55 - Inevitable

the_chosen_end — 02.06.2010 Title: Inevitable
Characters: France/Russia.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1963 - Russia attempts to forget, and France does his best to help him.

TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.

---

Russia's house. June 20, 1963.


France hovered in the door to Russia's bedroom; the floorboards creaked beneath his heels. He gazed at Russia, hunched around his desk, head down; France sighed.

"What has happened?"

Russia stared down at the desktop. "Nothing. I'm--I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called." That young, uncertain voice.

France crossed the room and lay his hands on Russia's shoulders. Looked down at the back of his head for a few seconds. "You have just come out of a meeting with America," he guessed.

A miserable nod. "Our bosses were there. They asked us to sit across from one another."

France's gaze skimmed the surface of Russia's desk. A heavy red phone squatted on the corner, gleaming and new. Russia's paperwork was all gone; shoved into drawers, most likely, ah mon cher, don't you trust me?

France hugged Russia's shoulders in his fingers. "You have not been yourself, since..." It was not wise, these days, to mention Cuba.

Russia's gaze crept up an inch. "They've been talking about it, haven't they? Laughing at us. Europe." Russia's fingers knotted in the spiral of the telephone cord.

"No, mon cher," France murmured. He leaned over Russia's chair and folded his arms around the big nation's shoulders. Sighed next to his ear. "No one is laughing at you. We are all--relieved."

Some were more relieved than others.

Russia shifted a little beneath France's weight. "I'm sure you are," he mumbled. "Relieved that two stupid children, who can't manage their--their tempers or their passions or their a-affairs, aren't seeing much of one another anymore."

"I am relieved by any development which reduces my risk of dying in fire," France replied. There was a half-slipped button on Russia's rumpled shirt. France fixed it.

The red cord stretched and pulled as Russia untangled his hand. "I suppose I can't blame you for that." His voice was still quiet, but a bit of the ice had melted away. A few moments slipped by, and Russia finally wet his lips, turned, and looked up at France. "I'm sorry. I...I'm not...I know you didn't accept my invitation so I could snap at you all evening."

France shook his head. Don't think of it. He tipped his chin towards the phone. "It doesn't look your style."

"It isn't." Russia looked at it again. "My boss had it installed. To...talk to America. An extra precaution against another...crisis." Russia's gaze drifted to the floor. "I haven't used it yet."

"Oh, darling," France exhaled, "You are miserable at this. ...You are not meant to install private phone lines to your recent ex in your bedroom, you know. …Do you feel that unless you make things as difficult as possible for yourself, it somehow doesn't count?"

"Nothing important is ever easy," Russia said reproachfully. He propped an elbow on the desk, and rested his cheek in his hand. "If it is, then something has gone wrong."

"Miserable," France repeated. "And where is your liquor? Stop staring at the phone and make me a drink, mon cher, no wonder you asked me to come by."

It was inevitable. Russia and America parted ways; Russia spent a while sequestered, tense and unhappy; and then eventually, France would receive a summons. To keep Russia company. As a friend, they were very old friends; it was a bit of a tradition. France wondered if Russia was aware of it.

Russia blinked up at him, then planted his hands against the arms of his chair and levered himself to his feet. The jointed wood creaked. He mumbled something about impatience, but his fingertips brushed France's sleeve as he made his way to the window. There was no proper liquor cabinet upstairs, but the small cupboard beneath the sill had been serving well enough in recent years, from what France could tell. It opened with a groan, and Russia stooped and plucked out narrow glass bottles, all the liquor amber or clear as water. "Anything in particular?"

"I am not impatient," France returned, and dropped onto the edge of Russia's bed. "I am reminding you how to be a good host." It was said with a small smile, with no sting, but--when had Russia stopped drinking wine? He canted his head at the row of bottles. "Anything, it doesn't matter." Russia knew what he liked.

Russia rooted around for a few moments longer, then produced two flared glasses. He removed the glass stopper from a bottle of cognac and poured. Clinking and quiet ringing as he replaced tumblers and bottles. France accepted his glass, made space on the end of the bed. His fingertips kissed the back of Russia's hand as the other nation sat beside him.

When France spoke, a cognac-sipping interval later, it was quiet. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know." Russia flushed, and drank to cover it. "A little."

"I am here," France reminded him.

Russia stared down at his knees. His drink dangled from his fingers. "I don't…want to miss him. I've never...I don't know how to miss someone. Even if I have before." He rubbed the back of his neck. "My sisters...a-and you-- But it's not the same. Those weren't left up to me. America is...I chose for things to be like this." He strained after the words; they came out slow and pained. "I just can't..."

A hot, unhappy silence. "France, I don't--understand. It wasn't supposed to hurt."

France exhaled and looked down into his glass. "We can separate ourselves from those we...cannot address with equanimity," he offered; ""But we cannot force ourselves to stop caring for them, mon coeur, no matter how much we might want to."

No reply. Russia finished off his drink in two more swallows, placed his glass down on the floor next to his foot. He wrapped his arms around himself and hid his face against his knees. A second later, his shoulders trembled.

France's breath stilled. He put his glass beside Russia's and rose to his knees, drew the bigger nation in against his chest. He tucked Russia's head into his shoulder. "Hush," he breathed.

Russia clung to France, knotted his hands in his shirt. His eyes squeezed shut.

France cupped the back of his head and kissed his temple. "You have not lost him," he whispered. "Things change, empires--empires fall. You just have to endure, Russie." A silence: softer, then. "And no one endures so well as you."

Russia cringed in closer, buried his face in the warm hollow of France's neck. "What if I-I can't?"

France kissed him again, on his cheekbone; gentle. "You can." You have no choice. France gathered Russia an inch closer. "...And you have your friends to help you."

"Friend," Russia corrected, thin and aching. His face turned upwards, inch by painful inch, until he was looking into France's eyes. "There's only you now. We both know that."

"I am sure you are not so alone as you think," France murmured, and grazed back a few strands of Russia's hair. "But--yes; I will always be your friend."


---


France's house. August, 1963.

"--And the pair of them," France snarled, waved his cigarette over the ash tray. It was too hot to smoke, but France was too irritated not to smoke, so the window hung open, and the curtains swayed on a slow-moving summer breeze, and the air went heavy and sour in his sitting room.

Nobody could fill an ash tray like France and Russia, when they got in the right mood.

"--It's intolerable, cher, you cannot imagine the aggravation; every day, every time NATO gets together, it's just the pair of them--whispering to each other," he sneered, "Behind cupped hands, like schoolgirls; making all the decisions on their own, they couldn't be less interested in the opinions of their allies; this is why I have been withdrawing from the alliance, have I told you that? Unless you speak English and grate on my nerves, you hold no real power in NATO." He slammed out his cigarette and reached immediately inside his jacket for the next one. "Nevermind that without me, one would be a blue-painted savage with all the international wherewithal of a howler monkey, and the other would be guzzling tea with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes down along with the rest of England's colonies..."

France scowled at nothing as he raised his lighter. "Good God, I've done more harm to myself than good, haven't I."

Russia huffed out a long, grey stream of smoke. He leaned forward, tapped out a curl of ash. "They are...very close, then?" He asked, toneless.

France glanced up at Russia. Paused, a moment, in his vitriol. "They are--England and America are cooperating closely now, yes."

"I see." Russia took out his own lighter and rubbed the lid with his thumb; a familiar habit. The metal there was buffed bright.

France watched him for a few seconds. "So far as I know, they are not sleeping with one another." A beat, and so long as he was being honest: "But I expect it's only a matter of time."

Russia turned the lighter in his fingers. "I...I know. I never expected anything less. But I wish--" He broke off. Didn't attempt to meet France's eyes.

"You wish you were in a position to prevent it," France murmured. He took a long drag. "I know."

Russia shook his head. He fumbled another cigarette from the battered packet at his side, lit up without stubbing out the first. Only when the fresh one was between his lips did he bother with the ashtray. "I-I wish it had taken a little longer."

France leaned back in the settee and propped one foot on the edge of the coffee table. "Nothing has happened yet. It may take them years, God, you know how they are..." that last trailed off into a mutter. Miserable, repressed, joy-hating Puritans…

"It may," Russia allowed--then filled his lungs to stinging anyway. His gaze was too leaden to rise off the floor.

"How much do you think America cares for the time we have been spending together?" France waved his cigarette again, blew out a long trail of black smoke. Their shoulders rested together as he resettled. "I get such looks, mon cher, and I assure you he isn't that upset about my withdrawing my Navy from NATO command."

Russia squinted at France through the haze between them. "Has he ever...spoken to you about it? About--us, I mean; you and me--"

"He has been even ruder than is his custom, if that qualifies," France responded dryly.

Russia's rubbed his thumb across the lighter again. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not. If he is going to set my teeth on edge with NATO, I would like to at least earn some dirty looks by having his ex over for drinks and cigarettes." France tapped his Galoise over the tray and refilled their wine glasses.

Russia watched, took up his glass the moment it was full. He gulped down half the glass in three swallows. Then, "Drinks and cigarettes aren't as disreputable as all that."

France arched an eyebrow at him. The heady melange of pinot noir mingled with the smoke. "Neither are England and America's pub crawls and trade agreements. It is the implication which is troubling."

"Not the implication," Russia muttered. "The inevitability."

"I'm sure America feels the same." France tipped his glass to Russia before he took a sip.

Russia watched France's mouth on the rim of his glass. "We're inevitable, then?"

"Aren't we?" France smiled. He swirled his wine in his glass. "Things do tend to happen, when America is not--monopolizing your affections; you must have noticed. Well, America certainly has."

"Of course I've noticed." Russia leans his head against the back of the couch, breathes smoke at the ceiling. He lolls a look at France. "But America has never said--"

"Would you like him to sign an affidavit, mon coeur?" France laughed. He took another gulp of wine. "As if he'd ever confess to seeing me as a rival; but what does it matter, if he confesses it?"

"It doesn't, I suppose." Russia said quietly. His cigarette had burned down to his fingers; he didn't drop it. The paper flaked and burned. "What I do is my own business, now."

France reached around him and took the stub from Russia's fingers; replaced it with one of his own cigarettes. "You should know--I will not pressure you. It is enough for me that we are here, and friends--and I enjoy your company. And I understand that you still need time to…adjust to your loss. I can be patient, when I have no acceptable alternative." A curl of a smile. "But even so...I hope you know that I have missed you."

Russia sat up, turned an inch. "You have?" Surprise. Always that genuine surprise, no matter how many times they played out this drama. "I've...I've missed you too. Talking with you is always easier. Than--than the others." He smoothed a lock of France's hair behind his ear with quick, shy fingertips.

France turned his cheek against Russia's hand, and managed to make it suggest a nod. He didn't kiss his fingers. It wasn't...quite time, yet. Russia always called for patience. "I always miss you when you--do not have time for society," he murmured.

When America keeps you to himself.

"I've never had much patience for society," Russia traced his index finger along France's jaw, hesitant. "Let alone time." A hitched laugh. "I-I know you tried with me, but--"

France's shoulders tugged in on a single, soundless laugh, and he mirrored Russia; cupped the far side of his jaw. "You have turned out very charming, mon cher; in your own way."


---


Paris. October, 1963.

The Seine turned gold and dark under the cool drape of twilight; shadow covered both ends of the bridge. Russia leaned against the railing, his arms folded across it. France hugged his hips.

"You have been quiet today." Quieter, even, than had become Russia's custom.

Russia shrugged, gave him a flicker of a smile. "I haven't had much to say."

France nodded, and looked down at the water. He understood why. It was October--it was late October.

It had been a year since Russia and America had laid their love aside.

"Cher," he murmured, gentle. Turned on the railing, so his hip was propped against it, and faced Russia. He touched the taller nation under his chin. "Life goes on, you know."

"I know." Russia's fingers followed France's to just under his jaw. He tangled their hands together, rested them on the railing. "I'm not--pining."

He was; of course.

France watched him; inspected how Russia's soft and downcast eyes reflected the gold off the river. "Good." He shifted their fingers closer together. "As sad as this separation is...there are other beautiful things in life."

Russia's lashes flickered. His eyes drifted back to France, skimmed his profile, his lips, the turn of his jaw. "I know that, too," he murmured. A soft, nervous laugh. "I'm not blind."

"Russie," France said tenderly, drifted forward. "Come here." His fingers curled in the hollow behind Russia's jaw--

--And he drew Russia down into a kiss.

Russia shivered, barely felt and watersmooth in France's hands. His lips parted, and he made a soft, breathless sound into France's mouth.

France slid his fingers into Russia's hair and kept him held in close. "You need a distraction," France whispered, a very old smile lingering on his lips. "You know I am an excellent distraction."

"The very best." Russia's voice trembled. He spanned a heavy hand around France's hip, nuzzled his fingers in against the turn of bone. Their hips, chests, floated closer. Breeze off the water ruffled both their hair.

France caressed down the line of Russia's face with the backs of his fingers. "You will go back to him, one day." He searched Russia's gaze; and Russia searched his. "And I will let you."

Russia chuffed, hesitated; then caught France's wrist and pressed a kiss against it. A pleasant twitch traveled between France's shoulderblades. "I don't--deserve such a good friend." That voice, so quiet, so uncertain…

"You should give yourself more credit, Russie." Their bodies formed a sweet line against each other. France kissed the corner of Russia's mouth around his hand.

Russia leaned in to capture France's lips again. "I'm already too generous, in that respect," he mumbled, still breathing into France. He bent into their kisses.

"Hush, now--" France caught the front of Russia's jacket, knotted his fingers around one of the buttons, and pulled him in full and warm. "I brought you here to kiss you, not to argue."

Russia purred, deep and quiet, and wrapped his arms up France's back, massaged the shapes of his spine and shoulders through his shirt. He slipped a little tongue into their next kiss, tasted across France's lower lip, into his mouth. Their clothes--scarves and sweaters and jackets--rustled and shifted together.

The sun set, turned the Seine copper, then red, then dark. France took Russia home.



<sub>+++

--The Moscow-DC "hotline" was established on June 20, 1963, after the events of the Cuban Missile Crisis made it clear that reliable, direct communications between the two nuclear powers was a necessity. The actual first generation hotline was not a telephone at all, but a private telegram line, since it was feared that spontaneous voice communication might lead to misunderstandings. Anyone who's ever drunk-dialed an ex can probably sympathize with that kind of reasoning.


--French-Soviet relations dramatically improved during the 1960s, as France spent the first half of the decade breaking up with NATO. And I wish I could make this sound any less shippy, but the real, I-swear-to-God reason for the split was that France was jealous of the 'special relationship' between the UK and the United States. (France also wanted to be able to negotiate a separate peace with the Eastern Bloc should the GDR seize West Berlin or invade West Germany, but that was a secondary agenda.) By 1963, France had removed its Navy from NATO command and banned all foreign weapons and troops from French soil.


+++</sub>

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This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.

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