Crossing Borders [Hetalia]

один - the former soviet union

[Anything in bold is spoken in Russian - I'm a bit too lazy to use Google Translate at the moment]

The first thing she notices upon emerging from her dreamless slumber is the warmth. Not quite on par with the heart-pounding heat she experienced what was probably a lifetime ago, but nonetheless snug and envigorating.

The flood of warmth seeping into her from the avalanche of blankets thrown of her aids in fluttering open her clouded, violet eyes. Unfocused and inattentive, her eyes skim over the room layed out before her, taking nothing in but the cozy atmosphere she finds both strange and fragile. 

Soft, uncertain voices drift to her cotton-filled ears, briefly drawing her attention. Behind the door? she wonders, absently tilting her head to the side, her mane of ashy hair slipping over one shoulder. Ah, yes. She's right. Flitting just through the crack between the spruce-wood door and rug-covered floor are two voices, distinctly different, yet colored with a similar cultural background. 

"W-Where did Mr. Russia find her a-again?"

"Lost in the snowdrifts, when he was out on his afternoon walk, I think."

"Oh, I wonder what she was doing there...."

Her eyes flicker upwards as she's cast inwards into her stirring thoughts. Just what was she doing out there, dancing among the fallen ice and snow with the grace of a drunken ballerina? Lost, the voice claims... Perhaps. Or perhaps there was a reason she simply can't fathom at the moment, what with being so disoriented.

She props herself up on one elbow as she hears the door creak open, allowing the tantalizing scent of morning to breathe into the room; from her vantage point, she can see that another door, further down the hall, has also been opened, and that someone is shaking the snow from his or her boots. But her eyes are drawn to the man currently strolling in, his hands burdened with a silver platter topped with a chipped teapot ringed by several cups and their accompanying plates. He nudges the door closed with his boot, blocking the view of the man he'd been talking with moments before.

As he draws closer, he looks up, pensive eyes softening as he notices the girl is now awake. "Ah, hello," he greets, a hint of worry coloring his words, as he sets what is presumably tea down on the low table just in front of the large bed the girl has found herself resting on. "You're awake! Mr.... Mr. Ivan thought you might be sleeping till much later..."

The man trails off, seeing her unresponsive stare, the confusion mingling with utter blankness in her hooded eyes. Does she not speak English...? he questions, his mouth pulling into a thoughtful frown. "Hello?" he tries again, this time slipping into the painstaking Russian he's longed to escape. 

The girl's eyes brighten at the familiar language, and she smiles, just a wisp of joy crossing her lips, before saying, "Hello."

"You speak Russian, then?"

"Fluently, as far as I'm aware."

"I suppose that makes sense, considering where Mr. Ivan found you... Ah! That reminds me. What were you doing, out there all alone in the tundra? You could have died!"

She breathes in quietly, exhaling in the same subtle way, her hands disappearing into the luxorious folds of the comforter surrounding her much the same way the snow did. Her brows furrow, deep in thought, unwilling to part save for the answers she's so desperately beginning the crave. "I'm not... quite sure," she murmurs, to which the man starts, concern written clear across his gentle features.

"Can you at least tell me your name?" he prompts, settling down just at the edge of the bed, gingerly, trying not to disturb her. He doubts she's gotten full control of her previously frozen limbs and doesn't wish to cause her any further discomfort by jostling her.