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Moscow nights still fascinate Anna by a calming, shining view. The Borodinsky Bridge, covered by a layer of snow. Russia doesn’t know why but prefers to come and enjoy a cold wind, lantern lights. Looking at a couple of passing cars. Then she looks up at the dark sky; a few stars certainly twinkle there. Russia doesn’t allow herself to think about loneliness, or rather does not want to think.
This place does seem special to Anna. All kinds of memories mixed up here. Even if these memories are already more than two hundred years old, even if they are already forgotten by everyone and nobody needs them, but Braginskaya keeps this in her memory because she puts up with the fact she will never let it go. Violet eyes look down. Something squeezes inside. At any moment, Russia can guess what really worries her. In fact, she realised it a long time ago. She just does not have a wish to go back to the past and forgets herself here. This feeling seems to be growing. The hard feeling, it drags far back, somewhere in the depths. It becomes uncomfortable. Russia reflexively turns around and, instantly, feels a slight trembling, running through the body. She hears a soft, familiar voice.
“Annette? Aren’t you cold here?”
The accent, quite a bright blue in his eyes gradually becomes visible. Surprisingly, there are no sparks in them as they were always there as soon as Braginskaya appeared around Bonnefoy or others. There is a semblance of hope in them. Something that comes with frank tenderness. A white scarf covers Francis’s neck; he definitely knows what kind of frosts are peculiar to Russia, that stage was passed ages ago. A smile spreads across her face after many days spent in a dreary and mixed mood. France notices it. He always loved to notice such little details.
“I guess it’s me who should ask you this,” answers Russia with the smile.
“I’m already used to it.”
Anna admits she is glad they can meet each other without hiding any troubling feelings, any thoughts about their past, present, and future. One call and he hears how mildly her voice actually sounds. One look and she sees how ready he is to give her a hand and take away to their common dreams.
“Good,” Russia nods her head.
“I often walk across this bridge when come to Moscow,” says Francis. Probably, it’s just his respect for the sights and human labour, Russia assumes. It can’t be that something from the past still worries France. Anna does not believe it.
“And I thought of going to some of your lovely villages. I really liked them,” tells sincerely Russia and all because of one shining day captured in her mind.
“You can visit them at any time, you know that,” France gives an answer, and this stops Anna’s endless flow of thoughts.
“Yes, I can.”
“Do you think nobody is going to find us?” asks Russia loudly, following France towards a low, beautifully decorated house.
The green, wonderful flowers, and a lonely tree near the house impress Anna with their splendour. She holds Francis’s hand and can’t help but smile when he suddenly turns to her, and Anna notices confidence in his eyes.
”So what then, Annette? Even if all the people and emperors will watch us, what does it matter? Mon chéri, I would stay with you as long as life allows,” confesses Bonnefoy, still holding Russia’s palm. He never hid the feelings that piled up in his soul (if they ever had it), scratched his heart, turned inside out. Something that has no name makes him do this time by time. Nevertheless, France has never regretted his confession. He looks at Russia’s unusual, violet eyes, seeing some deep experience behind them; the familiar sense and desire to be needed. Even though the cold of her skin and her decisions makes him think differently.
As for Anna, it’s enough to realise.
With the other hand, Russia strokes his cheek softly, barely touching the blonde curls.
“I hope life will never change its mind.”
The present is another, though the saved signs make hear them, see them, notice them in everything. It’s represented by different consequences and different people.
“Black hair suits you, did I tell that?” points Francis.
“No,” answers Anna honestly. “But Alfred did. In his weird way, though.”
“Alfred? Oh, you two treat each other very strangely.”
“One way or another, it’s not like what you and I have.”
Russia forgets about such an unimportant thing as her hair that she dyes out of curiosity and for an ordinary pleasure, but can’t do the same thing with Jones, who doesn’t leave the mind. America is able to be annoying enough, but somehow it’s not a big problem for Anna, who actually thinks over their weird relationship sometimes. He didn’t say clearly whether he invites her to New York to some bizarre party, full of human beings, or just for spending time with her alone. Anyway, Anna can’t deny that for the first time. She is curious about it as they will have to find out what connection is between them and why the one still calls the other.
Silly. Silly and strange. However, there is a more worrying and exciting thing that holds Russia in its strong arms every time she meets her dear friend. Francis. Not a simple friendship, not the easy past that is behind them.
Is it worth asking the main question?
“What do we have? What do you think of it?” France hears this from Russia. He fully understands such questions, always did; only Anna could ask that and they both think it’s just one of their little, common features. Honestly, Francis has no idea what answer he should give. He is drawn here by thoughts, by his soul.
“We both saved something important to us. The ability to appreciate our relationship and connection. Do you think it sounds mindlessly?”
”It doesn’t. I just can’t say this anymore. I’ve bonded with loneliness, don’t you know that?”
Of course, he is aware of it. That’s why he is here, being close enough. An unusually cold palm covers Russia’s hand, and the last one pulls it away reflexively. Francis’s face becomes serious.
“Annette, look at me. Look at me!”
None of them wants to have any daily trivial talks now, and Russia already realises it. France sees what she feels in the accurate way. Russia wishes, really wishes to laugh, to feel, to catch that light, empty state that hides under the wave of shiver and slips away. However, Anna looks. She gazes at the eternally dazzling blue, which means something to her. Russia contemplates her reflection in Francis’s eyes. The reflection of the soul and all the storm raging in it.
”Haven’t you forgotten?” His question and voice give off the excitement that Russia also gets. In his gaze, she reads all the thoughts spinning in her head. They don’t know what exactly they want to hear from each other.
”I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to forget.”
One side demands silence, asks for leaving the attempts to feel anything that is called love. The other side, though, allows to escape her beliefs.
The snow, as well as old feelings, covers them.
“I thought, at first, we grew apart, and… It hurt. Then I just imagine…” says France.
“…what it was like for me,” Anna finishes his phrase.
Her detached tone makes him stop. Russia was sure, sooner or later, they would have come back to it anyway.
When a steel heart was engulfed in flames, she cried. Over and over again as everything has collapsed in her and the body had ached unbearably. He lost the last of his strength, being covered by fresh wounds and staining the snow with a scarlet liquid.
She held the Emperor’s hand with a tremor, anguishing from being burned inside. He coughed up blood and fell to his knees, suffocating from the severe frost.
Anna tried to let the thoughts go, burning his letters in despair. Francis screamed her name with all his might, getting the same feeling.
All memories go by so fast. Russia is not able to get out of them.
”Do you think we can do better this time?” asks Anna.
”If you let me be around.”
Bitterness has long been forgotten, there is only emptiness staying with Russia. Breathing is uneven for the heaviness that unexpectedly weighs on the soul. The cold stops touching the skin and fades away, and Braginskaya wants to refuse any words. When she finds herself in Francis’s strong arms, Russia gradually notices she presses him to her with the same effort, closing the eyes and trying not to give out emotions. Anna gets lost in the dilemma when Francis cuppes her face in his hands and they lean their foreheads. Russia doesn’t reject, even though she is afraid of making one more mistake in spite of her longing for risk. The mistake that may cost her life. It’s not like that. Even if they were true enemies, France would remain open to her in the end. Nothing to hide.
His lips touch the corners of her lips. Anna hasn’t been getting feelings for a hundred years. It would seem that it’s not too late to push all of this away, to close off the senses that are wrong and tainted.
She would like to utter these well-known words, even if they are unnecessary at all. They know each other too well not to be aware of it.
“Can you imagine that I, probably, really love you?” Anna admits it and decides to share her thought with Bonnefoy.
”You won’t believe that I never stopped,” answers Francis.
Russia won’t even explain to herself with what impulse the one’s lips cling to the other’s lips; what passion they have, and how quickly they deepen the kiss. She holds France close persistently, realising what a burning desire is between them and how solidly it connects their common past. Anna forgot this taste after many years of loneliness, but the memory awakens, and she gets convinced that Francis stays as before. Is that what a soulmate means? Russia prefers to believe it for a moment.
They always loved and hated the snow, falling on the street and on them. The cold wind doesn’t scare them anymore.