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The summit had ended. Finally. The building still hummed with diplomats and aides scrambling to exit, but in a quiet courtyard wrapped in jasmine vines and twilight, two nations sat across from each other in silence. Russia, large even in stillness, shifted slightly on the floor cushion. It was rare to find him without that scarf of his, but here he’d loosened it, just slightly, exposing his collar. India noticed, but said nothing.
Instead, he poured the tea.
The small clay cups were still steaming, fragrant with crushed cardamom and fresh ginger. A swirl of milk curled lazily at the top. He pushed one cup forward wordlessly, letting the scent carry itself.
Russia blinked. “This is… not like the tea at home.”
India smiled, soft and unbothered. “No. It is not meant to be. That is the point.”
Russia picked up the cup cautiously. It was hot — warmer than he expected, somehow even heavier than his usual porcelain cups. He sniffed it, eyes narrowing. “There is milk.”
“Of course there is milk,” India replied with a small chuckle. “Tea without milk is... well. Still tea. But this? This is comfort. This is a rainy day under banyan trees. This is—”
“I do not have rainy days under banyan trees.”
“No, you have winters and frostbite.” India leaned forward slightly. “But perhaps, even then, some things can warm you.”
Russia stared into the cup again. His breath made the steam curl like a ghost. Then, slowly, he sipped.
The effect was immediate: his eyebrows twitched. He didn’t cough or spit it out—he just stared at the clay cup like it had betrayed him in some poetic way.
“It’s sweet,” he said flatly.
India hummed. “I could add more ginger if you want it stronger.”
“No, no,” Russia said, sipping again. “It is… very warm. And strange. But I think I like it. It is… soft.”
A smile tugged at India’s mouth. He sipped his own tea, barely hiding his amusement.
Russia continued drinking, his expression unreadable, until the cup was empty.
“I brought something too,” he said, reaching into a heavy coat that he’d tossed beside him. “From home.”
He pulled out a thermos. Industrial-grade. Like it could survive a blizzard and an invasion. He unscrewed the top slowly and poured the thick liquid into two white enamel mugs.
India peered at the contents. It was darker than his tea — nearly black, with a sharp, earthy scent.
“Russian chai,” Russia offered. “No milk. Only strong leaves. Sometimes jam, if you want it.”
“Jam?” India blinked.
Russia’s lips twitched. “Yes. Blackcurrant, sometimes raspberry. We drink it from the saucer if we’re in a hurry. Or sip it slowly to forget the snow.”
India raised the mug, sniffed the contents, and sipped.
It hit like a wall: strong, bitter, grounding. A forest of cold wind and iron pots. India coughed gently, then laughed. “Yours is more brutal than mine.”
“Like the people,” Russia said, smiling slightly.
India swirled the mug, savoring the aftertaste. “Brutal, yes. But not without warmth. This is... nostalgic, somehow. Even for someone like me.”
“Do you like it?” Russia asked, voice suddenly low. Too quiet for a man of his size.
India looked at him. The scarf, the pale eyes, the way his hands had curled carefully around the enamel. There was a gentleness there. Fragile. Like snow balanced on pine.
“I do,” he said honestly. “It is very… you.”
Russia looked away quickly, ears tinged faint pink.
They sipped in silence for a while, two empires wrapped in quiet, not-so-distant histories. The air between them was no longer heavy with diplomacy or old grudges. Just tea. And maybe something else.
Russia glanced at the thermos again. “Would you like to try it with jam?”
India raised an eyebrow. “Is this how you seduce people in Siberia?”
Russia blinked. “Only on Thursdays.”
A beat of silence. Then India laughed — warm, unfiltered, genuine. It rolled over the courtyard like music.
“Alright then,” he said, “surprise me.”
Russia took a small jar from his coat — raspberry jam. He spooned a bit into India’s mug with ritualistic precision.
“Now stir,” he instructed. “Let it melt.”
India obeyed. The tea turned deep red near the bottom. He sipped again.
“…Huh,” he said.
“Too strange?”
“No,” India said slowly. “I think I hate how much I enjoy this.”
Russia smiled. “Welcome to my winters.”
“Alright, your turn,” India said suddenly, eyes twinkling. “Try mine again. But this time, with jaggery and clove.”
“More sugar?”
“No. Better sugar.”
He poured a second cup and adjusted the balance of spices like a painter layering color. The result was more golden this time, with a richness that stuck to the air.
Russia tasted it and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, they were softer than before. “…I think… this is the first time I’ve felt warm all week.”
India glanced up. “The weather isn’t that cold here.”
Russia tilted his head. “I meant here,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “In the world. Everyone talks with knives. But this… you made this for me?”
India set down his cup gently. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”
“…Yes.”
They looked at each other. A moment passed.
Russia reached for the clay cup again.
India reached for the jam.