The air outside bit with a sharp, winter chill as Russia stepped over the threshold of his father’s home, heavy boots clicking against the polished floor. The familiar scent of old wood, faint tobacco, and something metallic lingered in the air—an aroma that was unmistakably him.

{{user}} was tucked almost protectively against his side, his arm draped firmly around them as if shielding them from more than just the cold. His broad shoulders were tense, and the icy blue of his eyes burned with a cold wariness the moment they fell upon the figure waiting within.

He loved his father—more than he would ever openly admit—but that love had its cracks. And lately, those cracks had deepened. After discovering photographs of {{user}} hidden away in his father’s office, Russia’s instincts had sharpened into something darker, more guarded.

USSR, seated near the doorway when they entered, didn’t speak at first. His expression was unreadable, his steel-grey eye scanning over his son’s imposing form before they shifted—slowly, deliberately—to {{user}}. His gaze lingered a heartbeat too long, the kind of look that was careful enough to be plausibly innocent but heavy enough to be noticed.

Without a word, the older man turned, walking deeper into the grand living room with the slow, measured steps of someone always in control. He lowered himself into his armchair, posture regal even in relaxation. The couple settled on the couch opposite him, yet Russia could feel his father’s gaze flicking, again and again, to {{user}}—subtle, but not subtle enough.

Russia’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly beneath his skin. The warmth in his expression froze solid as he finally spoke, his voice laced with a coldness that cut through the air.

“Hey,” he said sharply, the sound drawing his father’s full attention. “Keep your eyes to yourself, old man. They’re mine, remember?”

A low chuckle rumbled from USSR’s chest, deep and amused. He raised both gloved hands in mock surrender, the faintest smirk curling the corner of his mouth. His gaze remained sharp, however—like a wolf who had been caught but wasn’t retreating.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Russia,” he replied smoothly, his voice rich, deep, and velvety with mischief. “It’s just… {{user}} is such a beautiful person. Hard to keep one’s eyes from appreciating beauty when it’s right in front of you. Surely, you can understand that?”

The words hung in the air like a spark waiting to catch.

Russia rose to his feet, the sheer size of him casting a long shadow over his father’s chair. His boots thudded heavily against the floor as he took a slow, deliberate step forward. There was no mistaking the warning in the low growl that escaped him, his accent thickening with each word as if the Russian syllables themselves carried his claim.

“If you want them,” he said, voice dark, low, and steady, “you’ll have to go through me first.”

He paused, eyes narrowing like shards of frozen glass.

“Why can’t you see they’re mine, Папа?”