Francis's depression steadily grew deeper. Only on occasion did he permit anyone to visit, and many of the nations were horrified to learn the most frequent of the visitors was Ivan.

The Russian, when confronted one morning, calmly smiled around the World Summit's table and remarked, "Hees hands are fool keeping the twins apart. The leettle boy likes my toys. And the leettle girl fights like Natalia. It is amusing to watch."

Very few dared call on Francis after that.

Matthew, however, redoubled his efforts, despite the repeated and increasingly nasty rejections. Alfred and Arthur each did their best to convince the Far-North nation to leave Francis alone, but there was no deterring him. "I care for him," Matthew reasoned, "and I am not going to let him shirk his duties to his people, nor to us!"

"Your yammering about it isn't going to get the idiot to open his front door," Arthur said. He tipped his head back as he drained his glass of Guinness. Upon setting the glass on Matthew's kitchen counter, he continued, "It's not like he cares about the rest of us."

"You've been on that stint ever since Francis rescinded his nation's membership from the UN," Alfred said. "If you're that bent over it, why dontcha go beg your 'sid courts' or whatever to dance on his nuts 'til he joins again?"

Arthur's emerald gaze was full of fire as he glared at the reclining American. "Seelie Courts. The Sidhe are neutral elders, not members of the courts. And even if I did, the bloody ass-wipe would not rejoin the UN." He growled to himself as he muttered, "Even though his life depends on it."

Alfred rolled his eyes behind his glasses and took a swig of his Sam Adams. "Iggy, just go and apologize to him. Even if he doesn't accept it, you'll still feel better and you'll stop actin' like a sex-deprived celebrity."

"I am not behaving like-"

Both nations jumped as a door was slammed. They looked around, seeing no one in the room aside from themselves. Alfred sighed.

". . . Matt just went to give Francis a piece of our minds, didn't he?"

Arthur blinked, "Who?"

Alfred glared. "My brother. Matthew Williams. The man you won in a fucking poker game and you raised to be a 'gentleman.' You asshole. You can remember whole books on your stupid pixies, but you don't even remember your own son." Alfred stood up and grabbed his jacket. "I'm going after him; if Francis greets him with a rapier, Matt won't stand a chance."

The Britton standing by the counter could only give a slack-jawed stare as the taller blond growled and muttered under his breath.

Alfred opened the front door and hesitated. He looked over his shoulder. "Y'know, I really can't blame Francis for having told you off. Maybe if you get your head out of your ass, you'd realize that, even if you have the 'language of angels,' you still need to watch what you say."

The sound of the door gently closing sounded like a gunshot in Arthur's ears.

Matthew's trek took him into Francis's recreational hunting grounds. The forest swallowed him like a vast sea, much like the forests of his own homeland. The trees were old, thick, and tall, and the birds flitted through their branches with the ease brought by thousands of years. It unnerved the Canadian by how quiet the forest was. He could hear the wing beats of every bird, the scratching of every squirrel as it ran for cover. But no cry was uttered, no twitter heard. Twigs snapped under his feet, his breath sounded in his own ears as though someone was breathing down his neck, and Matthew's calves and thighs burned from his hours-long hike.

Eventually, he could hear soft chiming echoing through the trees. He closed his eyes and listened closer. The chiming sounded dull and had a constantly changing rhythm. Matthew could almost separate the original sound from its distorted echoing.

Clang-clang . . . CLANG! Shk . . . shk . . . shling-CLANG!

Matthew frowned. It sounded like swords striking each other.

He opened his eyes and pushed on, moving as quietly as he could through the trees toward the source of the ringing sound.

It was not long before Matthew saw movement ahead. He ducked behind one of the thick trunks and peaked around it. He crept from tree to tree, gaining ground. He saw light just beyond the edge of the trees, a clearing perhaps. He pressed closer, and the sight before him stole his breath for terror.

Ivan, strong, brutish Ivan, was moving around in the knee-high grasses in the clearing. His coat had been discarded in heat and in favor of faster movement, and his scarf fluttered around his neck like a streamer, a ribbon of snow behind him. His pipe glinted like silver in the sunlight. But it wasn't the sight of Ivan on Francis's private property that astounded Matthew.

The young man who was dancing around Ivan looked like an angel of war and wrath descended from heaven.

His eyes were lit with fire like birch leaves lit with sunlight. His jaw was set, teeth like blades exposed between drawn, thin lips. Matthew would have recognized the man's curls anywhere. He had to be one of Francis's twins, the boy Ivan said with whom he enjoyed playing. No wonder Ivan enjoyed it: the younger honey-blond was attacking the older ash-blond with a speed and strength that Matthew could only compare to a German blitzkrieg. The rapier in his hand was light in solid form, metal shavings flying from where the sword struck Ivan's lead pipe.

"Gostatoshna," Ivan barked.

The man's upper lip tightened a fraction in annoyance, but he complied with the abrupt command, and stopped short of stabbing Ivan's bare shoulder. Matthew just stood there, leaning around the tree, hidden in the shadows with his mouth open. He was completely enthralled with the predatory grace of Ivan's sparring partner.

"You are coming along rapidly, comrade," Ivan said, his usual creepy smile replaced with one of affection as he took a seat on the rock over which his coat was draped.

"Nyet," the other bit out. "Not fast enough." He threw his rapier haphazardly into the grass, growling to himself in frustration.

Ivan watched the other's temper tantrum with passive eyes. "Lawrence, you are being too rash. Relax with me, da?"

Lawrence growled again, and sat at the feet of the enormous Russian. He rested his head on Ivan's knee while tearing apart blades of grass. Several minutes of silence passed them by. The Frenchman's curls lifted and bounced gently as a breeze played through them, the beads of sweat on his and Ivan's arms cooling in the wind.

". . . Papa will not be pleased that you were here, again."

"Even when I brought him a toy?"

Lawrence snorted: "You didn't bring him shit. That rapier is mine."

Ivan laughed softly. "You like my toys, leettle wolf?"

"Oui, I do."

"Do you share with your leettle sister?"

"Like Hell. It's my toy, now. If she wants to play with it, I'll get one of her fingers first as insurance."

Ivan's laugh was full and sudden, startling Matthew like a deer. "You amuse me, leetle wolf."

Lawrence grinned up at Ivan and crawled up onto his knees: "I enjoy amusing you, Ivan."

Matthew nearly cried out in shock as the two kissed one another. He turned and ran back the way he came, the sight of the two mentally deranged nations burned into his eyes.

He prayed for Francis, then, and for the rest of the world.


Translations:

Gostatoshna (Достаточно) = enough

Nyet (не) = no

Oui = yes


AN: Lawrence "Federation of the Eastern Gaulite Territories" VanRhine is one of the two OCs, obviously. The dictatorship of traditionalist radicals in eastern France is trading almost exclusively with the Russian Federation for weapons, manpower, and economic support in order to split fully from the French Republic. Yeah, I'll be posting little snippets of "national relations" for this fic along with chapter updates. Next time: the Fleur-de-lis of the French Republic.