You thought Canada was tall, but Russia blew the beanpole out of the water. You had to crane your neck up, nearly making a ninety-degree angle, to even see his face. Back home, you were the one on the taller side of things, however cursed you were with your destiny to be the shortest of your family of giants. Yet Russia surpassed your six-foot parents by a solid foot or more. 

"Talk about basketball players..." you muttered under your breath. 

Your comment caught the massive man's attention, and golden eyes bore into your soul as he glared you down. His face was painted with three stripes: pure white on top, deep blue in the middle, and striking red on the bottom, spilling into the rest of his body. An ushanka rested on his head, the ear flaps down and hiding most of his hair. Dark gray was the main motif of the hat, as the - maybe? - faux fur sported a lighter gray. A red star, familiar symbol of communism outside the Soviet Union's hammer and sickle, stood out in the middle of the front of his hat. His eyes seemed tired, stuck in a permanent gaze of contempt. 

English seemed to be the universal language in this new world, which was a good thing for you. As you only knew that language, despite your best efforts to give in to the incessant notifications of the Duolingo owl. So, when Russia opened his mouth to speak, and what came out was an accent thicker than gravy with all the quirks of an English-fresh Russian native, you were surprised. "You are new country, yes?" the intimidating man asked. He didn't continue until you nodded out a quick response. During this time, he made glances toward America and Britain, both of whom stood out of his way. "Sad to see one born of American influence. But I show you around. Customs and whatever."

You gave him another soft nod and he suddenly took your hand into his own, nearly dragging you off your feet as he began to give you his own tour. The father and son duo of Britain and America tried to follow you both, but a swift glare and a reminder to let Russia do his thing shut them both up. That scared you just a tad. Was he going to swipe you away just to give America the middle finger?

After a moment or two, and Russia was certain you two were out of America's prying gaze, his grip on your hand loosened. "Onto tour, now."

Deciding now was a good time to ask questions, you piped up, "Is there a... reason you didn't want them around...?" 

"Any time there's tour and America is around, he makes things difficult," he explained as he pulled you into what looked to be a government building. He suddenly made his voice rather nasally and high pitched, as well as emulating America's regular accent, "Remember, country, just because things look pretty, doesn't mean communism is good! Sure, we can show them the government buildings like we're supposed to, but I'm hungry and I see a McDonald's! Capitalism, money, red bad green good, blah blah blah!" Russia seemed to fume more with every mockery he made of your hailing country. He quickly returned to his own voice, however. "It annoys me to no end. So any time I see him I just grab country and leave until done. He will try to interrogate you."

You nodded, actually thankful for the warning. Incessant questions were already on your "not much liked" list, and it was good to know America was going to be questioning you as soon as you got done with Russia's tour. 

The tour went on, and you saw some pretty incredible sights. You were in awe at everything you came across, and Russia seemed extra proud of this. It wasn't too often he got to give a tour to someone so completely accepting and ready to see everything without a hint of political tension. America, or Britain, tended to get their grubby little hands on the countries' minds first. Your hand held in Russia's own calloused one felt safe as ever. However, you had to take three steps for every one of Russia's; you often found yourself tripping. 

After a moment of staring at the Winter Palace of Moscow, the Cold War history buff within you taking over your thoughts, you felt Russia's gaze on you. As you turned your head toward him, he opened his mouth to ask, "So... are you hungry?" You nodded in response, your stomach grumbling. It was a long tour of the city and you hardly realized how much time had passed since in the private jet. "Good. I am too. We get real food, though. None of that... pink mush America likes so much. Da?"

Another nod, and suddenly, as if your brain finally settled itself into the comfortable cushion of trust, you asked your own question, "Everyone else I've met seems to have like... a perfect grasp of the English language and the accent is light. You're uh... the total opposite of that. Do you have a reason why?"

"Have you not met Germany yet?"

"He... didn't talk much."

"Bah... typical. Always leaving accent questions to me," the seven foot monster of a country grumbled low under his breath. He started walking, anxious to not stand in one place too long. Especially not in front of the death place of his grandfather. "You are aware of Cold War, yes?" Nodding, being one of your four pre-approved responses, was your answer. You tried to open your mouth as a random fact came by-- but the interruption from Russia saved you the embarrassment. "Well papa, Soviet Union, USSR, however you call him, was not too interested in speaking perfect English. Let alone teaching us children how to speak it. Third Reich did same for Germaniya."

"But you aren't... born here?"

"Da. And you expect Russia  to speak English naturally?"

"... Touché."

"Anyway... I was taught bare minimum. I could speak it as to not be swindled by America nor his spies. Also for general country business. I am better than I was, because now I speak it far more often. Papa, however, was well versed in many a language. Georgian, Belarusian, Ukrainian, etcetera. Stingy bastard." That statement earned a giggle from you, to which Russia's stoic expression changed to a slightly warmer smile. 

"But, how come English is the universal language?" you asked. Strangely, it felt easier to ask Russia questions. Perhaps it was because he didn't have an air of disappointment about him like America seemed to have. 

"You can thank Britainiya for that. Largest superpower of ancient times got to choose main country language."

You nodded for a final time before your conversation came to a slow close as you stepped into a decent-looking restaurant. Not a chain one, and you certainly liked the traditional Russian flare. 

The hostess at the front got a hitch in her throat as she looked up from her sign-in book and noticed two countries standing in front of her. She seemed more focused on Russia, however. Was it a rare sight to see a country? You quickly concluded it would be similar to seeing the President in front of you with a... significantly shorter companion still holding his dry hand. Hand holding had to at least be customary. 

Stammered Russian was forced past the knotted throat of the hostess, Russia coolly answered. The entire conversation was lost to you, save for a few words. At least being American provided some-- limited-- insight to a few common words of other languages. 

Soon enough, you were whisked off your feet and pulled along into the thick of the restaurant as Russian conversations buzzed around you from the other patrons. A few of them were staring at you and whispering hastily to each other, looking away when they caught your eye. If your nosey self got frustrated when you couldn't understand a random Spanish conversation from a nearby family in the grocery store, this entire restaurant was practically torture. What were they whispering about? What did they think of you? How normal was this kind of buzz for Russia?

As you were lost in thought, you were sat down on a comfortable booth, Russia sitting across from you. The hostess said something you could only guess was similar to, "Your waiter will be here soon." You were left with the only English grounding you had sitting on the other side of the table. 

"You.. might have to read the menu for me."