then slid that charming smile on his face again, directing his
attention toward Ukraine. "So, do you feel grief toward your little brother,
mademoiselle?"
"Shcho? Ah, nemaye. I do not feel any grief toward Vanya or the Tsarina. I
wanted to see the hetmanate go away. I am…thankful that Tsarina Yekaterina
abdicated Razumovsky from power. All the Cossack states feuded with each other,
and it was causing too much turmoil…"
"And you are not mad at all?"
"Nemaye, not at all."
Francis cooed. "I see~ Well, you are a strong girl, are you not?"
Katyusha blushed. "I am not as strong as I would like to be. I do, after all,
still require help from my—"
He tuned them out unwillingly. All he could hear was the blood pounding in his
ears, his rage slowly building up once again. Yekaterina and Breteuil were
speaking to each other, no one but the two humans noticing the hidden venom in
each other's voices. Francis, noticing the two humans were distracted, moved
the topic from Ukraine's political standing to more lewd questions. Katyusha
was blushing, and trying to get the help of her little sister, however the
moment she placed a dainty hand on the Belarusian's shoulder, Natalia pulled
away, glaring at her and clinging once again to Ivan's arm.
"Natalia, let go."
"Nie, braht. Katyusha is being stupid again. I do not want her to touch me."
"And I do not want you to touch me."
"Why not? It is obvious that that disgusting French pig is going to lay with
Katyusha, and the Tsarina and the fat one are too stupid to even notice what is
going on right now. So I want to talk to you…"
"Shut up, Natalia. Let. Go."
"Nie, braht. We should become one…" Belarus leaned closer, out of her seat, and
pressed her lips to Ivan's cheek.
"LET GO!"
The entire room stared in shock at the young boy who was now on his feet, face
red with shame, humiliation, anger, frustration, embarrassment, and depression.
No one could believe it when they saw the cute boy abruptly stand, prying his
sister off him and shoving her to the floor. Natalia stared up at him, blinking
slowly as a few tears escaped her eyes without her notice; she had rammed her
head on the corner of Katyusha's chair and she now lay slumped on marble floor,
a hand holding her throbbing occipital. Katyusha was clinging to the edge of
the table, having nearly fallen out of her seat at the collision. And everyone
just stared.
"Ivan…"
He didn't know who had addressed him. His eyes welled up with tears at that
moment, and he spun on his heel, taking off and dashing out of the dining room.
He didn't stop running, either, even as he burst through the doors. He could
only hear the pounding of his feet landing heavily on the floor, the sound of
his blood pumping through his veins, his heart beating in his chest, and the
choked sobs and gasps that fell from his lips. When he finally reached his
room, his thighs were burning, his lungs suffocating, and his hands trembling.
Ivan could barely open his door, but when he did, he immediately stumbled into
the warming room, a fire having been started in the fireplace several minutes
earlier, thanks to Tatiana. He barely remembered to close the door in his
childish misery. He then climbed up on his bed, pulling his throw over his head
and his legs up to his chest, hugging them, trying to stifle his sobs. He
stared out at the fire, watching the flames reach up high to try to lick at the
heavens. He bit his lip as he watched the fleeting sparks die when they tried
to get too close to the heavens, and the tears were renewed in their strength.
Ivan couldn't stand it, and when he looked away, rubbing at his eyes harshly,
he caught sight of the books on his writing desk.
Stop mocking me…
It was then that Ivan decided; if the flames of Hell couldn't reach Heaven,
he'd bring the angels down to meet the demons. He blinked away a few stray
tears, and slid off his bed, the throw falling to the floor in the process.
However, before he could reach his desk, he felt a warm, soft hand on his
shoulder.
"…Mon ami, are you feeling ill?"
Ivan stiffened, but refused to turn around. "…Nyet."
Silence. The hand then squeezed gently. "Are you tired?"
"Nyet…" his voice wavered.
"Then…what was that back there?"
Ivan inhaled shakily, trying his best to keep his tears at bay. He spun around,
his watering, red eyes glaring at the lean man in front of him, voice accusing.
"You were flirting with my sister!"
"…Oui, I was."
"Why?"
Francis desperately wanted to say it was because he found Katyusha to be
extremely attractive; that he wanted to pull her into his arms and pepper her
with kisses; that he wanted to let his hands trail down her collarbone to her
soft, succulent breasts and cup them; that he wanted to make love to her to
sate his burning libido. He didn't, though. He knew that would upset the boy
even further, so he instead apologized. The boy needed comfort, not another
reason to add to his distress. "Ivan, I am sorry." He took hold of the boy's
hand, bringing it to his lips. "I did not mean to upset you. You are protective
of your sisters, non? All brothers are, I suppose, so it was foolish of me to
flirt with her right in front of—"
"Shto?" Ivan pulled back, confusion flashing in his eyes briefly before it
disappeared and was replaced once more with anger. "N-Nyet! I do not care about
that! People can flirt with my sisters; I do not care! I care because it
was you who was flirting with her!" His hands clenched into fists at his sides,
face red and tears sliding down his damp cheeks.
Francis blinked, and then realization hit him.
"Ivan, mon ami…are you…jealous?"
A small sob escaped the boy's lips, and once again his hands were at his face,
rubbing harshly at his cheeks, eyes stinging. Francis felt his heart flutter at
the sight, and he kneeled down in front of the boy, wrapping his arms around a
small waist. "I am so sorry, Ivan. I did not know…"
Russia hiccupped, then kneeled down as well. Francis sat back, pulling the boy
into his lap and rubbed his back soothingly, another hand curling into the soft
tresses of the other nation's pale hair. "Shh…it is okay, mon cher. I will not
leave you…" Ivan clung to France's frock, burying his face into the older
nation's neck. "Tu es beau, mon cher. Ne pleure pas…" Francis continued to
murmur soft words in his mother tongue to Ivan, only stopping when the boy's
sobs subsided and his shaking shoulders stilled. He pulled back a little when
Ivan did to rub his eyes, and he hooked a finger beneath the boy's chin, urging
the boy to look at him. Ivan blinked and sniffed, and Francis smiled. When they
kissed, it was chaste and sweet, and even when they pulled apart, Francis
continued to press small kisses up the boy's nose, to his forehead. He kissed
his ear, and Ivan closed his eyes.
"…Where is Kat?"
"She is helping Miss Natalia…" Francis murmured softly in his ear, and
immediately felt guilt roll off the boy in waves.
"…I-Is Nat okay?"
"Oui, she is. She has a headache, but no concussion, luckily."
"S-She must hate me…"
Francis quickly kissed the boy again. "Shh, do not start crying again Ivan…" He
continued when the boy took a shuddering breath, but kept back his tears. "Miss
Natalia does not hate you. In fact, she said right before I left that she…
'probably deserved that' and that it was her fault that you shoved her. Your
older sister agreed, saying," and here, Francis mimicked the young woman's
voice, "That is what you get for clinging to him! I told you several times to
let him have his space!"
Ivan laughed a little, though the usual brightness was absent. He then resumed
a look of worry. "What about Yekaterina?"
"Ah, she was shocked, oui. Mais, she was not angry. Well, not at you. I swear
to you, I thought she was going to kill Breteuil." Francis frowned.
"Pochemu?"
Francis laughed humorlessly. "That fat pig was being a pompous snit, as usual.
Insulting you…that was why your Tsarina was furious. He just does not know when
to shut up. I personally wanted to punch him, he was so rude."
Ivan looked down in shame, fingers idly pulling at France's shirt. "…I made a
bad impression for Yekaterina. Breteuil will tell your rulers how awful I am…"
"Non, I do not think you have to worry, mon cher. I can…persuade Breteuil to
not say anything."
"O-Oh, okay…" Ivan's voice still held that uncertainty, and Francis picked up
on it. So he decided to instead change the subject.
"You know, Vanya…when children are upset, they have a hard time sleeping," he
paused for the other and when he knew he had Ivan's attention, he continued.
"Children then will seek comfort, and it is only then that they will fall
asleep." Francis smiled. "Now, in my country, normally parents will stop
letting their children sleep with them because of nightmares and tears at
around six years of age. However, for you? I think I will make an exception."
The young boy looked at Francis, a small smile creeping on to his face. He
hugged the other, arms wrapping around his neck. "Spasiba, Francis…"
The older man laughed, the sound light and sparkling. Ivan loved it when
Francis laughed. He wanted to hear it all the time, because there was nothing
sad about it. The laugh was pure, happy, uplifting, and honest. "Well then, let
me go get my nightgown, and I will be right back." Ivan nodded, then shyly
kissed the man's cheek before sliding off his lap to change into his own
clothes. Francis stood, ruffling the boy's hair, then disappeared into his own
room.
As soon as he left, Ivan's eyes went back to the books. He didn't need to drag
an angel down to Hell with him. The angel's soft hand took his own and helped
him fly up to the Heavens.
His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but then again, the violet windows were
sore and tired, his sclera tainted red from all the rubbing and tears. He
walked over to his wardrobe, feet softly padding across the hardwood floor. He
opened the oak doors, pulling out a cotton gown, and then shut it once more. He
heard a knock on his door, the one that was not connecting his room to the
Frenchman's. He walked over to it and opened it; Tatiana was standing there.
"Are you ready to change, Master Romanov?" Her smile was kind and knowing; he
knew that Tatiana found out what happened earlier, but he didn't comment on it.
He didn't want any pity for a wrongdoing he did.
"Da, I am."
Tatiana nodded, and then stepped into the room. Ivan walked over to his bed,
tossing the gown over the footrest. Tatiana was right behind him, her small
hands immediately taking off the boy's blue frock. Once that was shrugged off,
he sat down, undoing the buttons of his matching waistcoat while the handmaiden
pulled off his riding boots and stockings. After he slid his arms out of his
waistcoat, he stood once more, and Tatiana undid the buttons on his breeches.
He wiggled out of those and held his arms up over his head. His shirt was
pulled off, and was soon replaced with the floor-length nightgown. He popped
his head and hands through their respective openings, and then was led over to
the vanity, where a bowl of warmed water was waiting. He sat down and dipped
the cloth that was right next to it into the bowl , wetting it and washing his
face clean of the makeup that covered it while Tatiana dressed down his bed for
him. He wrung out the cloth, then folded it over the side of the bowl.
"I am going to go assist Gospodin Bonnefoy now if you do not need anything,
Master Romanov."
"Nyet, I am good. Thank you, Tati."
Tatiana curtsied, then exited the room the way she came. Ivan watched her
leave, then grabbed La Henriade off his desk as he headed back to his bed. He
sat down, sliding half-way under the covers and opening the book to the first
page, setting it on his lap. His finger underlined the words as he snuggled up
and read, waiting for Francis to appear. He did not understand most of the
book, but he filled in the blanks using the information that he had picked up.
Whether he was on the right track or not, he did not know, but that wasn't of
any matter to him. He decided, he would read this book over and over again
until he understood French near perfectly, so that he may properly enjoy the
book.
Although he was content to just read, he did close it after having read twenty
pages and there was still no sign of the French man who had given the piece of
literature to him. He set it on the bedside table and looked up, sighing and
staring into the fire. Perhaps Francis had fallen asleep? Then, just as he was
about to just lay down and close his eyes, he heard a soft rapping on the door
connecting his room to Francis'. He glanced toward it, catching the door as it
opened and the French man stepped in.
"Ah, I am sorry mon ami. I did not mean to keep you waiting."
Ivan blushed. He had thought the man was gorgeous when he first met him, but
now? Francis looked even more so now. His golden hair was down, no ribbon
restricting the silken waves. The locks framed his face perfectly, making him
look even more elegant and angelic than he had before. The simplicity of his
clothes brought out his beauty even more, Ivan thought, too. His night gown was
pure white, crisp and neat, and ended at mid-thigh. He could only gaze
transfixed as the Frenchman walked over to his bed, eyes focused on the long,
slender legs, coated with pale, baby-fine hairs. The bed sunk slightly as
Francis sat next to him, sidling up to his right. He caught a masculine, musky
scent on the Frenchman that he hadn't smelled before when he was this close,
but…he liked it. He closed his eyes, resting his head on the man's shoulder and
inhaled, nearly shivering when a warm—warmer than normal—hand came up to his
neck and rested there. Ivan shuddered, a small, almost silent mewl escaping
Ivan's lips, but Francis didn't catch it, his mind too tired and too hazy to
hear the sound.
They pulled the blankets up, and lied down, adjusting the pillows as necessary,
Ivan clutching to the older nation's gown and Francis wrapping his arms around
the boy.
"Spokoinoi nochi, Francis…"
The man shifted slightly, pressing a kiss to the boy's forehead. "Spokoinoi
nochi, mon cher."
They soon drifted off to sleep, Ivan's worries withering away, his dreams
filled with images of spending evenings in Paris with the man he was snuggled
up against, of sharing wine as they watch the sun set over the horizon. Francis
was dreamless, his body instead focusing on regaining his strength instead of
wasting the time on dreams.
In the other room, Tatiana gathered up the Frenchman's bedsheets for washing,
her own body begging for sleep.
Chapter End Notes
     Translation of Russian
     Bozhe: God
     Sestra: Sister
     Spokoinoi nochi: Goodnight
     Translation of French
     Mon cher: My love
     Pardonnez-moi: Pardon me
     Mademoiselle: Miss
     Tu es beau: You are beautiful
     Ne pleure pas: Do not cry
     Translation of Ukrainian
     Braht: Brother
     Tak: Yes
     Shcho: What
     Nemaye: No
     Translation of Belarusian
     Nie: No
     Braht: Brother
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Francis loved beautiful things.
He loved women; their soft curves and delicate hands and sweet faces allured
him. He was often called a deadly womanizer by those around him because of the
fact that he couldn't keep his hands to himself and that he always chased after
nearly every type of female. They were some of nature's most beautiful
creations, he thought, and that is why he loved them.
He loved men; he loved the sturdy ones with sharp features and a strong build,
the ones who smelled of oil and sweat, or the ones who smelled of timber and
pine; he loved the ones who were refined and lean, the ones whose hands were
nearly as soft as a woman's, the ones who smelled of fine wine and cleansing
oils, or the ones who smelled of sealing wax and parchment and ink. They, too,
were some of nature's most beautiful creations, and that is why he loved them.
He loved children; they were so pure and sweet, and their innocence made his
heart flutter. He loved the way they laughed, their curious eyes, and the way
they accepted others (if they had not already been…conditioned…by their part of
society) without questioning. He loved how they thought everything, from the
smallest ant to the biggest building, was amazing. Children were some of
nature's most beautiful creations, and that is why he loved them.
He loved language; the way words rolled off one's tongue. French was, to him of
course, the most beautiful compilation of syllables and sounds in the world. He
loved hearing the musical notes ring in his ears, and he loved feeling the
words form in his mouth. Though he would not admit it, he did in fact, love the
sounds other languages made. Italian and Spanish were much like his own; they
were fluid and romantic, and the words melted easily on the tongue like a fine
piece of chocolate. English was sturdy and always had an air of wilderness
about it; he blamed the fact that English was a descendant of the Anglo-Saxon
words that existed centuries ago, but he didn't mind it. In fact, he took
solace in knowing that no matter how much of a gentleman Arthur would try to
be, he would always have that hint of ruggedness in his voice. German was even
more wild than English; its guttural, rough sounds made Francis shiver; the
language just spoke of power, and it excited him. And Russian? To him, it was a
happy mix between the fluid grace of French, the sturdy nature of English, and
the commanding tone of German. It is part of the reason why he did not mind
speaking the language; it was, simply put, beautiful.
He loved mornings; there was that certain serenity to them that could not be
matched; that moment at five a.m. where everything was still, and the light
coming through the windows bathed everything in a relaxing light blue, and
doves cooed and birds chirped. It made him feel relaxed and at peace, and made
him feel like everything was right with the world. He loved mornings because of
their beauty that could not be matched.
But most of all…most of all, he loved Ivan.
He loved the way he was cuddled up against his side, small fingers clutching on
to his night shirt. He loved the way his body was small and soft and warm, and
the way his head fit perfectly in the crook of his arm and shoulder. He loved
the slow, even breaths the boy took, and he loved how the boy was obviously
lost in peaceful slumber. He loved the occasional waft of lavender scent he got
from his silken locks. He loved the way that blue, morning light reflected off
Russia's body; it gave him such an ethereal appearance, and it made him look so
much more innocent. Like an angel.
Francis ran a hand through Ivan's hair, delighting in the feel of the soft
locks through his fingers, and the small, barely audible sigh the boy made as
he snuggled closer to his side, a pale leg thrown haphazardly over his own.
Yes, it was moments like these that Francis never wanted to end; the quiet,
peaceful moments where the only worry he had was whether or not he would
accidentally wake up the child next to him.
A smile graced the Parisian's features as Ivan's pink lips parted for another
sigh and landed on his clothed pectoral in an unconscious kiss. Francis shifted
and bent his head down to plant a kiss on Ivan's forehead, a hand stroking the
boy's shoulder.
"Mm..?" Francis paused when he heard the upward inflection on the nonverbal
question, and smiled when the boy's head shifted to look up. Ivan smiled, eyes
sleepy, but focused on the Parisian. "Dobroye utro…"
"Good morning, Vanya. Did you sleep well?"
"Mm," Ivan yawned, nodding his head and snuggling closer. "Warm…"
Francis laughed, petting the Russian's pale locks. "Are you now? That is good~…
Ah, but mon cher, I think you are also still sleepy, non?"
"N-No I am not."
"Non?" Francis smiled, pressing more kisses all over Russia's face, to which
the boy squealed with delight.
"F-Francis! Your beard tickles!"
"Does it now?" The French man rubbed his chin along Ivan's jaw line, causing
the Russian to burst into a fit of giggles, trying to squirm away.
"Pozhaluista! Francis!" He wiggled, small hands pushing on France's chin.
Francis relented, laughing and grinning as the Russian continued to let out
little bouts of giggles. He sat up only halfway, hands planted on either side
of Ivan's head, leaning over the smaller boy. "Vous êtes tellement mignon, mon
petit Russe."
Ivan turned a lovely shade of pink, Francis noticed, and he seemed to be trying
to will the bed to devour him. "S-Spasiba, Francis…"
"Vous êtes la personne la plus mignonne que j'ai jamais vu…" Francis shifted
his weight onto one palm, bringing his other hand the Russia's rosy cheek and
stroking it gently.
"F-Francis…" Ivan's blush only intensified and he stared up at France, his
lavender eyes wide and blinking quickly.
"…Je t'aime."
And before Ivan could even reply, Francis's hand trailed to Ivan's chin,
fingers slightly grasping it, and he leaned down, capturing the Russian's lips
in a firm—yet somehow soft—kiss. Ivan responded immediately, his eyes slipping
shut and a small keen of agreement escaping his throat. He wrapped his arms
around Francis's neck and returned the kiss eagerly, lips moving against
Francis's at the older man's urging. France's hand slipped, trailing down the
pale expanse of Russia's exposed neck, fingers curling to the back and his
thumb pressing up against the underside of his mandible. He was surprised, to
say the least, when the innocent move elicited a small moan from the boy. He
pulled away from the kiss, a thin eyebrow arched into a delicate arc.
"Oh? What is this, Ivan~?" His thumb trailed down the underside of Ivan's jaw
to his neck, pausing right above his trachea and rubbing small circles into the
skin. A grin broke out onto the Parisian's features when his actions caused the
boy to squirm and blush madly and gasp beneath him. He uncurled his fingers;
instead running his palm up and down the side of Ivan's neck, watching as the
boy arched his back and twitched, holding back barely-contained moans.
"Vanya~…" singsonged Francis, "…you did not tell me that your neck was so
sensitive~…" He leaned closer, pressing kisses to the expanse of pale skin
opposite of his hand, ears perking up delightedly when the boy gasped even
louder.
"F-Francis…I-I…" The Russian cut himself off with a sudden moan, his face
heating up. The Parisian just smirked, continuing to trail his tongue up the
boy's neck. There was the moan he wanted to hear. God, did the boy make the
most beautiful sounds…
Ivan grasped tight fistfuls of France's silky waves, writhing delightfully
beneath the other man's ministrations and tilting his head back, to which
Francis, of course, took the invitation happily. He wrapped his lips around a
small portion of skin, sucking gently at first, then harder when he found this
was the quickest way to draw forth those cute noises from the pale-haired
Russian boy.
"Je t'aime, Ivan~"
"Y-Ya…" Ivan gasped again, pressing his body closer to the Frenchman's, "Ya
tozhe lyublyu tebya..!"
"Mm~?" Francis glanced up, staring into hazy violet eyes. He knew that look;
centuries of experience burned the knowledge into his brain. "Is mon petit
Russe aroused~?" A rhetorical question, but he couldn't help that smirk that
was etched into his lips when the blush on the boy's cheeks darkened and he
squirmed.
"F-Francis…"
The Parisian nudged his way between Ivan's legs, hands running up the pale,
slender thighs to push a fabric of his sleeping gown up to his hips. He then
grabbed the thin hips and pulled the boy's bottom onto his lap, flush against
his own arousal. "You naughty boy~…"
"F-Francis, d-do not talk…" Ivan's face broke out into one of bliss, and his
squirming did nothing to help the older blond, who simply rolled his hips
against Ivan's backside. He leaned forward, whispering huskily into the
Russian's ear.
"I can fix that for you, mon cher~…"
Ivan whimpered. "F-Francis, please..!"
"…because I am not one to deny such a needy little child the satisfaction he
needs~."
"M-My tummy-!"
"I will make sure you are thoroughly loved."
Well, he would have, if Ivan didn't suddenly arch sharply, his child's
flexibility showing through in that moment. Russia moaned loudly, body wracked
with spasms, as pure ecstasy was written over his face. It was a gorgeous sight
to Francis, but he pulled away, staring down at the Russian as he panted
harshly, obviously coming down from a high brought on by the sudden orgasm.
Francis raised an eyebrow once again, a teasing smirk resting on the corner of
his mouth.
"…Oh my~. Did you really just climax by the sound of my voice?" The
embarrassment on the boy's face confirmed his thoughts. "How cute~. You really
are a naughty boy." He leaned over to kiss Ivan's lips, but pulled away when he
hardly got any response. "I assume you are more awake, though~?"
Ivan shook his head. "S-Sleepy…"
…Oh. Right. Normal people tended to be tired after experiencing an orgasm, not
more awake. Francis frequently forgot that, and mentally slapped himself.
That's what happens when you have an overcharged sex drive, he supposed. "Ah,
that makes sense. However, mon cher, you can not fall back asleep. We need to
get you cleaned up and dress—" He paused, noticing how Ivan's eyes slid closed,
obviously slipping back into his dreamland. France smiled the tiniest bit, then
slid out from between Ivan's legs, tucking the boy back into the sheets.
"…Well, I suppose you can take a little nap."
…Besides. It gave him the perfect opportunity to take care of his own problem
back in his own room.
===============================================================================
"Ivan."
"…Da, Your Majesty?"
Yekaterina sighed. "Please, Ivan. Do not look so distraught. I am not here to
lecture you or scold you. I know that you are a good boy, so do not think that
I am angry."
"Da, Your Majesty."
"I just wanted to know…what happened last night?"
Ivan glanced up, wanting to see Francis there, but he and the Tsarina were
alone, and her eyes were watching him with that motherly sort of curiosity.
"…Lots of things happened…I was tired, and upset, and…jealous."
"Jealous? What of?"
Ivan blushed here, looking down at his feet once again. "F-Francis was flirting
with Kat…"
"And you were jealous of your sister?" Yekaterina frowned. "…Vanya…"
"I-I am sorry! I cannot help it!" Ivan bit his lip, looking up once more, a
flash of panic flitting through his violet eyes. "I-I know it is wrong, but—but
Francis is so nice and handsome a-and—"
"Shh…calm yourself, Vanya." Yekaterina sighed, then stood from her chair,
taking the few paces to where Ivan was standing, trembling and looking as if he
had severely disappointed the woman who was doing such a good job raising him
and making him stronger. "Normally, I would be upset, but…" She reached out and
stroked his cheek in a comforting manner, a thumb gently brushing his temple
and nudging its way into his hair. "…you nations are immortal, are you not?
Although we all see homosexuality as a sin, you will never die. Therefore, you
will never go to Heaven or Hell, despite any sins you may commit. If you love
Francis, then…" And here, she paused.
"B-But…you do not approve…"
"No, I do not. However, I know you are stubborn, and despite what I say, you
will continue to see him, right?"
Ivan nodded, looking down at his feet.
"Look at me, Vanya." Yekaterina waited until the boy's eyes were on her before
continuing. "Monsieur Bonnefoy has done nothing but good for you, so who am I
to bar you off from him? He will help you grow, I am sure. Just…" here, she
leaned closer, "…do not let anyone else find out, and do not get yourself
hurt."
Ivan blinked quickly, trying to hold back his tears, and he wrapped his arms
around his ruler's neck, kissing her cheek. "Spasiba, Mama!"
A warm smile crossed Yekaterina's lips, and she pulled back, ruffling her
nation's hair. "There is no need to thank me. After all, even though every
mother wants what is best for her child, every mother also wants her child to
be happy. Monsieur Bonnefoy makes you very happy, I can tell." Ivan nodded,
rubbing his eyes. "So stop that crying. Smile for me, Vanya." Ivan did just
that. He looked up at his Tsarina, eyes wet but sparkling with happiness, and
he smiled widely.
"Spasiba, Mama! Ya lyublyu tebya!"
The woman laughed lightly, the sound warm and soft. "Da, da. Ya tozhe lyublyu
tebya. Now, go on," she gave the boy's shoulders a gentle push, "I believe
someone is waiting for you."
Ivan nodded quickly, shooting Yekaterina one more grin, before he dashed out
the doors to see his lover.
===============================================================================
Francis leaned up against the wall, eyes closed and eyebrows knotted together
in exasperation. He had just finished talking with Breteuil, the insufferable
bastard, and the man had left him in a foul mood. Once again, the aristocrat
had insulted his sweet Ivan…He frowned, remembering how he felt like knocking
the portly man unconscious, then shipping him to Barcelona where he was sure
his good friend Antonio would find some sort of severe punishment for the man.
Perhaps either by throwing him to the Spanish pirates, or shipping him off to
the New World for hard slave labor.
Then, he felt a pair of arms wrap around his hips, a head leaning up against
and nuzzling the bottom of his sternum. Francis smiled then, and he laced his
fingers into soft, short hair. He opened his eyes, gazing fondly down at the
Russian boy. "How did it go, Vanya?"
"Yekaterina says I can be with you!"
"Ah, this is wonderful news, non?"
Ivan cuddled closer to Francis, happiness exuding from his very being. "Da, it
is! I am so glad that we can be together. No one will be able to separate us!"
Cerulean eyes stared down into hopeful violet, and he saw adoration shining
within them.
"…Oui, no one will separate us."
Ivan brightened and his grip around the Parisian tightened. "And we will be
together forever!"
"We will be together until you hate me."
"Which will be never!"
Francis laughed, then kneeled down to give Ivan a firm kiss. "Then forever it
is."
Ivan kissed the Frenchman back. "Maybe we could even get married!"
"Ohonhon~? You want to be my wife?"
Ivan blushed and pushed away from Francis. "Nyet! Your husband. You can be the
wife!"
"Oh? Why am I the wife, then?"
"…You are prettier!"
"That is not a good enough excuse, mon cher." Francis chuckled, placing another
kiss to lips when a pout formed there.
"But I am not a girl." Ivan furrowed his eyebrows.
"Neither am I, Vanya~…"
"…Then we can both be husbands, right?"
"Oui, of course."
Ivan smiled, then hugged the Frenchman again. "Good. We should plan the wedding
soon!"
Francis shook his head. Why was his little Russian so cute? "Vanya, it is a bit
too early for marriage. We have only just begun courting each other, after
all."
"…But we love each other, right?"
"Oui."
"Then why can we not be married?"
"…You are still in your puppy love stage, mon petit Russe."
"But…"
"There is no need to rush in to marriage, Ivan. I promise you, we can be
married some day. Just not now."
"O-Okay…"
Francis smiled warmly, then took Ivan's hand in his own. "Hey, you know what?"
"Hm..?"
"I think now is a good time to see how your sister is, oui?"
Ivan's eyes widened, the thought having now just crossed his mind (and did he
ever feel like an awful brother because of that…), and he nodded quickly and
tugged on the Parisian's hand. "D-Da! Come on! We need to go now!"
And so, Francis was dragged through the halls of the large palace to another
set of guest suites, and he was about to beg Ivan to stop running or slow down
at least when they finally paused in front of the door. Francis quickly
straightened out his appearance, whereas Ivan honestly didn't care and just
opened the door, stepping in.
Ukraine was sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in the simple clothes of
those from the countryside, slicing an apple into small wedges. She looked up
and smiled, not once pausing in her job—years of experience had made it second
nature. "Pryvit, Vanya."
Belarus, who was sitting up with several pillows supporting her, immediately
straightened, blue eyes glinting. A cold compress was tied to her head with the
white ribbon she normally wore, and Francis idly thought the look was humorous.
"Braht…"
"Privyet, Kat," Ivan's eyes flickered over to Natalia and he felt guilt
bubbling up in his stomach again. "Kak pozhivayete, sestra?"
"Vydatna," Natalia relaxed into the pillows, seemingly brushing off the large
headache she surely had. "I feel much better than I did last night…"
"I-I am very sorry about that…" Ivan bowed his head, looking every bit like a
child—he is a child, Francis had to remind himself—feeling deeply regretful. "I
mean, I am sorry about what I di—"
"Braht," the Belarusian interrupted. "I should be the one apologizing. You told
me several times to let go, and I did not listen."
"But that does not mean it was acceptable for me to push you and—"
"Braht." Natalia's eyes flashed almost dangerously. "You did nothing wrong.
Stop blaming yourself."
"Ah, Miss Arlovskaya…" Francis nearly flinched when that steely gaze shot to
his face, and he had to suppress a shiver when the glare turned menacing and
possessive (So, possessiveness is a familial trait, huh?). He cleared his
throat and offered a warm smile. "Perhaps you should just accept your brother's
apology?"
"I will accept no such thing," spat the young girl. Her facial features then
softened, her voice calming. "I will not accept any pity or sorrow from braht.
I will only accept love."
Everyone in the room heard the unspoken 'and marriage,' and Francis felt like
scooping up the trembling Russian and running from the insane girl. However,
Ivan managed to keep his ground, and he instead walked up to the bedside,
sitting on the edge of the luxurious mattress. He leaned forward and kissed his
sister's forehead and grabbed her hand, rubbing circles into her palm with his
thumb. And then, he murmured something. Francis's ears perked up, but he
just…he couldn't really understand what was being said. It sounded like
Russian, but it was very different, too. He couldn't pick up the words, but it
seemed like Ivan's sisters understood perfectly. (1) Katyusha smiled softly,
muttering something back in that strange language, and Natalia nodded her head
in what Francis assumed was agreement.
Then, a warm smile broke out on his face when the three siblings embraced each
other, Ivan excitedly saying something in that foreign tongue, happy tears
flowing freely down his face. Francis was touched by the scene, and he allowed
himself to slip out of the room unnoticed to give the siblings their bonding
time. He quietly shut the door and sighed, folding his hands together behind
his back. He turned down the hall and started walking, his heels click-clacking
on the marble flooring, and his bright blue eyes fixed in front of him.
Francis loved beautiful things. But most of all…most of all, he loved Ivan.
Perhaps, he thought, the reason wasn't simply because of how cute the boy was,
or how right it felt to have the young Russian cuddled up next to his side.
Perhaps…perhaps he loved Ivan because of his sweet innocence, and the way he
loved with all his heart. Perhaps he loved Ivan because of how accepting he
was, even when he was terrified. Perhaps he loved Ivan because of the boy's
sheer strength, and how he pushed his way through hard times to find just that
little bit of happiness. Perhaps he loved the way Ivan defended what he loved;
defended him, like a stray pup protecting his small scrap of food.
Perhaps it was all of those reasons, and more. Whatever the case, Francis
couldn't find it in him to care. He loved Ivan. He loved his sweet Russian boy,
and he wanted to keep him forever. He wanted to protect him from the harsh
realities of the world that the boy had already had the displeasure of
experiencing. He wanted to dote on the boy and love him and make sure he was
never unhappy ever again. He never wanted to see the boy cry out of sadness
ever again. If he was to make the boy cry at all, he hoped those tears would be
tears of happiness, like what he just saw only a few moments ago. He wanted to
be a mother hen. A big brother. His lover.
But…he knew that the way he was now, that would never happen. Francis knew he
was greedy; that he was a man of pleasures. He was a libertine, and he knew
that Ivan would hate that. He would make Ivan cry. He would make his poor baby
cry tears of sadness and anger if he stayed the way he was.
Already, guilt was starting to eat at him. Tatiana…was that the handmaiden's
name? How horrible…there he was, his sweet Ivan, waiting patiently in the next
room over last night, and Francis had bed the young girl to satiate his sexual
desires. Already, he had betrayed his Ivan. He couldn't forgive himself for
that. Yet, at the same time, he couldn't deny the absolute pleasure he had felt
when he finally reached his post-coital bliss. He had used Tatiana. And he had
betrayed Ivan.
Francis sighed, this time in sadness.
A hand ran down his face, fingers rubbing at his temples. He was so selfish. He
only glanced up, ripped from his thoughts, when that fat pig Breteuil so rudely
interrupted him.
"Bonnefoy! There you are!"
Francis frowned. "There should be a Monsieur in there somewhere."
"Oh, shut up," the ambassador snapped, clearly in a foul mood. "We are
leaving."
The nation blinked, shocked at the sudden declaration, but his face immediately
resumed its displeased look. "Like hell we are. We are supposed to stay here
for a week to sort out business."
"Business is all sorted out. We are leaving now."
"No, we are not. Do not be so rude, Breteuil!"
"Just shut up, Bonnefoy!" Breteuil's eyes flashed angrily. "I can not stand
this accursed country, or that fat bitch—"
"…Fat bitch? You better not be disrespecting Madam Yekater—"
"—or that little brat she so desperately defends—"
Francis was seeing red.
"—They can all go to hell for all I care! They are worthless, anyh—!"
Breteuil was abruptly cut off when he was shoved up against the wall, long,
delicate fingers wrapped around his fat neck and squeezing with a deadly
strength no one would have thought the blond to possess. Steely blue eyes
glared into panicked brown ones, so deadly and cold, yet raging with a fire so
intense, it made the other Frenchman sweat. His nose curled in disgust, and
Breteuil was thanking the heavens that Francis didn't have a concealed dagger
on him. Otherwise, he was sure, he'd be lying in a pool of his own blood.
"Do. Not. Ever. Insult. Them. Again." Francis hissed, venom dripping from every
word. His fingers gave another squeeze before unfurling, and Breteuil coughed
desperately to urge air back into his lungs. Francis just watched with cold,
heartless feeling, sneering. "…Yes, we should go back to France right now. I
will give you three days to say goodbye to your family. Then you will be
exiled." Breteuil coughed, looking at the Parisian, and was about to protest,
but one glance caused the portly man to swallow his words. "…I never want to
see your disgusting self in my country ever again once you are exiled. Do you
understand me?"
Breteuil nodded. Although embarrassing, he supposed exile was better than
death.
===============================================================================
"But…why are you leaving?" Ivan pouted. How cute…
Francis laughed. "I already told you, mon cher. We have taken care of business
here early, and therefore, our presence is no longer needed."
"That is not true! I need you!" Ivan argued, violet eyes looking suspiciously
wet.
"Oh, non…non, do not cry, mon cher…" Francis kneeled down to Ivan's height,
pulling him into a warm embrace. Ivan hiccupped, wrapping his arms around the
Frenchman's neck.
"B-But…I am going to miss you! I need you!" He wailed, his small body shaking
like a leaf. It broke Francis's heart.
"Non, non, non…You do not need me, Vanya…"
"Y-Yes I do!" Ivan's voice wavered, trying his hardest not to let his voice
give out. "I n-need you so much…please, please do not leave!"
"Ivan…" Francis pulled away to stare into those pretty eyes, his hands cupping
plump cheeks and wiping away the tears that were now running in tracks down the
reddened flesh. "It will not be long until we see each other again, trust me…I
need you to be strong, oui?"
"But—"
Francis placed a finger to Ivan's lips before the boy could protest and smiled
gently. "Non, no arguing. You are strong, and you can do this. I believe in
you."
Russia sniffed, but nodded reluctantly, pulling himself close to the blond
again. "I-I am going to miss you…"
"I am going to miss you too, Vanya." Francis kissed the boy's ear, a hand
running down his back. "But I will write you back every single time. I promise.
I will send my letters out the very day I receive yours."
The Russian sniffed again. "P-Promise?"
Francis smiled gently, pulling back and kissing Ivan chastely on the lips.
"Oui. Promise."
…Yes. Francis loved Ivan.
Chapter End Notes
     1. Ivan and his sisters were speaking Old Eastern Slavic from when
     Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine were one country; the Kievan Rus', which
     is why it sounded Russian, though Francis was having a hard time
     understanding. C:
     Translation of Russian
     Dobroye utro: Good morning.
     Pozhaluista: Please.
     Ya tozhe lyublyu tebya: I love you too.
     Ya lyublyu tebya: I love you.
     Translation of French
     Vous êtes tellement mignon, mon petit Russe: You are so cute, my
     little Russian.
     Vous êtes la personne la plus mignonne que j'ai jamais vu: You are
     the cutest person I have ever seen.
     Je t'aime: I love you.
     Translation of Ukrainian
     Pryvit: Hello.
     Translation of Belarusian
     Vydatna: Fine.
***** Chapter 4 *****
19 January 1772
Dear Francis,
The years are flying by fast, are they not? You would not believe it, but I
have read through La Henriade six times now. The poetry is beautiful, and it
remains to be my favorite book in my collection. I thank you so much for giving
it to me…
Do you know what else is crazy? Thanks to Yekaterina, I have grown so much. And
in just a few years, too! I would not be surprised if I was as tall as you
now—Yekaterina must have been so mad; she had to hire tailors to make me a
whole new set of clothes every few months, it seemed! I think even Tati got
exasperated; said she had never seen a growth spurt as fast as mine before
(though, she does not know I am a country, so she probably just thinks I am a
mutant, da?)!
I have not stopped working on my French, either. I believe I have gotten very
good at it—I would even go as far as to say I am fluent! Of course, this is
partially thanks to you (I have kept all your letters correcting my French) and
the grammar books you gave me. Only partially, though! I am the one who had to
do all the practicing, after all! I am only joking, of course. You are half the
reason why I am so good at speaking your language now, so thank you.
You would not mind if I come visit you soon, I hope? I miss you, and I would
love to catch up with you face to face as opposed to these letters. They take
so long to reach you, and I highly dislike not hearing from you for months. It
is so much nicer talking in person, da? I would love to see you again soon—the
years have gone by fast, but it has been far too long. I have much to show you.
Sincerest regards,
Ivan Romanov
Francis smiled once he had finished reading the letter in his hand, his fingers
trailing over the neat signature at the end, tracing the deep tail of "R". He
could tell the boy matured with each letter he received from him—the language
was more adult, and the penmanship became more readable; more elegant.
He walked over to his desk, sitting down in the plush chair, and then pulled
out a stack of parchment, uncorking his bottle of black ink. He picked up his
swan-feather quill, dipping the tip into the ink, and then started scratching
away at the paper.
"My dearest Vanya…"
***** Chapter 5 *****
27 March 1772
My dearest Vanya,
You must be insane to think these years are fast. Every day seems like a
century if I cannot see your face. You are so cute and charming, and you cannot
fathom how much I crave to see you. Years going by fast…you sure are a silly
boy!
You like La Henriade that much, do you? Perhaps that was the wrong choice of
book to give you, then. I should have given you one of Voltaire's other books
first—none of them will compare if you like La Henriade that much! It does not
matter, of course. I am glad that you enjoy it. It warms my heart…
So, you have grown a lot, oui? As tall as me, you say? Non non, mon cher, I
refuse to believe that. You are not as tall as me; it is impossible! I will
accept you being almost as tall as me, but you must still be mon petit Russe.
Unless, of course, you have grown to be very handsome, which I do not doubt.
Ah, mon cher, how I wish to see that face of yours…And, if you are as tall as
you say you are, I would love to see how that body of yours matured. Is your
skin still soft and pale? I imagine you have lost some of that child's fat—not
that you were chubby, of course. I am merely trying to imagine you with sharper
features…
Ah, I wish my Russian were as good as your French. I should probably practice
it more, but alas, I have been so busy lately. Louis XV has not been causing
any trouble lately, though the public is still not happy. I have a feeling that
when his grandson takes the throne, my people will be even more upset. Louis
XVI is married to an Austrian woman, and my people are not very fond of
France's relationship with Austria. But I digress; I must not make a mountain
out of a molehill now. It probably is not even that big of a deal.
I would love for you to visit soon, mon cher, for I too miss you dearly. When
that does happen, I promise we will sit together for hours and just talk and
catch up.
Forever Yours,
Francis Bonnefoy
Ivan smiled warmly, holding the sheets of parchment with just as much love and
gentleness as he would hold the man who wrote it. He brought it to his chest,
ears perking up at the slight crinkling noise that the move brought on, and his
nose twitched when a waft of rich perfume made its way up his nostrils. It
smelled just like how he remembered Francis…
"A letter from Monsieur Bonnefoy, Vanya? You have that look on your face
again," laughed Yekaterina as she cut into her slice of roast pig.
"Da. I…I think I may take a trip, if it alright with you."
Yekaterina smiled, and nodded. "It has been several years. You two are long
overdue for a meet up. You should pack up after you finish your supper, and I
will send a letter to Louis XV post haste."
Ivan had to remind himself to eat slowly.
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