Russia smiled gently as he stepped out of the government building, and resisted the urge to spread his arms and stretch. If Germany was tense in casual conversation, he was rigid during discussions. The talk, as usual, had been of the recent pact, and the meeting had been brief. It was the end of winter, but the sun had a soft glow to it, drifting behind clouds occasionally and sending the cobblestone streets into sporadic fits of shadow.

He could feel the chill of the vodka bottle pressed to his skin, hidden beneath the thick fabric of his trench coat, and he withdrew it, eager to refresh himself after the tense negotiations.

Russia continued walking down the steps of the building, but paused when he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye.

"Germany, Germany, look at all the people!"

"There are no more people here than usual, Italy..."

The brown hair and dazed aloof gait were unmissable, especially next to the stern, broad-shouldered German officer accompanying him. Russia walked over to his allies, steel-toed boots silent as he approached.

"...I have to meet with my boss now." Germany turned to the man beside him. "You know the way back to the hotel room. Here is the key, and don't lose it."

Italy took the small metal key from Germany with a frown. "But why can't I go with you?"

Germany sighed. "Because I am meeting with my boss. He is my boss, Italy, not our boss. Lebewohl."

Italy stared at Germany's retreating figure walking down a side street. He would explore a bit before going back to the hotel room. After all, he had never been in Russia before. Maybe he would even find some of the other nations and talk with them. Italy stared up at the buildings as he walked, not paying any attention to the many people walking around him, including the tall blond making his way toward him.

Russia broke the bottle's seal as he approached. His eyes moved to Germany briefly then fell back on Italy. He stopped a few steps away from his guest and sipped his drink. It had been some time since he had spoken to either Italy, and his first conversation with them had been far too brief. He put his hand on the man's shoulder, earning him a glance and a shriek. He smiled in response. "Italy!" Russia exclaimed. "I am glad to see you again. Have you been enjoying yourself?"

Italy mentally cursed himself. He knew he should have gone back to the hotel and made himself some pasta, but it was far too late for that. Russia's hand on his shoulder had turned into a firm, almost painful grip, most likely to stop him from running away.

Russia waited a moment for Italy to respond before shaking his head and dismissing the question. "Let us walk. The meeting is over now. Your hotel is this way, da?" Gently, he pushed Italy forward, leading him out of the complex. Italy took a few steps and stumbled, but managed to keep himself upright. Russia was, in fact, pushing him in the opposite direction of his hotel, but when he tried tobring this to the Russian's attention, his complaints were brushed aside.

"It has been a nice day, Italy." Russia mused aloud, looking up at the sky. "Negotiations are going well." His eyes crinkled in mirth as he looked down at the younger man. "For a while, I thought that Comrade Germany and his boss were acting strange...but this meeting has put my fears aside." He paused in mid-step, the smile dead on his face. "Mostly." He added softly. His fingers dug into Italy's shoulder momentarily when he began to walk. "Do you know when Germany will be returning?"

To fill the long walk, Italy thought about all of the pretty girls and buildings he had seen earlier that day. He barely noticed as they left the city and began passing small houses scattered here and there on the outskirts of Moscow. Italy stared. How had they gotten there so fast? "Um, R-Russia? Where are we going? My hotel was back there...I was going to make pasta..." stammered Italy.

Russia slowed his pace slightly as they approached city's border. "I wanted to show you my house." He explained lightly. "You have not been there before, da?" His eyes lit up. "Which means you have also not met the Baltics yet!"

He came to a stop and turned to Italy. "You really should meet them. They are a lot of fun." He grinned. "We should play a game as well, to celebrate! I am not so good at soccer though...I know that is one of your favorites. We can just play something from the Home Country!"

Italy stared at the edges of the city of Moscow. In the distance he could see apartments where lights were blazing in a few of the windows, making a stark contrast to the buildings' dull exterior. A bit farther than the various apartments and small houses, Italy could see a dark spot against the other twinkling lights. "Which one is your house, Russia?" He pointed to the shaded area. "Is it that one? And what game are we going to play? I really like playing cards!"

"Da, that one is mine." He cocked his head. "I am not too sure I want to play a card game though..."

The streets were mostly silent as they approached; night fell quickly in the late winter months. Cars were few and far between, and the streetlamps here had dimmed considerably due to lack of proper maintenance. Now, with the sun dropping steadily, there was a certain biting crispness to the air, and heavy clouds were rolling in over the sky. Russia took a long swig of vodka. A snowstorm was approaching, and quickly at that. "We should hurry," He gestured to the sky, to the black expanse speckled with stars and the moon half-smothered by clouds. "There is a storm coming. I would not want my guest to be stuck outside."

Italy ignored the small shiver that ran down his spine as he stared at Russia's dark house. He distantly heard Russia's voice through his thoughts, and that snapped him back to the present. Italy glanced upwards and saw that while he had been thinking, much time had passed and thick clouds threatening rain were slowly gathering overhead. Another small shiver coursed down his back as the nearest streetlight flickered, glowed brightly, then blew out, plunging the pair into sudden darkness.

Russia glanced up. A frown tugged at the corner of his mouth and he shook his head in disappointment. Somehow, the darkness made the cold all the more apparent, and he could feel the emptiness of the bottle.

He paced up his front walk, gently pushing Italy along as his pace faltered. The front door was unlocked. "The Baltics are here..." Russia murmured, pushing the door open. Italy stumbled forward over the threshold as he was nudged along.

Russia adjusted his scarf as he walked into his house and looked around. A few lights were on, but the house was silent, save for the faint creeks and moans of the settling wood. Russia took a few steps towards the hallway leading from the doorway. "Would you like something to drink...? I have no wine, but I have vodka." He paused and turned back to Italy. "Or I can make tea. You are my guest, da? Whatever you would like."

As Italy entered the huge space of the landing, he was amazed by the size of Russia's house. A small thought made itself known in the back of Italy's mind: hadn't Russia said the Baltic nations – whoever they were – were here? He couldn't hear a sound. Italy turned his attention back to Russia. "Ve, I would like some pasta! Oh, you meant to drink? Ve...Do you have any tea? Tea is good." Italy turned around in slow circles, observing the house for a second time as if to memorize it.

Russia nodded. "Very well...Ah! I almost forgot!" He took a step towards Italy and held out a hand. "Do you want me to take your coat? You are lucky you visited so late in the year. In winter it would far colder."

Italy shrugged and made an ambiguous noise, and Russia left for his kitchen. In fact, Italy was quite glad to have his coat, as Russia's house was only a few degrees warmer than it had been outside. He wandered towards where Russia had previously been and saw the telephone on the wall. "Ve, Russia, can I use your phone? I should tell Germany and Japan where I am. They will be worried. After Germany gets finished with his special meeting, I mean."

Russia filled the kettle and set it on his stove, setting his vodka down on the table as he passed it. The burner was still slightly warm...so the Baltics really were home. He turned at Italy's request and raised his eyebrows. "You are thinking of leaving already?" He asked, a whine edging his voice. "But you have just arrived." He motioned to the table. "You will sit, da? It was a long walk from Moscow." He gave Italy his closest approximation of a warm smile. "You must be tired."

"Ve, I just don't want them to worry." He walked over to the table and tugged out a chair, wincing at the squeak it made while rubbing against the faded wood of the floor. "Especially Germany. He gets mad if I'm late." He sat down but kept his attention focused on the stove, Russia, and the steadily darkening window behind the smudged glass. Italy fidgeted during the entire conversation; he seemed to have unending energy.

The soft rumble of boiling water purred as Russia spoke and translucent haze of steam rose from the kettle's spout. "You are late very often?"

Italy shifted around in his chair, the wood creaking in protest. "Sometimes. It's mostly because I follow a pretty girl home. Then I make her pasta." He sat up straighter at the mention of his favorite food. "Ve, do you have any pasta? I could make some," the small Italian offered eagerly.

Russia shook his head slowly. "No, I don't. My apologies." He walked forward and placed his hands on the edge of the table. With an amicable smile, he leaned towards Italy and shrugged his shoulders. "How have things been going with Comrade Germany? Our talks are mostly business, but I would like to know if everything is alright with him."

Italy unconsciously edged away from Russia, leaning back as the tall man leaned forward. "Ve, Germany is as strict as ever! We do lots of training every day, even here in Russia! Mostly he watches me run laps, but he lifts weights sometimes. And...we did weapons training the other day, but it didn't end so well..." Italy seemed reluctant to continue, ending his chatter abruptly.

Russia raised his eyebrows in pleased surprise. "It must be nice to have someone who cares so greatly about you. Germany certainly pays a lot of attention to your well-being." He sighed. "I heard that his attack on England did not go so well...That is unfortunate."

Italy gave a noncommittal nod and glanced around. "Ve, Russia, this was kind of you and all, but I really have to get back to Germany. He said we have some extra hard training in the morning, and I want to get back and eat some pasta," said Italy.

"But you do that everyday, and it seems as though we never get a chance to talk." Russia protested gently. He reached a hand out towards Italy to pat his shoulder. "You will stay a little longer, da? I'm sure Germany will understand. It is merely a conversation between comrades?"

"Ve, but pasta is delicious. And there are so many different kinds! There's spaghetti and penne and rotini and lasagna and..." Italy's voice faded as he saw Russia's frozen expression. He shrugged and agreed, seeing no harm in staying a while longer. He peered out the window at the heavy white flakes falling slowly from the dark sky.

Russia followed Italy's gaze out the window. "And it is snowing now. You would be a fool to walk back to Moscow in this weather. You will at least stay until the storm passes, da?"

Italy hesitated a moment before bobbing his head happily. "Ve, this is so nice of you, Russia! I don't think Germany would mind if I stayed until the snow stopped. But, he did say not to go with you –" Italy stopped suddenly and pressed his hand over his mouth.

"Eh?" Russia tipped his head to the side. His hands tensed and braced against the table slightly. "What was that Italy?" His lips twitched, hinting at a smile. "Please, continue. I wish to know what you have to say."

Italy took his hand away from his mouth, but his eyes remained wide and full of fear. He stuttered and stammered when he next spoke. "U-um, n-nothing, Russia...nothing..."

Russia shook his head. "Go on. I am curious, comrade."

Italy opened his mouth as if to say something, but he suddenly stood up, knocking his chair over. He made for the door, stumbling in his haste, and glanced back.

Russia was gone.

Panting, Italy snuck toward the entrance to the kitchen and peered around the corner. Still no Russia. Taking a chance, Italy sprinted to the hallway, the thick door within sight.

"Comrade!" Russia called after him. "Why are you so quick to leave?" Italy let out a small shriek as Russia's glove briefly touched his neck, spurred to run even faster towards the door, which he ran into with a thump. The small man shook his head quickly to stop the slight dizziness and yanked on the door handle.

Nothing happened.