Neutral Grounds [lemon] RusFra//

{ Part I }

[NOTE: see end of work for translation]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ivan paced back and forth between his desk and the meridian on the other side of his white tent.

The French army had the decency of putting up big makeshift tents for both armies on both banks of the Neman River.

The large 'N' of his leader's enemy was shining in the dim light of the torches outside, in front of his own tent, on the other side of the river.

They too had their own symbol up front, an 'A', placed in front of the Tsar's tent. A nice touch of equality after such defeat from their part, the Russian noted, bitter.

Ivan had also noted that his ally didn't get as much luxury though, none of these symbols for the Prussian's king. It made him faintly smile, thinking that Gilbert must be feeling much more humiliated than his Russian peers, although he didn't hate the Prussian that badly. He simply appreciated the thought of his part being treated better, especially coming from the French.

Having his own superiority noted by 'him' compared to his « ally » gave Ivan a selfish sense of pride.

As much pride as he could have had left after what happened anyway.

His faint smile soon faded as his rushing thoughts came back in, reminding him what was now expected of him and how he had now the responsibility to make things smoother for the sake of his Empire:

Negotiations.

Ivan had always been a great and convincing speaker, he knew how to keep his calm during such situations. Yet, he knew that the man he now had to face also knew the little intricacies and viscous quirks of the art of speech. He wasn't in a situation of power neither, now.

Hence his nervousness.

It was getting late now, the sun had already set, and Ivan could hear soldiers slowly gaining back their own place, making a backing noise of fire, the sound of the water from the river, muffled conversations, sour laughter, and groans of exhaustion.

Ivan decided to light up the lamps and candles in his tent, and re-read his papers. He pull up his chair, and sat down, removing his olive green and black cap, loosening his golden laceon.

That's when he heard some muttered words in Russian, a thick accent he immediately recognize.

« Войдите. » he said, slowly standing back up, straightening his coat.

« Bonsoir, Braginsky. » Francis entered, a small natural smile of calmness, and pride on his face. He took his own cap off, pressed it against his chest and gave Ivan a very slight, polite bow.

His golden ponytail fell out onto the back of his neck. Francis hadn't had the times to take as much care of himself as per usual, obviously. Yet despite the few scratches on his face, he still looked less tired than the Russian in front of him.

Ivan returned the gesture.

« Bonsoir, Bonnefoy. You are late, it seems. »

Francis stepped forward, and took a look around. They did make the effort to bring their nice furnitures after all this ruckus, he thought, as he noticed the desk, meridian and the bed.

Francis gestured his hat towards the meridian next to him.

« May I...? »

« Of course. » Ivan replied, as he walked behind Francis towards the entrance of the tent, knotting the laces together to close it up.