Hetalia doesn't belong and never will belong to me and I only write for my own amusement, not for profit

Thanks to love

Finally, his little kitty, his majestic lion, went to sleep.

Opening his eyes he took in the straw blond hair and petite body. He had a very nice body, small and cute if you asked the one gazing upon him, but Arthur would blush and vehemently protest that, no, he wasn't small and he could summon up enough strength in his tiny body to knock anyone who said so out. But Ivan liked it and had to agree with him that he wasn't the smallest country in the world privately thinking that he only nearly was. Sealand was still smaller, after all.

It still sent a thrill through his body to remember that this nation he was holding in his arms had once been an empire, an empire where the sun never set, bent on conquering the world, a pirate that took everything and anything that was to his desire, with a fiery temper and burning emerald eyes. In that time England had the world on its knees before him. And while he wasn't that empire, that ruthless criminal, anymore the power still slept within him and all this power belonged to him, Russia, or Ivan like he preferred Arthur to call him.

Sheepishly he smiled though Arthur couldn't see it slumbering as he was. The instinct to conquer prevailed in him even if the days of the Russian Empire or the Soviet Union were long over but it was in the nature of nations to think that way. No matter what he assured others the little brat called United States of America also felt that desire and acted upon it. War of 1812 or something, wasn't it ? So he really shouldn't point fingers at others.

Growling, only thinking of the American, set him on edge and made him want to break something, someone if he had anything to say about it, and let their blood flow in rivers. It would be very satisfying to see that face in pain, to get him screaming, in agony, in misery, in rage, no matter what emotion as long as it was negative. He should be howling with madness, crying with sadness, struggling with loneliness, plagued with emptiness and shaking with suppressed fury. With sadistic glee he planned his steps to make this event happen when he felt Arthur snuggling up to his body and softly exhaling " Ivan" on his chest.

All his rage and insanity flew out the window and ,looking upon the man cuddling with him, were replaced with content and feelings of love. with twitching lips he contemplated how this man could calm him down so fast without even trying in his sleep.

Despite being once an empire Arthur was very kind, Ivan decided, you just had to dig a bit. He couldn't express his emotions very well and therefore turned to anger more often than not. It was only superficial anger , however, nothing serious and he probably wouldn't follow any threats made by him if you didn't push him too far. He had a very open face, not a good thing if you wanted to bluff, and yet he could bluff and lie very well, relict of his pirate days.

Ivan loved Arthur's face. Or to be exact, his eyes.

They mirrored the green of his plains and forests when they were still untouched by humanity. The meadows and fields that were back then filled with mystery and harmony, untainted and pure, where you could sleep for hours without fear of being interrupted, where the sun touched your face lovingly and lingered even after it had to switch place with the silver moon. And the eyes itself could be emerald, could be jade, could be the green of the sea, and they could be all facets of green that ever were and portray a wild and invincible maelstrom that sucked you in and didn't let you go.

And how expressive they were ! Just by staring at them you could see if they were brightened with sadness or love, if they were darkened with lust or grief or even if they were reddened by crying or laughing too much. In Arthur's case they saying that eyes were the mirror of the soul fit entirely.

Ivan loved Arthur's eyes. That didn't mean that he didn't love anything else of Arthur, however. He cherished that body with countless scars, proof of England's war-riddled history, of his defeats and his victories. He worshipped England's elegant hands, that could knit a wonderful soft scarf and wield a sword just as well. He adored England's lips when they formed a pout when he didn't get his way or his cooking was criticized. Truthfully, even he wouldn't dare to touch, not to mention eat, Arthur's food.

All in all, he couldn't get enough of England, of Arthur, and hopefully he never would. Arthur accepted Ivan with all his faults and his own bloodied history, when nearly no one else would. Well, there were his sisters but they were his sisters, not lovers., though Belarus certainly wished to be his wife. A wish that he couldn't ever fulfil seeing as he was completely bewitched by England.

His own amethyst eyes lavished Arthur with loving looks before he sighed and smiled and turned to the window.

It was still raining, no surprise as they were in London. Rain was certainly better than snow storms and blizzards yet he couldn't help desiring some sunshine, although it would be nice to take a stroll with Arthur outside. Ivan could cover him with his body and they could dance to an unknown melody.

Chuckling, he was certain now that love had played around with his brain making him absolute useless but feeling the heat of England in his arms he couldn't summon up the energy to be angry. Ah, well, he wouldn't have it any other way.