Title: The Sunflower and the North Wind

Author: Barkinglot

Genre: Hurt/Comfort. Romance (not so much).

Pairing: Russia/England. Fleeting mention of America. America/England if you squint.

Rating/Warnings: PG for language

Summary: Something happened and Russia found England standing all alone in the snow. He was the one to look after England, for once. A kink meme fill with nothing kinky.

I tried to write a shorter and lighter fic and here it is. Hope you'll enjoy.

The Sunflower and the North Wind

It's a very simple story.

The sun rules the day; the cold north wind owns the time when bats fly.

The sunflower always faces the sun, who rises from the east and sets into the west.

"England." The name came through Russia's lips much more tenderly than it had done in decades. It startled him a little but he went on nevertheless. "What's wrong?"

"Fuck off." A reply without its usual biting edge. England didn't turn around. Russia could only see his sandy hair tousled by the arctic gust, losing its shine under the dark veil of the night.

"It's my house. I can stay wherever I want." He took a pace nearer, then another. The snow squished and quashed under his boots. From where he was standing, England's figure looked beaten, battered even in the ghost-white silence. It was snowing. Russia wondered whether England could hear him speaking over the sounds of snowfall.

"Why are you here, England?"

He came to a halt right behind him. He didn't put his hand on his shoulder or grab him. He didn't need to. From the way England's muscles were tensing, he knew England had sensed his proximity. Russia noticed something was off but he could not name it. A moment later he realized it's because of the warmth. Or rather, the lack of it.

He couldn't feel it. Feel the warmth radiate to him like it always did when he was there near other nations. The small island nation.

England was shivering.

Russia didn't know what to do. He was so used to the stares and curses and foul language England hurled at him for years, used to the mindless indifference for the last a few; he had almost forgot what it was like before it all started. He was, however, sure that there had never been a time like this, a time when between England and him laid neither hostility nor formality but only lingering feelings that were raw and almost . . .

Sad.

What unnerved himself more was that Russia wasn't surprised at all, and he thought that maybe, perhaps he could understand.

Time goes by and the sun moves across the azure sphere.

That's where he belongs, his kingdom and his celestial throne; that is all he beholds.

He knows little of the green stem, yellow pedals or the core made of lonely black holes.

"Was it America again?" he asked though he already knew.

England raised his head; still didn't turn to face him. Russia heard he draw a sharp breath. "Go ahead and laugh."

"Why should I?"

"Like hell you won't."

"I am not laughing."

"Well you should be."

"England."

Russia thought this might be the major flaw of England that he was unable, incapable and unwilling to open up, to accept, to take to heart the care and worry other people directed to him, sincerely and without suspicion. But was he himself any better? They were both too old and sophisticated to lose reserve. Be it to their people or to the beings like themselves. Oh the beings like themselves. That's precisely why they sought power. They all did. They both did. And look now where it had got them.

With his scarf tugged under the grip of gust, Russia remembered the rare occasion centuries ago when they met at the seas, an image so unlike his own land of snow and frost. Waves and tides cast a thousands reflection on England's flaming coat, lights and shadows played with the smirk on the island nation's face. Russia was never really into seas or oceans or ships. It thrilled him, however, to watch a country so much smaller than him bring the world to its knees. Reckless, cruel and beautiful he saw the British Empire stood among the seas, lands under his power all across the globe. Russia had admired England.

He still did. For different reasons.

And it shook him a tiny little bit to see England like this.

"You should come to my house. It's not far away." There. He said it. And he did intend to carry it out.

It had been some time since other nations visited him. Russia met them at work, at places and under circumstance of diplomacy and foreign affairs. Yet few of them would likely take his offer of a cup of tea and a match of chess at his house.

Russia understood, or at least he thought he did. You don't need children who can't play nice. So it wasn't for him to complain. Still sometimes the house felt too empty and his bed too cold. And one would think after all these years he should have already grown accustomed to it.

Leading England to his house, Russia didn't need to look back to see whether England was behind him; he could hear the following footsteps and the featherlike breathing. Russia wondered what England thought of coldness. All he knew was England wasn't used to it. He smiled a little when the sight of Britain Isles covered in white came into his mind. The image was months ago, but it never failed to entertain the northern nation. Despite his dislike of the winter and snow, Russia found it—nice, in a way he couldn't tell why, to see England surrounded by something he had been familiar with all his nation life.

"What are you smiling at?" asked England, who at a time had been walking right beside him, "Get that off your face Russia. It's disturbing. And annoying."

Russia pouted, "But you look good in white."

England spluttered.

And then they were at the doorstep of Russia's house.

Russia found the key and clicked the door open, "After you," he held the door open. England stared at him, but still he came in.

When Russia came back to the living room with a tray of tea set, England was looking out the window. "Tea?" asked Russia. He pulled two cups anyway.

They didn't say anything for minutes.

Finally Russia broke the ice, "America is," he paused, searching for the particular words, "an ungrateful brat."

England turned his head around, brows frowning, "Don't talk like that."

"Are you sure you didn't mean don't talk about America like that, England?"

"What's your point?"

"I merely said something you would have said," Russia answered with a seemingly innocent tone, "and have been saying for a long time." He approached England in three long strides, "or it is fine for you to say so but not for me?"

England didn't like being trapped between Russia and a wall; Russia could see the instant resurface of vigilance in those green eyes and the stiff posture. He thought for a moment he might miss the absence of it, but he only felt relief.

Staring up and obviously hating the difference in their height, England said coldly, "If you got something to say, say it already."

"You never answer any of my questions." Russia inched his face closer, "Why are you here, England? What's wrong? Do I have to figure it out all by myself?"

Hands on his chest, England was trying to shove him away, "get off me!"

Russia didn't back down, instead he drew closer until he was speaking against England's ear, "Was it America again?"

He managed to catch England's fist before it hit him. But it wasn't the only thing Russia caught as England tried and succeeded in pushing him off this time. The glare England was sending him—full of hate and malice and hurt—was enough to make Russia back away with a soft and genuine smile.

"Come," he was still grabbing, though now more like holding, England's hand. "We don't want to waste the hot tea, now do we?"

The night fell and the north wind comes, threading through the frail leaves and the dimming gold he says.

Look at me, his cold fingers caressing his lost, downcast face; his whispers a chill yet gentle call.

Turn your eyes to me, I want to see you smile.

The silence lingered when they took their tea. In other circumstances, England would have complained about how Russia had messed up the temperature of the water, or the time the leaf stayed in it. However, there wasn't any, and Russia regretted just a little. But he really wanted to know. And how could he know if England was never going to open up?

"It's late. And you should stay." Russia said when England finished his cup of tea and stood up.

Outside, the snow and flakes fell soundlessly like ghost.

The sunflower does not reply. The light has long gone; another day goes without the sun's notice.

Each star winks a tear. Swaying in the dark he feels so cold.

Shudders run down his spine as he tries not to betray the horrible emptiness he holds.

"Don't you have a guest room?"

"I'm afraid you have to share a bed with me, England. It's warmer that way."

"There is no way I'll stay in the same bed with-"

"I promise I won't bite."

"Like you're trustworthy enough."

"We only sleep; nothing else."

England groaned, "don't give me that look you- fine. Just sleep. And if you even dare to try anything weird, I swear I'll break every bone of yours and throttle you with your own-" Russia stopped England with a tight and pressing hug before he could come up with more colorful and creative cursing.

"Just sleep. You have my words."

In the distant corner of his mind, Russia recalled how America had babbled on about old silly England falling asleep before him whenever they had a Friday Horror Movie Night. He tried to lock it away because he had promised, and pushing England had proven to be of no avail. He would sleep in the same bed with him and that's all, because if anything, tonight (and any other time,) America was the last thing Russia wanted to be there between him and England.

I brought you dews, I brought you frosts, the north wind coos, taking the flower into a shapeless embrace.

I will love you so you'll never be alone. We'll never be alone.

He rests the lean body against him, breathes in greedily the lush of summer green, and feels it at his icy fingertips.

He has been watching him. But only at night can he touch him, really touch.

Russia silently observed England's sleeping face. It had been a long time since he shared warmth with someone else in one bed. Sometimes Belarus sneaked into his covers but she was never warm enough, and always ended up making him feel colder and shudder.

England was different though. He had protested at first when Russia pressed him against his chest, shouting with his cheeks the color of roast beef and struggled a little when Russia pulled him close—gently, because he didn't want to hurt England or make him leave.

It's warmer this way, he had told England. And it's true. After some cursing, twisting and threats England finally began to fall asleep and it was strange, in a good way, to see the constant presenting knot between England's frown loosen up. Though it's a pity he couldn't see those green eyes when England was asleep, Russia found himself staring at a face he had long been familiar with yet somehow never known about.

America is a stupid ingrate to complain about England falling asleep before him, Russia decided as him, too, fell asleep.

Comes the daybreak and the north wind has to go, once again he can't take the flower with him.

As he promised he kisses him goodbye with a frozen crystal.

Then the sun rises and the crystal melts. Frostbite at the flower's dip of throat.

The sun looks, but never sees.

When he woke up, England was already gone. What was left was two tea cups on the bedside table, one still full and steaming and the other already empty. Under them was a note with England's sharp round handwriting on it, reading: Come to my house and I'll teach you how to make proper tea.

Russia couldn't help but smile a little. He wondered if he looked out his door, he could still see England's footprints on the snow.

Fin