Four years ago, this was my first upload. Now, I have returned to it with a revamp. The entire story was bothering me. In comparison, I personally believe this version to be much better than the original. _;

(Also, as a very minor note, if you ever read or kept up with Broken Pieces... it is being worked on. It's gone through several revisions over the years I have failed to update it, but I promise that I am working on it and I have every intention of completing it.)

Critiques welcome and encouraged.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia... you get the gist.

Pairing(s): Russia/France

Enjoy?

France slumped back in his chair as he listened to another nation ramble about various economic problems and possible steps they could take to solve said problems. Who was it this time…? He glanced up from the table in front of him to the speaker. Ah, yes, it was Japan this time.

Maybe because America wasn't in the spotlight at the moment, this particular conference was going rather… smoothly. It was an odd and rare spectacle, for sure. By now, someone would have barged in late or one of the more outspoken nations would have created an argument and the entire meeting would have gone horribly awry.

Not this time, it seemed.

A sigh left his lips. Perhaps he should try to enjoy this while it lasted. After all, soon enough, he was going to end up with a broken bone, maybe two. France shuddered at the thought.

Angleterre… his eyes settled on the bushy-browed man and his mouth fell into a grimace. England caught his gaze and smirked back at him, just for a second, before returning his attention to Japan. Cocky, underhanded, bushy-browed… ugh.

It just so happened that England had managed to gain the upper hand against him last year before the World Conference that had been set in Vienna, Austria. Damned Brit had managed to get both pictures and recordings of a rather… shameful moment of his.

This had happened many times before. Each time, it usually resulted in the pictures being sent to every nation in the world and his reputation would worsen. Usually. Not so, this time. Oh, he could tolerate being treated like a perverted lecher or a wimp or anything else his fellow nations decided to describe him as. But not this. Those photos… oh, he couldn't. He wouldn't be able to bear the shame if those made it out. Not at all.

Rather, he felt it almost heartless of England to use those pictures against him like that.

France tore his eyes away from England and found himself taking peeks at a nation seated far away from him on the opposite side of the room. Russia's attention was on Japan, or so it appeared. He was glad of that. He didn't want to accidentally lock gazes with the terrifying man.

But in the end… I will have to confront him. Oh, Angleterre wishes for me an early death, doesn't he?

Russia had calmed over the years. Not as overbearing or threatening. At the very least, he didn't carry around that pipe with him. Still, he kept that intimidating air, the unspoken message to stay away.

And that's what everyone did. No one wanted to attempt to be friendly with him. Well, except his sisters, Belarus and Ukraine. Of course, Belarus was even more terrifying than Russia himself. And Ukraine was… Ukraine.

France made a pillow of his arms and set his head down and shut his eyes. Oh, why oh why would Angleterre do something so cruel as telling him to kiss Russia? He could scarcely imagine what Russia would do to him if he tried something like that.

Smash in his face? Break his nose? His arm? Maybe a punch to the gut? Please, please, pleaaaaase let me get away without needing a cast!

He groaned and shook his head. No, no. Don't think about. Just don't think about it right now.

Kissing was something he could usually do with ease. Maybe he could get away with a kiss on the cheek? As a greeting—though England had expressly said on the lips. Even on the lips… anyone but Russia, and he would be okay!

Okay, anyone but Russia and Japan. The small nation didn't look it, but he was strong. As he promptly demonstrated at the Vienna conference when England had dared France to do something similar to Japan and ended up getting flipped and his arm nearly ripped out of its socket for it. No, he was not going to repeat that mistake. At least he had gotten to apologize to Japan later, and their friendship was kept intact.

He wouldn't get off so easily with Russia… that, he was almost certain of.

A tap on his shoulder.

France groaned and shrugged away from the touch.

Another tap.

"Quit it…" he muttered, words slurred with sleep.

This time, shaking both shoulders.

Finally, he lifted his head up and turned to glare at whoever was disturbing him. "Who i—," his expression immediately softened when he saw who it was, "aaah, mon petit Canada~. What do you need from moi?"

"Um, it's lunchtime now…" Canada murmured in that soft voice of his.

"Ah…" France looked around the room and found that most of the nations were absent from the room. Only a few stragglers remained. One of those stragglers was Russia. He swallowed thickly and directed his attention back to Canada. "Thank you for waking me. It seems I was rather tired." He stood up and stretched out his arms. "Shall we make our way to the lunch room, then?"

Canada nodded. France set his hand on the small of Canada's back as he led him out of the room. Canada seemed startled at the touch, but smiled up at him afterwards.

The lunchroom was rowdy, as expected. Just as they walked into the room, he noticed Spain dodging various magical spells thrown by none other than England himself, whose face was contorted in fury. What the hell had Spain done to get on England's bad side this time?

Romano was spewing curses at Germany, who was patiently listening while eating a lunch of bratwurst and mashed potatoes, Italy latched onto one of his arms and trying to calm down his brother.

Various other commotions were happening around the room, and France decided to get a light lunch of a salad and… he eyed the bottle of wine laid out at the end of the table. Perhaps a bit of liquid courage would help him in his suicidal endeavor.

He sat down with Canada, making small talk amongst the chaos of the lunchroom. His food was gone within minutes, as was the glass of wine he had poured for himself. It wasn't like him to be so hurried, but while he had few eyes on him, maybe he could try and get this thing with Russia over with…?

"Are you all right, France—?"

Just as Canada had asked the question, England stomped his way over to their table. His face was flushed, but the smirk plastered on his face told him that whatever Spain had done, he had paid it back twice over.

England crossed his arms and raised a brow at France, "Aren't you going to get it over with, frog?"

He glared at the cocky Brit and stood up from his seat. "Just watch, why don't you?" He feigned confidence and turned to Canada, "Sorry, mon cher, but I have something to do. Thank you for the chat."

With that, France strode over to the seat where Russia was sitting quietly, picking at the food on his plate. He was alone.

…He should have had more wine.

France swallowed, his fists clenching and unclenching. Relax, relax. Be natural.

Straightening his posture and putting some confidence into his strut, France made his way to Russia, peering down at him and asking with a lazy grin, "Russie, is this seat taken?" He gestured to one of the seats next to Russia.

Russia looked up from his plate, cold eyes boring into France. Yet also… his face scrunched up with curiosity, just for one second, his brows furrowed and his mouth pulled into a frown. And then it was gone, and Russia was smiling up at France.

"Nyet." When France seated himself, Russia went on to ask, "To what do I owe this pleasure, France?"

…Shit. Now that he was actually here, he didn't know how to go about this at all. More like, how could he, surrounded by everyone?

"Well," he drawled, "I have been thinking about you lately and realized that I would like to spend more time with you," his smile stayed even as his mind screamed, Where the hell did that come from?! "Get to know you…" he gazed at Russia with half-lidded eyes, "if you know what I mean."

Russia was silent. Whether from shock or amusement or something else entirely, he could not tell. It took all his courage not to flee from the table. He kept up his suggestive gaze, his grin, his relaxed and confident air, even while he could feel eyes begin to turn his way.

Then, slowly, Russia's smile widened and small laugh crept out.

The entire room froze. Some silverware clattered against a plate. All eyes were now on the pair. Dread pooled in France's stomach as he felt the weight of those gazes and saw the interest lighting up the lavender eyes he was now looking into.

"What do you say, mon ami?" France spoke up to break the silence, and thankfully, the other nations quickly returned to whatever had preoccupied them before. "Would you like to go out for a drink with me after this meeting?"

It didn't take Russia long to respond. "Da," he said simply.

"Great," France grinned, "Meet me in the lobby after the meeting is over."

With that set up, France strutted back to his seat. It was only when he sat down that his smile broke and he hung his head. Oh, he was going to die tonight, wasn't he?

England was standing nearby, one arm around his stomach and the other over his mouth as he muffled his laughs. France glared at the Brit as he came closer.

"That," he said between laughs, "was brilliant!"

With today's conference finished, nations were filing out of the doors and into the elevators, either up to their rooms or to the lobby for some drinks. Brushing past France, England clapped him on the back with a smirk. "Don't forget to take a picture!"

France rolled his eyes as England slipped into one of the elevators with America at the last moment. Damned Brit… he had the night to romance his obnoxious lover, and here he was, counting down the moments to his doom. He grimaced, dread causing a chill to roll down his spine.

Perhaps it was pure coincidence that Russia ended up in the same elevator as France with only two other nations. Both had their trembling bodies squeezed up against the corners of the small space, though Russia paid them no heed. It was only France's pride that kept him from backing up into a corner himself. A long silence filled the elevator as it descended to the lobby. He dared a quick glance at Russia and found himself locking gazes with the man.

France turned to face him and forced a smile onto his lips. "That was quite a long meeting, wasn't it. mon ami? It's a shame that little seemed to get accomplished in that time, but there's always tomorrow, oui?"

Russia nodded, smiling back. "Da."

The silence resumed until, finally, the elevator reached the lobby. As soon as the doors opened, the frightened nations of Finland and Estonia scrambled out of the small space and reached the exit of the hotel in record time.

France softly laughed at the two in hasty retreat, part of him wishing he could do the same, but he had a date with the imposing nation beside him and he wasn't about to let those pictures get sent out. Side by side, they strolled out of the hotel and France started leading the way through the streets to one of the bars he often visited whilst in Berlin.

It was awkward walking along with Russia. He seemed content with the silence, but as it stretched on France was becoming more wound up. Would he be able to pull this off? And more than that, how would he be able to get a picture without tipping the man off that something was up? He should have told England to follow them to the bar… it would have made this endeavor slightly easier.

After walking a few blocks from the hotel, they came upon a quaint little pub. The place was a small yet comfortable family-owned and -operated bar. Outside it had a neon sign with bright letters spelling out "The Stork's Inn". The workers were polite and competent, and the bartender turned out to be a rather nice conversationalist, as he had found out during one of his previous visits.

France and Russia took seats at the bar and a German man with shaggy blonde locks held back in a ponytail, soft brown eyes, and stubble lining his jaw came up to them. He gave Francis a faint smile, speaking as he cleaned out a few glasses and laid them out for later use. "Ah, Francis! Welcome back. Haven't seen you around in a while. Just visiting the city, I take it?" The accent was thick in his words but his English was easily understood to France's ears.

France nodded, "Oui. It is nice to be here again. And this time I brought a friend." He paused and gestured to Russia, giving the nation a slight smile before continuing. "He seemed to be in need of a drink or two."

The bartender nodded, glancing back and forth from the glasses to Russia, obviously unnerved by the nation's stature and atmosphere. "Well, what will it be for you two?"

France glanced at the bottles shelved behind the counter. "I'll have a glass of Merlot." He glanced over at Russia. "My treat, order whatever you'd like."

As expected, his answer was simply, "Vodka on the rocks."

The man nodded and went about readying their drinks. He set down the two drinks in front of them. "Enjoy," he said before going off to attend to other customers.

France delicately picked up his glass, swirling the liquid in it for a moment before taking a sip and letting out a contented sigh. "Not quite like the vineyards of France, but still a delight to the taste buds."

Russia remained silent as he took a small drink of from his glass. So, they were now here, together, and yet France had no idea what to do, what to say. His usual composure and grace seemed to have left him, for he felt ready to jump out of his skin with just a glance from the other.

In the midst of his internal struggle, Russia spoke up, "Why did you really invite me out for drinks, France?"

Was that a hint of nervousness he detected in his voice? Surely not. He looked as calm and composed as France was not.

"I told you earlier," France purred with a smile, "I would like to get to know you." On impulse, he continued, "You have been… quieter in recent years. No longer threatening others or trying to scare them off. This change has intrigued me for some time, and so I believed it would be nice to invite you out and chat."

Surprisingly, he wasn't entirely lying. He had noticed the change in Russia's disposition. And it had intrigued him. Perhaps not enough to invite him out, but enough for him to wonder. Maybe at last he could get some answers… before his face was smashed in when he went in for a kiss.

Mon Dieu, please let me leave this bar with my bones intact.

That would be nice.

Russia stared at him for a few moments before taking another sip, appearing content with his answer. France slowly nursed his glass of wine while he mulled over what topics to bring up and how he could get this accursed evening over with.

Instead of straight out attempting to seduce him, France decided to start with small talk. With a little effort, it began to flow nicely. They talked about each of their countries, business, and other random topics.

Eventually, after a good hour of conversation and another glass of wine, France found himself relaxing while Russia, he noted, seemed to be getting more nervous and tense. His eyes continuously darted towards the entrance, and more than once his leg set to shaking and his fingers were drumming against the counter. A few times, France followed Russia's gaze to the door, only to find nothing of interest there.

Seeing that his time was running out, France made his attempt to close the deal and get that kiss. Acting more drunk than he really was, France turned in his seat so his entire body was facing Russia and he leaned towards him, gazing at him with half-lidded eyes.

"The more I talk with you, mon Russie, the more I find myself attracted to you… such deep eyes… a beautiful smile just barely sitting on those lips, those captivating lips." France reached his hand out to brush his thumb over Russia's mouth. He felt the man twitch under his touch. "If only given the chance, I would capture them with my own. Explore them… would they be rough, dry? Cold and soft?" He licked his own lips as he lifted his gaze to meet Russia's. It was strange to admit that he was, in that moment, wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

Russia stared down at France, his gaze unwavering. He took a quick glance around them and stiffened slightly before relaxing once more. His eyes returned to France and he pulled his hand away from his cheek as he leaned forward, moving so his lips were just barely brushing his cheek. He whispered softly, "Why don't you find out?"

France started, surprised at Russia's response. He managed to regain composure, and then questioned, "May I?"

A soft sigh escaped Russia's lips and he took his eyes off of France and made a small gesture towards the door where a small figure was huddled, glancing every now and then through the window beside the entrance. France felt a sense of recognition as he glanced at the figure by the window. He looked back up at Russia, "Biélorussie?" Russia nodded. "What is she doing here?"

Russia gave him a frown, shaking his head softly, "Nyet." With that, he slid off of the bar stool and tugged France off his, leading him into a shadowed area in the back of the bar. He pushed France gently against the wall and let go of his wrist. One of his hands wandered down his hip and towards his thigh while the other rested beside his shoulder. He leaned in, "Why don't we kill two birds with one stone?"

Once the last word left his lips, Russia had captured France's lips within his own.

Shocked at his actions, France failed to notice Russia's hand slip into his pocket and pull something out. Vaguely, beneath his surprise, he explored the sensation of Russia's lips against his. They were dry and cold, much like he expected, but also had a certain softness to them. France closed his eyes and moved his mouth against Russia's, almost losing himself in the moment until he heard the click of a camera going off.

He jerked away and out of the kiss, eyes snapping open. Russia's face was mere inches away. Slowly, he tore his eyes away from the man he had just kissed and towards Russia's outstretched hand. He was holding France's phone up.

"Wha—?!" He gaped. When did Russia grab his phone? And more to the point, why?

Oh mon Dieu, he knew.

This was it. France was going to die. It had been a nice life.

But instead of a fist crushing his face, instead of any of the violent actions that raced through France's mind, Russia simply stepped back and placed France's phone in his hand.

Russia smiled at him, amused. He laughed, "Thank you for the drink, France. I look forward to next time."

Without a glance back at France, Russia turned to leave. France did notice, dumbstruck as he was, that Belarus was nowhere to be seen.

What just happened?

France fumbled with his phone and opened up his gallery. Sure enough, there was a clear picture of the two of them kissing. Well then.

He had his evidence. He had all of his limbs intact. And he had even managed to enjoy that kiss.

The resounding question of why still swirled around in his head.

Suddenly tired, he pinched the bridge of his nose and pocketed his phone. It was time to go to sleep. He would get back to the hotel, crash, wake up, show England the photo, and then move on with his life. It was a fine plan. The why didn't matter.

At least, that's what France kept telling himself as he paid for the drinks and wandered his way back to the hotel.