The tailors had taken his every measurement several times to ensure the finest fit, yet the shoulders were just a little too broad, the waist nipped in a little too tight. His calves felt exposed to the whims of winter, only a thin layer of silk covering them, and the fancy over-decorated shoes would provide no protection against snow and ice and wind if he were to step outside of the palace. He was quite sure he would stumble, or knock something of value over, and more than ever, he wished that he had not been summoned to court that evening.
He hated disappointing the empress, but she had matured and grown quickly in pursuit of the throne, and he could not help but lag behind, still getting used to his growing body and its quirks and pains. For her sake, he would do his best, knowing it would never be quite enough.
Taking care to not slouch as he was inclined to do, Russia peeked into the waiting room, smiling warily at his resplendent empress. She paused in her letter writing and opened her arms to him.
"You look wonderful, darling," she said, embracing him joyfully. She stepped back to take in his appearance with a critical eye, but the tailors had done a satisfactory job, and he looked so much better garbed in the royal blue coat and brocade vest and silk breeches instead of the shabby overcoat and boots he usually wore. "Have you been practicing your French like we asked you to?" she asked.
Russia nodded dutifully, although the nation in question would most likely understand him if he spoke in his own language. So he hoped.
"Good. Now keep your chin up and smile," the empress admonished him gently, despite the fact that his smile looked unsettling at best, and terrifying at worst. "Our guests have been waiting to see you. Be strong, my country, we have faith in your success."
He kissed her rouged cheeks, and with one last anxious wave in her direction, like a child being separated from their mother for the first time, he set forth to meet the nation of France.
Russia did not see him at first, and instinctively, he sought out a quiet corner of the ballroom, watching the elaborately dressed courtiers mingle and dance, butterflies and flowers in a garden of gilt and glass. No one paid attention to the tall gawky teenager in the corner, too caught up in their talk of fashion and politics and philosophy to notice someone so painfully out of place. Just when Russia thought he could make a successful escape from the cloying atmosphere, he heard a low voice call his name.
He turned to meet the source of the voice, and France flitted to his side, a dazzling vision of gold and sky blue and rose pink and azure, all lacy ribbons and sensual confidence.
"Ah, bonsoir, cher Russie." A courtly bow, and the faintest brush of lips upon his gloved hand.
"Good evening, France," Russia said, suddenly hyperaware of how unsophisticated and immature he must look to this European power. France simply smiled up at him, no hint of condescension in those cool blue eyes, and Russia felt emboldened enough to continue.
"How… how do you like Saint Petersburg?" he ventured, his voice sounding squeaky and high to his own ears.
"Lovely. Utterly charming. Quaintly backwards and yet brimming with potential," France replied airily. "What would you have me say? What would your empress want to hear?"
Russia flushed hotly, caught off guard by such cheekiness. Chuckling good-naturedly, France hooked his arm around Russia's elbow, and if Russia had been slouching, which he was, he immediately straightened at the unexpected intimacy, a jolt of adrenaline making his heart flutter wildly in his chest.
"I have not seen since you were a child," France murmured, in a tone sweet enough to melt sugar. "You have grown so tall, Russia, and handsome as well."
He wanted to shake his head in denial, but instead Russia managed to force out a "M-merci beaucoup."
"Ah, no need for that. Speak freely with me, I promise to say nothing of it to your empress." France stood on his tiptoes and whispered, "It will be our secret, yes?"
Russia nodded, flashed him a shy smile, and let himself be swept away.
They only had to dance once, it was a request from the empress and he could not refuse, but that one gavotte was like a decade of physical torture. France nudged him in the right direction and complimented his steps, but Russia could feel sweat dampening the underarms of his shirt as they moved around the ballroom, dreading the moment he should make a mistake and embarrass all of Russia in front of the French courtiers. The other's hand looked so fragile in his grasp, and when France pressed closer towards him, Russia was compelled to pull back in an effort to keep from crushing the smaller body within the circle of his arms. Perhaps his clumsy, too-large feet understood the magnitude of his duress, for he miraculously did not falter, did not step on France's buckled shoes even once throughout the song. As the strains of the violins died away, Russia steered his partner away from the dance floor, almost trembling with relief.
Someone handed Russia a glass of champagne, and he fumbled with the delicate stem of the flute, attempting to hold it as he had been instructed. Taking pity on him, France held the his hand and gently curled his stiff fingers around the smooth crystal into the proper grip.
"Do I make you so nervous?" France asked, his expression full of concern.
Mouth gone cottony dry, Russia lowered his gaze. "I think anyone would be around someone like you," he stammered, much to France's amusement.
"Oh, you are a dear," France said, holding back a laugh, not wanting to upset this poor creature any further, "but to be honest, I would rather you think of me as your friend, your mentor, and nothing more. Can you do that?"
"I will try." But he could not guarantee that, not when the differences between them were so obvious.
France had somehow procured his own glass from a passing servant's tray, and Russia uttered an anxious but heartfelt toast to their future as friends and allies, before they drained the champagne at the same time. It dawned on Russia that he had never had champagne before, and the bubbly golden liquid tickled and teased his throat as he swallowed. A warm contented glow spread from his belly out towards his limbs, soothing his nerves, lending him a small measure of badly needed confidence. He nodded and smiled as France praised the vintage, and then offered his arm just when France reached for it, surprising the both of them. France's approving smile set him off balance again, but he rather liked the feeling this time around, as if the world had been lit aglow just for him.
It was a little nerve-wracking, matching his steps to France's shorter ones so as to not drag him along, but fortunately, France remained quiet as they strolled through the palace halls, arm in arm. Russia felt his breath slow and even, and out of the corner of his eyes, he stole quick surreptitious glances at France, looking so elegant and composed and different from the nations he called his family and neighbors. Once or twice, he thought he might have the courage to start a conversation, say something, anything to keep France here in Saint Petersburg, but the words never left his tongue, and he withdrew into the not-yet-uncomfortable silence.
"Russia?" France asked gently, seemingly out of nowhere. "Do you remember… when we first met?"
"I am sorry, I do not." Only a vague memory of a long journey westward, pleasant spring days, the sweet perfume of flowers lingering in the fabric of his scarf long after he had returned home.
"I would be surprised if you did remember. You were just a child, and your sisters were with you the whole time." France brought his other hand to rest on Russia's arm, his lips curving upward in happy nostalgia. "But I remembered that you picked a flower for my hair and you told me I was a very pretty lady."
Russia fought down the urge to blush at his younger self's foolishness. "I-I hope I did not offend?"
"Oh no, no," France laughed, a low, honeyed sound which did bring out the blush to Russia's pale skin. "Not at all." He did not finish telling him the recollection, of how he knelt and kissed the little boy's cheek in thanks, and what the little boy told him afterwards.
With an encouraging grin, France let go of Russia's arm and entwined their fingers together, palms touching.
"Can you take me to my room, dear? I am afraid I don't remember the way back just yet. But I have a gift for you there, a surprise."
Russia's eyes widened, a flash of confusion in amethyst irises before he ducked his head and glanced away. "Yes, of course, I will take you there. But," he hesitated, then continued, "You did not have to bring me a gift. Your presence here is enough." And frankly, he did not know what he did to deserve a gift from one of the great powers of Europe.
"I am certain that you will like this gift, I have very good taste in these matters. Though you are free to tell me if I am incorrect in my assumption," France said.
"Oh." Russia considered this, but his curiosity won out in the end. "Would you mind if I take a look first?"
"How could I mind?" France answered, a breathless chuckle escaping before he could restrain it. "Do as you wish, mon ami."
Before long, they reached France's assigned chambers, and Russia lingered by the doorway, reluctant to step over the threshold and expose himself to something unfamiliar and therefore dangerous. Even though France had acted nothing but kind and sincerely affectionate towards him, and not nearly as threatening or improper as the other nations had said he would be. It was still new, was it not, and he felt a thrill all up and down his spine as he finally took a step into the room.
France had pulled out an oblong package from his luggage, which had been strewn all over the room, and he laid it on his lap while beckoning Russia closer to the bed.
"Come here. I will not bite, I promise." True, it would be silly of him to do so when he was the guest in a strange place, but he did not want to look careless in front of such a powerful empire.
Very gingerly, Russia settled onto the embroidered coverlet beside his guest, cautious, but eager to see what had been brought all the way across a continent for him. With a flourish, France unwrapped the cloth and paper from the package, setting it aside carefully, and then opened the lid of the box.
"Here is your gift, Russia."
"Oh…" Russia's eyes swept over the thin multi-colored stripes nestled within the box, hues more vibrant than any he could remember seeing, as if a tiny rainbow had been captured into solid form. "Thank you," he whispered, taking the box.
"Do you like them?" France murmured, and smiled when Russia nodded earnestly.
"But… I am not sure how to use them," he confessed, again aware of his ignorance.
"Then let me show you." Taking the sheet of the wrapping paper, France picked out a royal blue color and did a quick sketch before showing the result to Russia. "See? You can paint right on paper, without the mess of oils and canvas and brushes. Pastels are all the rage in Paris, and I wanted to be the first to show you. So, would you like to try?"
Russia glanced at the sketch, a simple portrait composed of lines and a few carefully placed smudges that somehow captured his own astonished expression exactly. "Ah, I don't think so…" Russia said, again struck with shyness. "Not now."
"What?" France exclaimed, mock indignation written all over his perfect features, causing the corners of Russia's mouth to quirk up in surprised amusement. "Well, I do not plan to go home until you use them and tell me you love them!"
Though he thought it would be nice if France could stay for a very long time, Russia promised that he would try the pastels soon. He replaced the lid and set the box aside, taking one last lingering look at the drawing.
It seemed that France noticed him looking, and he handed the paper over, still smiling. "You may keep this, too, although I would like to make a better drawing of you before I leave."
"Of me? Wh-why?"
Startled, France stared at him, as if the answer should be very obvious. "Why not? You look beautiful, dear, and I must try to capture that, for my memory may not be enough."
"I-I see." Beautiful. This lovely, dazzling person thought he, Russia, was beautiful.
"You do not believe me." Not a question, but a statement.
Long cool fingers reached out to frame his cheeks, and before he could protest, Russia found himself looking straight into those brilliant sapphire eyes, darkened with concern.
"Oh, Russia, mon coeur, my heart…" France sighed, a sad, wistful sound.
"I am sorry, France, I do believe you, I didn't mean to sound disrespectful," Russia said, babbling now, not wanting to see France look unhappy, not wanting her to know he had caused him to feel unappreciated.
"There is nothing be sorry about, dearest. It is not your fault, trust me," he assured him.
Ever so gently, France placed a light kiss on the corner of his mouth, like a brush of butterfly wings on his skin and Russia almost startled at the too sudden, too intimate gesture. Yet somehow it did not feel wrong or shameful, not the way France did it, and he was surprised to realize that he would like more.
"I will see you tomorrow then? Sleep well, Russia, and sweet dreams."
France paused, as if wanting to add something more, then shrugged and smiled to himself as Russia awkwardly and adoringly kissed the tips of his fingers in farewell.
"Bonne nuit."