Where the Wild Things Aren't

The wind shakes the tent as Nataliya crawls through the opening, and for a moment she fears it will tumble down altogether, though it's stronger than it looks and the wind isn't as wicked as it sounds. They've been out in Siberia for almost a week now – on a fool's errand that she doesn't care to think about – and if she were with any Nation other than Tolys, then Nataliya would probably have already given up.

She shakes the snow off of her boots through the tent flap, and loses a moment staring at the skittering snow tossed up by the wind in an imitation of a blizzard. It's dark out there, and cold, and the ice has odd shadows that flit between humans and bears and rivers in a mesmerising cycle of darkness. She's glad she's inside.

They share their sleeping bags, zipped together in all the wrong places but somehow it works. It conserves body heat, Tolys says, but she catches the way he blushes when he makes the suggestion and it's all the signal she needs to pull him towards her and catch his protests of propriety with her lips.

His hands are rough, knuckles red and raw from the bite of the wind and the venom of the ice, but gentle all the same as they trace interlocking patterns over her skin. She shivers at his touch, feeling the chill of the outside still trapped and frantic under his fingernails, but pulls him closer all the same, leaning into his not-quite-warmth like a ship sinking into the harbour.

He smiles, all sharp teeth and dark slashes of cheekbone and scars against the torchlit backdrop of the tent, and for a moment Nataliya can't understand why he looks soft to her, why he looks weak and fragile, until she sees the tender need in his eyes.

There's nothing like these stolen moments with Tolys; moments that by rights shouldn't exist but make her feel so much lighter, so much freer than she'd been since almost forever, since she could run barefoot over the snow giggling with just a momentary smoky wisp of hair to show where she'd been. It isn't that she feels safe with him – on the contrary, he puts her on edge and pushes her out of her comfort zone until she's completely bewildered – but with him she feels like less of a danger. It's bizarre, maybe, but then Tolys is a familiar strangeness that would be almost more jarring if predictable.

She smiles back at him, lazily content for once, and she thinks she understands. She doesn't love Tolys because of some false sense of security; something anyone could give her. She loves him because out of all of the other Nations, he is the only one who she can fully let her guard down with, the only one she knows can match her blow for blow and do it with the same easy patience as he kisses her. There is no other Nation whom she distrusts enough to relax in this way with, but with Tolys she can stop holding herself in check, stop blunting her words and let down most of her walls.

"I love you," she murmurs, sinking into Tolys' embrace as the storm rages harder outside. "So much."

"What was that for?" His arms wrap tighter around her, needing her just as much as she needs him. She likes that feeling, of being wanted for who she is rather than what she is.

"Nothing at all," she smiles – because he doesn't even realise – and presses a kiss to his cheek.

A/N: I wrote most of this back in July, so apologies for any lapses in quality. (c: