The evening was calm and cozy, a fire crackling softly in the fireplace of Arthur's study, casting flickering shadows over the walls lined with shelves filled with leather-bound books. The dim lighting created a warm, intimate atmosphere, and the scent of worn pages mixed with the faint smokiness of the fire, enveloping the room in a sense of peace. Arthur sat by himself in his favorite armchair, his nose buried in an old novel, completely absorbed as he often was in the worlds hidden within pages. Despite his quiet demeanor, Arthur held a silent fierceness, a competitiveness that often simmered beneath his more stoic exterior.
The only sounds were the occasional shuffle from the three seated across from him—Francis, Antonio, and Gilbert—along with the clinking of their wine glasses as they drank, exchanging subtle, amused glances with one another. Ivan sat with them as well, his large frame leaned back in his chair, his icy gaze sweeping the room. Together, the four of them made an odd mix, and yet it was this unusual blend that had brought them together tonight. Despite their differences, their shared pasts had woven an undeniable bond, one that allowed these evenings of quiet camaraderie to happen.
Gilbert leaned forward, watching Arthur over the rim of his wine glass with a smirk. He whispered something to Francis, who grinned, his gaze darting to Arthur. Antonio simply chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Though none of them would admit it outright, each felt a sense of fondness—and perhaps something more—for the stubborn Englishman.
Francis, who had often found himself captivated by Arthur's charm and quirks, took every chance he could to study him as he read. Antonio had always been drawn to Arthur's fire, seeing in him a passion that few others ever managed to match. And Gilbert, for all his teasing, secretly admired Arthur's strength, his grit. Together, they found themselves quietly watching Arthur, each intrigued by the contrasts he presented: the sharp wit and quiet warmth, the ferocity hidden behind his calm.
Ivan's gaze, too, lingered on Arthur, albeit for different reasons. He was always fascinated by others' resilience, and Arthur possessed a will that Ivan found compelling.
At last, it was Ivan who broke the comfortable silence. "Arthur," he began, his low voice filling the room, "you're looking quite... relaxed. But I wonder if there's something you'd like to prove your strength in?" His eyes glinted with mischief.
Arthur looked up from his book, blinking, caught off guard. "Prove my strength?" he repeated, his tone clipped and skeptical. He raised an eyebrow. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Francis leaned forward, his smile widening. "Oh, Arthur, we all know you have a certain... spirit when it comes to competition," he teased. "One might even call it a stubborn streak."
Arthur's eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. "I'd call it pride, not stubbornness," he retorted, setting his book down with a definitive thud. "And I'd thank you to keep your assumptions to yourself."
The trio exchanged amused looks, Gilbert's grin widening. "Aw, don't be so sensitive, Arthur," he drawled, waving his hand dismissively. "We were just thinking it'd be fun to see you take on a little challenge."
Arthur's expression shifted, a glint of competitiveness sparking in his eyes. "Fine, then," he said, folding his arms across his chest, leaning back. "What did you have in mind?"
Ivan, his smirk deepening, slowly extended his arm across the table. His large hand rested on the polished wood, fingers outstretched. "A bit of arm-wrestling, perhaps?" he suggested, his tone deceptively mild.
Arthur's gaze flicked between Ivan's hand and the faces of the others, who were now looking at him with barely restrained anticipation. He could feel his blood quicken; the very suggestion of a challenge stirred his spirit, his pride urging him to prove himself. He wasn't one to back down, especially not in front of these particular nations, all of whom seemed to enjoy underestimating him.
