Disclaimer: do not own blahblah.
I wrote this on a whim, inspired by a doujinshi I read once (Although the name escapes me). I hope you enjoy. All constructive feedback welcome.
In Your Place.
England awoke suddenly, caked in a cold sweat, stomach lurching and bounding like a vessel in a storm plagued ocean. His body felt heavy, his limbs refusing to move, but his mind was not clear enough to exert his will against them. With a sudden deep breath, his mind cleared, and he felt his strength return, if only a little, and his eyes could focus on the familiar dark blue canvas above his bed. Its stability was comforting to his rocking mind, convinced he was swaying where he lay, and he closed his eyes to regain his composure. A cold cloth pressed against his forehead, bringing a brief moment of clarity.
"Who…?"
He tried to lift himself, but small, strong hands gently pushed him back down.
"You have a fever, big brother." A young voice told him "Go back to sleep. You'll be okay in the morning."
America? Suddenly overcome with dizziness, his mind lapsed insensible, as he fell back to sleep.
The morning light drifted in through the window, bringing with it a gentle, chilled spring breeze and the scent of the roses and peony blooming in the garden. It was a plesent smell, and the cool breeze took the throbbing heat from his brow. Sitting up was hard, but he managed, peeling back the sheets and blankets – perhaps it was time to change to summer bedding – and standing to the best of his ability. With shaky steps, he crossed to the basin and washed his face, feeling refreshed and clear for first time in a while. Senses cleared, his side started to throb – sure enough, he was swaddled in fresh bandages.
The memory came back to him with the breeze – open air, high seas, he had locked rapiers with that empty-headed Spanish bastard. He had won – sunk the wanker like a rock – but he had been injured in the process. How long ago was that? It would have taken him a week to get back to Britain. His stomach lurched, empty, demanding to be fed. He groaned – in his weakened state, he didn't really feel like cooking, but he doubted any of his brothers cared about his injury enough to come to stay with him now. With a sigh, he pulled on some simple clothes and hobbled to the kitchen, but as he limped down the hall, the smell of lamb and potatoes met his nose.
Wales? Surely not. The figure of a boy greeted him in the kitchen. He looked around 10 or 11, perhaps a little too slim for his age, hands and feet bound with bandages. His clothes looked new, and above what he supposed the boys parents could honestly afford. Perhaps hearing his pained shuffles, the boy turned around.
"Ah, big brother!" the boy greeted happily "Lunch is almost ready, please sit down."
That accent… another wave of nausea hit him, and he steadied himself against the wall.
"Big brother?!" the boy rushed forward and grabbed him.
England laughed pitifully, and with a pained smile, ruffled the worried lads silver hair.
"I'm alright." He promised "Don't you waste your energy worrying about me, Russia."
The lads lavender eyes betrayed his concern as he clutched helplessly at Englands sleeve. England smiled again, trying to appear less pained.
"Take that look off your face, lad!" he ordered "It hurts me far more than this little cut ever can."
Looking on the verge of crying, Russia threw his arms around England. He started to hug him tightly, but remembering his injuries, lessened his grip. The scruffy blonde country felt his shirt become damp.
"Hey now, boy, what's gotten into you? You weren't that worried, were you?"
Russia became still, and after a moment he released the older nation, childish – if somewhat unnerving – smile spread across his face.
"I just never thought this would really happen." He said absently.
Eh?
Oh, right. The fever must have addled his brain, his memories just trickled by like water through a sieve. His nation was almost bankrupt. He couldn't afford the vessels and crew needed to get to the new world in search of riches like many of his neighbours in Europe. It was somewhat humiliating, but ever resilient, England had gone eastward instead, searching out new markets for trade in the frozen Baltics. There, he had met the young boy that was Russia. The world was full of cruelty and unfairness – Britain knew that well – but he found that he just couldn't turn a blind eye to his young nations maltreatment. After filling Russias head with tales of rolling green fields and bright, warm summers, the young nation was practically chomping at the bit to leave his frozen tundra behind. As for Russias boss – well, who cared what they thought. Their trade with Western Europe was too valuable to them for them to be able to make demands.
Britain ruffled Russias hair again.
"No more fake smiles, Russia." He urged "You don't have to pretend with me."
Russia examined Englands face, lavender eyes taking in his every feature, and finally his expression softened.
"Ivan." He insisted "If I call you 'big brother', you must call me 'Ivan.'"
"Alright, alright." England agreed "Now, let's go eat before the stew curdles."
With good, hearty food and the land of his nation beneath his feet, Britain soon returned to health, and talk came once again of him heading back out to sea. Thanks to their commerce with the frozen east, the nations coffers were filling briskly, and the lords and ladies of the land were eager for the spirit of their nation to set sail and bring back the riches of the new world. Russia, however, was most certainly not.
"But it sounds so dangerous!" he pleaded with England "What about storms and sea monsters? What if the new world is full of bears and wolves and strange new diseases?!"
"Ivan…"
"Big brother, please don't go!"
He threw his arms around the older nation and buried his face in his chest.
"Please don't go!" he begged pitifully "I need you here! I need you here!"
Britain sighed and wrapped his arms around the boy – god, he was growing fast – holding him gently.
"Come now, you're not a baby." He cooed "You're a strong lad, Ivan, you'll be fine without me."
"But what if you die, big brother!" he screeched, pulling away to look England in the face "What if you're killed in the new world? What if you're lost at sea? What will happen to this country if you drown?"
"What if the moon falls out of the sky?" England parroted "What if everyones nose falls off?" he asked, giving the boy an eskimo kiss "What is everybody suddenly turns French? You can't live your life wondering 'what if.'"
Russia looked even more frustrated, holding his big brother tighter.
"I won't let you go!" he insisted "I'll make you stay, big brother!"
England never did go to the new world. Something always came up, be it the wishes of his queen, the needs of his countrymen, or his trade to the east. As soon as talk of setting sail would start, Ivan would cling to him like a little boy, and the bigger he got, the more difficult it was to shake him off. Soon enough, rumours started circulating that the personification of the new nation had been found – a little boy by the name of America – and taken in by the cheese eating surrender monkey. While jealous of Frances mobility, England felt a little bad for the boy, knowing full well what it was like to put up with the too touchy France.
Meanwhile, Russia continued to grow, and grow, and grow, until he was far taller than England himself. Although the silver haired nation was still as sweet and childish as before, England did find it rather funny to refer to him as his 'little' brother. In time, his wounds healed, and the scars of the past faded. Occasionally, he would return to the vast land of his birth for business, but he never stayed long. His relations with his (frankly insane) sisters weren't the best, and he was always happy to see his big brother upon his return. Whenever England had to travel, Ivan would try his best to accompany him, but he didn't panic the way he did when talk of the new world came up. England knew that the boy hated to be alone, and his soft spot for the child made sure he usually gave in to his whims. The dread pirate England was definitely softening in the company of the younger nation.
Of a winters eve, the brothers sat before a fire to warm their cockles. Ivan sat on the rug before the hearth, leant back against Britain, who absentmindedly played with his silky hair, while an embattled looking France slouched in the armchair beside them, irked at their lack of sympathy for his tale of woe.
"I'm telling you, Arthur, c'est terrible!" he whined "I thought it would be like when we were young, but non!" he huffed "That America is untameable! 'E is like a wild animal, always fighting! And freakishly strong…"
"Well, what did you expect?" was the younger nations reply "You've been getting weaker and weaker with every passing year, like the big girls blouse that you are. Did you really expect to be able to handle governing another nation? From what I hear, America is a massive nation."
"Oui." France spat bitterly "Between 'im and Canada, they 'ave eaten me out of 'ouse an 'ome!" he sighed, eyeing Ivan "I envy you, Arthur."
"What's that, old chap?"
"Your little Ivan 'angs on your every word!" France pointed out, hugging his torso against the winters cold "And 'e is equally as big as America! 'Ow do you do it?"
England thought of an answer right away, but stayed his tongue. He was trying, these days, to be a gentleman, and if he could pull it off with Francis, he could pull it off with anyone. He jumped a little as he felt Russia wrap his arms around his waist and rest his head on his lap.
"Well, I'm not afraid he's going to sexually harass me." Ivan said, taking the words strait from Arthurs brain.
"Wha…?!" Francis was clearly scandalised "What kind of man do you take big brother for?! I would never lay my 'and on an enfant!"
England remembered things differently – although the two of them were far closer in age than France was with Canada or America, so did it count? Ivan simply smiled and tightened his grip on Arthurs waist.
"The taxes you have levied against the new world have been harsh." Ivan pointed out "And your government lacks the authority to govern them forcefully. America and Canada will be better off independent from you. Or maybe Sweden and Finland will take over their care?"
France went bright red, starting from the ears and moving inward to his nose. Ivan simply smirked.
"Big brother, I'm tired." Ivan said to Arthur, interrupting France before he could shriek at him "Its time for bed, da?"
"Oh? Well, it is getting late." Arthur reasoned and, remembering the ways of the gentleman, turned to France "Will you be staying the night?"
France, arms still crossed, glared at Ivan.
"Oui." He spat "S'il vous plait."
"Eh?" Ivan immediately interjected "But where will he sleep? The spare room is being renovated, there's no bed in there..!"
England thought for a moment. Before he could open his mouth, he felt France wrap his arms possessively around his shoulders. Well, that's a lie – he smelt him first, that lily cologne as overpowering as always.
"Perhaps I should spent the night in the bed of mon petite frère." France teased, half hissing, never taking his eyes off Ivan.
"No thanks." Was Englands immediate response, raising his arms to shake off Frances grip.
"Wh-… you wound me!"
"Yes, I'm sure. Get off a moment, Ivan."
England stood, trying to think of what a gentleman would do in this situation. He would give up his bed or share it. He certainly didn't fancy the idea of sharing a bed with France – even if he got through the night unmolested, he would have to launder the sheets at least three times to get the cologne stench out. He couldn't ask Ivan to give up his bed for the Frenchman. Resigned, he sighed.
"You-"
"You can stay in my room." Ivan offered immediately, standing, almost an entire head above Francis "I'll stay with big brother in his room."
France looked displeased, hands on his hips.
"Well, that's that." England agreed "Ivan, why don't you go and get changed so Francis can have your room."
"Alright." Russia started to leave the room, eyes fixed of France "Perhaps next time, big brother France will find himself an inn to stay in like a good guest."
Arthur ignored him, but France was fuming. As Ivan closed the door to the room, he turned to England.
"Is 'e always like this?" he demanded.
"Pardon?"
"I 'ave barely seen you at all since you took 'im in." Francis complained, taking the smaller man by the shoulders "An'now you 'ave changed so much! Big brother is worried! There is something…not right about that boy!"
"You!" England shook him off "There's nothing wrong with Ivan! You haven't seen me because you've been so busy with America and Canada, and we only ever fight when we do see each other, so what exactly are you so pissed about?!"
"Angleterre-"
"Don't you Angleterre me! Just because you're fucking up with your little brothers doesn't mean you can ruin my relationship with Ivan! I swear, you never fucking change!" England sighed in exasperation "Perhaps it would be best if you left first thing tomorrow."
"But-"
England walked away, leaving France staring after him. He proceeded strait to his room to prepare for bed, positively fuming. After a little while, there was a light knock on the door. England called to enter, and Ivan edged into the room in his bed clothes.
"Is Mr. France alright?" he asked innocently "He looked upset."
"He always looks like that." England spat "All that garlic he eats. Don't worry about it."
Ivan smiled happily and jumped into Englands bed. Finished changing, he joined him, and Ivan wrapped his arm around his big brother.
"Are you cold, Ivan?"
"Uh-hu."
"I'll get another blanket then."
"No, this is fine." Ivan insisted, keeping England pinned with a surprising amount of strength in his one arm "I like it better this way."
"Well…" whatever "That's fine. Just go to sleep."
Ivan smiled happily. The two stayed silent as they passed into slumber.
God knows what time it was. It was dark as pitch, the new moon high in the starry night sky. Francis had tossed and turned for a while, his mind buzzing. Something definitely wasn't right. Something about Ivan. Russia was a massive country, it didn't need Britains support. Even with the British Empire gaining more and more power, that boy was overly attached to Arthur. Something in those Lavender eyes rung false with him, but he just couldn't put his fingers on what. He wanted to grab England, take him away, shake him by the shoulders and make him understand… but what would he say? All he had the tingling in the back of his neck that told him something was awry.
His door opened. Frustrated and tired, France sat up.
"'Ave you decided to listen to listen to big brother, mon Angleterre?" he cried in exasperation "Or 'ave you come for another fight, because I am not in the mood!"
"Niet." Was the response from the dark.
France froze. Why was Russia coming to him in the dead hours of the night?
"Russia? Wh-what can I do for you?"
"You can go away."
"Wha?"
Russia came close, and as Frances eyes adjusted to the dim, he could see an unnerving fake smile plastered across his face. His whole spine turned to jelly as he was leered at by Russias cold stare.
"I'm happy now." Russia said simply "I won't let you ruin it. Not you. Not him. Not anyone."
He grabbed France by his nightshirt and pulled him up, Francis suddenly aware how strong the younger country was.
"He is not your England anymore. He is my England." He pointed out "Tomorrow you will leave, and you will not come back. If you do come back, I will kill you."
Russia released his shirt, and he fell back to the bed, aghast. The dead look on his face, the absolution in his voice. What a terrifying person.
"Go back to America." Russia suggested "And stay there. I'll be taking care of England now. Make your eros-eros love-hate relationship work with him instead."
"Him?"
Russia didn't reply. He stared at him a moment more before leaving, back into the darkness from whence he came.
"See you in 1914." He muttered over his shoulder "Perhaps."
France was gone when England got up the next morning. How fucking rude! And after he had gone out of his way to be a gentleman to the bastard. He wasn't going to bother with that again, and he was going to give him a piece of his mind next time he saw him. England took out his frustration on his morning eggs as Ivan sat patiently at the table.
"Did that bastard say anything to you before he took off?" Arthur demanded.
"Niet, not a thing since last night." Ivan confirmed.
England grimaced and beat the eggs harder. Russia, watching him, simply smiled.