They wandered the palace grounds after they had eaten, France holding Russia's hand tightly in his own and refusing to let go even when passing servants and courtiers gave them surreptitious glances. Still shy, but not uncomfortably so, Russia showed his visitor the gallery of the royal family portraits, a dainty sitting room painted sunny yellow, a little-used closet where he had found a mother cat and her three kittens the other day, the balconies overlooking the palace courtyard, blanketed in crystalline white snow, where he liked to go look at the flowers in the summer. France assured him he had never seen such a lovely sight outside of Versailles, and that made Russia crack a smile, for Versailles was the most beautiful place he could imagine from the reports he had read, and nothing in St. Petersburg or even Moscow could hope to compare.
"You think I exaggerate, why, I speak the truth, dearest! It hardly snows where I live, and never so prettily."
"But there is nothing pretty about snow," Russia said, tearing his gaze from France to look at the calm landscape beyond the glass doors. "It's just cold and white and troublesome when you get too much."
For a second, France stared at him, mouth agape, brows arched in surprise. "Ben, euh…" He forced out a light laugh, murmuring, "I suppose you would know more than I would."
"That - that is not so," Russia stammered, now afraid that he might have insulted France, and cursing himself for acting so thoughtlessly. "It is only my opinion, nothing more."
France gave him a fond look, his eyes bright with amusement, and said, "Russia, you did know I mean to say that you were beautiful?"
"Oh. Err… I am sorry, I did not realize," he admitted, blushing. He mumbled merci, it seemed that was the only thing he could remember in French whenever he was around France, and France laughed, genuinely this time, before standing on his tiptoes and kissing him on the nose.
"You are too sweet, mon chou! I am so lucky to have met you."
Then Russia's heart was thrumming like a captive bird in the cage of his chest, and he felt as if he could fly or fall that very moment, and it would all be because of this warm, vibrant person beside him. "I… I think I am the lucky one," he said at last, and France, simpering and basking in the compliment, would never know that was the first time in his life Russia ever thought such a thing about anyone.
It had crossed his mind that perhaps he should not have suggested this activity, but France was determined to join him despite his inexperience, and Russia could not say no, not when the rest of him wanted desperately to say yes. So that was how they ended up on outside the palace, Russia standing at the edge of a frozen pond, France still far from shore.
"W-wait for me, Russia! I am not quite as good at this as you are!" France exclaimed breathlessly, teeth chattering even though he was wrapped in a small forest's worth of furry mammals. Yes, his sweet little Canada did teach him how to skate, long ago, but he disliked the cold and never really practiced. Obviously.
Russia opened his mouth to say something encouraging, but could only watch in horror as France's knees wobbled in an attempt to propel his body towards land, and he winced as the other nation flailed and then crashed onto the ice.
Swearing under his breath, France struggled to his feet, barely winning against gravity and the slick frozen surface of the pond. His lips and nose were reddened and tingling, his knees and hands and bottom were bruised, and the rest of his body felt frozen and numb. He was cold, humiliated, aching, and he knew he must look positively fat wearing all of these furs to keep warm. Every ounce of his self-control not invested in trying to stay upright was spent trying to look like he enjoyed this, and now France was fast losing patience with his suddenly graceless, unbalanced legs. But he thought all of this rather worth it, to see that adoring expression on Russia's face, as if no one ever bothered to do anything that poor boy liked.
Somehow, France seemed further away from solid land than he was before, and Russia did not know if he should risk going to help him, for his expression was bordering on frightening.
"Are… you sure you learned how to skate?" Russia asked, sounding a little dubious.
"Of course!" France insisted as he gingerly slid forward a hand's length, his stomach lurching from the effort. "My home simply does not get this cold, so I can not practice as often as I would like."
"Ah, I see."
"Absolutely." France relaxed a little once he saw that he was not going to land on his face anytime soon, and he shot a hopeful glance towards his host. "Russia, darling… promise me you won't tell England about this?"
Instead of answering, Russia found himself laughing, a meek little chuckle that kept bubbling out uncontrollably, until he was gasping for breath and wiping the tears from his eyes. Apparently, France did not take being laughed at any better than he liked being questioned, and he stomped a foot indignantly, squawking when that motion nearly made him lose his balance again.
Taking pity on him, Russia skated over to apologize. Though he still looked angry, France clung to him gratefully, waving the apology aside in favor of having support.
"Ah, much better! I would rather skate like this, you know."
Of course he would, Russia thought, but he did not mind France sighing happily and burrowing into his arms. He loved this warm, cozy feeling, from being with someone who enjoyed his company, who wanted to touch and hug and kiss him all the time, who treated him like a friend and not like a monster or chattel or worse.
France's cold hands under his shirt shocked him out of his reverie, and bemused, Russia tried to convince his guest that he needed a warm room and some hot coffee more than he needed a possibly fatal romp in the snow.
Not that he would have really died, at least not permanently, but France did not cease shivering and pressing up against Russia's side until they were back indoors. A servant had stepped forward to put their skates away in storage, although Russia barely registered it, for he had eyes only for his guest, whose face was currently buried into the ruffles of his cravat.
"Are you all right, France?" Russia kept asking, and finally France tilted his chin up and pursed his lips.
"I am fine now, dear, thanks to you."
"Is there anything else I can do?"
"You may kiss me."
He did. "I am not sure that did anything."
"You may need to kiss me again," France suggested meaningfully.
Leaning forward to press his lips against France's once more, Russia at last noticed the footman, France's to be exact, trying to sneak out of the parlor with the skates as quietly as possible. He was distracted by this realization long enough for France to deepen the kiss, and yet he did not mind, as long as Sasha could see that he did not mind.
As it turned out, France's much harassed servant was actually very glad of this turn of events, and had promptly gone to tell everyone who would be interested to know.
France, now back on solid ground instead of a few fingers' width away from an icy submersion, eventually regained his usual grace and good humor as the feeling returned to his extremities, and he flitted through the halls in anticipation of a cozy bed and a cup of hot coffee to complete the thawing process. As their fingers were still entwined, Russia followed close behind, eyes once again trained on the floor, though occasionally distracted by the glitter of France's ridiculously impractical heeled slippers.
Even his shoes are incredible, Russia thought in awe, who had never given shoes a second thought as long as they protected his feet from frostbite or injury. Not for the first time, he wondered why such a glamorous nation would make the difficult journey to St. Petersburg, in the middle of nowhere, so far from the lights of Paris.
"Russia, chéri?" France asked, having paused mid-step to look over his shoulder. "What has the ground done to you, that you must stare at it so intently?"
He smiled at the other's teasing tone. "The ground is faultless, France. I was just thinking about what else we could do later, if you wanted to, with me..."
"Oh?" France sidled up to him with a delighted grin. "What did you have in mind, hmm?"
Thus encouraged, Russia continued shyly, "We could have dinner together, somewhere private... And then maybe we could watch the dancers rehearse for their performance." He was secretly quite proud of the imperial ballet despite its newness, and he both anticipated and dreaded France's reception of the company.
"That sounds marvelous! And what about afterward?" France continued, almost purring by now.
"You mean, after that?" Russia struggled to keep from blushing, but trust his telltale heart to give his feelings, his thoughts, away. "Whatever you would like?" he ventured in a tiny voice.
"Darling, you really should not let me have my way every time. I am your guest, after all, at your mercy." France chuckled, a pretty, airy sound, and Russia stared at him in helpless infatuation. "But I suppose we should wait and see what happens first," France declared, smoothing his lapels down with a reassuring gesture. "We do not need to hurry, love, we have all the time in the world."
There was nothing Russia wanted to hear more than that. "Of course."
Dinner took place in a balcony box seat above the theater, and they enjoyed a fine nearly French meal together, consisting of braised meat and baked fish, loaves of dense bread, perhaps too much cabbage, and a dish of sweetened cranberries to nibble with the delicate cakes. They talked of various matters, or at least France did, while Russia smiled at him and tried to inconspicuously push France's wandering foot away from between his legs with one hand below the table.
Below them, the orchestra played through its repertoire, the sound deep and vibrant and harmonious, and above, the chandeliers sparkled under the flickering light of tallow candles. Nothing could have been more perfect, more romantic.
And then the dancers came on stage to rehearse.
France peered over the railing in silence, utterly enthralled by the beauty and elegance of the ballet company, even though they were only warming up and practicing. He had played at dancing himself, joining several troupes throughout the years as an understudy, relishing the challenge, adoring the spotlight, and he could appreciate the level of skill already apparent in these men and women still new to the art. Two in particular caught his eye, young maidens garbed in flowing white, their hair as pale as ash, skin as bleached as snow, and he smiled knowingly to himself.
"Do you know those lovely young ladies to the left of the stage, Russia?"
"Y-yes," Russia whispered, his voice thick with nervousness. "They are Ukraine and Belarus, my sisters."
"I should like to meet them," France murmured dreamily, obviously imagining himself romancing both sisters, along with the brother, and unlike what usually transpired in real life, succeeding in capturing their hearts with his charms. At his side, Russia groaned and ducked behind a velvet curtain, shivering.
"I'm not so sure that is a good idea."
"Certainly you are not concerned that I would abandon your company for theirs?"
"No, but I am not the jealous one here," Russia insisted. As if she heard him, the younger sister glanced up towards their balcony, squinting into the darkness, and Russia whimpered quietly in fear.
"W-we should go, France, before they see us!"
"But they just started practicing, I can't leave yet," France protested, not one to easily abandon the opportunity to watch shapely women and men cavorting about dressed in their underclothes.
Not even bothering to argue any further, Russia dragged France out of the balcony, scooping him up into his arms and promptly running for his life.
He dumped France unceremoniously into his bed, then ran to lock the door, wedging a chair below the doorknob and pushing a heavy wooden dresser in front of the chair.
"Do you realize you've locked yourself in with me?" France asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Better you than her," Russia answered shortly, stalking about the room to see if there were any open windows or secret passages that Belarus could use.
Laughing, France said, "Come to bed, my sweet. You will be in no danger from me, I promise."
Finally realizing his situation, Russia froze like a rabbit hearing the screech of a hawk. He turned slowly, forcing his lips into a rictus of a smile, which would have frightened the wits out of anyone less focused on sex than France. But France being France returned his smile with a playful wink, slipping his stockinged feet out of his shoes. Russia edged towards him uncertainly, feeling light-headed from the rush of adrenaline, and was nearly yanked off balance when France sought to pull him into bed. Kneeling on top of the covers, he watched, dry mouthed, as the other nation take off his coat and unbutton his vest.
"Oh? Would you like to undress me yourself?" France offered.
Blushing furiously, Russia held his hands up and shook his head, but France moved closer, taking his hands in his own and placing them on his chest. He gulped and attempted to slip the waistcoast off France's shoulders as gracefully as he can, and after that, France began to disrobe him ever so calmly.
"W-wait!" Russia squeaked, grabbing France's wrists to hold them still.
"What's wrong, darling?"
"I am just… not ready." He never had been, all those other times before, and now he felt his inexperience sharply and it distressed him.
"Ah…" France regarded him, his expression searching, concerned. "Do you want to stop?"
Torn between his fears and his duties, Russia debated over his choices and finally muttered, "No…"
"Then you will just have to trust me, Russia." He kissed him on his nose, a brotherly gesture this time, and Russia gave him a tiny smile.
"I will."
[Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, I hope you enjoy the next parts!]