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1766 anno domini. Moscow.
France sweeps into the grand ballroom of the Royal Palace in Moscow and pauses in the frame of its promenade staircase just long enough to permit his arrival to be announced to the throng of aristocrats below. They look up, adoringly -- how flattering! -- and he descends toward them with no more than a quarter of a bow, and all of that declination inclined toward the Empress Catherine, pristinely plumaged in pastel brocade and panniers and lace. France considers Russian songbirds, and laughs as, nearly at the moment his feet strike the polished marble floor, a string quartet begins to saw away at their instruments. Minuet. French. Of course.
Dieu, but Russia's decorated this entire room as if he was trying to recreate Versailles from extravagant rumor. It is a confection. It is a delight. So are the Russians. France might as well be in -- well. Not Paris, this entirely lacks Parisian sophistication. But somewhere close by.
Regardless, all of the gossip is about Paris, which is just the most amusing thing. France wanders around the porous borders of the minuet, noting the heights of the wigs on all these Russian girls, the ribbons tied at the knees of their young men's breeches -- fashionable imitation so slavish it may well have improved upon the form, France will have to tell Russia that, as soon as he finds him in this fluttering crowd. They are discussing the philosophes, naturally, Diderot and d'Alembert and the beautiful Voltaire, murmuring in heavy accents about liberalité, eclairissement, absolutisme, the terrible repression of the French government and the hideous burden of the Church.
France would be offended if all these Russians weren't half mad for him without him doing anything but existing. He smiles, darts between the knot of young men discussing Candide and the nearest pair of dancers -- the woman's skirts brush over the tops of his mules, brocade on brocade and since when has Russia become so cosmopolitan as to import the best silk --
A pair of hands come down on France's shoulders, large and soft in delicate white gloves, a voice says Bonjour, франция, and France spins, laughs, reaches up -- my, but Russia is tall -- folds his fingers in Russia's hair and kisses him full on the mouth.
Russia does not sputter or even smile, but the violet of his eyes darkens to the same shade as the velvet of his jacket, and France takes that as the compliment it is.
"Bonjour," he says, and then steps back a fraction. "Oh, do let me look at you, cher."
Russia does, holding still, veritably preening as France looks him over, notes the hundreds of tiny mother-of-pearl buttons on the jacket, the shades of purple and smoke and crimson that ripple in the brocade of shoes and breeches, the extravagant white cravat worn -- perhaps a bit too high -- around the neck. It suits him, the cut of the jacket, just military enough, decadent, imperial, French, the very image of an enlightened despot, Russia, with that wide cruel mouth fleshy and curving, now, at last.
All France says, of course, is "Affectation," and flutters his fingers through the fall of that cravat.
Russia extends a hand. "Dance with me," he says -- asks, or is that commands? -- France raises an eyebrow.
"Are you going to lead?"
The musicians are playing Lully, and not all that badly, either. Russia doesn't answer him, Russia takes his hand and arranges France as if France was the daughter of the Sun King himself, delightful, and France would curtsey if he was in skirts and not a jacket of finer silk than any Russia's managed to acquire yet. Instead he bows -- so does Russia -- and they begin, without any further preamble.
Russia is not quite as good a dancer as he is, but France is slightly hampered by the fact that he isn't accustomed to dancing the woman's half of the minuet, and that matches them well enough. It is an entirely appropriate dance for the evening; they circle and bow and every so often France brushes the back of his knuckles against Russia's chest with just slightly too much intimacy for the occasion. Russia's jacket is five and a half centimeters too long for the latest fashions, and it sweeps against France's thighs and the tendons behind his knees when they spin. It would be salacious if France wasn't entirely sure that Russia hadn't intended it.
It is becoming tedious waiting for Russia to speak when they pass close enough to one another. He seems adamant on continuing to smile and circle and pace out even measured steps, like some large carnivorous beast. Endearing, truly -- but nevertheless, tedious.
"Is all of this embellishment for my sake?" he asks, leadingly.
Russia catches too tightly at his wrist in the next pass, envelops the bones in the large pads of his fingers. "Who else would it be for?"
France steps in, allows Russia to bow over his outstretched leg. "Oh, I could think of any number of people, cher -- it isn't me to whom you've turned for open trade, after all -- "
"It did not seem advisable to work so closely with your government," Russia assures him.
France would toss his hands into the air, or at least press one, stricken, over his breast, if he wasn't engaged in touching his fingertips to Russia's in sweeping farewell. "My government," he begins, dropping back into the line of the minuet and letting it sweep him away, leaving Russia to wait for the dance to circle them back together. Russia follows him with his eyes. Perhaps there is some covetousness there.
"--has very little to do with me," he adds, when Russia is in range again.
"Yes, I know," says Russia. The musicians clamber over one another to a close. "This is why I have signed a trade agreement with England, instead."
Now France can gesture with impunity. He doesn't, merely spreads his palms a fraction at his sides, lets Russia look at him. "If it is trade you're after, I assume England will not be entirely inadequate."
"Trade is of very great interest to my people," Russia murmurs, stepping closer than a minuet would ever allow, and settling the heel of his hand at the base of France's spine. "But it is not the reason for this celebration. I have been given so much more from Europe than mercantile goods, don't you think?"
Ah. Russia becomes more lovely with each passing year, doesn't he.
"Europe has done excellent things for your acculturation," France says, lightly, tilting his head up and tangling his fingers in that cravat again. "You've almost managed to make me blush."
"I shall try harder,' Russia tells him, earnestly.
.
The pile of discarded jackets and breeches on the floor is an aesthetic jumble, France's own teal silk brocade not quite matching either Russia's violet or the rich scarlets and browns of the Mohammedan rug -- has Russia been spending enough time in the Crimea that the Ottoman Empire will give him rugs? Perhaps France should go to the Crimea -- and now Russia's fingers are unbuttoning all of the tiny pearl buttons on France's shirt, and therefore he stops thinking about rugs and just spills backward onto the bed and spreads his arms out and grins up at the ceiling. It is surprising, each time they do this, how nimble those thick fingers can be. The buttons fly apart with only a whisper's worth of touch on his skin, and that's enough to make France shiver and plant the heel of his left foot in the small of Russia's back, pull him closer.
"You could have foregone the dancing, if this was what you wanted," he laughs.
Russia smiles, and shakes his head. "But the dancing was part of what I wanted," he says, pushing the shirt off France's shoulders. "I enjoy all of you."
"So I've noticed," France says, and points out just how much with the arch of his hips, drags his cheeks up and over Russia's groin, sliding against the radiant heat of cock and sac and thighs. Russia shifts forward to meet him, which is satisfying, but does not make any move toward actually putting that enjoyment to good use, which is not.
France closes his fingers on all of that cream silk that Russia's tied up into a cravat -- unties some of the elaborateness of it, quirking his fingers under the edges of the knot. The fabric catches on his knuckles when France pulls up on it. Russia resists, much more than he'd expected -- doesn't he want to be kissed? And how is France supposed to kiss him without getting him all the way up onto this bed?
"Cher," France comments, pointedly, and pulls harder.
-- it is somewhat distressing when Russia, instead of sliding up France's chest, throws him against the headboard. It also hurts. There are tiny explosions of black in the corners of his vision, and the spreading ache where his skull struck the wrought-iron is liquid and sharp at once, in the way that could either be a concussion or a scalp wound, depending on luck and the disposition of the saints toward lovers and Nations. Russia, for his part, continues to sit astride France's hips, still and solid, watching him with an expression of genuine concern and complete attention. One of his palms splays, large and warm, against the lowest of France's ribs, and pets there.
"I am," France says once he's got his breath back inside his lungs where it belongs, "nearly inclined to leave you here to drown in your attempts at civilization until your cock rots from off envy."
Russia looks at him -- and ah, but France could wish for more than desire in that gaze, something of distress, or a deeper well of covetousness, the kind born of necessity, of craving or desperate fixation -- and says, "Nearly?"
France considers for far less time than even he thinks is prudent. "Nearly," he says, again, this time on a sigh. Something warm trickles down the back of his neck from where his head struck. That will stain his shirt if he doesn't have it off soon. "Now why don't you come up here and enlighten yourself as to what enjoyment we might have of one another."
Russia finds this statement amusing enough to laugh at. His laughter is not as soft as his voice; it's brighter and brassier and occasionally seems to belong to a very different Nation altogether. France enjoys it, especially because it never fails to make his heart speed, that nauseating little thrill of unpredictability and fear. He sinks into the pillows and the coverlet, spreads himself out like a feast, everything flung wide, thighs and arms and throat. If there are bloodstains on Russia's pillowcases, he can wash them out himself.
The mouth that closes on his collarbone is wet and hot and smooth when it drags lower on his chest, tasting. France murmurs approval. When he reaches for Russia this time he skirts over that ever-present knot of silk and traces over the breadth of musculature in his shoulders instead. He could hang onto those shoulderblades -- he does -- and grind up against the plane of Russia's stomach. Using the sheer size of him for leverage -- it feels delicious, heady. That could be the blood loss. Not that it matters.
Russia has his jaw now, the curve of his throat. He is delicate with the flesh, kissing and nibbling at it, not nearly hard enough to mark, more like he is learning the shape, the pulse of France's breath and blood. France spreads his legs wider, bends at the knee and ankle and grounds himself in the bed with his heels, grips Russia's hips with the length of his thighs and pulls him in, down, forward.
"Should I," he croons between voiced breaths, "be instructing you on the merits of your -- enlightened despot -- such a contrast to my own government --" The next shove of his hips up aligns their cocks and Russia shudders, groans lowly, "or about the love of universal morals -- is that what you'd like from me -- "
"No," Russia says, "no, I have heard enough of that --" He's snatched one of France's hands from his shoulder, he moves so quickly when he wishes to, "from your Voltaire's letters to my Catherine -- " He takes France's fingers into his mouth, draws on them like he is sucking honey from a comb.
France twists his fingertips against that seeking tongue. "Your Catherine loves my Voltaire."
"And you also care for him, do you not? Even if you have thrown him out of Paris?" Even muffled and distorted with the slick heat which they are building between them, Russia is disconcertingly lucid about these things.
"Oh, better men and better Nations than he have been thrown out of Paris," France clarifies, and kisses him, pushing his tongue through the scrim of his own fingers. "What do I care for Paris when I have these consolations of philosophy?"
"That is not Voltaire," Russia says into his mouth. His brows draw together like a child trying to recall his school-lessons.
"No," France laughs, slipping his free hand between them to distract at the source of all this friction and desire, "no, you ought to read your classics, Russia, cher, that is Boethius and it is all wrong --"
Russia is too busy pushing into his palm and making hungry sounds against his lips to ask precisely what France intends by that, and that suffices, in itself, that and the slow, building scrape where his torn skin rubs against the pillows and pulses in time with their breath.
.
France does not bother, in the morning, to attend the first meeting of Russia's new Nakaz, the Grand Commission that his empress has dreamed up in order to codify all the nectar she has sipped from reading the philosophes over and over into a semblance of modernized law. He has no need to be present; Russia can, as he has so amply demonstrated -- there is a patch of raw scabbing on the back of France's skull, and that ache is insignificant in comparison to the pleasant soreness of his ass -- it is amusing to have been so thoroughly ravished, once Russia had gotten the idea properly -- Russia can imitate a Continental power entirely adequately.
It would simply be a waste of France's time to make sure the Nakaz functions as well in practice as in theory. Russia will advance toward universal morality on his own time, will he not?
---
.