Crossing Borders [Hetalia]

восемь - one peculiar russian family

It's hours later that the pair steps back into the Russian home, shakes the clogging snow from their boots and hangs up the solitary coat used between them.

Much later than usual on all counts.

Valentina's fair face remains undoubtedly flushed, though from the cold or the alcohol swimming in her veins, she couldn't say. Ivan, however, shows no signs of being even mildly tipsy, and she finds herself envying him, as throughout the night she spotted him consuming vodka in a much larger quantity than she herself did.

She fancies his secret something she'll never be privy to, and resigns herself to the fact as she stifles a rather drunken giggle, leaning precariously against the sturdy Russian man at her side. There's a smile softening his already boyish features; his arm fits snugly around her waist, guiding her forward. If she weren't thoroughly intoxicated, the action might serve to embarrass her, seeing as how the prying eyes of the nearby countries may very well be on them; but in this state she hasn't a care in the world besides the blissful warmth currently enveloping her.

(As a side note, part of her does realize that she's always naturally clinging to Ivan, but she really does attribute this to his warm presence and nothing more, the poor, naive girl)

"You are very drunk," said heating source observes, his voice hinting at his mirthful undertones, when the less than graceful pair has reached the steps and Valentina shows her recent inclination to trip rather than climb.

"I-I think" - hiccup - "you are r-right, Mr. I-Ivan." Her reply is speckled with broken English, an almost subconscious attempt to better herself with the language that really is only good for making her sound incompetent as well as inebriated. 

Still, Russia only smiles. Her finds obvious amusement in her befuddlement (though he manages to find it in her day-to-day self as well, so this comes as no great shock), though he disregards this as he bends down so as to meet her foggy violet gaze and says, "Then I will carry you up, da?"

And it's at this point that Valentina can say with certainty that the alarmingly red tint to her cheeks is caused by the Russian's smile and close proximity (as well as his somewhat suggestive offer that sounds closer to a statement than it does a suggestion) more than it is the alcohol she's influenced by.

"Ah..."

The flustered (and flushed) girl is saved from having to respond by a shrill voice calling from atop the stairs, "Why does Brother's bed smell like a woman?!"

Valentina, ignorant still in the finer points of the English language, only blinks at the grating sound, whereas Ivan stiffens to come horrible extent, draws Valentina behind him and attempts to hide her within the confines of the jacket he frantically snatches from the hook.

She hiccups in confusion (as well an ordinary hiccup can convey confusion, in any case).

"Brother!" And there is Natalya, thundering down the steps, launching herself at the quaking man who in his day terrorized dozens of countries - reduced to a submissive mouse by the mere sight of his sister. She snares him by the collar of his shirt, fingers tangled firmly in the cotton fabric, dragging him down to somewhere close to her eye-level. "Brother," she repeats, in a tone far from the haunting cry she hissed from the second floor, "why is it that your bed smells of a woman, a woman who is not me?"

"A-Ah, no reason, little sister." He swallows the potent fear rising in his throat as best he can, conjuring up a minuscule smile. "Perhaps the detergent Lithuania has been using is very girly, da?"

"Nyet! I checked!" To this, Ivan's smile cracks a bit, loses a shred of its validity.

She goes to such lengths...