Work Text:
7 February 1917
Versailles, France
The Great War.
Whoever that such a name was fitting should have been shot. There was nothing great about war, not when nations scratched at each other like rabid animals, humans dying and cities falling beneath a terrifying barrage of destruction in the face of the Central Powers' ever-growing hunger for everything they could get their hands on. None of them were handling it well, not them, not the Allies, and certainly not France. Somehow they had managed to hold the German advance with Britain's help, but he was growing tired, so tired. So many men had fallen, so many lives had been snuffed out, and Francis could feel each one deep within his bones.
He'd taken refuge in one of his most beloved cities as the Allies tried to sort out their next move, holing up in one of his oldest homes without a single soldier to guard the door. His people were more desperately needed elsewhere, and there were so few who knew of his whereabouts anyway, so he hadn't been worried about being discovered.
Imagine his surprise, then, at finding a familiar figure on his doorstep, silent as the grave.
“Ivan? What...?” Leaning heavily upon the crutches which were the only things allowing him to walk these days, Francis shifted the handgun he'd been holding back into its holster, staring up at his ally, friend, and sometimes lover with no small amount of confusion. “I thought you were at the front? Is everything alright? What are you doing here?”
The violet-eyed giant did not answer, simply shaking his head and thrusting a silver box towards him as if it might hold all of the answers to his questions.
"What is this?" The small box Ivan pressed into his hand felt warm to the touch, as if the polished metal were heated from within. It shone in the moonlight as he turned it over in his hands, seeing nothing of interest decorating the plain surface but a small lock. Confusion furrowed his bruised brow, weary blue eyes searching Ivan's face for an explanation.
"It is... just something I need you to hold for me." Ivan's heavily accented French was flat, emotionless, much like the expression on his face. So unlike the lanky teen, whose smiles and shy, frequent laughter were two of the things Francis so very much loved about him. "Very important. I can feel the quakes of upheaval coming for my people, and I cannot afford to have it right now."
Francis stared into fathomless violet eyes, concerned about the lack of a spark, of warmth, of Ivan. It was like staring into the face of a statue, and he did not like it one bit. "My God, Ivan," he breathed, reaching out to grasp the other's forearm; Ivan seemed not to notice the shaking hand bound in its bloodied bandages. "What have you done?"
"What needed to be done." The grin that suddenly split the other nation's face held no humour. "I do not know when I will need it back, but I trust that you will take good care of it until then."
Francis fingered the small lock, the soft clink of metal against metal sharp in the otherwise quiet night. Part of him wanted to refuse, to demand that Ivan tell him what the hell was going on, but what if he refused? The older nation would be left with no answers and even more worry as to what had happened to his strangely empty-looking lover. "Are you keeping the key, or...?"
The other man grunted, fishing a leather thong out from beneath his shirt. A small key hung from it. "Yes. It is safer, so that this way both do not fall into the same hands."
Those empty eyes met weary blue ones, and for a moment, Francis felt an invisible hand clench around his heart. Don't do this to me, Ivan. Tell me what's wrong, talk to me, don't do something that we'll both regret. "Vanya-"
"I do not know when we will come together again." Heavy boots thunked against the flagstones as Ivan turned to leave, to return to the bitter cold and the fighting that neither wanted yet both found themselves caught up in. "But we will see each other again someday, da?"
If only he had the strength to follow, to make him stop... but his crippled legs refused to bear weight, and France could only watch with sadness and fear bearing down on him as the heavy door slammed shut behind Ivan's broad back, the small box still clutched in his hands.
* * *
3 March 1917: Imperial Russia had fallen, so the new communist Bolshevik government withdraws the country from WWI; the death toll is estimated between 1.3 and 2.006 million people.
3 March 1918: Russia agrees to a cease-fire with the Central Powers, ending the Franco-Russian Alliance.
16 or 17 July 1918: Tsar Nicholas II and his family are brutally murdered.
1921-1922: The Russian Famine strikes; the death toll is estimated between 5 to 10 million people.
30 December 1922: The USSR is formed.
1932-1933: The Soviet Famine strikes; the death toll is estimated between 6 to 8 million people.
1936-1938: Stalin orchestrates the Great Purge; the death toll is estimated between 950,000 to 1.2 million people.
22 June 1941 to 9 May 1945: WWII on the Eastern front; the Russian death toll is estimated at between 20 and 26.6 million people.
25 December 1991: The USSR falls, and the Russian Federation is formed.
7 February 1992: France signs a bilateral treaty with the newly formed Russian Federation, the successor of the USSR.
* * *
7 February 1992
Hôtel Matignon; Paris, France
Office of Francis Bonnefoy
Seventy-five years.
Combing fingers through previously immaculate golden hair, Francis let out the deep breath he felt like he'd been holding since the moment the Russian envoy had arrived this morning. He flopped bonelessly into the comforting arms of a plush office chair, spinning in lazy circles and staring up at the ceiling as if it held the answers that would calm his torrid thoughts. A treaty of friendship and cooperation, huh? The weight of cool violet eyes had fallen heavily on him throughout the meeting of their two governments, but Francis did his best to ignore it, even with the sick feeling that had settled in the pit of his stomach. The nation sharing the room with him was not the same nation, not the same lover, he'd known back before the first World War.
He remembered the quiet teen he'd known then, slow to smile but with eyes full of life. Awkward, shy, but oh so warm... No more, he thought. He has grown physically, but his mind has twisted. I no longer know the boy, and I would do well to remember that. Sighing, Francis wondered how things would progress from here, where their new 'relationship' would take them.
A sharp knock at the door interrupted his reverie. "Come in!" He straightened, tugging imaginary wrinkles from his clothing to look more presentable as his guest entered.
"Hello, comrade."
Francis stared for a stunned moment before snapped his sagging jaw closed, not expecting the nation of his thoughts to appear before him. "Russia," he murmured, pulling himself from the chair to hurriedly greet the other man. "I apologize, I was not expecting you."
The smile on Ivan's lips seemed no less cold than it had at the last time they'd met as allies. "I make it a point to be surprising, da?" His French was rusty from disuse, thick with his native accent. "I thought I would come and offer my greetings, seeing as how we did not get to properly say hello before."
"Er, yes." The smaller man clasped the hand offered to him, not liking the way bones shifted beneath paper-thin skin. In fact, if he looked closely enough, that over-large coat hung rather loosely from Ivan's frame, and shadows haunted cheeks that used to be rounded with health. What has happened to you since you've been gone, my dear?"How have you been doing?"
Ivan shrugged. "As well as to be expected, I suppose. My people are scrambling like headless chickens to assemble the new government, and it is not... comfortable, but I should be used to this by now."
If by 'not comfortable' one means the economy is circling the drain and the country shakes with internal skirmishes and political infighting. Francis winced, not envying the pain that must be wracking his companion's already damaged physique. Oh, if only he could reach out and brush aside all of that fabric, to soothe those wounds with a gentle touch and perhaps an even more gentle kiss; if only those times were not long past. Now I might lose a hand, or worse. It was like having a tamed tiger in the room, purring and content but yet just as likely to sink those long, vicious teeth into his flesh as press into his hand to be petted.
Staring blankly at Francis, the taller nation said nothing more, leaving him to shift from foot to foot in the awkward silence. What could he have possibly come here for? Their human officials would be sorting out the details of the treaty, so there was no real reason for them to be meeting. "So, what can I do for you? Is there anything I can get for you or your countrymen?"
"No." Finally breaking the other's gaze, Ivan began to drift around the room, humming something that might have been a lullaby if not for the odd minor key he'd decided to shift it into, giving the sound a rather creepy vibe as fingers poked and swept over random objects with an empty, child-like curiosity. A statue, the worn leather cover of a book, a paperweight... He seemed especially enamoured with the paperweight, tossing the heavy glass back and forth between his hands as if it were nothing.
Francis bit his lip, unsure what he should do with the incredibly volatile man.
Slapping the paperweight against the palm of his hand, Ivan whirled around, grinning wildly. "Francis! There are flowers inside of this, da? So pretty!" He crooned, waving the glass in Francis' face (much too close for comfort!). "They'll always be pretty and never die... May I have this?"
"B-by all means, Russia," France backed up, hands gesturing imploringly. "Take it if you'd like." God in heaven, he was beginning to fear for his life. Just a bit.
The larger nation's smile slipped as he tilted his head in confusion. "We are friends, aren't we? You can call me Ivan. You used to call me by my name, before." Francis suddenly found his space invaded by Ivan's imposing presence, cool fingers under his chin forcing his gaze up to meet darkening violet. "You would call me Ivan when we weren't fighting. And we aren't fighting now, are we, comrade?"
Trying not to let the other man see his fear, Francis offered up a nervous chuckle. "We most certainly aren't fighting, my dear. Ivan. It's just been a... a while, you know, since we were friends." Silence. That deep purple gaze slid slowly over Francis face, followed by his fingertips, as if mapping out something long forgotten. The smaller blond desperately wished that he didn't have the edge of his desk biting into his back, pinning him firmly and helplessly against Ivan.
God, he didn't want to fear the man. But he'd proven himself a man well worth that fear over the past few decades.
"Yes... it has been a long time, hasn't it? So much has happened. So many have died. But we are still here, aren't we, da? Still here, still here, still here!" Ivan breathed the ghost of vodka against the shorter blond's mouth, his sing-song voice just as childlike as Francis remembered. "At least, most of us. Me. Most of me is here." Then his voice flattened, as if the sadness that wanted to creep into it was somehow... missing. "But not all of me. I don't think Francis likes that." Sighing, Ivan pulled away, leaving the other man to suck in a relieved breath.
Ivan began rolling the paperweight around in his hands, tracking the light reflecting through the glass and leaving Francis to worry at his lip. So much like a child, yet most definitely a man... Ivan confused him in so many ways, and he did not like to be confused.
Damn it all to hell. Throwing caution to the wind, the older nation caught Ivan's hand and brought it to his lips, caressing the skin with a kiss. "My dear, we all lose a few pieces over the years, so why should I mind? The main difference between us in this is that the emotions of my heart lie on my sleeve for all to know, but yours seems locked away." Golden eyelashes fluttered over deep blue eyes as Francis trailed kisses back over his knuckles and up a scarred wrist; he only prayed that his brash actions did not upset the other. Some nations negotiated with violence, some with bribery, but Francis had found over centuries of practice that he much preferred negotiating with le amour. It was, after all, ever so much more civilized. Chuckling, a shadow of Francis notoriously flirtatious smile returned to his face. "Perhaps I can help you find yourself?"
A high-pitched giggle. "Of course! Why else would I be here?"
Ivan's answer was a rather blank look.
Pressing close once more, the larger nation practically pasted himself to the Frenchman's chest. "Do you remember what I gave you during the first war? A little silver box? I thought I could pick it up while I'm in France, now that we're friends again. Though I guess I'm not really in France at the moment." The madness lighting Ivan's eyes rendered the accompanying leer anything but suggestive. "Such a shame."
How could he forget the odd trinket he'd somehow managed to ferret away over the course of two great wars and keep track of during the countless times he's moved since then? Tarnished streaks coloured the silver, dents and scratches mottled the surface, but he found himself unable to keep from pulling it out every few years to polish it to a shine and wondering just what it was he was guarding so carefully. "O-of course I still have it," Francis replied, cautiously pressing his companion back in hopes of gaining a few inches of space. "But it is not here; I keep it in my lodgings. Perhaps you can meet me here tomorrow, and I shall bring it to you?"
"Oh, no no no no, that will not do! We will go and get it now, da?" Suddenly Francis found himself jerked forward, nearly losing his footing as Ivan dragged him towards the door. "Just tell me where you live, and we will go!"
Stumbling over the threshold to his office, he windmilled in an attempt to keep upright. "Ivan, wait-"
"Come, Francis! Keep up!"
* * *
Even after all these years, the simple container felt warm beneath the crimson silk Francis kept wrapped in, though that strangeness had faded from his mind over time. He had encountered many strange things over his years as a nation, so a pleasantly warm box was the least of his concerns. Bumping the drawer closed with his hip, the western European nation padded out from his bedroom to rejoin his ex-lover, hopefully still in the living room where he'd left him.
Miracle of miracles, Ivan sat peacefully on the couch when Francis returned. Sure, the way he stroked the fine leather was a bit on the odd side, but... well, at least he was still on the couch. "Here you are, my dear." The box settled to the coffee table before the other man with a soft clunk. "I have to admit, I was very curious to know what was in it over all these years, but I have guarded it well."
Large fingers pushed the silk aside, letting it flow like water to puddle around his mysterious box while Ivan caressed the shining surface not unlike a lover. For the first time since he had thrust himself back into his former ally's life, the larger nation's face was painted in uncertainty, perhaps even apprehension. "You really kept it for me," he murmured, not meeting Francis' eyes.
"Of course I did, Ivan," Francis replied, his honeyed voice soft. "That is what you needed me to do, isn't it?"
Wordlessly Ivan pulled the key from beneath his shirt, leather long since replaced by a heavy silver chain that sparkled in the light as it swung back and forth; after passing it to Francis, he made no move to do anything more than stare listlessly at his hands.
What on earth is in that damned thing? Francis wondered for the countless time. Leather creaked as he joined the other man on the couch, his growing confidence with the unstable man permitting him to curl an arm over Ivan's shoulders. "All right, my sweet one, it is time for you to talk to Big Brother Francis. I have kept this... thing for so long against my better judgement, for anyone with an ounce of sense can see that you haven't been the same since you gave it to me." He could feel the tiniest bit of tension drain from his companion as more of Ivan's weight sagged back against his chest. "I don't know what you could have possibly put in there that would explain how you've changed, but.... I've missed the boy I knew before all of these infuriating wars. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't want him back."
Ivan's soft laughter rang brokenly through the room, almost frightening in its hopelessness. "But you can't bring back the dead, Francis." That hushed voice suddenly sounded so small, so young, and it nearly broke the older blond's heart. "He's long gone. All that's left is me, and I'm mad. I'm mad, I know I am, but I can't control it, and that's what I hate most."
Francis remembered his own madness from the days of the French Revolution, from World War II, being torn apart from within and without, the lost blocks of time he discovered only afterwards to be inhabited by different pieces of his fractured personality. God, he knew how frightening it could be, and those memories only further tore at him. He tentatively reached up to run comforting fingertips over Ivan's cheek. "Give it time, Ivan, just give it time. Your mind and heart will heal along with your body and leave you stronger for it. I promise."
"Mm." A long, heavy sigh fell from Ivan's lips as he finally leaned forward to cradle the box in his hands, petting the scarred metal for a few moments before offering it back to his ally. "Then in that case... I suppose we should open this. Will you do me the honours, old friend?"
One carefully groomed eyebrow shot up in confusion. Francis wasn't quite sure what the box had to do with anything they'd just spoken about, but if it made the other man feel better, then he'd certainly open it for him.
The tiny key slid home and turned with a quiet snap as the lock popped open. Laying it aside, the smaller blonde carefully pulled the lid back and-
Oh my god.
Oh my god.
"W-what... This...?" Francis cried, ocean blue eyes widened in horror as he fought the urge to dash the offending object across the room. Tucked neatly inside, the fleshy lump lay in a puddle of pink ichor, looking as simple and innocent as such a thing could be if it weren't for the fact that it was a human heart in a box. It was impossible for it to look so... fresh after so long, right? Never mind the fact that it seemed to be trembling and pulsing away as if it were still happily residing in someone's body.
And then Francis took a moment to think about that, and sincerely wished he hadn't.
Three-quarters of a century's worth of pieces fell into place with alarming speed as he whirled on Ivan, catching the man's chin in his hand and forcing him to meet his gaze. "Ivan... Please tell me that that isn't yours."
Gloved fingers plucked the muscle from its nest and cupped it protectively as he pulled away from Francis' grasp. "If I did that, I would be lying. It's beautiful, isn't it?" He followed the veined surface with a careful touch, almost wistfully, before offering it to his companion. "Would you like to hold it?"
Francis nearly declined, but the odd gleam in those violet eyes warned that it may not be the best of ideas. Instead he tentatively cupped his hands and tried not to wince as Ivan dumped it between his palms. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that the thing was still alive; the muscle throbbed as it pumped imaginary blood, warm and moist against his skin. Mirroring his Ivan's gentle actions, he ran his fingertips over the surface. He'd felt his share of living tissue before during injuries and periods of scientific curiosity, but never anything quite like this. "It's... ah, well, unique. Is it even worth asking how you managed to do this without killing yourself?"
"I would not tell you anything more than that an old acquaintance helped me, and that he is long dead. Some knowledge is better lost." Ivan shivered at his companion's morbid curiosity, unconsciously rubbing at his chest with each gentle stroke of those long fingers.
The shorter blond couldn't help but notice. "Can you feel it, when I touch your heart?"
He nodded. "It's strange... almost like butterflies inside." Worrying at his lower lip, Ivan finally tore his gaze away from the pulsing muscle and began unbuttoning his coat, drawing it aside before working at the buttons beneath.
"What are you doing, Ivan?"
Cloth rustled, the faint popping of buttons interspersed here and there as the Slavic nation slowly bared his chest to view. "Showing you. And we should put it back, unless you would rather keep holding it for me." The ruin of his chest, to be more accurate... sure, most of them had their share of scars, but Ivan's nearly shone with the glimmer of shiny scar tissue, criss-crossing the skin between blonde-dusted nipples almost down to the indent of his navel. It was like his chest had been torn open, a heart surgery gone terribly, terribly wrong, which in a way, it was. The worst of it ran right down the centre, a solid line of pink and haphazard stitch marks.
Francis couldn't help but cradle his ex-lover's heart to his own chest as he reached a free hand forward to touch; pinkish fluid smeared beneath his fingers and across the front of his dress shirt, but neither seemed to care. "My dear one," he choked. "G-God."
"He had nothing to do with this, that is for sure." It was quick, but France didn't miss the nervousness that flitted across Ivan's face. The larger man held his shirt open wide, exposing as much of his chest as he could without disrobing. "Will you put it back for me, Francis?"
"Now?"
Ivan nodded.
Staring back and forth between the heart in his hand and his companion's chest, Francis helplessly raised an eyebrow. "Uh, how does one do that?"
Shifting closer, the larger blond motioned towards the scars. "Just hold it against the centre and push; it should just... go in. It sounds strange, but it is magic, after all."
All right, I can do this. Francis spared the other man one last look, the heart resting against Ivan's skin. "Are there any odd after-effects that I should be aware of?"
"I do not know!" He clenched his eyes shut, body trembling. "I... I don't. Please, just do it before I lose my nerve!"
Francis pushed.
The heart did nothing at first, but after a moment it suddenly slid forward with a wet, slippery slurp of flesh into flesh. The area shimmered with an icy blue glow, whatever latent magics from all of those years ago suddenly flashing back into existence and fusing the long-lost piece of Ivan back to the rest of him. Ivan himself sucked in a sharp, pained breath as his eyes flew open. Pupils shrouded in amethyst dilated even as those frighteningly beautiful eyes opened even farther, pain wracking his features. His huge bulk collapsed forward, clutching at Francis shirt front as a high, keening wail burst unbidden from his lips.
"Ivan, what...?!" Struggling against the other's weight, the smaller nation managed to push him up just enough to be able to see his face, a face swathed in a sickening shade of grey. Sobbing, fingers clawing at his chest, Ivan could only shake his head and mouth silent words that Francis couldn't even begin to decipher.
And then he simply pitched forward into blissful unconsciousness.
* * *
Sunlight had long since faded into darkness as Ivan lay on the Frenchman's couch, tucked beneath the blanket Francis had spread over him when it had become apparent that he wouldn't be waking up for a while. Unable to rouse him, Francis made a few phone calls, downed nearly a whole a bottle of wine, and went through half a pack of cigarettes in an attempt to calm his nerves. The whole situation had shaken him thoroughly. Why did he have to find the most spectacularly earth-shattering way to force himself back into my life?
Eventually a low groan broke through the older blond's mental rant. Stabbing his last cigarette rather brutally into an ashtray, Francis made his way back over to Ivan's side, dropping to his knees beside the sofa. The unconscious figure had been making all sorts of pitiful sounds while he lay there, as if in the throes of a never-ending nightmare, but this time Francis was struck with relief when confused purple eyes finally fluttered open. Francis offered him a half-hearted smile. "Hello there, my little bear."
Blinking slowly up into blue eyes, Ivan seemed to take a moment to gather himself, his tongue peeking out to wet dry lips. "...You have not called me that in many years, Francis." The normally light, airy voice came out in a hoarse croak.
"No, I haven't." Brushing sweat-damp hair from the other's forehead, Francis watched his face in concern. "How are you feeling?"
"Like someone dropped an anvil on my chest, and then ran me over with a very large truck." Chapped lips quirked up in something akin to a wry smile, and for the first time in ages the smile touched his eyes. "I do not think I will recommend the feeling to anyone."
"I certainly hope not. I can't imagine that having nations tearing their own hearts out all over the place could possibly end well." Flipping the blanket down, Francis looked over the other nation's chest, nodding to himself when it appeared sound and in no way magical or spouting blood or anything else strange beyond the patchwork hodgepodge of scars. Pressing his hand against the centre of Ivan's chest, he was relieved to feel the steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath his touch. "It seems as though yours has settled in pretty well. How does it feel to have it back?"
Wincing, the Slavic nation nodded and looked away. "I do not know if there are good words for... for this. As if the misery and regret for every terrible thing I've seen and done suddenly slammed into me at once. I feel... everything. All of it, weighing me down and eating at my soul." He sighed, wearily closing his eyes. "It hurts more than anything I've ever felt."
"So the bad really hit you," Francis murmured slowly, his hand still laying against the other's chest. "Does this mean that the good did as well?"
He could see the response flicker across Ivan's face, a denial that anything good had happened since he'd mutilated himself so long ago, but for a bare moment those violet eyes softened and a callous-roughened hand came up to lay over his own. "Yes."
Slowly, carefully, France leaned down and pressed his lips against a pair he had almost thought he'd never kiss again. “Good.” The kiss was chaste, light, a gentle brush of skin against skin until the lips beneath his parted with a warm puff of air and he reluctantly pulled away.
There was little more that he could say right now, that either of them should say or hear, really. For better or worse Ivan had reclaimed his heart, and only time would tell if it offered the healing that they both so desperately needed.