Notes: So, since my OC's of Moscow and St. Petersburg went over pretty well for one of my previous Hetalia fanfics (When Our Wait Meets an End), I thought I'd share some specific moments I had mapped out for them. I really wanted to post this all at once, but I have one chunk done, so I think I'll break it into 3 parts, so this will be part 1? These will just be a chance to share my original characters and some headcanons. Some hints at FRussia in the first part, but it doesn't have to be seen as such; it could just be viewed as a consistency with Peter the Great's court. Chapter titles are lyrics from Origa's song Rise. I do not own Hetalia or the song referenced. Reviews appreciated!

Part I Pray Myself We Don't Forget

Russia stared at his reflection. If he did not know he was standing before a mirror, he never would have guessed that the figure in front of him was himself. Gone were his thick boots lined with fur and felt, gone was his long caftan with all its vibrancy of color and ornamentation, gone was his fur cap of Central Asian design. His scarf remained, though it had been tied differently so both ends hung in the front in some imitation of a cravat. His face was the most clean shaven he had ever seen it since he was just little Kievan Rus' with his sisters. He tugged uncomfortably at the thick noose his scarf had become; the tie was too tight, making it into less of an assuring caress of fabric and more into a constricting leash. His hand, now clad in a glove of white silk, continued travelling upward to brush against his chin, the skin pale, smooth, and distinctly hairless. His other hand pulled incessantly at the hem of his jacket, which felt far too short resting at his hips. In place of everything he had known and become familiar with were clothes of a very different origin. A western origin…European…origin.

A subdued choking noise brought him out of his reverie. He wheeled round to see Moscow gaping at him from just inside the doorway. Violet eyes stared beneath a shock of brown hair, his stocky figure posed in a stance of amazement. Pavel fared no better than Ivan in terms of garment. It was quite disquieting to see the dignified priest, usually so somber in his thick robes and silks, in such thin, constricting clothing. His beard remained, though, having chosen to relinquish his money rather than his facial hair. The emperor had seemed displeased with his decision, holding Pavel's tax payment with a glower that clearly said "Soon…"

"You," Moscow began, clearly at a loss. "You…look…"

"Exquisite!" a new voice exclaimed. Russia and Moscow turned to see tall, gangly St. Petersburg beaming in approval as he hurried through the open door. His dirty-blond hair was slicked back to show off the sharp, elegant contours of his face, the long nose, the sharp cheekbones. Spidery fingers rested on the ornate head of a cane.

"It is…not really me," Russia admitted as Pyotr came to stand by his side. Although far younger than either of them, St. Petersburg had shot up like a weed since his founding, spending hours with the emperor and Russia in the ruler's attempt to westernize the nation. Pyotr had shown more enthusiasm than Ivan, initially. Moscow might have been more cooperative, if not for the…radical changes proposed.

Back when he had just been founded, St. Petersburg barely reached up to Russia's elbow. Russia had smiled down at him, full of a renewed excitement at being able to care for such a young soul. A new member of the family! Moscow watched with in fascination as the new city made introductions. He seemed…so far from the main centers of activity, so far from the heart of Russia.

"And what is your name, little one?" Russia asked fondly, kneeling down so they were on the same level.

"St. Petersburg," he answered. "And I take the name Pyotr Petrovich Braginsky."

"What is wrong with his voice?" Moscow let out with a slight snicker.

Time passed, as it did so relentlessly.

"You want what?" Pavel barked in outrage.

"The capital of the Russian Empire-"

"Tsardom! We are a tsardom!"

The emperor's eyes flashed warningly. "This empire shall be a superpower of western practices, with a new western capital."

Moscow was shaking his head. "No, I will not be insulted like this. I will not be replaced by a child!"

"I have made my decision."

And he made good on it. The following day Moscow had awoken to find the Kremlin practically abandoned, the emperor having given residents twenty-four hours to relocate to this Venice of the North.

And now they all stood crowded around the tall gilded mirror with varying expressions on their faces. Russia continued to shift uncomfortably in his new clothes, his large frame unused to the restricting material. Pyotr looked to be in his element. Pavel left no room to mistaken his feelings for anything but resentment as he glared at his reflection as if he could will things back to normal. St. Petersburg proceeded to gabble in a long string of French, his pronunciation quite flawless for a nonnative speaker.

Later that evening, he and Russia sat over a dinner of imported foods, attempting to become accustomed to the new tastes.

"France should be here by tomorrow," Russia informed him, sniffing unabashedly at his plate.

"I could have sworn he was already," Pavel mused grumpily.

Ivan raised a pale eyebrow.

"Oh come now, Vanka," Moscow said, suddenly all business. "I do not understand- and surely you wonder too- how he can be the capital of this country? Of Russia - empire, tsardom, or duchy regardless. He does not even speak our language. How can he even be really Russian?"

The faint sound of shuffling feet drifted in from the hallway. They glanced up, expecting to see the emperor, but the stranger's footsteps became more distant with each second.

Russia's violet eyes shimmered beneath his beige hair as he turned to face Moscow once more, picking unconsciously at his shaved chin. "He is Russian. I feel it. I know. He loves this nation. As much as we dislike these changes, it is for the sake of our greatness, so we may never live as we did before." He broke off, looking suddenly distant.

The silence stretched on, so thick that for a moment you could almost taste the tension. And then, in a voice much softer than his usual gravelly tone, Moscow asked, "Do you believe that?"

"Believe what?" Russia asked just as gently.

Pavel allowed a moment's pause, contemplating what he was able to say. "Do you believe we shall achieve it? A state of existence best for our children? True happiness?"

There was a delicate chink of silver on glass as Ivan set his fork down, staring into Moscow's eyes with an intensity quite foreign to the Slav. "I have to," he said at last. "I have to believe that someday, somewhere down the line, we shall have just that, and our children will be happy and healthy and safe. I must believe, for their sake. If I do not, if I give up on that dream, then they will never have any of it."

Pavel sighed, his gaze turning simultaneously inward and out. So many of his children had had to call this artificial city their home, but there was no changing the fact that they had been born Muscovites, and that connection was just enough for him to sneak glances into their lives, see through their eyes, share their knowledge. Some were tending to the fields, others were attending church, while others still implored passersby for some spare change. But as his internal gaze drew closer to where they sat now, he saw a young man marching gloomily through a darkened hall, his shoulders hunched, the sting of rejection written plainly across his face…

Pavel swore quietly, running a hand through his dark hair. Ivan looked at him inquiringly. "I…I need to go. There is something that needs fixing. I must think…"

Russia nodded in understanding. "And I need to make final preparations for Frantsiya. Goodnight, Moskva."

…

All thoughts of stubbornness and rebellion became stifled upon France's arrival. His waves of golden locks shimmered as much as the gilded church domes in the summer sun. As soon as his piercing blue gaze fell on Ivan, a shift occurred, a subtle change in demeanor. His posture straightened immediately and the hand that had been picking so incessantly at his bare face now remained stiffly at his side. Shoulders back, shoes polished, welcoming smile in place, Russia tried to think of something, anything that might impress this handsome nation. His situation worsened when France turned his charming smile on him, taking in Russia's display. Despite looking as though he had not slept enough, Francis held a type of regal beauty in Russia's eyes that he was convinced the man could dress in rags and still be admirable.

"I have been looking forward to this for some time," he said silkily, extending a thin hand to shake. Suddenly, Russia's own hands felt unnaturally big, the proportions all wrong, distorted, grotesque, beside France's dainty figure. They shook for only a moment, but Russia found himself simultaneously wanting it to go on forever- to prolong that blissful moment of gentle contact- and hoping for it to end- so France would not see just how unattractively big he was. Francis, for his part, showed nothing but genuine pleasure at getting to speak with him. He must have mastered the decorum expected of guest nations some time ago, Ivan reasoned.

"It is wonderful to see you, Frantsiya," he admitted, suddenly feeling very warm. "Would you like to have a seat here? I can have some food brought in. Or would you prefer the library?" he added in a haste, moving to pull back one of the ornate dining chairs.

"I think I would like to sit here for a moment," France conceded. "Merci," he said as Ivan fixed his chair. "I do wish to see your study, I just need a brief moment. I stopped by your old capital along the way here, and I did not realize the whole city would be ringing church bells so early."

If it was not before, the heat in his cheeks would certainly be visible now. "Ah, yes," he muttered abashedly. "Prosti. I became so used to it, I forgot to give forewarning." It was common for a Muscovite to awaken to the sound of hundreds of church bells answering each other's roiling calls all across the vast city. France was not the first foreigner to be thrown by the practice; others had called it grating

France let out a musical laugh. "I consider it part of the experience!" he assured him with a wave of the hand. "Now, what of these meals you promised me?"

As Russia scrambled to have some dishes brought in, outside on the grounds, a lone figure sat hunched over a bench, staring morosely at the trickling fountain nearby. The wind sent St. Petersburg's hair rippling in gentle waves of golden brown. Violet eyes were quite unseeing as they stared ahead, showing nothing but renewed weariness. It was only the sound of approaching footsteps that roused him from his trance, though not enough to warrant any distinct movement.

"You play chess?"

St. Petersburg looked up. Moscow sat before him, unfolding an ornate wooden game board between them. Sliding the top aside, he began fishing out game pieces.

"Chess?" Petya echoed blankly, his mind still on the conversation he had overheard the previous evening. "N-not really. I have not had time to really master it."

"That is fine," Pavel said dismissively. "I will teach you."

"Why?" Petya shot back, letting some of his agitation show. "In the hopes that I may feel more like a part of this country?"

Moscow's violet gaze moved up from the board to stare into his. "Because I think you would be very good at it," he admitted softly. "It is all strategy and thinking ten steps ahead. Analyzing and plotting. Balancing logic with instinct. And I am curious what your own twist on the game will be. Everyone has one."

St. Petersburg watched as he continued to align the pieces. The set was rather handsome indeed; a musical chink issued from them whenever they bumped into one another. Numbly, he straightened in his seat so he was facing the board more fully. "I go first then."

He moved the pawn just in front of the queen two spaces forward.

"Ah, opening up the most powerful piece first. That will be a problem," Moscow muttered, mirroring the action. "Do not think I will hold back just because you have not had as much practice."

This time St. Petersburg moved the pawn in front of his king's-side bishop one tile forward. And on and on it went, Moscow muttering his own personal commentary, occasionally sharing strategies. In the end, Pavel one, though it was a reasonably close game. He lost both bishops and a rook, while Pyotr lost his queen though retained all other major players.

"Again!" Moscow said imperiously, resetting the pieces. This time, he offered suggestions more outright, referencing areas for improvement from their last game. Pyotr lost again, but kept his queen and even managed to promote a pawn as well.

"That was very wrong of me," Pavel muttered as he castled his king.

Pyotr glanced up at him in confusion before sliding his bishop forward.

"What I said last night," Moscow clarified, taking one of St. Petersburg's pawns. Petya opened his mouth but Moscow cut across him. "I of course accept all blame, but also hope you might understand the jealous ravings of a man who just lost his station. I am sorry."

"I feel it every second," Petya said slowly, taking a pawn in retaliation before letting his hand rest in his lap. "I feel a part of this land as strongly as I am sure you do. But the habits the emperor brought me up with are different- they feel alien even to me, but it was made to be second nature. I have not gotten a chance to fully embrace your habits, but any time I do, it feels…like home."

At this, Moscow allowed a smile to tug at the corner of his lips. There was meaning to that smile, that seemingly inconsequential expression of emotions. It was a look reserved for moments of true happiness, to be seen only by…friends. "I will gladly help you with that endeavor. I do hope you will be more patient than the rest of us-" Both turned as they caught sight of France, his hand draped over Russia's arm, as the latter gave him a tour of the grounds nearby. From what they could see, Ivan was looking as though he had won some grand competition, so powerful was his smile. "It is a bit of a transition for all of us," Moscow muttered, looking on bemusedly.

"Check mate!"

"What?"

A quick glance told him he had indeed lost. His king was trapped by Petya's queen, a dark tiled bishop…and a pawn. He merely let out a low hum as St. Petersburg beamed happily across from him. "I think I shall go tell Ivan," he said lightly, rising from his seat. He cast Moscow a final look, hoping to convey some of his gratitude. He received a short nod of acknowledgement.

From then on, things proceeded a touch more smoothly. Pavel conducted church services, all the while looking on as the great westernization movement was implemented. The only change occurred when his personal finances ran out…

"Well, it seems you will be unable to pay your tax," young Peter I said in triumphant French. "Which means…" He withdrew a pair of sheers from his coat pocket.

Moscow took an involuntary step back.

"I have it covered," a voice called in perfect Russian. Moscow turned to look at his savior and saw gangly St. Petersburg brandishing the appropriate payment for his beard tax. The emperor stared at him in disappointed astonishment.

"A fine accent," Russia complimented later over evening tea. It occurred to him just then how rarely he ever heard Petya speak Russian; he so often preferred to use French. When he spoke in his native tongue, it was with a faint drawl distinctive to his region. It filled him with warmth to see this new city already have its own embellishment on their shared language.

"I have been practicing," Petya admitted, looking quite pleased.

Ivan raised his glass. "To change!"

"To change!"