A/N: In honor of Paint it White. Even though it's not coming to Canada any time soon *bawls*, apparently there's a scene where Russia does ballet. I was halfway through writing this when I heard that and was like "OKAY I GUESS I HAVE TO FINISH IT NOW." Warning for a little bit of Russia/France, stay away if that bothers you.

Just so you don't feel totally lost when France starts speaking ballet at you, it's Dance lesson time! Here are some of the references:

Isadora Duncan – ballerina who had her neck broken when her scarf was caught in the wheels of a car. Didn't like dancing in the USSR so she left.
Plisetskaya – stayed in the USSR. Prima ballerina assoluta, renowned for her really fluid arms.
Vaganova/Noverre/Balanchine – Different styles of ballet – Vaganova is Russian, Noverre is an old French teacher, Balanchine is Georgian. They all have different specialties and slightly different rules. As a special note, Balanchine concentrates on fast movement, especially footwork.
Cou-de-pied – one foot tucked behind or in front of the other ankle, kinda like a curtsy
Port-de-bras – arm movements
Retirer – lifting one foot to your other knee
Arabesque – pretty arm position, with the leg lifted to the back. It's the kind of thing you'd see on a music box.
Pas-de-chat – step of the cat. Most fun jump EVER.
Sissone/Ciseaux – two big jumps
Chasser – a step notable for having a different version in Russia – the foot is pointed forwards, while in France it's held more square and flat.
Russian – not the person, but a step – a biiiiiiig horizontal jump where you touch your toes in a sideways splits. It's very manly and Russian.
Prima Ballerina Assoluta – the BEST ballet dancers altogether. There's only been about ten of them in all of history. It's an incredible honour.
Dancing "Turned In" - the ULTIMATE ballet sin. Don't do it.
Glazunov - Russian composer.
Baryshnikov - Really really awesome male dancer. Did eleven-freaking-pirouettes in the movie White Nights

XxXxX

France could remember the exact moment when he began to suspect Russia was hiding something.

The idea had come to him when he had witnessed a coincidental greeting between the nation and an economic consultant they'd hired for a particular conference. A very well-respected and well-established expert, at that, and Russia was greeting him formally while France stood in the corner of the room and waited his turn to do the same. He had smiled that gutting smile, bowed his head politely and offered his hand, and then slid his foot into an almost unnoticeable cou-de-pied.

France stared, wide-eyed, and then tried to pretend he hadn't noticed. Russia must not have realized what he was doing, holding his foot that way. He seemed oblivious to the fact that France was eyeing him so closely, too, because he replaced it afterwards like nothing had really happened.

But something had happened, at it was gradually convincing France of something both horrifying and yet potentially very wonderful. He would have to test, and see if his theory was correct.

In the next week of the conference, he watched Russia intently, noticing how he kept his arm angled when he extended his hand, or the particular way that he inclined his neck, or how he walked a little duck-footed when he was preoccupied. The crowning piece of evidence was obtained on the very last day, when France walked purposefully into him, dropping an overstuffed file. Fluttering on about how clumsy and sorry he was, he started to collect them and asked, blushingly, for Russia's help. The nation bent in half at the waist, picking up some of the papers off the floor without bending his knees. France had almost laughed aloud, but he settled towards flouncing off to his destination – lunch.

"So Russia is a dancer," he said lightheartedly, taking a seat next to England in the conference lunch room. "A ballet dancer."

England snorted so hard that his tea rippled. Trying to restrain his laughter, he took a quaint sip. "Alright then."

France kept his gaze on him without faltering. England met his eyes and went from hysterical to confused to incredulous. The tea was slowly lowered to the table. "You're actually serious, aren't you?"

"Mais oui!" France crowed. "If anyone can tell, it is I."

"Oh, bollocks," he said with a spectacular eyeroll. "I'd bet you anything you're just wishing he did, because he'd look smashing in tights or something."

Without missing a beat, France crossed his arms. "I'll take that bet."

Interested, England grew a smirk. "Alright then, old boy – prove it."

"If I do," France said instantly, holding up one long finger, "the next meeting will be graced by Angleterre, in full ballet costume. This means tutus."

"And if you fail," England replied, "I'm picking out your suit for the next conference." That smarmy smirk grew again on his features. "You'll look so good in tweed."

France let out a distressed little cry. "I am not wearing any of your stinking sheep fabrics, Angleterre! Russia will be prancing around my stage in Paris before the week is out."

Throwing his napkin down dismissively, France quit the room. England stared after him as he left, and then grunted nonchalantly.

"What are you calling stinking sheep fabric?" he grumbled.

XxXxX

Looking back on the whole thing, France would wonder exactly when his plan had mutated so spectacularly. Getting Russia to dance for him – in a way that England could see – was going to be no easy feat, and he couldn't simply go up and ask, and so he had to get a little creative.

It had to start with an invitation, bien sur – and so he caught up to Russia at the end of the conference, just as he was walking out. The larger country turned gracefully, leaving France with yet another piece of evidence, and said "Ah, yes, you. What do you want?"

Smile undaunted, France pressed a hand elegantly onto his hips. "Well I just had a thought…Russia happens to be quite cold this time of year, oui?"

The larger country raised his eyebrows. "It's July," he said simply.

Unfazed, France waved his hands. "Exactly!" he crowed. "Wouldn't you like to spend summer somewhere actually warm?"

Smiling bemusedly now, Russia tried again – "Well, Sochi in July is actually quite-"

"Say no more, tournesol!" He crowed, interrupting cheerily. "I would just love for you to come and visit me in Paris this week. It has been a long time since you've visited me!"

"Well, it has, but-"

"Then you will come!" France urged, slapping him heartily on the back and letting his hand linger, just a touch, before folding it demurely behind him. "There just a few post-conference snarls I would like to untangle."

Russia gave in. "Alright then," he said with a laugh. "I accept."

Of course he did. France hadn't given him a chance to say no. Brilliant.

And then, admittedly, things got out of hand. After arriving in Paris and setting Russia up at a proper, expensive hotel, France had snuck out and blackmailed a dance studio owner into letting him take over his building for the day. He'd then spent all morning hooking up recording equipment. That had taken him hours, and he'd had to sweet-talk a very unattractive security guard into helping him re-route the TV monitors properly. After that he'd phoned Russia, a little drunk on his complete lack of sleep (he'd stayed up plotting almost all night), and told him to meet him in the rehearsal hall because the conference hall was closed for re-painting.

Russia agreed gullibly, to which France indulged in a delightfully evil cackle. He slammed the phone down, changed, tied back his hair loosely, left his jacket on a hook in the rehearsal room, put a CD in the player and began to warm up. The room was long, one side completely mirrored, with a glossy hardwood floor that you could see yourself in almost as well as the walls. France angled himself so he could see the door.

Half an hour later, during a pause between exercises, he heard a voice echoing down the hallway.

"Francis? They told me you were down here…"

A sharklike grin emerged on his features. France shook his head and replied loudly, "Yes, it's the room on your left."

He heard the door handle click and Russia's voice continuing a little quieter, "I apologize for having to use your name so loosely, I didn't want anyone else to hear me call you-"

Russia came halfway through the door and stopped. He stared at France, who leaned languidly on the barre. He wore black pants much too tight for anyone's good and a white shirt, damp with sweat at the corners. But Russia, instead of noticing the outfit, looked fixated on his shoes.

"Erm…am I interrupting you?" Russia asked, sounding awkward and confused.

"A little," France replied. "Ah, but it was my fault, I thought you wouldn't be able to get here so quickly."

Russia's resulting smile was quite strained. "Anyways, we should probably get started soon, so…" he inched in to the room, placed his briefcase cautiously on the floor. He seemed unable to look at anything but France's ballet slippers.

"We have plenty of time," France interrupted haughtily. "And I'm in the middle of an exercise!"

Looking wary and a little irritated, Russia folded his arms and leaned against the door. "I do not wish to start our meeting late, France. If you have something that important to tell me we should start as soon as possible."

"How rude," France sighed heavily. "Surely you won't mind if I just finish up?"

Russia nodded slightly, still looking suspicious and gluing himself to the doorframe. Turning dramatically away, France launched into what might have been the most wretched port-de-bras in the history of dance, square, rigid and awkward. It felt like a cardinal sin to ravage his lovely art in such a way, but it was for the greater good. He hadn't expected it to work so quickly, but he wasn't even into the second embarrassment of an exercise when he heard an irate grunt from behind him.

"Yes?" he asked coyly, glancing over his shoulder.

Russia looked strained for a minute, like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a choked "Nothing."

Deciding to toy with him at length, France launched into another exercise halfway through the second one. When he purposely botched a retirer, he heard a quiet tsk from the door. He looked to Russia, but the country smiled pleasantly onwards. He managed to withhold his groans as France extended his leg awkwardly and improperly, but when he finished with leg straight and high, his foot flexed and his ankle turned in, the other country snapped.

Crossing to him in a flash of speed, Russia squawked in distress and seized him in an iron grip, wrenching his ankle one way and his wrist another, tugging him and folding him like dough into a far more acceptable arabesque. "There."

France grinned. I knew it. Russia, in a small panic after realizing what he had done, released him. Modeling a perfect student, France retracted his leg gracefully, flawlessly, and then folded his arms to look triumphantly at him.

"You have been keeping something from us, cherie," France said coyly. "Who would have guessed it. Ivan Braginski. Danseur."

A bright laugh slipped from his lips, and France walked past him to the exit, trying to decide what colour tutu England would look best in. He reached for his coat, flung by the door, and giggled. He guessed that Russia would be frozen, shocked and embarrassed that his secret had been discovered. Relishing in his discomfort, France threw a last, leaving look over his shoulder.

To his surprise, Russia was staring back at him. The look was not wounded, but challenging. France slowly turned, and dropped his coat.

Russia, in tandem, slid his coat off. It landed with a heavy thud, and he kicked it away into a corner of the studio. He ripped off his tie and flicked open two of the top buttons. Sliding out of his shoes, he bent and rolled his socks halfway down his feet. He kept the scarf on, then stopped, meeting France's stare with a wide grin.

"Are you going to actually going to dance in a suit?" he asked.

His response was a bright giggle. Russia stuck out his tongue and tightened his scarf. "You asked for it."

"You might want to be careful with that," France said scathingly, pointing towards his scarf and suspecting that Russia was throwing down the gauntlet. "Wouldn't want to go the way dear Isadora did."

Nothing changed in Russia's face. His smile didn't move. Flatly, he replied, "she lacked discipline. Too emotional. Nowhere near as great as Plisetskaya."

France scoffed. "You only liked her because she didn't leave your country."

"Such…fluidity," Russia sighed, ignoring him, and to France's surprise he launched into a seamless plier as he talked. "She is legendary."

Speechless, France could only watch as he rose and launched into a swift little pencil turn, landing with one hand extended towards him and open. "For all your country has given to the ballet," he said harshly, his voice suddenly dark and grating across the room, "You have never produced a dancer of such quality. Not a single prima ballerina assoluta to your name, while I have the credit of two. You have, without such a paragon, failed your art." France stiffened, and Russia's eyes burned. "So prove to me," he continued, "that you can produce something which is nothing less than perfection."

France stepped forwards. Gauntlet thrown – challenge accepted.

"You will need music." Russia said with false kindness.

Huffing angrily, France strode over to the corner of the room and fiddled with the dial on the stereo. A lilting waltz came on. France didn't think much of it.

But the other country chuckled quietly. "Glazunov?" he tittered. "You flatter me."

Deciding it was as good as anything, France spun the volume dial carelessly. The spacious room was instantly bursting with the waltz, like they'd been stealthily surrounded and then ambushed by an orchestra. Some part of France had known it would come to this, and he was prepared.

They circled each other cautiously, wondering who would take it upon themselves to make the first move. The dance demanded softness and strength, and without noticing France found himself moving more fluidly. Russia, keeping pace with him, watched and matched his footsteps. A balancer, two waltz steps, and working the arms in, Russia copied him like a mirror.

"Tch," Russia said suddenly. "Your style is so archaic. Very 1850. Noverre taught you, yes?"

"In part," France replied defensively, feeling the music kick up a fraction. "Your chasser is so inelegant. What are you playing at, then?"

In a sudden swift leap, Russia was behind him, clutching him by both wrists. Forced into an awkward stop, France bent forwards to stop himself from falling. Russia followed him, hissing into France's ear; "Vaganova. Princess of the pas-de-deux."

France made a face of obvious distaste and was released for his trouble. Russia was already at the other side of the room.

He's so fast!

"With a little Balanchine," Russia purred haughtily, "just to make sure you can't catch me."

"Balanchine just ripped off the French!" France snarled. The music exploded in a whorl of trumpets and violins, and shooting a sideways, challenging glance at Russia, he burst into a complicated pattern of jumps, pas-de-chats, sissones and ciseaux, crossing back and forth over the stage, legs flying and cutting through the air. Landing smoothly off a foiter, he coiled one ankle around the other and bowed elegantly.

Then, with a smile so wide it was starting to look psychotic, Russia took three slow steps forwards and then leapt. France had to fight to keep his jaw closed. Every step, down to the mocking little flicks of his hands, was exactly the same. His feet moved every bit as quickly as France's had, but his jumps had more height and his eyes, more intensity. He did not look away once as he danced, and after the foiter he added a couple more fast jumps and then a leap, hitting the splits full in the air – A Russian, France thought sourly, how appropriate – and landing convincingly, stable and smooth, on his feet.

His eyes glittered. His cheeks blushed with the slightest amount of red. His hair was damp and lank from effort, small beads of sweat on his forehead sparkling under the light. And still that smile didn't die, like he was getting a true kind of pleasure from fighting so hard to dance. The man would probably gladly spin himself into a coma.

"You remember Baryshnikov?" he gasped out giddily, not breaking position for one second. "I learned a little trick from him."

France became deadpan with horror. "Et ça serait le-" he muttered, unable to translate under such a realization.

Russia just smiled. Then, he closed his eyes, breathed deeply, snapped them open and turned with vicious speed. It was almost too hard to count, but France couldn't avoid the little numbers ticking away in his mind. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, TEN, ELEVEN.

Eleven turns. No extra propulsion and no fooling. Just a straight pirouette or, you know, eleven of them. France finally let his jaw go, impressed beyond words or snaky commentary. Russia landed with lazy grace – like he could have done another fourteen, but didn't want to annoy anyone – and folded his arms, snapping out of his posture for the first time since he'd started. He knew, they both knew, that he had won.

France bowed, and was about to rise to shut the music off when a voice interrupted.

"You will try now."

Raising his own head and feeling a little rush of sweat down his neck, France glared straight ahead. Russia looked at him like a strict schoolteacher waiting for an answer to a math problem. It was a requirement, not a question. France, despite himself, giggled a little.

"Vous êtes fou, Braginski-" he began, gasping with equal parts laughter and exhaustion.

"Essayez," came the high-voiced interruption, in some of the most harshly accented French he'd ever heard. He hadn't even known Russia could speak it. Irritated, Russia gestured for him to get on with it.

Deciding he might as well, France rolled his eyes, dropped into the preparation position, and launched. The first four were okay, but he caught a wobble into the sixth that did not right itself and his foot hit the floor before he finished the eighth.

Now embarrassed and angry, he waved his hands in dismissal. "You see, Braginski? You have your proof. Your dancing is the better of the two. Now stop mocking me."

One second, Russia was far across the room; the next, he was in front of France's face, with those menacingly large hands wrapped on his wrists. It was strange, how brutish they looked when he wasn't dancing and how elegant they were when he was. The smaller dancer hissed uncomfortably at their strength.

"You let your arms get ahead of you. Again."

"Again?" France protested incredulously.

"Yes," Russia insisted, forcing his hands into preparation position and then backing away to survey. France didn't move.

"But what is the point?"

Russia spoke like the answer was evident. "I am the better dancer – therefore it falls to me to teach you. Now, again."

Still confused, France watched him as he launched into take two. Again, his foot fell halfway through the eighth turn. Glaring furiously towards his new teacher and praying he'd give up soon, France awaited his instruction.

"Your shoulders, watch they don't fall back. You cannot be strong if you are not in a straight line," he said softly, rubbing the side of his finger thoughtfully along his lips.

France's torment continued – every time there would be a new correction, sometimes the same one twice if he didn't hold onto everything. He felt like each turn was getting worse. Watch the heels, your takeoff is slow, hold your knee further back. When he tripped and nearly fully fell one time after only five, France snapped.

"Braginski, you know I cannot do this!" he exploded, frustrated. "I will not be able to, no matter how long you choose to abuse me. Let me go-!"

The strike came so fast it sent France reeling. Grasping at his stinging cheek, he staggered to keep his balance. Russia looked on coldly, one hand drawn like he wanted to slap him again. When his voice returned, it was dark and dangerous. "You must not say such things," he warned, the words still deceptively high, "or I will begin to get very, very angry, Francis Bonnefoy."

Aghast, France gingerly touched his cheek and looked back. Cold, silvery-purple eyes betrayed nothing but a flicker of true annoyance, maybe even rage. Stopped for the moment, Francis waited for his next correction.

"This is the problem," Ivan growled. "Perfection is not something that will happen by accident or fate or luck. You must make it happen, and your legs are not strong enough to do so. The only thing strong enough to turn you eleven times is your belief that you will turn eleven times."

France was silent, and he stared sullenly at the floor.

"Now," Russia finished softly, backing away once more. "Again."

France was still fuming and irritated, but at the look in Russia's eyes, he let it quell. Well, the man could actually pirouette eleven times, after all. Perhaps there was something to what he was saying. This time, he took a few seconds to breathe and envision himself whipping with all the raw energy that Russia had used, whirring into the spin like a top. Then, he started and he hit two – five – six. Eight. Eleven. Landed smoothly in a near-perfect position. Blinked in shock.

"I-" he began, and his eyes widened. But the rest of that sentence was swallowed when Russia crashed into him with a heated kiss on the mouth. Yelping at the suddenness and more than a little horrified, France cowered away, but Russia chased him, trapping him in his arms and thrusting a tongue up against his teeth. Compliant in his shock, France felt his jaw pop open and Russia's tongue flowed smoothly inside.

His mind whirled at top speed. His mind was screaming. Russia was on his face, the bastard. Yet one other side of him was the tiniest bit grateful for what he'd so painstakingly taught him. And of course, the most well-known characteristic of France was that he'd never say no to a kiss. Suddenly, inexplicably, he began to fight back, trailing his hands up Russia's arms and into his hair.

It took a moment for the other country to withdraw, and when he did, it was only enough to still be dangerously close. Russia purred, inches from his lips, "I told you it was possible."

Trying to regain a little dignity, France smirked up at him. "Mais oui. And apparently so well-done you couldn't keep your hands off me."

Russia giggled apologetically, pressing their foreheads together. "You are such a phenomenon," he said honestly. "I love the dance for its challenge. But…I have never seen anyone understand its beauty like you. Yes, you are beautiful," he appraised, his hand digging hungrily into the small of France's back. "The way you look when you dance, so wrapped in it, so in love with the art. It makes my expression pale by comparison. Perhaps, fellow danseur, we could trade our secrets?"

Despite himself, France felt his smirk fall gently into an honest grin. Russia had certainly succeeded in piquing his interest – and in all kinds of ways.

"Certainly, mon ami," he replied, turning to leave. Just before the door, he bent cleanly in half to scoop up his jacket. "And who knows," he added with a shrug, "I may have a few…other things to teach you, tournesol. A bientot!"

XxXxX

Drawing closer to the end of the week, France remembered his bet with England, and excusing himself from his lunch with Russia just a little early, he dropped by the theatre to pick up the footage he'd so painstakingly gathered.

He played it right from Russia's entrance and winced anew at his botched port-de-bras. When the larger man dropped his coat, France's eyebrow quirked. Their dance began in silence, and he assessed the motions critically. He probably should start it from that point, when it looked like they were in some compliant duet.

He cocked his head to the side a little and let out a "hm," of interest. Russia's assesment had been accurate – France looked really quite happy when he was dancing.

They launched into their jump patterns, and then into the turns. When Russia hit the eleven pirouettes – that would be a good place to cut it. But, then again, he would never miss a chance to rub his talent in everyone's face, so he considered editing out his little lesson but leaving in his own eleven turns. Making mental notes of the times, he watched until he completed his spins, and then-

Oh. The kiss. He'd probably have to edit that out.

France hit the rewind button, and then pause. Checked over his shoulder. Stood up and locked the door to the media room. And then he returned to his seat and pressed play. Watched it again. Rewind, play, pause, rewind, play pause…the way he just jumped him, and he was so perfectly angled to the camera. France giggled, began the loop again, unwittingly growing a dreamy smile.

XxXxX

"So how did England take the loss?"

France and Russia were seated in the studio, fiddling away with sewing equipment. Extracting the scissors and drawing a ribbon across his hand, France grinned. "Not well," he chuckled, snipping the thing clean in half. "Surprisingly enough, he managed to provide his own costume. White romantic tutu, very classy."

"So it really isn't just us?" Russia asked, screwing his eyes up to better see the needle he fiddled with.

France, even with a mouthful of pins, managed to reply quite clearly, "Non, cherie. It seems that England has his own school of dance as well. And as I said, l'Italie. Nnaugh, zut alors! The shoes, they are resisting me."

"It takes patience," Russia replied, multitasking brilliantly while surrounded by ribbons, elastics, thread and dangling a pair of scissors off his pinky finger. "That's where these are from, then? Romano?"

France nodded, furrowing his brow at them. They were certainly the most solid and square shoes he'd ever seen intended for dance. "Bien sur. I suppose this will have to do for now," he said airily, forcing one of them onto his foot. Russia matched him, careful with the delicate needlework.

"I am honestly shocked. England, da?" Russia said, with a snort, tying the ribbons in a knot that probably belonged on a ship's sail somewhere. "Is he any good?"

Shrugging and pulling himself up on the barre, France replied, "I find him a little arrogant, but I always have. Good technique, much better than the travesty of modern dance that America's been developing."

"America?" Russia said incredulously, with a laugh in his voice. "I suppose you cannot judge anyone by their reputations."

Struck by the perception, France looked over to him and smiled warmly. "C'est la verité."

Russia held the look for just a moment longer, grinning sheepishly. "Anyways," France interrupted, bending and snapping the shoes. "First one to fall is buying lunch."

"Deal." Russia said, leaning forwards into the barre. "Alright, un. Deux. Trois!"

They sprung up onto their feet at the same time, and instantly France's feet were shot through with the most incredible pressure. He wobbled forwards and back and grabbed desperately on the barre to keep from falling. "Merde, merde, merde! C'est l'atroce!"

Russia grit his teeth visibly, breathing hard. France guessed his pain was worse, with more weight to hold up. "Bozhe moi, the pain, she is good!" he crowed, smiling crazily even though his legs were shaking.

"You are completely insane," France breathed, trying to ignore the fact that his feet were possibly about to break in half at any minute. "But I think I agree. I feel kind of…"

It was quite neat, really. Kind of like he was floating. Also kind of like his toes were being run through with an iron rod.

"Ah!" Russia let out a little squeak and France's head snapped up. "How does Italy stay up in these?" Oh, he was doomed now. Wobbling wildly back and forth, the larger country slipped off, his ankles caving awkwardly, and landed heavily on the floor.

Laughing, France came off his shoes just a little more gracefully, bending down to kiss him on the forehead. "Let us never, ever do that again."

Russia took his hand with a small, honest smile.

XxXxX

END

XxXxX

God this little fic has so many notes -_- OKAY. France has issues with the video camera because, according to Ancient Rome, in hell "the engineers are French."

In my headcannon, calling a nation by their human name is a very personal way of addressing someone, so they only use it when they're talking with a very good friend or disrespecting an enemy. That's why Russia apologized for calling him Francis...the first time :P.

Also they're trying on pointe shoes at the end there…and they don't hurt that much if you dance properly, Russia and France are just being wimps XD they were developed by the Italian dancer Marie Taglioni. England's a dancer too because he also has an academy of dance - RAD - intended for ballet.

Language Translation

Tournesol = Sunflower (I couldn't resist)

Et ca, ca serait le = And that, that would be…

Vous etes fou = You're crazy

Essayez = Try

Mon ami = My friend

Bien sur = Certainly (more or less)

C'est la verité = It's the truth

Merde! C'est l'atroce = basically "&*%#, %&#, this is agony."

Bozhe moi = My God (Russian. Everything else here is French. Let me know if I'm speaking it wrong~!)

Edit: Fixed my embarrassingly archaic french :P