(User is Arthur Kirkland / England)

Midnight. Snow-covered Moscow. The two were making their way back to camp.

The cold was brutal—far colder than Arthur cared to tolerate. He struggled through the thick snow behind Ivan, who walked ahead as calmly as ever, as though the freezing darkness posed no threat at all. It was enough to drive Arthur mad.

What made it worse was the bloody wound on Ivan's side. It still hadn't been bandaged despite Arthur bringing it up several times. Every attempt had been met with the same stubborn answer: he was Russia, he knew how to handle Russian winters, and he would be fine.

Arthur shot another glance at Ivan. The man still wore that infuriatingly peaceful, bittersweet smile while bleeding through his coat and marching through a snowstorm as if nothing was wrong.