ask-india:

It had been a long time since Arata had felt so at peace with herself. With the world.

There she was, resting contentedly on a friend, Ivan—tall and calm, ever so gentle as she tilted her head towards his shoulder, as they both reclined softly into the embracing couch; A friend who she had considered a very dear friend, though it seemed to be only yesterday to Arata that they had first met. But then again, the woman supposed, what does time really matter, when you are a being like herself? Time was just a daily constant in her life, just like weather or air. Always there, with not much alarm or caution to be given to it. Ivan was a man whom she held to great respect. He was a kind and fierce man, Arata had thought; someone who had helped her in such dire situations and had simply been such a good friend, that it would have been almost rude to have thought of him as anything less.

The room was dim, yet full of the tender light of a not-quite setting sun. The walls of the room were painted, stroked, with a pale sunlight and soft shadows of the two figures resting together on a quiet afternoon, shadows of tall furniture dancing behind timidly. Two teacups were delicately lying on top of a glossy coffee table, fragile in their own beauty.

Raven black hair fell in strands in front of Arata’s eyes as she shifted to lean Ivan. She closed her eyes. No—she opened her deep coffee-brown eyes; she could not tear her eyes away from the sight outside the slightly-stained window, warm light filtering through the panes. Autumn was arriving, and Arata, being from a country of simple seasons of ‘wet’ and ‘dry’—‘monsoon’ and ‘post-monsoon’, and then only ‘summer’ and ‘winter’—never really had the chance to experience such a strange season as Autumn. She was mesmerized when she had the sliver of a moment to visit other countries during the particular season. The way the leaves had started to crisp and burn into new, bold colours made her think she could stare at the trees for hours. Not only that; the cool breeze of a warm day, the sort of just-right weather rarely seen in her country, made her smile. At the same time, the lingering feeling of Winter looming around the corner made her smile fade slightly. It was as if different feelings had washed and blended, muddled together, and had been tossed with orange and red leaves and the smell of soft musk after the rain, to make the quite-peculiar season.

 

Bliss was surely one of those feelings.

 

Ah—he was getting up. She sat up, straightening herself, and making sure most of her was on the couch instead of on the floor, since that was where they seemed to be sinking. Her eyes glanced down at the floor; Arata worried that her carelessness and informality might have been too much for Ivan. After all, just because she felt completely at ease with him…Surely, she thought logically, he may not feel the same level of informality. She looked up at him—or rather, merely in that direction, for she could not bring her eyes up any farther out of courtesy. Her olive palms held her face, elbows resting on her knees. Arata closed her eyes lightly.

 

Worry must have been one of those feelings tossed in, as well.

 

Was she supposed to be doing something: making small conversation? Juggling oranges? Talking about the weather? She didn’t know what to be doing. Maybe Ivan was waiting for her to come up with a witty remark, some form of intelligent speak so that he could know he wasn’t just sitting on a couch with a piece of wood. Though, to be frank, she was rather happy sitting around and doing virtually nothing. Arata could not remember the last time she had done so. It was a nice feeling—a sweet, floating feeling. Of course, being a nation, she would have to come down from that eventually. But the woman was content. The edges of her mouth twisted slightly, into a small shy smile, a smile to herself. Her eyes flitted to the man beside her. Ivan was in a quite graceful repose, deep-ocean navy eyes looking intently at the space ahead. Though, his seemed to be concentrating very hard on something. Before Arata even had the chance to open her mouth and as what was wrong—

“Arata, have you ever been in love?”

 

Love was a rather strange and different feeling indeed, that had been tossed with the bunch.

 

Arata blinked, feeling her eyes widen involuntarily. A question like that had always threw her off, and she was hardly ever asked such a…strange question. Her heart had quivered, taken aback as much as her mind. Her mouth opened to speak, but she did not know what words to possibly…

Her eyes drifted to the window again. The sky was orange yellow, bold and wonderous to behold. She thought of the question and had silently confirmed—indeed, love was a different and difficult feeling. She thought of this, being acutely aware of the shoulder which she was leaning on so gently. The soft thumping of her heart whispered to her. The picture of a man, but blurred, smeared with white and hard light, making him almost indistinguishable. It could have been anyone, though. For the past ages, eras, periods of enlightenment and depression, that man could have been any of the important men whom she had encountered; faced off with, laughed with, sipped tea with. Leaned a shoulder on.

She felt herself heat up, but in confusion.

“I…” Her voice hovered, not sure how to continue.  “Well, love is a complicated emotion. Sometimes…you think you love someone, when you may not, right?” Her coarse brown eyes darted to him, meeting his marine blue pair. “But, at the same time, you may think you do not love someone, when you truly do. It’s a rather confusing feeling,” she admitted. “So, I can’t say for sure if I have been in love or not.” The heat burned against her neck this time; embarrassment, at not being able to answer his question. And yet, her country had been known for love gurus…

“All I know is that love is supposed to be when you think about that person—when you’re happy, sad, confused, frustrated…” Arata smiled weakly. “It’s really a big mess, don’t you think?”

(( oh my god SO SORRY /sobbing forever. Anyway here you go. Hope you like. I was listening to this on repeat so uh yes sorry /sob ))

She was taking her time to respond. Yes, it had definitely been a mistake to ask. Many times he had become far too comfortable with people he liked, been too honest, and given away too many of his secrets. Though he was guarded around others, the warmth of friendship always seemed to intoxicate him and open his mouth. He wasn’t sure which was better, to be distant yet safe from fire, or to stand point-blank in front of the other, completely defenseless, but at least close enough to look into each other’s eyes. Trust itself always seemed to betray him. Like the cycle of the seasons, the relationships between nations were bound to change. Wasn’t he friends with some of the western nations that had turned their backs on him after the revolution? And then… there was that one person…. He had been so sure their relationship would last. At least, longer than it had. But in the end, he had betrayed Ivan too.

Ivan had been lucky with Arata so far, but that didn’t mean something would ruin their friendship in the future. To take her for granted was to act as if the winter would never reach Russia.

Ivan continued to wait patiently, though his mind was fidgeting. Arata wasn’t looking at him, and all he could see were her long eyelashes, fanning out under her slightly lowered eyelids. He felt as if they never made enough eye contact, despite the fact that they had been friends for a while now. He wondered briefly if she was intimidated by him and frowned. He considered him and his friends to be equals, “comrades,” even. The last thing he wanted was to feel alienated even with them.

Her words were delicate and unsure, yet they managed to continue bravely like tightrope walkers, cautiously stringing together her thoughts. Suddenly, their eyes met, and something within him relaxed, something that had managed to tense up without Ivan ever consciously acknowledging it. Her own confusion comforted him, for he had never been looking for a solid answer in the first place. Love was a kind of vast field, disorienting and directionless. But it was better to be lost with company than to be all alone as others made their way around you.

Her words offered nothing more than a confirmation of his own thoughts, but that was solace enough. He smiled softly. “A big mess… that’s just what I was thinking. But yes, I suppose if they are always on your mind, they must have a place in your heart as well.” He glanced again out the window with its firey display before returning his eyes to her. He was being terrible company, he could tell. Of all the things to break the silence with, he had to offer up this insubstantial piece of conversation. “Well then. I guess that’s something we’ll find out eventually, da? Or if not… well, bud’ chto budyet. We don’t always need words to describe how we feel.” Ah, he was mixing languages again. In these years he hadn’t cared much for English, but if he wanted to talk to Arata, he’d have to keep it up so she could understand.

Clearing his throat, Ivan decided it was time to be a better host. His country was known for hospitality - or at least, that’s how he liked to think of it. On many occasions he had travelled across the country and met several friendly hosts. And since Arata had travelled quite far to reach him, he had to try his hardest to make it worthwhile. Standing up, he offered Arata a hand and a smile. “It’ll be dinner time in a few hours. Why don’t we go out and buy some food?” Of course, he was assuming that she would stay for dinner with him. They hadn’t exactly gone over arrangements for where she would stay, but he had no problem with letting her stay at his apartment for as many days as she was visiting. Besides, it would probably be better that way. There was nothing more lonely than an empty house.

(( STOP WHY ARE YOU APOLOGIZING STOP IT. Actually I should be apologizing, this is like half as long as yours, and you wrote so many great things. I just didn’t know what else to do ;__; 

btw - here’s some pictures of russia from around this time period that I found. Actually they’re all from Leningrad/ Saint Petersburg but yeah. Just to give you an idea of the setting c: x x x ))

(Источник: zyabkii)

latersonsonafrote:

For a moment, it was all Angelique could do not to march back through those doors and give the two a piece of her mind. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand- and there were many- it was being ignored; her pride and her honour were far too great to be slighted by a pair of mortals, mortals that would live for barely a breath of time in comparison to her life. Yes, that was her hamartia, her fatal flaw; her own arrogance, her own pride. Arthur had raised her to control such emotions, though, and she reigned them in, contenting herself to shoot another foul glare at the offending door. “Annoyin’ little dullard,” she muttered under her breath, before shaking her head. Her nose still wrinkled in annoyance, she once again met Ivan’s gaze, and took comfort in his much mellower expression.

Relieved, she, too, felt a warm smile spread across her features; his mood was infectious. Despite her annoyance with her leader- and she was certainly still irritated with the man- she couldn’t help but laugh, her disposition nearly buoyant. “Anfay. I could go for some tea, actually. A good cup does wonders for d’a soul, non?” The words had barely left her mouth when Ivan turned, leading the way down the hall with quick, earnest strides. Her legs, not nearly as long as his, worked double time, matching each of his steps with nearly three of her own. She managed a nod at the guards, this time, even a smile; once out of the building, she inhaled as if she’d been underwater. The cool, crisp air was like a shot of whiskey to her senses- a headache she hadn’t even noticed develop began to fade.

The air was still sharp with cold, but the wind had slowed considerably; no longer did her skin feel inflamed, as if the breeze carried tiny knives. The sky was a lovely shade of blue, now, and for a moment she was reminded of her own seas. It was a small comfort, but the knowledge that she and her friend shared the same sky still managed to ease a bit of strain she felt from day to day. She kept her pace about a metre behind her companion- she was already moving nearly into a light jog, simply attempting to keep up with him. It was an agreeable way to keep warm, she had to admit- while the day had certainly warmed, it was still far too nippy for her personal comfort. Still, she managed to return each of Ivan’s smiles.

Their destination proved to be a rather run-down sort of establishment, but those inside seemed to bring a warmth throughout, as good as any roaring fire. Once more, Angelique’s lips curved into a smile. The furniture and settings had certainly seen better days, but hadn’t they all? And so it was with an entirely sincere tone that she murmured, “Oh, Ivan… it’s lovely!” And so it was, particularly when the jolly bartender welcomed the pair with a boisterous greeting. She returned his grin, even laughing as he spread his arms wide- he was an enthusiastic character, that much was clear. “Allo, Mik-a,” she replied, her accent faltering slightly on the syllables.”It’s good to meet ya’, mm?” Still beaming, she, too, sank into a rather sardonic curtsy. As she straightened, she studied the man, noting his open, warm attitude; he didn’t appear to be very stern, and she decided immediately that she liked him.

Ivan was much larger than she, and he cleared a path quite easily. The other patrons seemed perfectly content with shuffling aside, but she still smiled apologetically to each. For a moment, she marveled at them; their pale skin in particular. Her own flesh, the tone of powdered cocoa, shone like coal against the snow of the Russians. She wondered, briefly, how unusual she must seem here. She was reassured by their friendly greetings, however, and by the time the two found a table, she felt as comfortable as she could possibly be, so far from home. She settled into the proffered chair with good grace, grinning brightly. 

Raising an eyebrow, she couldn’t help but giggle. Nodding politely to the bartender, she, too, leaned against across the table. She rested her cheek in her hand, biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing outright. “Ivan, I d’ink we bot’ know ‘oo’s d’a lightweight, ‘ere.” She shook her head, feigning concern. “I ‘ope ya’ can finish nearly d’a entire bottle ya’self, because I don’t d’ink I can be presentable after two shots.” She was exaggerating, of course; she wasn’t quite so prone to drunkenness. She might have been small, yes, but she wasn’t human. Still, the idea of taking the edge off certainly appealed. She met Ivan’s gaze, her eyes dancing with mischief. “What do ya’ d’ink René would say it I returned to d’a meetin’ drunk on Russian vodka?” She kept her voice low, of course, but she still glanced aside so as to assure herself of their safety.

Winking, she giggled once more, her dimples once again prominent. “Still, I’d like to. We’ll see which of us can outlast d’a od’er, non?” She hadn’t a doubt in her mind who could hold their liquor the most- it certainly wasn’t the Kreol. Sensing Mikha’s return, she straightened, accepting her cup of tea- smooth, creamy chai, a drink that was actually quite popular in Praslin- and thanked the man. “Mezi- d’ank you, brod’er.” She eyed the bottle and accompanying glasses with some amusement, her  lips hovering over the surface of her tea as she blew on the warm brown liquid. Her tone was playful, teasing, as she smiled at the man across from her. “Damn, d’at’s a big bottle. Ya’ sure ya’ can ‘andle it?” 

As they entered the bar, Ivan regarded Angelique’s comment with slight surprise, not expecting a compliment of any sort. He had never thought of the run-down cafe as anything close to “lovely,” and he shot her a glance, unsure if she was just trying to be polite. However, her honesty was evident in her tone of voice, and Ivan knew before his eyes even made it to her face that she had meant it. He hummed slightly as he tried out the word in his head, his lips pressed together in a thoughtful manner as his violet eyes scanned the room. To his surprise, the word quickly settled in with the old furniture and young laborers, like the abandoned sweater a child finds in his father’s closet that slips on easily over his head as it envelopes him in a new yet familiar scent. Though weathered and even slightly dirty, the place was comforting like a blanket with its edges unraveling from the nervous touch of small hands. He tucked the word away in the cracks in the walls, but before he could thank Angelique, she had already turned to the bartender, easily returning his lively greetings. She greeted him exactly as Ivan would have expected, with immediate good humor. She really had a surprising character; with one word she could send him lost in his thoughts, but with another she brought him quickly to reality. Even with the comfort and continuity of friendship, their relationship was never boring.

Ivan raised his eyebrows playfully at Angelique. “If you’re worried about appearances, I can assure you that no one here really cares about ‘presentability,’” he replied, mimicking her attempt to keep a straight face. Holding back laughter, he nodded toward the patrons around them, all slightly drunk. A few at the bar had their arms around each other’s shoulders for balance and were swaying back and forth as they sang along to an old classic with strong, confident voices; another man at a nearby table was raving to a friend about a girl he wanted to ask out, nearly serenading him as he tried to demonstrate how he planned to woo her. Just the sight of the drunkards was almost enough to make him feel drunk himself, even if in reality that would have required more than just a few shots of vodka. 

“Meeting? Well, he wouldn’t know if you never returned, da?” Feeling more and more at home among his comrades, Ivan’s Russian was starting to slip out. He had always been proud of his language, even if many of his citizens always considered French to be more beautiful or “educated”, or English more useful. His language reminded him of home - not his actual home, which was nothing but a collection of several empty apartments or cottages across the country, but an imagined home he figured might have existed if he had been born a human, or just the entirety of his country and all the cozy homes of people within it. The robust Russian words - the soft, round vowels and hard consonants - brought both a sense of nostalgia for a time that never existed and a sense of pride for what he had now. But honestly, he thought as he glanced around the bar, he had no intention of ever returning to the meeting at the moment.

“Well, I certainly hope you weren’t planning to win,” he responded cheerfully. “Even if I like you, I’ve never in my life lost in a drinking game.” That being said, if he had ever lost, he certainly would have been too far gone to even remember it. As Angelique leaned away from the table, Ivan sat up as well, allowing Mikha to set down the drinks. “Pozhaluĭsta, mademoiselle,” the bartender replied, thinking himself very gentlemanly for using the French term rather than a simple address such as “comrade.” He winked at Ivan as he left the table; Mikha had a rather annoying yet comical tendency to think whomever Ivan brought into the bar was his new date. Ivan only managed an amused look at him before Mikha had already turned his back and rushed to accommodate the other customers. 

Following Angelique’s eyes to the bottle of vodka, he laughed and responded, “I’m thirsty, so it should be okay, if that’s what you mean,” knowing exactly what she was referring to. “I’m more concerned about you - but I’m sure you’re great company no matter what level of soberness you happen to be on,” he countered with a grin. He took a big sip from the tea, feeling the hot liquid travel down to his stomach, soothing his throat. It was a bit silly of him to order tea and vodka at the same time, but thinking to himself, he realized he wouldn’t know what to do if he ever had to choose between them. He took another gulp, partly because he loved the taste and partly because he was excited to get to the alcohol. The cup was shallow, a properly sized teacup unlike the huge cylindrical mugs Ivan liked to use when alone and at home, so after a few large gulps the tea was already half gone. 

He poured two shots of vodka and ceremoniously placed them next to each other in the middle of the table. The clear glasses (the one thing Mikha prided himself on keeping clean in the entire bar) and the transparent liquid inside looked like two crystals on the dull table top. Ivan gestured toward them with one hand, while the other held the tea cup. “But I insist, ladies first.” He returned her mischievous look, challenging her with his eyes as he glanced again toward the shining shot glasses between them. Without breaking the gaze, he lifted the teacup to his lips, wondering silently what she would do next.

starspangledbandit:

At Ivan’s statement, Alfred couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Yeah, right. Like your accent doesn’t sound repulsive in my language either. You know, I think I like Arthur’s accent better than yours. And that’s fucking saying something.” The American paused for dramatic effect. “Because I fucking hate his accent.” Alfred was aware that his Russian was bad. At least he now knew that Ivan’s reaction would still be the same. Repulsion. Just as planned.

Ignorant. Now that’s a word that Alfred heard much too often. A word he loathed. The nation was infuriated, by that word alone, one hundred times more than he was previously. To refrain from leaping across the table and attacking Ivan’s throat, he closed his eyes and grit his teeth so loudly that his ears ached from the sound, and his jaw pulsed with pain. His face and ears had become bright red with anger, his knuckles white with the force of his fingers against his palms. After opening his eyes again, and regulating his breathing, he answered. “Yes, fucktard. I know. I’m not talking about what we’re saying right now. I’m talking about the fucking document.” Alfred made a gesture towards the sheet in Ivan’s hand, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That actually has nothing to do with anything personal between us.”

Alfred sensed Ivan’s mood change. Suddenly, the gleam in his eyes was more sadistic, as if he were planning on ripping Alfred’s head off too. It was probably just the smile. It was always creepy looking to Alfred, no matter what the mood. The American took a grip on the table in front of him, his thumbs on the smooth varnish of the top, knuckles still gleaming white. He was very ready to flip the table over onto Ivan, hopefully hitting somewhere vital. It’s not like it would hurt him for very long. Seriously, which person thought it was a good idea to put these two in a room by themselves? 

Again with the excessive swearing. “At least Arthur can manage to be mature for a couple of minutes,” Ivan sneered. If there was one thing he always picked on about Alfred, it was his youth; not only in the ways it showed in his annoying personality, but in his frustratingly naive optimism. Of course, there were so many other things that bothered him about Alfred that his age was still just a small contributing factor. 

But again, the ball had been served to the other side of the court. Ivan was just as pleased with Alfred’s reaction as Alfred had probably been with his. The indignant shade of red that tinted Alfred’s face brought nothing but satisfaction. He was obviously exercising his restraint, Ivan noted with a feeling of success. Surely a fight was coming soon. 

Ivan glanced down towards the document Alfred was pointing to. Ah. He forgot about that. That was rather difficult… of course they had to get it over with and sign the document eventually, but if they fought, the issue would never be settled. On the other hand, if they cooperated and just fucking signed it, they could leave and there would be no point in starting a fight. Now that he had built up so much steam, it seemed to Ivan that the only proper way to let it off was by throwing a few punches. Leaving without a fight would be disappointing at least. 

Plus, it seemed that Alfred was already bracing himself for a fight. It would be rude to fall short of expectations, wouldn’t it? He was certainly asking for it. Ivan set the papers firmly on the table Alfred was gripping. The two nations weren’t secretaries. The government could get someone else to deal with the thing. Yet, Alfred’s last statement was so logical that Ivan found he really had no excuse to be acting so errantly. Still, the tension in his muscles refused to go away. He pulled the document towards him, still standing, as though he was considering it. There’s no way I’m signing it, he realized. He paused briefly, and then swept the papers off the table with one swift motion. They floated to the ground with a flourish, the individual sheets fanning out, though still attached to their binding. Without a word, he stared straight back towards the American, eyes dancing as if challenging him to make the first strike. He hoped the action would be irritating enough to provoke him, as juvenile as it was.

There are all kinds of warmth in the world: the heat of summer; the cozy sensation of sitting by the oven, wrapped in blankets on a chilly night; hot soup; the burn of vodka when it’s gulped down all at once. But the best kind of warmth, Ivan decided, was the warmth of another person. They do not have to touch you for you to feel it - it’s there nestled in their words or in their eyes.

It was for this reason why Ivan was not particularly bothered by the retreating summer. The changing leaves had their own warmth, after all, with their colors that seemed to set the trees ablaze. And besides - there was her, the woman he had not really known until just 15 years ago, which was a short amount of time for people like him but long enough for them to feel as if they were never strangers. Arata sat by Ivan’s side on the couch, the weight of her head on his shoulder (he had to slouch a bit so that he wasn’t too tall; in fact, both of them had begun to sink into the couch). They watched the breeze outside as it passed by, fanning the leaves like embers. Two empty teacups rested on the table before them.

The two nations were silent for a while, Ivan deep in thought. He had never really understood love, and he didn’t think it was possible to even if he lived on for centuries more. How could it be so passionate and stubborn, yet fickle and indecisive at the same time? Why did it refuse to listen to common sense and logic? Why did the people he once loved become his enemies? And most importantly: Was he in love now? With her?

There was a blurry line between true friendship and love, Ivan realized. One was subdued and comforting like a familiar quilt, while the other… he wasn’t sure what the other was really supposed to feel like. But of course, he loved her. The question was, in what way? Does it matter? he asked himself, almost irritably. Whenever his mind slipped into this topic his thoughts always seemed to go in circles. He simply wanted to spend time with her, no matter what their relationship. Thoughts like these only confused him and made his heart feel funny, like it was swelling or getting to be too large for the rest of him. Of course it matters! He thought indignantly. I can’t love two people at once, can I? So who? Though his face remained thoughtful and rather blank, he could feel the questions filling his heart like water in a balloon.

Finally, he straightened himself up. If he hadn’t done so he probably would have slid right off the couch and onto the floor. Stretching out, he glanced at Arata. They had been sitting in his home for a while with nothing to do, and he was worried she would grow bored. Her brown eyes were almost the color of cinnamon tea, he mused. Her smooth, dark hair was striking, a sharp contrast to his own pale skin and platinum hair. Yet, as these thoughts ran through his head, he found them to be disconcertingly familiar. His lips pressed together in frustration. He was far too inexperienced with matters like this. 

“Arata, have you ever been in love?” The question left his mouth before he had a chance to think it through. Was it right to ask something like that? Too personal? He cursed himself silently for his tactless behavior, but he did not retract the question. As he waited for a response his eyes were unusually innocent, curious yet vaguely tormented by an unspoken conflict.

latersonsonafrote:

The nations were silent as they followed their leaders through the doors, but she understood as well as if he had spoken aloud. The corners of her lips curved into a gentle smile once more, and she nodded-almost imperceptibly- as if to herself.  Her attention was diverted, however, as they entered. She did not nod to the uniformed men as Ivan did, but elected instead to keep her gaze trained on the back of her leader. She felt an absence from her shoulder and missed the warmth- but they were inside, now, and she was expected to present a cold, professional facade. The air inside was thankfully much warmer, though only in the physical aspect; the building felt empty, somehow, emotionless. Had these walls heard laughter, felt the warmth of joy? She doubted her own government buildings were any different, save for the much cheaper settings and weaker walls.

René did not so much as spare her a glance as he followed his ally, still deep in conversation. She had not been paying attention to it before, and only did so for a moment before withdrawing her attention for other matters. Politics were pointless, in her opinion; dictators rose, and dictators died, and dictators rose again. It didn’t matter, did it, what party the man in question claimed to represent- they were all the same. Her smile turned rather sour at the thought: René had abandoned all pretense. There were no parties in her government, not anymore; it was his breed of socialism, or nothing at all. 

Oh, but the people fought back. No longer on the front lines, no, not after the first disastrous coup, but instead behind closed doors. Angry whispers in the back rooms of taverns, hushed conversations that paused the moment a member of the guard passed, only to resume with increased fury. But that was the extent- they whispered. Her people dared not speak aloud, dared not confide in a stranger, lest they be woken in the dead of night by the breaking down of their door. Not that anything could be proven, oh no- her government handled internal manners smoothly and efficiently. Still, her society had improved greatly under his reign- not even the angriest of her citizens could deny it.

In truth, she was just as conflicted as her people. And tired, yes- she had long grown weary of the shifting tides and relentless current of her government. She supposed she could not complain, though; Papa had warned her when she left, and she had told him she could handle it all herself. Gathering herself up- if only internally- she clenched her jaw in determination. She would not give in, regardless of how tempting the offer was. Rescind her independence- it was an insult, not only to her capabilities but to her pride, and she would not stand down.

She shook herself, focusing on her companion. She might have touched his cheek once more, were they not in such close quarters with their leaders. Sighing heavily, she bit her lower lip, searching for words, anything, to lift his spirits. She could find none, though, and settled for a sad smile. “It might be easier…if d’at ‘appens. For you, I mean…” She trailed off, still at a complete loss. “Per’aps it will be better, easier for you, if ya’ don’t ‘ave to worry about lookin’ after so many.”

As she took her seat, she immediately realised that this would not be a fair meeting; she would have no say in it, as her leader’s stance and feigned ignorance to her repeated attempts to catch his gaze foretold. She leaned back into her chair, her arms folded, and she glared between the two with her lips pursed. If they wouldn’t pay attention to her, she would make damn sure they felt her presence. So focused was she on making her irritation known that she nearly missed Ivan’s glance. Catching his gaze, she felt the corners of her mouth turn upward in a smirk. She waited for him to make his exit- taking great pleasure in the looks of annoyance on the faces of the other men- before moving to her feet. Inclining her head, she made to take her own leave. “Eskize mwen,” she replied, nearly grinning at the excuse to exit. 

Without pausing to see their expressions- she doubted they cared, and indeed they resumed their conversation nearly the moment she turned away- she strode through the door, taking care to close it quietly. As she’d expected, Ivan was leaning against the wall, looking irritated. “Ya’ know, I don’t even know why d’ey bod’er bringin’ us,” she muttered, taking a moment to stretch. “Won’t even recognise d’eir own nations- fittin’.” She snorted as well, shaking a wayward curl from her eyes with an aggravated flick of her head. She turned to the Russian, her eyes softening. Though she doubted the politicians would hear, she spoke softly. “Are ya’ alright?”

Ivan’s annoyed expression promptly dissolved when he saw Angelique closing the door carefully behind her. He wasn’t surprised, of course; he knew Angelique well and was counting on her to take his lead. Still, he didn’t expect the grin that broke out across his face. He took pleasure in the rebellious action, as insignificant as it was. Even Angelique’s indignant, muttered remarks seemed to cheer him up. They felt much more lighthearted compared to their earlier exchange, so much so that it was almost comical. Actually, he was so relieved to be out of the depressing meeting room and with Angelique that he could barely hold back a snicker, burying it into his scarf. 

Pulling the scarf away from his mouth, he spoke, mirroring her hushed voice. It was really rather childish, how cheerful he had suddenly become, and the words came out in a rush. “I’m fine, now. Thank you, Angelique.” He wasn’t sure what he was thanking her for, but he felt it appropriate. “Come on, let’s go. Would you like some tea? We can go to a cafe.” He was already starting down the hall, in a hurry to get outside. The front guard, though bewildered that the nations were leaving already, rushed to open the door ahead of him. 

The air was still sharp with cold, but the sun shone eagerly above them in the clear sky. It was about three or four in the afternoon, and the sidewalks had become more lively with groups of students and early workers returning home. Ivan walked briskly, glancing behind him to make sure Angelique was following and flashing a simple but genuine smile at her. He walked a few blocks to a cafe, one that he visited quite frequently despite advice from his government to keep a low profile.

The interior itself was dull, with wallpaper peeling off the walls and old, scratched tables, but the people were lively. A little sketchy, maybe, for after all they had enough money to be spending on tea and such despite the current massive inflation, but friendly and good-hearted. Ivan himself had wasted quite a lot of money here in the past few weeks. After all, he was sure his economy was failing already and didn’t see much harm in spending his near-worthless rubles on some drinks, even if they had become ridiculously expensive. The bartender, who never seemed to run out of food despite the shortages all over the city, was a loud and amicable man, not necessarily an honest person but good at keeping secrets and by now used to Ivan and his foreign friends who visited occasionally over the years. Though times were hard, he managed to keep a sunny attitude, something Ivan always enjoyed about the place. The bartender noticed the two immediately, greeting them at the door in Russian. 

“Well if it isn’t Vanya, with another of his strange friends!” He waggled his eyebrows playfully at Angelique, whose skin tone stood out among the crowd of Russians. He spread his arms in a grand gesture, as if he thought he was greeting guests in a ballroom. (The man always seemed a little drunk, even if he was perfectly sober.) ”Welcome!” Ivan waved him aside, dismissing his gregarious behavior and the perhaps too friendly greeting he could never get used to. Even so, though his reply was friendly in tone as well.

“Hello, Mikha.” He switched to English for Angelique’s benefit. “This is my friend…” he quickly improvised improvised a name. “Anzhelik Frantsevna.” The bartender bowed in an exaggerated attempt to be courteous, though he immediately assigned her a new nickname, managing a “Velcome, Anzhela” through a thick Russian accent. “Angelique, this is Mikhail Aleksandrovich.” “Ah pshh, just call me Mikha,” he objected, patting Ivan’s back. Ivan couldn’t help smiling at that. The man was never one for polite formalities. One would probably say he lacked manners, but… Oh, what the hell. Manners can be tedious sometimes.

Ivan helped himself to the last empty table. The room was small and people had to push in their chairs until they were squeezed against the table as they let him pass, but they did so without grumbling, and with cheerful greetings, as well. He pulled out a chair for Angelique first, gesturing toward it with a slight bow and a smile before taking his own seat. “Mihka, bring the usual chai, please, and one for Angelique. And… a shot of vodka, why not.” He turned to Angelique and suddenly remembered the situation that had brought her to Russia in the first place. “Actually, bring a bottle.” Mikhail left to get the order, and Ivan leaned over the worn, rough table top to speak to Angelique. The action was playfully conspiratorial, but he spoke earnestly. ”You will drink with me, yes?”