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The world meeting in the United Kingdom had been, as always, marked by thinly veiled hostility. Francis Bonnefoy—the French Republic—had sat through it all with a fixed smile on his face while his country bled out internally. Reconstruction after the second world war was slow, like an agonizing crawl, and the weight of it pressed on his shoulders with every passing day. He felt faded, a watercolor version of his former self.
When the first fat drops of rain splattered against the tall windows of the conference room, France almost snorted. Of course it’s raining in England. By the time Germany had adjourned the meeting, the sky had turned the color of a nasty bruise, and the rain was a solid wall of water.
“Ve… I don’t want to travel in this weather. I’ll get all soaked.” Italy complained and started tugging on Germany’s arm to get him to do something. Maybe Italy wanted him to stop the weather cycle.
It was soon clear that all flights were grounded and the roads were becoming impassable. England stepped up and announced that he had spare rooms in the building, though they were usually reserved for delegates who fell ill or someone staying from a faraway place. Nations were told to group in twos and threes.
Quickly, a mad scramble ensued. They paired up quickly, with old alliances and comfortable friendships securing them a bed. Italy was talking loudly and dragging disgruntled Germany and Japan behind him. England took one glare at France and darted off to pair up with Canada. Soon, other than the Frenchman, only one nation remained in the grand hallway. A lone, towering figure silhouetted against the dark window.
Russia.
He stood perfectly still, the usual smile on his face had vacated, and his large hands were twirling the end of his beige scarf. It wasn’t a surprise that no one wanted to room with him. The Baltics probably clutched onto each other and ran headfirst into the first room they saw to avoid staying in the same room as him. Russia had been pointedly avoided all day; everyone’s fear of the Cold War struck something in the others. Now, they had fled from him as well. The unspoken rule was clear: no one was going to room with Russia.
Francis helplessly looked around, maybe another nation was straggling behind, and he could pair off with them, and…
There was no one.
A flicker of something older than their current conflict stirred in France’s chest. Not exactly sympathy, but a wary recognition. He knew what it was like to be avoided, to be seen as a contagion, even if for entirely different reasons. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad… Being alone in the quiet of a thunderous storm seemed like a bad idea.
Before his judgment could stop him, Francis cleared his throat. The sound was shockingly loud in the sudden quiet.
“Ivan.”
The tall man turned, and a smile climbed onto his face. “Da, Frantsisk?”
Francis gestured vaguely down the hall. “It appears that we are the last two. If you would like to share… well… it would be nice not to be alone.”
For a second, something flickered in those violet eyes. Surprise, perhaps, or a deep weariness that mirrored his own. Then the smile returned. “That would be… nice. Da.”
“Parfait.” France turned, confident Russia would follow.
The room was small and utilitarian. Two narrow beds, two lamps sitting on nightstands, and a window that rattled with every gust of wind.
Francis began his nightly ritual, pulling out a small bottle of water and some pills from his coat pocket. “For your nerves”, a human doctor had said. He took one with a slightly trembling hand. The storm was endlessly intensifying.
He could feel Ivan’s gaze on him, heavy and unblinking, studying the tremors running through the other nation. It made his skin crawl, and the fear he’d suppressed in the hallway bubbled back up. France had voluntarily trapped himself in a room with Russia.
“Your hands shake.” He suddenly spoke up.
Francis attempted a dismissive wave. “Ah, ce n’est rien.”
“Nothing does not make a person shake.” Ivan’s head tilted. “I was always told the body remembers what the mind wants to forget.”
Francis’ hands stilled for just a moment. “That is… terriblement accurate.” He let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
As the evening wore on, they prepared for bed in a tense, silent ballet. Ivan changed into some sweatpants and a shirt in the tiny bathroom, but kept his scarf on. France knew not to ask why. He just did the same, soon emerging in silk pajamas moments later. He curled up on his bed, his back to the door.
“Well, spokoynoy nochi, Frantsiya.” Russia said softly as he turned off his lamp and made his way under the covers. The room was completely dark now, save for the light of the rattling window that France was facing.
“…Bonne nuit, Russie.” Francis spoke after a moment’s hesitation. The storm was a living creature at this point. Wind howled down the corridor outside. Rain lashed the glass like bullets. And the thunder… it wasn’t the deep, rolling kind. It was sharp, percussive, like a series of violent cracks that sounded like… no. He wouldn’t think about it.
He pulled his knees tighter to his chest, making himself as small as possible. Each crash made him flinch. A tiny, involuntary jerk of his shoulders. The sounds of the blitz, the rumble of collapsing buildings, the screams…
Crack.
He was in Rouen. The sirens were wailing. The world was fire and dust. He was pinned, helpless, the acrid smell of smoke and blood filling his sense. He couldn’t breathe-
CRACK.
A strangled sob escaped his lips before he could even think to shut his mouth. He was shaking uncontrollably, face buried in his knees, his body a tight coil of terror. He wasn’t safe here.
Across the gap between the beds, Ivan watched. He wasn’t smiling now, face an unreadable, blank slate. He had seen fear before, plenty of it. Fear was good, in some circumstances. Those were not the right ones. This was a raw and private agony that he was witnessing. Russia felt a strange, unfamiliar pull in his chest. The recognition of suffering, the vague, unsettling desire for it all to stop.
He slowly rose from the bed, movements slow and deliberate, and walked toward the trembling figure on the other bed. The floorboard creaked beneath his feet.
Francis’ head shot up. His eyes were wide, unfocused, swimming with tears of terror. He saw nothing but a massive silhouette looming over him in the darkness, and his panic spiked. He scrambled backwards on the bed until his spine hit the wooden headboard with a loud thump. “N-non… s’il vous plaît…”
Ivan stopped instantly like a deer in headlights. He understood that reaction. He saw the fear of the monster in the dark. Russia raised his large, pale hands, palms out, in a gesture of peace he had watched humans use in stressful situations.
“I am not going to hurt you.” He said, his voice a loud, quiet rumble, utterly devoid of its usual menacing lilt. “Storm is… very loud. It is… scaring you.”
Francis just stared, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Another crack of thunder made him flinch violently and duck with his arms covering his head.
Ivan thought hard. Comfort was a foreign language, its dialect unknown to him. He couldn’t offer soft words or warm embraces. Apart from his sisters, no one had ever offered him touch like that, and he didn’t know how it worked. But he did know fear. He knew the cold. He tried to remember what grounded him when the darkness pressed too close.
Slowly, carefully, he flicked on the light in Francis’ nightstand.
“Light. It is on.” His voice was low, deliberate, each word placed with the precision of someone laying bricks on a smooth foundation. “We are inside. The walls are stone.” He tapped the floor with his foot. “Floor. Solid.” He put a hand on his own chest. “Ivan. Here.” Then placed his hand near the Frenchman, just close enough to feel his presence, keeping his tone a steady, hypnotic drone. “Francis is here. In London. In a room. Safe.”
He stood, a solid, immovable presence, pointing and listing the facts of their reality. “The bed. The pillow. My scarf. Your pills.”
Francis’ gasps began to slow, hitching less. The frantic, darting look in his eyes started to focus, latching onto the objects Ivan named. He was still trembling, still pale as death, but the flashback was receding, pushed back by the sheer, undeniable reality of Ivan’s words. He wasn’t in Rouen, pinned beneath rubble. He was in this small room, with this strange, terrifying man who was grounding him.
“I…” Francis swallowed hard, wiping his face with a shaky hand. “I am sorry. I did not mean to, the noise, it just…”
Ivan shook his head. “It is okay.”
He remained standing for a moment, watching as Francis’ breathing gradually evened out. The Frenchman was still curled tightly against the headboard, arms wrapped around his knees, but the awareness in his eyes had returned, he looked small, and the sight was all too familiar to Ivan. He was familiar with that particular smallness, the way a person could fold into themselves when the world became too much.
He hesitated, as if approaching a frightened animal, and gently sat on the very edge of Francis’ bed. Francis felt his presence and could see him clearly in the dim light from the window. They didn’t speak for a long time, just sat there, silent, Ivan was a solid monolith against the chaos of the storm, and Francis was trying to feel comfortable in his space bubble again.
The silence stretched between them, heavy at first, then slowly easing. Francis’ breathing evened out further. The trembling reduced to occasional shudders. He felt wrung out, hollow, but the panic was gone, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
After a long while, in the quiet lull between thunderclaps, Francis began to talk. His voice was just a hoarse whisper at first, then grew stronger. He didn’t talk about the war, not really, but he talked about the times before everything was bad. About how the sun used to shine on the vineyards in Burgundy, the taste of a perfect apricot, the laughter in cafés. He spoke about art, how light makes everything different in a composition, about beauty in general.
Ivan listened quietly, without commentary. He listened to the soft, rhythmic flow of the Frenchman’s voice, a sound so different from the accusations and fear he usually heard coming his way. It was… nice. Like a quiet stream.
Another crack of thunder rolled across the sky, distant now, the storm was beginning its retreat. Francis flinched, but other than the engrained reflex, he didn’t spiral.
“S’il te plaît,” he whispered, the words barely audible.
“Pour quoi?” Ivan tilted his head, Russian accent cutting through Francis’ native tongue.
“Pour tout cela.” Francis gestured vaguely with one shaky hand. “Parce que tu es resté. Et que tu as aidé. Tu n’étais pas obligé de faire ça.”
Ivan was quiet for a long moment, when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful, almost wondering. “Personne ne m’a jamais remercié d’être avant resté.”
France felt his lips twitch into a smile. “Parler correctement: ‘Personne ne m’a jamais remercié d’être resté avant.’”
Ivan gave Francis a glare, but it didn’t send shivers of fear down his spine. “Je ne parle pas français pendant mon temps libre.”
Their conversation trailed off, and it made France’s chest tighten. “No one has ever thanked me for staying before.” He thought of the way the other nations had fled from Ivan earlier, the way no one had even considered rooming with him for the night. He thought of the Baltics clutching each other and running, how he himself desperately wanted to get away. He thought of the vacant smile Ivan wore like armor, and how it slipped away entirely the moment Francis started falling apart.
“The people who don’t appreciate you…” he spoke in English, so there was no possible way to misinterpret his words, “they are all fools.”
Ivan’s eyes widened slightly, just for a moment, before his expression smoothed over again. He said nothing.
They sat in companionable silence as the storm continued its retreat. After a while, Francis’ shivering returned, but this time from the cold, and not out of fear. The room was drafty, and the silk pajamas, elegant as they were, weren’t designed for such damp, English nights,
Ivan noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything, it seemed.
“You are cold.”
Francis attempted a dismissive wave. “I’m fine. It is nothing.”
Ivan leaned over and picked up Francis’ blanket off the ground that he threw off himself in his fit of panic. It was completely coated in dust from the hotel floor, as if they hadn’t been cleaned in a month. Russia sighed, rose from the bed and crossed the room to his own, he returned with the thick blanket from his bed, plain, utilitarian, but undoubtedly warm and clean. He draped it over Francis’ shoulders without asking.
Francis blinked up at him. “You don’t have to-”
“I am not cold.” Ivan sat against the headboard next to Francis this time. Their shoulders hardly bumped, but there was still space between them. “But you are.”
Francis pulled the blanket tighter around himself, and yes, it was warm, carrying a faint scent of cold air and sunflower fields and something else indefinable. He should’ve found it unsettling, but instead he buried further into the heavy wool blanket.
“Thank you.” He said again, because he truly did not know what else to say.
Ivan nodded, seeming to be in the same situation.
Another crack of thunder sounded, closer again. The storm was coming back around, it seemed. Francis flinched, and before he could stop himself, he had shifted closer to Ivan on the bed. Their shoulders were firmly pressed together, and France felt the warmth radiating from the larger nation.
Ivan looked over at him, an unreadable expression still on his face. But he didn’t move, didn’t get up to go to his own bed, just sat there while the storm raged on.
“You can talk, if you want.” Ivan said after a while. “About whatever you want. The light. The vineyards.”
Francis let out a shaky breath. “You actually listened to my frantic rambling?”
“Da.”
“Why?”
Ivan pursed his lips and thought for a moment. “It was… nice. To hear about something beautiful from someone who remembers what beauty is.”
Francis felt the crack in his chest widen just slightly. He thought about all the things he’d lost, all the beauty that had been scorched from his landscape.
“It’s all burned. It hurts to look at my own country. We are rebuilding everything, but it hurts so much…”
“I know this feeling. Watch your country burn.” Russia softly laid a hand on France’s forearm. He was quiet for a moment. “There is a poem. About Moscow burning. A poet of mine wrote it. Do you know it?”
Francis shook his head. Ivan smiled before looking into the window, and words flowed from him like he wrote the poem himself.
“Hey tell, old man, had we a cause
When Moscow, razed by fire, once was
Given up to Frenchman’s blow?
Old-timers talk about some frays,
And they remember well those days,
With cause all Russia fashion lays
About Borodino.”
“…That burning was impressive. No one in the army expected it.” Francis recounted with a soft smile, as if their battle from over one hundred years ago was just a scuffle at the playground.
“But we rebuilt. Three quarters of the city’s buildings, thousands of homes destroyed. Without a single nail, as Russians say.” Russia let a rare smile pass his face at the joke before turning serious again. “After a few decades we restored everything, and it turned out to be even better than before, like a new slate.” Ivan was quiet for a moment before rubbing Francis’ hand over the blanket. “You will rebuild, too. The vineyards will bloom again. The cafés would be open. And the light will find its way through stained glass.”
France took in Ivan’s words, his transparency, and nodded. He would rebuild.
So he talked. About Burgundy in the autumn, when the leaves turned gold and the grapes hung heavy on the vines. About the way morning light slanted through the windows of Notre-Dame, painting everything in blues and reds and golds. About the taste of fresh bread, still warm from the oven, and the way it crunched between your teeth and melted on your tongue.
Ivan listened, and occasionally, when Francis paused, urged for more with a soft question. “What color?” or “Did it smell like anything?” or simply “Tell me more.”
And Francis did.
At some point, without either of them noticing when, the storm stopped entirely. The rain softened to a gentle patter, then stopped as well. The wind died down. The only sounds were the quiet drip of water from the eaves and the soft rhythm of Francis’ voice.
France’s voice grew slower, more slurred, interrupted by yawns. His head, heavy with exhaustion, began to loll. He was still wrapped in Ivan’s blanket, still sitting close enough to feel the nation’s warmth, and the combination of safety, the storm’s end, the cozy feeling was finally done overwhelming him.
Without thinking, still caught in the ramble of his monologue about spring in Calais, his head came to rest against Ivan’s solid shoulder.
Ivan froze.
He looked down at the tangle of blond hair, the vulnerable curve of his neck. This was… unexpected. Uncomfortable. He should move. He should definitely move.
But the Frenchman was finally sleeping peacefully. His breathing was deep and even, his body slack with exhaustion. And the warmth seeping through Ivan’s shirt was… not unpleasant. It was, in fact, the first warm thing Ivan could remember feeling in a very long time.
Slowly, carefully, as if handling something infinitely fragile, Ivan allowed his own head to rest on top of France’s. He didn’t sleep. He rarely did after the start of the Cold War. But he sat there in the quiet, watching the nights sky through the window and listening to the other nation breathe,
Outside, the first pale light of dawn began to creep across the horizon.
~~~
When the grey light of morning finally filtered through the window, they were still there. Still curled together in close proximity on the too-small bed as the intimidating monster and the weak nation, finding a sliver of peace in the unlikeliest of places.
Francis woke slowly, consciousness returning in fragments. Warmth. Safety. The faint scent of sunflowers. A solid presence beneath his cheek.
His eyes flew open.
He was pressed against Ivan’s shoulder. Russia’s head was resting against his. The blanket was wrapped around both of them now, and Ivan’s arm was draped loosely across his back, not gripping or restraining, but merely present.
Francis’ entire body seized with panic.
Then Ivan looked down at him. He wasn’t smiling, his face was the same unreadable expression from the night before, and he simply said: “Storm has stopped.”
He stood up, gently untangling himself from the blanket and Francis, and walked to the bathroom as if nothing happened.
France sat there, wrapped in Ivan’s blanket, staring at the closed bathroom door, his mind struggling to catch up to the reality that he had not been murdered or brutally tortured, but simply held. Gently. By Russia.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart pound. Beneath the panic and confusion, there was something else. Something warm.
He dressed in a daze, folding Ivan’s blanket neatly and placing it on Ivan’s bed. When Russia emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, they didn’t speak. They simply looked at each other for a long moment. Then Ivan nodded once, a small, imperceptible gesture. Francis returned it.
They left the room, walking into London’s grey morning light. France was still processing what had happened when a hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around.
“Dude!” Alfred F. Jones’ face was inches from his own, blue eyes wide with concern behind rectangular glasses. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Are you okay? Did he do something to you? Did he hurt you?”
Francis blinked, his sleep-deprived brain struggling to catch up with the onslaught of information dumped on him. “Alfred, what are you…”
“Kiku said he saw you walking off together last night!” Alfred whisper-yelled, voice urgent. His grip on France was tightening. “Arthur roomed up with Mattie, and I was with Lovino, and really, I would’ve gone looking for you, but you were already gone, and I didn’t know what room you were in, and then the storm got so bad, and-” he stopped and took a breath. “Francis. Seriously. If he did anything to you, you can tell me. I’m the hero, remember? I can protect you from him.”
The concern was genuine, France knew that. Alfred, for all his bluster and naïvety, genuinely wanted to help. It was almost touching.
Almost.
“I’m fine, Alfred.” Francis pulled on his most dismissive smile. He quietly, but firmly removed America’s hands from his shoulders. “Nothing happened. We slept. The storm passed. That is all.”
Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “You look like shit.”
“Merci, your diplomacy is as charming as ever.”
“I’m serious!” Alfred pressed closer, lowering his voice further. “You’re pale, and you’ve got bags under your eyes, and you look like you’re shaking. Did he threaten you? Wait, did he touch you? Because I swear, if that fucking-”
“America.” Francis’ voice sharpened, and for a moment, something of the old France flickered in his gaze. “I said I am fine. Drop it.”
But Alfred was stubborn to a fault. Always had been. “I’m just trying to help you, man. You’ve been… you know. And Russia is dangerous. Talking about becoming one with him and shit. I just don’t want him taking advantage of you when you’re…”
He stopped, but the words hung in the air anyway.
Weak. Vulnerable. Broken.
Francis felt something cold settle in his chest. He knew what he looked like to others these days. A faded flag, a nation in decline. Pitied. Worried over. Managed.
And he was so tired of being managed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of a familiar scarf. Ivan stood near the corridor’s end, alone as always, studying a vending machine with the same intensity others might reserve for looking over a diplomatic treaty. He hadn't looked their way at all. Of course he hadn’t. Russia was probably used to being spoken about like this.
So Francis made a decision.
“I appreciate your concern, Alfred.” His voice was cool now, distant. “Truly. But it has been misplaced. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have something to attend to.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He simply turned and walked directly toward the tall figure by the vending machine.
Behind him, he heard Alfred’s confused, “Wait, what? France? Hey-”
Francis promptly ignored him.
He stopped a few feet from Ivan, close enough to be seen as part of the same space, yet far enough to maintain plausible deniability. Ivan had noticed his approach, and that perpetual smile slid into place.”
“Frantsisk.” A nod.
Francis gestured vaguely to the vending machine. “Do they have anything good in here? I am in desperate need of a snack.”
Ivan glanced at Francis, then back at the machine. “Just milk. And some fresh produce.”
“Of course. This country.” Francis sighed, some of his old theatricality crept into his posture. “How do they expect anyone to function?”
From across the hall, he could feel Alfred staring into his back. He could even picture the exact expression on the younger nation’s face. Confusion warring with suspicion, the urge to intervene held back only by social convention.
Let him watch.
“Last night,” Francis said quietly, not looking at Ivan, “I did not thank you. Properly. I was not myself.”
Ivan was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was just as low as France’s, careful to not be overheard by other milling nations. “You do not need to thank me.”
“Perhaps not. But I will do it anyway.” Francis finally glanced at him, and there was something raw in Russia’s eyes that got quickly masked. “So, thank you.”
There was another pause. Then, so softly Francis almost missed it, Ivan spoke up again: “You talked about the sun. In your country. It sounded… warm.”
Francis felt something crack, just slightly, in the careful wall he’d build around himself. He thought of the vineyards, the apricots, the light through stained glass. The things he’d babbled about half asleep in a post-panic haze. He felt it would be a pleasant thing to share with someone.
“Yes.” He said slowly with a deliberate nod. “It is very warm in the spring and summer.”
They stood still for a moment, two nations with more history than they cared to acknowledge, sharing a silence that felt almost comfortable.
Then Francis straightened his shoulders, smoothed his expression into something approaching serenity and said: “Alors… I suppose I can’t live off England’s vending machine milk. Would you like to see if there are more suitable cafés around? Consider it as payment for your… hospitality.”
Ivan’s smile flickered for just an instant, something that might almost have been a look of genuine surprise. Then the smile was back. “Da. I would like that.”
As they walked out into the street to find a sad little London café together, Francis didn’t look back to see if Alfred was still there, watching them.
Let him wonder. Let him stew in confusion and concern, completely unable to process what he was seeing. Let him see that Francis Bonnefoy was not as broken as everyone assumed. And that even apparent monsters could be gentle in the dark.
He could deal with the questions and explanations later. The inevitable interventions from well-meaning allies who thought they knew what was best for him.
But for now, he was going to drink terrible London coffee with the most feared nation in the world, and maybe invite him over to observe the man under the Paris sun.