[Fanfic] With Friends Like These (de-anon from the kink meme)

[lokichan2004.livejournal.com]

Title: With Friends Like These
Author/Artist: lokichan2004 
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia, France, America, France/America
Rating: G
Warnings: None, unless excess fluff counts.
Disclaimer: The boys aren't mine.
Summary: The request was for Russia thinking everyone was his friend, and then being heartbroken when he overhears others saying how they only tolerate him because he's so scary, with some cheering up by nations that really do like him. I hope I did the OP justice.

 

"Good meeting today, da?" Russia smiled at his fellow nations as they gathered their papers from the day's meeting into their briefcases. Across the table England shot him a glance that would've been a sneer to anyone else, but Russia only saw the smile that England intended. There was no need to sneer at friends, surely. As he gathered his own papers and files Russia watched his friends. Germany at the head of the table hadn't heard his comment and was meticulously storing everything away into color-coded folders. The Italy brothers were doing a sloppy job of cleaning up themselves; surely if they slowed down they wouldn't be leaving so many things behind. France and America were already halfway out the door, busy, it seemed, with a very pressing matter. France was practically crawling into America's jacket he was so close to him.

Russia liked to keep things tidy when he attended meetings, and soon he was walking out of the door as well. Was that an audible sigh he heard as the door closed behind him? It must have been the wind through an open window. The weather in England's house could be so unpredictable sometimes. A happy smile spread across Russia's face as he walked down the hallway. Today had been so fun! Everyone was there, and they were all as lively as usual. Yelling and groping and gunshots; it had all been very exciting. Russia liked going to the meetings when everyone was there.

Suddenly he stopped, his hands flying to check his coat pockets. His flask was missing. He had been sipping from it all meeting long, trying to be discreet about it because Germany had yelled at him something fierce the last time he had been caught drinking in a world meeting. If Germany found it he would yell again or worse, keep it. And as much as Russia loved that flask (it had been a gift from Putin some years back), he wasn't about to go groveling to get it back. So he turned around and headed back to the conference room, passing a very busy France and America in the process. Soft voices were coming from behind the partially closed door. His hand was almost on the door knob when he a particularly loud voice that he recognized as Romano's stopped him.

"I hate sitting next to that fat bastard! He's such a fucking creeper, always smiling and--"

"Ve, Romano, you shouldn't be so mean, what if he's listening--"

"I don't care if he's listening or not! He shouldn't be eavesdropping anyway, I'll punch that vodka brain right in his big nose-"

Now that was uncalled for, Russia thought as he listened at the door. There was nothing wrong with his nose; it was masculine and well-proportioned for his face. Romano's vitriloic remarks flew over his head, because everyone knew the southern Italy brother was gruff, and that swearing and hitting was how he showed affection.

"I don't like the way the git looks at me." England. "I'll bet he thinks of sodomizing all of us with that ridiculous pipe of his."

"I know I'd like to take the pipe and cram it so far up his--"

"That's enough, Prussia," Germany sighed. "We have to be civil and pretend to like each other, even when they drink during world meetings." Damn. Germany had known about the flask the whole time. Behind the oak-paneled door Russia could feel a creeping numbness settle in his limbs. This wasn't how friends were supposed to talk about each other. He...he couldn't have misjudged, could he? His hand shook. Something was terribly wrong here.

"He is uncultured, undignified, and lacking any decorum of manners," Austria sniffed. "The only reason we tolerate him is because he is frightening." Tears brimmed in Russia's eyes as a murmurring of agreement arose from the room, and his hand dropped lifelessly to hang at his side. Mechanically he turned, flask forgotten, and fled down the hallway.

France noticed Russia first, seeing as how he was pressed up against the wall, sandwiched in between it and America, who was doing his best to distract him with those full lips and weapons-grade baby blue eyes of his. An easy smile came to his face and he waved to his friend.

"Where are you heading, Russia?" Russia breezed by him, and answered with a slamming of the door leading outside. The smile turned to a frown, and France pushed at America's shoulders. The younger nation looked at his companion quizzically.

"What-"

"Russia, wait," France spoke, pushing America away and hurrying after the larger nation. America sighed and followed after him. Dark clouds had settled over London, a perfect fit for Russia's gloomy mood as he sat himself down on a bench. He was losing the battle against tears as a few salty drops spilled down his face. France and America approaced quietly. "What is wrong, friend?"

Russia jumped and turned to face them, his cheeks blooming red with embarassment at having been seen like this. He turned back, hastily rubbing the moisture from his cheeks with his hands.

"Nothing. Please go away."

"It's not nothing if you are crying, dear heart," France soothed, sitting down next to him and laying a hand on Russia's knee. Russia looked at it briefly, and then down at the grass. "Tell me what's troubling you." There was a long silence, during which only the sound of traffic and Russia's quiet sniffling could be heard. America sat next to him as well, although he kept his hands to himself. Finally Russia spoke.

"Are we friends?" France blinked in surprise.

"Why would you think otherwise?"

"I heard others talking. I thought we were friends but they said they hated sitting next to me, and being around me, and that they were only tolerating me."

"Which others?" America asked. Russia looked sidelong at him.

"England and Italy brothers. And Germany, and Prussia, and I am sure you two do not like me, either."

"Hey, if we didn't like you we wouldn't have come out here, dude," America replied, giving Russia an elbow. "And England says stuff like that to me all the time. Don't let it get to you."

"America is right, for once." Said nation scowled, but France ignored him. "If we didn't care for you, we would still be inside discussing the terms of our latest treaty."

"By which he means we would still be making out." There was another long pause. Russia fiddled nervously with the ends of his scarf.

"You are being sincere?"

"Russie, how long have we known each other?" Russia looked over at France as he spoke. He had been expecting a sneer, or a false smile, but the smile on France's face was genuine. Russia thought it was beautiful, the way France smiled.

"Long time."

"Yes, and in that time, with the exception of once, we have only had one serious disagreement."

"What was that?" America asked.

"You do not remember? I suppose you wouldn't, you were still so young at the time. My emperor, Napoleon."

"Ohh yeah. That short little guy, right?" France sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"He was not short. His guards were just very tall. My point is that in all the years Russia and I have known each other, we have gotten along well, and I couldn't have done it if I didn't think of him as a friend."

A small, hesitant smile blomed on Russia's face.

"You mean that?"

"Of course he does!" America said, slapping a hand on the bigger nation's shoulder. "It's not that hard to believe that people care about you, you know."

"But the others-"

"Forget about the others, man. Do you really want to have England as a friend? He's so critical, and he would call you fat and make fun of your food and your culture, nevermind that his food tastes like death and he--"

"America," France coughed lightly. "Stick to the topic at hand, please." Without skipping a beat America continued.

"I'm just saying. You don't need the others when you have us." Russia sat quietly for a moment, his hands bunched into the fabric of his slacks.

"But when--when we had cold war, you ha-hated me," he said, hating how his voice stumbled on that one word. "You wanted to destroy me."

"Okay, first. I never hated you, and I didn't want to destroy you, either. If it weren't for you and that satellite you put up into space-"

"Sputnik," Russia interrupted.

"Whatever. That Sputnik thing, I never would have gotten my own space program off the ground, I never would've gotten to the moon, and space exploration would never have gotten where it is today. Our astronauts work together on the space station, dude. And for all that you think I wanted to kill you, you're wrong. Government rarely reflects the will of the people, and I don't think I met anyone who seriously thought that firing a nuke at you was a good idea."

"You don't hate me." It was more a statement than a question, and America sighed and rolling his eyes.

"No, man! How many times do I have to tell you? My goverment may have really not liked you after 1917, but don't you remember how close we were to forming that military alliance back in the 1870s? And you were the only one who supported me during my civil war." He threw a pointed look at France, who was conveniently studying his fingernails.

The small smile from earlier was back, and it was slowly growing as Russia sat and thought about what had been said. It was funny - when the morning started he thought he had a lot of friends, and then he had none. And now he had two, two friends who seemed to genuinely care for him, and about him. Done with his fingernails, France stood and brushed off his pants.

"Now that the meeting is over and we are done with our heart-to-heart, I think we should get lunch, if there is anything worth eating in this dreadful city." America jumped up, a thousand-watt grin on his face.

"Yeah! I'm starved, I haven't had a burger in at least forty-five minutes."

"You can go a day without eating that vile grease you call food," France replied. "Russia? Any preference for lunch?" Russia stood as well, and he shook his head.

"No! Anything you pick is fine. I'm just glad we're all going together!"

"I say we go for burgers."

"No, America. We are not having fat on a bun for lunch," France replied, and the two quickly dissolved into playful bickering as the trio headed down the street, Russia smiling and not caring in the slightest. He had friends, and that was enough for him.