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You surprise me with just how perfect you are
Russia has seen many things throughout his many centuries of life, has spent more than he'd like to count out at arms and knee deep in the swill of war. So this war? It is not a thing he thinks much of when it comes time to don the navy of his Infantry Officer's uniform; simply another war to march into, another battle to win, another time for him to become just another dog of the military. It was expected of a nation, expected of him, and Russia's good about that.
But he didn't expect the absolute failure of Tannenburg. Didn't expect Nikolai to call him back, didn't expect the rolling disquiet of the public he could feel murmuring under his skin and at the back of his mind to have such an effect upon the atmosphere of his House. There's a solemn edge to his shoulders even as his Royal children gather about, small hands in his own and smiles upon young faces. Russia could usually lose himself in their stories, but there's a chill upon his land and it's not just his Father's touch.
Because the thing is (and he's certain of this after months spent out on the bleary war front), Saint Petersburg is gloomy. It's bleary, bleak, miserable beyond that which words can express. It taints the air and has Russia's shoulders turning up about his ears as he steps through the dim streets. There's something coming, something he can feel in his veins and it's distressing. Death perhaps, the press of foreign armies at his border, he doesn't let himself think it's anything other but either way he's on edge and---all of a sudden when he blinks its as if he's staring in a mirror.
There's a long, silent moment because there...definitely wasn't a mirror in the middle of the street five seconds ago. Well. Okay then, just going to casually blink and turn around, clearly things were bad enough he was hallucinating.
But he didn't expect the absolute failure of Tannenburg. Didn't expect Nikolai to call him back, didn't expect the rolling disquiet of the public he could feel murmuring under his skin and at the back of his mind to have such an effect upon the atmosphere of his House. There's a solemn edge to his shoulders even as his Royal children gather about, small hands in his own and smiles upon young faces. Russia could usually lose himself in their stories, but there's a chill upon his land and it's not just his Father's touch.
Because the thing is (and he's certain of this after months spent out on the bleary war front), Saint Petersburg is gloomy. It's bleary, bleak, miserable beyond that which words can express. It taints the air and has Russia's shoulders turning up about his ears as he steps through the dim streets. There's something coming, something he can feel in his veins and it's distressing. Death perhaps, the press of foreign armies at his border, he doesn't let himself think it's anything other but either way he's on edge and---all of a sudden when he blinks its as if he's staring in a mirror.
There's a long, silent moment because there...definitely wasn't a mirror in the middle of the street five seconds ago. Well. Okay then, just going to casually blink and turn around, clearly things were bad enough he was hallucinating.
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Such a thing did not even flit through Russia's mind, let alone take up permanent residence there. Troubled times were not so rare in his past that it seemed any especially bad luck to be deposited into one. On the contrary, Russia could have imagined several periods when he would have faced even more difficulty than he did at the current moment - times of chaos within his own borders, perhaps, or times in a past so far distant that even moving about would prove a challenge.
Still, for all the practical matters which are neatly seen to (clothing requisitioned from unwitting patriots, period-incongruous items carefully accounted for and made safe), he does not appreciate the less material aspects of the time and place into which he has been deposited. That he knows the eventual outcome of the coming months and years is no consolation - a vast and yawning ugliness still stretches between this time and his own, and even as an outsider to this era he can still feel an unrest quivering through the watery spaces of his body, like a sound too deep to hear. It sits cold and heavy in his belly, and he draws his coat tighter against the coming nightfall in three bleak dusks, hoping silently that the morning will find him ninety-eight years in the future.
But it never does. It is on the fourth day, when he has just begun to believe that England has probably landed himself in even worse trouble, that the midmorning foot traffic parts and he is looking upon himself. The moment is too surreal to question, not unlike the split-second of sweet and drifting peace before an automobile crash, and he has just begun to look curious when his other self turns to walk away. It is a vision that mirrors the chill in his bones too perfectly, and he lifts his voice before the thought has even properly sunk in that he is seeing himself.
"You do not want to talk?"
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"Talk?" There's a beat and he turns fully, tips up his chin to look himself straight in the eye. Because there's a few centimeters in space between their height, a hint of youth to Russia's face despite the war that clings and dodges his shadow.
So here, Russia lets something like a smile edge at the corners of his lips, wry laughter bubbling up in his throat but not escaping. This situation is surreal already, and he's most certainly not sure he's not seeing things.
"By all means, talk if it would do you some peace of mind."
And he's baffled, words tumbling from his lips before he has more than a few seconds to filter through. But it's apparent in the way he stands, in the gleam to his eyes, that above it all, Russia's wondering just what's happening. Wondering why he's standing in the cold of a street in Saint Petersburg, the few people still out and about merely smudges of ink in his peripheral and in front of him can stand the solid expanse of a figure he's more than familiar with. Dimly he pushes the echoes of war as it exists away, focuses not only on the general picture, the state of his lands and those fighting abroad, but upon this moment in time.
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In the stories, it is always the younger self full of questions and urgency, the older self full of foreboding. But maybe this is the better story that he is living here, in this very moment. What can one ask of an older self? The future is too alien to even begin formulating a question. The past is where all the dark omens and uncertainties lie, and where all questions are ultimately directed.
Yes. Yes, this is good. If only this moment, this is true. This is the very place and time where there is room for two of himself. This is the self he would warn, if he was a simpler creature; it is the self he would comfort, if he was weaker.
"Aahhh-" he sighs out of the laughter, stepping up alongside himself in a silent suggestion that they walk together. "Peace of mind sounds like a very nice thing, right now."
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So when his other steps closer and silently gestures, Russia finds it surprisingly easy to match steps and walk with only a few centimeters span between them. It's silent though, questions winding thickly in the dark of his mind, burning hot upon the tip of his tongue. But at the same time, he could care less. There's obviously something wrong here if his other is here upon the dim night streets of his city.
"An idle thought, really." He scoffs, breath white in the chilling air, voice trailing, "One that seems far off, no?"
There's a bit of sarcastic humor to that and it's obvious in not only his tone, but in the way he holds himself.
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There is a gift for prophecy in their bodies, he thinks, their shapes moving in prediction of future truths. Just as England and France had found little blonde children in a new land, he now sees how the Russia before him is molting into new colors, sleek and clean-lined even amidst the tumult of the change. He had not appreciated it at that time, is all.
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"No." Because though he's curious, there's a bit of a cheapening to being told the future by himself. So he tips his head, doesn't break the eye contact as he queries, "Would you have told?"
He tries to think if he would have, would have gathered a younger him in his arms and told tales of the glory of the Russian empire, of the splendor, the distress running beneath the surface. So no, the answer is probably not any different.
But Russia does not see the prophecy in Russia's thoughts, doesn't see the sleek figure he can form in another's eyes. There's change bubbling in Russia's veins, height and strength and age settling slow over his features as the years drag on and the war and revolution builds and crests.
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"It is nice, seeing you," he admits after a moment, nodding slightly. "I am not even here on purpose. It would be only more troublesome if I displaced you on accident."
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Which means he slants his gaze over to Russia once he speaks again, tips his head in a short nod, noses faintly into the warm comfort of his scarf and inhales.
"Would that I say the same, but I must admit that I'm still rather confused." There's a huff of laughter, muffled as it is and Russia tips his head to better look at his companion, quickly gives him a once over and notes the differences even in the dark as they are. "How is it you are here?"
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He is also a drunk, and therefore amusing, but not without his dangers. Russia is still a little chagrined that he forgot that second part so easily.
"Maybe I will be here a long time. Maybe I will be gone tomorrow. I do not know." He shrugs lightly, smiling for his younger counterpart.
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"Is he here too then?" In Russia, he means. Though in general might be an answer he easily accepts as well. More so, he assumes his double would have found way to track down his England already if given the time. But time, is a thing that seems to be tricky in this case, and Russia glances over, worries at his lip idly (A habit he tried to break but fell back on when least wanted) and feels laughter bubble up in the back of his throat, "Is that not always the case?"
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He watches his double, eyes flitting to the contrast of teeth against lip, the sight briefly transfixing. He does look younger when he does that, unsure and softer-edged, and he smiles with the noise of mirth he's given, bowing his head in silent agreement and giving a silent laugh of his own. "Yes, yes. Some things are not so different."
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His head tilts to the side, gaze somewhat blank and steady as he waits for the reply. Surely his other self has already secured a place to stay, he has trust in them to be able to achieve that much. But it serves a greater purpose. He wants to know where he is, wants to keep an eye out and watch how this other him moves and reacts to their life and the citizens around them. This is as much a test as all previous comments then, and he's certain that Russia knows full well that it is.
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"Would you like to visit, maybe?" Teasing or not, the invitation is sincere. "There is coffee and tea, at least."
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"By your leave, then," A flash of a smile, like quicksilver in the dim light, and Russia waits for a direction other than faintly southeast to walk in.